A baby.

Everything she'd hoped for and everything she feared, all wrapped up in a single word. She was two months along. Maybe there really is a G.o.d, Amanda thought. Something, some force, had sent her to Harry just as she finally had a way to get him back once and for all-a bond between them that could never be broken. She'd always felt as if Harry were somehow inside her, in her blood, inhabiting her in a way she couldn't quite explain, and now he really was. It was like a miracle. And not a moment too soon.

Harry. Amanda hugged herself, tears springing to her eyes. She'd been crying an awful lot lately. On the journey, she'd found herself in floods at the littlest thing, whether sour or sweet: a woman in the club car who'd rudely snubbed her when Amanda had asked to borrow a pen; a child solemnly feeding a bit of stale cake to her much-loved doll. It was normal, the doctor said. Pregnant women felt things more. So do women in love, Amanda had wanted to respond.

What would Harry say when she told him? It'll be quite a shock, she reminded herself. Naturally, he'd be apprehensive at first. But then he'd remember all the talks they'd had, the kind that were all the more serious for their playfulness.

"We'll have two," he'd say, "a boy for you and a girl for me, just like the song says. With their father's brains and their mother's good looks."

"I like the way you look," Amanda would insist.

"Even now?" he'd ask, and pull face after face, crossing his eyes and puffing up his cheeks and forcing his overbite out over his chin until she about died laughing.

He'll remember that when I tell him. He'd remember the little black-haired boy or red-haired girl-or would the other way around be nicer? Amanda couldn't decide-they had both imagined more vividly than either could ever admit, and he'd take her in his arms and look down into her face with that burning gaze that was so warm, so deep, so full of love it almost hurt to look at it.

Amanda snapped open her traveling case. It's all going to be wonderful.

If she could just fit into any of her clothes.

TWENTY-TWO.

The Martin Beck Theater was on Forty-Fifth Street.

"Easily walkable," said the concierge on duty, helpfully marking out the route on one of the miniaturized foldable maps the Waldorf Astoria handed out to guests. "Only eight blocks away."

What he had neglected to mention, however, was that while some blocks in New York City were so short you could see the next street from the corner, others seemed twice the length of a football field. Amanda had to walk three of the short ones and five of the long ones. By the time she arrived at her destination, her feet were blistered and aching, and she'd worn a small hole through the sole of her delicate kidskin pump. The New York girls who whizzed by her wore lower heels, she noticed, the kind of squat oxford lace-ups a glamorous Hollywood starlet wouldn't be caught dead in.

Well, this Hollywood starlet may have to reconsider. Amanda gazed up at the marquee.

THE GROUP THEATER PRESENTS:.

AN AMERICAN GIRL.

She was dressed for battle, having managed to squeeze herself into a black linen suit with the aid of the torturous tight-lacing Mainbocher "cincher" her regular salesgirl at Bullock's had a.s.sured her-presciently, as it turned out-was "absolutely essential" for anyone who hoped to fit into the latest wasp-waisted fashions. The suit had a short-sleeved jacket, which in a sudden burst of inspiration she'd teamed with a pair of black kidskin evening gloves, carefully pushed down at the top. These left her arms totally covered from shoulder to fingertip except for a tantalizing three-inch swath of creamy flesh exactly where Harry would have to touch her if, as was his custom, he took her by the elbow for a private chat. Already, her bare skin p.r.i.c.kled with antic.i.p.ation at the thought of it.

Harry had never cared for her in hats, but without one her red hair seemed too conspicuous. The velvet Caroline Reboux beret Mildred had coveted seemed to do the trick. Tilted over one eye, Marlene Dietrichstyle, it lent the outfit an appropriate bohemian touch.

Honestly, I couldn't have costumed myself better if I were Rex Mandalay himself. I hope he's being half as careful with Margo Sterling's bridal gown. She felt a sudden pang of guilt, thinking of Margo's certain panic when she realized that one of her bridesmaids had gone missing three days-or was it two?-before what the copy of Picture Palace Amanda had hastily picked up at the station in Moline was calling "Tinseltown's Royal Wedding," but she pushed the thought away. After all, Margo had only asked her to save face after the tabloids had made all those insinuations about Amanda's-wholly innocent-tete a tete with Dane. Once everything was worked out here, she'd send Margo a telegram to apologize.

And when Harry and I get married, I'll ask her to be a bridesmaid and she can stand me up.

Amanda had expected to have to sneak in the stage entrance, like one of those desperate starlet hopefuls who snuck into the offices of important producers disguised as prep.u.b.escent delivery boys or concealed inside enormous packing cases, usually wearing something enticing enough to be issued an invitation to stay-that is, if they didn't give the poor schmuck a heart attack when they popped out.

To her surprise, one of the front doors had been left ajar. She slipped under the beige brick Moorish arches that must have seemed the height of exotic chic to whatever gauche vaudeville impresario had built the place back in the twenties and proceeded into the slightly dingy lobby.

In the box office, a middle-aged woman sat playing a rapid hand of solitaire, a lit cigarette dangling from her lips. "You one of Stella's students?" she asked, barely looking up.

"What?"

"One of Stella's. Oh, dammit. Not a four of clubs." The woman groaned. "You can go on in. Just be quiet, will ya? They're all sitting in the back."

The theater was dark. Amanda slipped into a seat in the back row near a group of serious-looking young men and women furiously scribbling notes and all wearing what appeared to be matching pairs of tortoisesh.e.l.l eyegla.s.ses. On the stage, a young man in shirtsleeves sat at a card table set furnished with a few bare-bones props: drinking gla.s.ses, silverware, a couple of empty plates. A blond girl with short curly hair stood in front of him. She wore a plain skirt and sweater and a defiant expression as she spoke her lines toward the audience in a voice raw with emotion.

"And that day, I made a promise to myself that things were going to be different," the girl proclaimed. "That no one was ever going to make me feel like a n.o.body again. That someday, somehow, I was going to be somebody. No matter what it took. No matter what I had to do."

A faint sob crept into the actress's voice. The young people had stopped scribbling, seeming enraptured. Amanda looked around the theater, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. She spied a long table several rows down, near the front of the house, wedged into a small landing between the seats. Three men sat there. They had their backs to Amanda, but on the one on the left she could make out the shadowy outline of a very distinct head of unruly black hair. Harry!

"Look, I'm not a child," the actress was saying. "I know I can't snap my fingers and have every wish come true. But if I can't get what I want, at least I can be wanted. Isn't that the only real dream for a girl like me? For a girl like me, that's the only American dream."

She stared out into the audience for a moment, as though daring them to answer. Pens poised over their notepads, the bespectacled boys and girls seemed to hold their collective breath.

"Okay," came a voice from the table. "Very good. Let's hold there."

Somebody flicked a switch and the houselights came on. They were dim, but Amanda blinked anyway. The man who had spoken was scrambling over seats to the lip of the stage. With his messy dark hair and untidy clothes, he looked like a shorter, less handsome version of Harry. He must be the director, Amanda thought.

"Interesting work, Frances." He was close enough to the actors to whisper, but his voice boomed throughout the theater as though he were performing himself. Perhaps he is, Amanda thought. If the young acolytes around her had seemed transported during the actress's recitation, they now looked like they were about to take dictation from G.o.d himself. "Very interesting. How did it feel?"

The girl, Frances, scrubbed her hands roughly over her hair, seemingly heedless of her coiffure. Carefully adjusting the tilt of her hat, Amanda watched her with an odd mixture of disapproval and envy. One more difference between Hollywood and the theater. "I'm not sure," she said. "I suppose I feel ... ambivalent."

"Good! Good!" the director bellowed. "Let's explore the ambivalence. And remember, ambivalence is not the same as apathy. It's merely an acknowledgment of conflict: the very essence, the absolute foundation of all dramatic art, of life itself. Without conflict, without that great chasm between what we want and what we have, without yearning, would we be human? I propose not."

Around Amanda, the pens were scratching away, sounding like an army of rats was scuttling between the walls. Her head was spinning. Never had she heard a director make a speech like this. In the pictures Amanda had worked on, she had rarely received direction with any more depth than "That's fine. Let's do it again with a little more leg."

But this guy ... this guy sounded like a college professor, or a philosopher, or ... Harry, she thought, looking at the head bent over the script on the table. He was writing something down. With the lights on, she could see the back of his neck just above his collar, that sweet patch of skin that had always felt so surprisingly soft against her lips.

"So, this ambivalence," the director continued, pressing his palms together thoughtfully, "this conflict: is it arising organically from the situation of the character? Or is some part of your preparation coming into contradiction with the demands of the text?"

"Um ... I think it's a problem with the text, actually."

Amanda could see the glint of Harry's gla.s.ses as his head snapped up.

"Good," the director said. "What about the text?"

"Well, it's really just the last line of the last speech. 'For a girl like me, that's the only American dream.' It feels like it wants to be a declaration, a manifesto, if you will. A statement of intent. That's the beat I've prepared, but in the moment ..." She twisted her hands. "In the moment, my impulse is to play it smaller. An intimate moment, a confession of sorts, between my scene partner and me."

"A confession. Interesting." The director stroked his chin. "Why don't we ask the playwright? Harry, what was your intention with that line?"

"My intention?" Harry's voice, softer than the others, seemed to pierce Amanda's heart like an arrow. "My intention was for it to be a joke."

"A joke?" Off to the side, a small, wiry man with a receding hairline and a fierce expression jumped to his feet. "A joke? But that requires an entirely different preparation. It changes the entire emotional honesty of the scene."

"It's not a laugh-out-loud, ha-ha joke, Lee," Harry said, with more than a hint of irritation. "I'm not talking about Laurel and Hardy. It's meant to be ironic, sardonic, whatever you want to call it. There's a disappointment there, a kind of fatalistic bitterness. But it's not entirely without humor."

"Bitterness." The man, Lee, rolled the word around in his mouth. He gave a terse nod. "We can find our way to bitterness."

"Good." The director was back in control. "Very good. Lee, you and Frances take a few minutes to find your way back into this, and then we'll start playing with the external physicality." He turned to address the group. "Everyone else, let's take five. Good work. Very brave, admirable work."

Lee vaulted up onto the stage, hustling Frances off into the wings. The group of note takers-the students of the mysterious Stella, Amanda had deduced-began filing into the lobby in pairs, pulling out cigarettes and lighters, talking in hushed, serious tones. Harry stood near the table, huddled with the director, jabbing his finger at something in the script.

I have to talk to him, Amanda thought, but she was nervous to interrupt. She dragged her sore feet along the carpet, waiting for the men to finish. She was halfway down the aisle before she mustered the courage to call out his name.

"Harry."

"A-Amanda." His face went pale with shock. "You ... you ... What the ... what the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

Harry's fingers felt rough against her carefully bared sliver of skin as he grabbed her arm and steered her toward the side aisle and out of sight. It wasn't quite the welcome she had hoped for, but Amanda was determined to make the best of it. He's surprised, she reminded herself. You knew he would be.

She strove to make her voice as light as possible. "Haven't you heard? I'm one of Stella's students."

"Stella ... you. You're studying with Stella Adler?"

"Well, that was the plan. Although, as it turns out, she says she has nothing to teach me. Apparently, I'm a genius. She's actually asked me to teach her, how do you like them apples?"

Harry's puzzled face relaxed into something that was not quite a smile. "You're joking."

"Of course I'm joking. I thought Stella Adler was out in Hollywood, anyway. Wasn't she making pictures for Paramount?"

"Was being the operative word. Now she's come crawling back to Broadway and is setting herself up as a teacher. She's been to Paris and studied with Stanislavski himself, and has been going around saying she alone knows his techniques as they were meant to be taught." His eyes wandered to the stage, where Lee, the man with the receding hairline, was saying something to Frances with a look of utmost concentration. "Naturally, it's been causing some tension with Lee."

"Naturally," Amanda said. She'd read an article once in one of the newspapers Harry used to have sent specially from New York about Lee Strasberg and the new acting technique he was inventing, all based on dredging up the most horrible things that had ever happened to you and reliving the experience onstage. He called it "the Method." The idea seemed equal parts fascinating and terrifying to Amanda. On the one hand, it was comforting, even magical, to think that the awful memories that haunted you at night could somehow be repurposed into something beautiful. On the other, if she had to think about them more than she already did, Amanda was sure she would go raving mad. "Seriously, maybe I should see if she'd take me on. Apparently, I could use the lessons." She swallowed hard. "Olympus released me from my contract."

Harry looked away. "Yes, I heard about that. I'm so sorry."

"Oh, it doesn't matter. I mean, it has been a bit difficult, but"-Amanda forced the note of gaiety back into her voice-"it's certainly freed up quite a lot of time. So I thought I'd treat myself to a little trip. I've never been here before, you know. I thought I'd see the sights, do some shopping, maybe take in a show or two. And then when I happened by and saw the t.i.tle on the marquee outside and the door open, well, naturally my curiosity was piqued. Can you blame me?"

If Harry doubted the veracity of this flippant little monologue, he was too polite to say so. "I suppose not."

"Obviously, I didn't realize you'd be in rehearsal or I'd never have dreamed of interrupting like this," Amanda said. "But I thought as long as I was here, it would be terribly rude not to say h.e.l.lo."

Harry sighed. "Where are you staying?"

Victory was in sight! "The Waldorf Astoria."

"The Waldorf." He sighed again. "Of course you are. Is there anyone with you?"

"Not a soul," Amanda declared. If he could ignore her obvious fib about just happening to find herself outside his theater in the middle of a rehearsal, she could ignore his insinuation. "I'm all by my lonesome, I'm afraid."

"Well, I suppose we should talk."

"Yes." Amanda looked up at him, her eyes full of meaning. "I'd love that."

"How about tonight? We can go have a drink at Twenty-One. Do you know it?"

"Only from the radio. It's where Winch.e.l.l always seems to be, isn't it?"

"That's right. It's on Fifty-Second between Fifth and Sixth. You can't miss it, it's got all those lawn jockeys out front. Say eight o'clock?"

"Eight's fine."

"I'll be at the bar. I've got to go, we're about to start again." Awkwardly, he planted a quick kiss on her cheek. "I'll see you tonight."

Amanda spent the rest of the day in a cloud of preparations. First, a trip behind the legendary red door of Elizabeth Arden on Fifth Avenue, where solemn cosmeticians in awfully scientific-looking white smocks smoothed creams over her skin, set her hair in soft waves, and lacquered her nails in the latest shade of Jungle Red.

Clothes were next. She'd packed so quickly she didn't have anything that Harry hadn't seen her in before, and the Mainbocher waist cincher was only going to work for so long. Not to mention it's pretty hard to take off, she thought, with a wicked flicker of hope.

At the famous Hattie Carnegie boutique on Forty-Ninth Street, she selected day dresses, blouses, and suits, and, because she couldn't help herself, a red crocodile evening bag with a gold knot clasp, a pair of black-and-silver evening sandals, and some of the adorable little saucer hats with the built-in snood that had been the couturier's trademark back in her salad days as a Lower East Side milliner, in unexpected color combinations that would have made the old Amanda-the sad Amanda-blanch: violet and mustard, scarlet and shocking pink, Kelly green and robin's-egg blue.

Sure, it meant dropping a pile of money, but when she casually mentioned she'd like it all delivered to one of the penthouse suites at the Waldorf, the salesgirl was more than happy to let her have it all on credit. Besides, Amanda reasoned, it wasn't like she didn't need these things. In another month or so, she wouldn't be able to squeeze into anything she owned. Like most well-made clothes, Hattie Carnegie's creations had generous seams that could be let out as needed-h.e.l.l, with a good seamstress, Amanda could make this new little wardrobe last months. In the long run, I'll actually be saving money.

And besides, when everything was all settled, Harry would want to take her to meet his mother. Maybe even in the next couple of days. She had to look respectable.

All settled. With that promising phrase in her heart, Amanda quickly added to the rapidly growing pile an ivory silk suit with a draped-front jacket and a cunning little matching hat with a blusher veil that looked as though it were made out of tiny flowers. You never know. Better safe than sorry.

For tonight, though, she needed something really special. After all, it could very well be a night she remembered for the rest of her life, a story she'd tell their daughter-it was going to be a girl, Amanda was sure of it-one day: how Mother came to New York to find Daddy, how he was suddenly so overcome with love he proposed right then and there. She'd leave out the part about the rather ... premature conception, let alone how she'd gotten the money to make the trip; no need to confuse a nice, well-cared-for little girl like the one Amanda was going to have with a sordid detail like that.

To tell the story properly, she'd have to describe what she'd been wearing, so it had better be something worth the effort.

The salesgirl brought her an evening gown of ocean-green silk overlaid with black tulle. Artfully ruched, the tulle shrank her thickening waist and hips down to nothing. Above the silk, it looked like a shadow rising from the sea. The neckline was square, with delicately ruffled flutter sleeves of the same black tulle.

"You look stunning," the salesgirl said. "Absolutely stunning."

Amanda frowned. "Do you have a seamstress here?"

"Yes, miss, of course."

"Get her to take off one of the sleeves."

The salesgirl widened her eyes. "One sleeve? But that will throw off the symmetry. ..."

"Yes, that's what I want. It looks like it's just set in. She can easily open the seam and close it back up again."

"But ..." The salesgirl looked helplessly from Amanda to the vast pile of finery on the counter and back to Amanda again. "I can't just let you do that. Not unless you're buying the dress."

"Don't worry, I'm buying the dress. I just want to see what it looks like. If I hate it, the seamstress can put it back in."