"No, thank you."

Astrid and Cordelia exchanged glances over the odd swiftness of his reply.

Then Astrid frowned theatrically, which caused Charlie to return to the sweet tone he'd been trying to win her over with all afternoon. "Maybe a boat ride instead? I could take you out on one of those ferries that tour all the inlets and serve champagne. Wouldn't you like that?"

"Boats bore me," Astrid replied acidly. "And if I find out you've taken your other girl up in an airplane, that will be the end of us."

It was not her first comment of the kind that day, and she could see that this latest really chafed Charlie. "There's no other girl, so stop laying into me," he shot back.

"I don't see any other other reason why you wouldn't take me up," Astrid went on airily. reason why you wouldn't take me up," Astrid went on airily.

"Not after you disappeared the other night. If I let you go up in a plane, what's to guarantee me you'll ever come down?"

Astrid's lips a.s.sumed a pout. "Aw, I said I was sorry, didn't I?"

Cordelia, supporting herself on a long, sun-darkened arm and shielding her eyes with the flattened fingers of her other hand, leaned back to look at the show high above them. "I've never been in an airplane," she said to no one in particular.

"Take us, Charlie!" Astrid demanded girlishly.

But all her prodding must have irritated him too much-she was trying to be kittenish now, but it appeared to be too late. "No," he said and turned away.

There was something very stern about the vertical slabs of his face, which must have amused Cordelia, because she laughed and asked, "Oh, why not?"

Charlie cleared his throat, and when he addressed Cordelia, he softened his voice. "I'm afraid of-I don't like heights."

"Charlie," Astrid said, smiling. "You've never told me that!" Astrid said, smiling. "You've never told me that!"

"Yeah, well, now you know."

Cordelia changed the subject. "Well, I could go and make sure she behaves," she offered. "I'm blood, after all."

Charlie, who was resting on a thickly muscled forearm, squinted at his sister, seeming almost to consider her proposal. "Yes, you're blood, and I'm just starting to feel grateful for it, but it's still too soon after your little indiscretion for me to let you go off by yourself in a flying contraption."

"Oh, Charlie," Astrid exclaimed flirtatiously, spreading her fingers against his stomach. "Don't be mean to dear Cordelia! She didn't even know who the Hales were ... and who knows, maybe it's true love, and they'll be like Romeo and Juliet, and bring peace to rival houses."

"Juliet dies at the end of the book," Charlie snapped.

Perhaps he was just fearful of the idea of going up high, or maybe she had teased and pushed too much, but either way his tone stung. The sound of his voice had ruined her afternoon. "It's not a book-it's a play, you big fool," she huffed.

Cordelia, seeing that she had not been successful in bringing harmony back to Astrid and Charlie, watched a little red-and-black biplane making figure eights high in the air. All across the field, arms reached heavenward, pointing to show young children or old folks what daring feats were possible in the modern world. For a while it had seemed that the novelty of escaping Dogwood, and the company of good friends, would be enough to distract her, but now that Astrid and Charlie had retreated into their lover's quarrels, Cordelia's thoughts returned to Thom. Soon after that came the longing. She would have taken any tiny sc.r.a.p of him-a glimpse of his sideways twist of a grin, or the grazing touch of his arm if by lucky chance they pa.s.sed in a crowd.

"That's Max Darby's plane," Charlie said after the girls were quiet awhile.

"Max Darby?" Cordelia's eyes met her brother's. "How strange-I saw him flying my first day in New York."

Astrid, who was glaring off into the distance, stood up suddenly. "I'd like to be taken home now," she announced to no one in particular.

"That boy's going to get himself killed." Charlie shot Cordelia an exasperated expression, ignoring Astrid. "He's only eighteen, and he's always trying to do some ridiculous stunt just for the attention-he's planning to fly to the Florida Keys now, and they say he wants to be the youngest man ever to make a solo transatlantic crossing."

"Transatlantic?" Cordelia listened to the word echoing in her thoughts, trying to imagine the vastness it implied. "You mean-"

"New York to Paris," Charlie interrupted.

New York to Paris-Cordelia wasn't sure she'd ever heard such a wondrous phrase. The delight of it faded, however, when she realized that Astrid was stamping her foot, her fists placed angrily at her hips.

"What?" Charlie shook his head, but did not wait for her to answer before standing. "All right, all right, we'll take you home."

Then Cordelia rose, too, and the three of them walked into the wind, toward the car they had borrowed from the Marshes' garage. Astrid charged ahead. As her hips swished, the peach overlay of her evening gown was pulled tight against her skin. Charlie walked along beside her, and Cordelia, who was uninterested in whatever game it was they were now playing, turned and walked backward for several strides, taking in the great expanse of green and brown, the crowds of spectators off to the side, and the big gla.s.s-and-metal hangars beyond them.

Before she could turn again, she heard a collective gasp rise up from the crowd: The black-and-red biplane was heading straight for the ground in a nosedive. Cordelia's hand jumped involuntarily to cover her mouth. But just when the plane seemed perilously close to crashing to Earth, the pilot pulled back and his trajectory reversed-for a moment, he seemed to skim the ground, and then he climbed upward in the direction of infinite blue.

"Hey!" Charlie called. "You coming?"

Cordelia shivered and turned toward her brother's voice. He had reached the car, and Astrid was already situated in the front seat, her eyes gazing directly in front of her. Smiling privately, Cordelia hurried after them. That morning she had felt bound, but she didn't feel that way anymore. It was as though she'd drawn some inspiration from the aviator's fearlessness, the way he charged toward heaven or h.e.l.l just as he pleased, as though there were no such thing as gravity. She wanted to be fearless, too, and follow the yearning within her heart to see Thom Hale again.

19

CORDELIA HAD ONLY THE SOUND OF HER OWN breathing to keep her company as she stepped through the cool darkness. Occasionally she put out a hand to touch the wall, which was lined with unfinished planks, and she quickly learned to do so gingerly for fear of picking up splinters. Taking the secret tunnel that began in Dogwood's library was more frightening by herself, but more thrilling, too.

Still she was relieved to come upon the flight of stairs that ended in a trapdoor. She pushed up through it and found herself, for the second time that day, in the tall reeds of a sandy stretch of land near a pebble beach. The sky was a deep blue by then, and the pier where she and Charlie had hailed a pa.s.sing fisherman that morning jutted out in front of her, over the smooth, l.u.s.trous water. She went to the edge of the dock and stood there in her red dress. She had been specific about the red dress. The air was warm enough that she didn't even need to cover her shoulders; all that was required was a few yards of silk, secured with inch-wide straps above a U-shaped neckline, falling loosely away from the skin.

Then she went through the series of actions, just as she had described them on the telephone. She took a cigarette from the small eel-skin purse she carried and lit a match. The flame flared up, a flash in the warm night air. A few seconds pa.s.sed, and then she heard the lazy splashing of oars moving through still water. She didn't make him out until he was almost at the pier, and by then her face tingled with antic.i.p.ation.

Thom was sitting in a rowboat, wearing white slacks and a navy collared shirt with tiny gold stripes under a beige cardigan. His hair was burnished with oil, and his face was lit with a subdued smile that grew when they were close enough to see each other in detail. It was strange to see him now, when she knew what kind of life he came from, for he wasn't at all like Charlie-he had none of her brother's bluntness, and his features were so much more whittled and fine, and he seemed to take everything in stride instead of going so extravagantly hot and cold.

Placing her cigarette between her teeth, she lowered herself so that she was sitting on the edge of the pier. He stood, balanced himself in the well-worn boat, and then extended his hand. She bent, took it, and falling a little against him, came down into the hull. There was unsteadiness beneath her, but Thom had her solidly by the shoulders. A bird cawed overhead, and the sound echoed across the lonely bay waters. He took the cigarette from her lips and threw it over the side, and then paused, studying her with those calm green-brown eyes. She waited for him to kiss her. When he finally did, any trepidation she had had-about seeing him against her father's wishes or using Charlie's secret to her advantage-all but disappeared. She swayed with it, her consciousness rising up to the place where her mouth was open to his.

"I've been thinking about doing that since I last saw you," he said, bringing his head back but still holding on to her by the torso.

"Is that right?" she answered playfully.

His only reply was that heartbreaking smile.

How interesting she felt to be out in the world without a single soul knowing her whereabouts, and at the same time wearing a very fashionable dress. Something he'd said to her on the first night they met, about it being a perfect moment, repeated in her thoughts. Now it seemed to her that every moment with him was its own variety of perfection, and she was happy to be in this one as long as it lasted-the boat rocking just slightly, the mingling smells of salt and musk, his grip on her light and strong at the same time.

What followed was a string of moments, each following the last in a glittering strand: They coasted across the water, coming eventually to an abandoned stretch of road where he'd left his car. She hardly cared if they went anywhere, but then he started the motor and they headed in the direction of the city.

"More speakeasies?" she asked as they drove.

"You'll see," he answered.

Along they went, in no particular hurry, into the darkness and the city beyond. The weather had been fine for some weeks now, but that night was the first that held the heat of the day even long after dark had settled in. All over town, in every kind of joint, people were drunk with summer.

Eventually Thom pulled over on an East Side block at the heart of the metropolis, although it was quiet at that hour. He came around and helped Cordelia out, draping his sweater over her shoulders as she stepped onto the curb.

"But I'm not cold," she protested sweetly.

"You might be, where we're going" was all the explanation he gave.

The darkened building in front of them appeared to have no solid walls-it was difficult to see anything, except where little lights strung on a wire illuminated a structure of ma.s.sive beams. They stepped forward, into the shadows, over piles of cable and brick and steel. This was not the kind of scene she had imagined Thom escorting her to-but by then she had frequented drinking establishments lurking behind all manner of incongruous facades, and so, for a few brief minutes, she considered herself now too sophisticated to be surprised.

A man in a hard hat and undershirt came forward from the gloom. He met Thom's eyes but did not so much as glance at Cordelia. Their hands clasped for a few seconds, exchanging something. Then the man lit a lantern.

"Watch your step, miss," he said, before leading them deeper into the site. Thom's hand rested on the small of her back as they followed. "Stand there." The man indicated the place with a burly arm, and Thom eased her toward it.

There was the sound of a lever being pulled, a creaking of hinges, a slipping of ropes. She reached for Thom's arm, and he pulled her closer to him, brushing his lips against her cheekbone.

"I hope no one is drunk up there," she joked as they began to rise faster.

"No," he replied lightly. "I thought I'd show you something more interesting this evening. Just you and me."

As they went higher, they pa.s.sed through less-completed parts of the structure, and they could just make out the faces of other buildings, patchworks of illumination and darkness, beyond the lattice of beams. By the time the lift came to a stop, they were higher than any of the surrounding buildings. A real city is never dark, even at night; tonight, with the humid air to reflect its limitless activity, Manhattan was a soft purple. Cordelia couldn't be sure if it really was colder up high, or if it was the dizzying height that made her shiver.

"Come on." Thom took her hand, grinning again. "We've only got ten minutes."

"To do what?" she whispered, but he was already stepping carefully along a great steel beam, pulling her behind him. Her breath was short, and she was glad the ground was too far below them to make out. At that perilous height, it occurred to her that despite his charm and beautifully smooth face-or maybe because of it-Thom was a boy she had been warned not to be with. No one in the world knew where she was-a little while ago she had been proud of that fact, but now she began to wonder at herself for allowing him to take her someplace so secret and so dangerous. She shuddered to think what one good push would do and how little all her pretty red silk would do to cushion the fatal fall.

But then she caught sight of the view, and her breath came back to her. "Oh!" was all she could manage.

Below-a long ways below-the island tapered away from them in electric rows that were sometimes neat and that sometimes jerked unexpectedly. Apartment buildings and office towers reached for the sky with varying degrees of success, their broad vertical lines silently striving. There was a good deal of movement through the arteries of the city, everything flowing and bright, around and around, as though according to the directives of a very restless heart. They stood near the edge; one of Thom's arms wrapped around a great thrust of steel, the other holding her secure by the waist.

The height no longer made her feel fragile. Now it created a sense of being above it all, almost invincible, and she couldn't help but think of the tender girl who used to be her best friend and who was now out there, among the lights down there, entertaining a crowd with her voice. Cordelia smiled wistfully and thought that a city is a very wonderful thing, after all.

Letty was indeed out there among millions of New Yorkers, and though her name was not in fact a cause for illumination yet, she was by then at ease in her job. She'd told herself that it was just like acting, and she had put on a persona. After that, she b.u.mped into fewer things, and her movements became more fluid, her smile more winning. Paulette and the other girls agreed: Letty Larkspur was a natural. She'd taken to the job as quickly as any cigarette girl in Seventh Heaven history. Also she was pet.i.te, and that helped, because she could move across the crowded floor with such alacrity.

The nights had begun to blend together, and usually she only saw a few hours of daylight in between, because she was returning from work so late and so entirely exhausted. Her feet were always swollen, her head foggy. But it seemed to her a n.o.ble kind of fatigue, and in truth, there was no place else Letty would rather have been. Except, of course, onstage-but in the meantime she felt very lucky to have the club to go to. And every day in New York was so obviously a new day-hopeful, chock-full, yawning with possibility.

"Letty!" Grady called out as she pa.s.sed. He was at the end of the bar, perched on his usual stool, wearing herringbone and nursing a beer.

But she was too busy. She tried to meet his eyes over her shoulder, to let him know she had heard him, but she wasn't certain if he'd noticed. Anyway, she hadn't the time. The room was full, and the patrons were giddy and ready to buy anything that was put under their noses. It was a sea of faces, heads bent together as far as the eye could see: women in turbans, men with a fine glaze over the combed-straight strands of their hair, gesticulating with one hand, balancing gla.s.s and cigarette in the other. Girls in cream-colored uniforms that offered varying degrees of coverage rose above their shoulders, inclining forward with stuffed bra.s.sieres and glossy smiles. The chatter was rapid-fire, but it was no compet.i.tion for the band, as usual. She moved between tables with the grace of a swan, bending back and forth, flashing her eyes when necessary. There was a rhythm to the job, which she became more expert at with every pa.s.sing hour. She listened to her intuition and knew when to be salty with a patron and when to be sweet.

"Letty!" She had done a turn about the room and again pa.s.sed Grady's barstool in a rush.

"h.e.l.lo!" she replied this time. No one was waving bills at her now, and two or three other girls were engaged in transactions only a few tables in. Up onstage, Alice Grenadine, the big blonde with the privileged relationship to the house manager, was beginning her first number, pressing her palms into her lap and batting her lashes outrageously.

"If I buy a pack of smokes, will you talk a minute?"

"Why not, mister?" Letty gave Grady a bold wink as she turned away from the stage, bringing her shoulder coquettishly toward her chin. Paulette had given her some pointers on this maneuver, and she'd been practicing in the mirror. "What's your brand?"

"Lucky Strikes." He handed her a coin and waved away the change. Then he began unwrapping the foil and placed a cigarette between his teeth. She struck a match along the side of her box of wares and lit it for him. This, too, was a move she'd practiced in the mirror, although she had not done it for a customer yet.

"Thank you," he said. Then she knew she'd pulled it off, and she felt almost giddy to have a new trick. As he exhaled, he moved his hand to his head, just above his ear, thoughtfully scratching. "I've been wanting to tell you ... I think I know where your friend is."

The smile dropped away from her face. "What friend?" she said.

At the front entrance, a man whose face was already pink with drink was yelling about being let in. Every table in the place was already occupied, and the bar was crowded with those who wanted to be inside even if it meant standing, but despite Mr. Cole's calm explanation of this fact, the pink-faced fellow only yelled louder.

"Didn't you say her name was Cordelia? I read about a girl named Cordelia, from Ohio, similar age as you, in one of the papers this morning. She's the bootlegger Darius Grey's long-lost daughter-you must have known? Grey is overjoyed to have her back, sparing no expense, et cetera, et cetera. And I know she was here the other night, when you said you saw her, because apparently she came with Duluth Hale's son, who is of course Grey's sworn enemy, and her father sent some of his goons to pull her out quick." Grady paused to fidget with the stub of his cigarette. His words had been coming in a tumble, as though he was nervous. "So perhaps she wasn't running away from you after all."

Letty's eyes became damp, and she felt that knot of pain in her throat that means that tears may be imminent, no matter how fiercely one orders them away. The girl she'd called her best friend for half her life had, in less than a week, become unknown to her. Cordelia had climbed several social rungs, and maybe she'd had to be a solo act to do it, but in any event, her clothes and company were now better than any they used to imagine together. Letty no longer thought it was only a secret that had separated them-for Cordelia had seen her, she knew where she was, and still had not bothered to send word, and Grady's kind explanation did not change this fact. Perhaps she was too fine now to be friends with a girl who worked for her keep ... But there was nothing for Letty to do but hide the wound and try her best not to care.

"I don't know. In fact, I've never heard of any of those people in my whole life." Letty swallowed her tears and then, as if on cue, smiled incandescently.

Before Grady could say anything more, she sashayed forward along the bar without looking back. Grady was nice, and she knew everything he did was well intentioned, but she wanted to be far away from him and whatever he knew. And after she had made a few exchanges and blushed once or twice, half sincerely, she had stopped feeling whatever it was that she hadn't wanted to feel, and forgotten about Cordelia-mostly.

"We just drove down from New Haven today," said a slender man with a smooth chin and blindingly blue eyes as she pa.s.sed. "Took my last exam this morning and ... Hey, girlie!"

"Yes?" Letty turned toward him.

"How much are those red roses?" he asked.

She told him, and he scrambled in his pockets. Once she'd handed him the flower, he paused, studied it, and grinned. "Here," he said, extending it toward her face. "Will you marry me?"

All his friends-who were slim and dressed in light-colored suits like him-laughed. Letty colored, unsure whether he was flirting with her or making fun. She plucked the flower from his hand, and broke the stem, which inspired the other four or five boys to hoot and applaud. Drawing herself up, she tucked the flower in her hair, just behind her ear. She paused another few seconds and then stepped away.

"I'll just have to think about it," she said and moved on.

This inspired even more uproarious hooting and catcalling. But she followed Paulette's advice, as usual, and limited herself to a few sentences at maximum, and continued to go about her job.

She was coming around, pa.s.sing the entrance, when her attention was once again called for. "Hey there, Letty!"

Glancing up, she saw Mr. Cole looking at her with a pleading expression.

"Yes?" She went toward him, wide-eyed. That was when she noticed the fellow standing next to him. He had a fine jaw line, a trim mustache, brows that were dark and flat, and an intense stare. It was a matter of several more seconds before she recognized him as the man who had pulled her ap.r.o.n strings a few nights ago. Then his name began coming back to her. Amory ... Amory ... Amory Glenn.

"This is Mr. Glenn," Mr. Cole informed her in a b.u.t.tery tone.

Beyond them, she could see the pink-faced man growing irate over what was about to happen.

"He's going to take his usual table to the left of the stage-and he'd like you to escort him."

Letty's eyes darted from one man to the other. Her carefully maintained persona flagged for a moment, and she grew nervous and briefly wondered how she would ever determine the correct thing to say. She wasn't even really sure which table Mr. Cole meant, although she supposed it would be easy enough to find-there weren't many tables open. Summoning courage, she replied, "Of course."

"Excellent," Amory Glenn said, stepping down onto the main floor and then following a few feet behind Letty as they made their way through the crowded club. People were looking at her differently now, she sensed, and she thought it might be a good idea to try and say something. But she was petrified that if she wasn't very careful, she might become clumsy again or lose her footing, so she kept her gaze steady and tried her best to appear natural.

"There you are," she said, when they had reached the small table he'd occupied the other night. She turned her pet.i.te frame in his direction. He was handsome, the way a rake in an old-fashioned novel is handsome, but he had another quality, which one could not quite see but which was felt strongly, like a far-off astral body, barely visible yet capable of changing the tides. The candle on the table was already lit, and she was not allowed to take drink orders, so she smiled as best she could and said, "Is there anything else I can get you?" When he didn't answer immediately, she said, "Cigarettes, candy, flowers?"

He smiled from one corner of his mouth, and reached out and plucked the rose from behind her ear. His eyes shone, and twirling the flower between his palms, he let his eyes dart from it to her. "Tell the waiter I'll have my usual," he said.

"Yes, of course." She gave a little curtsy. "He knows ...?"