This short story of Bette and Holden takes place directly after Stars on Fire, a few months before All the Yellow Posies opens in August 1919.

“Cherry pie.”

The elderly bookkeeper squinted his eyes narrowly at the five-foot girl at the desk. “Wrong.” He dropped his eyes back to his newspaper.

“What do you mean, wrong?”

“Wrong password,” he mumbled, not bothering to look up at her. “Try again.”

“I seem to recall you commenting last night on how I’d been by every night this week.” Bette dug her heel into the floor, lowering her voice in the sparse bookstore. “Now, is your ancient memory failing you or are you going to let me in?”

“No password” —the stale old-timer glanced up at her standing before him in her midnight flapper dress and yesterday’s makeup— “no entry.”

Before she could retaliate, the front door swung open. Bette turned away to study the bookcase spines, scratching the back of her neck with her fingernails as a young man with the chestnut hair pranced up to the desk beside her.

“Password?”

“Cherry pie.”

“It changed,” Bette interjected, turning to him.

“I was just here last night,” he went on, keeping his attention on the desk.

“You’re the one who just got back, aren’t you?” asked the old man.

“Yes, sir.”

Bette scrunched her nose, shooting the young charmer a sideways look.

“Sorry, sonny,” the old man replied, knocking on the bookcase behind him. “I almost didn’t recognize you…these old eyes, you’ll have to forgive me.” 

With a chipper grin, the boy wonder slipped behind the desk and through the hidden door.

“Wait a minute—” Bette protested. “Hey!”

“Not you,” said the old man, blocking her path.

“What the hell was that?” she shot back. “That asshole didn’t have the password either, but you let him in?”

“That asshole,” he mumbled, glaring up at her, “is a serviceman.”

“And I’m the goddamn mayor’s daughter.”

The old man leaned back in his chair with an upturned nose, seemingly bothered by the cheap, pungent perfume she’d doused herself in. “With a mouth like that, you could use some lessons from him on manners.” He reached over his shoulder and knocked twice on the bookshelf. “Go on.”

Bette huffed, shoving past him.

On the other side of the bookcase, the smell of aged oak barrels and musty paper hit her like a shot of Appalachian moonshine. In the air, the static of hushed conversation lingered above her head. The low-lit speakeasy was the only home Bette had known since moving to Virginia. From the safety of the stairs, she spotted the charismatic sweet talker across the room. 

A serviceman, the old man had said.

He was seated at the makeshift bar, a glass of whiskey next to his left hand, his chin resting in the palm of the other. She examined his profile against the light of the wall lantern; a pointed, delicate nose that upturned only slightly, lips that rested in a brooding pout, hair perfectly combed to one side.

Bette chewed the inside of her cheek. Of all the avenues he’d used to make conversation with her the last few days, he’d left out any mention of having just gotten home.  

Curious.

She watched as he stared ahead, talking to the bartender with a glazed-over smile. Beneath their mundane chatter, he was pondering something dark—she could tell by the way he fidgeted under the bar, tapping his finger on his knee.

She stepped down from the last stair and onto the worn floor, anticipating his glance.

Nothing.

Annoyed, she grabbed a cigarette from her purse.

He looked ahead, taking a sip of his drink. To the untrained eye one might’ve suspected he didn’t see her hanging on the end of the railing, but it was the visible laugh line—the inkling of a smirk—that gave him away. After ignoring him all week, he was going to make her work for it. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. 

Taking that as her signal, Bette strolled over to the bar. “Excuse me, mister,” she began, fluffing the back of her hair. “You got a light?”

He grabbed his matches on the bar and struck one, holding the flame to her mouth.

“Thanks a lot,” she said, posting up next to him.

As if they’d just been talking about her, he glanced over to the bartender before lighting his own cigarette, which was tucked securely in his smirk. “You made it in,” he teased.

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you think it’s funny.”

“Why is that?”

“You’re a man.” A stream of smoke trickled out of her nostrils. “You get away with whatever you want, and I get the third degree for leaving the house more than twice a week.”

He narrowed his eyes at her playfully. Up close, they were some of the most effeminate eyes she’d ever seen on a man—bejeweled blues, framed by villainous brows.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he said.

Bette climbed onto the bar stool next to him, flicking her ash onto the floor. “If you insist.”

The man held up two fingers to the bartender, then turned back to Bette. “Who do I have the pleasure?” he asked.

“Bette Turner,” she replied, crossing one leg over the other.

“I’m—”

“Holden.”

He nodded to the bartender, handing one of the whiskey sours to Bette. “I’m glad you found me memorable.”

Bette dropped her eyes to his spectator shoes, noting the pin-striped pants cuffed just above his ankle, then met his eye with a wry smile. “What can I say? Third time was a charm.” She took a sip of the drink, holding his gaze over the glass. “So, I guess you’re some kind of war hero or something?”

From the way his brow furrowed it was clear he didn’t expect or appreciate the comment. 

“The old fogey out front told me,” she added.

He turned forward, dropping his eyes to the glass in his hand.

“Hey, now,” she teased, put off by his silence. “Is that any way to treat a girl you’ve been trying to talk to all week?”

“So that’s why you came over here.” He turned back to her, his piercing eyes circling her face. His tone was almost stern enough to make her regret inquiring. “Because you think I’m a war hero.”

“Well, I—”

“You want to hear all about France.”

“Okay. Sore subject…God knows I was only curious.”

“Gott is tot,” he said, flicking his cigarette over the ashtray. “And we have killed him.”

Bette grinned down at her drink, remembering how he’d approached her a few nights back. He’d asked about the book in her hand. “Nietzsche,” she murmured to herself. “I guess you aren’t a buffoon after all.” 

“You sound surprised.”

“It was clearly the mark of someone stupid,” she replied coolly, swirling the warm whiskey. “As if someone who brings a book to a bar really wants to talk.”

Holden hid behind his smile, stroking his chin with his pointer finger.

“What?” she asked.

“Just wondering how you winded up here, is all.”

“What makes you think I’m from out of town?”

He motioned to the patrons of the speakeasy, as if the answer to her question was obvious. “You don’t exactly fit in.”

Bette frowned, suddenly self-conscious.

“I meant that as a compliment,” he added hastily. “Maybe you can help liven up the place.”

She set the half-empty sour on the bar, tracing the top of the glass with her pointer finger.

“How does your story begin?” he asked.

“The same as any. With a man.”

 Holden dropped his eyes to the bruise on her forearm, which she quickly withdrew. “Did he do that?”

“Don’t look at me that way,” she said, cupping her fingers over it. “I haven’t been a Turner since I left Miami.”

“Then why keep his name?”

She smirked, flicking her cigarette over her shoulder. “Because I still respect him more than my father.”

“I see.”

“I’m in-between now,” she went on, snubbing her butt in the ashtray. “Just trying to start fresh. Make my way.”

“Here?”

“Seems as good a place as any to an outsider.”

“Listen.” Holden laced his fingers together, leaning through the rising smoke of her extinguished cigarette. “I just bought this little cottage across the river.”

“Should I congratulate you?”

“Well—it’s a whole house, and I’m all by myself.” He shrugged, raising his brows with a flirtatious grin. “I’d be happy to rent a room to you.”

“Oh! He’s generous, too.”

“Do you want to see it?”

She scoffed. “You think you’re slick or something?”

“It’s a short walk. You can see it from Sophia Street.”

Bette glanced to the door, then to Holden, bouncing his empty whiskey glass on his knee. Finally, she turned her attention to the young bartender. “Hey,” she called.

He looked up from the glass he was wiping to see Bette waving him down. “Another round?” he asked, walking over to them.

“Do you know him?” she asked, pointing at Holden with her thumb.

“Uh—”

“Say the two of us went on a walk, would my body end up in a ditch somewhere?”

 “Shucks. He’s no murderer.” The bartender grabbed a second glass from beneath the bar, setting it next to the one he’d just cleaned. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

“So if you saw me walk out that door with him, your conscience would be clear?”

“I watch women leave with him all the ti—”

“Paul,” Holden interrupted. “Can I pay for this next time? Commission was a little tight this week.”

Paul grinned at Bette, throwing the towel over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”

Bette watched, baffled from the sideline as Holden leaned over the bar, pointing to the man’s waist. “How’s the uh, seam holding up?” he asked.

“Still going strong.”

“Great. Well, thanks a lot, Paul.”

“Mhm.”

Mouth agape, Bette turned to Holden. The ease in which he seemed to enchant people piqued her suspicion—and yet, against her will, she found herself captivated right alongside them. 

Holden chuckled, reaching across the bar for her drink. “Now that that’s settled,” he said, knocking back the rest of it, “shall we?”

A midnight fog met the pair on the other side of the back door, having descended upon the empty streets of the small town. The sound of a match striking paper rippled through the damp stillness, and Bette turned to see Holden lighting a cigarette under the nearest lamp post. His cocked brow held the alluring prospect of something a little dangerous. “Ready?” he asked.

“It’s just a walk, so don’t get any ideas,” she replied. “I’ve known guys like you before.”

He grinned boyishly, melting her icy regard to a puddle at her feet. “No, you haven’t,” he said, pocketing both hands.

“So you take girls home often,” she remarked.

“Do you want the truth?”

“That’s a silly question. No one ever wants the truth.” She looked skyward, to the steeple of St. George’s as she trailed behind him across the street. “But I imagine there’s someone you’re trying to forget.”

His silence was answer enough. Bette wondered about her as they made their way down the sidewalk, past the sleepy shops of William Street and their apartments above. She wondered who she was and what she looked like, and if she’d broken his heart.

“I work down at the end of Caroline,” he said finally. “My father owns a tailoring shop there.”

Bette scrunched her nose, confused. Of all things she’d pegged him as, a tailor making an honest living surely wasn’t one of them. She stared down the empty street, wondering what else she was wrong about.

“Shit,” Holden groaned. “You can’t see a thing.”

Up ahead, she could see that he was nearing the bottom of the street, and that, thanks to the fog, their view of Falmouth had been blocked entirely. “Hey!” She chased him to the edge of the chilly riverbank. “Wait up!”

“This fog is really something,” he said, turning around to meet her. “Normally you can see my cottage from here.”

Bette squinted, following his gaze across the river as they stood side by side. “Do you see that?”

He moved in, near enough for her to smell his cologne.

“Right there. The house.”

“Oh,” he replied. “Chatham.”

She studied the outline of the ghostly manor overlooking the Rappahannock. “It looks old.”

“Antebellum. It’s abandoned now.”

“I wish I could see it better.”

Holden looked to the embankment behind them and to the Victorian home that sat directly across the river from the looming, empty manor. “We should’ve just stayed in tonight,” he said. “We have the perfect view of Chatham from our top window.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The top window of our mansion.” He motioned to the house with an impish grin, which Bette met with a tight-lipped one of her own. He thought he was funny.

Without another word, she started up the bank toward the dark, vacant house.

“Bette,” Holden called after her. “Where are you going?”

She spun around, grinning vivaciously. “Home, silly.”

The sound of him tromping through the grass after her made her chest race with excitement as they approached the home, lined with a colossal boxwood hedge. “These people are loaded,” she said, squeezing through the bush with Holden on her heels. “I can’t wait to see the inside.”

“You’re really serious,” he remarked.

The garden was layered with wisps of fog as Bette walked through. “You said it yourself, you know.”

“Said what?”

She halted next to a sundial to wait for him in the mist, imagining herself as a strange angel in black. “Maybe I can help liven up the place.”

He opened his mouth to counter but choked on his words. Such a pretty, dumbstruck face.

She laughed over her shoulder, taunting him to follow her. Bette could see that all the lights were off as she approached the stone patio of the grandiose home. She was brainstorming the best way to get inside when she heard a warning from behind. 

“Stand back.”

As if he’d read her mind, she turned to see Holden aiming a rock at one of the first story windows, about five feet from the ground. The stone flew through the glass with a crash, sending crystal shards across the patio, and Bette into an uncontrollable fit of giggles.

Holden walked over, taking a knee underneath it. “After you,” he said.

Bette stepped on his palm, grabbing both sides of the window as he leveraged her up. Peeking over the other side, she stepped into the ornate dining room. The glass crunched under her feet as she stepped forward, making room for Holden.

“Nice place.” He glanced up at her through the curls that had fallen over his forehead, watching as she opened the drawer of the nearby credenza and began to rummage through it. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for a candle or something.”

“I’ll check the kitchen,” he said, sliding past her. 

Bette paused above the empty drawers, turning her attention to the china cabinet in the corner. Inside it sat a miniature ruby lantern.

“Well, darling…” Holden hovered in the doorway, holding two glasses and a bottle of wine. “I didn’t find a candle, but I did find some of that wine we brought home from”—he glanced at the label— “Spain.”

Eying him inscrutably, Bette turned her attention back to the china cabinet. “Can I get a light?”

Setting his findings on the dining room table, he reached for his matches as she brought the tiny lantern over. The ignited wick illuminated both their faces in a sensual, cherry glow. Holden popped the bottle’s cork with his knife, filling the first glass and handing it off to Bette before filling his own.

Feeling his eyes on her, Bette walked the perimeter, studying the dark-blue wainscoting and the paintings that hung over it. “You were wrong about the wine.” Clutching her drink in both hands, she turned into the shadow so he wouldn’t see her smile. “This is one we got in Portugal last spring.”

“Ah.” He chuckled. “Portugal. How could I forget?”

“Likely because you spent most of the trip drinking Portuguese wine, dear,” she teased.

“We must go back before we run out!” Holden swirled his glass and took a sip, strolling into the hallway. “How about we spend all next month on holiday?”

“I’ll let the maids know.” Bette followed him into the neighboring parlor, which oozed inherited Southern wealth, even in the dark.

“Yes…the maids.” Holden wiped his finger across the tea cart, inspecting it for dust. “Have them pack my best suits.”

“Why not buy all new when we get there?” Bette studied the painting of a woman in mauve above the marble fireplace. She wasn’t sure what game they were playing, or why she was playing it with him; she only knew that she couldn’t help herself. “Perhaps we should go somewhere else this time,” she mused, running her fingers over the gold-leaf frame. “Somewhere warm, like Havana.”

“How about Paris?”

“You would go back to France?” she asked, breaking her script.

Met with silence, Bette looked over to see Holden studying a painting on the wall. He was so absorbed in the brushstrokes of the brilliant black stallion that she questioned if he’d heard her. “I’d like to go back, someday,” he said, finally tearing his eyes from it.

She walked past him, making her way to the large window that overlooked the bank.

“I see you found your view, darling,” he said, joining her side. “You know I had this window put in with you in mind, so you’d have plenty of light for your baking.”

“Don’t be daft. That’s what we have cooks for…” In the reflection of the glass, a dim light frolicked around the corner of the lonesome manor house. “What is that?” asked Bette. Her eyes scanned the room for the culprit, but the only light in the house was the flickering oil lamp in the next room.

“Will-o’-the-wisp?”

It was obvious from the look on Holden’s face that he thought her eyes were playing tricks on her, too. Ripping herself from his teasing grin, she redirected her focus across the boggy river. The light was gone.

“You were right earlier,” he murmured. “I am trying to forget someone.”

Bette turned to him, glimpsing a youthful innocence in his crooked grin. It was the kind of smile that could make a girl fall in love. “Is it working?” she asked.

He nodded with soft eyes, shifting his attention to the window. “With a view like this, I could forget anything,” he joked.

Bette stepped back into the shadows of the parlor. “Then let’s stay,” she suggested softly. “Pretend a while more.”

“What if they come home?” Holden followed her over to the fireplace, plopping down on the velvet sofa. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Bette took a seat next to him, drawing her legs up. He didn’t need to know that her room was infested with cockroaches, or that she slept with a knife under her pillow, just in case the men in the boarding house got handsy. “Nowhere ideal,” she said.

“Well, darling…” He leaned back, stretching his arm across the sofa’s polished wooden back. “If you insist.”

The proposal was an ambiguous one. Bette couldn’t say exactly what spending the night with this man might entail, but she was willing to see. If Holden had any schemes, though, he didn’t act on them. Somewhere between the early morning hours and rich European wine, she fell asleep next to him on the sofa without so much as a kiss.

“Bette.”

She lifted her head from his shoulder, half-asleep.

“We have to go,” he whispered sharply. “Now.”

Bette tried to speak, but he hushed her just in time for them to hear the doorknob jiggle down the hall. She looked up at him, eyes blazing with panic as the front door creaked open, followed by footsteps on hardwood.

“What the devil is this mess…”

Holden grabbed her hand and bolted for the nearest window, unlocking the top. He ushered Bette to the ledge. “After you, dear!”

She threw one leg over the side, then paused, intimidated by the dark landing below.

“Wha—there’s glass everywhere!”

Holden looked over his shoulder, catching the side profile of a man turning the corner to the parlor. “Go!” he said, turning back to Bette.

“Hey!! Stop right there!”

They both tumbled out of the window, landing on the ground with unanimous thud.

“Fuck,”Holden groaned,clutching his ankle.

Hoping it was enough cover for them both, Bette grabbed his jacket and pushed him under the boxwood hedge. She crawled on top of him, holding back laughter as angry shouts rained down from the window above them.

“Where’d they go?”

“I saw him—he jumped right out the window!”

 Holden cupped his hand over Bette’s mouth. “Shh!” He gazed up through the branches as he lay on his back.

“Don’t think we won’t call the authorities!” the voice shouted.

Bette could feel the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat under her palm as he met her eye, slowly removing his hand from her mouth. “Darling,” he whispered, pulling a twig from her hair, “I think some ruffians just broke into our house.”

She pursed her lips together gleefully. 

Holden raised his pointer finger to them, stretching his neck to look up. Confident the homeowner’s had abandoned their pursuit, he turned back to her with a smile, lowering his hand.

To his obvious surprise—as well as her own—Bette reached over, planting a kiss on him. She drew back, watching as he traced her face with sparkly eyes.

“How is your ankle?” she asked meekly.

He reached up, grabbing her locks gently with both hands. They were softer than she’d imagined, or at least softer than the hands she was used to. “I think I sprained it,” he whispered back, pulling her down to him. She’d been kissed many times, by many people, but never like that. Never so tenderly, with his fingers running over her jaw and her tangled hair falling over his face. “Take the spare room in my house,” he said. “I don’t care about the money.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.

“What’s ridiculous about it?” He went in for another kiss, but Bette pulled back.

“A divorcee and an unwed man under the same roof,” she replied with a derisive laugh. “What could possibly go wrong?”

“No strings attached,” he insisted. His smile flattened. “I just like you.”

Bette tilted her chin to the window, peering through the spotty foliage. “We should get out of here before they come back.” She lifted herself off him, crawling through the tangled branches to safety.

“Hey—” The bush rustled behind her. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

On the other side of the hedge, a pale twilight blue clung onto the dewy embankment, and to the lingering fog which floated over it. Bette stumbled to her feet, dusting herself off.

“If it sounded like I was trying to be charitable, that wasn’t what I intended.”

She combed through her waves as she waited for Holden to finish, picking out bits of leaves.

“I’m sorry,” he went on. “I know what it’s like to feel pitied.”

Bette peeked over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”

Staggering to his feet, Holden lifted his gaze to her. His eyes glistened earnestly against the emerald leaves of the boxwood. “Coming where?”

She walked over, wrapping her arm around his waist to steady him.

“Coming where?” he asked again, lower.

Bette lifted his arm over her shoulder with a slick smile. “Home.”