Irene hadn’t needed the rouge, since her cheeks were bright with color. “This is my cousin, Caroline B—”
“Reed,” I said. “Caroline Reed.”
“You sound Midwestern, too,” he said with a chuckle.
I lifted my eyebrows, his easy demeanor relieving my nerves. “You could tell from three simple words?”
His grin was infectious. “You’ve got that innocent, wholesome look about you. Not to mention, I’m from the Midwest, so I know one when I see one.” He put out his hand and said, “Ernest Hemingway. It’s nice to meet you, Miss Reed.”
“My pleasure.” I wanted to tell him how much I’d enjoyedThe Sun Also Rises, even though I’d had to read it in secret since Fathershunned anything that came from this so-called Lost Generation. But I couldn’t find the words.
“Jimmie,” Mr. Hemingway said, rapping on the bar. “These girls need a stiff drink.”
“No.” I quickly shook my head. “No, thank you. I don’t drink.”
“I’ll take one,” Irene said with a giggle.
After Hemingway ordered a drink for Irene, he turned back to us. “Fitzgerald isn’t here yet, but he should be along shortly.”
Disappointment lowered Irene’s shoulders and caught me off guard, too. I shouldn’t have been so eager to meet these men—but I couldn’t help it. Their books were popular because they reflected the thoughts and feelings of this generation. Even though my parents tried to shelter me, I was still intrigued. Perhaps even more so because I felt foolish not knowing what others knew.
“Don’t fret,” Hemingway said. “We can have a good time while we wait.” He glanced at the empty stage. “If we had some music, we could even dance.”
“Caroline sings,” Irene said, much too eagerly. “She sings all the time.”
“Is that right?” Hemingway’s face filled with interest. “We haven’t had music in here for days.” He took my hand and led me through the maze of tables, laughing as he bumped into people, leaving me to apologize in our wake.
“Really, Mr. Hemingway,” I protested as I tried to pull away. “I’m not going to sing here.”
“Sure you are. And I’ll accompany you.” He led me up a short flight of stairs to the stage. “My mother is a musician, and she forced me to learn the cello. It comes in handy now and again.” He motioned toward a cello sitting on the stage. “It hasn’t been played nearly enough. What do you want to sing?”
“Idon’twant to sing.”
“Come on,” he said, his handsome smile almost blinding. “You’re young, beautiful, and, if your cousin is right, talented. Life is too short to be bashful or modest. If you have it, use it. What’ll it be, Miss Reed?”
He was still holding my hand, probably afraid I’d bolt if he let go.
People had noticed us on the stage, and several were watching with mild curiosity. Irene had found a table and was waiting with expectation.
But I couldn’t do it. I only sang in public because I felt obligated to Father. I had no such obligations to Ernest Hemingway.
“I’m sorry,” I said as I shook my head and pulled away.
“Miss Baldwin,” Hemingway said as he stepped to the edge of the stage to address Irene. “Can’t you convince her?”
Irene jumped up from her seat and met me at the base of the steps. “Please sing, Caroline. I’ll do anything for you. I promise.”
I paused. “Will you leave this place when I’m done? Return to the hotel with me?”
Her face fell. “I don’t want to leave yet.”
“Then I’m not singing.” I began to move around her.
“Come on,” Hemingway said.
“Please don’t embarrass me in front of him,” Irene begged.
“Promise me we’ll leave as soon as I’m done,” I told her, even though I wanted to meet Fitzgerald. The longer we stayed, the more we risked getting in trouble.
