Chapter 10
Fern slept late the next morning. Until noon.
She couldn’t recall a single dream when she woke up.
The black, depthless sleep was the kind that made her limbs heavy and the sheets on her bed unbearable to part with.
By the time she’d risen, dressed and made her way downstairs to ask Mrs. Jennaway for something to eat, Fern could find no trace of anyone else in the house.
Tuesday afternoon would find Buchanan at the bank, Mother at lunch somewhere, and Father at any number of places.
She hoped he was somewhere making sure those photographs didn’t print on the front pages of the American or Tribune or whatever newspaper would stop the presses to add them to the evening editions.
Mrs. Jennaway made Fern a plate of eggs and bacon and a cup of tea, which she took to the dining room to eat.
Once seated at the table, her gaze kept drifting toward the spot where Cal had been, though there was no chair there any longer.
Just an open space, the tabletop reflecting the light coming in through the windows.
She couldn’t imagine returning to her room and waiting out the day with nothing but books and periodicals for entertainment.
She would only sink into memories of the night before and replay them in her mind again and again.
Shivers trembled through her whenever she thought of being chased along the Pier.
Her stomach turned at the casual way Cal had said the two goons would have thought nothing of opening fire on them in public.
She ought to have felt the latent tremors of panic last night, instead of now, after a long night of satisfying sleep.
The dining room was quiet, though someone was puttering around in the kitchen. Probably Mrs. Jennaway. She’d made no mention of Fern’s black eye, though from her alarmed expression, she’d seen it.
Fern suddenly felt misplaced, sitting in her own home; she was the only one there while everyone else was out and about working and living.
Pushing back her chair, she stood and started for her mother’s study, her palms breaking into a sweat as an idea formed.
Last night, she’d gone out. She hadn’t dissolved into a writhing mass of embarrassment.
People had stared, but the world hadn’t quit spinning. Her face hadn’t caused any disasters.
She’d slept so soundly afterward too. Her mind hadn’t whirled in endless circles as it always had at night.
Mother kept a telephone in her study, along with an exchange directory in her desk. The room smelled of rose oil. Fern shut the door and padded over the carpet to the desk where she rolled open the center drawer.
She flipped through the directory until she found the exchange she was looking for, then picked up the receiver on her mother’s candlestick telephone. When the operator’s voice filled the earpiece, she swallowed a knot in her throat.
“Armitage-2605,” Fern said, giving the exchange and number for her Aunt Cecelia and Uncle Jep in Old Town.
The operator connected her, and after a few clicking purrs over the line, she heard a polite female voice.
“Hello?”
“Shirley?” Fern recognized her older cousin’s high, sweet voice.
“Yes?”
“This is Fern.” There was a beat of silence over the line. “Fern Adair. Your cousin.”
Another few seconds of silence had her wondering if the line had been dropped. But then she heard an intake of breath.
“Of course, Fern. Why, hello. I didn’t expect a telephone call from you. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you.” Her fingers curled around the telephone’s long wire. “I thought I might speak to Patrice?”
Neither of her cousins had married after high school, though Shirley did have a serious beau. She and Patrice were still living at home, and Fern had no idea if they worked anywhere or simply lounged away the day in their enormous home along the edge of Lincoln Park.
“Sure,” Shirley said, her voice pitching higher with surprise. “Sure thing. Hold on, Fern.”
There was a loud rustle in her ear, and she figured the mouthpiece had either been set down or smothered by a hand.
She waited, feeling slightly ill. Considered hanging up. But then, she thought of Cal and what he’d say. Buck up and stay on the line, princess.
Her cousin’s end of the line rustled again, someone shushed another person, and then Patrice’s clear voice said, “Fern?”
“Hi, Patrice.”
She didn’t say anything, and Fern realized it was because, though she’d seen her cousin at dinners and holidays over the years, they didn’t know anything about one another.
“I…I’m calling because I thought maybe we could get together.” The words were a jumble of nerves and doubt. Why should Patrice want to get together with her sorry recluse of a cousin? Why should she want to be seen in public with her?
“Get together?” Patrice echoed. “Oh. Well…sure. What were you thinking?”
What was she thinking? She didn’t quite know.
Being out with Cal the night before had been frightening, but afterward, while lying in bed, her heart still jumping, she’d felt the oddest bit of pride for having done it.
She wanted to go out again, but not alone.
And not with someone like her mother who had never handled being in public with her well.
It always seemed as though Dorothy Adair was just waiting for someone to stare or make a comment about Fern, if only for the opportunity to gather her up and stalk away in a huff.
Patrice, however, with her seemingly genuine smiles and her new, controversial bob, might not mind if they received stares.
“Lunch, maybe?”
“Today?” Patrice asked.
Fern remembered the time. It was already noon. “Well, maybe not.”
The line went quiet again. This had been a mistake. She wrung the cord around her finger, heat rushing to her ears.
“What about tonight?” Patrice offered. Fern pictured them sitting down to dinner somewhere in a fancy, well-lit restaurant and suddenly felt like closing her eyes and crawling into bed. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t do this.
“My friend’s fella is playing the bass at a cabaret,” Patrice explained. “If you like jazz.”
“Sure,” Fern answered. She could have said her friend was going to be the lead act in a circus juggling show, and she would have agreed. “That sounds like fun.”
At least, it had the potential to be. But already her nerves were itching.
“I can pick you up on my way,” Patrice said, sounding excited.
“What do I wear?” Last night, her dress had been too somber and plain. What did someone wear to a cabaret?
“Whatever glad rags you’ve got,” her cousin answered. “Do you still have that violet dress from a few months ago?”
Fern knew which one Patrice meant—the drop-waist, orchid silk dress was long-sleeved and unfashionably long, skimming her shins, but the peacock beading made up for it.
“I’ll wear it,” she told Patrice.
“Good. I’ll be by around nine.”
If Fern was going to back out, now was the moment. But there was no reason other than cowardice for her to call it off. Patrice would have known. Poor Fern, she’d tell Shirley, who was no doubt standing right there, listening. She’s too scared.
“Thanks, Patrice,” she heard herself saying.
“Sure thing. It’ll be a bang.”
They hung up, and Fern sat back in her mother’s chair, her fingers numb and white from where she’d wrapped the cord so tightly.
She was scared. But there was something more behind the sick swell of nerves already churning in her stomach.
A strange yearning. She didn’t know what to call it, but she’d felt it last night when Cal had taken her hand and pulled her along the Pier, ignoring every curious eye.
Fern bit the inside of her lip and launched out of the chair.
The orchid silk dress had come with a matching silk wrap, and as the clock struck nine, Fern brought it around her shoulders. With a shortened breath and her black beaded clutch, into which she’d put her tube of lipstick, money, and a key to the house, she left her room.
Fern worked hard to convince herself that she wasn’t nervous—and even harder when she met her mother on the staircase. Taking in a loud, surprised breath through her nostrils, her mother paused on the steps to stare at Fern’s dress.
“You’re going out?”
Fern stepped smoothly past her. “Patrice is picking me up in a minute.”
“Patrice?” Her head turned to follow Fern, but she remained rooted on the step. “Your cousin, Patrice?”
“Yes,” she said as blithely as possible. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”
“Oh.” Surprise turned her mother’s voice breathy. “All right. Well…do have a good time. But Fern…”
The staircase curved, bringing her mother back into view. Fern licked her lips and halted, waiting for her mother to speak.
“You…” Her mother blinked, her mouth opening and closing a few times. Then finally, she remarked, “That dress is divine. You look very pretty.”
Fern stared, shocked. She didn’t know when her mother had last told her she looked pretty. Had she ever?
“Thank you,” she said. “Goodnight, Mother.”
She didn’t know why, but her eyes filled with tears as she took the rest of the stairs into the foyer.
The hallway that led to her father’s study was dimly lit.
Fern hadn’t seen him in three days. Her bruised undereye had turned a sickly shade of yellowish brown, and it had taken a bit of makeup to cover it up tonight.
A balloon of dread inflated beneath her ribs.
Today had been the deadline for him to decide what to do about the photographs.
In an all-too-real possibility, tomorrow could be ushered in by her mother’s screams as she opened the morning paper.
A pair of headlights brightened the front windows of the foyer, and a loud, rumbling engine came up the drive. If these were to be her final hours before she was humiliated in front of all of Chicago—and possibly the country—Fern would enjoy them.