“Yeah,” Vivian agreed, drying her hands on the thin towel. Florence would be expecting her home soon. “Pearlie first.”
Vivian and Florence arrived at their building almost at the same moment, Florence unlocking the door while Vivian dashed across the street, holding her hat on her head with one hand and ignoring the angry honking of the car she had nearly cut off.
“Where have you been?” Florence asked as they trudged up three flights of creaking stairs. Not long ago, Florence’s question would have been a brittle accusation, a line drawn between them that Vivian longed to cross but couldn’t. Now, it was genuine curiosity.
“With Bea,” Vivian said as she unlocked the door to their tiny home.
Florence nodded, yawning as she kicked off her shoes and settled into her rocking chair. “How are they doing?” she asked, letting her eyes drift closed for a moment. “I’ll get up, I promise, I just need a moment.”
“It’s fine,” Vivian reassured her. “I’ll fix us something for dinner. I picked up some groceries on my way home. You sit and rest.”
Days sewing at Miss Ethel’s dress shop started at eight in the morning and didn’t end until it was too dark to sew. In the summer, only thefact that the city buildings blocked the sun around dinnertime made that bearable. Florence looked dead-on-her-feet tired, but at least tomorrow was Saturday. Ever since the spring, when Vivian had struck a bargain with Miss Ethel, they had Saturdays off. Florence didn’t even have a bag of sewing that needed to be done at home, a luxury that would have been unimaginable just a few months before.
“How are they?” Florence asked at last, opening her eyes to watch Vivian puttering around the kitchen. “Anything new I should know?”
“They’re sad,” Vivian said. “But no, nothing new.”
She didn’t even hesitate before lying. Florence had spent years taking care of her little sister. The least Vivian could do was to take care of her in return. And that meant not making her worry.
“Nothing new at all.” She handed Florence a plate with a sandwich on it. “I’ve gotta get ready for work.”
TEN
It felt strange to walk to the Nightingale alone.
Most nights, Vivian had Bea beside her, coats over their dancing dresses even in the summer, so no one stopped to wonder, or maybe ask where they were headed so late, all dolled up. They couldn’t afford a cab, not every night, so they walked. Bea, focused and determined, would stride exactly where she needed to go, confident, brisk, and careful, always careful, watching the alleys and shadows and doorways for anyone who might turn into trouble for two girls walking at night.
But Vivian’s eyes and steps always lingered, taking in the pools of golden light under the streetlamps, the shop doors barred and bolted for the night, the glimpses of night sky peeking between the buildings where no stars could be found. Sometimes there were sounds of laughter floating from windows, thrown open to catch whatever breeze might be stirring the heavy city air. Sometimes there were strains of jazz or blues rolling out of a carelessly opened door, behind the buildings or back in the alleys, hidden but waiting if you knew where to find it.
There were nights Vivian longed to go wandering, to cross the grid of streets to where mansions stood shoulder to shoulder, each trying tooutdo each other with light and splendor and drama. She wanted to know what it was like to live that way, without worry or fear or anyone to tell you what you couldn’t do.
The Nightingale was waiting. And she could find those things there, even if it was only for a few stolen moments on the dance floor.
But it still felt strange to walk alone. With Pearlie’s death, the streets that for a while had felt safe were full of shadows again, spots where unknown bodies slumped, drunk or asleep or just too tired to stay on their feet, where strangers lingered and called out to passing girls.
Vivian glanced at the sky, black and purple without a star to be seen, heavy and sultry with the summer heat. She checked the change in her purse and, before she could talk herself out of it, she flagged down a cab.
The band was in a mellow mood that night, brassy and slow to match the heat outside. Bodies swayed on the dance floor, cheeks and chests pressed close to each other, lovers and strangers and friends carrying each other through the smoky, boozy rhythm.
Vivian was glad. In her current mood, she didn’t think she could take the manic rush of energy that came with a Charleston night. She had already forgotten one order and delivered a bottle of champagne to the wrong table, a mistake that could have come out of her pay. Luckily for her, the accidental recipients had been decent enough to point out the error instead of just drinking it before she realized she’d gotten it wrong.
“What’s wrong, kitten?” Danny asked as she came rushing back for the cocktails she had left waiting on the bar. Instead of his regular killer smile, he gave her a worried look. “Your head’s all the way up in the clouds tonight.”
“Thinking about Bea,” she said. It was a true enough answer, even if it was the easy version, no explanations necessary.
At least, there wouldn’t have been with anyone but Danny. But he rarely took anything at face value. He put down the bottle he had been about to pour from. “You find anything out?” he asked, throwing a towel over his shoulder and leaning forward, his voice dropping to just above a murmur. “Anything Hux should know?”
Vivian lifted her tray in a smooth motion, the six glasses on it barely shivering. “Yeah,” she admitted. “It ain’t good.”
Danny nodded slowly. Making up his mind, he called out to the other bartender. “You got it handled for a minute? Have to go find the boss lady.”
“I’m on it.”
Danny smiled as he came around the bar, an easy grin to show anyone who might be watching that everything was normal, there was nothing to worry about. “Go on, kitten. Those fellas are going to get rowdy if they have to wait any longer for their drinks, and it’s too damn hot to be breaking up a fight tonight.” He gave Vivian a gentle nudge between her shoulder blades. “Hux’ll find you when she’s ready.”
Vivian did her best to focus on work, but every time her eyes strayed to the bandstand where Bea should have been singing, or the spot by the bar where Pearlie should have been standing, her thoughts jumped back to the coroner’s face when he told her what was in that bottle. She felt disoriented and unstable, like she was in a dream that could turn into a nightmare at any moment, knowing something that no one else there did.
The Nightingale had its regulars, same as any other place, and by this point she knew most of them. But over the hours of any given night, two or three dozen strangers might whisper the password at the door, pull aside the velvet curtains that kept the sound of the band from sneaking out, and make their way down the steps into the crowd. And they could be anyone: factory workers or debutants, politicians or mobsters.
