Blue's Night Out

By Jennie L. Morris

A CLEAN, HISTORICAL ROMANCE SET IN THE ROARING TWENTIES!

New York City, 1927.

Davis Bakery has the best breads in Queens. Blue Davis, bookish amateur historian, spends her days at the neighborhood staple, dishing out her family's sweet treats. Summer has come to the city, and with it, Gorgeous George Greyson. On a warm July day, Blue encounters her old school friend, setting in motion a night unlike any other.

George offers a rare invite to the city's sinful side—The Fat Flamingo speakeasy. In the decadent world of moody jazz and illegal booze, Blue and her best friend, Myra Post, set aside the daily grind for carefree carousing. Along with drinks, emotions flow freely. Are the sparks between Blue and George genuine? Or are they born of summer heat and gin blossoms?

Sometimes innocent actions can have dire consequences. With a skiff and lie, Blue lands in hot water. To save face, her grandparents ship her upstate. Will George seek love? Or will he let the music die along with her departure?

• Language: English
• Publisher: By Quill and Lantern Publishing
• Release date: Feb 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393268994

Book preview

Chapter One

Queens, New York City, 1927

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Pushing the bakery cart down the uneven street, Blue Davis headed to Ridgewood’s weekly Saturday market to sell her grandparents’ goods. For the last four years, she worked the market, Davis Bakery, a staple of the active gathering.

This morning was bright and warm, with less than ten days left in July. She wore her long curly brown hair pinned up. Her conservative yellow cotton dress with a floral pattern and her black heeled shoes did little to stave off the heat.

Vying for the best vendor position, she arrived before most other vendors. Men, on their way to work, constituted her biggest customer base. Today, she brought a seasonal specialty, blueberry cake doughnuts. Her uncle in upper New York brought his first batch of berries to the bakery on Tuesday. Always a treat, she expected to sell out.

Placing down her folded wooden chair, Blue hung her small bag off the back. She grabbed the colorful hand-painted sign Davis Bakery, Best Breads in the Boroughs, and placed it to attract shoppers.

In her small cart, with a glass front, she showcased a variety of baked goods. Numerous different loaves of bread and rolls, fresh from the oven that morning, along with sweet treats like doughnuts, cookies, and fruit pastries. During the holiday seasons, she carried pies and specific sweets.

Her friend, an older woman with a strong Italian accent, appeared and started unpacking her wares. She sold second-hand children’s clothing, mended and laundered — a tidy business for a widow living on a small pension. Everyone in the neighborhood donated their children’s outgrown or damaged clothes to Mrs. Costa, part out of charity, part out of being neighborly.

"Buongiorno, she said with a toothy grin. How are you, Bluebird?"

Good morning, Mrs. Costa. How was your week? Blue asked while opening the little vents on the side of her cart to stop humidity from building up. Arriving earlier meant they claimed spaces beneath the canvas awning, which helped with the heat.

Mrs. Costa eased down on her padded stool. Not so bad, Blue. My Michael, he brought over the babies. We had a good supper. He is a good boy.

Michael Costa, Mrs. Costa’s sole surviving child, treated his mother well. He worked double-shifts at one of the glass factories to care for his own growing family. Every Saturday, he stopped by to get something from the bakery cart on his way to his first shift.

Sounds like a pleasant week, Mrs. Costa. Blue sat, reached for her bag, and retrieved a book. Wishing she could go to university, she used the libraries to shape an at-home course on ancient history. She dreamt of becoming a historian, working at a museum in the city.

Engrossed in a chapter describing the Third Servile War in Rome, where the mighty gladiator Spartacus led a rebellion against the nobility, she failed to notice the man trying to get her attention.

Excuse me, miss, he said, waving his hand, can I get a loaf of your rye bread?

Shutting the book, Blue tucked it away, and grabbed the bread, wrapping it in brown paper. Thank you, sir. Enjoy your day.

The morning continued at a steady pace. She gave up reading. Instead, Blue focused on chatting with people and making sales. Recalling many by name, she asked after their families and offered her best regards. After countless Saturdays, it was easy to pick out a stranger.

Glancing at her wristwatch, it wasn’t eight o’clock yet. Another four hours, and the heat already caused perspiration to dampen her neck. The street bustled with activity, buyers, and sellers out in the hot July summer. Mothers with long lines of children in tow or pushing prams flocked near Mrs. Costa, their voices a constant drone shouting for their wayward children to stay close.

Blue kept a flow of regular customers. A standard for Saturdays, she always put back several different pastries or bread loaves for special people. For the poorer families, she tucked in extra treats for their children, even if her grandmother complained they weren’t running a charity.

Nearing noon, her cart almost empty, Blue settled back to reading her book. A number of the vendors began packing up. In no hurry, if she went home, she’d be put to cleaning in the bakery, Blue lingered.

Delving back into the history of Spartacus, she propped up her feet on the bottom of the cart, engrossed in the ancient battle tactics. In her mind, she pictured the mighty force of the Roman Army, with bright red plumage and insignias, against a rag-tag group of desperate men craving freedom.

Excuse me, miss? called out a man.

Exhaling, she asked, How can I help you? She dropped the book in her seat as she stood.

Before her, dressed in a crisp white shirt and bowtie, stood George Greyson. Gorgeous George, the girls called him in high school. He had jet-black hair, pale green eyes, and a swoon-worthy sonorous voice. Of course, he didn’t recognize her. Blue spent endless hours her of childhood playing in the streets with his older brother, Frankie, and him.

George and her, the same age, went through school together. After graduating, she’d little contact with her school mates. A number moved off to attend university or to marry.

He carried a black suit jacket over his arm and held a long black case. I know you from somewhere.

Me? she asked, shrugging. I’m not certain. I’m here every Saturday, maybe you’ve seen me in the market.

Rubbing his shaved chin, he shook his head. No, I mean, I doubt it. I just moved back to the neighborhood.

I’ve lived here all my life, she replied, grabbing a piece of brown paper. Would you like to buy anything, sir?

Smiling, he leaned against her cart, his face less than a foot from her own. Well, then, I’m sure we’ve met before. Give me a clue. A hint.

Do you like blueberries? I've got a few fresh blueberry doughnuts. The blueberries are from my uncle’s farm, up north, first of the season. She grabbed the last two in the case, wrapped them up, and held them out to him.

I do like blueberries, he said, accepting the parcel. As he reached into his pocket, she assumed to grab his wallet, he paused. "Blueberries. Blue, as in Blue Davis? Little Blue Davis?"

She’d been called worse. Yes, George.

I thought you’d be long gone from here, living a big life, he stated with raised eyebrows. Not stuck in Queens with us dunces.

Unsure if he intended it as a compliment or not, she closed the door on the cart. One day, maybe. I work with my grandparents at the bakery, no big adventures for me.

I didn’t mean nothing by it, Blue, he rushed. You were one of the smart ones. I figured you’d leave is all.

Welcome back to the neighborhood, George, she said, avoiding the subject. I hope you like the doughnuts. Time to head home. Maybe I’ll see you about. Turning around, she put her book in her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and picked up her chair. When she went to hook the chair on the cart, he was there waiting. Is there something else?

Clearing his throat, he glanced around. What are you doing tonight?

Nothing, she stammered. Saturday afternoons, I’ve off.

If you want a little adventure, stop by The Fat Flamingo, say about nine o’clock. He grinned at her, the charming grin she almost forgot. Tell the man at the door I invited you.

She gripped the handles of the cart. I don’t know, George.

I’ll be there, and I hope to see you. With an arrogant wink, he walked towards the streetcar depot leading to Queens’ affluent neighborhoods.

Addled, Blue rubbed the back of her neck. She grabbed the sign from the street and put it on the cart. Packaging up the last few