The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [184]
She smiled, touching his face tenderly with her fingers as she said, “I’m glad you are my daddy now, O’Hara,” and he roared with laughter and kissed her again.
They inspected the domed night-blue ceiling studded with shiny pink stars, the pink star-scattered dance floor, the tiers of tables with crisp pink cloths, the silver goblets and pink candelabra; the waiters in hunting-pink jackets and the cigarette girls and waitresses showing their legs and more in pink tights and brief pink net tutus. Each table had a vase with a single perfect pink orchid, and besides the resident jazz band, there was a line-up of guest celebrity stars and dancers that Azaylee was dying to see.
The South Side was jumping that night. Those who were not invited watched enviously as the guests spilled out of their smart automobiles and hurried, laughing, beneath the flashing Pink Orchid marquee into the promised land of luxury, gaiety, jazz, and hooch that was King O’Hara’s special recipe for success. He introduced Missie and Azaylee to everyone and much later, when the place was crowded and the festivities in full swing, he suggested that it was time she took Azaylee home.
“See my littlest girl goes to bed as soon as she gets to the hotel,” he instructed as they waited under the bright marquee for the limousine. The driver was taking his time, and O’Hara glanced impatiently up and down the street, barely noticing the closed black car driving slowly past on the opposite side. It swerved suddenly, veering fast across the empty street toward them. They stared, astonished, for a second or two as the rear window rolled down and the pink lights from the marquee glinted from the metal barrel of a snub-nosed machine gun, then with a fierce bellow O’Hara flung his big body in front of Missie and Azaylee. The hail of bullets ripped right through him, sending him spinning and leaving him a twitching, bloody heap on the sidewalk.
Azaylee knew she was screaming, just the way she remembered someone screaming in her dreams, years and years ago in the forest at Varishnya. She could hear Missie moaning and the squeal of tires as the black car pulled away and then the sound of running feet. And herself, just screaming and screaming as if all the screams had been locked inside her for years and years, and now she knew they would never stop.
Maryland
Cal pressed the bell to summon Nurse Milgrim, worried by Missie’s pale face and trembling voice. The clock on her table said 2 A.M., and he knew she must be exhausted as well as racked with the pain of her memories. She was staring down at the pink orchid brooch in her hands.
“I’ll never part with it,” she whispered. “Never.”
Nurse Milgrim bustled in, crisp and alert in her starched white uniform. She looked at Missie and then at Cal and demanded, “What did I tell you? Now she’s worn out and all upset. I blame you for this, young man.” She poured a glass of water. “Come on now,” she coaxed, “let’s take our pills and then I’ll get you a nice cup of tea and it’s off to bed.”
Missie swallowed her pills and shook her head. “Don’t you understand, Nurse Milgrim?” she said. “Now I’ve begun, I must finish. Only then will Cal be able to help me.”
Milgrim glanced at him sharply and he shrugged his shoulders. “It’s important to all of us,” he told her.
Her eyes widened in alarm and she said, “Well … in that case, maybe I’d better make some sandwiches,” and departed in a rustle of white cotton.
“Azaylee couldn’t go to the funeral,” Missie said, “not that I would have wanted her to. They kept her in the hospital for two weeks, ‘for observation,’ they said, though at the end of it they were no wiser. She had just retreated into her own safe little world and no one could reach her. They said it was shock and with time she would be fine. But I knew better.”
Her haunted violet eyes met his. “An enormous wreath of pink orchids was delivered to the cemetery just as O’Hara’s coffin was being lowered into the grave. The delivery man handed me the card.” She