Hers the Kingdom (80 page)

     "But you do, and Connor says it's fine with him."

     "Connor? Oh, Porter, you can't mean it. You've actually asked him? And he said yes?"

     He heard her climb out of the bath. In a moment she emerged, a towel wrapped around her, eyes wide. "Porter, what are you thinking?"

     "I told McCord that since he was the one who sent you into the Chinatown brothels, the least he could do was take you dancing. He thought it a fine idea."

     The look of anguish on her face made him laugh. "Don't worry. Actually, I only said that I thought you were working a bit too hard, and asked if he would like to join our group for some entertainment."

     "What group?" she asked, suspiciously, stepping behind a door to pull on a robe.

     "Some people I know from the Young Socialist League, and a girl from my political economics class—a fine student, you should like her."

     Kit looked at him steadily, still not believing.

     "Are you telling me you've arranged a . . . a
social evening
. . . a dancing evening with Connor McCord and some Young Socialists? You're mad!"

     Porter grinned. "Probably, but don't worry. We're not going to a debutante ball, there's a place across the bay in Larkspur. We'll have to take a ferryboat and a train to get there, but the dancing is outdoors—'under the stars' as they say, and a couple of thousand people turn out every week. There's this huge dance floor with trees growing up through it. It's supposed to be fun, at least that's what the Browns—the couple I told you about—say, and they grew up in a little town close by. They say people come from all over the bay, it's the big thing to do on Saturday night."

     "The big thing to do," Kit repeated sarcastically. "Has it occurred to you that Connor is rich. A capitalist with a capital C. And your friends are not, and that might make them uncomfortable . . . not to mention Connor and, for that matter, me."

     "I don't think so," Porter said, in a way that made her sure she would have a hard time convincing him otherwise. "Connor was very good about it."

     She wrapped a towel around her head and lay back on the chaise. She would have to sort it all out, would have to put a stop to it, but first she had to get some sleep.

     "When is this social outing supposed to take place?" she asked.

     Porter ignored the question. "Better get your nap," he said, checking his pocket watch and making a mental note to waken her in a hour, so that she would have half an hour to dress.

The Browns interrupted each other, talking to show they were not intimidated by Sara's drawing room or Mrs. Weatherlee's superior attitude. Porter's date, a tall, handsome girl named Evelyn, said very little.

     "Kit's never late," Porter explained, "it's just that she was so tired, I let her sleep until about twenty minutes ago. Then I had a hard time making her understand that she was supposed to get up and get dressed to go out."

     Connor smiled to himself. He was mixing drinks at Sara's bar, politely asking each of them about their preferences, suggesting a mineral water when Evelyn seemed flustered.

     "Does the lady who lives here have her own bootlegger, too?" one of the Browns wanted to know.

     "Here's Kit," Porter broke in, turning to the stairs.

     Kit's hair was still damp. She had brushed it back, away from her face, and put on a silk dress that fell straight from the shoulder in the new, shorter length. She moved gracefully down the stairs. It was not Kit's style to make entrances, but this time it was unavoidable. For a long moment even the Browns were silent, then both started talking at once.

     "So pleased . . ."

     "Porter's told us . . ."

     Kit smiled timidly, almost, and shook hands all around.

     She turned, then, to Connor.

     "Connor," she said.

     "Katharine," he replied, grinning.

     
He knows
, she thought.

     The Browns filled the uncomfortable silence with an enthusiastic description of the Rose Bowl, which was the name of the dance in Larkspur. Only Porter seemed perfectly at ease.

     While Porter gave Evelyn and the Browns a quick tour of the lower floor of the mansion, pointing out Sara's collection of paintings, Kit had a few minutes alone with Connor.

     "I didn't know about this evening until . . ." she started.

     "I guessed as much," he interrupted, his eyes crinkling with laughter.

     Kit lifted her shoulders in an elegant, humorous shrug, and smiled back at him. "He's doing this for me, because he thinks I should get out. It's not at all
his
idea of a good time."

     Connor poured a small amount of scotch into a glass, filled it with seltzer, and handed it to her, saying, "I think we should oblige your brother. To tell you the truth, I've never danced under the stars before."

     She let the bubbles from the seltzer spray her lips. Then she said, "That really is good of you, Connor—to go along with it. This just might be a very nice evening, after all."

     They made their way to the bottom of Market Street, laughing and talking. Connor fit easily into the group, which surprised and pleased Kit. They boarded the ferry
Eureka
for the trip to Sausalito, crowding around the marble counter to order clam chowder and pie. Connor watched, amused, as Kit tipped her soup cup to finish the last drops of chowder, then proceeded to consume a large slab of apple pie. She smiled as she chewed, enjoying being there, with him, more than she had enjoyed anything in a very long time.

     Leaving the others inside the cabin, they made their way to the stern of the big boat, where people were throwing bread to the gulls.

     "Chinatown seems a million miles away," she said.

     "That's good," he answered, "I was beginning to worry. Dina Cameron considers you a gift from God."

     "And it bothers you, playing God?" she said. "You've been checking on me."

     It was light still, and warm, though they could see the fog lying out beyond the Golden Gate. It would be clear in Larkspur. It was always warmer in Marin County than in the city. They would be able to see the stars, she thought. And when they returned, the city would be glittering across the water.

     They took the train to Larkspur, as the Browns directed, and made their way to the Rose Bowl, hidden among towering redwood trees, its Chinese lanterns strung above the biggest dance floor she had ever seen. People of all ages converged on the place. In the crush, Kit and Connor got separated from the others. After Connor bought their tickets, they scanned the crowd for Porter and his party. After a full swing around the enormous floor— which, indeed, did have bay and ash and maple trees sprouting through the boards—they decided that Porter and his friends had not yet come into the dance.

     "Then we're on our own," she smiled up at him.

     "Looks that way," he answered and, with a slight pressure on the small of her back, guided her onto the dance floor.

     She moved easily into his arms, her forehead against his chin. She closed her eyes and breathed in the fragrance of the bay trees and she felt light, she felt buoyant. The band was playing "Avalon." After a while, a tenor sang the lyrics, which came echoing out, clear and poignant and touching.

     They danced without speaking, swaying to the music, her silk dress pressed against the rough tweed of his jacket. She lifted her face and let her lips graze his chin, which was clean shaven, smooth.

     He shifted her in his arms as the music changed tempo, drawing her closer. Other couples swirled around them, a breeze played in the trees and the lights swept, amber and green and red, over them as the music drifted, bittersweet and perfect.

     She saw Porter before he saw her, which was not difficult
since he towered above most of the people on the dance floor.

     "Shall we move that way?" Connor asked.

     "Not yet," she whispered, "not quite yet."

When the band swung into a lively rendition of "Ain't We Got Fun," he took her hand and led her across the crowded floor toward Porter and his friends. Everyone was singing along.

     When they reached Porter, she was still humming. "You are having fun, aren't you?" he asked.

     "I am," she said.

     "What did I tell you? Now aren't you sorry you yelled at me when I woke you up?"

     "I am," she said again, looping her arm through his and giving him a quick hug.

     He leaned down, as if to return her embrace, and instead whispered in her ear, "Then you won't mind if we ditch you, this time?"

     "I won't," she said, and he laughed at her as he moved Evelyn onto the dance floor.

     When they were alone again, Connor said, "I'm beginning to see how the two of you operate . . . it is fine to watch, I have to say."

     She looked at him curiously for a moment, then she said, in a sultry voice of a moving picture vamp, "What about you, are you having a good time?" When he said yes, she added, "Stick with me, kid, and I'll show you what fun really is."

     Connor and Kit took an early ferry back, leaving the others at the dance. The fog had swirled into the bay and the water was choppy. Kit wrapped her shawl around her. Though she was shivering, she didn't want to go into the brightly lit cabin.

     "Let's stay out here," she said, balancing against the roll of the ferry. He started to take off his jacket for her, but she stopped him. "No, don't," she insisted, at the same time moving closer to
him and tucking her arm in his. He must have felt her shivering, because he put his arm around her for warmth. She began to hum, softly, the tune to "Avalon."

     They stood together that way, swaying as the boat swayed, alone on the afterdeck. She felt content, peaceful. She wished the trip would never end, that they would just go on floating around the bay. Angel Island rose, dark and ominous to port. They could see a few lights, and a sweep of light suddenly flashed into the sky. She looked up, then, into his eyes. A quiver ran along her spine. He kissed her softly at first, gently. She reached around him, under his jacket, her hands gripped his back. He kissed her eyes and her cheek and the hollow of her neck. He buried his face against her, and found her mouth again. She pressed into him, giving . . . taking . . .

     Her hands felt the muscles of his back tighten. Her breathing slowed.
No, don't do that, don't move away
, went through her mind, but he
was
moving away from her.

     "Please," she said out loud, "Connor, don't turn away from me again."

     She thought she heard him moan, though it might have been something else. His arms were around her still, but when she tried to look into his face, he wouldn't allow it. He had turned away and when he turned back his face was set, the look gone from his eyes.

     He said little to her for the rest of the trip. She searched her mind for the right words, the key words that would set everything right, but she could not find them. At the Ferry Building he hailed a taxicab and directed the driver to Sara's. Seated next to him, she held his hand tightly, but he said nothing, and she knew he wouldn't. He had locked himself away, and there was nothing she could do.

     "Connor," she said, desperate, "we must talk. Somewhere, not at Sara's—Porter will be returning soon. But please, talk to me."

     "Not now," he told her, his voice thick, "I need some time."

     "Promise me you will see me again, promise me."

     He nodded, and in the same hoarse voice told her he would call
her within the week. She leaned to kiss him, and he allowed it, but it was worse than if she had not, he was so far removed.

     She hurried inside. When Porter knocked lightly on her bedroom door she did not answer, but pretended sleep. For the first time in her life she did not want to talk to Porter.