Stop it, Fern. It was a ridiculous waste of a few stuttering heartbeats. The man hadn’t meant anything at all by his small nod. He hadn’t recoiled, though that was very likely because he was trained to maintain a poker face, as Buchanan called it.
Fern sipped at her champagne while the ladies carried on an airy conversation about the parties they’dattended so far that summer, safely circumventing the dangerous waters of flappers and their alleged “loose morals.” No one expected her to speak. They all believed she was unbearably shy, instead of just mortified at being paraded out and put on display by her mother. So, she’d cultivated that misbelief, happily too.
By the time cocktails were over and they’d settled around the dining room table, the two suitors had been introduced. The man who had caught her eye earlier was indeed a junior associate of her uncle’s. Matthew Clifton. She should have forgotten his name as immediately as she had the other man’s, but her cursed mind held on to that tendril of information.
Appetizers were served, followed by salad, then spiced baked ham and mash. A cheese course came next, and finally, red velvet cake. She ate more than usual, though it was only to occupy herself and avoid glancing down the long table toward Mr. Clifton. Though she’d been seated between Mr. Farrington and the other potential suitor, neither of them had much to say to her. Instead, they kept up a running conversation over her plate about a recent funeral in Hillside.
“I heard Genna’s coffin was made of bronze and weighed a thousand pounds,” Mr. Farrington said as he slid his fork into his slice of cake. “You were there, weren’t you, Halbert?”
Halbert. That was his name.
“Cost about three grand, and the flowers…” Mr. Halbert made an unattractive guttural groan. “I couldn’t get the smell of the lilies Capone sent out of my nose for a week.”
“I think it’s disgraceful the way everyone treats these criminals like royalty,” Fern’s mother interjected from her seat at one end of the table. She’d been keeping one ear on the conversation, likely hoping Mr. Halbert would say something worthwhile to her daughter. Fern highly doubted the man ever said anything worthwhile to anyone.
Her mother shook her head, dabbing the corner of her red lips with a napkin. “What is wrong with people in this city? The man was nothing but a bootlegging gangster.”
The funeral for Angelo Genna, who’d been shot and killed in a dazzling car chase at the end of last month, had been splashed all over the front pages of the city’s newspapers. Fern subscribed to theTribuneandThe Herald and Examiner, and to her mother’s disapproval, the bawdyAmerican, which she claimed wasn’t even fit to line the bottom of her conure’s cage.
Several hundred people had flocked to Mount Carmel Cemetery for the ostentatious procession. Most of them had been starstruck gawkers like Mr. Halbert.
“Men like Genna have no respect for the law,” Uncle Jep said from across the table.
“Why should they?” Mr. Clifton’s question was met with the quick swiveling of heads up and down the table and paused forkfuls of cake. He didn’t cower under the gazes. “The law itself is corrupt. Genna, O’Banion, Capone, it doesn’t matter who it is—they can do whatever they want, seeing how half the city’s prosecutors and cops are on their payroll.”
Fern’s father, seated near Mr. Clifton, glared at theyoung man. The careless statement hadn’t been an outright accusation, but it left a question lingering around the table: Was Judge Adair one of those bought men?
Too late, their handsome dinner guest realized his misstep. He took a greater interest in his cake to avoid the judge’s piercing stare. Mr. Halbert carried on speaking with a full mouth of cake.
“Some of the smaller rackets aren’t any better than street hoodlums. At least Capone has class.” A spray of food ejected past his lips. Fern cringed and sat back in her chair as Mr. Halbert speared the air with his fork, as if to make a point. “Mark my words, as soon as he swallows up some of the smaller goons like the Jacky Boys and the Rosetti gang, the violence will even out.”
Buchanan didn’t usually join these dinners, but tonight, he sat to their father’s right, his plate of cake pushed away from him, untouched. “The Rosettis are cracked. Capone would be better off getting rid of them altogether.”
“Red Rod’s a wild card,” Mr. Halbert said, seeming to enjoy being an authority on the subject. “His brother’s the brains of the operation.”
Aunt Cecelia’s fork clattered onto the rim of her dessert plate. “I find this topic of conversation terribly distasteful.” Her flaring nostrils and puckered lips made that clear. Patrice and Shirley stared at their slices of cake, and Fern suspected they were embarrassed by their mother’s outburst.
Mr. Halbert straightened, his eyes blinking, as if he’djust been unexpectedly smacked on the back of his head. “Apologies, ma’am.”
Buchanan remained unapologetic, lazily twirling his wine glass by the stem.
Jane Farrington took an unnecessarily loud breath and turned toward Fern’s mother. “Mrs. Adair, this cake isdivine. I insist your cook send along the recipe to my own.”
The comment helped pivot the conversation. For the most part, Fern went ignored, though a few times throughout the courses, she caught Mr. Clifton glancing at her. He would immediately look away, but it was still unsettling. She knew her place in this world, and men as handsome as Matthew Clifton weren’t interested in girls with only one-half of a pretty face. Men who were that handsome and successful always cared about appearances. They cared for girls like Shirley and Patrice, whom they could drape on their arms when out in public.
But it was easy to dream of handsome men. Like giving in and scratching an itch you know you should leave alone.
At last, the dessert course ended, and they all pushed back their chairs to move into the White Room for after-dinner cocktails. Again, Mr. Clifton’s eyes grazed Fern’s as the men stood aside, waiting for the women to depart first.
In the hall, Fern sped up to take a detour. A moment alone was all she needed to clear her head of the capricious thoughts about Mr. Clifton. A pair of French doors led onto the back patio, where the July air was heavy with freesia and tea roses, the leafy climbing vinestwisting around the columns of the patio. The entire dinner party would depart within the hour, and she would forget Mr. Clifton within a week. By next Saturday’s dinner party, at the very least.
Knowing she couldn’t remain missing much longer, she slipped back inside. Ahead, the hall turned at a ninety-degree angle, and beyond that were the doors to the White Room. Her father’s study was also located down this stretch of hallway, though she didn’t enter that room often.That is his sanctuary,Mother had always told her and Buchanan while they’d been growing up, and for the longest time Fern had thought the room held some religious importance to their father. She’d picture him inside, kneeling upon the carpet and praying. When she’d finally worked up the nerve to peek inside one day while their father was out, she’d seen a large mahogany desk, a pair of leather club chairs, a wet bar, and rows upon rows of bookshelves. She’d realized their father had been inside his sanctuary drinking and relaxing, not praying. When Fern told Buchanan, he’d laughed and called her stupid.
A pair of voices sounded from around the corner in the hallway. Fern went still.
“Nice spread, though, wouldn’t you say? Haven’t had a better meal since the Ritz last month in New York.” It was Mr. Halbert, his voice just as phlegmy and uncultured as it had been during dinner.
“I’d have rather been there.”
