The Believer by Pamela DuMond

Author:Pamela DuMond [DuMond, Pamela]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pamela DuMond Media

Chapter 11

PALM SPRINGS, CALIFORNIA

* * *

1962

* * *

Clara

I open my eyes. I’m no longer in a darkened, boisterous restaurant. Instead, I’m somehow inexplicably staring out a floor-to-ceiling windows at a kidney shaped swimming pool filled with still aqua-colored water. Stars twinkle in a midnight blue sky. Wherever I am, it doesn’t resemble a Chicago sky let alone a Chicago winter.

I’m standing in a swank living room with pastel walls, a white brick fireplace that appears more decorative than functional, and hip and mod furniture from the 1960s. A record player spins and Bing Crosby croons ballads from speakers in the background. Whoever lives here must love Bing Crosby because movie posters featuring him hang on the walls.

I pinch myself and realize I’m no longer dressed for a casual dinner out with friends. I’m wearing a white spa smock and pant uniform. The only other person here is a man in a black suit and a white button down shirt, carrying a walkie-talkie of sorts.

He gestures to me from across the room. “Constance. You’re up.”

I find my voice. “Constance?” Wow, what a voice it is. Feminine, sexy, with a Latina accent.

“Come on. Don’t be nervous.” He takes a drag on a cigarette and stomps it out in a sleek, ashtray stand.

I cross the living room carefully – not sure if someone is going to pop out at me, arrest me, or shoot me.

“Name’s Agent Carter,” the man in the black suit says to me. “You’ve got nothing to be nervous about. The man you’re here to see might be the most important man in the world. But he puts on his pants one leg at a time, just like we all do.”

“Right,” I say.

He leads me down a corridor lit softly with recessed lamps. Framed photos of Bing Crosby with other actors line the walls. I recognize Bob Hope and Frank Sinatra. I lift a finger, tempted to touch a frame.

“The table’s already in the room,” he says.

“Excellent,” I say. A dining table? A table of contents? Might as well be a craps table for how I’m feeling right about now.

We turn a corner and walk toward double doors at the end of the hallway where there are more men in black suits. “How do you like working at that fancy joint in town?” Agent Carter asks.

“It… pays the bills?”

He sweeps his gaze over me and winks. “I bet it does. I might have to book an appointment with you if I ever catch a break on this trip. The stress is doing a number on my shoulders.”

“Right. I was wondering…” where in the hell am I...

He holds up one finger, leans in and confers with two other men stationed at doors leading to a room. They nod, apparently in agreement.

“All clear,” one suited man says into a walkie-talkie.

Agent Carter turns his gaze to me again. “I get that question all the time, Constance. Everyone always wonders. Technically, you’re supposed to address him as Mr. President.”

The double doors fly open and a pretty, young blond woman wearing a fluffy bathrobe peers at me.

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