Unlike his wife, Dr. Hartfield Sr. is openly affectionate, kind, and generous. I wish Tully and I could spend more time with him, but that would mean more time with his wife.
Dressed in her maid’s uniform, Maxi Green stands proudly beside the brass-and-walnut buffet, with good reason. The parlor is her handiwork and looks truly magnificent. The Royal China Madeira dishes, adorned with wine-colored edges, are elegantly arranged alongside the sterling silver cutlery set, a gift from Katherine. Twin Jazz Moderne vases at each end of the long buffet hold vibrant red and pink poppies—my birthday flowers. But it is the centerpiece that outshines everything else. It showcases a two-tier black rum cake, and the aroma of rum, molasses, and deliciousness fills the room. Additionally, there are bottles of champagne in two steel ice buckets with a frosty sheen, ensuring that the bubbly is perfectly chilled. I smile lovingly at Maxi, for she is more than a maid. She has been my teacher and secret keeper for most of my life. I am tempted to hug her but refrain from doing so in front of this crowd. Instead, I give her an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
After another quick scan of the parlor, I don’t see my father, Major Leonard Thomas.
“Where’s Father?” I ask my mother.
“He’s on the telephone in your husband’s office, discussing a business matter,” she replies. “He’ll return as soon as he’s finished. Don’t worry. He’ll be here when you open your birthday presents.”
A pile of wrapped boxes of various shapes and sizes rests on the round table in the center of the parlor. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“Of course we did, dear,” my mother responds dryly. “It’s your thirtieth birthday.”
“Do we really have to wait for Major Thomas?” Katherine inquires. “Knowing him, he could be on the horn until midnight.”
My mother’s expression tightens, her typical reaction toanyone questioning my father’s desires. “We can’t begin without him.”
I give Katherine a knowing wince. We have another party to attend in a few hours and neither of us wants to miss it: a reception at the Abbotts’ mansion, honoring Josephine Baker.
I continue my rounds—a handshake, a kiss on the cheek, a brief hug. “It’s good to see you,” I tell each guest, “and I hope you’re well.”
My husband is the last one I greet.
Leaning against the cottage piano is Tully, my handsome man with his square jaw, full lips, high cheekbones, and beautiful black eyes. He possesses an athlete’s physique, which shouldn’t be a surprise because he is a professional baseball player. Dressed in a short-sleeved knit shirt and high-waisted, wide-legged pants, he swigs from a glass of champagne and watches me over the thin rim.
As I draw closer, the tension between us is palpable. I wish it didn’t exist. I wish I could love him without the guilt crawling down my spine or that note of accusation he keeps waving beneath my nose.
He lowers the glass—a slightly tipsy smile curves the corners of his mouth.
“Happy birthday, Vivian Jean.” His baritone is emotionless, yet I crave the sound of it like a warm bath. I feel it in my chest and on my skin.
“Thank you, darling.” I kiss him on the cheek, but he subtly shifts his posture, removing any chance of him returning my show of affection. “How’s your leg feeling today?” I ask. It’s the first thing that comes to mind, though I know it’s the last thing he wants to be reminded of. He was the starting third baseman for the Chicago American Giants until a line drive shattered his kneecap in June.
“It’s the same as it was an hour ago,” he replies, his eyelid twitching.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just wanted you to know I took care of all that business at the bank this morning.” I lower my voice. “I’m about to announce our trip.”
Tully closes his eyes briefly, his jaw clenched. “What if I changed my mind?”
“About coming with me to Jamaica?” There’s that feeling in my chest, like someone has reached through my rib cage to squeeze my heart. “Don’t tease me. You want to get out of Chicago as much as I do.” Panic sears through me. My plan won’t work without him. “So don’t even play around, or—” I hesitate, trying to think of something heinous to say to stop him from spouting such madness. “I’ll tell your parents what happened the night Clifford died.”
He steps toward me, standing so close that I can smell the champagne on his breath. “Don’t talk about the night my brother died—” His lip quivers.
“Why not? I’ll just show them the note he wrote, and they’ll fabricate some twisted nonsense about its meaning, just like you have.”
Tully shakes his head. “Don’t play games with me, Vivian Jean. You don’t want anyone to know about that note, any more than I do.”
“It’s my birthday. Shouldn’t I be able to do something I wouldn’t normally do?”
“And when has that ever happened?”
“The day I married you.”
“Vivian Jean.” Katherine suddenly appears at my side, squeezing my hand. “Maxi told me you needed to speak with me. Is this a good time?”
Did I? A glance at Tully reveals a flicker of hurt in his eyes, but thankfully, Katherine has shown up to keep us from embarrassing ourselves in front of our family and friends. But I did mention to Maxi that I wanted to speak with her.
“Yes, I did.” I look away from Tully.
