ONE
New York City, 1924
The long, drawn-out wail of a trumpet could hide almost anything.
The breathless conversation in the middle of a dance, when one partner’s lips were so close to the other’s ear, just long enough for a whispered invitation,Meet me in the alley,greeted with either a slap or a smile that meantYes.
The girl who slipped up to the bar, who didn’t have any money, not with the wages they paid at the factory, but who looked like she needed that little bit of living the Nightingale could provide, so the bartender poured a drink anyway and winked as he slid it over.
The stammered invitation,Would you like to dance?, of a new boy, still unfailingly polite, before he learned to grin sideways and place a hand on his heart, pleading,Dust off your shoes, doll, no one can catch a quickstep like you!
When the trumpet wailed, all that mattered was whether you could keep time for the foxtrot, move fast enough for the quickstep, feel the reckless joy of the Charleston.
It hid the way Vivian swallowed her champagne too quickly, bubblesburning her throat and making her feel brave. It hid the ugly shoes that were all she could afford, the secondhand spangles sewn onto the hem of her dress, the way she didn’t seem to belong anywhere else but here, alive and breathless and something like happy, even if it was only for a few hours.
The long, drawn-out wail of a trumpet could hide almost anything. Even the sound of murder.
TWO
“You don’t have to sit with me the whole time.”
The comment broke into Vivian’s thoughts, which had been swaying out on the floor in time to the slow waltz the band was crooning. She jumped and glanced at her friend, feeling guilty. “You only get twenty minutes of break, Bea. Of course I’m sitting with you.”
Bea took a long drink of water—the waitresses were the only ones who ever asked for water at the Nightingale—and settled back in her chair, one eyebrow lifting toward where her curly hair had been wrestled into a careful wave across her forehead. She had worked at the Nightingale so long that she always looked perfectly at home there, whether she was serving, resting, drinking, or dancing. Vivian envied her that.
“That’s sweet of you, but it’s too loud to talk anyway. So why don’t I rest these poor little puppies”—Bea stretched out one foot, rotating the ankle slowly—“while you catch Mr. Lawrence’s eye over there and see if he’ll take the hint.”
Vivian didn’t have time to object. Mr. Lawrence had already seen Bea looking and, giving the gray wings of his hair a delicate touch,strolled over. “Evening, Miss Vivian,” he said, polite as always. Ms. Huxley, the Nightingale’s owner—no miss for her, as she made clear to anyone who got it wrong—insisted on manners in her club. “Enjoying your break, Beatrice?”
“Soaking it up, sir,” Bea agreed with an earnest smile. “But poor Viv here can’t keep her feet still, even with this sad stuff playing. You’ll take her for a twirl, won’t you, Mr. Lawrence?”
If they had been out on the street, Vivian knew that Bea would have never spoken to the distinguished white man at all, and he would never have glanced at the Black waitress or her Irish friend, no matter how pretty they were or polite he was. But the rules could be different behind back-alley doors with no addresses—the ones that opened only when you knocked the right number of times, where the steps swept down to the dance floor and the gin made its way from Chicago. Mr. Lawrence smiled and held out his hand. “Miss Vivian. I haven’t had the pleasure this evening.”
She could have declined. But Bea was nodding encouragement, and the band was drawing out the melody with a perfect flair. So Vivian swallowed the rest of her champagne and let him lead her into the line of couples slowly revolving around the dance floor. He glanced down at her hands as they settled into the rhythm.
“Factory work?” he asked. A waltz left plenty of breath for talking if you wanted to.
“Sewing,” Vivian said, wiggling fingertips that were reddened from years of needle pricks.
“Must be a nice escape for you, then, coming here,” he said.
“As long as someone else is buying my drinks,” she agreed, and they both laughed.
“Well, I’m always good for a round, especially for a girl who dances as prettily as you.” There was something delightfully old-fashioned about his politeness, especially in the middle of an underground dance hall.
“And what are you escaping from?” she asked. “I doubt you spend your days working in a factory.”
“No, I am very fortunate,” he said gravely, which made Vivian like him even more. “But we all have responsibilities we want to forget about from time to time.” He smiled, and the serious mood lightened as he added, “Besides, Ms. Huxley stocks her bar like a lush’s dream.” It was true. The Nightingale was a smaller club, but the bar held its own with the best.
They had danced before only a couple of times, but their bodies moved together easily with the sway of the waltz. The freedom to stand so close to someone who was nearly a stranger, but whose secrets she was trusted to keep and who was trusted to keep hers, made Vivian feel even giddier than the champagne. She would never tire of it.
The band leader knew just how to get his musicians to draw out the last note, sweet and melancholy, overlapping the polite applause before the trumpet swung into the first notes of “Charleston Charlie.” There was a mad rush to grab a partner and get back on the dance floor.
A stylish girl, her curly brunette bob glittering with spangles, made a beeline for Mr. Lawrence, calling, “Laurie promised me this one, you’ll just have to wait!” to the grumpy-looking young man who watched her with his arms crossed. Vivian smiled, waving away Mr. Lawrence’s apologetic look as she ducked out of the brunette’s way. It was almost painful to miss a Charleston—if she had known it was coming up, she would never have let Bea persuade her onto the floor for a waltz—but it was also her only chance to spend time with her friend that evening.
Bea had moved to the bar, where the smirking bartender was just sliding a drink toward her. There were always two bartenders serving, and in the months that Vivian had been coming to the Nightingale, the second one had changed half a dozen times, a rotating cast of dark blond hair and forgettable faces.
But Danny Chin was always there, working every patron with an experienced patter and a charming smile. He was the club’s unofficial second-in-command, Honor Huxley’s loyal right hand who could spota plainclothes cop from the top of the stairs and danced like a dream on the rare occasions when he slipped out from behind the bar. All the girls who made their way to the Nightingale were half in love with him, at least when he was smiling right at them.
