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He offered her the bitten end. “You want I should give it back?”
Evie waved it away. “Go ahead. I don’t want to smell like pickle juice anyway.”
“Me? I’ve always liked your perfume, Baby Vamp. Well, look what the cat dragged in!” Sam got up to welcome Henry and Ling. Theta, Memphis, and Isaiah were right behind them. They made room at the table, and then room again, until everybody had a place and nobody was too squished.
“Mrs. Goldberg! I think we’re gonna need more pastrami!” Sam called.
“Coming right up!”
It had been a few weeks since they’d been together in Death Valley. In that time, Woody’s stories had been found, mysteriously, by a cleaning woman in Union Station in D.C. and printed in the Daily News. The whole ugly business of Project Buffalo and the Shadow Men had come to light. Sister Walker had been exonerated. So had the Diviners. A full pardon from President Coolidge himself. For some Americans, the late Jake Marlowe’s reputation had been tarnished beyond repair. Others still clung to him as an icon. Nothing had happened to the wealthy men of the Founders Club. Their names stayed out of the press. They had enough money to make sure of it. There were even some people who were discrediting eugenics. People had begun fighting to have racial hygiene laws overturned.
There were still people who didn’t trust the Diviners. It would always be that way, they knew. Debates had sprung up at town halls and school auditoriums across the country about what made somebody an American. Was it simply being born here? Was it an allegiance to a flag? Or was it something deeper and more fluid—finding common purpose, a commitment to democratic principles that said all were created equal, that great shared story?
“So. Are we going to be bridesmaids?” Theta asked.
“Of course! I couldn’t get married without you and Ling by my side,” Evie said.
“I’ve never been a bridesmaid,” Ling said, and she seemed genuinely happy.
“I believe the phrase is ‘always a bridesmaid, never a bride,’” Henry quipped.
Ling scowled. “What does that mean?”
“Ling, when does Alma get home?” Sam asked and sipped his coffee.
Ling smiled. “Day after tomorrow. She said she brought me a souvenir. I’m afraid it will be something with mayonnaise.”
“Did… she talk to Lupe?” Evie asked gently.
Ling nodded, and for a moment everyone fell silent.
“I’m moving up to Harlem,” Theta said, breaking the tension. She smiled at Memphis and Isaiah. “And I’m going to open a dance studio with Alma.”
“That is pos-i-tutely the cat’s meow!” Evie cheered.
“So long to the Bennington,” Henry said.
“Hen. Tell ’em,” Theta prompted.
“Paul Whiteman’s orchestra wants to record one of my songs,” Henry said.
“Why, Hen, that’s wonderful!” Evie said.
“Apparently, he heard me playing at a little club on Fifty-second Street and he liked what he heard. David and I have already penned three more! Before long, we’ll have our own catalog. Take that, Tin Pan Alley!”
“My parents are letting me enroll at Hunter College,” Ling said. “I’ll still work at the restaurant. But I’ll be in college.”
“Ling Chan, coed,” Henry said.
“Professor Ling Chan,” Ling said a little dreamily. “One day. One day. Oh, Henry, my mother wants to know when you’re coming to our house for dinner,” Ling said. “If I tell her you’ve got a song to be recorded, she’ll be marrying us off.”
“If it means your father’s dumplings, I accept,” Henry said.
They rejoiced in one another’s good news.
They would be there for the bad as well.
“Memphis?” Evie asked. “What about you?”
