July, 1931—“Emma?” Klara’s warm voice turned Emma Hancock from where she was massaging oil into her leather baseball glove. “I have a little something for you.”
Klara James closed the front door of the brownstone that housed the Di Stasio Giornaliste Agency, her golden hair glimmering in the bright summer sun.
“What is this?” Emma wiped her hands on a cloth before shifting to the right of the stoop, patting the empty space beside her for Klara to sit.
Klara arranged her skirts as she perched on the edge of the step, then handed off the small hat box.
“It’s not my birthday. It’s not Christmas.” Emma took the box from her colleague and friend. “What is this for?”
“You have to open it, silly.” Klara’s eyes sparkled like Lake Michigan did this time of year.
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