The Lucky Ones

  “All right,” she replied as assertively as possible, and then she laid Astrid’s arm over her shoulder and began to assist her on the way back up the stairs.

  Whatever was said between Charlie and Victor after that was drowned out by the cacophony of sirens and car engines, of screaming and yelling and the phrase This is a raid being repeated through a bullhorn. The man who had been guarding the top of the stairs passed them at a run, a rifle hanging from his shoulder, and she could hear the men on the roof pacing. By now they had seen the foolishness of their position. But Cordelia didn’t worry about them. She got Astrid back into the Calla Lily Suite, slipped her father’s gun back under the bed, and went over to stand next to Letty, surveying the damage from the balcony.

  The cars that Coyle Mink’s men had driven in were gone, and ten or so black-and-white police vehicles had taken their place. The tent sagged pathetically, and brightly colored refuse was strewn across the lawn—plates, cocktails, shoes, hats. Meanwhile drunken party guests were being loaded into a paddy wagon, and policemen were surrounding the house.

  “Are you all right?” Letty whispered, wrapping her arms around Cordelia’s waist and squeezing her. But they both knew that all right was an unlikely proposition at that moment, so they left the window and went over to where Astrid was sitting, on the edge of the bed, her shoulders sloped and her hands cupping her face; urging her to lie back, they began to coax the glass shards from the skin of her arms and legs.

  The activity on the ground floor of Dogwood was frantic, but it nonetheless took a long while before it ascended to the Calla Lily Suite. By then Astrid was mostly cleaned up, and the three girls sat in a row, waiting, still wearing evening dresses, their arms woven together. They heard the boots coming up the stairs—a lot of them—and then the door flew open. A current of alarm traveled through their shoulders when they saw the man who’d kicked it in. He was wearing a black brimmed hat, and he chewed on the dead end of a match, and his belly heaved against his white button-down shirt.

  “Which one of you girlies is Cordelia Grey?”

  “I am.” Cordelia lengthened her neck.

  “James Kirby, FBI,” he reported, staccato, before demanding: “Where are the stores?”

  “The what?”

  “The liquor stores, sweetheart, where do you keep ’em?”

  Cordelia swallowed hard. Her ears were ringing. Somehow, in all her years of dreaming that she’d someday meet her father the famous bootlegger, she had never imagined a man like this one, his worn face as unfeeling as the badge he brandished. “I don’t know,” she said, as soon as she could manage.

  “Arrest her,” he shouted, turning away. “Throw her in with her brother.”

  “You can’t arrest her,” Victor said, coming up behind him. His clothes were somewhat more rumpled than before, and a badge now glinted from his shirt pocket.

  “What did you say to me?” The man put his nose right up to Victor’s nose. “I’m the boss; if I say arrest her—”

  “They’re just girls, they didn’t have anything to do with it,” Victor replied, not backing down. “They’ve had enough of a scare. We’ll find the stores without her.”

  “If you’d done your job, we’d already know where the stores were!” The man poked at Victor’s chest with his finger, but Victor held steady until the man pulled back and, casting his gaze around the room, sighed. His eyes were small and fidgety, and it took him only a few seconds to change his mind. “Fine. They’re your responsibility, then. Get ’em out of here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man stomped out of the room, then stopped in the hall. “Agent Lovo, I want you in my office first thing tomorrow!” he shouted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And after I debrief you, you’re fired!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The men who’d followed Agent Kirby up the stairs were tromping down the hall in the other direction, opening up the other rooms. For a moment, Victor hung his head, black blades of hair obscuring his eyes, but when he raised his chin, his features were smooth and blank. “Come on,” he said. “They’ll be tearing the place up all night. Get what you can quick, and let’s get out of here.”

  “Are you really fired?” Astrid asked, as she lifted herself off the bed and went over to him.

  The phrase Agent Lovo clanged in Cordelia’s brain, and the knowledge that he had lied to them all these months went creeping eerily along the back of her neck. But he hadn’t killed Charlie—if Charlie had been arrested, then he was still alive—and she felt grateful to him for that, at least.

  “Never mind,” Victor said. He removed Astrid’s hand from his face and held it. “We’ll see about everything tomorrow. Right now, we had better go.”

  After they had put their things in the back of Charlie’s blue sedan, there was an awkward moment, when Astrid hovered by the front passenger door, unsure how it would look for her to sit next to Victor. But Cordelia nodded to her, urging her to go on ahead. “He’s good,” she whispered. “It’s all right.”

  Astrid bobbed her head thankfully and held the door so Cordelia and Letty could slide into the backseat. No one said anything as Victor ignited the engine and steered the car along the gravel drive, through the row of lindens that had once elegantly ushered guests up to the house. The gate was open, and it was guarded by policemen now—Coyle Mink’s men had vanished into the night, and a new authority was manning the entrance. Victor didn’t stop the car. He cut his speed and held his badge up, and the policemen waved him on through.

  Beyond the property, the way was still lined with abandoned vehicles. Letty’s fingers spider-crawled across the tan leather upholstery and picked up Cordelia’s hand. They had swung out of the drive, and like that, Dogwood was behind them. Dogwood, Cordelia repeated to herself, letting all its connotations reverberate in her thoughts. She had sought it for so long, a fantastical place of endless diversion and permanent summer. It had burned more brightly than she could possibly have imagined, but all the things that she had really wanted from it were dead or gone now, and as the car accelerated up the country road, she didn’t bother to look back.

  In the front seat, Victor had both hands on the wheel, his gaze focused ahead of them; Astrid had tilted her head and was watching him with wondering eyes. They would be all right, Cordelia told herself, and with that she relaxed into her seat and put her head against Letty’s shoulder. “You know, if you weren’t my friend,” she whispered sleepily, “I don’t know that I’d have had the courage to live at all.”

  27

  THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR WOKE HER, BUT IT WAS THE note on the pillow next to Letty’s head that really brought her into the day.

  “Don’t forget the race!” Cordelia had written. “You’re the best friends a girl could have, and it matters to me more than I can say that you be at the finish line.” But Cordelia herself was gone.

  “You sleep all right?” Billie asked, leaning against the door frame.

  “What time is it?”

  The softness of the bed in one of Marsh Hall’s many guest rooms enveloped Letty so sweetly that she thought if she could just stay there forever, the mess she’d made of everything wouldn’t hurt so much. Of course, she couldn’t stay there forever; it wasn’t her home, nor was Dogwood or The Apollonian or any of the other places where she’d spent the night since arriving in New York. Dogwood had been torn up, and Charlie had been taken away bleeding, and it was probably now occupied by policemen. As for The Apollonian, she cringed, imagining the sort of welcome she’d receive if she turned up there. Her heart felt sore at the memory of what she’d allowed herself to yearn for during her brief tenure in its penthouse. But that was precisely the kind of thinking that made her want to bury her face in the pillows and never get up again.

  “Almost eight,” Billie replied briskly as she arrived at Letty’s side. She was wearing a slouchy blue blazer and khaki pants rolled at the ankles, and she appeared not to have slept at all. “Come on, get ready!
Max’s race begins at noon. With traffic, who knows how long it could take us to get to the East End.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Montauk, darling! That’s where the finish line is.” Billie sat down at the edge of the bed and fixed her dark eyes on Letty. “Oh, dear, you have had a fright.”

  Of course it was so much more than that—not just the violence of the night before, but the betrayals and double crosses of Manhattan that she’d come to White Cove to escape in the first place—and for a moment Letty was speechless with humiliation, with the knowledge that she was bereft of the dream that had kept her moving forward all these years. Then she remembered about Peachy, and how she was going to have Grady forever, and her spirits sank lower. But she could think about all that tomorrow.

  “Everyone did.” Letty put on a smile and pushed back the covers. “Just let me throw something on, and we’ll go!”

  A week of rain had cleared away the extreme heat, and when they stepped out of Marsh Hall’s Tudor gloom, Letty saw that it was a fine bright day that would be truly warm only when the sun was at its height. As they waited for Victor to bring the car around, Astrid tapped her foot, looking for him, and Letty saw what Cordelia had been saying last night just before they went to bed—he was good for her, however abrupt their love might seem. Letty and Billie stood quietly nearby, trying not to feel funny about Cordelia’s absence. The sadness and confusion over what had happened with Charlie must have been too big for her to sit still with, Letty supposed. Cordelia always had been restless when something was on her mind. And of course she’d want to make sure that she was at the finish line well ahead of Max. Except no one could figure out how she would have gotten all the way out there on her own.

  “Don’t you look like a spring flower!” Astrid told Letty, although they were dressed almost the same, in loose-fitting white shifts belted somewhat below the waist and pastel cardigans. Her tone flagged a little when she went on: “Feels strange, doesn’t it? After what happened last night. But a girl has to keep moving, you know, and it’s always better to be dressed for the occasion.”

  “Thank you.”

  A radio was on, somewhere close to a nearby open window, and news of the race drifted out to them.

  “Mr. Darby wouldn’t speak to reporters this morning,” a man’s voice was saying. His tone implied that he thought this made Max seem high and mighty. “But Mr. Laramie was happy to. He joked with the boys from the sports desk and let them climb inside his plane, which he said was the perfect bird for the job. He questioned Mr. Darby’s choice of air-o-plane, however, saying it was much too big for this kind of race and that this was a sign that his rival, being a Negro, was too simple-minded and lazy to be a top-notch aviator…”

  “Thank goodness!” Astrid exclaimed when Victor pulled the blue sedan up in front of the house, the rumbling of its motor drowning out the man’s voice. “I’ve had enough of that nonsense.”

  Soon they saw Billie had been right about the traffic. They moved slowly behind a train of cars on a twisting, two-lane road, nobody saying very much and Billie occasionally exhaling cigarette smoke out the open back window.

  “Who are all these people?” Astrid demanded.

  “The Laramie–Darby race is all anybody’s talked about for days,” Billie replied. “Nobody wants to wait to know who the winner is. Lot of money down on this race, and a lot of fellows have talked big in the speaks and will be angry if it doesn’t go their way.”

  “I hope I know who you’re rooting for,” Astrid said to Victor. “Cordelia’s awfully fond of Max.”

  “Laramie’s a loudmouth.” It was the first thing Victor had said all day, but he said it earnestly, meeting Letty’s eyes in the backseat. “I like Miss Grey’s boy.”

  When they reached the Montauk airfield, they saw a huge crowd had gathered on the patchy grass, blinking in the sunlight and waving American flags and eating popcorn out of red-and-white striped boxes. The reporters were there too, in their brimmed hats and rolled shirtsleeves. As they stepped out of the car, Letty realized the airfield was close enough to the ocean that salt air was carried on the breeze. Billie strode forward, with Victor just behind, and Astrid took up Letty’s arm so that they could trail at a more ladylike pace.

  “Do you see Cord?” Letty asked.

  “No. Surely she’s figured the perfect place to watch from, don’t you think? If we find that, I bet we find her.”

  There was the shifting of feet, the vague bark of a radioman reporting enthusiastically, the sound of popcorn popping in the machine in the cart. And then as they arrived at the edges of the crowd, a noise went up. The crowd had looked like a big mass before, but now it revealed itself to have two distinct halves. One side had erupted in jeering and clapping, while the other gasped and booed. Discussion rippled between clusters of men, and children jumped up and down in excitement.

  Letty cast her eyes up at the dome of the sky. Even out on the farm, she had never seen it look so vast as now—the color was that hopeful, thin blue of midmorning, uninterrupted by even a single cloud.

  “What do you suppose it is?” Billie called. She had turned around and was walking backward now. The commotion had only increased in volume, but when the other girls shrugged, she began to search for another source of information. “Isn’t that Peachy? Someone go over and talk to her. That fellow she’s with looks in the know.”

  “That’s Agent Dobbin,” Victor blurted.

  “Ooooo! Who’s he?” Astrid squealed, as she let go of Letty and tucked herself against Victor’s chest.

  “He’s one of the senior agents on the Grey case,” Victor replied, incredulously. The two men made awkward hand gestures in each other’s direction. Peachy was still wearing the dress from the night before—a plum-colored chiffon number that rippled around her calves—although she had since accessorized it with a man’s jacket and fedora. Agent Dobbin had an arm fixed around her waist, while she practically hung from his neck.

  “Well, isn’t that spicy!” Astrid wheeled around to face Letty. “Come on, Larkspur, let’s go see what they have to say for themselves.”

  The blues of Letty’s eyes made a zigzag path before they met Astrid’s. “I don’t know… Peachy never liked me very much.”

  “Of course she does! What’s that old adage? Competing for another girl’s beau is the sincerest form of flattery? Come on, let’s go get some dirt.” Before Letty could protest that she didn’t know if she really felt up to talking with Grady’s fiancée, no matter who she happened to be with now, Astrid had her by the elbow and was dragging her across the grass. “Hey there, Peachy!” she was calling out. “Aren’t you full of life this morning?”

  Letty tried to smile as carefree as a summer day and wave, just the way Astrid had, rather loose and free, but so that the observer would get a good view of her long, slim arm.

  “Hello, girls!” Peachy replied. To Letty’s surprise, she seemed happy to see them and didn’t try to hide the fact that she was in the company of a gentleman who was not her fiancé. In fact, she hugged Agent Dobbin rather more closely as the two girls approached.

  “What are you doing here?” Letty was smiling with all her strength.

  “Well, I’m here to see the race, of course!” Peachy replied, putting her left hand on the man’s chest proprietarily. When Letty saw that the engagement ring was gone, she couldn’t help the way her smile spread, natural and happy. “This is Clifford; isn’t he a catch?”

  “Indeed!” Astrid made a little curtsy. “Awfully nice to meet you, Cliff.”

  Agent Dobbin nodded his hello. “Sorry about your house, ma’am.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” Astrid waved her hand as though it were all really nothing, before forging ahead. “Well, we were wondering if you knew what was happening. What’s this noise?”

  “Seems Laramie was up to some dirty tricks, ma’am. Darby was in the lead since they took off, and then Laramie tried to knock him out of the sky…” He broke off when a
nother cheer went up, but now it was the other side of the crowd who were whooping happily. Letty glanced around at the crowd that cheered for Max—how happy they seemed. It was a mix of black and white faces, people who had idolized his flying prowess for a long time already, and perhaps some new admirers as well. Many of them were clearly from the city, and Letty marveled at this, that they had traveled to a remote end of the island to see the conclusion of the race.

  “That must be good news!” Astrid exclaimed.

  “If you like Darby,” Peachy said indifferently.

  “Don’t you?” Letty asked.

  Peachy turned away from the question, but Agent Dobbin met it earnestly. “I don’t like how Laramie talks,” he began in a rush, as though justifying his point of view. “I don’t like what happened with those Laurel people. I don’t like the idea that anybody would stop looking up to Darby because he isn’t white. He wins this race, he proves them all wrong.” Peachy slapped at his chest, and he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’ve been going on. But don’t you think so?”

  Letty nodded. How brave it was of Max to ignore all the hateful things that were said about him, to move beyond the betrayal of the people who had been his benefactors, and to do exactly what he felt he was born to do. How like Cordelia to somehow involve herself in the most dramatic and consequential story of the moment. “Yes, I just don’t think I would have known to put it quite so elegantly.”

  “Well, thank you Cliff,” Astrid said. “We’ll just be going back to our own federal agent now.”

  “Bye-bye!” Peachy singsonged as Agent Dobbin averted his gaze.

  “How odd,” Letty murmured, as she and Astrid moved away arm in arm.

  “What is?”

  “Last night she was wearing Grady Lodge’s ring! He proposed, that’s what he told me, and she accepted…”

  Astrid made a clucking noise. “Can’t say I’m surprised, really.”