Ever since the debutante dinner, Clara’s social calendar had been just short of full. First Ginnie Bitman’s mother had invited her for lunch on Tuesday, and then on Wednesday she’d gone to Betty Havermill’s estate for a fancy dinner with the girl and her parents. Betty’s father was a famous Chicago architect and had designed their mansion himself, all tall ceilings and windowed walls. Thursday was ice cream with Dot Spencer at a tiny place called Harry’s, where the only flavors were chocolate and vanilla and people waited on line for over twenty minutes. Clara never liked waiting for anything, but had to admit that the ice cream was pretty tasty. Afterward, she had listened to Dot play the piano in her family’s sitting room. If Clara never heard another Gershwin tune for the rest of her life, she would die happy. No offense to Gershwin, of course—just to Dot. Getting to know these boring girls, and their equally boring parents, was the dregs. There was no jazz, no excitement, and no men.
