Vixen by Jillian Larkin

stared at her for what seemed like an eternity. “Fine. I’ll grant you one audition.” Gloria wanted to squeal with glee at the top of her lungs, until he said: “Tomorrow night. Eight p.m. sharp.”
    Which was exactly the time her mother had planned for her debutante dinner. At their house. With dozens of guests and all the society papers in attendance. It would be impossible to miss. “I can’t tomorrow night, it’s my—”
    “Be there tomorrow night at eight,” he said, cutting her off. “Or else I guess I’ll never get to hear your rendition of ‘Downhearted Blues.’ ”
    Then he walked off toward the stage to get ready for his next set. Which he would play well into the early dawn, when Gloria was already tucked away beneath her pink comforter, wide awake with the fear that she would never make it back to the Green Mill that next night. And would never see Jerome Johnson again.

CLARA
    As Clara gazed at her makeup-free face in the mirror, she felt a surge of nerves.
    Tonight’s dinner—a gathering of pompous debutantes and their mothers—was all about crossing your well-bred ankles and sounding enthusiastic about country club croquet tournaments and recent betrothals. Normally, this kind of gathering would bring out the worst in her. But it was still better than being on the farm. Plus, if Clara was going to create a new life for herself here, she had to take the party seriously. This would be her first opportunity to show off the New Clara in Chicago. Clara the Good Girl. Clara the Saint. Clara the performer.
    That didn’t mean she couldn’t take a shot of liquid courage first. She opened her undergarment drawer, dugaround, and retrieved the unassuming pink sock with the white-eyelet border that hid her flask of gin. She uncapped it and threw her head back.
    But midswig, she stopped.
    If Clara was going to commit to this new version of herself, she would have to get through the night sober.
    The grandfather clock struck eight and was immediately echoed by the insistent ring of the doorbell. There was no time to muse. She swiped on a coat of black mascara and a dash of bright pink lipstick—a girl had to cross the line somewhere—before hurrying downstairs.
    Aunt Bea was stationed in the doorway of the salon, policing incoming traffic. “Why, there you are, my dear,” she said. Clara knew her aunt would approve of the blousy pale blue dress, with its delicate floral pattern and waist-cinching belt. She had borrowed it from Gloria’s closet. Without asking. “I must say, you look lovely.”
    “Certainly not as lovely as you.” Clara hinted at a curtsy, and proceeded into the next room, Aunt Bea following close behind.
    Circling about the room were the mothers and daughters of Chicago’s most important families. The girls looked exactly as Clara had imagined: thin and pale, with blank expressions, and wrapped up like gaudy Christmas presents in colorful frills and bows and lace. It was almost shocking to see girls actually looking their age—
sans
vamp makeup andvamp attitudes—clinging together awkwardly, acting like the schoolgirls they were.
    Then there were their mothers, larger and stiffer versions of the girls themselves. The mothers gathered into groups, each trying to upstage the others with flashy diamond-encrusted baubles and equally flashy laundry lists of their daughters’ accomplishments.
    “Ladies, ladies!” Aunt Bea singsonged. “I want to introduce to you one of our guests of honor this evening, my niece, Clara Knowles, who will be staying with us for an indefinite length of time.”
    They all openly inspected Clara, as if she were a mannequin on display.
    “Where is the
other
guest of honor?” a voice trilled out.
    “Oh, you know our Gloria,” her aunt began, turning to Clara with a flush of panic that only Clara saw.
    Clara leaped right in. “She’s on the phone long distance with that darling fiancé of hers,” she explained. She added in a stage whisper: