* * *
The next day, Honoree was on her way to another rehearsal, but the weather, being Chicago weather, had changed seemingly overnight from sunny and splendid to cloudy, rainy, and dreadful.
It made her late, and she raced into the alley behind the cafe, blinded by the rainstorm’s thick downpour. Which partly explained why she ended up lying on her backside in a puddle of soupy mud.
“Damn!” Honoree lay on her rump. Legs stretched out before her. “Damn.” She rolled onto her hands and knees, rose to her feet, and noticed a ripped seam in her dress. Because of her fall, she’d not only be late for rehearsal but arrive looking a filthy mess.
“Damn!”
The curse had not come from Honoree’s mouth. There was another body in the mud mumbling a string of profanities. How had Honoree missed her and the beautiful, full-length mink coat she wore. She also had on a gorgeous pair of Mary Jane shoes with rose-colored ribbons, or they’d been rose-colored before they were ruined.
“Oh my, are you all right? Are you hurt?” Honoree reached for her hand, but the woman was searching for something and eventually lifted a mud-streaked box purse from the mire.
“Thank goodness. I thought I’d lost it.”
“I’m sorry. My apologies. I didn’t see you with the rain coming down so hard and all.”
The woman raised a finger. “Stop babbling. I’m not hurt, but I could use some help getting out of this mud.”
Honoree took her outstretched gloved hand and helped her to her feet. Once erect, each woman gave the other a head-to-toe exam. Honoree recognized her, lost her breath, and suddenly wanted to die. “Oh my God. Lil Hardin Armstrong. I can’t believe I knocked the Queen of the Stroll into the mud. I am so very sorry.”
“Please, stop apologizing.” Ms. Hardin adjusted the cloche hat on her head. “Let’s get inside before we drown in mud.” She hurried up the steps and into the kitchen.
Honoree followed, struggling with the desire to keep apologizing. “I’m not clumsy,” she said, as they walked briskly through the kitchen. “Anything ripped or torn, I can fix. I’m an excellent seamstress.”
“I saw you rehearsing yesterday, didn’t I? You were working on a new production number. It looked like the cat’s pajamas.”
Honoree’s heartbeat was a thousand-drum serenade. “Oh my! Did you think so? We saw you watching us—and you noticed me. Goodness!”
Ms. Hardin smiled. “What’s your name?”
“Honoree. Honoree Dalcour.” She had spoken so fast that she bit her tongue, but not even pain could lessen the width of her grin.
“Such a fancy name. You aren’t French, are you?”
“My papa was Creole, and I was born in Baton Rouge, but I’ve been in Chicago since 1909. So, most of my life.”
“You know Louis was born in New Orleans.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’tma’amme. Call me Lil.” She smiled warmly, then started down a hallway with Honoree at her side. “Where’d you work before you started here?”
“A colored-only speakeasy near the stockyards. The Dreamland is my first job at a black-and-tan.” Honoree shrugged out of her mud-covered coat as they walked.
Lil arched a brow. “A lovely gown. An original?”
Honoree smiled proudly. “I made it myself.”
Lil tilted her head. “What was your name again?”
“Honoree.”
“You could give our costume mistress a few lessons.” Lil touched the stitching on the waistline. “Nicely done.”
“Thank you, Ms. Hardin. I mean, Mrs. Armstrong.”
“Now, what did I say?”
