The party in the other room was getting louder, the singing more off-key, the laughter rowdier. The music on the phonograph competed with the pounding piano. A gal who seemed to be wearing only her underslip scampered past, letting out a small scream and laughing uncontrollably as a man chased her. He caught her up in his arms and carried her out, shouting about the pool.
The room closed in on me, thick with smoke and unnamed expectations. I was definitely in over my head. Oh, how I hated when Max was right. I needed to think, and I couldn’t think with Roy so close, with Louella watching me with those bright eyes. “I need to powder my nose.” I pasted on a sweet smile and got to my feet. The floor swayed in an alarming way.
Roy grabbed my hand and eyed me suspiciously. “You aren’t running out on me, are you, doll?”
“Oh, believe me, Roy, she’ll be back.” Louella jumped in. She gave me a look that said I better be back.
“In two shakes,” I assured Roy, my voice wobbling.
“Lucky man,” Docky slurred, and Louella gave him a glare.
I lurched away, my satin heels sinking into the sprawling bearskin. I imagined the bear’s glassy eyes watching me as I stumbled out of the room. Panic crept up my throat as I veered around a swarm of dancers. I could hear Max’s “I told you so,” but I wasn’t about to accept defeat. I needed air, then I’d come up with some way to see this through.
Once, when I was a kid, Penny and I dared each other to swim across the lake behind the back forty. Whoever lost had to clean the chicken coop. Penny was older but I was the better swimmer and itching to prove it. I started out strong and was soon yards ahead. By the time I reached the middle of the lake, I was exhausted. Penny turned back, but I pushed on. I made it, but only barely. Penny—the tattletale—told Papa the whole story that night, and I had to clean the chicken coop for a month, even though I’d won the bet. With every shovelful, I reminded myself I’d done what I had set out to do—and I’d do it again.
Sink or swim, isn’t that how the saying goes? But how far would I have to swim with Roy Lester? All the way? It wasn’t like this was my first time, I reminded myself. It wasn’t even my first time with someone I’d just met. I’d thought—and hoped and prayed and promised myself— those days and ways were behind me, but I’d come too far and was in too deep to give up now.
I pushed through the crowd, making a beeline for a set of French doors draped in heavy damask. I could leave now and lose my chance or stay and see this thing through. Papa and Penny were fast running out of time.
Sink or swim? I didn’t have a choice anymore.
OSCAR
Oscar plunged his hands into the sink full of hot soapy water. How many more glasses would he have to wash before thoseamericanospassed out or ran out of liquor? He hadn’t eaten since morning, his hands were as red as a hot pepper, and his head pounded harder than the hammering piano in the big room outside the kitchen door.
“Ay, ay,my feet,” Francesca complained, shifting her weight from one sturdy leg to the other as she dried a crystal highball glass. “He does not pay me enough for these nights.”
Alonso pushed through the swinging door with another tray of dirty glasses, setting them on the counter next to Oscar’s elbow. “You should try walking through that crowd with a tray of martinis.” He spoke in Spanish, as they all did when they worked in the kitchen. Francesca’s kitchen meant Francesca’s rules.
Oscar took care with the delicate stems as he transferred the dirty martini glasses to the sink. He’d never make a good waiter. He was too big to weave through a crowded room like Alonso, and he’d probably hit the first drunk who spilled their expensive liquor on him.
“They’re winding up in there.” Alonso splashed bourbon into three sparkling tumblers. “Clara Bow is dancing on the top of the bar.” His mouth curled in what looked a lot like envy. “That blonde, she took off her dress and says she’s going swimming. Someday soon, I’ll have as much money as John Gilbert. And a swimming pool full of beautiful women.”
“Alonso!” Francesca scolded, crossing herself automatically and kissing her thumbnail.
Oscar’s headache moved to the back of his eyes. It was always the same with Alonso—to be like theamericanoswith money toburn. Maybe, Oscar thought with a flash of annoyance, if Alonso didn’t spend every spare nickel on the picture shows and get-rich-quick schemes, his family would have money enough for rent.
Why did he want to be like the idiots out there? Theseamericanoshad everything, but they were only happy when they were destroying something—their homes, their bodies, their families. He read enough of their newspapers to see they didn’t know the meaning of honor. Give him trees and hedges—no matter how hot and sweaty the work—instead of women dressed like tarts and rich men on the prowl.
Oscar handed Alonso two clean glasses. “Ándale!If Señor Lester sees you lazing, you’ll be out of a job.”
Alonso scowled. “If Señor Lester wants his liquor faster, he should hire more staff.” He filled the glasses with champagne. “And someone to help with the gardens.”
Oscar didn’t disagree. There had been three gardeners when he got this job a year ago, but for months now, Oscar had cared for the grounds alone. Still, a job was a job and he’d take it. As the newspapers said every day, plenty of real Americans were lined up to take his place.
Francesca rolled her eyes. “May God hear you. I’ve said to theseñora, I can’t keep up with so little help, but she doesn’t listen. Ah, my back is aching.”
Lupita pushed through the door. Slender and graceful, she moved like a shadow in and out of the kitchen. She was Alonso’s little sister, but the similarities ended with their slight builds, curly dark hair, and wide brown eyes. Lupita was as serene as Alonso was discontent. Usually. Tonight, though, her hands trembled as she transferred glasses from her tray to the sideboard.
“Are you feeling all right, Lupita?” Oscar asked. She was onlyeighteen, too young to be serving drunks, but he knew the Garcias needed the money as much as he did.
“Sí,Oscar. I’m fine.” She glanced behind her at the door as if a villain lurked outside.
She wasn’t fine. And Mamá would expect him to protect a girl her age. Oscar dried his hands on a towel. “Let me go out there this time. You take over here.”
Lupita almost dropped a glass, then threw a frightened glance toward Alonso. “No, no, Oscar. I mean, thank you, but I can go.”
Oscar eyed her. What was wrong now?
