“Now what are you looking for?”
“My purse. The pink-and-black beaded clutch with the metal handle.”
“With the fancy design and the push-pull closure?” Bessie put down her sewing and turned in her seat, nodding toward the Singer sewing machine. “There, Honoree, on the windowsill.”
“The fanciest thing I own.” She waved the purse at Bessie. “Well, other than my dresses.”
“Heard plenty about your dresses being the most beautiful in Chicago. More than a dozen times.” She stabbed her needle into a buttonhole.
“Yes, you have. But I don’t exaggerate about my creations,” Honoree said in a friendly tone despite Bessie’s blatant dig. But Honoree forgave her since her morning had begun with upchucking. A show of temper was justifiable. “Lil likes fancy things, too, and throwing parties.”
“I thought you were dropping off the dresses you sewed for her.”
“I am.”
“Then, even though you didn’t get an invitation”—Bessie held up the shirt, examining it for more holes—“you should stay.”
“Good Lord. I’ve been running around here like a chicken with my head cut off, putting on my best rags and carrying my new handbag. Of course I plan to stay for the party—whether I can wrangle an invite or not, I’m gonna try.”
“You’ll get invited.” Bessie sighed. “You always get what you want.”
Honoree paused. Bessie had sounded exhausted and unhappy. Stuck in the kitchenette, vomiting half the day away, she had a good reason to be sad, even sharp-tongued. “You should join me.”
Bessie looked at her like she had two heads. “Stop teasing. I don’t need to come.”
“Put on a dress and do it quick. ’Cause I’m running late.” Honoree looked her in the eye to make sure she understood. “It’ll be fun. And I want you to come. But don’t be mad if Lil doesn’t ask us to stay.”
Bessie pushed away from the table and moved around the kitchenette faster than fire. “Will there be cake?”
“Maybe. Maybe not, but it’s not a birthday celebration. Calloway’s birthday isn’t until Christmas. He’ll be on the road before then. More of a bon voyage.”
“A bon, what?”
“French for leaving town.”
Honoree looked at the parcel of dresses, fancy dresses, too, that had taken every free hour she wasn’t dancing. “I should’ve thought of this earlier. I do need help carrying Lil’s dresses.”
Bessie washed up at the sink and, minutes later, put on Honoree’s silver lamé.
“You look lovely, Bessie,” Honoree said, moving toward the door. “Now, let’s blouse.”
* * *
Lil Hardin and Louis Armstrong lived in a ritzy part of town, on Forty-Forth Street a few blocks west of South Parkway. Their home was one of those lovely stone bungalows with a triangle roof and a tall chimney, a sunporch, and lots of big windows. So many windows, Honoree wondered if the house had room for walls.
“Come right on in, Miss Honoree. And who’s this little girl?” Maximilian Chester greeted them.
“I am not a little girl,” said Bessie, miffed. “I’m almost eighteen.”
“You’re sixteen,” Honoree corrected her. “But you don’t have to put on airs for Maximilian. He’s a waiter at the Dreamland—and by the way, what are you doing here?”
“Moonlighting for Miss Lil.”
Impatient to enter the house, Honoree peeked over Maximilian’s shoulder. The interior of Lil’s home was as glamorous as the outside, and there were plenty of walls. The dining room and living room, she glimpsed, were colorfully decorated with modern furniture, silk drapes, and lampshades. Honoree loved lampshades.
Maximilian was speaking. “This way, ladies. The party is in the center of the house, living room, dining room, and parlor.”
Honoree glanced at Bessie and then Maximilian. “We aren’t here for the party. I’m dropping off some dresses I made for Mrs. Armstrong, I mean Lil.”
