What She Left Behind: A Haunting and Heartbreaking Story of 1920s Historical Fiction

living.

CHAPTER 1

I

SABELLE

Willard State Asylum

1995

Within minutes of setting foot on the grounds of the shuttered Willard State Asylum, seventeen-year-old Isabelle Stone knew it was a mistake. If anyone saw her standing on the cracked and potholed main road of the vast, tree-lined property, they would have no clue of the horror festering inside her head.

On that hazy Saturday in late August, the warm breeze smelled of cattails and seaweed, occasional gusts rustling the grove of pines to the left of the open yard. Heat rose in shimmery vapors from the sunbaked earth and cicadas buzzed in the long grass near the woods, a droning, live thermometer that grew higher pitched and more insistent with every rising degree. Willard’s manicured lawns sloped away from the main buildings, gently rolling downward toward the rocky shoreline of Seneca Lake. Sailboats bobbed across the waves and a long pier stretched like an invitation into the sparkling waters.

Isabelle—her father used to call her Izzy—should have been enjoying the warm sunshine and beautiful view. Instead, she grit her teeth and struggled to push the image of a bleeding hole in her father’s skull from her mind. She felt like she was trapped in purgatory. Would she ever find peace, or would she always be that seven-year-old girl, reliving the horrible night her father was murdered?

Izzy stepped out of the shadow of Chapin Hall, the institution’s massive main building, and faced the sun, eyes closed, trying to repress all thought. But when she turned to look up at the three-story brick Victorian with cathedral windows, the snarl of grief and fear returned. An enormous two-story cupola with porthole windows towered above a black mansard roof sprouting numerous attic dormers, turrets, and chimneys. A stone portico with disintegrating pillars protected the giant double doors of the main entrance. Black bars covered the tall, multipaned windows, nearly all of which were boarded up from the inside, except for the dormers in the attic and the round, porthole windows in the cupola. It looked more like a haunted mansion than a place designed to help people.

Izzy wondered what horrors the hulking building had witnessed. What dreadful memories had attached themselves to the bricks and mortar and clouded glass, forever part of the structure, mortared and sealed with blood and tears? Just as pain and anguish would always be part of who she was, the memories of thousands of tortured souls would live on in Chapin Hall and the surrounding buildings of Willard State. How could this place ever be anything but a miserable reminder of lives and loved ones lost?

She swallowed and turned toward the water, one hand shielding the sun from her eyes. She wondered if passing boaters looked over at the asylum and assumed the cluster of brick buildings and pastoral grounds belonged to a country club or college. From a distance, it looked orderly and genteel. But she knew better. She imagined the former patients in the yard, sitting in wheelchairs or shuffling across the grass, hospital gowns hanging from thin frames, eyes glazed over. She imagined being one of them, looking out over the blue lake. Did the patients realize that other people were taking boat trips, cooking dinner, falling in love and having children in the small communities across the bay? Did they wonder if they would ever be released, allowed to rejoin the normal world? Or were they completely unaware of the lives they were missing?

Izzy’s stomach cramped as another memory flickered in her mind: her mother, Joyce, sprawled across a bed at the Elmira Psychiatric Center, eyes glazed over, staring blankly at the ceiling, hair sticking out in all directions. It had been a sultry day just like this one, and Izzy remembered her mother’s mascara and eyeliner, melted and running down her pale cheeks, like a clown left out in the rain. She remembered burying her face in her grandmother’s skirt, begging to go home. She’d never forget the endless white halls of the psych ward, the smell of urine and bleach, the dim rooms, the patients in wheelchairs and beds surrounded by rubber walls. After that visit, she had nightmares for years. She asked her grandmother not to make her go back and, thankfully, her grandmother agreed.

Izzy wrapped her arms around herself and moved along the broken pavement of Willard’s main road, wondering how she found herself here, exploring a giant replica of that creepy hospital ward. She could have claimed a headache or a queasy stomach, anything to get out of coming. There were other museum employees who could have come in her place. But she didn’t want to disappoint her new foster mother, Peg, the museum curator. For the first time since she was ten, after her grandmother died, Izzy had foster parents who seemed to care.

Sure, she was going to turn eighteen in less than a year. She’d been in the system long enough to know that eighteenth birthdays weren’t marked by celebrations. When the checks stopped coming, she’d be on her own. Aging out of foster care meant becoming homeless. She’d heard stories of kids ending up in jail and hospital emergency rooms, selling drugs, living on welfare and food stamps. How desperate did a person have to become before they broke the law to survive? For now, things were good, and she didn’t want to mess that up.

Earlier, Peg had asked her to come to the old asylum to help safeguard anything that might be worth keeping before the buildings were condemned. Without a word about her reservations, Izzy had agreed. She was relieved when Peg let her explore outside first, instead of making her go inside with the others, clambering into basements, wandering through the morgue, touring the dozens of abandoned patient wards. But she wondered what Peg would think if she knew that just being near Willard made her nauseous.

She crossed a wooden bridge over a dry creek bed, then followed the one-lane road toward the grove of pines. To her left, a flock of Canada geese foraged in an overgrown field, their heads curved above the goldenrod like black canes. A few feet from the edge of the road, three grayish-yellow goslings lay cradled in a nest of timothy and chickweed, their necks stretched out in the grass. Izzy stopped to watch, motionless. The babies’ eyes were open, but they weren’t moving. She edged closer, keeping one eye on the adults in the field. No matter how close she drew, the goslings stayed in the same spot, still as river stones. Izzy swallowed, her throat burning. The goslings were either dead or dying.

She knelt and picked one up, turning its soft, limp body over in her hands, feeling beneath its wings and stomach for wounds. She moved its legs and neck, checking for broken bones. There was no sign of trauma, and the bird’s fuzzy down was still warm. Then the gosling blinked. It was still alive. Maybe they were sick, poisoned by improperly disposed chemicals or psychiatric medicines from Willard. Izzy picked up the other two goslings, found no sign of injury, and laid them back down.

Briefly, she wondered if Peg would allow her to bring them home, to nurse them back to health. Then she remembered that wild animals were better off being left alone. Maybe their mother would return and recognize what was wrong. Izzy straightened and continued down the road, her eyes brimming with tears. She watched over her shoulder, hoping the goslings’ parents would appear. Hopefully, nothing had happened to them. Then, all of a sudden, the goslings jumped up and scurried into the field, their mother honking and rushing toward them through the grass. Izzy grinned and wiped her eyes, surprised that geese would play dead.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she continued toward the pine grove. On one side of the road, a leaning four-story building sat in the middle of a field, its shattered windows covered with iron bars, its roof collapsed, the green tiles and broken wood covered in black mold. It looked as if it had been dropped from the sky, like a ship pulled from the sea and tossed a thousand miles from shore. On the other side of the road, rows of cast iron grave markers lined a scraggly meadow, tilting left and right like crooked, gray teeth. A bitter taste filled Izzy’s throat. It was Willard’s cemetery. She spun around and hurried back to the main structure, toward the staggered rows of brick, factory-sized buildings connected to Chapin Hall—the patient wards.

The wards’ fire escapes were inside wire cages, and the dirty windows were covered with thick bars, the rotting sills oozing a black sludge that ran down the brick walls. Most of the doors and windows had been boarded up from the inside, as if the memories of what had happened there should never again see the light of day. Izzy shivered. How many patients had suffered and died in this awful place?

Just then, someone called her name, pulling her from her thoughts. She turned to see Peg trotting along the road in her direction, a wide smile on her face. From the moment Izzy met her new foster mother, she was reminded of a sixties hippie. Today was no exception. Peg wore denim overalls and a flowery gypsy top, her hair a free-flowing mess of wild curls.

Isn’t this place amazing? Peg said. I didn’t know it was this huge!

It’s big, that’s for sure, Izzy said, trying to sound agreeable.

Did you see the boathouse and the dock? Peg said. That’s where Willard Asylum’s first patient arrived by steamboat in October 1869. Her name was Mary Rote and she was a deformed, demented woman who had been chained without a bed or clothing in a cell in the Columbia County almshouse for ten years. Three male patients arrived at the dock that day too, all in irons. One of them was inside what looked like a chicken crate.

Izzy looked toward the pier. To the right of the dock sat a two-story boathouse with broken windows and missing shingles, like a bruised face with drooping eyelids. That sounds barbaric! she said.

It was, Peg said. But that’s why Willard was built. It was supposed to be a place for the incurably mad who were taking up space in poorhouses and jails. Within days of their arrival at the new asylum, the new patients were bathed, dressed, fed, and—usually—resting quietly on the wards.

So people were treated well here?

Peg’s face went dark. At first, I think so, yes. But through the years, Willard got overcrowded and conditions deteriorated. Unfortunately, nearly half of Willard’s fifty thousand patients died here.

Izzy bit down on the inside of her cheek, wondering how to ask if she could go wait in the car. Then Peg grinned and grabbed Izzy’s hand.

Come on! she said, her eyes lighting up. One of the former employees wants to show us something in the shuttered workshop. I think it’s going to be an important find and I don’t want you to miss it!

Izzy groaned inside and followed her foster mother along the main road toward the workshop, trying to come up with an excuse not to go inside. Nothing came to her. Nothing that didn’t sound stupid or crazy anyway. And she didn’t want Peg to think she was crazy. This past summer, when she first arrived at Peg and Harry’s, she was certain they’d be like the rest of her foster parents, taking kids in for the money and free labor. Harry was the art director of the state museum, and Izzy got the feeling that between the two of them, they didn’t make a lot of money. But thankfully, finally, this time she was wrong. Her new foster parents were actually decent people, willing to give her the space, both physically and emotionally, a young woman needed. Back at Peg and Harry’s three-story house in Interlaken, she had her own room that looked out over the lake, with a TV, DVD player, and a personal computer. They said it was up to her to keep their trust. It was the first time anyone had ever put the ball in her court, without judging her first. And now, for the first time in a long time, Izzy felt like she was part of something normal.

And yet, sometimes her new situation seemed too good to be true. In the back of her mind, she knew something or someone would come along and screw it up. That’s just the way her life worked. Then she remembered that her first day at her new school was in two days and her stomach twisted. Being the new kid was always hard.

The closer they got to the workshop, the hotter Izzy’s neck and chest grew. Like her mother, she had silver-blue eyes, black hair, and a bone white complexion. When she got nervous, red, blotchy patches broke out over her neck and chest. She could feel her skin welting up now. Being outside on the lawns of the asylum was one thing. But now she was going inside one of the buildings. The urge to flee swelled in her mind, making her heart race. It’s just part of my job, she told herself. It has nothing to do with me, or my mother. Besides, it’s time to put away childish fears.

She pulled her long hair up on top of her head and tied it in a knot, letting the breeze cool her neck.

Aren’t you hot in that long-sleeved shirt? Peg said.

No, Izzy said, pulling the edges of her sleeves down and holding them inside her fists. It’s pretty thin.

I noticed when I was folding your laundry that you don’t have any short-sleeved shirts, Peg said. Maybe we can go shopping and get you some new clothes.

Izzy tried to smile. Thanks, she said. But I like long sleeves. And you don’t have to do my laundry.

I don’t mind, Peg said, smiling. I just can’t understand why anyone would want to wear long sleeves in this weather.

Izzy shrugged. I’m a little self-conscious about my arms, she said. They’re so skinny and pale.

Most girls would love to have long, slender arms and legs like yours, Peg said, laughing.

Not if they could see the scars, Izzy thought.

She looked toward the lake and saw groups of people gathered near the shoreline, sitting at picnic tables, walking, playing softball and badminton. Most were in worn, faded clothing, shuffling along as if dazed by medication. She stopped. Who are they? she asked Peg.

Peg shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted toward the shore. They’re probably from the nearby Elmira Psychiatric Center, Peg said. There’s a campground down by the lake. Sometimes the staff bring the patients here for outings.

Izzy’s eyes filled and she started walking again, staring at the ground.

Peg followed. What’s wrong? she said.

That’s where my mother was, Izzy said. In Elmira.

Peg put a hand on Izzy’s shoulder. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

Izzy lifted her head and tried to muster a smile. It’s okay. It was a long time ago.

I hope you know I’m willing to listen if you ever need to talk.

I know, Izzy said. Thanks. But no thanks, she thought. All the talking in the world wouldn’t change the fact that people were damaged goods. Before Izzy’s grandmother passed away seven years ago, Izzy had seen three different doctors, trying to find relief for her recurring nightmares. Nothing helped. Besides, doctors don’t know anything. A roomful of them had insisted Izzy’s mother was of sound mind and body and could stand trial. Now she was in jail, instead of getting the help she needed. But Izzy knew madness was the only explanation for her mother shooting her father while he slept.

When they reached the shuttered workshop, a former employee unlocked the door and led Izzy, Peg, and two other museum employees inside.

This was where the patients packed pens and glued paper bags, the former employee said cheerfully, as if she were showing them a display of quilts at a county fair.

Inside the building, workshop tables stood empty in barren rooms. Curling calendars and old fire extinguishers hung on cracked and peeling walls. The old freight elevator had been out of service for years, so Izzy and the others had to take a steep, narrow staircase up three flights to the attic, stepping over broken stair treads and chunks of old plaster, brushing aside cobwebs. When they reached the top, the former employee unlocked the attic door and leaned against it, trying to force it open. The door wouldn’t budge. Peg stepped up to help, pushing on the wood with both hands. Finally the door gave, hinges screeching. The stale, dusty air inside the stairway whooshed upward, as if the attic was taking a giant gasp. The employee led them inside.

The attic was stifling hot and airless, filled with the smell of old wood, dust, and bird droppings. Dead leaves dappled the wooden floor here and there, blown in over the years through a broken pane in one of the windows. A dingy lab coat hung from a nail, and several gutted suitcases spilled their contents onto the attic floorboards. House keys and photographs, earrings and belts, blouses and leather shoes mingled with dirt and dead leaves, like disintegrating belongings dug from a grave. In the center of the vast room sat a doctor’s bag and what looked like a torn map, both covered with a thick layer of dried pigeon droppings.

Beneath the attic rafters, rows of wooden racks took up nearly the entire floor. Labeled Men and Women and lettered A through Z on each side, the oversized shelves sat perpendicular to the high walls, a long corridor running down the center, like the main aisle in a grocery store or library. But instead of canned goods or books, the shelves were stacked with hundreds of dust-covered suitcases, crates, wardrobes, and steamer trunks.

What is all this? Peg asked, her voice filled with awe.

It’s where they kept the luggage, the former employee said. All these suitcases and crates were left behind by patients who checked into the institution but never checked out. They haven’t been touched since their owners packed them decades ago, before entering the asylum.

Izzy bit down on her lip, blinking against the tears in her eyes. She pictured her mother’s open travel case on the table at the foot of her hospital bed, underwear, bras, and nightgown in a jumble. She would never forget the first time she entered her parents’ bedroom after her father was shot. Her grandmother needed help finding and packing her mother’s things, and Izzy had opened her parents’ dresser drawers in slow motion, the familiar smell of her mother’s perfume on her camisoles and slips wafting out to remind her of all she had lost. At the time, Izzy could still smell her father’s blood and a hint of gunpowder in the air. She remembered staring at her parents’ bed, the headboard, footboard, and railing taken apart and leaning against the bedroom walls as if they were finally moving to the bigger house her mother always wanted. Now, it was all she could do not to run out of the asylum attic and down the stairs, toward fresh air, away from the reminders of lost and ruined lives.

This is an absolute treasure trove, Peg said. She walked along the aisles, gentle fingers touching the leather handles of Saratoga trunks and upright wardrobes, squinting to read name tags and faded monograms. Then she spun around and looked at the former employee, her eyes wide. What are they going to do with these?

The employee shrugged. They’ll send them to the dump, I suppose, she said.

Oh no, Peg said. We can’t let that happen. We have to take them to the museum warehouse.

All of them? one of the museum employees said.

Yes, Peg said. Don’t you see? These suitcases are just as important as an archeological dig or a set of old paintings. These people never had the chance to tell their stories outside of the confines of a mental hospital. But we can try to understand what happened to them by looking at their personal belongings. We have the rare opportunity to try to re-create their lives before they came to Willard! She looked at Izzy. Doesn’t that sound exciting?

Izzy did her best to muster a smile, a cold slab of dread pressing against her chest.

CHAPTER 2

C

LARA

Upper West Side, NYC

October 1929

Eighteen-year-old Clara Elizabeth Cartwright stood on the thick Persian rug outside her father’s study, holding her breath and leaning slightly forward, trying to hear her parents’ conversation through the carved oak door. When she was younger, the opulent decor of her parents’ mansion—the paneled hallway, the gleaming wood floors, the framed portraits and gilded mirrors, the silver tea set on the cherry hutch—made her feel like a princess living in a castle. Now, the thick woodwork and heavy damask curtains made her feel like an inmate being kept in a prison. And not just because she hadn’t been allowed to leave in three weeks. The house felt like a museum filled with old furniture and out-of-date decorations, reeking with dated ideas and archaic beliefs. It reminded her of a mausoleum, a final resting place for the dead and dying. And she had no intention on being next.

She exhaled and tried to relax. Her plan for escape had been tried before, but it was all she had left. The rotten wood smell of her father’s cigar filtered beneath the door frame and intermingled with the lemony scent of furniture polish, reminding her of the hours she’d spent in this very spot, waiting with her older brother, William, for their daily consultation with their father, Henry Earl Cartwright. For as long as she could remember, every Friday after school, after homework and a walk in the park, they’d waited outside his office until dinner, careful to amuse each other quietly so they wouldn’t disturb him. Then, when their father was ready, he called them in one at a time to hear their reports about school, to nip behavioral problems in the bud, to explain what he expected from them at their respective ages. She and William were required to stand on the other side of his oversized desk, chin up and eyes straight ahead, listening without fidgeting until their father nodded and lit his cigar, the signal that they were dismissed.

Their mother, Ruth, had made it clear that conversations about discipline and school performance were too taxing on her delicate sensibilities. She took her afternoon nap at the same time every day, while her husband took care of the unpleasant business of rearing their children. It wasn’t until the last few years, as Clara blossomed into young womanhood, vulnerable to the ploys and desires of young men, that Henry insisted Ruth get involved. Ruth had made a halfhearted effort, but it wasn’t until three weeks ago that she decided to take her job seriously. Clara wondered what William would say about their parents keeping her locked up like a common criminal.

Thinking of her older brother, Clara’s eyes filled and her heart turned to lead. William’s body had been pulled from the Hudson River a year and a half ago. It felt like yesterday. She remembered seeing her father’s face when he heard the news, his jaw working in and out, his cheeks red as he processed the fact that his eldest child was dead. And yet, his eyes had remained dry. Clara remembered fighting the urge to pound her fists on his chest, to scream that it was his fault. But he would never believe her. His mind was a closed and locked book, with only his version of the way the world should work written inside. She hadn’t hugged him, or her mother, instead suffering silently while they played the part of grieving parents. Now, if nothing else, she was determined not to be the next victim of Henry Cartwright’s iron fist.

If it weren’t for Saturday nights at the Cotton Club, when she could be herself, laughing and dancing with her friends, she was certain she’d have lost her mind months ago. But the last time she’d gone out with her friends was three weeks ago. It felt like a decade.

As a young girl, she’d done her best to please her parents, getting perfect grades in school, keeping her room spotless, never interrupting, and—most importantly—never mouthing back. Then, as she got older, she realized her parents felt that she and her brother should be seen and not heard. The adults of the household provided food and shelter for their children, nothing more. Over the last two years, ever since William first disappeared, it had become easier and easier for Clara to lie, to say she was going to the library when she was really going to the afternoon matinee with her girlfriends to watch a Charlie Chaplin movie, or to Central Park to watch boys play at the Skee-Ball Parlor or Shooting Gallery. At first, she was surprised when she returned home and her mother wasn’t waiting by the door with her hands on her hips, ready to call Henry to inflict whatever punishment he deemed suitable. Clara could hear Henry’s deep voice in her head, his words rattled by fury.

Your place is here, at home, learning how to cook and care for children, not out gallivanting all over the city! What were you thinking? You’re a Cartwright, goddamn it! And you’d better start acting like one, or you’ll find yourself out on the street!

Eventually she realized her parents never knew she was gone. At first, she thought they were too busy worrying about William, wondering if something had happened to him or if he had decided to cut ties for good after his fight with Henry. She started to wonder if maybe her mother had a heart after all, that she really was overly sensitive, that maybe worrying about two children was too much. But then she realized that, while her son was missing and her daughter was doing as she pleased, Ruth was having ladies over for tea, talking to caterers and florists about her next party, looking through magazines and drinking bootleg whiskey, ordering new dresses, jewelry, and furs.

After William’s body was found, Ruth stopped planning parties. But she kept drinking whiskey to the point of passing out almost every night. She claimed the alcohol soothed her nerves, and Henry, who spent his days conducting business, only coming out of his office to eat and sleep, made sure his grief-stricken wife had a never-ending supply. It became obvious to Clara that her parents were relieved to have her out of their hair, as long as she was home for supper by five-thirty sharp, in which case, if she was late, she’d better be dead or dying.

Every week for the past seven months, she’d told her parents the same story—she was going to a show with Julia, Mary, and Lillian. Afterward, they would spend the night at Lillian’s. Ruth barely knew Lillian, but she approved of Clara spending time with her and the other girls, based solely on the fact that their mothers were members of the women’s league and went to Ruth’s church. In Ruth’s mind, it came to reason that if Julia and Mary were allowed to spend the night at Lillian’s, it must be all right.

Except, instead of going to the theater, the girls met at Lillian’s house to finger wave each other’s hair and change into their beaded, fringed flapper dresses. They rolled their stockings down to their knees to show they weren’t wearing corsets, put on strappy, high-heeled shoes, and wore long strings of pearls hanging between their breasts. Then, at ten o’clock, Lillian’s boyfriend picked them up in his Bentley and drove them downtown, her brother’s Rolls-Royce full of friends close behind.

Their favorite place, the Cotton Club, was a hip meeting spot on the corner of 142nd Street and Lenox Avenue in central Harlem, otherwise known as the playground for the rich. In the dark, smoky interior of the club, Clara and her friends drank bootleg gin, ate chocolate-covered cherries, smoked cigarettes, and did the Charleston and the tango. They listened to jazz by Louis Armstrong and got too juiced to stand up straight.

And most importantly, the Cotton Club was where Clara met Bruno. He was born in Italy, the son of a shoemaker, and had come to America alone. He wasn’t used to the glitz of a New York club. Even so, the first time she saw him, threading his way through the crowd in a white vest and tie, a black coat and tails, he looked like he fit right in. He brushed past the girls asking him to dance, showing no interest in the caviar and trays of martinis, and made his way across the room, his smoldering eyes locked on Clara. At the time, she was waltzing with Lillian’s brother, Joe, who was smashed and blathering on about his job at the New York Stock Exchange and how he had the means to lavish a woman with whatever she dreamed.

When Clara saw Bruno making his way toward them, her heart hammered in her chest. He looked incensed, as if someone was making moves on his girl. Wondering if he had mistaken her for someone else, she steeled herself, ready to defend poor, drunken Joe. Then Joe leaned in to kiss her and she turned away, letting go of his clammy hands. Before she knew what was happening, Bruno stepped in and whisked her across the floor, leaving Joe dazed and teetering in the middle of the room.

Bruno gazed down at her as they danced, his eyes serious, a heavy hand pressing on the small of her back. Up close, he looked like an Adonis; his black hair slicked back, the skin of his chiseled face smooth and bronze. She lowered her chin, unnerved by the intensity of his stare.

I hope that wasn’t your boyfriend, he said, his voice deep, his accent making every word rich and exotic.

She shook her head, keeping her eyes on the people around them. Lillian and Julia were at the bar, glasses of gin dangling in their hands. Lillian twisted her pearls between her fingers while Julia tickled a handsome man with a feather from her headdress.

I’m sorry for stealing you away from your dancing partner, he said. But I was afraid if I asked first, you’d turn me down. Do you forgive me?

She looked up then, into his ebony eyes, and was lost. She swallowed, unable to draw her gaze away from his. She flashed a smile, trying to look amused and nonchalant. I suppose so, she said.

You think I’m being too forward, he said, his full lips parting in a slight grin.

No, she said. But I . . .

Just then, Joe appeared, tapping Bruno on the shoulder. Bruno turned and Joe raised his fist, his red face contorted. Stop! Clara cried, putting up her hand.

Joe froze, his fist cocked in the air. How do you know this guy’s not a floater? he said, spittle flying from his lips. He looks like a lounge lizard to me.

It’s all right, Clara said. We’re just dancing.

You sure? Joe said.

I’m sure, Clara said. We’ll talk later, when we all go to the diner. Okay?

Joe considered Bruno, his bloodshot eyes narrow, then dropped his fist. Bruno smiled, held out a hand, and introduced himself. I promise to deliver . . . He touched Clara’s wrist with warm fingers. I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.

Clara, she said, feeling heat rise in her cheeks.

I promise to deliver Clara back to her friends in one piece, he said to Joe.

You better not be smooth talkin’ me, Joe said. Or me and my buddies will turn you out on the street in two seconds flat.

I assure you, Bruno said, I’m a man of my word.

Finally, Joe tugged at his tie, shook Bruno’s hand, and staggered away. Bruno reached for Clara.

May I have this dance, Bella Clara? he said. She nodded and he pulled her close. The beads on her dress pressed against the hard muscles in his chest while the pleats of his trousers brushed across her bare knees. The song Someone to Watch Over Me was almost over, but she suddenly felt like she needed to sit down. Her knees felt weak, her insides jittery. She’d danced with dozens of men at the Cotton Club, some who knew her father and were hoping to get her fortune, some who were genuinely interested in getting to know her better. But no man had ever made her feel this way. She gripped his hand tighter, wondering if it was the gin or the musky scent of his cologne that was making her dizzy.

Are you all right? he asked. Do you need some fresh air?

She shook her head. I’m fine, she said. I think the booze might be making me a bit woozy, that’s all.

I won’t let you fall, he said. Then he dipped his head and nuzzled her ear, his warm breath sending shivers across her skin. Just then, the song ended and he stopped swaying. Still, he didn’t release her.

Would you like to join me and my friends at the diner? she said, her voice raspy. We always go for coffee after . . .

I’d like that very much, Bruno said. His hand brushed her jawline and he lifted her chin. There’s just one thing I need to get out of the way first, he said. Then he pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her so hard his teeth nearly cut her lip. At first, she resisted, but then she kissed him back, melting into his arms. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses disappeared and all she could hear was her thundering heart. White lights flashed behind her lids, the warm tug of desire burning inside her pelvis. When they parted, he looked at her, breathless.

See, he said. Sometimes it’s better not to ask.

She nodded, unable to speak.

Later, at the diner, they sat alone in a booth, drinking coffee and sharing a slice of apple pie. Lillian, Julia, and the rest of the crew talked and laughed in two oversized booths across the aisle, but Clara and Bruno barely realized they were there. He told her about his family back in Italy and his dreams for a successful life in America. She was surprised to hear herself opening up more than she had with anyone, except William. She confessed her frustrations with her parents, tearing up when she talked about her late, beloved brother. Bruno reached across the table and took her hand, saying he understood difficult family matters. More than anything, he wanted a family of his own, a family who loved each other and always got along, no matter what. She wanted the same thing.

By the end of the night, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and by the end of the week, they were meeting at his apartment. By the end of the month, Bruno had become part of the gang and even Lillian’s brother, Joe, thought he was the cat’s pajamas.

Now, standing outside her father’s office, Clara could hear her father’s low baritone on the other side of the carved oak door, rumbling like a slowing train, her mother whining and sniffing, their hushed exchange of angry words. They weren’t arguing with each other. They were talking about Clara, irritated that, for once, she wasn’t obediently going along with their plans.

She put a protective hand over her lower abdomen, blinking against the moisture in her eyes. The engagement party was tomorrow night, complete with a photographer, a caterer, and all her parents’ important friends. Her father’s business partner, Richard Gallagher, had invited a dozen guests, eager to show off his son’s future bride. The invitations had been sent out ten days ago, and only a few responses had returned with a negative reply. James Gallagher, the man Clara was supposed to marry, had sent his late mother’s two-karat ring to be cleaned and polished, with instructions to add four extra diamonds for good measure. Ruth had picked out Clara’s dress and hired a hair stylist to do her hair before the party. Everything was going along exactly as her parents had planned. The guests would arrive thinking they were there to celebrate Henry and Ruth’s anniversary, and then, right before dinner, they’d be surprised by the announcement of James and Clara’s engagement.

All at once, the rotten egg stench of fermenting water filled Clara’s nostrils and she nearly gagged. It was coming from the vase of flowers on the cherry end table. She stepped away from the door and put a hand over her nose and mouth, trying to calm her churning stomach. If she stood out in the hall much longer, rehearsing her speech, she’d either pass out or throw up. It was now or never.

She knocked on the study door.

What is it? her father bellowed.

"It’s