Perhaps she didn't need to throw the silk dress she wore to her lunch engagement down with such furor, or kick the heels into the corner with such energy. Still, it was the only thing she could think of to relieve...well, Clara didn't actually have a word for the feeling she was trying to exorcise, and Clara was a person with a lot of words.

Wrapping a kimono over her slip, she sat on her bed and tried to decide between taking a bath now and writing into the night, or writing now and seeing where the evening led. Maybe she'd call Angela and offer dinner, and spend time with people capable of making conversation, like about to be four-year-old Tommy, which would be a nice change from the mummified tablemates who were her luncheon partners.

That's when she heard footsteps in the hallway. The left leg landed heavier with each step. She smiled and flung her door open.

"Jimmy! It's so good to see you!" She says as he spins her around like they are still twelve, but the grimace on his face from the exertion the action requires from his leg reminds her they are no longer children.

"Oh, no assault or insults this time?" He says, and with a half-grin as he sets her back down.

She studies him for a moment. The suit is new and different for sure, but that's not it. Jimmy has changed in some real way, and it's almost as dramatic a change as the day when he came to Bryn Mawr to tell her he had enlisted in the Army or the day he came home from Europe.

"You look different. Tell me about Chicago? I'm so glad you're back."

"What's to say? I did well." A slight shiver goes down her spine, thinking about what could be hiding in that succinct answer, thinking about the window the Four Deuces gave her into a world she feels is encroaching on her own.

She looks at her father's door. He's dirty, she knows, but she firmly believes every politician is. She's met a lot and never met one she didn't think was corrupt or on the take. Her dad's just better at it than most. But now, Jimmy, and her dad... it's different. It's a new decade and a new game, and she's not sure any of them are well suited to the play.

"I'm starving, though," Jimmy interrupts her anxious revelry. "The dining car was out of order."

"Why didn't you tell us you were coming home? I would have ordered food!"

He looks at her strangely. "Clara, I swear, I sent a telegram." Jimmy lights a cigarette, takes a drag and then passes it to her.

She frowns. "That's odd. You know that Angela got the money you'd been sending, right? Before I even made it back from Chicago, she received an envelope."

"No, I didn't know," he answered. Clara looks up at him as she draws another puff. That means he hasn't been home yet. That's not great. "I'm sorry you missed out on seeing Chicago with Richard and me."

"And I as well. Instead, I got to share my compartment on the train with the world's most empty-headed woman. That's a story I'll tell you later." She looked at the cigarette with great interest for a moment. "How is Mr. Harrow?"

"Sitting on the Boardwalk, waiting for me to finish meeting with Nucky." He regarded her thoughtfully. "Did Richard have the mask off when you walked into my room?"

Clara nods. "That part of his face looks so raw and painful. Is it hard for him speak? He's so deliberate with his words."

"I think so; he doesn't really say. I don't think many people see him without the mask, though. But I also think most people don't look at him at all, but you did." Now he regards his childhood friend seriously. It was true what he said that evening in his room. Clara was many things to most people-charming, tactful, clever. Rarely was she openly friendly. She was far to guarded with almost everyone for genuine friendliness. He wondered why they both had such similar reactions to Richard Harrow. For him, it was because Richard's war wounds looked how his felt on the inside.

Suddenly, he saw Clara as she was when they were eight, and he wondered if maybe she felt the same after all.

"James, Mr. Thompson is ready," Eddie calls from the hall.

"I'll talk with you soon," he said.

Clara's thoughts returned to Richard. She had seen that the left side of his mouth was missing, and the throat scar. She'd bet the mask had to come off to eat, that he wouldn't want to do it in public, and anyway the dining car was out of service. Meaning he was hungry, and she was a girl with a room service department at her disposable.

"Eddie, could you do me a favor?" She asked, sticking her head into the other hall. "Please ask the kitchen to rush a picnic-easy to eat things, nothing on the bone. Soft bread. And I'll need utensils and some bottles of cola." She thought through it all again. "Oh, and straws. I need straws. I'll pick it up at the front desk."

Her hands bypass her fancier summer outfits and land on a favorite, a simple floral dress she's had since college. Perfect. She's lacing her espadrilles when Eddie lets her know her picnic is waiting at the front desk.

Carting the box and two glass bottles out of the hotel, she scans the nearby benches. She sees him immediately and walks up behind the bench.

"Fancy meeting you here," she says from behind.

Richard is staring out into the sea. His mask is hot on his face, he's hungry, and he's ready to move on. He sees a pretty young woman holding a picnic box in the corner of his sight, but he doesn't connect her with him until she walks in front of him.

"Mmm, Miss Thompson."

"Clara, please. I'm so glad you came from Chicago with Jimmy!" She smiles and actually looks happy he's sitting on her Boardwalk. He looks down at his hands, twisting around each other of their own accord, and sees her leg brush against his case with the dead German's sniper mask as she sits down. He winces at the incongruity of her floral skirt and bare leg against the souvenir of war.

"Jimmy said the dining car was out of order, so I brought you a picnic," she continues, like he was participating in the conversation. He looks at her again, startled. It was kind, but he couldn't eat in front of all these people. He couldn't eat in front of her, with her immaculate floral dress and shiny hair.

"It's all packed up so you can take it with you," she goes on, pretending she hadn't seen the look of panic. "But I'm thirsty, and I haven't even been on a train from Chicago. So I thought you might be as well?" She hands him a glass bottle before opening the top of the picnic box and pulling out straws. She frowns as she looks deeper into the basket.

"They forgot to put in a bottle opener. I'll go get one from the front desk."

"No. Mmm. Here," Richard pulled a knife from his waistband and swiftly removed the tops. Clara stares straight into the ocean as he turns to drink his. "Mmm. Thank you."

She turns to smile. "I was just thinking this will be the most enjoyable thing I get to do all day."

"What do you. Erm. Do?"

"I do nothing, and yet it requires me to change clothes three times a day and spend all my time with people I don't actually like."

Later that evening, Jimmy checked out Richard's new room with him. Close to the Boardwalk, close to his flat with Angie. Perfect. "Not bad, Rich. Atlantic City is going to be good for us," Jimmy spotted the hamper, which could only hold a picnic from the hotel. "What's that?"

"Clara, she, mmm, brought me lunch."

Jimmy laughed. "Oh, Jesus, I can't wait to see what she thought to pack for you." Richard pulled out a pigeon pie, soft bread, Saratoga chips, grapes, cheese, gingerbread, and a jar of pate. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with some of these things. Jimmy laughs again.

"Clara and I shared a crib when we were babies, and she's like a sister. If she likes you, she'll do anything for you. I'd do anything for her. But people call her the princess in the tower, and that's what she is. She's spent her life on the 8th floor of the Ritz, with her father Nucky passing money out like fairy dust, and a whole hotel staff ready to do her bidding. It makes her a little, uh, impractical about some things. If she ever tells you she'll bring lunch be prepared for caviar or for fried chicken and the fact she doesn't won't see any difference."

Richard thought about Jimmy's words as he ate pate sandwiches. But later that night, once he was unpacked, he pulled out his book, scissors, and glue. He went past some of his layouts and found one he started in Chicago. Already pasted on the page was "Clara Thompson" cut out from her article, and the names of the books she recommended. Underneath, he glued the hotel logo from the paper napkin he found in the box and wrote "Clara's Picnic" underneath.

Richard had worked for Mr. Nucky Thompson for a couple of weeks, but so far, it solely consisted of following Jimmy around, waiting for him, and meeting more people than he could keep straight.

Jimmy had been closeted with Mr. Thompson for hours tonight. Sometimes that wasn't so bad because Clara would drift out of her room and talk to him, and even if he couldn't always answer her, he liked the way she spoke to him like she had been sitting in her fancy hotel suite just hoping he would come by. She would tell him about playing with Jimmy's son, or the book she was reading, or the article she was writing. Sometimes she even had a new record and would put it on the gramophone in the next room and turn it up so he could hear it, but did it in such a way that no one would think he was listening to music when he should be working. She did that mostly on the nights he didn't answer her when she talked.

He heard the front door to the suite open and a man's voice coming down the hall, followed by the click of high heeled shoes. The sound never stopped but kept getting closer. Richard had chosen a chair in the shadows so that no one would be able to see him (but also because if Clara had been home she would have been able to sit in the drawing-room and talk to him without people in the hallway seeing her). He sees a handsome, tall blonde man about his age in a dinner jacket walking in front of Clara. Clara's wearing a green dress even he can see must be very expensive, and she doesn't look like Jimmy's friend. She looks like someone who is going to marry the man in the dinner jacket and never even realize people like him exist in her world.

He stares at Clara's face. Since the day she invaded Jimmy's room and declared them friends, he has seen her anxious, happy, angry, calm, teasing, excited, and laughing. Never has he seen her like this. Sometimes he can't keep up when Clara talks, so he just watches her face (and sometimes he can't look at her face, or he can only look when she doesn't look back). It changes with every thought. Tonight, there's no expression on her face. It seemed, he thought, like she was wearing a mask of her face. It's as blank as his own. As the man in the dinner jacket continued to talk, Clara sometimes nodded but never actually responded. She just stared blankly ahead.

"And who have we here?" The blond man finally says as they approach the hallway where Richard is sitting. He stands, twisting his cap in his hands. Clara sees him and smiles slightly.

"Mr. Richard Harrow, he works with my father."Clara answers in a very quiet voice.

"Your father, mm, is in his office. With Jimmy." Clara noticed the click after some words and the cheek pull was worse. She wondered if it was from being tired or from stress.

"Well, then Clara, are you off to bed?" the dinner jacket man asked.

Clara stared at him. "Excuse me?"

He looked pointedly at Richard, and then back at Clara, taking her arm in his hand. "I need to get going, so don't you think you should go to bed?" Clara's cheeks flamed.

"I think I'm capable of deciding for myself," she said, pulling her arm back.

"Let's not do this here," he said and started pulling her towards her room. Richard stood up, ready to intervene. Clara shakes her head at him, and her fiance shuts the door behind him. Richard hears their voices through the door. He's reasonably sure Clara's crying.

Richard realized that soon that man would be able to walk into any room with Clara he wished and shut the door behind them. Richard's long since accepted that no woman is ever going to want to walk into a room with him and shut the door, but it feels wrong that someone who can do that with Clara makes her so unhappy.

When Darcy finally leaves, and Clara comes out of her room, Richard's eyes go to the red finger marks on her upper arm, where the dick had grabbed her. Her eyes are rimmed with red.

He could use his M1917 Enfield, Richard decided. The man would never know what hit him. Or perhaps he deserves to know, and so the Colt 1903 would be the better choice. Clara sits next to him for a bit but doesn't talk, and he thinks the Colt is the right answer.

The next night Richard's asleep in his bed when a car honks outside his window. Jimmy. He dresses as quickly as possible, puts on his mask, grabs his kit, and goes outside.

"A fucking d'Alessio tried to kill Nucky on the Boardwalk. Freaking Eddie saved him, but an innocent woman took the bullet. This means war, and this means Clara, Nuck's new lady, and her kids all need protection. When we get to the hotel, you're on Clara," Jimmy tells him as they speed to the hotel.

Richard draws his gun outside her room and enters quickly. Clara's lying on her side, a book still in her hand and her bedside lamp on. He checks the bedroom and bathroom, but no one else is there. He holsters the gun.

"Mmm." He's a little uncertain how to wake her. "Mmm, wake up," he tries again, and she stirs. She stiffens, so he tries once more, "It's me. Mmm. Richard Harrow."

Clara sits up. The strap on her nightgown has slid off her shoulder, and he tries not to look as she pushes it back up and picks up her kimono from the foot of the bed.. "I know who you are. What's wrong?"

"You need. To see your father."

Jimmy is impressed by how cooly Clara dealt with Harrow waking her up, and then finding out her father had been shot at. She barely changes her facial expression.

"In the morning, pack your things. It will be easier if you are with Margaret and her children. Fewer bodyguards needed, and it will be safer for you away from the Boardwalk," Nucky instructed his daughter.

Clara started to argue. "I barely know Margaret; she doesn't want me moving in! You haven't even been seeing her that long. What could happen to me here at the hotel?"

"No arguments, Clara. Tomorrow morning Mr. Harrow will drive you over, and there he can guard all of you."

"Fine," Clara said. "I'm going to get some more sleep." Nucky nodded at Harrow to follow her.

"You know," Nucky said to Jimmy, "it worries me when she agrees so easily to a plan that isn't hers."