PROLOGUE

Half Moon Bay, California, November 1929

Livid didn’t come close to describing Grace Parson’s mood. Hours earlier, Rose Hamilton had been dangling precariously over the cliff at Devil’s Slide. The only thing preventing her from falling into the ocean waves beating the jagged rocks below was Grace holding on to her right hand and Dax Xander’s firm grip on her left. If not for Dax’s strength after Grace’s grip had given way, she would be crying over Rose’s battered body at the morgue now, not hanging up her drenched coat and fixing her a stiff drink in her hotel room. And Grace rested blame for the entire nightmare squarely at Frankie Wilkes’s feet.

Grace was aware of Frankie’s drive to make Half Moon Bay the West Coast tourist destination for the rich and famous, but she hadn’t known how far he would go to make it happen. Her eyes were now wide open. His ambition had turned into unimaginable greed, driving him to do the unforgivable—put the woman she loved in grave danger. She had no option but to correct her enormous lapse in judgment—after tending to Rose.

“Here, drink this.” She handed Rose a tumbler she’d filled with a generous portion of whiskey. “It will calm your nerves.”

“I’m fine, really.” Rose accepted the glass, but her hands didn’t shake as much as Grace expected they would following a near-death experience.

“Well, I’m not.” Grace snatched the tumbler from her hand and downed its contents in three large gulps. The whiskey burn took the edge off enough to allow her to put herself in Rose’s shoes. She would be unconscious from fright if she had been the one hanging by a hand over a two-hundred-foot drop. But Dax had calmed her with a single touch moments after pulling her to safety. Even the blind could see her effect was more potent than all the illegal whiskey in the state.

That immediate restoration of internal peace was nothing short of miraculous, and the sting it caused in Grace’s heart had taken her by surprise. For four years she’d told herself that Rose was merely a physical salve for the emotional scars left from losing the love of her life needlessly. The authorities had declared the overdose accidental, but Grace knew better. None of her wealth or Hollywood fame could save her sweet Harriet. The isolation and heartache that came with living a lie, being forced to hide her love for Grace, had taken their toll. Too much for the owner of Grace’s heart to bear. Grace knew now that the sting she’d felt when witnessing the deep, enduring love between Rose and Dax was the same pain she’d experienced the day she’d learned of Harriet’s death.

Letting Rose go the night Dax first appeared at her table at the Seaside Club had come with a heavy heart. She’d finally realized why Rose had been attracted to her. When she wasn’t in front of the movie camera, she presented a male appearance just like Dax with slicked-back hair and men’s formal suits, down to the suspenders Rose adored. Saying goodbye was the greatest performance of her life, but she’d gotten through it because it was what Rose needed. However, tonight’s harrowing events showed her that she hadn’t put Rose in the past. Rose had become more than a therapeutic. Despite all her previous denials, she not only loved Rose but was madly can’t-live-without-her in love with her. As much as it pained her, now was the time for another believable performance.

“You’re shaking.” Rose retrieved the empty glass and returned it to its place next to the crystal decanter atop the small dining table. “Let’s sit.” She gently guided Grace to the tufted settee. Her gaze shifted, inspecting Grace up and down. She gasped, briefly throwing a hand over her mouth. “Your tux is ruined. And your shoes. I don’t think either is repairable.”

“My clothes are the least of my concerns. How are you?” Grace scrutinized every inch of Rose, starting with her face. Not a scratch was on it, including her cute button nose. However, her long wavy brown hair was still rain-soaked and matted from the storm. Rose’s long winter coat had protected her arms, but her wrist appeared swollen. “Your hand. Did I hurt you when I clutched it at the cliff?”

“It’s nothing.” Rose moved her wrist and shoulders in a circular motion, testing their mobility. “I can tell it will be sore for a few days, and so will my arms. It’s been years since I’ve hung from the pull-up bar.”

“Even longer for me, I’m afraid.” Grace resumed her detailed inspection, gasping and falling to her knees on the plush carpet when her eyes settled on the fabric of Rose’s dress at the bend of her legs. Sizeable tears and bloodstains signaled significant cuts, but the dress extended to her shins, making it impossible to assess accurately. “You’re bleeding.” Grace gestured with her chin at the lower hem of her dress. “May I?”

Rose nodded.

“You know, Rose, until a few weeks ago, I didn’t have to ask before raising your dress.” Grace told herself she was hoping to extract a smile from Rose to take her mind off her injuries, but part of her hoped for the return of the Rose she knew before Dax’s reappearance. Her selfish side wanted to elicit a response that would present Rose with a choice between her and Dax, culminating in them making love until dawn. This was no time for selfishness, though, so she added a playful wink to telegraph the supposed innocent nature of her comment.

Grace hissed when she raised the hem and exposed a series of scrapes and splotches that looked like a painful, bloody version of Morse code’s dashes and dots. “Holy hell, Rose. That must hurt like the dickens. I should clean you up.”

Rose slowly lowered the trailing edge of her stage dress before raising Grace’s chin with a hand. The look in her eyes left no doubt that Rose had understood the true intentions of her earlier comment. “I should go.” She kissed Grace on the forehead. It was the type of goodbye kiss that made Rose’s choice clear, leaving the back of Grace’s throat thick with grief and regret.

She stood tall, padded to the door, and retrieved Rose’s smudged and ripped coat. She helped Rose put it on, letting her hands linger on her shoulder blades a second longer than she should have. “Can I drop you at the Foster House?”

Rose turned on her heel slowly. “I should walk.” The soft tone in her voice let go of Grace gently and with an air of certainty.

Grace pulled a folded sheet of paper from her breast pocket and handed it to Rose. She didn’t release her grasp for several extra beats. “I’ve jotted down every way to reach me if you ever need my help or just want to catch up.”

“That’s very kind of you, Grace. I doubt I’ll still have a job after tonight, but if I do, you’ll always have a front-row seat at my show.”

“If I have anything to say about it, you will.” Grace would see to it tonight. As Rose twisted the knob to open the door, the finality of their goodbye wrung tighter in Grace’s chest. When she stepped through the door and it closed, four words echoed the pain of not fighting for her. “Goodbye, Rose…for now.”

Once Grace changed into a more presentable tux, one of the three she’d brought on this trip, she rang the hotel reception desk on her room phone and waited for the clerk’s well-rehearsed greeting. “This is Grace Parsons. Please get a message to Mr. Wilkes that I need to speak with him immediately in my suite. Before you do that, my husband should be in the Seaside Club or Room 208. Please send him up as well.”

“Of course, ma’am. Do you require anything else?” the young man asked.

“Another decanter of whiskey and a fresh set of glasses.” The ache lingering in Grace’s chest said she wasn’t done drinking tonight. And if she handled her meeting with Frankie Wilkes the way she planned, he would also need a snort.

After returning the phone’s earpiece to its cradle, she filled her glass to two fingers and sank into a chair at the round dining table, her face to the door. She ticked off in her head the questions Frankie needed to answer tonight. If the answers were as she predicted, she would have to establish her dominance, and their business arrangement would have to change on the spot.

Minutes later, the distinct sound of a key operating the lock pulled Grace’s attention toward the door. Her confidant for the last eleven years, husband for the last ten, stepped inside, his expression morphing from expectant to concerned at his first glimpse of Grace. Clive approached and kissed her on the forehead. “You look haggard, my sweet. What happened tonight?”

She recounted the horrifying events of the evening, adding, “I’ve summoned Mr. Wilkes to get answers, and I’m sure the conversation won’t be cordial.”

“I’ll be sure to keep the peace.” Clive patted the revolver hidden in a shoulder holster beneath the left flap of his suit coat. He wasn’t a towering man like Frankie Wilkes, but the military training he received during the Great War made him an excellent shot and bodyguard. He could put a bullet through a man’s eye at a hundred yards while fending off a gang of a dozen ruffians.

“I know you will, my dear.”

A rap on the door drew their attention. Clive pressed a hand on Grace’s shoulder to stop her from getting up to let in the visitor. “I’ll get it.” He pulled out his pistol and readied it chest high when he eased the door open. Grace’s muscles relaxed when Clive lowered his weapon and held it against the side of his thigh.

The door opened wider to Frankie Wilkes, clad in his traditional three-piece dark suit, high-collared white shirt, and red silk tie. “Is everything all right, Grace?”

“Have a seat.” Grace gestured toward the dining chair next to her. Clive returned his gun to its holster and assumed a position behind him, ready to provide the element of surprise if needed.

“I don’t have much time. My hands are full tonight.”

“I’m sure they are, considering Riley King won’t be returning from his whiskey run tonight. Your club manager was careless and nearly cost Rose Hamilton and me our lives.” Grace pushed back the horrible image of Rose dangling over the cliff, holding on by a fingertip.

“What happened to them? They’ve been missing since leaving after Rose’s first show tonight. I had to announce that her second show was canceled.”

“I was taking Rose for a drive between performances to show off my new Roadster when Riley flew around the curve from the opposite direction, nearly hitting us. I’m afraid he and his truck landed at the bottom of Devil’s Slide. The whole incident terrified the poor girl, so I took her home.”

A lie was better until Grace gauged Frankie’s response. This town had a human communication system more robust than Western Union, and he controlled it. If his spies had already relayed the actual events of the evening, he would call her on it and demand remuneration. But Frankie uncharacteristically flinched, cocking his head back a fraction. This man was clearly surprised.

“And the whiskey he was hauling? That went over too?” he asked. “Those barrels were supposed to supply the club for a week.”

“A man lost his life tonight, your own nephew, and you’re worried about whiskey?”

“That whiskey represents over ten thousand dollars in lost revenue. I would think you would care about that.”

“My concern for profit does not exceed my concern for human life,” Grace said. “Now, I want answers, Mr. Wilkes. I heard a disturbing rumor recently that Riley King had something to do with the death of Mr. Foster, the holdout who was keeping you from completing your quest to own the entire marina.”

“You mean our quest. You have been behind this idea from the beginning.”

Five years ago, when Frankie approached her about his vision to make Half Moon Bay the West Coast version of Atlantic City, Grace had had her own idea. The town’s isolated location and proximity to San Francisco were an ideal combination. Convinced it would attract the wealthy and movie-making crowd with sexual appetites similar to hers, it took her only one day to agree to bankroll his operation. Her investment had paid off in spades and allowed her to insert her way so tightly into the underground fringe community that her name had become synonymous with the Seaside Hotel and Club and the discretion they provided.

“Providing money does not make me a conspirator.”

“A court of law might not see it that way. Your money paid for everything on this street, including trying to convince that old man to sell.”

“I gave you money to buy him out, not kill him.” An uneasiness overtook Grace. She didn’t sign up for violence.

“Killing wasn’t the plan.” Frankie nervously rubbed the back of his neck in apparent frustration. The feeling was mutual. “I brought in Riley and Jimmy to scare him, but he fought back.”

“So their response was to push the poor man down the stairs? I can’t have this blowing back on me.”

“You have nothing to worry about. The only two people involved are dead, so there’s no one to connect the dots.”

Yesterday’s local newspaper headlines suddenly made sense. Jimmy Gibbs’s plunge over Devil’s Slide a few days earlier had been no accident, bringing Grace to a horrifying realization—Frankie Wilkes had someone help him over the cliff. Now, he’d racked up two bodies—or more—in his quest for land and power.

“I see. And neither death bothers you?”

“The old man was an accident, but he deserved what he got. Jimmy was getting cold feet when that Foster bitch started asking questions, so Riley and I had no choice. If he talked, we’d all be implicated, even you. I did you a favor by taking care of him.”

“Favor? A person’s murder can never be colored a favor. You’ve gone too far.” Grace waved her hands in front of her face in disgust. Her underlying fear of incrimination was something best kept to herself. Parting ways was her best option, even if it meant stepping away from Rose. “We agreed on twenty-five thousand, double my original investment, if either of us ever wanted out. I want out.”

Frankie leaned back in his chair, smugly tugging on his suit vest and adjusting his tie. “I wouldn’t give you the money if I had it.”

“Then I will buy you out.”

“That’s out of the question. With the Foster and Gibbs killings, we’re tied at the hip. Neither of us can walk away.”

Clive reached beneath his suit flap to where he kept his revolver. Grace knew he would pull the trigger and send a bullet into Frankie’s head if she gave him the signal, but the situation had yet to reach that point. More importantly, she wasn’t sure if she could cross that line even to save her own skin. Rose’s maybe, but not her own. Changing course to avoid the appearance of weakness, she waved him off. For now. But Frankie’s next reply would determine if he would need further convincing.

“If that’s the case, the terms of our agreement must change. Your unilateral decision to involve our enterprise in murder will cost you. Our fifty-fifty split on the monthly profits is no longer acceptable. Sixty-forty will compensate me for your lack of judgment.”

Frankie’s eyes narrowed like those of a raging bull a second before he sprang from his chair, palms on the table. Before he could straighten his knees, Clive pushed down on his shoulders, forcing him back into his seat. The pressure was less than what he’d once used on a crazed, starstruck fan who had tried to steal a kiss from Grace at a San Francisco movie premiere but was sufficient to let Frankie know more would be in store if he didn’t cooperate.

“If you want to walk out of here in one piece,” Clive said, “I suggest you give the woman what she wants.”

“Fine. Sixty-forty.” The muscles in Frankie’s jaw rippled as the last bit of fight left him. Hopefully.

“And one more thing,” Grace said. “Rose Hamilton stays on the payroll singing at the club for as long as she wants a job. If she asks for anything, and I mean anything, she gets it.”

CHAPTER ONE

January 1930, two months later

The lunch crowd had picked up a smidge today, giving Dax hope that their business slump might turn around. Since the Seaside Club expanded its menu and dining room hours last month to include lunch seven days a week, lunch traffic at the Foster House had dropped by a third. Frankie’s crusade to bankrupt the Foster House so he could take over the entire marina was escalating.

Their head waitress, Ruth, had put her best positive spin on the downturn trend earlier this morning. “Wait for the spring and tourist season. Parents won’t want to bring their kids to a place that turns into a speakeasy at night, and the beachgoers won’t want to stare at a basement wall when they eat. Our view of the marina will bring them in.”

Spring was two months away, though, and tourist season was nearly five. Dax doubted the Foster House would last five more weeks if business didn’t pick up. Each week she and her sister barely met payroll, settled the bills, and had less and less left over for themselves. And each week, the seven barrels of whiskey remaining from Riley King’s final load were looking more and more like their most straightforward way out. But everyone who had a role in the events culminating in Riley’s death, including her sister, had agreed to not bring up those barrels hidden in Charlie’s auto repair shop until they had no other choice. That time hadn’t come yet, but Dax feared it wasn’t far off.

At the end of the day, she locked the main door of the Foster House and flipped the window sign to the closed side. After collecting the day’s receipts from the cash register, she picked up the small stack of mail the postman had dropped off during his midmorning route. She gave the main dining room one final visual inspection but didn’t find a single task undone. Why would she? Every day since the reopening, Ruth had ensured every table was cleared and wiped down, the floor swept, and the collection of shakers and condiment bottles was filled before her crew left. Dax expected nothing less from her and wasn’t disappointed. Everything was complete.

Dax pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, discovering May scraping the griddle clean. She studied her for a moment. Her sister’s stamina had doubled since getting her new leg brace, allowing her to work longer without sitting on one of her kitchen stools. Some days her limp was barely noticeable, as if the horrible car accident that had left her lame had never happened. But that was a stinging memory Dax could never forget. If she’d been more attentive. If she’d been focusing more on the traffic and not the incredible first kiss she’d shared with Heather Portman hours earlier, she might have slammed on the brakes of the Model T a second before the pickup truck ran the stop signal and collided with them.

May wiped her sweaty brow with a forearm, pushing back several strands of long brown wavy hair that had strayed from the tie at the back of her head. She glanced over her shoulder toward Dax and let a tired smile form on her lips. “Another great day. There were four more customers than yesterday and not a single dish or glass broke.”

“You’ll never let me live down breaking an entire bucket of dishes when I saw Rose for the first time, will you?”

“Not on your life. It’s a story to pass down when you and Rose take in a child or two.” May’s carefully selected words didn’t escape Dax. She seemed to have accepted the harsh reality that she would never have a child of her own, giving up hope that her banker husband would find work in the city despite the stock market crash in October and come back for them or would join them in running the restaurant he’d inherited when his father had died. The last time she had mentioned Logan’s name, in fact, was on Christmas while reminiscing about the last holiday she and Dax had spent together in San Francisco. It was a sore spot, one that Dax dared not pick at.

“Living under the same roof with Rose would be a necessary first step.” Dax had taken Rose’s rejection of her invitation to live and work in the Foster House hard but respected her choice. Well, mostly. She understood Rose not wanting to give up the money Frankie Wilkes was paying her and would have been happy if Rose kept her singing job and paid May rent if it meant they slept in the same bed every night. But the longer Rose waited for the right time to not upset her boss, the harder it was becoming for Dax to live with her decision.

“She’ll come around.”

“Will she? I’m beginning to doubt we’ll ever live together.”

May removed the dishrag from her left shoulder and tossed it in the nearby laundry hamper. She sat on her stool at the center chopping block and gestured toward one across the table. “Sit with me. Cleanup can wait.”

Dax took her seat and placed the receipts and mail on the worn surface. Between them on the table sat the crumbly remains of an apple pie in a quarter-full tin.

May handed Dax a clean fork and picked up one herself. “Nothing takes the mind off disappointment better than pie.”

“And your company.” Dax slid her fork beneath an ample portion and brought it to her mouth. Sweet apples and bits of flaky crust complemented by a burst of heavenly cinnamon melted in her mouth, surfacing warm memories of her childhood. Living with strict parents who detested desires and attractions like hers had come with suffocating isolation, but May’s baking always provided Dax comfort. Every dessert was sprinkled with love, and Dax could taste it in every bite.

May swallowed her first mouthful. “Your time will come. Rose has lived on her own for five years and has a job at the Seaside Club that fits her like a glove and pays well enough for her to support herself. And when the Seaside started its lunch service, they became our direct competitor. If Rose moved in with us right now, it might look appropriate to the town busybodies, but her boss might take it as an affront. With good paying jobs a scarcity, we can’t expect her to put hers at risk.”

“I get it. I do.” But understanding Rose’s choice to not accept Dax’s invitation to move in with her didn’t mean she was okay with it. Sure, Rose shared her bed two nights a week on her days off, but that wasn’t nearly enough to keep the powerful pull of loneliness at bay. When her head hit the pillow of her empty bed on the other five nights, Dax ached to envelop Rose in her arms. And waking to cold sheets the next morning was a dispiriting way to start the day. Figuring out a way to spend more time with her had become imperative.

“But it’s not enough,” May said, agreeing. “It’s been years since the accident that made it impossible to climb the stairs to our bedroom. But I remember how long it took to get used to sleeping alone downstairs and how lonely I was early on. The physical connection between lovers can be powerful, but I felt the most intimate with Logan when we fell asleep together. That closeness took on a dimension of vulnerability that didn’t compare to lovemaking.”

“I feel the same way. My body aches if I don’t have Rose in my arms when I fall asleep.”

“Be patient, Dax.” May eyed the small stack of dollar bills on the table. “We’re experiencing tough times, and many of us will have to sacrifice to make it through.”

Dax did the math in her head, subtracting the regular charges with the grocer, butcher, and Edith’s department store. They would be short for Sunday’s payroll unless they had the same number of customers in the next two days.

She tapped an index finger on the stack of cash. “Do you think we’re going to make it this week?”

May patted Dax on the hand. The topic clearly made her uneasy. “I’m confident we will, but I’m sure the ladies will understand if we’re a few dollars short.” She sifted through the stack of mail Dax had brought in from the dining room, harrumphing at one small envelope.

“Who is it from?”

“Logan.”

May’s unchanged expression when she opened the letter was perplexing. After nearly four months apart and not a word from her husband in two, she should have had some type of emotional reaction at hearing from him. Dax expected either elation at hearing from the man she once loved enough to marry or anger for abandoning her and Dax in a strange city to fend for themselves. But her sister’s reaction was nonexistent, as if she’d received a receipt for the week’s groceries. That meant one thing—she’d given up on her marriage. While she was sad for her, if Dax were honest with her, she would tell May that Logan didn’t deserve her. He was selfish, arrogant, judgmental, and unforgiving—her sister’s exact opposite.

“What does he say?” Dax asked.

“The same drivel as last time. No job. No buyers for the house. He blames you. And he’s not coming.” May balled up the letter and tossed it toward the trash bin along the nearby wall. She made it.

“We could use a distraction tonight,” Dax said. “How about we catch Rose’s first show tonight?”

“Don’t they have a two-drink minimum? We can’t afford that this week.”

“The last time Rose stayed the night, she said the club manager would waive the drink requirement for us as her special guests. Besides, Jason is completely hooked on your biscuits. A few of those would have him buying the drinks for us.”

“I’d love to see Rose sing again.” May wrapped the four biscuits left over from today’s lunch service into two paper napkins.

Two hours later, May had on her Sunday dress, and Dax had broken out her cleanest knickerbockers, a white button-down shirt, and a second pair of shoes—black oxfords. The goal of impressing Rose had also inspired Dax to slick back her short brown hair with a perfectly formed part on the side. Though the Seaside Club didn’t have a strict dress code, patrons were expected to dress according to social graces, and tonight, she and May planned to put their troubles behind them by looking their best.

Once Dax locked the front door of the Foster House, she extended her left arm, bent at the elbow, to her sister. “Shall we?”

May hooked her arm around Dax’s, adding a smile bright enough to light up the nighttime sky. Not since their trip to San Francisco to get May’s new brace had they dressed up in their finest, but Dax intended to make tonight a special occasion. She planned to sweeten her invitation for Rose to move into the Foster House by telling her that Logan was no longer in the picture. If Rose still wanted to sing at the Seaside Club, she could move in and pay May a small amount every month for her room, like she did at the boarding house. Her idea had the benefit of being the truth. The town’s busybodies would not think twice about May renting the spare room to a hometown friend to make ends meet.

May walked with a noticeable limp tonight, an expected byproduct of a ten-hour day at the helm of the Foster House kitchen. Dax firmed her grip until they safely passed the rickety sidewalk boards in front of their establishment and transitioned to the smooth concrete of Wilkes’s properties. She remained on May’s right, nearest the curb, to steady her if she wobbled. It had taken only one incident of her sister stumbling into the gutter for Dax to learn from which side to better protect her.

When they reached the Seaside Hotel, Dax held the door open for May, keeping her steady while she descended the twelve steps to the basement. A month ago, using her old worn-out leg brace, those stairs would have been impossible. But she easily reached the bottom landing with her newly fitted one, and her broad smile made the danger Dax, Charlie, and Rose went through to get that load of whiskey from Riley King to pay for the new brace worth it. Well, almost. Charlie still wasn’t the same. She kept busy repairing cars at the garage, but Dax could tell she had yet to come to terms with her part in Riley’s death.

An oversized guard stood sentinel at the nondescript entrance of the speakeasy. Fortunately, he no longer made Dax as nervous as a cat. Jason, the bartender who had taken over management of the club following Riley’s death, had given the hulking giant a standing order: any friend of Rose, including Dax, was welcomed. Anytime. No passwords. No frisking her for weapons. And no eying her up and down as if she might become his next punching bag.

May offered the man a bunched-up napkin when he opened the door for her and Dax. “I thought you might like a few biscuits. I made them myself.”

“Foster House biscuits?”

“They are.” May narrowed her eyes and asked, “Why?”

The guard scanned the basement corridor up and down as if checking for spies. “They’re the best in town.” His eyes sparkled with approval as he extended his open hand, palm up. “Thank you, ma’am. These are a special treat.”

The Seaside Club was dimly lit for Rose’s first show of the evening. Jason stood at the end of the bar, waving his recognition. He whispered into the ear of a server, who escorted Dax and May to a front-row table covered in a crisp white cloth and then asked for their order. “Jason said the first round is on the house. What will it be?”

“Please thank Jason for us, but we’re just here to see Rose tonight,” May said. She never accepted gifts, yet she doled them out regularly. “Could you see that Jason gets this?” May handed the waitress the remaining two biscuits she’d carefully wrapped in a paper napkin. “And if you sneak one, he’ll never know the difference.” May added a wink.

“Of course, May.” The waitress returned her wink and scurried away.

Dax scanned the half-full Friday night crowd with the locals augmenting the handful of off-season tourists, an average number of patrons for this time of year, according to Rose. The lights dimmed a smidge, and Lester emerged from the swinging door a few feet left of the corner stage. The elevated platform was large enough for his piano and Rose, but not much more. He sat on the dark wooden bench and tinkled the piano keys. A moment later, Rose appeared through the door and took the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lester said into his microphone. “The Seaside Club is proud to present Miss Rose Hamilton.”

Those were the last words Dax heard clearly. The moment Rose opened her mouth to sing, Dax swam in the seductive, rigid waves Rose had added to her hair with a flat iron. Her calf-length blue sequined dress shimmered in the spotlight, making it impossible to focus on anything but the treasures hidden beneath the loose fabric. The curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts, and the slopes of her hips were all meant for her.

Tendrils of smoke created by patrons dragging hard on their Lucky Strikes drifted through the light stream between Dax and the stage. They added an alluring haze that made Rose sexier than she could remember. The vision even surpassed her years of fantasies when she’d thought she’d never see Rose again. She’d envisioned Rose in beautiful dresses, walking in the park or on the beach, but never in her wildest dreams had she conjured up a scene like this. The petite young Rose with whom she’d shared her first kiss had blossomed into a Hollywood-like sex symbol, and she was all hers.

May jabbed an elbow into Dax’s side, drawing her attention from Rose while she took a polite bow behind the microphone stand. Dax shifted her stare, discovering May and every other patron in the club applauding wildly.

Dax returned her gaze to the stage, but Rose had already left. She searched her out and discovered Lester acting as a buffer between Rose and a zealous, alcohol-fueled guest who had grabbed her by the arm. His wrinkled suit and three-day beard suggested he was down and out, but bad luck didn’t excuse overstepping like he had.

Rose’s expression had turned from tired to troubled in an instant. Dax readied herself to lunge from her chair and coldcock the brute, but Lester snapped his fingers over his head. The sharp sound caught the bouncer’s attention. He whistled before fast-stepping toward the stage. Jason did too. The brazen drunkard appeared ready to fight when each gripped him by an elbow.

“Hey, friend,” Jason said, using a calm voice. “The lady has to rest her voice before the next show. So how about a cup of hot joe and a sandwich on the house? Then you can call it a night.”

The man relaxed his stance when Jason patted him lightly on the chest and gestured with his head toward the back corner of the club. “Joe and grub would be nice. I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Then let’s get you fed so you can go home and get a good night’s sleep.” Jason whispered something to the bouncer, prompting him to disappear behind the swinging door leading to the kitchen. Meanwhile, Jason led the man to an empty table in the back. The ease with which he defused the confrontation was an impressive example of how a calm head could prevail in the hairiest situations.

Rose appeared more relaxed and kissed Lester on the cheek before striding to Dax and May’s table. She greeted May first with a friendly hug but let the one with Dax linger a second longer. Her smile lit up the room when she sat between them. “I’m so glad you two came. It’s been, what? Nearly a month since you were here for my Christmas show?”

“And the club was so beautifully decorated,” May said.

“I was surprised,” Rose said. “Frankie never decorated for the holidays before.”

“What brought about the change?” May asked.

“I think Grace may have had something to do with it. After the awful events at Devil’s Slide, I told her that holiday decorations might help get me in the festive mood. The place was completely decked out when I returned to work the following Thursday.”

Dax tightened at the mention of Grace Parsons, rolling her neck to relieve the tension. While Rose’s ex-lover graciously had stepped aside, clearing the way for Dax and Rose to rekindle their love, the actress plainly cared for Rose more than she’d let on. Despite Grace’s label for her affair with Rose, what she had termed a mere distraction, had clearly turned into love on her part. Thankfully, it was healthy enough for Grace to keep her distance, at least for now.

The waitress dropped off Rose’s customary cup of hot tea with honey and two unexpected cold bottles of Coca-Cola. “Jason sends his compliments. He thought you two might be concerned about Rose but wanted to assure you he always puts her safety first.”

“Tell Jason thank you.” May raised her bottle in appreciation, tipping it in the server’s direction. “And if he ever hankers for biscuits, they’re on me at the Foster House.”

Jason’s overt kindness didn’t escape Dax. She assumed he was vying for Rose’s affections, but she didn’t feel the least bit threatened by it. Unlike Riley King, who came on strong with Rose every chance he could when he wasn’t screwing up the nightclub operations, Jason didn’t give her a predatory vibe. He didn’t come across as a man who considered Rose a prize to win over. On the contrary, he seemed to care for Rose genuinely but was gentleman enough to keep it to himself.

Dax raised her bottle. “Yes, please thank Jason. We all care for her.”

While Rose sipped on her tea to soothe her vocal cords, the three women chatted about last week’s thunderous winter storm, Charlie’s upcoming birthday on Sunday, and the two families who recently moved from town in search of work. They shifted to the slowdown in business for the Foster House and Charlie’s Auto Repairs and the hope that drier weather and the tourist season would bring a big enough boost to carry them throughout the year. The ease with which the conversation flowed felt like they were already family. The only thing that could have improved the moment for Dax was knowing Rose would come home to the Foster House after her last show and crawl into Dax’s bed.

Dax scanned the other tables. Some were filled with single men and one with a single woman, but most were taken by couples. Everyone was drinking, and the couples laughed, flirted, touched, and kissed. It felt good to sit with Rose in public, but she wished she had the freedom of other couples. She wanted to flirt, caress, and kiss Rose when the feeling struck her, not when they were shielded from public view or alone in the Foster House after hours. That level of acceptance, though, was a long way off, if not impossible.

Frankie Wilkes approached the table, positioning himself between Rose and May, his back turned to May. The slight was obvious. The Foster House was his biggest competitor and the last stumbling block from establishing his monopoly on the marina businesses. May was its heart and soul.

“Great show tonight, Rose,” he said. “I didn’t recognize a few of the songs.”

“Those were Lester’s. They’d be a big hit if that Victor man didn’t think his signed talent w-w-wouldn’t w-w-work with a colored man.”

“There are some things you can’t fight, Rose.”

“We’ll see about that.” Rose nuzzled her calf against Dax’s beneath the table. Though camouflaged by the chair legs and the trailing edge of the tablecloth, the motion was still risky, and Dax understood Rose’s daring and got the message. Prejudices were all around them, but Rose had her unique way of protesting with furtive caresses and singing Lester’s masterpieces. Both were more reasons why Dax loved her. Rose never accepted intolerance for how people were born. Skin color, speech maladies, and who a person loved should never dictate how people treated one another.

“Is there anything you need, Rose?” Frankie asked.

Rose stroked Dax’s leg again. “There is something. The stage is too small, and it’s falling apart. I’d like something done a-a-about it before I fall off or through it.”

Frankie rubbed the back of his neck. “The town doesn’t have a carpenter since the Flynns moved away last month. I’d have to hire one from the city.”

“There’s no need, Mr. W-W-Wilkes.” Rose gestured her hand toward Dax. “My friend here is an expert carpenter. She trained under her father for six years and w-w-worked for Bishop and Sons in San Francisco for nine.”

Frankie shifted his stare to Dax and narrowed his eyes in certain skepticism. “The dishwasher at the Foster House is a carpenter?”

Dax squirmed at the insult, but Rose ran her leg against Dax again. “Why is that so hard to f-f-fathom? Like most jobs, ca-a-arpentry is a learned skill. You just have to give a person a chance and let them prove their w-w-worth. Are you so narrow-minded to think a w-w-woman can’t build you a bigger and better stage? With that same logic, Lester couldn’t possibly w-w-write songs you like because he’s colored.”

“What? Of course not.” Frankie blinked his confusion, cocking his head back.

“Then hire Dax. She’ll have a beautiful stage for me in a w-w-week or two.”

Frankie rubbed his neck with more vigor. “How much?” he asked Dax.

Dax did the math in her head. Ripping out the old stage would take a day. Framing the new one would take a full day but adding the platform and trim work would take another day or two, depending on how intricate the design they wanted. Lumber and materials would cost about fifteen dollars. Add on her labor for four days. “I could do it for fifty dollars.”

“Plus m-m-materials,” Rose added.

Frankie split his gaze back and forth between Rose and Dax three times, but Rose never broke her stare. “Fine. She can start Monday, but I still want you to work on Thursday even if you’re singing from the floor. See Jason for how it should look and the money to get her started.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” Rose said.

“I better not. I can’t afford you breaking a leg.” Frankie walked away, looking as if Rose had bulldozed him.

Rose clasped her hand with Dax’s beneath the table and brought it to her thigh. When she turned her head toward Dax, the look in her eyes was soft and filled with unmistakable love and well-deserved self-satisfaction. Dax had thought she could not love Rose more than she already did, but Rose had pulled off another beautiful, unselfish act. An act that filled and expanded Dax’s heart to twice its size.

“Fifty dollars extra should carry the Foster House expenses for a month or two,” Rose said.

“Thank you, Rose.” Dax squeezed her hand and returned the look of love. “Spend the night?”

“I was hoping you’d ask.”