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The Gin Lovers

The Serial

St. Martin's Press

"It's the party of the year, and it's a funeral."

Charlotte Delacorte overheard the comment outside Saint Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue. She didn't recognize the woman who made the callous remark and could only assume she was one of the new breed of vile gossip columnists who had descended upon New York like locusts.

"The world is going to hell in a handbasket," her newly deceased mother-in-law had often said.

Now, all of New York had turned out to pay its respects to the late Geraldine Delacorte. The line of people waiting to get inside stretched from the corner of Fifty-third Street to as far as Charlotte could see, and the avenue was a virtual parking lot filled with the finest Packards and Pierce-Arrow roadsters. The dark cars were like matching accessories to the crowd dressed in black, navy, and gray. Charlotte herself wore a black crepe mourning dress by Jean Patou. The French designer had offered to send over a matching chiffon veil, but Charlotte decided the veil would be more appropriately worn by blood relatives. Instead, she wore her long, glossy brown hair up in an elaborate chignon. She wished she'd had time to sneak on a bit of rouge — her fair skin was paler than usual, her wide gray eyes pinched with fatigue.

"Mrs. Delacorte, we really must expedite moving guests inside. Perhaps if you and your husband stepped inside and weren't greeting everyone ..." Mr. Smyth, the director of the service, sweating in his heavy suit, was clearly overwhelmed. Charlotte was a little anxious herself but had learned that as a Delacorte, she could never let that sort of thing show. She tried to imagine what her late mother-in-law would want them to do with the bottleneck of guests.

"I think ... it's important that we acknowledge each of the guests as they arrive. It's the proper thing to do," Charlotte said.

It was a comfort to Charlotte that the most important people in New York had turned out in tribute: The Vanderbilts, the Goulds, the Carnegies, Fricks, Astors, and Rockefellers were all represented on that gray Saturday morning. Charlotte's mother-in-law would not be impressed so much as she would have been satisfied.

The social clout of the family into which she had married was something Charlotte had almost come to take for granted. Certainly, she had not seen it exhibited in such a public way since her lavish wedding four years earlier — an almost overwhelming affair, planned and executed with near-military precision at the strong hand of William's mother. Charlotte had been so caught up in the excitement of William's whirlwind courtship, she had willingly gone along for the ride.

"Charlotte, my dear, you look lovely even on such a sorry occasion," said Mayor Hylan's wife. She took one of Charlotte's gloved hands into her own. "Such a loss. The city won't be the same without Geraldine."

This was true. Manhattan would not be the same without Geraldine Delacorte's endless petitioning against everything from the women's suffragist movement to the motor cars "ruining" New York City, to the "bad element" taking over Midtown.

"It's those nightclubs," Geraldine had said.

"Oh, people just need to have a little fun sometimes," Charlotte had replied.

"People? What people? Loose women and bootleggers!"

Charlotte couldn't help but think that Geraldine Delacorte's sudden death from heart failure had something to do with her constant meddling into what other people were doing.

Charlotte fanned herself with a scarf, beginning to sweat inside her dress. Her nerves were getting the best of her. Perhaps Mr. Smyth was right. It was time to get things moving.

She tried to catch William's eye, but he was oblivious, engrossed in conversation with the mayor.

"This crowd is simply overwhelming," said Amelia Astor, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Charlotte had seen her arriving at the church, dressed all in black, her eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears. Any casual observer would think that Amelia was a grieving daughter, not a mere school friend of the grieving son. "Do you need help ushering people indoors?" she asked Charlotte, a little too sweetly.

Amelia was one of William's oldest friends — part of the smart set that had all gone to the same private schools from the time they were in their first walking shoes. Charlotte had attended the best schools in Philadelphia — even after her father had lost most of their money they still managed to keep Charlotte afloat. But none of that mattered in New York. If you weren't a member of the Four Hundred — social arbiter Ward McCallister's list of the true members of New York society — you might as well be fresh off the boat. It was her mother-in-law who told her about the list — perhaps to remind her of her place. Charlotte asked, why the number four hundred? And her mother-in-law said breezily, "No more than that can fit comfortably in the Astors' ballroom."

"Thank you, Amelia. But I've got it under control," said Charlotte. "Perhaps the best thing you can do is go inside yourself. People always do seem to follow your lead." It was just enough of a compliment to make the dismissal acceptable.

Charlotte crossed the stone entranceway to speak to her husband, who was now in a heated conversation with an underdressed, rather scruffy-looking man.

"William," she said, reaching for his arm.

"Not now, Charlotte." He shook off her hand. The strange man glanced at her, then quickly walked away.

"Who was that?" she asked.

But before William could answer her, a car came skidding to a stop at the corner, a garishly painted Model T. The vehicle was a shade of green Charlotte had never before seen on an automobile. The car was filled in both the front and back with passengers.

The horn bleated rudely, eliciting loud laughter from the backseat.

Charlotte turned back to William and found that he was staring at the car. It only took her a few seconds to realize he wasn't just distracted by the noise; he was entirely focused on the passenger disembarking from the backseat.

She was a stunning brunette, with a perfectly chic, slim figure, the short, boyish haircut that was all the rage, and wearing a sleeveless pink sheath dress that fell just below her knees. Her face was concealed by her pink cloche hat.

Charlotte was alarmed to see William cut through the throng of guests and make his way to the curb, where he immediately took the woman roughly, but intimately, by the arm.

Charlotte's heart pounded at the sight of her husband so familiar with a strange woman. But then the brunette turned her heavily rouged face in Charlotte's direction, and she realized it was, unbelievably, her young sister-in-law, Mae Delacorte.

The girl was nearly unrecognizable.

In the few short months since Charlotte had last seen her, Mae Delacorte had cut her long brown hair into a severe bob with bangs and dyed it nearly black. Her pretty face was dramatically transformed by kohl pencil around her eyes, rouge on her cheeks, and dark red lipstick. She wore a short dress, fringed, and sparkling with hundreds of shiny beads. It was like nothing Charlotte had ever seen outside the pages of a magazine. At nineteen years old, Mae Delacorte looked far more worldly and sophisticated than Charlotte.

"Mr. Smyth," Charlotte called, summoning the director of the procession back outside. His perspiration was now seeping through the underarms of his jacket. "I believe you are right. Can you please move everyone indoors? My husband and I will be in shortly."

Having dispatched Mr. Smyth to minimize the witnesses to what was sure to be an ugly confrontation between William and his sister, Charlotte made her way to the corner to join them.

A man climbed out of the car to join Mae on the sidewalk, and the car sped off with another jarring bleat of the horn, amid more laughter from the backseat.

Even from a few feet away, Charlotte was struck by the man's good looks.

"Hello, Charlotte! Don't you look fetching in black," said Mae with a smile. She emanated the overpowering smell of cigarette smoke and Joy perfume. "You should wear it more often." It was she who looked fetching. Charlotte could barely take her eyes off her. And William was clearly furious.

"Would you excuse us for a moment, please?" he said. Charlotte wasn't sure if he was speaking to her, or to Charlotte's companion.

"Certainly," said the man, removing his hat. "And Mr. Delacorte? My condolences." The man was very tall, with broad shoulders and shiny dark hair that was in need of a trim.

William ignored the comment; he was too busy dragging Mae halfway down the block, leaving Charlotte standing awkwardly with the stranger.

"Jake Larkin," he said, holding out his hand. Charlotte hesitated a moment before giving him her own. When he touched her, she felt something close to a shock.

"Charlotte Delacorte," she managed to say. He had strong brows, dark eyes, and a smile her mother-in-law would have called "charming," but not as a compliment. But he was handsome — good lord, was he handsome.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said. His eyes were so dark they were nearly black and seemed to lock onto hers. She quickly glanced away, not so much out of modesty but more out of a sense of self-preservation. She reminded herself that she was supposed to say something.

"Well, thank you. Um, Mr. Larkin, if I may ask, how do you know my sister-in-law?" As soon as she asked it, she realized that she wasn't asking to be polite, that she actually felt an urgency to understand his relationship with Mae — to know everything about him.

"Oh, we're old friends."

"Old friends?"

"Yes," he said. "We go way back."

"From school?" Charlotte offered.

He laughed. "No, ma'am."

Even from the distance, she could hear William and Mae arguing. Charlotte wondered if she should intervene, and this reminded her where she was — and who she was.

"Mr. Larkin, is it your intention to accompany Miss Delacorte to the service for her mother? Because quite honestly, I don't think that would be the best idea given the circumstances."

"Isn't that up to Mae? She did invite me, after all."

The nerve!

"Mae does not always employ the best judgment," Charlotte said. "Now, my husband has just lost his mother. His sister has arrived at the funeral looking rather ... inappropriate. Tensions are high. This is not the best time for us to be making the acquaintance of one of her suitors."

Unbelievably, the man laughed again.

"I'm not a suitor, Mrs. Delacorte. Like I said, we're just old friends."

His eyes held hers, then swept down as if to take her in completely. Charlotte felt her breathing quicken. It took her a moment to find words.

"I don't want to be rude. But I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Jake Larkin reached for her hand, and this time, he kissed the back of it. His hand was large and rough, his lips surprisingly soft against her skin. Something deep inside of her twitched.

"Mrs. Delacorte, while I can't imagine there's any man on this planet who would want to upset you, I'm afraid I can't leave. I came here this morning to escort my friend, and that's what I'm going to do."

He turned and walked right into the church.

Charlotte stared after him, her heart beating fast. Then, with one more glance at her husband, she also walked inside, prepared to do whatever was necessary to make sure the ceremony went off smoothly.

People would expect no less of her.

* * *

Beverly "Boom Boom" Lawrence closed the door to her basement office. As the owner of and larger-than-life personality behind Midtown's Vesper Club, Boom Boom lived by the "late to bed, late to rise" edict. She knew it wasn't making her healthy, but it was sure as hell making her wealthy.

The only problem with starting her day just as most people were having lunch was that she was perpetually late catching up with the daily news. At twelve thirty in the afternoon, she was just having her morning coffee and reading the paper. And the headline that day made her choke on her Maxwell House.

THE PARTY'S OVER, SAYS BUCKNER: NEW U.S. ATTORNEY TO START PROCEEDINGS AGAINST PROHIBITION VIOLATORS.

"Fuck me," she said, lighting a cigarette.

In his first official statement as U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, Emory R. Buckner has declared, "One of my first duties is to bring injunction proceedings against fourteen of the most prominent and exclusive cabarets in my district."

Boom Boom heaved her large frame up from the chair and walked to the filing cabinet where she kept her ledgers. She felt certain she'd done her monthly payoffs to Prohibition agents, but for the first time in a long time, she wondered if that was going to be enough.

The phone on her desk rang, startling her.

"Who the hell is calling this early," she muttered. "Hello?"

"May I please speak to Beverly Lawrence?" a female voice asked.

"Yeah? Who are you?"

"Oh, hello Miss Lawrence. This is Greta Goucher from the New York Sun. I'm sure you've heard that the funeral for Geraldine Delacorte is taking place today."

"I'm not on the guest list, lady."

"That's why I'm calling: Everyone knows Geraldine Delacorte was very active in trying to shut down establishments such as your own. Do you have any comment?"

Boom Boom hung up the phone. She could care less that the rich old bag had finally kicked the bucket. Except ...

She pulled out another drawer from the filing cabinet and checked a different book. Sure enough, Geraldine's daughter, Mae, owed an outstanding tab of $2,025.00. Boom Boom never thought twice about letting her run up a bill like that because the Lord knew the Delacorte name was good for it. But she had to wonder, with Mama moneybags out of the picture, who was going to pay the bill?

Boom Boom made a note in her calendar. It was time to collect on young Miss Delacorte. She just hoped, for Mae's sake, her mother had thought kindly of her when drawing up the will.

MAE DELACORTE RELUCTANTLY followed her older brother up the stairs of their mother's Beaux-Arts mansion, which was filling with mourners coming to pay their last respects.

The second floor afforded them some privacy, and from the look on William's face, she could tell they were going to need it.

He gestured for her to go to her bedroom — "Where no one will bother us."

The room was in its usual state of disarray, littered with dresses, shoes, postcards, magazines, and records. Her bed was unmade, and the window was still ajar from when she leaned out to smoke a cigarette after she put on her evening makeup. She probably should have felt self-conscious about the mess, but after so many years of William's and her mother's disapproval, she felt somewhat immune to the disgusted glare he was sending in her direction.

She looked at her brother, annoyed by their physical resemblance. They were like photo negatives of one another. While they had the same facial features — aquiline noses, high cheekbones, and wide-set eyes — William had their mother's nearly blond hair and hazel eyes, whereas Mae had her father's dark hair and eyes as dramatically blue as a Siberian husky's. There were rumors of some "black" Irish in the family, but her mother had always insisted their bloodline was pure Dutch.

Mae crossed her arms defiantly.

"You're either going to have to change your clothes, or leave," William said. "It's bad enough that you showed up at the church dressed like you just rolled out of a nightclub. I'm not going to have you parading around downstairs like that and disgrace Mother's memory."

Mae rolled her eyes. "Stop being so dramatic," she said. "Besides, you can't order me out of my own house." As if to emphasize the point, she sat on her bed.

William gave an odd laugh. "This was Mother's house, not yours. What do you think? That she left one of the most extravagant homes in Manhattan to a nineteen-year-old who has done nothing in recent memory but embarrass the family?"

"No, I assume she left the house to both of us, her two children."

"Well, you assumed wrong."

That got Mae's attention. She looked at him sharply. "What are you talking about?"

"Maybe you should have shown up to the reading of the will."

"I overslept."

"Well, allow me to bring you up to speed: Mother has left this house to the Women's Literary Alliance — something she created that she is actually proud of."

Mae paled. "So what does that mean ... exactly?"

"You have two weeks to move out."

"I don't believe you."

"I'd be happy to have you talk to Mr. Paulson yourself. He can fill you in on all the details."

Mae jumped up. "Then I need to have my inheritance released to me as soon as possible so I can get my own house." The expression on William's face made her stomach ball into a knot.

"There will be no inheritance, Mae. At least, not for a while. You get nothing until you turn twenty-five. Until that time, I am your guardian, and I'll give you an allowance as I see fit. And I do mean as I see fit."

"You're a liar!" Mae screamed.

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Excerpted from The Gin Lovers by Jamie Brenner. Copyright © 2013 Jamie Brenner. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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