There was a noise in the doorway and Honoree pivoted just as Bessie charged in, huffing and puffing as if she’d run from the Tribune Tower.
“I found him!”
“Who were you looking for, Miss Lady?” Trudy asked.
“None of your beeswax.” Honoree turned to Bessie. “Will he wait?”
Bessie met Honoree’s gaze. “He’s tall and very handsome.”
“I told you that much already.” Honoree beckoned Bessie closer. “Will he wait?”
“Yes, ma’am, he’ll wait. He promised.”
Honoree gathered her things, the shopping bag, and her box purse, but halfway to the door, she turned to Trudy. “We made a deal. I’ll do my end, but you better do yours. And my friend, the new girl, will keep an eye on you. Won’t you, Bessie?”
“Yes, ma’am. I sure will.”
“So don’t try and screw me over.”
“I don’t need a watchdog,” Trudy said, powdering her armpits. “I’ll keep my word, and you keep yours.”
Honoree pulled five one-dollar bills from her box purse. “Here.”
Trudy snatched the money from her hand.
“Okay,” Honoree said. “You’ll get the rest on Sunday.”
CHAPTER 8
HONOREE
The cafe was crowded, but Honoree pushed through the swarm without a singlepardon me,excuse me,please, orthank you. Coat over her arm, shopping bag and purse in hand, she had to reach Ezekiel, look him in the eye, and ask him her questions. Simple questions. Easy questions. Questions that had stomped across her mind every day, every hour, every minute that first year, like a record on a phonograph playing over and over:
Why did you leave?
Why didn’t you write?
Why didn’t you see me before you decided to go?
They were separated now by only a handful of Miss Hattie’s patrons. He wasn’t looking in her direction, but his profile was familiar and strange at once. He was gazing off into the distance as if the walls were glass and he could see through time.
Six foot three—lookin’ like Joe Brooks, fashionably dressed in a brown-and-gold pin-striped suit. Broad shoulders. A tweed overcoat on his arm. A felt fedora in his hand. He looked different, hard-boiled, but also the same—the same handsome boy she had once loved desperately.
His wavy black hair was shiny with pomade, and a thin black beard covered his brown skin, and he had a mustache. But unlike the ridiculous Charlie Chaplin toothbrush patch Archie wore, Ezekiel’s full mustache suited his mouth and straight nose perfectly.
As she studied him, this new Ezekiel, she thought back to when they were children—so close, so connected, they sensed the other’s presence sight unseen. Did that invisible thread still exist between them?
Her feet inched forward, as he suddenly turned. His gaze was cold, passionless, and her breath caught on the barbs in her throat.
“Hello, Ezekiel.”
“Honoree.” His voice carried not the slightest sign of longing. “Would you like a drink?” He raised his hand at the nearest barkeep, who happened to be Dewey. “We’ll take two bourbons.”
The heel of her shoe ground into the sawdust. Ezekiel hadn’t said hello and said her name as if calling a cab. And why ask her if she wanted to drink and then not wait for her reply?
“I don’t drink bourbon. I drink gin.”
“Bootleg gin is never as good as bootleg bourbon. But if you want gin—” He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Half the bar jumped out of their skin, including Honoree. Both barkeeps turned, too, but Dewey walked over with a killer’s scowl on his face. “Was that for me?”
