“You don’t have to stand over there, Sawyer.”
“I probably should’ve called, right? Sent an email or text or something.”
“Are you okay? What’s up?”
“Lula.” We’re interrupted by one of the musicians. “Great set, girl.” The other band members stroll by, each extending accolades with just as much enthusiasm. Lula introduces me, and after a brief chat, the drummer ropes off the room with a stanchion.
“Do you have a moment to talk?” I ask her as soon as we’re alone.
She glances at a nearby table. “Let’s sit. I have another set in thirty minutes, but we can chat for a few.” She rests her elbows on the table, and I’m floored again by her beauty and how adorable she is. “Sawyer, I’m getting antsy. I’m glad you’re here, but this doesn’t feel like a social visit.”
“No. No. No. I wanted to listen to you sing.” It is an innocent statement, but it didn’t help that my voice cracked.
She tilts her head, studying my face. “What’s going on with you?”
“I’m waiting on the link to the film. The one I had restored. Still don’t have proof if it’s a lost Micheaux.”
“Okay.” She’s waiting for me to get to the point.
I plant my elbows on the small round table, wishing I hadn’t given up cigarettes after the crash. I could use one or ten, or even a hit. “I talked to Maggie White. Miss Honoree is my great-grandmother. Unless the two old gals formed some sort of conspiracy—for no rational reason. I don’t know, but it’s messing with my head.”
Lula looks grim. “We can’t do anything about this tonight, Sawyer. Whatever this is. Can you hang out until my set is done?”
“I can’t explain why I’m dropping this on you—not your trouble.”
She touches my hand and squeezes hard. “No trouble. I understand family and secrets. The stuff that remains unspoken. You’re lucky. The key players in your mystery are alive and kicking. Knock on wood. You can still get answers.”
She’s right, but my melancholy shifts into place. “I should return to the hostel. Do some writing. Edit some recorded interviews. You know, do some work.”
She reaches over the small table and takes my hands in hers. “I said wait for me.”
I smile, nod, and settle back in my seat, but first, I stop a waitress and order another tequila.
CHAPTER 38
HONOREE
Thursday, December 24, 1925
It was late on Christmas Eve. Honoree had taken a couple of nights off and was curled up on the cot, legs crossed, shoulders slumped, threading a needle. She had two things on her mind: Ezekiel and dancing at Capone’s bash on New Year’s Eve.
In a battle between what caused her the most worry, Ezekiel won. He’d taken his father’s life, and she understood why, but what had it done to his soul?How do you forgive yourself for killing your father?
“Damn.”
“What’s wrong?” Bessie sat at the opposite end of the cot, mending a hole in a musician’s shirt.
“Nothing.” Honoree brought the thread to her lips to moisten the tip. Her grip had slipped, and she had to thread the needle again. “Nothin’s wrong.”
Honoree walked over to the Singer and dropped her sewing kit into a basket. Outside the window, the snow was falling sideways, and the wind howled like wolves in the woods. She guessed about the wolf, having not left Chicago since she was five years old. “There’ll be two feet of snow outside by morning.”
Bessie huffed. “You’ve been acting odd since you saw Ezekiel. Talking about the weather, missing work at the Dreamland, moping around here—that’s not like you.”
“Why I missed work is my business,” Honoree said, unwilling to admit Bessie had guessed right. “I won’t be fired. I have friends in the right places, like Lil and Mr. Buttons.”
“You’re crazy not to go to work, no matter what happened with Ezekiel.”
Honoree squinted at her. “I should be the one asking how you’re doing.”
