Free The War Against Miss Winter by Kathryn Miller Haines Page A

Fear entered her eyes. It was pushed aside by a grin that would’ve gotten a man slapped and his mother reprimanded.
    I played at being hostess. “Jayne—Frank. Frank—Jayne.”
    Frank returned to his perch. “You the Jane with the sick grandma?”
    “That’s another Jayne,” I said. “This one’s an actress like me.”
    Frank crossed his arms. “You know a lot of Janes.”
    “It’s a popular name. I blame that Tarzan fellow.” I raised an eyebrow at my pal, waiting for her to come up with why she was here and how we could leave. She set her open pocketbook on a chair. A newspaper peeked out of the top of it.
    “I bet you’re wondering why I was worried about Rosie,” said Jayne.
    “It crossed my mind.” Frank’s eyes narrowed into twin raisins.
    “Well…” Jayne paused and shrugged off her coat. Underneath it she had on a navy wool dress that was so snug I could make out the shape of a tissue in her pocket. “Last night Rosie got food poisoning. Bad food poisoning.” Her baby voice rose an octave. “I tried to check on her this morning, but she wasn’t home. Naturally, I panicked.” She turned her calves so Frank could take in her showgirl legs. “So I ran all the way here in these awful heels to make sure she wasn’t dead or worse.” She patted her platinum hair and widened her eyes. Jayne wore both her hair and her skirts short. It was her way of helping out with the war effort. “I bet I look a mess.”
    Frank followed the curve of her body. “You don’t look so bad to me.”
    She pursed her lips and wagged a finger at me. Tony B.’s rock winked in the light. “Shame on you, worrying me like that. All this time I’m thinking you’re at the hospital and you were here entertaining this big, handsome man.”
    “You shouldn’t have worried your friend like that.” Frank unwrapped his arms and pulled at his cuffs. If Jayne was thawing him, it was going to be a long, slow spring.
    “To make it up to me, Rosie, you have to go to lunch with me. I’m not going to take no for an answer.” She retrieved a compact from herpurse and powdered her nose. America’s squeakheart was giving the performance of her life. “Get your things and let’s scram.”
    “It’s not up to me,” I said. “Frank’s waiting for somebody.”
    Jayne put her coat back on. “He can wait in the stairwell.”
    Frank rose, his girth blocking the light and changing the weather. “Maybe I don’t want to wait in the stairwell.”
    Jayne’s coat fell past her shoulders and her breasts led her to Frank. Her voice turned breathy and her skin deepened in hue. “Frank, I know you don’t mean to be rude, but your tone isn’t going to do. Rosie is going with me, and if you don’t let us leave right this minute, we’re going to be late. I’m supposed to have lunch with my boyfriend, Tony B., and if I’m not on time I’ll never hear the end of it.” She put the hand bearing the ring on the lapel of Frank’s coat and smoothed the fabric. “You don’t want to make trouble for us, do you?”
    Frank shook his head and the slightest hint of fear yanked the color from his face.
    She winked at him. “Then be a doll, would you, and step into the hall so Rosie can lock up.” Reluctantly, Frank did as he was told while Jayne and I applied our lids and grabbed our purses. As we dusted, his eyes burned tiny close-set holes in my back.
    “Does that answer your question?” Jayne asked as we hit the street.
    I struggled to keep pace with her. “What question?”
    “What I see in Tony B., silly.”
     
    We walked all the way to Times Square and ducked into Horn and Hardart. The place was plastered with small signs indicating things they were out of and unlikely to be able to create any time soon thanks to shortages: egg salad, roast beef, hamburger. I wrangled my change until I had enough coin for a pair of ham sandwiches, a piece of pie, and two cups of coffee—stretched with chicory—fresh out of the Automat’s