The notion slows my steps. A flittering of hope unexpectedly prompts second thoughts, supported by sensibility. I don’t even know specifics of the job with Hutton nor have I officially agreed. There’s nothing yet to be undone.

Charles lifts his gaze as if to turn my way when a gal approaches him from behind. Clad in a snug dress, she pulls a plum-colored scarf from her ample bosom and lays it over his eyes. He smiles before she swings around and engages him deeply in a kiss.

The act, while audaciously intimate, isn’t alone what grinds me to a halt; it’s my recognition of that scarf, a silk kerchief I’d gifted him the day of our first performance. For me, in many ways, it became a symbol of our journey. The gambles and successes. Our friendship.

Now, as he bursts into laughter with the woman, showing no worries over where we stand nor over replacing me with a “basic assistant,” I realize that outside of creating a contentiously awkward scene, there’s nothing left for me to say.

Not in person, anyhow.

Spurning doubts, I wheel toward the exit and hail a cab. In my room, I’ll scribe a letter, unhindered by emotion. I’ll explain my decision as best I can and outline details for proceeding without me. Come morning, while taxiing to the Waldorf Astoria to accept Hutton’s offer, I’ll drop it by the theater to await Charles’s arrival.

He’ll be better off in the end. As will I.

On the winding path of my life, through all I’ve endured, I’ve had few certainties as great as this.

1928

Chapter 8

December 24, 1928

Eden Springs, Michigan

The sweet smell of saffron cake infused the air, but treats that day were ancillary. Beside a Christmas tree adorned in crepe paper and tinsel, two heaping barrels of toys, candy, and a variety of other gifts awaited onstage like glorious beacons, captivating every youngster’s attention, including mine.

In my aisle seat two-thirds back, I absently mumbled through the Latin hymn “Adeste Fideles” with the rest of the packed assembly hall, located on the upper floor of the two-story brick building in the heart of town. I was just shy of eleven, yet I can still recall the anticipation vibrating through my bones.

Of course, if I had known how the day would end, I’d have recognized the sensation as foreboding.

Maybe I should have regardless. The place was viewed as unlucky by some. The original building had blown down in a storm, and the replacement had burned to ashes. But wasn’t the third time a charm? And besides, I figured, what could sour such a gleeful day?