In the Face of the Sun

by Denny S. Bryce

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

A candy-apple red Ford Mustang is parked outside my building. Unmistakable. My Aunt Daisy, the driver, is an audacious woman that no one in our family actually speaks to. They only speak about her—and not glowingly. Still, she is part of my escape plan …
1928, Los Angeles:
The newly-built Hotel Somerville is the hotspot for the city's glittering African-American elite. It embodies prosperity and dreams of equality for all—especially Daisy Washington. An up-and-coming journalist, Daisy anonymously chronicles fierce activism and behind-the-scenes Hollywood
scandals in order to save her family from poverty. But power in the City of Angels is also fueled by racism, greed, and betrayal. And even the most determined young woman can play too many secrets too far …
1968, Chicago:
For Frankie Saunders, fleeing across America is her only escape from an abusive husband. But her rescuer is her reckless, profane Aunt Daisy, still reeling from her own shattered past. Frankie doesn't want to know what her aunt is up to so long as Daisy can get her
to LA—and safety. But Frankie finds there’s no hiding from long-held secrets—or her own surprising strength.
Daisy will do whatever it takes to settle old scores and resolve the past—no matter the damage. And Frankie will come up against hard choices in the face of unexpected passion. Both must come to grips with what they need, what they’ve left behind—and all that lies ahead …

Release date: February 3, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 51

Sample

No one is to blame for my decision. Not the husband missing from my bed. Not my unborn baby. Not even my grief. Lying on my back, with a pillow behind my head, I catch a glimpse of my slightly rounded belly. And I know. I am leaving Jackson.

The thing about marriage is you can’t count on it. It has this fairy-tale reputation. The outta-sight wedding dress, the bridesmaids, the lavish ceremony, the in-laws, the birthing of babies, and the dirty diapers. But what messed me up were those promises.

Thou shall not do this. Thou shall not do that. Then one thing goes wrong, like burning the rice, forgetting to pay the electric bill, lying about your time of the month, and someone (like me) ends up with their emotional clock unhinged, cowering in a corner, screaming like a banshee. It makes you think.

How did I get here, and why do I stay?

Sunshine slashes through the slats in the Venetian blinds, and the bedroom is light and shadows. I rise, feeling a soreness in my bones as I swing my legs to the floor and stand with a tremble in my knees.

Why am I so afraid?

Jackson is not home. He’s working a double. So I can walk out of our second-floor apartment, luggage in hand, no fear, no fuss, no muss.

But I’ve always been afraid.

Squinting against the sunlight, I go to the window to close the blinds, but there’s a noise, a revved-up car engine modified for speed and sound. I lift a slat, peer into the street, and can’t believe my eyes.

A candy-apple-red Ford Mustang is parked at the curb outside my building. I recognize the vehicle. Everyone in the neighborhood knows this 1968 Fastback. How could anyone forget that color, that fancy model, or the fancy woman behind the wheel?

I imagine the entire block is sneaking a peek, and at least one of them will tell Jackson about this woman’s visit as soon as he returns home.

“Your wife’s fast-talking, fast-driving friend drove up and then drove off—heading that way—with your woman and her Lady Baltimore luggage in tow.”

However, they’d be wrong. The driver is not a friend. She is my aunt, who, according to my mother, is an audacious woman that no one in our family speaks to. We only speak about her and never glowingly.

I met her in person for the first time two weeks ago, and now, she is part of my escape plan, my ride to the Greyhound bus terminal.

But she wasn’t supposed to show up until nine.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand—it’s seven o’clock in the morning. Damn! Why is she so early?

I mumble a quick prayer. But, dear God, please don’t let her lose patience and blow the car horn. Just chill for two hours—but I can tell she’s not the type to sit still. Pretty soon, she’ll strut up to the apartment building’s front door and ring the bell, and if no one answers, she’ll start yelling, drawing more attention than her candy-apple-red automobile roaring into a parking spot.

I hear a car door slam. Has she lost her patience already? Does she have any patience? I don’t look outside again. No time for a soak in the tub, I hurry into the bathroom, grab a washcloth, and scrub my face, armpits, and private parts. Next, I put on my traveling outfit. A beige high-waisted skirt. A bandanna-print blouse. A freshly polished pair of penny loafers. Then I remove the pink rollers and plastic clips from my hair and comb my coarse curls into a Jackie O. flip.

Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I think about my cousin Tamika. I wish I could’ve called her and told her I was leaving and asked her to help me, but I don’t wear an Afro.

You see, she gets bent out of shape when it comes to the movement. I’m a kindergarten teacher at the elementary school in a conservative Hyde Park neighborhood. I’m not a civil rights worker or a feminist and don’t plan to be. The last thing a Negro child on the South Side of Chicago needs from a kindergarten teacher like me, I tried to explain, was a lesson on hairstyles. She, of course, disagreed, but instead of a civilized conversation, she and I had a silly argument.

“You hate me and my permed hair because I’ve never joined you at a sit-in or marched in a protest. Don’t lie. I know I’m not Black en. . .