“Never been more sure,” I said.
He shrugged. “As you wish.” He placed a book in front of me and opened it to a page that showed three different styles of the modern bob. “Which one?”
“None of these.” I closed the book and handed it back to him. “I want my own style, something that suits just me. I’m thinking short and sleek and with a fringe straight across my forehead. How does that sound?”
“Whatever you like, madam.” And he started to snip, long thick clumps of hair falling to my feet like ropes being untied and releasing me. I’d give up my place on Broadway if I had to, I’d go to those Great Camps that Ziegfeld spoke of, I’d do it all, but he should know I’d be doing it my way.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As soon as Ruthie heard about the traveling troupe to the Adirondacks, she marched right up to Mr. Ziegfeld’s office and asked to be cast.
“You’re mad,” I told her. “Off your rocker. Why would you want to leave Manhattan to be stuck out in the sticks all summer long? Think of everything you’re going to miss, all those performances, all those parties, and dancing, and long summer nights.”
“Ha!” she laughed. She was lying in the middle of our living room on a thick white sheepskin rug that one of her admirers had sent her. It was her favorite place for helping her back pain. She used to prefer the cold hard floor, but now she could relieve her pain in luxury. I was draped on the white sofa we’d bought on credit when we first moved in, just like the rest of the furniture. We’d planned on paying it all back as soon as we got our next few paychecks, but now with my performances cut, we decided it could wait.
“Why do you laugh?” I said.
“Because you obviously weren’t paying attention last summer. It’s hot as hell, and it stinks, especially in August. Everyone’s off at their summer escape, and all you can think about is getting invited to Maine or Long Island, Westport, or, if you’re really lucky, the Adirondacks.”
“I don’t think that sounds lucky at all. In fact, I’d choose any one of those places over the Daddy Long Backs any day of the week. At least those other places have beaches. Isn’t that what summer is for? Sun and sand and swimming costumes?”
“Oh, Olive,” she said, stretching her arms above her head and pointing her toes, “just wait until you get there, you’ll feel very different about it all, I promise you.”
I sighed, trying to get comfortable with the idea. “What would I even pack? What do people wear?”
“Well, your costumes for performances.”
“Of course.”
“Evening gowns for dinners,” she said. “These camps may be in the middle of the forest, but from what I hear the evenings are still a formal affair. And then swimsuits and leisure wear for lakeshore activities—oh, and some sort of boots for hiking.”
“Hiking?” I scoffed. “Do you really envision us hiking?”
“When in Rome…” She smiled. “And I imagine it gets cold there at night.”
“I’ll bring my mink, then.”
She laughed. “Not that cold. A raincoat would suffice.”
I nodded, thinking it through. I was definitely bringing my mink.
The luggage porters took our brand-new Crouch & Fitzgerald luggage from the taxi and loaded it onto a cart at Grand Central Terminal. Thank God, because as beautiful as those cases looked with their wooden framing, cloth exterior and shiny brass buckles, they were as heavy as a horse. Ruthie had taken one look at my dented metal case and insisted that we upgrade immediately. She was coming along; her wish to join the troupe had been granted.
“You never know who you might meet, and these tatty old things are sending all the wrong messages about who you are and how you live your life. Come on,” she’d insisted, “we’ll put it on credit.”
It did feel awfully nice to know that those beautiful cases were ours, and I looked at them lovingly as the porter pulled the cart toward the station.
“This way,” Ruthie said, grabbing my hand and weaving us through the early morning hustle of men striding away from the tracks and out into the city. I watched them all heading in the same direction and felt a pull to go with them.
“It’s all going to be here when you get back,” Ruthie said, giving me a little tug. “Manhattan is not going anywhere.”
Out on the platform, we stood trying to catch our bearings. One black train car after another.
“What car does it say on our tickets?” I asked Ruthie, assuming she knew her way around.
“This way, ma’am.” The luggage porter ushered us to a car toward the end of the train.
As we drew closer, we saw Howie and the girls waiting for us. They whooped and hollered as we got close. We were all dressed to the nines for our ride to the Adirondacks. We’d been given strictinstructions that we were representing theZiegfeld Folliesfrom the minute we stepped out of our homes to the minute we got back. We were “the entertainment” at all times, not only when we were onstage. We should expect the press to take our pictures, and sure enough, we were approached by a photographer before we even climbed aboard.
