Evelyn was waiting at the Trust’s double front door before eight o’clock the following morning. She recognized the first of the bank tellers to arrive—a generally pleasant young man with bright blue eyes and blonde hair named Rupert. They’d met yesterday afternoon during her introduction and tour. Though their coloring was the only commonality they shared, the soft-spoken introverted man still reminded her of Lily. It started a little homesick ache in her heart. He nodded brusquely, inserting his key into the door’s lock, then met her polite smiling gaze. “Good morning. I’m afraid the bank lobby won’t open until ten.” As was wont to happen, as soon as he looked into her eyes, he froze. She waited until he came to whatever conclusion he was going to about her presence and intention, giving him a brighter smile as he flashed his. “I must apologize, ma’am. I’ve forgotten your name. I remember now that you toured the lobby yesterday afternoon.” He flushed a little in embarrassment. “It

By the end of the week, Evelyn had settled into a regular schedule working in the LA Trust lobby. She’d become adept at assisting with the morning clearing house reconciliation and was particularly quick at the verification of checks against the bank’s signature cards. To her, it seemed only natural. After all, she’d spent years already keeping account records as a secretary. If there was extra time after the reconciliations were complete, Evelyn was allowed to practice using the Burroughs bookkeeping machines. Getting comfortable with how its calculation mechanism functioned required thinking in a different and challenging way, but she was determined to master it before they left to return to New York. During business hours, when the lobby was slow, she practiced using the comptometer. This device, while much more straightforward in its computation mechanism, still required some slight change in thinking. The most skilled operator at the Trust turned out to be Rupert. With the occas

Evelyn leaned on the sill of one of large drawing room windows, her forehead pressed against the glass. The intermittent rains and fitful breezes of the last week had become sustained downpours with whip-like winds over the course of the weekend in advance of a dark heavy line of clouds that hovered ominously on the distant horizon, but fortunately, hadn’t drawn nearer. “There’s flooding in the streets below,” she rasped through her bruised and swollen throat. On the sofa, Andrew flicked down the newspaper to look at her, uncertain he’d heard her correctly with her back turned and the noise of the storm outside. “Was that flooding you said, darling?” Despite the sheeting rain on the windows and the occasional wind-driven bursts, she could still see part of Wilshire Boulevard from their vantage on one of the uppermost floors of the Ambassador. There’d been warnings, of course—people urged to stay indoors. Still, a few vehicles eased their way down the flooding streets, wiper blades

The sound of the wind was noticeably diminished, the sound of the rain returned to a normal pitter-patter. Which confused Evelyn as she opened her eyes to see muted sunlight ringing the now curtained windows. Her throat felt dry after sleeping, and the scratchiness added to the pain she already felt from such a disrupted sleep cycle. Rolling towards the center of the bed, she was dismayed to find she was alone. Which was when she realized the pitter-patter of water she’d mistaken for light rain was actually coming from the bathroom. Andrew must be in the shower. Having learned over the course of this month that he was seldom in there long, she relaxed to wait him out. Covering her eyes with her elbow, she toyed with Andrew’s engagement ring on her fourth finger. There’d been so much to occupy her mind this month, she’d barely given any thought to the fact they weren’t actually married. An anxietal knot twisted sharply in her stomach and she flinched against the pain with a soft gru

The Cocoanut Grove originally opened as a small nightclub lounge in the Ambassador Hotel. Within a few months after, the grand ballroom was annexed to expand the available space of the popular hang-out for the hotel’s guests, the visiting country club set and the crasser Hollywood producers and movie stars. Unlike El Morocco in New York City, in Los Angeles, there was simply no other place to go. No one entertained with the grand, elegant aristocratic manner that the Ambassador supplied. Whether ‘old money’ or nouveau riche, this was where everyone who was anyone got together, to be seen, cosseted, and entertained. While the hotel’s rooms were decorated in pastel tints in the furniture, fine French cretonne, appealing prints and original paintings on the walls, with hanging window boxes and stately palms to round out the tropical theme, the Cocoanut Grove took this far to the extreme. “I can’t believe all of the people here,” Evelyn exclaimed softly as the Moroccan designed gold-lea