Chapter Twenty-Two
I still feel giddy the next day. Stan called the session “a triumph” as he deposited me at the front door of my suite. To have won his approval at our first photography session together, when I know what a keen artistic eye he has, fills me with a warm glow.
My ebullient mood continues when, that evening outside the theater, I see him waiting for me once more. “Stanny!” I skip over to him, pulling my silver fur stole tighter around my shoulders against the chilly November damp.
“Hello, my bonbon.” He looks just as happy to see me.
“I didn’t see you in the theater,” I say.
“I couldn’t make it this evening, but I still wished to see you.” Stan opens the motorcar door and hands me in.
As I’m settling in, I spy Penny stepping out of the theater door.
She’s chatting with Trixie and Annissa as they head out for the night, perhaps to Rector’s.
I feel a pang in my belly that only intensifies when Penny spots me, too, throwing me a cheerful smile and wave.
And then she turns back to the girls, and the three of them are off, an undeniable part of me wishing I could join them.
I stifle a sigh—there’s no use longing for a night out with Penny and the girls.
Mamma’s orders. And besides, I’ve got the best companion in town sliding into the auto right beside me. “Where are we going?” I ask Stan.
“Why? Do you have other plans?” His demeanor is playful and a bit jealous.
“No,” I say, chuckling as I settle into my seat. “You know I’m not allowed to go out while Mamma is away. At least, not with anyone but you.”
“That’s right,” he clucks. “Mother’s rules, you poor dear. Stuck with me. Is it a wretched fate?”
I toss him a sideways grin. “Not at all.”
“Thank goodness,” he says with exaggerated relief. “Thought I’d spare you from having to head straight home for a lackluster evening. I’ve set up a little supper in your honor at my place.”
“In my honor?”
“To celebrate your work yesterday. With those prints, you’ll soon have every stage company knocking on your door offering you a leading role.”
I don’t even try to quash my smile as I stare out the window of his auto, the glittering exteriors of Broadway’s Great White Way streaming past like so many luminescent pearls on a necklace. To think—all of these theaters might soon be offering me roles. I have no reason to doubt Stan.
I feel as though I’m on top of the world. I also feel as though I could eat a feast, as usual after a show. “A dinner party sounds grand, Stanny,” I say, offering him an appreciative grin.
We roll up to his townhouse on Twenty-fourth Street and I hop out, walking past the darkened windows of the next-door toy store.
I throw a glance toward the displays but can barely make anything out.
Stan opens his front door, and we step inside.
The space hangs in silence and shadow, the line of sconces throwing off only a dim glow.
I grab the banister and begin to climb the stairs. Stan, behind me, says, “I recall how timid you were on these stairs the first day you visited. I called out to you.”
I can’t help but grin, remembering that day with Dinah and Dolly. How timid I’d felt, struck by confusion when I heard the sudden and faceless voice. “It sounded like you were the voice of God.”
“Not too far off the mark, is it, my dear girl? Haven’t I pulled you from hell and seated you at the finest banquet in paradise?”
I pause my climb for just a moment, turning to look at him over my shoulder.
Stan’s mustache turns up with his half smile. “You know your mother calls me heaven-sent?”
“Of course I know that,” I reply. I’m struck, yet again, by the fact that this man who sits atop the world seems to crave my adulation.
“Now you walk in like you own the place. Country mouse no more, my pet. You are my little city mouse.” My cheeks go warm at this; I like appearing sophisticated and confident to a man like Stanley Pierce.
We arrive at the landing, and I lead the way as we enter his drawing room.
Stanny helps me out of my fur stole, his hands hovering a moment on my shoulders, his lips brushing close to my neck as he says, in a soft voice, “In fact, I’d amend that.
Maybe you aren’t a mouse anymore at all. Maybe you’re the cat.”
I turn, leaving my fur wrap in his hands as I face him, and I see his appreciative stare as his eyes sweep my figure, draped in a flattering gown of sapphire blue, my collarbone and neck bare, save for a spritz of my favorite perfume and a thin strand of pearls.
Both gifts from Stanny, of course. He is quiet for a long moment as he takes me in, and then, voice a bit hoarse, he says, “Why, the way you can play with my heart. Your sweet little smile just undoes me. Yes, you are the cat.”
The last time we were alone together, truly alone, at that dinner on the floor on top of the tower, he got so cross with me—and so quickly—because he thought I wasn’t acting like a good girl.
But tonight, he seems different. He seems to want some playful banter, some impish flirtation.
In fact he seems to be inviting me into it, so I oblige. “I’m the cat? And what are you?”
“The mouse.” A smile tugs his lips upward. “Can I beg you not to be too terribly fierce? Perhaps don’t be the cat. Can you be a kitten?”
I tip my head to the side. “That sounds better.”
“My little kitten.” He tilts forward and places a quick kiss on top of my head. As he does so, he breathes in the scent of my hair, a bouquet of jasmine and honeysuckle.
“You smell like perfection,” he whispers into my ear, his breath pulling a shiver to my skin.
I bite my lower lip, my confidence wobbling for a moment.
Something about the intensity of his stare, his voice, his entire demeanor—it feels unnervingly like fire now.
A fire that could be dangerous or, at the very least, entirely new.
But I force myself to meet his eyes. “It’s the perfume you gave me. ”
He nods once, then looks away, around the room. “You know, Kitten, I said you walk in like you own the place. You can…own the place.”
“What do you mean?”
“All of this. All of this could be yours. I’ve always sworn I would never bind myself to one woman. But…I never planned on you.”
Is he proposing marriage? Is he telling me he loves me? He, who has always told me he’s my protector, my benefactor, who has always looked after me with the care and solicitousness of a dear friend.
But of course I’ve known there was something more.
Or at least, I’ve suspected it. The lingering, direct way he looks at me sometimes.
I may be young and na?ve, but I’m not a fool.
I know the power I have over men, and have had almost since girlhood.
And Penny made those quips, not to mention Dolly and Dinah.
But Stanny has never crossed a line toward anything romantic. Is that what this is now?
Surely he can read my confusion because he waves his hands, as if swatting away a pesky fly, and his features rearrange themselves into an expression of jovial cheer, one I’m far more familiar with.
“Let’s just enjoy ourselves, shall we?” he says.
“I want nothing more than to make you happy, at all times.”
Relief washes over and through me, so much that I feel the space between my shoulders soften. I look around his grand salon, all too willing to drop the rope of tension that has unspooled between us. “Where is everyone else?” I ask.
“Everyone else? It’s just us. Aren’t I enough?”
“Of course. I only thought…since you said you’d arranged a supper…”
“Yes, Kitten, for us. To celebrate our work together yesterday and plan your bright future. You were a triumph, my darling. I can’t wait to see the pictures. I’ve told the photographer he’d better make two copies because I want to keep some, too. Which costume did you prefer?”
As he talks, he offers me his arm and guides me to the dining table set for two, with gleaming candelabras throwing a soft amber light over the fresh-cut flowers and crystal stemware.
I consider his question for a moment as he helps me into my chair and takes the seat opposite. “The geisha,” I answer. It was certainly the easiest pose, to lie there and slip into repose.
“I quite liked you on that white bearskin. You were the image of purity. Like you were dreaming.”
“I was dreaming,” I say. “I believe I fell asleep.”
“Dreaming of what?”
I shrug as I fan the linen napkin across my lap. “Probably chocolate-covered strawberries.”
He leans back in his seat, pressing his hand to his heart in a playful gesture, as though he’s been wounded. “Not dreaming of me, then?”
“Why would I need to dream of you, Stanny? You make every day of my life a dream when I’m awake.”
“I like that,” he says, tilting toward me. “Yes, I like that. See, how can you deny it? You are indeed the cat, and you are toying with me. Or at the very least playing with me.”
“I’m not, Stanny. I mean it. You make each day a dream.”
“But you know, I dream of you.” He leans over the table now, reaching his hand for mine, and I give it to him. When he goes on, I see that we’ve ventured into serious territory once more. “Awake and asleep. You are all I can think of. You have taken over my entire life.”
My heart is knocking against my throat. Here it is again, this serious side of Stanny.
I don’t know what to make of it. Now I can feel my racing heartbeat in my fingers, as Stanny wraps his palm softly around my hand.
I blink, and for a fleeting moment, my mind plays a trick on itself: I see another man gripping my hand.
A dirty Pittsburgh boardinghouse, an invitation to step into his room.
I blink again, and the scene rights itself as I see Stanny once more.
This gracious room with this beautiful table.
I am safe, I tell myself, trying to calm my frayed nerves.