The Light Always Breaks

by Angela Jackson-Brown

Genres: African American Historical; Southern; Multicultural & Interracial Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

As 1947 opens, Eva Cardon is the twenty-four-year-old owner of Washington, D.C.’s, most famous Black-owned restaurant. When her path crosses with Courtland, a handsome white senator from Georgia, both find themselves drawn to one another—but the danger of a relationship between a Black woman and a white man from the South could destroy them and everything they’ve worked for.

Few women own upscale restaurants in civil rights era Washington, D.C. Fewer still are twenty-four, Black, and wildly successful. But Eva Cardon is unwilling to serve only the wealthiest movers and shakers, and she plans to open a diner that offers Southern comfort to the working class.

A war hero and one of Georgia’s native sons, Courtland Hardiman Kingsley IV is a junior senator with great ambitions for his time in D.C. But while his father is determined to see Courtland on a path to the White House, the young senator wants to use his office to make a difference in people’s lives, regardless of political consequences.

When equal-rights activism throws Eva and Courtland into each other’s paths, they can’t fight the attraction they feel, no matter how much it complicates their dreams. For Eva, falling in love with a white Southerner is all but unforgivable—and undesirable. Her mother and grandmother fell in love with white men, and their families paid the price. Courtland is already under pressure for his liberal ideals, and his family has a line of smiling debutantes waiting for him on every visit. If his father found out about Eva, he’s not sure he’d be welcome home again.

Surrounded by the disapproval of their families and the scorn of the public, Eva and Courtland must decide if the values they hold most dear—including love—are worth the loss of their dreams . . . and everything else.

The author of When Stars Rain Down returns with a historical love story about all that has—and has not—changed in the United States

• Historical romance set in civil rights era Washington, D.C. 
• Stand-alone novel
• Book length: approximately 120,000 words

Release date: July 5, 2022

Publisher: Harper Muse

Print pages: 368

Sample

One
Eva

Eva Cardon knelt down to pray the rosary with the beads that used to belong to her maternal grandmother, Bettine Cardon, wishing as she did every morning and evening that she could hear Grandmother Bettine’s voice again, calling to her, saying in French, “Ma belle petite-fille chérie. Le temps des prières.” My beautiful, darling granddaughter. Time for prayers. Grandmother Bettine would also say, in perfect French, which she insisted on Eva speaking as well, “The light will always break, Eva. You just have to give it time, and then any sadness left over from the previous day will fade away.”

Thankfully, Eva was not feeling any sadness. She was happy to meet this morning head-on because the evening was going to be spectacular. She just knew it. As always, Eva positioned herself in front of the bay window in her bedroom to say her prayers. The sun was just beginning to peek out from between the barren tree limbs, casting eerie shadows throughout her room. It was December, and winter was just starting to make its mark on her beloved city of Washington, D.C., a city she had only lived in since the age of fourteen, but it was the place that had made the greatest impact on her because of the Negro community that consisted of politicians, religious leaders, activists, entertainers, you name it. Just like Harlem, Washington, D.C., was a place Negroes could live and shine, and Eva was learning some of her best lessons while living in D.C.

From the time Eva was a child, early mornings had been her favorite time of the day. She and her grandmother Bettine used to go for long walks through the French Quarter in New Orleans before her grandmother passed away. People would call her Bettine’s little twin because Eva looked like a younger version of the Creole woman, from their long, black curly hair to their piercing green eyes and complexions so fair they both could have passed for white, but Grandmother Bettine would correct anyone who mistook them for anything other than Black Creole. “I am Colored,” she would say, raising her chin haughtily at anyone who dared to question her ethnicity. “My maman was as black as onyx, and I rue the day I did not inherit her beautiful black complexion.” Then she would turn to Eva and exclaim, “Always 

be proud of who God made you to be. Understood?” It wasn’t until Eva was older that she truly understood her grandmother’s fervor.

Now, years later, Eva meditated on her grandmother’s words. She loved the mornings because she could get quiet with her thoughts and reflect on what challenges she might be facing throughout the day without worrying about being interrupted by her older sister, Frédérique, or her brother-in-law, Pearson, whose house she resided in. Early morning was also a time that was just for her to immerse herself in the rituals that had sustained her through the death of so many people she had loved, like her father, grandmother, and mother. She would alternate between praying in French, which was what her grandmother Bettine taught her to do, and Latin, which she was taught to do in parochial school. She would always say the sign of the cross in Latin, “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” But she would pray the rest of her prayers in French.

Eva’s sister was no longer a practicing Catholic, but Eva was, in her own way. She didn’t regularly attend Mass or confession, but she always, without fail, prayed her rosary in the morning and before she went to bed at night. Although Eva was in a rush to get her morning started, because she had so much to do before the evening, it was as if her grandmother Bettine, a pious, loving woman, was whispering, “Ralentir, mon cher.” Slow down, my dear. “En toutes choses nous rendons grâce.” In all things we give thanks.

With those words still in her ears, Eva stopped her rushing around and knelt and prayed the prayers that had been taught to her by her grandmother and the nuns at the parochial schools she had attended in New Orleans and later Harlem, but once she was done praying the rosary, she did not immediately get up. She whispered in a passionate voice, “Please allow tonight to be a success.” She was just about to say amen once more, but then she added, “And please do not allow any hurt, harm, or danger to come to those who are out celebrating the New Year, whether at my restaurant or somewhere else. Amen.” After that, Eva proceeded with her day, which was the culmination of years of dreaming on her part.

Eva Cardon’s restaurant, Chez Geneviève, was going to be closed to the public for a private party she was throwing to celebrate the New Year. She’d opened the restaurant three years ago, and finally, she was at the point where she felt she could do things in a big way. She wanted 1947 to go out with full pomp and circumstance at Chez Geneviève, reminiscent of the New Year’s Eve parties her mother used to throw at their brownstone in Harlem just off 147th Street, albeit to a much smaller degree. The guest list for Eva’s party read like a Who’s Who, thanks in large part to her friends Adam Clayton Powell Jr. and his wife, Hazel Scott. Adam and Hazel had made sure that every famous person they knew and/or had known her equally famous mother, jazz singer Geneviève Cardon, would be present that night.

There were Sammy Davis Jr. and Frank Sinatra sharing martinis with the likes of Jackie Robinson and Dinah Washington. And there were leaders in the Negro community like Howard University professor Alain Locke sharing small talk with local activist Mary Church Terrell.

Eva

was awestruck and incredibly humbled by the crowd of high-profile, successful people in both the entertainment industry and politics who had RSVP’d for her huge soiree, but Adam and Hazel had reassured her that this moment wasn’t just about her restaurant.

“Eva, my dear,” Adam had said on the phone the day before when she had called him to see if he had any last-minute guests to add to the already burgeoning list. “This party of yours is bigger than any of us. The work you have done in the civil rights movement locally has been nothing short of astounding for someone your age. This moment is about showing the white establishment that we are here, and we are not going anywhere.” Eva blushed at the compliments Adam was giving her. She didn’t feel as if she had done much. Yes, she donated money to various causes, and she offered up her restaurant for planning meetings for voter registration and other causes that appealed to her, but really, she didn’t see how her activities had amounted to the praise Adam was offering.

However, once the party started and she looked over the somewhat diverse crowd of attendees, Eva had to concur with Adam’s observation that this moment truly was bigger than her. There weren’t a lot of white guests who showed up for the party, only those who were brave enough to go to an establishment that was run by not only a woman, but a Negro woman at that. D.C. was a segregated town—as segregated as any Jim Crow South town. This was why this night was so important to her—to so many Negro leaders who had been working to end many of the segregation laws in effect in the city. This was her not-so-subtle way of saying to the individuals who preached segregation that she did not honor those written or unwritten laws. Plus, what police force would dare to storm a party filled with elite white and Negro celebrities like Sinatra and Jackie Robinson? The optics alone would not go over well, and that had been Adam’s goal all along when he first mentioned to her that she should have an integrated party.

“Let’s see them tear gas Ethel Waters,” Adam had said wryly, “or put handcuffs on Count Basie.” Eva knew she was taking a huge risk by throwing this party—a risk that could lead to horrible retributions—but Eva was willing to take that risk. It was in her blood.

She had learned about civil rights at the feet of her mother, and she was not interested in taking the safe or easy way out in life. However, there were many in the Negro community who did not like the idea of her having such a high-profile party with white patrons present. Some of the local business owners had urged her not to move forward with her diverse New Year’s Eve celebration. There were more than three hundred Negro-owned businesses on and around U Street in D.C., and most of those businesspeople showed up for a meeting to discuss, among other things, Eva’s planned New Year’s Eve party.

“How many times do we need to see white mobs coming into our communities with their hatred and violence?” said Hal Conroy, the owner of the upscale Negro restaurant The Phoenix. “Some of y’all weren’t around here in 1919, but I was. I remember those four days of rioting like it was yesterday. We don’t need to see that level of hatred aimed at us again.”

Hal was referring to a riot that involved a Negro man being accused of raping a white woman. The civil unrest did not stop until finally President Wilson sent in federal troops.

Eva watched as various ones in the main sanctuary of her brother-in-law’s church, Second Street Baptist, nodded in agreement. She noticed that Pearson was one of them. Eva’s sister, Frédérique, had not attended, but Eva knew she would have been on Hal’s side. Pearson and Frédérique were constantly urging her to tamp down her activities when it came to activism work in the community, but Eva was headstrong, so once she made up her mind to host this New Year’s Eve celebration, there wasn’t much anyone could tell her.

“Eva, we appreciate all that you’ve done to help support our local young people by giving them jobs and backing various efforts to improve the civil rights of us all in this community, but when you keep challenging these white folks with your integrated parties and such, you put us all at risk,” Hal said. “It’s one thing for a random white person to come eat at your restaurant out from under the scrutiny of the media, but this event—this highbrow, highly visible event you’re wanting to put on—is a direct thumb of your nose at the establishment. Plain and simple.”

At that point, Mrs. Mary McLeod Bethune had stood. She was a well-respected educator, humanitarian, and civil rights activist. Mrs. McLeod Bethune had worked closely with Franklin D. Roosevelt and had been responsible for the creation of the Federal Council on Colored Affairs, also known as the Black Cabinet. When she spoke, people listened, both Negro and white, so Eva waited, knowing that the conversation was soon going to come to a close because Mrs. McLeod Bethune had not only offered her support to Eva but also encouraged her to do this and even more.

“I understand your fear,” she said to the crowd of business owners and community leaders, “but we’re entering into an era where fear is not an acceptable reaction to injustice. Eva is doing more than just ‘throwing a party.’ She is challenging the unacceptable Jim Crow laws that have no place in modern society, but especially not in our nation’s capital. Don’t try to stand in the way of progress, because progress has a way of rolling right along with us or without us. Don’t be on the wrong side of history. Support this young woman. Don’t be a hindrance to her or what she is trying to do.”

A few people had clapped as Mrs. McLeod Bethune took her seat, but Eva noticed that many remained stoic and unmoving. Eva knew that it was her time to talk. Her mother had not raised her or Frédérique to be fearful. Having integrated parties was something Geneviève used to do all the time. So Eva stood and surveyed the crowd, speaking with heartfelt conviction. “I hear your concerns, but the party will go on as planned. I am not trying to ruffle your feathers, and God knows, I am not trying to put anyone in harm’s way. I just can’t stand idly by while injustice continues to grow in our community. My mother taught me and my sister to never bow or scrape. No matter what, that philosophy has always served us well. I hope to see as many of you who feel comfortable at the New Year’s Eve celebration.”

As quietly as she had stood, she took her seat as her brother-in-law brought the meeting to a close with a prayer and encouragement for everyone to continue to support one another.

Once the meeting was done, Eva turned her attention back toward making her party the best ever.

Coming up with the guest list had been an overwhelming task, even with the help of Adam and Hazel. Eva had spent months working on it. It was a fine dance to bring together the groups of people she chose to invite. Some folks she knew would not come due to her gender and race, and others would opt out because of divorces and friendship breakups, some of which were happening right up until the day before the party. She understood that just having Frank Sinatra present alone would cause her all sorts of headaches. His wife wasn’t going to attend the party with him due to her being pregnant, and Frank, ever the playboy, had requested specific women like Ava Gardner and Marilyn Maxwell be present. Eva had purposely “lost” their invitations.

For most people, having such distinguished guests in their midst would have been daunting, but having spent her early years in Harlem, Eva had become quite familiar with a number of important and famous Negroes, as well as quite a few of the influential white celebrities who enjoyed “slumming it” in Harlem. Of all the “in” places one could go to there, like the Cotton Club or the Savoy, most preferred the intimacy of a house party because it lacked the scrutiny and publicity that were often attached to going out to some of the landmark clubs in Harlem.

Eva’s mother, Geneviève, or “Viève” as most people called her, threw some of the best get-togethers. Geneviève was a retired blues and jazz singer. She had rivaled some of the greats like Bessie, Ella, and Sarah, but when she met Eva’s father, a white, married landowner in New Orleans, she let go of her dreams of fame to be his kept woman. After he died, she loaded up her family and moved to Harlem, where she said, “Negro folks could breathe out loud and not be afraid.”

Everyone loved coming over to Viève’s house and dancing the Lindy Hop on her parquet floors, drinking Dom Pérignon, and sipping on gin and tonics while rubbing elbows with the rich and talented. Businessmen, politicians, artists, and performers all loved to hobnob together at Viève’s soirees. Eva and Frédérique grew up seeing this type of interaction firsthand.

That is why when Langston Hughes, Representative Adam Clayton Powell Jr., and Thurgood Marshall, to name a few, found out that Viève’s little girl had a restaurant in D.C., they were all determined to come out and support it. She had opened the doors three years before when she was only twenty-one, eight years after the sudden death of her mother. Her mother and father had left both Eva and Frédérique a very nice settlement, and Eva invested almost all of her money into Chez Geneviève.

Looking around the room now, she knew she had made good on her investment. Eva had used nearly every dime her parents had left her to buy this building and hire a young Negro interior designer, Calvin Aaron Toussaint, to decorate the place. Calvin had studied in Paris, which was evident by the parquet floors, French chandeliers, textured white walls, gold pendant and sconce lighting, and bone-colored leather banquettes and black-lacquered chairs.

The artwork was a combination of new and old paintings that had once belonged to Eva’s mother, many of which were gifts from Eva’s father to their mother. However, Eva’s favorite paintings were watercolors done by Loïs Mailou Jones. Eva had commissioned her to create some original paintings for the restaurant the previous year, and everyone loved them because of their vibrant colors and abstract shapes. And then the room was filled with every white flower the florists at Lee’s Flower Shop could locate.

“Ce soir a été un triomphe, mère,” Eva said underneath her breath, trying valiantly to keep the tears from flowing. Tonight is a triumph, Mother.

Some of her guests came from as far as Paris and others no farther than across town, but no matter where they came from, they all wanted to be there to witness Eva’s success in the nation’s capital because as much as some of the neighboring business owners had complained, most of them had shown up. Some because they were nosy and wanted to see what she had planned, and others simply because they wanted to show their support, like Hal, one of her biggest critics. He had kissed her on the cheek and whispered, “I hope you make a liar out of me. I hope this night is all you dreamed of and more, little miss, but more than that, I hope you don’t have to pay for your obstinance.”

Eva had agreed, and she hoped the same thing. Her thoughts were interrupted by none other than Mr. Paul Robeson, a well-known Negro actor and singer. Paul was not the kind of man to be ignored, so she turned to him with a radiant smile. She hoped it reached her eyes.

“Miss Eva Cardon, you set a fine table,” Paul said as he kissed Eva on the cheek while holding a plate piled high with escargot de Bourgogne, Ris de Veau, and candied pork belly. “And I must say, you are the loveliest thing in this room. I can barely keep my eyes on my plate for staring at you.”

Eva forced herself to continue smiling. Her face was pained by all of the schmoozing she had done throughout the evening. Eva was tall, standing at a statuesque five nine, but she still had to look up to see Paul, who she guessed was several inches over six feet. Paul Robeson was quite the looker in film, but up close he was almost breathtaking. Way too handsome for any man, and it was clear he knew what sort of effect he had on the ladies. Fortunately, Eva was immune to his advances. She knew his wife, Essie, and had no intention of disrespecting her by responding to Paul’s flirtations in spite of the many rumors she had heard that their marriage was in trouble. If the truth be known, what marriage in the world of Hollywood and politics wasn’t in trouble? Were it not for her sister and brother-in-law’s undying love for each other, she wondered if she would ever believe love was possible.

“Thank you, Mr. Robeson. I’m happy you are enjoying yourself. If you will excuse me,” she said, attempting to move around him, but he set his plate on a table and took both of her hands in his.

“Call me Paul. You’re acting like this is our first-time meeting,” he said. Like so many of the people present, Eva knew Paul Robeson through her mother. “You know you don’t have to be so formal with me, Eva. I would enjoy myself more if you would sit and talk to me. I’m beginning

to feel like I’m not your favorite guest,” he said, flashing her his trademark smile. Clearly Paul Robeson was not dwelling on the fact that at the age of forty-seven, he was old enough to be her father. Eva didn’t want to insult him by bringing up that fact, so instead, she chose tact.

“All of my guests are my favorite, Paul. You know that,” she said and eased herself out of his grasp. “I’ll check back on you later.”

Eva had hundreds of guests to appease that night, many with egos just as huge as Mr. Paul Robeson’s, so she continued to walk through the throngs of people, thanking each of them for coming out to her New Year’s Eve party but not stopping to talk to any one person over a few seconds. She was thankful that all she had to do was be the hostess, unlike when she first opened Chez Geneviève. Back then, she was everything from the greeter to the dishwasher if that was what it took, but she soon realized she couldn’t both run the restaurant and operate in the role of head chef too. Plus, her cooking skills were not nearly as strong as her business acumen. Even at such a young age, and with no formal college education, Eva instinctively understood what it took to run a business, and she knew she needed help.

With that in mind, she went back to her childhood home of New Orleans and convinced Chef LeRon du Passe, the head chef at Joseph Broussard’s French Quarter establishment, Broussard’s Restaurant, to come back with her and help her operate Chez Geneviève. Chef du Passe had been a close friend of her father and mother, and after much persuasion he had agreed to come for a year or two at the most and train her staff in the ways of cooking authentic Cajun and French cuisine.

It was now three years later, and Chef du Passe continued to say, “I shall return to New Orleans next year.”

Eva would just smile and dutifully kiss him on his cheeks. She knew that it would take an act of Congress to get Chef du Passe to leave Chez Geneviève. It was as much his baby now as it was hers. Plus, Eva had the good sense to give him free rein over the kitchen and the freedom to go back home to New Orleans and visit his family and friends whenever he wanted. Chef du Passe had gone back to visit home only once. The restaurant kept him busy, and he wasn’t ready to turn over the kitchen to any of his protégés, not even for a week.

On the night of the New Year’s Eve party, however, it was not the food or the music that caught the attention of every woman and man in the room. It was Eva who had them totally and completely entranced. Eva carried herself like a cross between a Hollywood starlet and a D.C. socialite. She was by far one of the youngest people in the room, but she was able to hold her own among the rich and powerful who graced her establishment that night. And there were many women there to rival her beauty, like Lena Horne and Josephine Baker, who had flown in from Paris to witness Viève’s little girl’s triumphant night, but none of them came close to stealing her shine.

“Chérie, tu es magnifique!” Josephine exclaimed in an accent that was far more French than American. Darling, you are magnificent. “I never thought there would ever be a woman 

alive to match Viève’s beauty and grace, but child, you have. Your mother would be so proud of you tonight,” Josephine said, kissing Eva on both cheeks while Josephine’s new husband, Jo Bouillon, stood off to the side smiling at both women.

“Thank you,” Eva replied, in awe of the older woman who still lit up a room with her very presence. Eva wore a black-and-gold chiffon beaded dress that was reminiscent of the style of clothing Josephine herself had made famous. Eva watched as Josephine glided across the room to a seating area where Langston Hughes was holding court. Eva tried to drink in the sheer magnitude of all that was happening around her, but as always, there was one thing after another that she had to deal with to make sure the night went over flawlessly for everyone in attendance.

One of the waiters rushed up to Eva as the final strains of Duke Ellington’s “Mood Indigo” played in the background.

“Miss Eva, we are running low on champagne,” the eager young man gushed.

Eva had just recently hired and trained him and several other waiters for the evening, and it was apparent that he was unused to the fast-paced, high-energy atmosphere of Chez Geneviève on a night like this. To be honest, this night was unlike any night Eva had ever experienced, but she knew how to finesse her way through most any situation.

Eva patted his shoulder and smiled. He was only a couple of years younger than she, but she felt decades older. “Don’t worry, Lincoln. There is plenty of wine and champagne in the cellar below. I’m sorry no one bothered to tell you. Go get Antoine to help you bring up a few more cases. We should be fine.”

Lincoln smiled and attempted an awkward bow and then hurried away in search of the head waiter.

“You are quite the efficient hostess,” a deep voice said behind her.

Eva turned and saw a very handsome and debonair-looking white man standing a breath’s distance from her, looking at her with a familiarity that almost made her snap something rude at him, but she reminded herself that he was a guest, and she couldn’t allow him to get to her any more than any other man in the room.

The unknown man was well over six feet, and he cut quite the figure as he leaned lightly on a walking cane. Eva wasn’t sure if the cane was for getting around or for adding to his overall persona. A thick lock of dark curly hair hung down over his left eye in an almost rakish fashion, and he was sipping on a glass of dark liquor, all the while admiring her with his eyes. He reminded Eva of the actor John Payne or perhaps Tyrone Power. He was wearing the standard tuxedo, but nothing was standard about the way he looked in it. Eva could not help but admire how well the suit seemed to mold to his body. Clearly it had been tailor-made for him. Realizing she had been staring at the stranger for quite some time, Eva cleared her throat with embarrassment.

“I-I . . . Do I know you?” she asked, finally settling on something to say.

The man took a sip from his glass and laughed. “No, but I would sure like for us to get to know each other.”

Eva blushed. “This is a private party, sir, so if I don’t know you, then that means you weren’t invited.”

He smiled broadly. “Then let me introduce myself so maybe I can get on your A-list. My name is Courtland Hardiman Kingsley IV.” He extended a hand, but she ignored it.

“If the name is supposed to mean something to me, it doesn’t,” she replied.

“Well, I’m no Paul Robeson, but I’m no slouch either,” he said and reared back his head and laughed with an abandonment that caused others in the room to look over at them. Just as Eva had decided she was going to find her security so he could throw out this impertinent man who was having so much fun at her expense, Representative Adam Clayton Powell Jr. walked over to them.

“Hey, hey, I see you’ve met the country boy senator from Georgia, Miss Eva,” Adam said, slapping Courtland on the back. “I hope you don’t mind me inviting the good senator here to your party. It’s not often the House and the Senate get to rub elbows together. Those senators are a snooty bunch,” he said with a laugh, then quickly got serious. “Senator Kingsley and I needed to talk some politics, and I thought here would be as good a place as any.”

Eva’s face turned a dark red as Courtland bowed low and then laughed again as he and Adam walked away together. Eva noticed that he had a slight limp, but it did not detract from his overall aesthetic. She cursed herself for not recognizing Courtland. She had prided herself on knowing most, if not all, of the Washington elites by face if not by name.

Debating over whether or not she should go over and apologize to Courtland for her faux pas, she was once again interrupted by a staff member. One of the waiters had gotten sick and needed to be seen about, so for a time, she forgot about Courtland and their encounter as she got busy putting out fires. It was a quarter until midnight before Eva ran into Courtland again. He was standing by the double doors that led to the balcony overlooking U Street. He halted her with his voice.

“Well, have I made it onto your A-list yet?” he asked.

For the first time that evening, Eva smiled at him. “I’m sorry for before. You startled me, and I behaved rudely.”

“All is forgiven. Actually, I am more to blame than you, Miss Cardon. I should have told you from the start that Representative Powell had invited me.”

Eva wondered how such an unlikely union of New York’s Representative Powell and this “country boy senator” could have occurred.

“You’d be surprised how much Representative Powell and I have in common,” he said, almost as if he heard her thoughts.

Eva lifted her brow. “Excuse me?”

“You were wondering how Adam and I became friends.”

“Yes. I suppose so,” Eva admitted with a slight smile.

“

Not all of us Southern senators are bad. We aren’t all Georgia crackers below the Mason-Dixon Line,” he said, then laughed again as Eva felt herself blush once more.

“You do laugh a lot, Senator Kingsley,” she said in a gruff tone.

Courtland took her hand in his. “Why not laugh, Miss Cardon? There is so much to be sad about in this world. Why not laugh when we get those rare moments like we have been given tonight?”

Eva pulled her hand away. “Well, I am glad that I amuse you so much.”

Courtland smiled, leaning casually on his cane. “Don’t be offended. I love to laugh, and unfortunately, I haven’t done a lot of laughing in recent years. The brief interludes that we shared tonight have brought much pleasure to my sad, boring little life.”

Eva let out a quick laugh of her own. “Please, Senator Kingsley. I would hardly say your life is sad or boring. From what I can tell, you keep the media hopping with all of your wild escapades.”

Courtland tilted his head and looked at her mockingly. “And I thought you didn’t know me.”

Eva looked away embarrassedly. Although she had been busy throughout the night, she had made time to question her sister about Courtland. Frédérique, who was always up on D.C. gossip, immediately had choice words to say about Courtland.

“Oh, that one,” Frédérique had said in her rich Southern voice.

Somehow the Southern drawl had escaped Eva, who had a more clipped New York sound to her voice. Maybe because she had lived fewer years in the South than Frédérique. Either way, Eva loved the sound of her sister’s voice because it reminded her of their mother. Where Eva favored their grandmother, Frédérique was Geneviève through and through—from her light brown complexion to her thick, coarse black hair.

Frédérique continued, speaking softly so as not to be overheard gossiping, “If the papers are to be believed, Senator Kingsley is as wild as they come. They call him and that John F. Kennedy the Rowdy Boys of Washington. Kingsley is the bad boy in the Senate and Kennedy in the House.”

Eva had pressed her for more details, but Frédérique had dismissed him as yet another senator from the South whose only concern was to make sure he and his white constituents stayed in power.

“Have you been struck mute, Miss Cardon?” Courtland teased just as someone yelled, “Ten seconds to midnight!”

“I sh-should check that everyone has champagne,” she stuttered, but the countdown to 1948 had already begun.

“Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . Happy New Year!” everyone screamed as Duke Ellington and his orchestra began playing “Auld Lang Syne.”

Courtland kissed her lightly on her cheek.

“

Happy New Year, beautiful lady,” he whispered, and then he kissed her again, but this time on the lips. For a few seconds, Eva kissed him back, but then she realized what she was doing and pushed him away, slapping him resoundingly across his face.

“Don’t do that,” she hissed, looking around to see if anyone had seen them, but everyone seemed engrossed in the act of celebrating the arrival of 1948.

Courtland rubbed his jaw slightly and had the good graces to look apologetic. Eva frowned but was pleased to see that he wasn’t a total cad.

“I’m sorry. That was . . . uncalled for and highly inappropriate. I think I have had enough dark liquor for one night. Please, accept my apologies,” he said and walked away from her, disappearing into the throngs of people who were back on the dance floor, swaying to Duke Ellington’s “Take the ‘A’ Train.”

Instead of going out into the crowd and mingling with her guests, Eva stood rooted in her spot, unsure of what she really felt about that kiss. One thing was for sure, however: this was not how she expected to ring in the New Year. Not at all.