For the audience of Fiona Davis and Lisa Wingate, a vibrant historical debut set in 1946 North Carolina following a young female seamstress who uncovers dangerous truths about the Big Tobacco empire ruling the American South.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Tobacco Wives by Adele Myers, which is out now!
Maddie Sykes is a burgeoning seamstress who’s just arrived in Bright Leaf, North Carolina—the tobacco capital of the South—where her aunt has a thriving sewing business. After years of war rations and shortages, Bright Leaf is a prosperous wonderland in full technicolor bloom, and Maddie is dazzled by the bustle of the crisply uniformed female factory workers, the palatial homes, and, most of all, her aunt’s glossiest clientele: the wives of the powerful tobacco executives.
When a series of unexpected events thrusts Maddie into the role of lead dressmaker for the town’s most influential women, she scrambles to produce their ornate gowns for the biggest party of the season. But she soon learns that Bright Leaf isn’t quite the carefree paradise that it seems: A trail of misfortune follows many of the women, including substantial health problems. Although Maddie is quick to believe that this is a coincidence, she inadvertently uncovers evidence that suggests otherwise.
Maddie wants to report what she knows, but in a town where everyone depends on Big Tobacco to survive, she doesn’t know who she can trust—and fears that exposing the truth may destroy the lives of the proud, strong women with whom she has forged strong bonds.
Shedding light on the hidden history of women’s activism during the post-war period, at its heart, The Tobacco Wives is a deeply human, emotionally satisfying, and dramatic novel about the power of female connection and the importance of seeking truth
CHAPTER FOUR
Like all the wealthy tobacco families, the Winstons lived a good few miles away on the north side of Bright Leaf. Since gas was rationed and Aunt Etta only used her car on special occasions, we would cover the distance by bus, the same one we took to town when it was too hot to walk. And boy, was it hot. Not even nine o’clock and already the air was thick and heavy with gnats as we walked to the bus stop. August here was scorching, but I didn’t expect it to be this sweltering in June. In the Holler this time of year, the morning grass was cool against my feet, the evening air chilly enough for a sweater.
“The heat’s gonna be bad today, but at least we’re not working the fields,” Aunt Etta said, motioning to the near distance where the tops of the tobacco plants swayed in the warm breeze.
The morning was quiet and the road was empty. Lucky for us the bus soon rumbled to the stop, kicking up dust. The door swung open with a squawk.
“Morning, Etta. Morning—” The driver paused for a minute, studying me. “Maddie, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Morning.”
“Morning, Ed,” Aunt Etta said, settling herself into a seat and motioning for me to sit next to her. The seat was cracked in places and pinched the backs of my legs.
“How about this heat?” the driver said. “’Bacca sure loves that sun. More sunshine, bigger leaves, and you know what that means.” He chuckled. “I’m hoping it’ll be a strong season for all of us. I for one would be relieved if we had a bumper crop.”
Aunt Etta nodded and then said, “How is Gladys getting on, Ed?
I’ve been meaning to ask.”
His face went from sunny to serious. “Well, she’s hanging in there as best she can.” He glanced from the road to the rearview mirror as he spoke. I could feel the sadness in him as he talked about his wife.
Aunt Etta shifted in her seat, then took two embroidered handkerchiefs from her purse; she handed one to me and dabbed her neck with the other. I patted the back of my neck with the folded cloth, feeling the sweat roll down my back.
“Is she home now?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “She came home last week.” Sadness changed to worry as he talked about having to take time off work for her treatments, and now a trip to New York. Then his voice got real quiet. “It was way worse than they thought. She’s got the cancer in her throat, and they have to remove her voice box.”
“Oh no,” my aunt said, leaning forward in her seat. “I’m so sorry, Ed. That’s just awful. Please tell her I’m wishing her a speedy recovery, will you? The girls at the factory must miss her terribly.”
“Oh, they do. They’ve been wonderful, bringing by casseroles and sitting with her in the evenings, reading to her to help pass the time.”
“That’s good to hear. They’re all such nice girls.” Aunt Etta folded and unfolded her hands. “My friend Frances has an extensive library. If you’d like to borrow some books for your wife, I’d be happy to ask her.”
He smiled and said thank you, but Mrs. Winston had already brought over more books than they could read in a month of Sundays.
“She and Mr. Winston both have been so good to us. They said there’d be a place for her on the production line until the men came back, but I don’t know that I want her doing that anymore. Never liked it much in the first place, to be honest with you. I do just fine as the breadwinner, but no, she wanted to help the war effort. I told her that factory wasn’t no place for a woman.”
The bus slowed and a woman sitting several rows behind came up to the front. She wore a khaki factory uniform, and her graying hair was pulled back and secured with a net.
She leaned against a pole to steady herself as she lit a cigarette. “Ed, if I were you, I’d ask the Winstons to get Gladys an office job when she’s ready,” the woman said solemnly, returning her matches to her pocketbook and taking a long draw. “Factory work is hard on the body—especially if you’re feeling weak.”
The driver tipped his hat at her and pulled the lever to open the door.
The bus got quiet after that. Aunt Etta and I were the only passengers left, and nobody said a word as we trundled on toward town. I pulled down the window to try to get a breeze going and instead got a face full of oven-hot air. Rows and rows of shoulder-high, green tobacco plants blurred together like one of those cartoon flip books. As soon as I tried to look at a row, it turned into the next, the next, the next.
The fields were dotted with men and women dressed in Bright Leaf Tobacco coveralls. Some were white, but most of the laborers were Black. There were also dozens of smaller bodies in the distance— children toiling alongside the adults. Many were barefoot and dressed only in short pants, the sun baking the tops of their shoulders while they wielded hoes twice their size. Some were just little bitty things, probably years younger than me.
My only farming experience was helping Frances weed her strawberry beds last summer; she had given me a shiny penny for every clump of quack grass or chickweed I pulled. At the end of that day, when I complained about my sore arms and back, she said, “You don’t know sore ’til you’ve topped and hoed tobacco from dawn to dusk. You best keep up your sewing, Maddie May, and your studies in school.”
“Are they picking already?” I asked Aunt Etta, pointing out the window.
The workers were moving between rows, pulling the tops off plants with a sure flick of their wrists, then throwing the petals on the ground. I could just make out the lonely trail of red flowers they left behind them.
“No, they’re topping and suckering for the next week or so. Then they’ll start picking. You remember what topping is, don’t you?”
“Isn’t that when they break off the flowers at the top of the plants?”
“That’s right,” said Aunt Etta. “Getting rid of the flowers sends more energy to the leaves, makes them bigger.” I knew topping made sense for the farmers, but I thought it was sad to cut off the prettiest part of the plant like that.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. No other tobacco compared to Bright Leaf, the way it smelled of ripe peaches and fresh cut grass.
“Put that window back up, Maddie. This heat’s about to kill me.” I did as she said, and she closed her eyes against the heat. Looking at her smooth and unlined skin, you’d never guess she was in her fifties. Once, when Daddy bragged about her looking so young, Momma said it was because she was chubby. The extra flesh on Aunt Etta’s face stretched out all the wrinkles, said Momma, like a balloon full of air.
It was just like Momma to say something like that. She was jealous of Daddy’s relationship with Aunt Etta and it showed. I’d never once thought of her as fat. She was a big woman, sure—with broad shoulders and strong capable hands. But she was easy in her body, knew how to dress it with style, and always looked put-together. As far back as I could remember, she’d worn a different version of the same outfit every day, a bias-cut shirtwaist dress that was sharp and crisp even in the most wilting heat. Because she favored neutral shades like gray, cream, or navy, she dolled them up with a colorful pincushion she wore on her wrist like a corsage. She’d collected and constructed hundreds of them over the years, and never left the house without first sliding one of the pretty, pumpkin-shaped pieces over her right hand. Frances would pretend to tease her about them. “Well get a load of you. Guess somebody’s going to the prom after all.”
I felt the dirt road level out beneath us. Steam rose up off the smooth black tar, now that we were passing through town. Maples and sycamores lined the road like soldiers. The houses stood a ways apart, their yards showing off pink azaleas and rhododendrons in full bloom.
We passed an imposing, cream-colored mansion with a fancy, wrought iron porch swing. It looked like a fairy tale—pretty as a picture and just as perfect, the swing moving back and forth, just barely, in the breeze. What if I lived in that house and could swing on that porch anytime I wanted?
Quit it, Maddie. Stop your daydreaming. Fairy tales don’t come true and you don’t belong here. These people will know it soon as you walk in the door, so you better get rid of any highfalutin notions you have. You’re here to help Aunt Etta and learn how to become a dressmaker. Don’t you forget it.
I didn’t like to talk so harsh to myself, but it had to be done. Everything was swirling around me and I had to keep my head level. But gosh, it was all happening so fast. Just last night I had been sleeping in my own bed and now this rickety bus was taking me to a grand old home with maids and everything. Aunt Etta said the Winstons’ house had more rooms than you could count, and we’d be working in the upstairs parlor, one of her favorite rooms on account of the gorgeous, embroidered drapery panels. They were floral bark cloth, which I had only heard about. She didn’t have to tell me that I wasn’t to touch them, but she did.
Rich or wealthy made no difference. It always meant don’t touch. “Come on, honey. This is our stop.” Aunt Etta elbowed me. She grabbed a shiny metal pole and pulled herself to standing, the seat creaking as her weight shifted. I carried her sewing box as we made our way off the bus.
The air was cooler outside and helped me feel less nervous.
As if reading my mind, Aunt Etta said, “Wait until you feel how nice and chilled it is inside the house. They’ve got the only air conditioner in Bright Leaf.” She went on to explain how the light-colored sidewalks and trees also helped account for the difference. They didn’t pull as much heat and kept the air circulating.
We walked past a large brick house and two driveways that curved so you couldn’t see where they led.
“Here we are,” Aunt Etta said, stopping at a road to our right.
It took my breath, the sight of it. The house, of course, but the trees too. Beautiful and noble, there must have been twenty huge elms flanking the driveway leading to the house far in the distance.
Taller by far than any I’d ever seen, their smooth trunks, closer to gray than brown, were so thick that a grown man couldn’t get his arms around them.
The bleach-white house stood at the end of the endless driveway, tall columns reaching from the front porch to the roof four stories up. As we made our way up the drive, the road beneath our feet turned from pavement to small, smooth bits of gravel that glinted in the sun like jewels. I bent down to pick up a sparkly gold piece and placed it in my satchel.
At the end of the trees was a tiny box of a building, no bigger than a coat closet. A man appeared and waved to us. He wore a black jacket and slacks, his white shirt crisp and bright. He removed his hat as he greeted us.
“’Morning, ladies.”
“’Morning, Isaac. This is my niece, Maddie.” He nodded and smiled at me.
“This your nephew’s daughter?” “Yes she is,” said Aunt Etta.
“What a fine young lady, and so grown. You what, about seventeen years old?”
“No, sir,” I replied. “I’m fifteen.”
“Well, your aunt sure loved your daddy,” he said. “Thought he hung the moon.”
“Oh, yes, Jack was something special all right,” Aunt Etta said. They both went quiet. People always stopped talking when Daddy’s name came up.
“Well, nice to meet you, young lady,” Isaac said, returning his hat to his head. I liked his voice. You could hear the smile behind it. For a split second, I wished I could just wait out here with him while Aunt Etta did the fitting. This way I wouldn’t risk embarrassing myself, or worse, Aunt Etta.
“Maddie’s going to be working with me for a while.”
“Oh, Mrs. Winston will love that,” said Isaac. “That’ll really lift her spirits.”
What a surprising thing to say. As if a wealthy woman like Mrs.
Winston would need her spirits lifted.
“We best go on now,” Aunt Etta said, leading the way toward the house. “Wouldn’t want to be late.”
“Heavens no!” Isaac shouted after us.
A stone path led up to the house, bright green grass cut as short as an officers’ high-and-tight on either side. Potted red azaleas framed the black front door. Aunt Etta tapped a large brass W against a metal plate.
I’d barely had time to smooth my dress when a young woman opened the door and waved her hand for us to come on in. When we crossed the threshold, the air felt nice and cool.
“Thank you, Ruth,” Aunt Etta said to the young woman. She had vivid green eyes, light brown skin, and an abundance of wavy black hair tied at the nape of her neck. Her crisp blue uniform was covered with a minute maid apron, with pleats running across the hips and front. I felt like a child next to her, but she couldn’t have been much older than me. Eighteen, maybe nineteen at most.
“This is my niece, Maddie,” Aunt Etta said. “Maddie,” she turned to me. “This is Miss Ruth. She pretty much runs the place,” she whispered.
Miss Ruth giggled. “Nice to meet you, Maddie,” she said. “Y’all can go on up to the parlor.”
I followed Aunt Etta through the marble foyer that led to the staircase—two staircases, really, one on either side that climbed up to meet in the middle at a balcony. As we walked upstairs, I ran my hand along the glossy banister.
“Don’t touch that,” she warned.
At the end of a quiet hall was a set of heavy double doors that opened into a light-filled space. In the center of the room sat a three-way mirror and a raised, round platform. It was carpeted, like the ones in the department stores. Chairs and chaise lounges covered in delicate florals were arranged in small groups around the room, and a pink gingham bench sat in front of a vanity. One wall was painted green, and the others were covered with wallpaper, cheerful stripes of white, pink, and yellow, the same yellow as the roses that sat on the coffee table. There was a silver teapot and floral teacups, a small silver bowl with sugar cubes, a tiny spoon resting next to it.
On the green wall hung a life-size painting of a woman in a wedding dress, the white skirt of her gown filling the whole bottom of the gold frame. I guessed it was Mrs. Winston. Her waist was impossibly small, and she rested one side of her lovely face in a petite, gloved hand. She smiled without showing her teeth. Aunt Etta pulled me by the sleeve. “Stop gawking. Here she comes.”
Heels click-clacked down the hallway, accompanied by a faint jingling that grew louder until it stopped just outside the parlor. The knobs turned, the doors opened, and the air around us changed, as if a sweet and smoky breeze had entered the room.
Adapted from The Tobacco Wives by Adele Myers. Copyright © 2022 by Adele Myers. Reprinted courtesy of William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
