Beautiful Days by Anna Godbersen Read Free Book Online Page A

hands, too, because he paused to wipe them on his white T-shirt. “That’s all I’ve got to say to a bootlegger’s daughter.”
    For many years, Cordelia had hoarded newspaper stories about New York City and longed for nothing so much in the world as to be called a bootlegger’s daughter. It was a double shock that Max, when he uttered that phrase, should make it feel like a slap across the face.
    â€œA bootlegger’s daughter!” she repeated with cool indignation. Inside, she was the opposite of cool, and only wished that she wasn’t holding the stupid pitcher of julep, which was heavy in her hand. “Well, I suppose trick pilots are in the habit of being careless with their lives and indifferent to those who risk their own helping them.”
    He averted his eyes again and moved to walk past her and up toward the house. Her hands wanted to shake at this final slight, but she commanded them to hold steady as she tipped the pitcher, pouring a drink for herself into the glass that she’d brought for him.
    â€œIs that why you’re being so prissy?” she called after him, loud enough for the young girls watching them to hear.
    He paused and gazed at her intently, but did not reply. She took a sip of the sweet, heady drink and that quieted her irritation, though she knew some fury lingered in her face. Here was the person whose body she had pulled from the wreckage—but her bravery had not earned his respect. He thought nothing of her, it turned out, and even less of Darius Grey.
    â€œMy father has been dead barely a month.” Her voice trembled a little, but her words fell with violent precision. “He wasn’t a bad man, and he did all he could for himself and his family. He didn’t begrudge other people their choices, and he left a life grander than the one he was born into. So you’ll not say ‘bootlegger’ to me in that righteous tone again.” She took another sip of the drink, and then thrust both the glass and the pitcher forward with sudden force, so that Max had no choice but to take them. Then, leaning forward, holding his gaze, and almost hissing, she concluded: “Don’t expect me to act like some ashamed nothing just because you talk so high and mighty. I know who I am.”
    They stood facing each other another few moments, their bodies frozen in animosity. Cordelia blinked once, as though to communicate that she had nothing to prove and was not about to be drawn into anything so petty as a staring contest. Then she turned and walked up toward the Beaumonts’ Greek Revival mansion, shaken, but not so badly that she was unable to walk confidently in her high-heeled shoes.
    As she made her way along a stone path toward the colonnaded verandah, she was conscious—at first vaguely and then most definitely—of other people’s eyes on her. Perhaps she was now radiating some of her fury, perhaps it was visible along the high sharp lines of her cheekbones. Or perhaps they were staring at her in the usual way, with some mix of curiosity about her criminal family and pity for the tragedy that had befallen her so soon into her life as a New York girl.
    In any event, she was being watched. Even as the band struck up behind her and a few girls shrieked happily at their sweethearts to spin them around. Even as a first firework was set off somewhere down the shore, heralding the bigger show to come once the darkness was complete. Their eyes were on her as she climbed the stairs and went through a palatial hall and into the parlor; their eyes were on her as she glanced around for Astrid or Letty. It was perhaps because of the unabashed stares of the Beaumonts’ other guests that she was not at first surprised to find that the familiar face her gaze finally settled upon was already gazing right back at her.
    Her lips parted and she heard a fragile little “Oh” escape them. There was Thom Hale, who had used her