Grace of the Empire State

by Gemma Tizzard

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

In this breathtaking debut novel, a daring dancer must take her twin brother’s place as a riveter high atop the in-progress Empire State Building to save her family from ruin.

After the death of their father, it’s up to Grace O’Connell and her twin brother Patrick to support their family as the Great Depression takes its toll on New York City. When Grace is laid off from her dancing gig and Patrick is injured at work on the construction of the Empire State Building, desperation leaves them only one solution: Grace must disguise herself as Patrick and take his place on the half-built skyscraper.

She soon proves herself as capable as any man on the steel, and her affection for the loyal men around her—especially Italian immigrant Joe—grows by the day. But when a terrible accident happens high above the city and Grace is the only one capable of saving her stranded colleague, she must make a split-second decision to risk everything or live with her conscience forever.

Set against the backdrop of a city at a crossroads, this electrifying story is full of heart and hope, family and friendship, and the sacrifices we make for those we love.

Release date: January 28, 2025

Publisher: Gallery Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

Prologue

PROLOGUE
The crane derricks had all stopped moving, which was more disconcerting than anything else, as she stood poised, higher than she or almost anyone else had ever been before, her toes pointed, ready to take her first step. She breathed out through her mouth, clearing her mind, blocking out the hum of noise behind her, below her, where men’s voices scrambled over one another to be heard. They couldn’t help her now.

The wind whipped around her face, stealing her exhaled breath and ruffling her hair, chilling the back of her exposed neck. She flicked her eyes down. So far down. The street was hundreds of feet below her, a dizzying distance that made her stomach lurch and swoop, and the moment she stepped out along the crane arm, there would be nothing at all between her and it if she fell. The cars looked like tiny toys, the people no more than moving specks. The buildings around them, set out in their neat grids, resembled a toy village, something a rich child might receive for Christmas, wrapped in a red velvet bow. But it was real. All of this was too real.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “This is it.”

She placed a hand over her heart, feeling the rhythm of its beat, and breathed deeply until she felt it slow. She nodded once to herself, then stepped out along a metal beam no wider than her foot. With her arms out at her sides for balance, she tensed the muscles in her core to keep her movements tight and compact, concentrating deeply on her connection to the beam and grounding her foot to it.

“Wider than a tightrope,” she murmured to herself as she stepped again. She could do this. She had walked wires, and it was the same skill, no matter the height. Another step. She really was out on her own now, the safety of the half-finished building disappearing behind her.

“Just another dance,” she whispered, as she took another deep breath and lowered her shoulders from up around her ears, relaxing into her body the way she would before dancing. It worked; the next step was lighter, surer. “Nearly there,” she coached herself, as her eyes flicked up from the beam and out toward the horizon, New York City sprawling around her. “Some view,” she breathed.

She took another step, the wind whistling around her, and the crane arm creaked. Her breath caught in her chest and she froze, suddenly terrified, as her brain finally realized what her body was doing. She fought for balance. Paralyzed with terror, three hundred feet above the city, she cleared her mind once more, forcing out all doubt. She couldn’t turn back now if she wanted to. There was only one way to go, and she had a job to do.

She stepped forward.

Chapter 1

1
TUESDAY, JUNE 10, 1930

Grace O’Connell flew into the dressing room, pulling her dress off over her head.

“We keeping you from something?” A moon-faced girl down the bench leaned back to catch Grace’s eye, smile on her face, lipstick tube in hand.

“I’m not late,” Grace called back, stripping down to her underwear and hanging up her dress. Hopping as she pulled on her shoes, she cleared a space in the clutter of hats, props, and makeup lying on the wooden bench running the length of the room and lifted her leg to stretch. Reaching for her toes inside the newly shined black shoes, she felt the familiar pull in her back and neck. She held it for a moment before straightening back up in one slow, fluid movement.

“Dancers! Five minutes!”

All hell broke loose among the fifteen women in the room as they rushed to get ready. Half-dressed girls snatched their costumes from their markers, elbows flying as they tripped over each other with good-natured screeching and laughter. Material flew in a tornado of color as outfits and hats were yanked from rails to the bench and back again in a tumble of limbs. Dancers scrambled toward the mirrors, powdering cheeks and rouging lips, fastening shoes and warming their bodies.

“Hey, Gracie!” A woman slid into place next to Grace at the dressing table bench, knocking her and making her hop again. The naked bulb above them lit the new arrival’s meticulously painted features, the air immediately filling with the floral scent of her perfume. Leaning close to the mirror they shared, she added a beauty spot to her cheek.

“Ready for another night of high jinks and high kicks?” Her grin in Grace’s direction was pure mischief.

“Of course.” Grace swapped legs to complete her stretching.

Lillibet Lawrence was the self-proclaimed star of the show. The only one among them to give herself a stage name, she was Lily Lawrence to her audience and Betty to her friends. Even though she wore the same outfits and did the same routines as the rest of them, in her mind, at least, she was the draw.

“I have a new fur for you, courtesy of John,” she said, expertly lining her lips even as she talked.

“Thanks, Betty, but you really don’t need to give me your things.”

Betty waved her away. “You’re doing me a favor. It’s not my color.”

She pouted her full lips and wrinkled her small nose as she examined her handiwork in the mirror, turning her head one way and then the other. Pretty enough, she knew how to make the absolute best of her features. With a body shaped like a violin, she was used to attracting attention, and always wore a higher heel than the others to make herself taller.

“I hate this hair,” she complained, frowning. She jammed down her blue cap to cover as much of it as possible. The dancers at Dominic’s all had brown hair. For reasons best known to himself, Billy “Texas” Laredo, the club owner, not only preferred it, but insisted on it. In the eight months she’d been on staff, Grace had seen girls use everything from henna to boot polish to get around the rule. Betty was one of the few girls who, thanks to many male admirers, could afford a wig. She tugged it resentfully, making sure every wisp of her blond hair was covered. The rule made her furious; she had almost come to blows with Texas over it more than once.

“It’s our thing, makes us stand out,” he’d said once, cigar clamped in his jaws, smoke forming a wreath around his head.

“Nobody ever stood out by looking all the same,” Betty had fumed.

Grace never had to worry about the rule. Her hair was the color of polished walnut and had a natural shine. As she pulled her own cap on, her curls crackled in protest, a consequence of the liberally sprayed sugar water she used to hold them in place. Stretching routine complete, she met her own deep brown eyes in the mirror. Her strong jawline framed her face and made her striking. Turning to the side, she checked her profile. Blessed with a lithe and strong dancer’s frame, she could accentuate or hide the feminine curves of her body depending on how she felt. It was a gift in a world where she sometimes wanted to fade into the background. She rested her hands on her tiny waist, taking deep breaths in anticipation of the night’s work ahead.

A gentle bump on the elbow announced the arrival of her neighbor on the other side, Edie McCall, back from the bathroom where she normally went to change, an explosion of blue and white satin.

Grace’s face lit up to see her, and seconds later she was sliding a Baby Ruth bar into Edie’s small hand. It had become their routine. Grace knew how Edie loved chocolate and never bought treats for herself. Edie didn’t feel comfortable accepting gifts, even from her friends, so Grace told her she got them for free from a man at a nearby bodega who always had overstocks. It was more than worth the five cents a day to see the way Edie grinned, delighted not just at the chocolate but that someone was thinking of her. Edie’s life had not been easy, but she had a good heart. She had been the first girl to welcome Grace at Dominic’s and show her the ropes, and in return she would always have Grace’s loyalty.

Thank you, Edie mouthed silently, tearing the wrapper.

Being a performer seemed an odd choice for someone so painfully shy, but onstage Edie came to life like no one else.

“How was the big audition?” she asked around a mouthful of chocolate, wide-eyed with expectation, her voice high and fragile, her alabaster skin almost see-through.

“I was busy.” Grace’s voice was low and throaty in comparison. She reached for her opening-number outfit, unable to look at her friend.

“You didn’t go?”

She caught a glimpse of Edie, pale and waiflike, deflating with disappointment in the mirror. No one wanted her to succeed more than Edie did. Her slim shoulders, hollowed cheeks, and legs like hairpins made her look ethereal against the dark-wood paneling of their surroundings. If Grace could, she would wrap her up and take her home to live with her, give her a proper family. Edie’s huge eyes would have made even Clara Bow jealous, and she was so slim, children could learn to count using her ribs. Her beauty was undeniable, but settled on her in a haunted way, like a surface layer. She didn’t inhabit it the way Betty did.

“?’Course she didn’t go,” Betty said, pulling on the short white top with huge blue ruffled sleeves, transforming herself into a giant wrapped candy. “She never goes. What are you scared of, Gracie?” Betty was always direct, and rarely wrong. She knew these girls deserved more, but the world wasn’t going to hand it to them; they had to go out and get it.

Grace yanked on her own matching top, burying her face in it so she didn’t have to answer. The costumes were getting old. Not as white as they had once been, they smelled musty, of old sweat and stale cigarettes. Reaching for her perfume, she doused herself before pulling on the matching blue skirt, shorter at the front with a long, ruffled tail behind. Material puffed around their bodies so that they had to shift sideways to slip past each other. Grace took the opportunity to turn away from her friends, letting the conversation die in the chaos of girls rustling in acres of satin, pushing for mirror space to adjust their caps. One day she would make an audition for one of the big shows, but she was busy, and it was fine at Dominic’s, really. There was no rush. Sure, she was twenty-one now, but there was still time. Dancing was dancing, wherever you did it.

Texas appeared at the top of the stairs in his usual black dress coat and white tie. A tall man, his black hair—the brown rule clearly didn’t apply to him—was slicked down, making his head smooth as a seal. His neck overflowed from his shirt collar, and his eyes bulged, giving the impression he was being squeezed out of a tube. He took out a gold pocket watch on a chain, an affectation, and the dancers rolled their eyes.

“Line up, ladies!”

“Girls!” trilled Betty, as they jostled their way into place, making her way to the front of the line. She ran up the first two steps, stretching one leg straight up in the air past her ear in a standing split. The other dancers whooped and hollered their appreciation. “Chests out! Straight backs! Smiles on!” She transformed her own face with a dazzling smile and dipped her head back before spinning around to face them again, a glint in her eye. “Let’s go make some money.”

For two hours, the girls danced like their feet were on fire. They shimmied and spun, kicked and flicked, dipped their shoulders with hands on knees, batting their eyelashes for the cheering crowds. Skin glistened under hot lights as they performed chorus numbers and split into smaller groups, completing daring onstage costume changes to accompany the evening’s singers. Each dancer took a small solo spot to help the men banging on the tables choose their favorites.

Draped in sequins and feathers, Grace was completely lost to the moment. Her head was clear and her body was strong. Here she could fully embody her own name and feel the grace she moved with, the thump of her heart and the beat of the music all she needed to make sense of the world. There was no sadness, no worry; she was completely herself. Onstage she was free.

Once the show was over, the dressing area was filled with the cloying smell of flowers. Gifts from their particular admirers adorned each dancer’s place. Betty’s flowers and trinkets spilled over onto Grace’s space, but there was plenty of room. Grace didn’t encourage the advances of the men, so they tended to direct their attentions elsewhere. Many of the other girls were keen to take up offers of dinner and more, but Grace just wanted to dance. Betty, though, was furious if she didn’t have at least four men begging her to join them every night after the show. She said yes to most of them, rotating her admirers to keep her options open.

“Small crowd,” she said, clearing a space on the bench to lean against.

Grace nodded. It was impossible not to notice the dwindling numbers, but she thought it best not to think about it. Their audiences lately were lucky to reach half of what they used to be before the Wall Street Crash the year before. Grace had only been working there three weeks before it happened, and the crowds had never been the same since.

The room cleared quickly, girls rushing out to meet the men waiting for them. It was late, and they were keen to either get home or get out on the town. The chatter died down to a gentle hum and the few remaining girls were mostly out of their costumes and in their street clothes when Texas came into the room, his heft creaking down the steps. He headed straight for Grace, Betty, and Edie, who was holding a single white rose left on her station from a stranger. The small, unbelieving smile on her face was heartbreaking.

“Good show tonight,” he said with a curt nod. “Look, I want you in early tomorrow for the taxi dance next door. Be here at four.” He took a cigarette from behind his ear and pulled a matchbook from his pocket.

“Ah, hell.” Grace was hanging her costumes on the rack by her marker. She flopped into an old red armchair and a plume of dust puffed up out of it, making her cough.

“No thank you,” Betty said, unpinning flowers from her wig. She laid them in front of the mirror, in the only small space available, bending to sniff a huge bouquet of yellow roses.

Texas struck the match against a wooden beam and lit his cigarette. “Not asking, I’m telling.”

Edie was quietly tucking her dance shoes on the rack by her name, not wanting to draw attention. Texas was the boss, and if he said that was what they were doing, she would do it. She would take any money in her pocket he could give her. She would dance all day if he wanted her to.

“The men are awful,” Grace said with an exaggerated shudder.

“All men are awful.” Texas shrugged, taking a drag of his cigarette and blowing the smoke out into the room. He pulled at the collar of his shirt. “Get used to it.”

“And are you gonna stop them from putting their hands all over us?” Betty threw him a sharp glance and looked back to the mirror, where she was reapplying red lipstick. It stood out like spilled blood against her pale skin. “Ten cents and they think it’s all for the taking.”

“Anyone too handsy gets booted, you know that. You’ll be looked after. They pay their money, you give ’em a spin. Charm them if you can manage that.” He shot a pointed look at Betty, and she blew him a kiss.

“Can’t stop them treading on our feet, though, can you?” asked Grace, standing and performing a simple rock step. She threw her hands in the air and let them fall with a clap onto thighs now covered in a blue knee-length dress, far more modest than her show costumes. “I’ve never seen less rhythm. I need these feet, y’know. I can’t afford to keep losing toenails.”

“Be here,” Texas said, ignoring their complaints. His pointed finger swept the room to take in everyone who was left. “Are y’all listening? If you’re here now, I want you here tomorrow.”

“Sure, fine,” Betty said, flicking her hand to dismiss him. “We’ll be here, now can you let us change in peace? Some of us have places to be.”

“With pleasure,” he said, running a thumb up and down the inside of his suspenders. “Don’t be late,” he added as he turned and left.

“Guy’s a creep.” Betty raised her voice enough to ensure he heard and had to pretend he hadn’t. She took off her wig and shook out her short blond hair underneath. “So what’s next, ladies? I heard Greta, Mae, and Charlotte say they were heading to the Onyx Club. Vernon is playing there tonight.” She gave Grace a wolfish smile.

“I’ve gotta get home,” Edie said, slipping her arms into her fox-fur coat. Another of Betty’s castoffs, Edie treated it like spun gold, even though it was at least two sizes too big and swamped her. It was also June, but she would probably wear it all summer. She was always cold. With her felt cloche hat, she looked like she was heading out on a polar expedition rather than taking the elevated to the Lower East Side.

“Okay,” Betty sighed, knowing there was no point even trying to change her mind. “Are you all right to get home?”

“Sure,” Edie said with a tight smile.

Grace flicked a look over at her. Edie’s stockings were worn threadbare at the ankles and her shoes were scuffed. Grace knew she wasn’t coming because she couldn’t afford it. She also suspected that some nights Edie walked the thirty blocks home to save money. It made her heart ache that she didn’t know how to help her. These were tough times for a lot of people.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “It’ll be fun. We don’t have to stay long.”

“Not tonight.” Edie started moving toward the door. “Have fun, though. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

“?’Night, little bird.” Betty blew her a kiss. Once Edie had left, she turned her attention back to Grace. “I love that kid. She breaks my heart. So, you’re coming?”

“Well, I guess it’s not far.” A smirk crept across Grace’s face. The club was just around the corner, and she could never resist Betty’s company, or an excuse to not go home.

“When you’re right, you’re right.” Betty slipped two cigarettes from a slim silver case and handed one to Grace. “And our best years are short. Gotta get on the merry-go-round while the music’s still playing.”

Although the club was close, right off Times Square, it was almost midnight by the time they finally arrived. Grace watched as Betty disappeared to the bar and came back with two tumblers full of amber liquid. Prohibition was a joke in New York City; the alcohol had never stopped flowing for a minute. She took the glass with a nod and slid into a chair, transfixed by the stage, where a beautiful Black woman, hair wrapped in a shimmering purple turban that matched her dress, was singing, glittering under the lights. Her voice dripped honey, each note effortlessly smooth and wrapped in silk. It sent shivers through Grace, as if someone were playing her spine like a piano, and the hairs rose on her arms and the back of her neck.

“Let’s do it, Let’s fall in love.” Betty was singing along softly, her eyes on the band. Grace followed her line of sight, already knowing where it would lead. Vernon. A tall man playing the trumpet onstage, looking dapper in his white dinner jacket and black bow tie. His dark skin glimmered in the soft light as he gently swayed. When he noticed Betty watching him, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Looks like it’s too late for that,” Grace teased, eyebrows raised. Betty’s mouth twitched into a smile and they both laughed as they drank.

The night drifted on, full of drinking, flirting, and conversation. Grace found herself dancing the shag with Andre, a friend of Vernon’s, who had taken a break from serving drinks. Their legs moved at breakneck speed, ankles and knees flicking left to right until their swiveling shoes were almost a blur. She laughed as she twirled. They mirrored each other with progressively complicated steps until a small crowd gathered, clapping and hollering. As the music ended, the pair took a bow. Andre spun her one more time and raised her hand to his lips.

“Thank you for the dance, Miss Grace.”

“The pleasure was all mine.” Grace’s skin was glowing under a sheen of perspiration, her eyes alive. There was nothing she loved more than to dance.

“You are a beautiful dancer,” Andre said, a big grin across his face.

“You’re pretty good yourself,” Grace replied, leaning closer. “I’m taxi dancing at the Ivy dance hall next to Dominic’s tomorrow afternoon, if you want to come along. I could do with a good partner.”

Andre shook his head in disbelief. “You’re too talented to taxi dance with the schmucks in this city. You should be in the big shows.”

“One day.” Grace smiled, gave a little shrug, and went to get another drink.

Emboldened by three drinks, on a whim she slipped off her shoes and jumped up on one of the tables, enjoying the familiar rush of surprising people with old circus tricks. To the shock and delight of her audience, she leapt from table to table as people grabbed for their drinks to make way for her well-practiced feet. Landing each time with perfect balance before springing to the next, she crossed the room to a soundtrack of disbelieving squeals and impressed chuckles.

The final table—small and circular, barely big enough to stand on—wobbled precariously as she landed, provoking gasps and shrieks from her rapt audience. The wobble serving as momentum, she used her feet to make the table rotate like a spinning top as a spotlight suddenly swung around to pick her out through the smoky atmosphere of the room. The gasps increased in volume with the speed until the table was a blur. Just before she lost control completely, she leapt to the ground, performing a perfect pirouette before taking a deep bow, reaching out to still the spinning table with one hand before it fell over.

Roaring their appreciation, the crowd sprang to their feet, the applause deafening. Men swatted each other with their hats in disbelief, eyes saucer-wide at what they had just seen.

“She was in the circus, you know,” Betty said to anyone who would listen, as she barged her way across the room to reach her friend. “Spent a year swinging from rafters like a monkey.” The spotlight swung away again, and Betty continued weaving between bodies, Grace’s shoes in her outstretched hand. Vernon trailed behind, his work for the night finished and his bow tie undone.

“I didn’t swing from anything, Betty. That’s the trapeze.”

“Same thing,” Betty said, shrugging. “It’s all a good way to break your neck. Now come on, time to go.” She scooped Grace up, leading her toward the exit.

Back at street level, the bruised sky was already starting to lighten with the purple and pink streaks of the coming sunrise. The fresh air slapped Grace in the face, making her woozy, while the lingering smells from a nearby restaurant made her stomach growl. She looked up. The skeleton of the Empire State Building was already dominating the landscape. You could see it from blocks away, and they had a long way to go yet. She thought about her twin brother, Patrick, and the other men who would be up there in a few hours, crawling all over it like ants on a dropped ice cream. Better them than her. She would be sleeping in.

Betty signaled a taxi and the three of them climbed inside. “West Fifty-Seventh and Tenth,” she told the driver.

Grace’s head lolled against the window, melancholy feelings washing over her. The comedown from music and dancing to the misery of reality always took a bite out of her.

The city rushed by in a blur of electric lights, brickwork, and gray buildings. In no time, Vernon was jumping out of the taxi and leading her gently by the arm to the stoop of her apartment building.

“Goodnight, Grace,” the big man whispered in his deep but gentle voice.

“?’Night, Vernon, you’re a gentleman.”

“You sure you’re all right now?”

Grace waved at Betty and turned to give Vernon one last lopsided smile. “Sure. I always am.”

She tiptoed up the stairs to the third floor and let herself in, cursing when she knocked a tin cup off the counter with her hip, sending it bouncing across the wooden floor.

“Dammit,” she hissed, stooping to pick it up. “Shh!” Admonishing herself, she heard the creak of a door opening and sighed, knowing it was too late.

“Grace.” The whispered voice managed to sound disapproving, even thick with sleep.

“Patrick.” Grace was already heading into her small room, not wanting any further conversation.

“Do you know the time?” He took a step toward her.

“Bedtime,” Grace replied, turning to face him.

“That was hours ago.” The level of annoyance started to increase on both sides as they squared up to each other in the half-light, confrontation inevitable now. “Where have you been?”

“At work, Patrick, although what concern it is of yours, I don’t know, to be sure.” Grace mentally kicked herself. Outside the house she sounded like an American, but at home, her Irish accent and phrasings always came back.

A thunder of footsteps clattered above, quickly followed by at least three children crying. The wailing penetrated through the thin ceiling as if it was barely there. There was no such thing as privacy in this building, and no doubt their neighbors could hear their raised voices in return.

Patrick wasn’t done. “It is my concern when I have no idea where you are, Ma is worried sick, and you wake me up when you get in.”

“Was it me that woke you, Patrick, or was it the Donohues’ twelve children”—Grace jabbed her finger up at the ceiling—“and you just thought it was a good excuse to roar at me?”

She glared at her brother, further irritated by the fact that it was like looking at herself. They were as alike as any fraternal twins could be, with the same face shape and features. She knew her eyes were filled with anger, and she could see Patrick’s flaring back at her, just the same.

“What’s going on?” a small voice called out in hushed tones, before starting to cough uncontrollably.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Patrick growled.

Their younger sister, Connie, just ten, stood in the doorway, barefoot in her nightdress, her pale face surrounded by a mess of butter-colored curls.

“Nothing, Con,” Grace reassured her. “Go on back to bed.”

Connie wiped her hand sleepily across her eyes and nodded, disappearing back into the dark.

“You’ve been acting the fool ever since Da died,” Patrick hissed, shaking his head. “Do you think he would be proud?”

The words were like a punch to Grace’s gut.

He turned away. “I’m going back to bed. I have to be up.”

“You do that,” Grace whispered, still in shock. Anger quickly took over and she clenched her fists as the screaming in the apartment above their heads intensified. “Doing my job isn’t acting up, you fool,” she said to his back. “And you’re not him, you know that?” She wanted to hurt him as much as he had hurt her. “You never will be. You used to be fun before he died. Now, you wouldn’t know how. Life is for living, Patrick,” she added. “You should try it sometime.”

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