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The palm fronds rattle against the gilded windows of the Seminole Ritz like frantic fingers. Behind the heavy velvet curtains of the service corridor, Jerry presses his back against the cool plaster, his heart hammering a wild, staccato rhythm against his ribs. He and Joe are pinned in place, sweating through their stiff, ill-fitting trousers, wide-eyed witnesses to the silent, deadly crimson settling over Little Bonaparte’s banquet table. Spats and his boys lie motionless under the grand chandeliers, their Chicago reign snuffed out in a flash of Tommy guns.
Panicked breath hitches in Jerry’s throat as Joe tugs him backward into the dark pantry, where discarded silk dresses, pearl strands, and floral rouge sit waiting like an unavoidable trap; within seconds, the pants are shed, the suffocating corsets are yanked tight, and Jerry becomes Daphne once more, trading the immediate threat of a mob execution for a lingering, terrifying masquerade.
The escape through the lobby is a blurred scramble of swishing satin and clacking heels until the low, aching notes of a saxophone anchor them near the lounge doors. Onstage, bathed in a lonely spotlight, Sugar sings a weeping lament for a lost love, her voice heavy with the weight of every heartbreak she’s ever run from. Beside Jerry, Joe stops dead in his tracks, his eyes softening into a quiet, desperate tenderness.
Before Jerry can grab his forearm to pull him toward the exit, Joe steps into the amber light, cupping Sugar’s face and pressing a breathless, silent goodbye onto her lips before bolting back toward the shadows. Jerry’s jaw drops as they sprint for the rear doors, but behind them, the music falters; Sugar stands rooted to the stage, touching her lips, the sudden realization dawning on her that the soft touch of Josephine and the gentle hands of Junior belong to the exact same soul.
The humid ocean breeze hits them like a wall at the edge of the pier, where Osgood’s motorized launch bobbles gently on the dark water. Jerry, hands trembling as he clutches his floral handbag, calls out in his high-pitched soprano, desperately persuading Osgood to haul them aboard and ferry them out to the safety of the yacht anchored in the bay. Osgood’s face lights up with sheer, unadulterated devotion as he extends a steady hand to help Daphne down, but just as the mooring ropes are cast off, a figure drops onto the wooden deck with a soft thud. Sugar sits among them, out of breath, her eyes locked on Joe.
Standing in the center of the rocking boat, Joe reaches up and yanks off the blonde wig, shedding the faint voice of Josephine to stand fully revealed in the salt air. He stammers out his confession, telling her straight that he’s a liar, a penniless musician, and that a girl like her deserves the whole world—not a sham. But Sugar only smiles, step-by-step closing the distance between them, seeing past the scam to the one man who ever actually cared enough to protect her heart.
While the two of them sink into a quiet, quiet embrace at the stern, Jerry sits beside Osgood near the wheel, his stomach churning into tight knots of sheer panic and something far more dangerous: genuine affection. He pulls his hands back into his lap, starting a frantic flurry of excuses to call off the engagement, desperate to break the illusion before it shatters completely. He stammers about their backgrounds, his terrible temper, the fact that he can never have children, and a string of half-truth reasons escalating in absurdity, but Osgood merely beams, adjusting his skipper cap, his steady hands on the wheel never wavering.
Jerry’s breath catches; underneath the fear of a police lineup and a cold jail cell, his chest aches because he actually likes Osgood—he likes the gentle, silly old foolishness, the unconditional kindness, the way Osgood looks at him as if he’s the only miracle left in Florida. The thought of breaking Osgood’s heart stings far worse than the threat of Little Bonaparte’s men. Exasperated, his ears burning under the uncomfortable wig, Jerry finally snaps under the weight of the sweet, unwavering adoration in Osgood’s eyes.
Reaching up with both hands, Jerry yanks the wig clean off his head, letting his short, unstyled dark hair flatten in the wind, and drops his voice into its natural, raspy tenor. "I'm a man!" Jerry yells, staring at him, braced for the inevitable horror, the betrayal, or the sharp turn of the boat back to the police docks.
Osgood doesn't flinch. He doesn't pull away. He just keeps his cheerful eyes on the dark horizon, a soft, indulgent smile playing on his lips as he adjusts his course toward the open sea. "Well, nobody's perfect!" Osgood replies smoothly, his voice warm and unfazed.
Jerry sits entirely frozen, his mouth opening and closing like a landed trout, the crisp sea spray settling on his hot cheeks as the utter absurd safety of the moment washes over him. A giddy, breathy laugh bubbles up from his chest, entirely uncontrollable, shaking his shoulders until it turns into a light, genuine chuckle. He tosses the yellow wig into his lap, wipes a bit of smudged lipstick from the corner of his mouth, and leans a tiny bit closer to the man at the wheel.
"Jerry," he says, his real voice soft against the churn of the motor, holding out a hand into the dark. "Gerald Ryan. It's... real nice to properly meet you, Osgood."