I made time to phone Katie Jones and tell her the truth. She argued, called me a liar and every other name in the book, then slammed the phone down — but not fast enough to keep me from hearing the sobs break through.
Sophie Carter received a phone call, too.
Esther’s funeral was held December 23rd. She had indeed been brought home in time for Christmas. Her fans filled the small Baptist church of Christ, the Redeemer. They spilled onto the church steps on 123rd and Third Avenue. I gave the eulogy. Dianne Todd gathered enough strength to attend. She would live long enough to mark Christmas with Ruth and Job, and then pass away in her sleep on Christmas night. By New Year’s Day, she would be resting in the ground alongside her long lost child.
Sam and I attended Esther’s funeral in the morning and the Agamemnon Awards dinner that evening. Byron Canfield, of all people, presented Esther with a posthumous award, naming her the Best Young Talent of 1923. His eyes met mine across the room as he announced the award and explained why she was chosen. It was a deeply satisfying moment. Job, dignified and grave, received the honor in his mother’s name. His acceptance speech was brief and poignant.
“My mama was a great pianist,” he said, “but she was an even greater mama. And I miss her. I miss hearing her voice but I still got her songs. I got them on paper, all written down for me. And one day I’m going to sing them for you. Then you’ll know just how great my mama was. In the meantime, thank you. On behalf of my mama, my Aunt Ruth and Grandma Dee, I thank you for this award. But most of all, I want to thank Miss Lanie there. She had faith. And she kept her promise.”
His eyes met mine and I wanted to thank him, to bless him and his family for giving me a chance to feel relevant again. In helping them, I’d helped myself.
My Christmas column, detailing Esther’s fate, turned out to be the best piece I wrote that year.
Sam and I had a long talk. I would keep my job—but with a twist. I would report on crime among the smart set. After all, they had their troubles, too. And it was a subject that nobody was covering—at least, not regularly.
Christmas Eve found Sam in my kitchen. He had taken his shirt off, revealing a lean, muscled torso. He was down on one knee, covered with a fine layer of dust. I paused in the kitchen doorway to watch as he hammered two planks of wood together to make another cabinet. He’d already made one and done a good job of it. His work was so skilled I wondered if he hadn’t at some point done carpentry for a living. I’d asked him, but all he’d said was “Baby, I’ve done a lot of things. This isn’t the least of them.”
It was hard to recognize my boss in the half-naked man standing in my kitchen. Covered in sweat and dust, he bore no resemblance to the straight-laced, buttoned up persona he presented at work.
Which was as it should be.
His hands were not large, but capable and square. They gripped the wood with a familiarity born of practice. The muscles in his back rippled as he swung the hammer and drove in the nails.
He looked up, saw me and gave a smile that made my heart flip. I wasn’t quite ready to let go of my sadness over Hamp, but I wasn’t holding on to it as tightly either. It was no longer a shield between the world and me.
“Lunch is ready,” I said. “All spread out upstairs, on the dining room table.”
He raised an eyebrow and I realized how my words could be interpreted.
“Don’t,” I said, “don’t even go there.”
“But you make it so hard not to.”
He gave a mischievous smile and then returned his attention to the wood. “Just let me get the back of this one together and I’ll be right with you.”
“You’ve been working down here for hours. You need a break.”
“In a minute.”
He placed a nail and hit it with his hammer. The hammerhead popped loose and flew up. It would’ve hit him in the eye, if he hadn’t ducked in time. The hammerhead landed on the floor with a clunk.
“Shit,” he said through clenched teeth. He grabbed up the hammerhead and stuck it back on, but the piece wouldn’t stay. He was disgusted. “This is a piece of junk. My neighbor borrowed my hammer last week, said he’d return it. Now he won’t answer the door.”
“Why don’t you stop for now?”
He looked over at me. “‘Cause I told you I’d do this for you and I keep my word.”
“But you don’t have to do it all at once. Take a break. Lunch is getting cold.”
I so wanted him to eat and enjoy himself. I’d even gone out of my way to make ‘normal’ lunch for once. No funny breakfast food, this time. What I was serving was warm and healthy. Furthermore, our Christmas tree was waiting for us to decorate. It was a fine thick pine. Sam had bought it.
“All right, all right.” He arched his back and worked his shoulders to loosen his muscles.
I had a sudden image of my hands on his back, massaging his shoulders—and maybe even going lower to massage something else, too. I saw myself working hard, doing all I could to ease his tension.
Then it hit me what I was thinking. It hit me so hard I blinked and averted my gaze.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“You sure?”
“Hm-hmm.”
I swallowed and forced myself to smile at him, hoping that he wouldn’t see my embarrassment.
Apparently, he didn’t.
“Just let me clean up,” he said, yanking a plaid red kerchief from his back pocket.
Blissfully unaware of how he was affecting me, he mopped his brow and all around his throat, the muscles in his arms and chest rippling with every move. I found myself staring, and my thoughts running away again, conjuring up images no decent woman would ever entertain.
“Mind if I use the bathroom?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
He put down the broken tool, grabbed his shirt off the back of the chair, and set off toward the back. There was a bathroom just before the backyard door. Soon, I heard water running. I picked up the broken hammer. It looked irreparable. Worse, it looked dangerous. If the hammer’s head had hit him, it could’ve done serious damage.
Fifteen minutes later, Sam came back, buttoning his cuffs. “Hope I wasn’t too long.”
“Not at all. Here.”
In my hand was Hamp’s leather tool kit. Surprised, Sam made no move to take it.
“Please,” I said, offering it to him.
Still hesitant, he accepted it. “You’re letting me use these?”
“No, I’m letting you have them.”
His eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“Hamp wouldn’t have wanted them to go to waste.” After a moment, I added. “I know I’ll never use them.”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
He went to the kitchen table and unrolled the kit. I stood next to them, feeling the pain but knowing it was bearable. Believing too that I’d made the right decision.
Sam’s hands moved over the tools with the sureness of an expert. He picked up each implement and studied it, murmuring words of admiration.
Finally, he looked up at me. “Beautiful,” he said.
“Yeah, I know. They were—”
“Not them. You.” He took me in his arms.
That last kiss had been gentle and polite and shy. This one was deep and hungry. The grip on my lower back was sturdy and firm.
I leaned into him, closed my eyes and gladly felt the earth slip away.