I closed my eyes. 

My mink stole is just enough to keep the late October chill off my shoulders, but not by much. I leave one exposed. I like that. I like the gaze of the elite and well-to-do denizens here to peer at my skin—“polished” to perfection like a bronze vase under layers of Vaseline and Balm Bar. 

And peer they do. I glide through the crowd of white owls, gawking and turning their heads with each beat my gold pumps announce in the room. Even when Mr. Edwards rose to greet me, slid a chair from beneath the table for me, and kissed my hand, they stared—especially when he kissed my hand. The appetizers and cappuccinos grew cold beneath those affixed faces. 

“Isaac,” I said as I sat, barely allowing my lips to curl into a smile, “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

“Yes, likewise! Likewise, Miss Mae. I am immensely excited to finally meet such an accomplished woman.” 

I nod.  

I had only just returned to New York from my solo piloting expedition to Northern Africa, stopping in Egypt and Sudan, when Edwards insisted I meet with him to look over an offer for the exclusive publishing rights to my memoir. It took weeks of prodding and pleading on his end and two snubs of his offer from mine before I finally breathed heavily into the phone that previous evening and said, “Sure, Isaac. I’ll see you at Bemelmans.” 

“Perfect!”

 The young waitress approached. “We’ll have a bottle of your vintage Bollinger,” I said as Isaac’s eyes grew wide beneath his thick gray brows before brandishing a willing smile. “Is this not a celebration?” I continued. 

“Well… indeed it is!” 

I smoked my Virginia Slim throughout our “negotiations,” which ended with an acceptable large five-figure advance proposal. 

“This is quite a promising start, Isaac.” 

“Well, promising? I thought…” 

“Aht Aht! Mr. Edwards, a lady never leaps like some silly poodle simply because a man waves a shiny trinket before her. I will be in talks with my attorney and will return to you with an answer before the week is out.” 

His face became a bloated hot water bottle—red, steaming, near to burst before subsiding. He bowed his head, “As you wish, Miss Mae. I look forward to your call.” 

I then rose from the table, thanked him for his time, and had the hostess get my driver. I was in a hurry now. I had a long-standing date in Harlem with the handsome Black physician Braxton, whom I’d gotten cozy with before my voyage. 

Then, someone calls to me from down the sidewalk, “Johnny!” I looked to my right, but there was no one. “Johnny!” The screams are now more frantic. I look in the other direction and still can’t find the source. 

A rocking and jolting, shaking my stole to the concrete, ensues, “Johnny Mae! If you don’t get your country ‘Bama ass in here and finish this hem on Mrs. Braxton’s gown!”