Change of Heart Chapter One

Chapter 1

My family disproved the term poor as dirt. See, we was poor, but we had plenty of dirt. We just couldn’t get much to grow.

But being poor didn’t drive me away from home.

Emma Wagner did. She was my best friend all while we were growing up, right up until the day I told her I loved her. She didn’t want to hear those words from me. “Clarabelle Ryan,” she said, “girls don’t love other girls like that.”

But I did.

Her half-hearted laugh didn’t hurt too bad. Didn’t realize the damage I’d done till the next time I saw her. She wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t meet my eyes, and neither would her sister. I figured I had another week before the whole town had heard about my wayward nature.

So I packed my change of clothes and begged Momma for a few dollars. She gave me some, but the year was 1933 and what little she had was dwindling. When I said goodbye, I think we both knew it might be the last time. Maybe she was grateful for one less mouth to feed, maybe she’d already heard rumors, or maybe her heart knew I wasn’t the type to marry the Thompson boy down the road.

Home might have been a vacant corner where Oklahoma bumped into Texas, but I headed out to see what I could see. I didn’t have the money for the bus to California, and the winters in New York were too cold. But our preacher used to say New Orleans was worse than Sodom and Gomorrah, so with the application of common sense, good manners, and luck, I found my way to the place I was always meant to be.

The French Quarter.

One July evening, when the air hung like a hot, wet, blanket, I slipped my baby blue dress off its hanger. I had an hour to get to my job as a hat check girl at The Moonlight, one of the only respectable nightclubs in the Quarter. The blue dress’s rayon fabric was lighter than my peach crepe, and the sleeves were shorter than my gold chiffon. People had seen it before, but in the last three months they’d seen all my dresses, and I’d sweat less wearing rayon. I pulled the dress over my head, careful not to smear make-up on the fabric, and inspected the result.

One bare bulb lit my room, and I had to angle my mirror to catch all of me. A knock on the door interrupted me fiddling with my collar. My heart skipped because I didn’t know many people who would drop on by. I cracked open the door.

Short and swarthy, with iron grey hair and dark eyes, my neighbor stood outside my room.

“Evening, Mrs. Noschese,” I said.

“Auntie, Clarabelle. You can call me Auntie.”

“Auntie.” I gave her an apologetic smile. Since moving to New Orleans, everyone but Mrs. Noschese called me Clara.

She headed the two or three families who shared the old house where I lived. My tiny room had once been a slave’s quarters, though it seemed to me the stone floor should’ve held more sadness. I’d only ever felt happy there.

“You working again tonight?” Her frown cut right through the evening gloom.

I shrugged, hoping she didn’t think I meant to be rude. “I have to make money, you know?” Momma needed money to keep the farm going, I needed to eat, and, well, someday I wanted to make myself a fourth dress.

“A nice girl like you shouldn’t be out in that place every night.” Her frown deepened and so did the line between her brows. “You’ll get into trouble.” She stuffed her hand into the pocket of her apron. “Did you have supper yet? Here.”

She passed me a warm, paper-wrapped package tied with a string. “Thank you, Auntie. I swear I won’t do anything bad.”

Mrs. Noschese made a sign of the cross. “You might not, but the bad people could do something to you.”

Momma had taught me not to trust a Papist, but since I’d never seen prayer put food on the table, I was willing to leave each to his own. I thanked Mrs. Noschese again for the sandwich, and after one final admonition, she left me to finish getting ready. Leaning towards the mirror, I painted on some lipstick, my dress already sweat-stuck to the small of my back. I’d promised not to do anything wrong, but I’d never admit to Mrs. Noschese that there might be some bad things I wanted done to me.

My room opened off the courtyard, which meant I could come and go without disturbing anybody. The humidity had almost washed the rouge off my cheeks by the time I made the fifteen minute walk from my house on Bienville Street to The Moonlight.

“Clara!” Lorraine’s squeal greeted me on my way through the door. Her face was round and her hips were rounder, and she was the most excitable person I’d ever met. Most everything came out as a squeal or a giggle or a hoot.

“I got here early so you wouldn’t be late for your date.” I fluffed my skirt so the rayon wouldn’t stick to my legs. To hear Lorraine talk, each date was more important than the last.

White ruffles edged the shoulders of her polka-dotted dress, and her bright red curls were spunkier than they had any right to be. “Aw, thanks doll.” She aimed a cherry-colored kiss in the direction of my cheek. “This has your name on it, by the way.”

She slid an envelope across the counter, plain and white, with my name in a loose scrawl. Curious.

We worked in a small room with a wide window looking into the lobby. The window had a waist-high counter, and beside it we had one of those Dutch doors that opened in halves. A crowd came in, so I didn’t open the envelope right away. I’d have plenty of time to read it between selling packs of Camels and Marlboros and turning dollars into dimes. In the lounge, the house band did a pretty good Cab Calloway imitation, which set my toe to tapping. These Negroes sure knew how to play.

“Abyssinia, kitten!” With a flutter of ruffles and a squeal or two, Lorraine made tracks. Leaving me alone with a mysterious envelope and sticky skin and the St James Infirmary Blues.

Vaughn, one of the cocktail girls, popped off the main floor. She was tall, with auburn hair and the prettiest collarbones I’d ever seen. When I thought about doing bad things, her lovely face often came to mind.

She’d dolled up her black uniform dress with a jade scarf pinned at her throat by a marcasite brooch, and she carried her drink tray lightly no matter how many high balls were crowded on it. “What’s that?” she asked, tipping her head in the direction of the note.

Teasing myself, and maybe teasing her too, I rubbed the edge of the still-unopened envelope against my lips, marking it with a peony pink stripe. “Don’t know.”

“Open it, you nut.” Vaughn barely had to breathe to make my pulse flutter.

Maybe I should have learned a lesson from falling in love with my best friend, but I wanted to kiss her—especially when she smiled from under her bangs, her lips painted ruby red and her brows arched in perfect curves. Sometimes the way Vaughn’s gaze melted into me gave me the notion she shared my interest. I just didn’t know how to ask her.

I flicked the flap with my fingernail. Who would be sending me something? I pinched my lips to swallow the flutter of nerves. “Someone stuck this one down good.”

“Quick. I gotta get out on the floor.” A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth, and her hazel eyes glowed.

I peeled the flap open and slid out a notecard. On the inside of the card, someone had drawn a lovely, very detailed picture.

A picture of me. “Well, I’ll be.”

“Let me see it.” Vaughn snatched up the card.

I tried to grab it, but she held the card over my head. “No fair.” I was tall for a woman, but she had me by two or three inches. “You’re cheating.”

With the kind of laugh that turned my insides to warm honey, she let the card flutter onto the counter. “Now don’t blow your wig.” She pivoted on her heel, shooting a sly glance over her shoulder. “But I think somebody likes you.”

My eyes were drawn to the sketch. The artist’s affection came through as clear as the unmistakable chin-length waves I set in pincurls every night, the big blue eyes, and even the little gap between my two front teeth. “Me too,” I whispered to nobody in particular.

The knowing giggle floating behind her made me think Vaughn might be acquainted with my secret admirer.

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