Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“Let’s add one of those iceberg wedges, too.” Evan looks at me. “To drink, Verity?”
“Water’s fine.” I hide my hands under the table and twist my thumb ring round and round, my heart racing while I wait for the real conversation to begin.
“I have to go,” Arietta says. “But I’ll put in an order for the starters and send over your server.”
She only makes it a few steps before turning around and heading back to our table. She reaches for the pen sitting beside a notepad in front of Canon. I’m shocked when she grabs my hand and writes her name and number in my palm.
“Call me,” she whispers, and winks before walking back off, that glorious ass bidding me a fond farewell.
An awkward bubble of silence hovers over the table for about five seconds before Evan pops it with a deep laugh. Canon’s lips twitch and he gives in, adding his rumbling chuckle to his partner’s amusement. My face heats, but I clear my throat and manage to laugh along.
“Wow,” Evan says, hooking one elbow over the back of his seat. “It’s not awkward at all when your sister hits on your business associate.”
“Don’t act like it’s the first time.” Canon reaches for his water, a small smile still curving his lips. It’s nice to see a crack in his famously inscrutable mask.
“Damn.” I feign disappointment. “And here I was feeling special.”
That breaks the ice, so we laugh and spend the next few minutes studying the menu to decide what else we’ll order once the server comes. I use the time to gather my thoughts. Sheila, my agent, didn’t have much information on what Canon wanted to meet about, but who cares? A director of Canon’s caliber reaches out, you take the meeting. We’ve put in our orders and are waiting for the food to come when Canon broaches the subject.
“So, Verity,” Canon says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, settling his chin on steepled hands. “I guess you’re wondering why we wanted to meet with you.”
“Dying of curiosity, since you asked,” I say, making no attempt to hide my eagerness.
Canon smiles and nods. “Evan and I, like everyone else in town, have been very impressed with your work over the last few years.”
“Congrats again,” Evan says, “on the Golden Globe. That was one of the best scripts I’ve read in years.”
“Thank you.” I make a conscious effort to relax my shoulders, which have slowly been creeping up to my ears the more nervous I’ve become.
“Have you ever heard of Dessi Blue?” Canon asks, watching me closely.
The question comes from left field, but my passion and encyclopedic knowledge of the Harlem Renaissance kick in.
“Of course,” I reply, feeling more at ease than I have since I entered the restaurant. “I did a ton of research on the Harlem Renaissance for my thesis. Dessi is the stage name for Odessa Johnson, a fantastic singer in the thirties and beyond. She moved to Harlem during the Great Migration. Her people were from Alabama, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yup.” Canon nods, a grin tipping one side of his mouth. “Her parents actually moved back, but she stayed in New York.”
“Right.” I pick up where he left off. “She worked at the Savoy for a bit, where she met Cal Hampton, a trumpet player who famously dragged her onstage one night at the Radium Club to sing impromptu with his band. The rest, as they say, is history. She ended up going on the road with him, fell in love, married, and took Europe by storm.”
“So much of her career was spent abroad,” Canon interjects, “because she could never have made as much money or garnered as much respect here in the States. They stayed through the Second World War and settled in Paris with their daughter, Katherine, into the late fifties, early sixties.”
“Yeah,” Evan pipes in. “We’ve actually spoken with their daughter. Kitty’s great.”
My pulse pounds at my temples, excitement and adrenaline flooding my nervous system. I don’t want to presume, but why would Canon Holt be asking me about a relatively obscure historical figure if he didn’t have a project in mind about her?
“It’s a remarkable, uniquely American—uniquely African American, to be more precise—story,” Canon says. “We plan to tell it and wondered if you want to help us do it right.”
I can’t even play it off. My hands fly to my mouth and I’m pretty sure I squeak like a little mouse coveting a block of cheese.
“Are you for real?” I gasp. “You’re making a movie about Dessi Blue?”
“We are.” An open grin transforms Canon’s face, his excitement for the endeavor palpable. “I’m putting our team together now, and you’re the first writer I thought of.”
“I am?” I press a hand to my chest. “Thank you. I’m so flattered.”