golden

twelve: the duality of loneliness and freedom

A week since she had heard from him in any manner, her heart constricted with worry each time his face journeyed through her thoughts. Perhaps if she were braver in matters of the heart, she would have driven to his hotel and demanded to see him. Or even been so bold as to show up at the Midnight Lounge and force him to talk to her. But her meager resorts of simply phoning the hotel and being put through to his room, only for it to ring on end before automatically hanging up, are all she can muster up.

Unsure if she wanted any sort of help from Howie, she confided only in Gregory. He was the only one to know the sensitivity of her predicament. The brevity of her feelings for Harry, amassed with the malevolent shadow of her contract and Mr. Mayer's prying eyes, and Harry's own feelings for her. He remained insistent that she reach out to him in person, but she couldn't locate the bravery to do so.

Her fingers dug into the sludgy dirt, thick mud lodging itself under her nails and coating her hands. The rain of the past two days had been relentless against her poor flowers and she'd be damned if she let those die as well. The trove only used to break ground, it lay discarded near the tin can of homemade flower food. The mixture a safety measure in case her sheer willpower wasn't enough to force life back into the droopy blossoms.

She patted the new seeds into the ground and scooped handfuls of dirt back over them.

"If it isn't a real Rosie the Riveter. I'll be damned, Dandridge."

The whistled words lifted her attention from the violets. She smiled softly at the presence of Gregory Peck in her garden. Dressed in a dapper suit of golden brown, he was clearly on his way to or from a party. As he drew closer, she went back to sprinkling the flower food over the blooms.

"Nice to see you too, Gregory." She greeted him. "Can I ask what you're doing in my garden so late in the day?" It wasn't deemed proper to be alone with a man of no blood relation anytime past four-thirty. A rule she'd broken time and time over for Harry. Based on the glowering set of the ruddy sun, she assumed it was nearing five-thirty or six in the evening.

"I'm meeting some friends for drinks. Thought you might like to come along." She raised her head enough to lift a questioning eyebrow. "You don't get out much, Elizabeth." He reminded her. "People adore you; you liven things up."

"You aren't selling this evening very well."

He sighed dramatically, shoving his hands into his pockets. "We're meeting at the Midnight Lounge."

She fought to keep her attention on her marigolds. Did Harry still have the one she gave him? Was it withering the way her heart was? Did he nourish it the way she instructed? Or, in his abrupt cold shoulder decision, did he throw it away?

"C'mon, Elizabeth. You know he'll be there. You need to talk to him anyway. And no one will think a thing of it, you'll be with me."

He was giving her a way in. Pushing her when he knew she wouldn't do it herself. Inviting her in order to provide her the excuse and opportunity to seek Harry out, sheltering her by going alongside her. If anything came out, they were simply there together.

A week. Far too long to be without him when they had finally just structured themselves with the same footing on the same page.

"Give me an hour and a half." She dropped the flower food to the ground.

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Her hair down in soft waves around her shoulders. Makeup light and subtle, but he would notice. Extreme care taken in choosing the gifted gown she had never worn: a skirt comprised of abysmal black velvet, the bodice cream with silver embellishing, overlayed with black tulle that slipped down into butterfly sleeves. No wrap or shawl to pair with it, she had absent-mindedly grabbed her black fur coat. Thankfully, the inside wasn't lined, so it wouldn't be too warm in the California night heat.