Honoree lowered her head, a touch of shame putting a flutter in her stomach. “A lot is going on in my life, Mr. Turner.” She felt obligated to explain. “I couldn’t go to work tonight.”
“Known you since you were a baby in your mother’s arms.”
“I don’t remember my mother carrying me.”
“Don’t get snippy,” he said with a smile. “I’m only saying that whatever is going on, you shouldn’t be telling fibs. A lie will catch up with you.”
“Not if I get good at it,” she said with a small smile.
Mr. Turner pushed his glasses up on his nose. “I thought you were a better girl than that, Honoree. Your papa wouldn’t be pleased.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back on the job tomorrow. You have a proper evening.”
As she left the store, a newsboy stood on the corner. “Wanna buy a paper, ma’am?”
“Yes, I do.” She handed him a nickel and, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, rifled through the pages, searching for the posting of the winning policy numbers.
Hot damn! She found the numbers on the sports page. Eighty-seven betting slips—all of them winners! She could be wealthy if she cashed them in—something she couldn’t do.
She hurried home to the kitchenette and went to her mother’s Singer sewing machine. There was the tall stack of wicker baskets—all shapes and sizes, filled with rhinestones and tassels. Near the bottom was the heart-shaped wicker basket with the envelope.
Honoree placed a hand over her heart as another round of nerves sped through her body. A herd of wild beasts stampeded across her chest. She couldn’t catch her breath.
Sewing calmed her nerves; sewing, and stitching, and cutting out patterns. A new dress with tassels and beads and a plunging neckline could go a long way in healing her mind, body, and soul.
She searched through the stack and found a few yards of gold lamé and a yard or two of gold lace. Not the expensive material sold at Marshall Field’s, but that didn’t matter. She could make artificial silk look like diamonds and pearls with her eyes closed.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she cut the pattern using old newspapers. Occasionally she uncrossed her legs and stretched them out in front of her. The aches and pains from sewing were a decent kind of tired. Just like wearing a new dress would help her feel better, or not as bad, about returning to Miss Hattie’s Garden Cafe.
CHAPTER 17
SAWYER
Sunday, June 21, 2015
The next day, I’m at the vending machine, banging my fist lightly on the side of the snack-filled metal box. I have a decision to make—Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Three Musketeers, or Snickers.
“I’m sorry about this morning, Sawyer, but she’s still tired and doesn’t want to see anyone now. But maybe she’ll feel better later today and change her mind.” Lula stands beside me, where she’s been for a few minutes, explaining why I will not be admitted to Honoree’s room.
I don’t bother to threaten her with the mighty Mrs. Hendrickson. Lula is resolute, and I’m gun-shy about my Maggie deception. Still, I’m not happy.
“She’ll be in a better frame of mind tomorrow,” Lula says unconvincingly. “I’m sure.”
“Didn’t you say that yesterday?” Feeling a surge of panic, I admit the obvious. “I won’t be able to finish my project if I keep tripping over land mines with her.” I push a dollar bill into the slot. “I did what she asked. I told her something about myself, and all was good—until I mentioned the house in Baton Rouge.”
Lula leans against the vending machine. “That did rile her up. She was still talking about it when I brought her dinner last night.”
“Do you know why?” I ask.
“I’m clueless,” she replies. “Why don’t you ask your grandmother?”
Perfect timing for me to hem and haw since Maggie has no idea about my trip to Chicago. “Maggie’s eighty-nine years old and not spry like Honoree. I would rather not bother her, if possible.”
“Maggie?” Lula looks shocked.
“Yeah. I call my grandmother by her first name.” I don’t linger on this subject. “Do you remember anyone else asking Miss Honoree about Baton Rouge?”
“Does she live alone? Is there someone you can call to ask her?”
