“I wager he already knows and won’t be mad.”
Honoree finished the call and thanked Mr. Turner. Once outside in front of the store, she hugged Bessie. “I’ll never have to dance across that crappy stage again. Hallelujah.”
Bessie wiggled free of the embrace, not as cheerful as before.
“Why are you looking so solemn?” Honoree asked.
“We won’t be dancing together anymore.”
“We live together and can dance together at home.” Honoree sighed. “It’ll be better for us not to spend so much time together, anyway. We’ll have more to talk about in the evenings.”
Bessie blinked back tears and put a grim smile on her face. “I’ll keep you up-to-date on all the news at Miss Hattie’s.”
Honoree didn’t give a hoot about the news from Miss Hattie’s, but she didn’t say that. “Come on, Bessie. Let’s celebrate. The Dreamland Cafe is opening back up, and I feel like making a new dress with sparkles, and I’ll make you one, too.”
* * *
Honoree returned to the Dreamland Cafe Tuesday afternoon for her first official rehearsal, just like Zelda had instructed on the telephone—and it was a doozy of a rehearsal, too. “I thought we practiced in the same room where we auditioned?”
“Not today,” Hazel said.
Honoree rushed by Colethea and Hazel into the main dance hall. Most of the chorus girls had already piled onto the stage. The dance master strolled in next, looking dapper in his suspenders, red shirt, and black breeches, and pointing his cane at the piano player, directing him to the balcony. Both men appeared the same as the night she first saw them. Superior, self-contained, and in charge.
“This Saturday, on opening night, I expect perfection,” the dance master said. Then he proceeded to lead the girls through three straight hours practicing routine after routine. Until finally, he said, “Take a break.”
The chorus girls collapsed where they stood, gulping air, dripping sweat, massaging sore limps, and begging for glasses of water.
Colethea tapped Honoree’s shoulder. “Do you see who’s watching us?” She pointed toward the bar.
Squinting, Honoree tried to make out the figure on the other side of the room. A woman stood in a beam of light, wearing a floor-length mink coat and a rhinestone-studded cloche hat. Petit but statuesque, she had an air of self-confidence that made everything that wasn’t her seem flustered and flabbergasted. Honoree yelped like a puppy. “Lil Hardin Armstrong. The Queen of the Stroll. The Wizard of the Keys. The ritziest twenty-seven-year-old woman in Chicago jazz music and married to New Orleans trumpet player Louis Armstrong—oh my God.”
Colethea grinned. “Child, calm yourself.”
Lil sat on one of the barstools and opened her ravishing mink coat.
“Is she wearing the new Chanel tweed suit?” Honoree muttered. “The one with the sequins?”
“I have no idea what the suit’s called other than swell.”
Honoree thought about how the dance master had worked the chorus, and every ache in her body seemed suddenly wholly worthwhile. “She’s why he rehearsed us so hard.”
“You’re right,” Colethea said. “She and her husband’s band are opening here next week.”
“I heard, but I never expected her to show up at a rehearsal.”
“He’s being billed as the greatest trumpet player in the world.”
“Of course he is.”
“Everyone likes how Louis blows.”
“Girls!” The dance master signaled the piano player in the balcony. “Let’s go through the number again. From the top.”
A groan went through the room. Honoree sprang to her feet and strutted to the center of the stage. She shook her hands and shoulders and tapped her feet, performing full out every step of every movement the dance master showed them. After two more run-throughs, the piano player finally stopped playing for the night. The dancers bent at the waist, sucking wind. Honoree scanned the bar for Lil Hardin Armstrong, praying she was still there, watching.
And she was, sipping a drink from a tall glass.
Honoree wiped her brow. It had been perfect; her first rehearsal at the Dreamland Cafe had been ab-so-lute-ly perfect.
