The Long Path Home Page 5

  “Ow! Do you mind?” Vi shook the girl’s hand off her arm. “I’m only here to talk to Mr. Stuart about joining his USO show.”

  The brunette’s eyes narrowed. “Really? If you think you’re good enough for a Stuart production, how is it that I’ve never seen you before? I know most of the dancers in the area.”

  “I’m not from around here. I was sent here from Ch—Iowa,” Vi corrected quickly, “as a favor.”

  “Shy-owa?” the girl repeated suspiciously. Vi could’ve kicked herself for the slip.

  “I was about to say Chariton, which is where I grew up, about two hours south of Des Moines, but then changed my mind since most people have never heard of it.” Vi worked to keep her expression open, innocent.

  “Why would an Iowa farm girl be sent to our production? We’re not growing corn here.”

  With an effort, Vi kept her irritation in check. “Considering I’ve starred on the stages of Des Moines and Chicago as both an actress and a dancer and worked as a choreographer for both solo and ensemble performances these past three years, I’d say this show is lucky to have me.”

  The brunette’s lips tightened. “Well then, don’t let little ol’ me get in your way, Miss Hotshot from Iowa. I’m sure Mr. Stuart would love to hear all about it.” She turned away, snagging the other girl’s elbow. “Come on, Gertie. We’d better leave before that pile of hooey stinks up the place.”

  “Hooey?” Vi spat as furious retorts gathered on her tongue. Then abruptly she remembered that not only was she supposed to be a squeaky-clean ingenue—not Lily Lamour, queen of the Chicago burlesque stage—this girl might also be Miss Maggio, her purported new best friend. “Wait . . .”

  She might as well have been talking to the empty seats.

  Lord above, she needed to keep her head in the game. Until Tony’s killer was arrested, her safety and freedom depended on her doing two things: landing the spot in the USO show and befriending Miss Maggio—and not getting kicked out of the USO for moral deficiency. Okay, so that was three things. But the latter was key, which meant she needed to remember she was the girl she had invented on the way to New York City: Virginia Heart, a talented but virginal hoofer from the Midwest and all-American sweetheart, looking to do her patriotic duty by entertaining the boys overseas.

  Pure as the driven snow, Vi. Come on, you can do this.

  Exhaling the last vestiges of Lily and breathing in Virginia, she turned to see Mr. Stuart disappearing through one of the side doors next to the stage.

  Oh no you don’t. Ignoring the screaming of her sore feet, she sprinted down the aisle. “Mr. Stuart. Excuse me, sir . . .”

  To her immense relief, the man turned around.

  She slid to a stop in front of him and pasted on a bright smile. Never mind that it was met with a fierce scowl on his part. She was made of sterner stuff. One had to be to survive in the theater business.

  “Sorry to bother you,” she said, trying not to sound too obsequious. Virginia might be sweet, but she also had to demonstrate a certain level of confidence. “But I was told to contact you the minute I got to New York. Sal Fleischmann sent me?”

  He snorted. “Well, it’s about time. Do you realize how close we are to shipping out? I’ve half a mind to send you home and just be short a dancer. To hell with what Sue wanted.”

  Vi’s heart stuttered in alarm, and she forgot all about playing someone else. He couldn’t be serious, could he? Her future literally depended on getting this part!

  “I’m so sorry. I got here as quick as I could. Please, give me a chance. I’m a fast study.”

  “That’s what they all say.” He started to turn away.

  Visions of being bundled into a police car, never to see Jimmy again, had her grabbing the director’s arm. “Wait, please. I really want this part. I need this part, and I’ll do whatever it takes for me to get it.”

  “Oh?” He paused, and his gaze took on a speculative air as he looked at her. Her stomach sank as she realized what she had just said and how it could be interpreted. Please, don’t take that wrong. Please, please don’t suggest I sleep with you . . .

  She, as herself, was desperate enough to do it, but her new persona? Virginia would be shocked and have to refuse, or else she would be behaving entirely out of character.

  “Will you show up on time and keep your knees together, unlike your predecessor?”

  Vi released her breath. Talk about an easy request!

  “Of . . . of course.” She made an X over her heart, even as she wondered if he was referring to the missing Janet. “Scout’s honor!”

  He snorted again. “That’s not the scout sign, but fine. You can have the part, but only because I don’t want Sue bitching about having to rechoreograph everything.” He retreated a step, clearly impatient to be on his way. “Now be a good girl and go find my assistant. If she likes you, she’ll talk to you about rehearsals and scripts. She’ll also bring you up to speed on USO requirements.”

  “Do you mean Sue?” she called after him, but he was already out the door. She swore softly under her breath as she glanced around the auditorium.

  Voices drifted from backstage, giving her an idea. Nothing of note ever escaped the stage crew, whether it be clandestine love affairs, actor rivalries, drinking problems, or even the current location of a missing directorial assistant. She hurried up the apron steps, mentally promising herself that she would find a place to rest as soon as she had Virginia’s part in her pocket.

  Once onstage—a location that never failed to exhilarate her as she looked out over the audience seats—she headed toward a handful of workmen gathered on the working side. Dressed casually in loose trousers and open-collared shirts, they appeared to be in the process of disassembling furniture and packing the pieces into wooden crates.

  “Hiya, fellas.” Assuming the role of Virginia, she smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as if shy. “Sorry to bother you, but Mr. Stuart told me to find his assistant. Is she around?”

  One of the men straightened. He was lanky and tall. Over six feet, easily. His sandy-brown hair was turning silver at the temples, and something about the ease with which he moved told her he was the man in charge. He didn’t bother returning her smile, though there was nothing unfriendly about him.

  Shrewd brown eyes studied her for a moment. “Sue’s gone for the day. Had some last-minute errands to run before we head out tomorrow.”

  She blinked, not quite sure she had heard him correctly. “Head out?”

  “That’s right. Just found out today that the whole production has to be boxed up and ready to ship overseas ASAP.” He gestured toward the crates with his screwdriver. “As you can see, we were only halfway done with the construction when the orders came through, so things are a little crazy at the moment. But that’s the army for you.”

  “We’re leaving tomorrow?” The implications of that careened about her brain like a panicked mouse spotting a cat. All she had with her was lipstick, soap, a hairbrush, and the outfit she’d been wearing for the last three days.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “We?”

  Vi snapped back to the present quandary. “I’m the replacement dancer, which is why I’m looking for Sue. But now I’m wondering if I should be out shopping for the tour instead.”

  “Once Sue gets you sized, everything you’ll need onstage will be provided, except for the shoes, which you can pay us back for, out of your earnings. As for basic sundries and a uniform, that’ll be issued by the army. The only things you’ll be on the hook for will be gal-type things, like makeup and stockings.”

  “Right.” She pressed her hand to her chest to calm her still-racing heart. She had a couple of fins left from Sal. And if they shipped out tomorrow, that left only one night of room and board to cover, if she even bothered eating. She had gone to bed hungry before.

  “What about food and lodging while on tour?” she asked to double-check.

  “The USO pays for all that.” He hesitated, the
furrow between his eyebrows deepening. “Forgive me, miss, but you seem rather uninformed about the particulars of this tour. You do know that our show will be headed overseas working the Foxhole Circuit? And that we may be performing quite close to the front lines?”

  “Not too close, I hope.” Vi smiled weakly even as her stomach twisted.

  “If we are, would it matter?” the man asked with a lift of an eyebrow. “Because if it does, now’s the time to back out. The USO’s mission is to lift the spirits of US servicemen, no matter where they’re stationed. That means we could land in Europe, or the South Seas, or even North Africa. Due to national security they haven’t told us what to expect, except that we’ll be playing outside of the States. And they only told us that because we need passports.”

  A new worry stabbed her. Sal hadn’t mentioned anything about a passport. She wasn’t even sure how to get one, let alone with an assumed name and in less than a day.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say that, upon reflection, she wouldn’t be joining them after all. Then her son’s sweet face appeared in her mind. If she bailed now, she might never get to see him grow up. Of course, if she died overseas, she wouldn’t, either, but how often did the USO actually lose one of their performers? Plus, this was the second chance she had been dreaming of—performing in legitimate theater with a Broadway director. Did she really want to throw it away in a fit of cowardice?

  Swallowing her anxiety, she forced her lips into a smile. “Sounds like a grand adventure. I can’t wait!”

  Both his eyebrows rose at that, but then he wiped his hand on his overalls and held it out to her. “Then welcome to the unit. I’m Wyatt. Wyatt Miller. Technical director for the show.”

  Her hand was totally engulfed by Mr. Miller’s much larger, stronger one. “Virginia. Virginia Heart, but everyone calls me Vi.”

  “Not Ginny? I thought that was the usual nickname for Virginia.”

  “Yes, well, I prefer Vi.”

  “Then Vi it is. Welcome to One Fine Mess—an original musical comedy by Gerald Stuart.” His hand swept grandly toward the stacked crates. “Music, dancing, and mayhem in two acts, guaranteed to please the pickiest of GIs.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” She tucked the loose strand of hair behind her ear again. This time her nervousness was real. “Um . . . Mr. Miller . . . since Sue is gone, could you tell me what time I should show up tomorrow and where?”

  “Grand Central Terminal at two p.m. with all your luggage. Track eleven.”

  She frowned. “But that’s a train station. I thought we were shipping out?”

  Mr. Miller laughed. “We have to be inducted first and go through basic training first, like any other soldier headed toward the front. You’re in the army now, sister.”

  She blinked, her sense of having fallen into a bad dream increasing by the second. “They’re sending us to boot camp?”

  “Bingo.” He started to turn away and then stopped. “Anything else I can do for you?”

  She caught the impatience in his voice and was reminded of time passing. They both had a lot to do before tomorrow—finding an inexpensive suitcase being at the top of her list. “No. Thank you.”

  “Wait, Miss Heart, is it?”

  She glanced up into his concerned face. “Yes?”

  “You got somewhere to stay tonight?”

  A frisson of alarm ran through her. Even though he seemed like a decent enough guy, he was still a man, and men liked sex . . . “Yes. Why?”

  “You wouldn’t be the first would-be starlet to spend her last dime getting here,” he said not unkindly. “And Lord knows you won’t be the last.”

  “Yes, well. I’ll be fine, so don’t worry about me.” And she would be fine, as long as she stayed wary of those who would take advantage of her. Like older men who might want to recapture their youth with a younger woman.

  “I see.” Mr. Miller paused and then turned to the other fellow. “Hey, Hank. You okay finishing up?”

  Hank, who was almost done taking apart a coffee table, nodded without looking up.

  Mr. Miller headed over to an open toolbox, leaving Vi standing alone. She shifted on her feet uncertainly. Was he through talking to her? She didn’t want to offend a senior member of the production staff by leaving midconversation. On the other hand, she didn’t want to stick around if it meant giving the wrong impression. In her experience, men often mistook hesitation on a woman’s part as an invitation.

  Before she could decide, Mr. Miller returned with a lunch pail in hand.

  “Good, you’re still here. If you’re game for it, I have a friend that might be willing to put you up. I’m thinking her sofa would be a sight more comfortable than spending the night in some back alley.”

  “I can take care of myself,” she said with a mental roll of her eyes. Back alley, indeed. All-night diners or train station restrooms were much better choices.

  “Glad to hear it.” The skepticism in the tone of his voice told her he wasn’t buying it. Clearly he took her as some fresh-off-the-farm rube, though that wouldn’t be far off the mark if she really were Virginia—so maybe that was good?

  To her surprise, he started walking toward one of the exits without another word.

  Distrust warred with pragmatism. Was he really going to leave her to fend for herself? And did she really want to spend the night on the floor somewhere, in questionable safety, wondering if she would be robbed in her sleep?

  Deciding a good night’s rest was definitely worth groveling for, especially after traveling for the last three days and then having to travel again tomorrow, she sprinted after him. Pride was all well and good, but it had its practical limits. Sal had taught her that when he had all but pulled her out of the Chicago River.

  She had been eight months pregnant, unable to find work as a dancer because of her condition, and literally starving. Depressed and tired of struggling just to survive, she had stopped on her long trek back to the room she shared with two other girls and stared down from the Adams Street Bridge into the cold, swirling waters. Her life had nearly ended that afternoon, but for Sal. By some miracle his taxi was taking him over the bridge at the same instant, and he had recognized her from an audition earlier in the week. Sensing something was direly wrong, he had ordered the driver to stop and then jumped out to grab her just as she was leaning over the edge.

  After listening to her troubles over dinner, he had offered her bus fare home, but she’d refused. She hadn’t wanted to endure her parents’ disapproval, couldn’t bear to see Robert again or face the horrible task of telling her sister who the baby’s father was. Her pride wouldn’t let her. Nor would her dreams for her future, because if she had come clean about the pregnancy, she knew her parents would’ve made Robert marry her. And yes, fifteen-year-old Vi had wanted to get married. Someday. But not until she’d had her chance to be a Broadway star.

  Sal hadn’t shamed her for those dreams, but he had made her face the hard realities of them. He could give her work as a costumer for his dancers so she could eat. He would give her a loan to cover the hospital expense when the time came, with the proviso that she had to work for him until she paid it off. And she had to put the baby up for adoption.

  On this he had been resolute. Economic conditions were still depressed in the US, and he didn’t see them improving anytime soon. He knew of a good agency, one that catered to wealthy parents. Vi was a beautiful girl, and smart. If the baby’s father was those things, too, it would be easy to find the baby a good family. One that could give the little tyke all he needed, or at least a lot more than a fifteen-year-old stripper could.

  “Pride goeth before a fall,” Sal had told her solemnly as he’d waited for her decision on that chilly March evening.

  And she had already fallen so far . . . Learning to swallow her pride had been a hard lesson, but she had done it, and survived. And if that’s what was needed now, that’s exactly what she would do.

  Chapter 5

  “Don’t take th
is wrong, dear,” Mrs. Wittman said over breakfast the next morning. “But I don’t think you’re getting enough sleep.”

  Vi glanced up at the widow, her mouth too full of hastily consumed toast and jam to respond. Not that she could disagree with the woman’s conclusion, given the bruised appearance of her eyes. If she weren’t running so late from oversleeping, she would reassure the sweet old lady that she was fine and her exhaustion only temporary from being on the road for three—no, four days now.

  Except she didn’t have time to say all that. Not after Mr. Stuart’s crack yesterday about showing up on time. The only reason she was risking his wrath by eating breakfast was that she was starving. That, and she couldn’t bear disappointing Mrs. Wittman, who had gone out of her way to make a huge breakfast for her unexpected couch guest. The woman had even washed and pressed Vi’s clothes last night, while Vi had slept.

  Such kindness couldn’t be ignored.

  “Wyatt doesn’t, either,” Mrs. Wittman went on, her expression becoming wistful. “But he never listens to me, even though I tell him he’s always welcome to at least nap here.”

  Vi suspected the older woman would love Wyatt to do more than just nap. From the longing in her eyes last night when Mr. Miller had dropped Vi off to stay, the widow was clearly sweet on the technical director. Vi had actually felt a little awkward about accepting Mrs. Wittman’s hospitality when it was so obviously offered with the hopes of securing Wyatt’s affection.

  “But listen to me go on and on, when you’ve got a train to catch.” Mrs. Wittman pushed another plate toward her, one with sliced peaches and some cheese. “Here, help yourself, dear. I’ve got some ham, if you’d rather. How about a few soda crackers to take with you? Train rides can be so long.”

  Vi gulped down her glass of milk—she hadn’t drunk it for years, but Mrs. Wittman had insisted. Scooting her chair back, she wiped her lips on the frayed but spotlessly clean napkin. “Thanks for everything, Mrs. Wittman. Breakfast was delicious. And would you have any clue on how to get a passport on short notice?”