“The house on Champlain Street.”
That house. That damn house. “I went there every day for a year, praying that maybe—maybe, you’d be back. Or leave some sign, anything to let me know where you’d gone—but nothing.” She jerked out of his grasp. “I’ve got to go.”
She cut through the crowd, waving at Pete behind the bar. She was in a hurry, and he had her things ready as soon as she reached him.
“Honoree, we need to talk.” Ezekiel had followed her.
She whirled. “You’ve been in town for two months and didn’t come to see me until tonight? Didn’t send me a note to let me know you’d returned. Left town without saying goodbye. Didn’t write for three years.” Her breathing was fast, and the air burned her lungs, but nothing would stop her. “I’m late for an appointment.” The roar of the crowd dulled, and the only sound in her ears was the roar of blood and anger. “And now you want to talk. No. No. I’m done.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I—I had no choice, Honoree.”
* * *
I had no choice. I had no choice!
This whole deal was rubbish. He had a choice—a choice to leave. A choice to come back. A choice not to tell her what had happened or why. Nothing but a whole heap of bushwa summed up Ezekiel and his choices.
She raced through the cafe, heading toward the front door. In a few more steps, she’d leave behind Miss Hattie’s—and Ezekiel—forever. But her life was a series of ups and downs, pushes and pulls. As one path opened, another slammed a fist into her chest.
And there it came, above the din of music and laughter and cigarette smoke—a familiar voice shouted her name. “Honoree! Hold your horses, missy. Stop right where you are, girl!”
She turned, and there was Archie Graves, barreling toward her.
“I know you heard me, Honoree.” Wearing a fancy pin-striped suit (always pin-striped) and a fedora on his head—set at an angle over his left eye—he looked like a photo of Al Capone she’d seen in theTribune. Except Archie wasn’t a round white man or a big-shot mobster.
“Where do you think you’re going, Honoree?”
“Why, Mr. Graves, what are you doing here on a Friday night?” She smiled a flirty smile, showing her girlish charms. Archie liked it when a woman acted sweet and vulnerable, whether she was or not. “Isn’t this your poker night?”
A fat pink tongue slid over the edge hairs of his mustache. “Had to cancel. Had more important business to tend to.” He peered down at her shopping bag and the coat draped over her arm. “Aren’t you due back onstage in a few minutes?”
He stepped aside for a couple of drunks who had stumbled toward them. But he didn’t take his eyes from her face. “Need to see you in my office after the midnight show. I’ve got some papers for you to read.”
It wasn’t an unusual request. Archie couldn’t read. Honoree had read theEncyclopaedia BritannicafromAtoZby the time she was twelve. Ezekiel had taught her, which was neither here nor there with Archie staring her down.
“Did you hear me? Are you listening, Honoree? Or is your mind wandering?”
“I’m sick.”
“Sick?” His nostrils flared. “Okay. Sorry to hear it,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Then don’t dance in the midnight show, but I need you to do some figuring for me.”
Getting out of this wouldn’t be easy. Archie had that helpless puppy-eyed look, which would change into an ugly bulldog if she said no.
“My head hurts bad. I couldn’t add one plus one. Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’m feeling poorly.”
She touched the collar of his shirt, fingering the edge of the lapel. “I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow, I’ll teach you how to read. Then you won’t have to depend on me.”
Archie grabbed her wrist and jerked her to him, holding her firmly against his wide, soft chest. Her feet scurried backward, but she couldn’t break free of his fleshy grip.
“Don’t try and fool me,” he spat. “I have papers for you to read and numbers for you to figure—now.”
“Archie, you’re hurting me.”
“Don’t act like a baby. You’re used to roughhousing.”
“Back off, Archie.” Another baritone came from behind her. “She said she was sick.”
Archie loosened his grip but pulled her possessively to his side. “Ezekiel, my friend. This is none of your beeswax, boy.”
