in the crosshairs of Emma’s starry-eyed gaze. She calmly rested her fork on her plate, folded her hands beneath her chin, and said, “Emma Elliott, will you please, please stop looking at me like that!”
Startled, Emma blurted, “Like what?”
“Like you just now making my acquaintance. Like you only know me from my records. Like we ain’t come up together making mud pies.”
A hush settled around the table.
“Huh?” Emma offered quietly.
“I’m just Lucille from down home, okay?”
Emma’s cheeks burned. “Okay,” she murmured.
Envy soon replaced that pride and awe, and in order to keep her feelings at bay, Emma had to drink three tall glasses of water swimming with bitters.
Sam cocked his eyebrows. “Your stomach upset?”
“A little.”
“Maybe you pregnant!”
“No, I don’t think that’s what it is.”
* * *
A week later, Lucille threw Emma and Sam a “Welcome to Harlem” party, attended by the black glitterati.
Emma was too busy swooning to fully enjoy herself.
No one would believe that she—little Emma Robinson from Macon, Georgia—was at a party, given in her honor no less, talking bread pudding recipes with blues singer Alberta Hunter. She’d be branded a liar if she told the folks back home that pianist Jelly Roll Morton had slipped her his number and pinched her bottom. And those same folks would just cut their eyes at her claims that country-blues guitarist Sylvester Weaver was as snazzy a dancer as he was a musician.
“Sylvester, thank you so much, but I’m going to have to sit this song out, my dogs are barking!”
“Okay, da-hling,” Sylvester said, dancing away.
Emma spotted space on one of the four cushioned sofas, hobbled over, and sat down between two white women wearing brightly colored flapper dresses. The women were pointing and howling with laughter at Lucille’s father, who was toting an open bottle of gin, snake-hipping his way from one guest to the next, offering to top off their drinks.
Emma slipped her feet from her shoes and pressed her burning soles against the cool wood floor. When she finally looked into the women’s laughing faces, she was stunned to find that she had sandwiched herself between blues songstress Marion Harris and actress-turned-singer Esther Walker.
She was still reeling when Bessie Smith walked in, trailed by an entourage of the most beautiful men and women Emma had ever seen at one time.
Lucille dragged the famous singer over to Emma, who didn’t know if she should bow or curtsy and so awkwardly combined the two, which raised more guffaws from Marion and Esther. Finally, grinning like a clown, Emma presented Bessie her trembling hand. “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Smith.”
After an exaggerated eye roll, Bessie threw her fat arms around Emma’s neck and squeezed the breath out of her. “We hug here in Harlem!” she bellowed.
The party didn’t end until every drop of liquor was gone and the sky was soupy with misty morning light.
* * *
As Sam and Emma climbed the stairs toward their bedroom, Emma laid her head on Sam’s shoulder and announced dreamily, “Harlem is definitely where I want to restart our lives.”
Chapter 19
Nine months later they were back in Macon.
Louisa opened the front door to find Emma and Sam standing on the porch, glistening like movie stars in their expensive leather shoes, fine hats, and his-and-hers raccoon coats.
Seeing all of that new finery, Louisa feared that they’d run through every blessed cent of Emma’s inheritance. “Well, don’t y’all look like new money,” she gulped. “Come on inside.”
Harlan came bounding down the stairs. When he saw his parents standing in the foyer, he paused and stared, but said nothing.
Louisa shot him a stern look. “What do you say, Harlan?”
“Hello,” he whispered.
“Hello? Get your butt down here and greet your parents properly.”
Harlan drifted over slowly and gave them each a weak hug, then planted himself at his grandmother’s hip.
The family moved into the parlor. Sam and Emma sat in the wing chairs, Harlan on the sofa alongside Louisa.
“How’s Lucille doing?”
Emma shrugged. “You know Lucille, she’s just fine. Sends her love to you. Says she’s sorry she couldn’t make the funeral, but she was on the road. She did send flowers, though. Do you remember getting them?”
Louisa nodded. “And the husband?”
“She got a good man,” Sam responded.
“Aww, Sam just likes him ’cause he let him drive his fancy car!” Emma laughed. “But he seems nice enough, I guess.”
Louisa reached over the sofa table, plucked a white-and-red-striped peppermint ball from the glass jar, and handed it to Harlan. “And her parents? How they like living in New York City?”
“They seem to like it just fine.”
Steadily eyeing Emma, Harlan rolled the mint ball across his tongue.
Emma smirked at him. “So how’s school, Harlan?”
“Fine,” he gurgled.
Louisa rubbed his head affectionately.
“Me and Emma got news,” Sam croaked suddenly.
“Oh?”
“Go on, tell her, Emma.”
Emma straightened her back, planted smiling eyes on Louisa’s anxious face, and squealed, “We bought a house!”
“A house?” Louisa sputtered. “Where?”
“In Harlem. Well, not a house like this one, a row house. Brick. Three floors.”
“Three floors? My goodness, it sounds like one of those mansions in Vineville.”
“No, Mama, this house ain’t quite as big as those—”
“Got a tenant on the top floor,” Sam interjected.
“To help pay the mortgage,” Emma added quickly. “A mother and her two children—a boy and girl.” She looked at Harlan. “I believe the boy is just about your age.”
Harlan
