Sirens by Janet Fox Read Free Book Online Page B

politics, and art. Early on the management had encouraged them, given them a reserved table, no doubt eyeballing a grand publicity ploy as well as the steady luncheon check.
    “I know them all by now.” The doorman wagged his finger. “I bet you don’t know who that was. The lady that Mr. Connelly spoke to.”
    Then I realized. “That wasn’t…”
    He nodded, looking mighty pleased. “Edna Ferber. Author of that book you had in your hands.”
    “She’s one of my heroes.” I gazed up the street in the direction they’d gone; the party had disbursed.
    “They’re here every day, though the members aren’t always the same. You might see her next time, or maybe Dorothy Parker. And Mr. Connelly, he’s a playwright. I know them all, yes, indeed.” He leaned over me. “I’m writing my own book, see. I plan to make it as a big-time writer, one of these days.” He moved away to mind the door.
    I looked up again at the awning, at the elaborately lettered name. New York was the city of all possibilities, of dreams come true. Even a doorman knew that.
    Whatever I was doing in this town, maybe my dreams didn’t have to die. Maybe they could just change, with luck.
    I pictured myself, a little journal in one hand and a pencil in the other, my cloche pulled low over my face, at a table just within earshot of these heroes of mine. I’d be taking notes. And then writing my own stories. Or I’d be a well-heeled editor in a smart suit working in one of the grand publishing houses. Or a librarian or teacher, writing in my spare hours from a cozy garret on the Upper East Side. A job, my own job. My own life.
    Girls like me, we had possibilities now, in this new decade of the twenties. We had the vote. We had our freedom…just look at Melody. My future was not so grim. New York City was the land of dreams.
    I touched the tips of my hair that peeked from under my cloche, tossed my head a little. I hadn’t realized how much those long locks had weighed me down. I was a modern girl now, living in the city that never sleeps, living in the decade of dreams….
    “Hey, watch it, babycakes! You’re interrupting the flow of traffic!” A woman coming out the door of the Algonquin barged straight into me, standing as I was in the middle of the sidewalk and looking up at the canvas awning, my moony eyes still fixed on my imaginary future.
    “Miss Louise!” The doorman greeted the woman with a hearty bark. “How’s the boy?”
    “Oh, he’s coming along, thanks, Pete. Didn’t drop any trays today, anyhow.” She had a husky voice, rough like sandpaper, grittywith cigarettes and experience. She turned to look straight at me. She was pretty, maybe about Melody’s age, with large, dark round eyes and hair curly and thick and red-tinted auburn, wearing a silky blue dress with a dropped waist and a hat with blue velvet trim. “Well? You alive? I didn’t trample you, did I? You’re standing there looking like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
    “Sorry,” I said. “Ma’am.”
    “Oh, doll, don’t give me ‘ma’am.’ Good grief. Makes me feel way too old.” She looked at me hard, but friendly. “Name’s Louise O’Keefe.” She leaned toward me. “But my friends call me Louie.” She shrugged. “Or Lou.”
    “Hi.” I extended my hand, growing bold. “It wasn’t a ghost I was looking at. It was my future.”
    She threw her head back and laughed, and it was a joyous thing to behold, her laugh. “Future? Well, careful now. The difference between seeing your future and seeing a ghost is just a matter of time.” She smiled as she shook my hand with a firm grip. Her smile and that laugh were so infectious I had to smile right back.
    I liked her. Her eyes had a spark, a kind of fire, even when her face was unreadable. “Are you a writer?”
    “Me?” Her round eyes grew rounder. “Heavens to betsy, no. I can barely hold a pencil.” She thumbed back toward the Algonquin’s dark interior. “But that’s why you’re