The Sweetest Charade by Jadesola James

Author:Jadesola James
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Carina Press
Published: 2021-03-16T19:33:42+00:00

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Being carried off consisted of Delysia being led by Poppy into a group of middle-aged ladies more or less dressed identically to each other, in the sort of evening-wear that would have been at the height of fashion around the time Bill Clinton was in office. They clustered in an area of the box that Sylvia called the ladies’ lounge. It was furnished with padded velvet seating and partitioned from the rest of the box by heavy curtains that were looped back tonight by a gold velvet rope. An enormous framed portrait of Marian Anderson loomed over them, a heavy autograph scrawled over one corner.

Delysia had mixed with people with money before, of course. Growing up in Dubai had brought her into contact with locals worth as much as small nations, and attending the swanky parties that were the norm for her as an influencer did the same. Alexander’s family was different; this was more about quality. Their straightened hair was invariably either teased into Dynasty-style waves or French twists—beauty parlor hair, to be sure, and not a hair extension to be found. Gold diamond rings and wedding bands adorned their knobby fingers. Equally good diamond solitaires shone in saggy ears.

“Ladies, this is Alexander’s lady-friend,” Sylvia announced, and six pairs of mascaraed, eye-shadowed eyes widened, and heads began to nod, “Delysia Daniels. Delysia, this is Agnes Abbott-Hill, Vivian Abbott-Hill, Beverly Abbott-Hill, Matilda Abbott-Hill...”

Sylvia’s voice blurred into a tangle of names, surnames, and family connections that Delysia knew she’d have to have Alexander explain to her later. She nodded, smiled, and restrained herself from checking to see if her bustier was sliding downward.

The ladies migrated rather naturally over to the bar, where there was plush seating in the form of overstuffed, red-velvet booths. Some of the older ladies sat, but most stayed upright so as not to wrinkle their dresses. Delysia was handed a small glass of whisky and water—“Have a taste, darling, it’s from our own distillery”—and was allowed a single sip before the bombardment of questions began.

“Now, honey...” This was from Beverly. “What a beautiful name you’ve got.”

“Thank you.”

“Is it French?”

“I believe so.”

“Enough, Beverly, I’ve been eager to talk to this young lady,” cut in a third woman. “You’re going to have to tell me...” Agnes, maybe? Delysia thought. Never mind. It wasn’t like she was going to call any one of these dowagers anything but Ms. Abbott-Hill. “My husband is the head of Africana studies at Philadelphia County U, and Alexander mentioned you’re Eritrean?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“Fascinating,” the woman said, and patted the seat next to her as if Delysia was a very small girl, and she obediently lowered herself to sit. “Tigrayan or—?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you speak it?”

“Yes, but with a deplorable American accent, or so my mother tells me,” Delysia laughed, and the woman chuckled.

“Have you visited? My husband made a three-country research tour of that part of Africa, several years ago, before the situation became dire...”

Agnes began to prattle on, and Delysia relaxed.

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