Chapter 23 Amy-Rose

Chapter 23

Amy-Rose

Amy-Rose thanked Edward and took the stairs at Freeport Manor, following the voices from the sitting room Helen and Olivia shared. From the muffled speech, she guessed Helen had finally been captured and pressed into giving her opinions for her party. Now Amy-Rose could plan how to style Helen’s hair for her debut—and perhaps hear more about the race car driver who’d turned her head. Anything to keep her mind off John and the persistent unease she felt about Ruth Davis. The woman had already kicked Amy-Rose out of Mrs.Davis’s home. What if she came for Amy-Rose’s salon next?

The letters, though, were a cherished distraction. The notes her parents exchanged took a couple nights to read. Some were tender and funny, a few so passionate, Amy-Rose blushed and immediately replaced them in their envelopes. In a way, she was getting to know her mother as a young woman, and meet the man that Clara Shepherd had loved until she died. Their time was so brief and full of love, Amy-Rose wondered if she might one day have a hatbox of her own of letters, thought of John, and quickly pushed the notion away.

Behind her, another set of voices rose from the stairs. She walked back to find John and the Davenport patriarch on the landing. Not sure who to look at first, she said, “Good evening, Mr.Davenport. John.”

“Amy-Rose, good evening,” said the older gentleman. He leaned heavily on John. They took a step together, Mr.Davenport wincing in pain.

“Amy-Rose,” said John. His eyes lingered on her, their intensity broken by his father’s next unsteady step.

“May I help?” she asked before she could think better of it.

They both looked at her, as unsure of how to proceed as she was. William Davenport’s forehead was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He glanced down the stairs, pride and pain warring on the features of his face.

“That would be great, thank you,” said John.

Without hesitation, Amy-Rose took Mr.Davenport’s other arm in hers and they assisted him to a chaise in the master bedroom. He dropped heavily into its tufted arms and held on to his knee.

“Daddy,” said John, sounding more like the parent than the child, “how long has it been like this?”

Mr.Davenport threw his son a look for his tone, but answered. “Since the voyage out. The moisture, the walking. It was too much.” He lifted his leg onto the chair with John’s assistance. “I’ve tried everything.”

John wiped his face with his hands. His worry made her ache to wrap her arms around him. Amy-Rose was ready to excuse herself from what was a family affair when she remembered a recipe her mother had written in her notebook. A salve for joint pain. “I may know something that could help,” she offered, hesitant. She ran through the ingredients in her mind. Yes, it could work. “John, will you boil water. Mr.Davenport, can you remove your trousers?” She stopped as her words sunk in. A fire roared beneath the surface of her skin. The gentleman before her had frozen in shock. John coughed to disguise a laugh. All three of them flinched when the door banged open.

“William, the physician can’t come until morning,” said Mrs.Davenport. Her pace slowed when she took in the trio.

John spoke into the growing silence. “Amy-Rose, you were saying?” His lip twitched as he walked past.

“It will have to be applied to your skin,” she told Mr.Davenport. “Just give me a moment.” She followed John down to the kitchen, where she opened the cabinets with the rare herbs. Please, Jessie, don’t have thrown them out. Her pulse quickened. She had never made medicine before. Hair tonics and serums, yes, but his would be different. Red lavender, coconut oil, nutmeg… Mortar and pestle. She paused at the strangled sound behind her.

John’s shoulders shook as he set a pot to boil, looking like he was trying to eat his smile.

Amy-Rose buried her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I told your father to take off his trousers.”

John laughed outright. She felt his fingers circle her wrists as he gently pulled her hands from her face. “To his credit, my father didn’t even flinch.”

The laugh that escaped her was breathy and strained. “I hope he found as much humor in it as you did.”

“Sometimes he surprises me.”

She handed John the oil, focused now on the task. “Place this over the boiling water so it softens.” His brow furrowed in concentration, as if the water would boil from him looking at it. She wondered if now was the time to bring up her mother’s and sister’s letters—his own too.

“I appreciate you helping,” he said.

“Of course. Just because I’ve moved out, doesn’t mean I’ll stop caring.”

“I know—” he started, then indicated the oil, which had turned clear.

“We need both the oil and water,” she said, throwing a towel onto her shoulder and grabbing the mortar full of shredded leaves and the pestle. She took for the stairs with John’s footsteps just a beat behind her own.

When they returned to the bedroom, Mrs.Davenport stood behind her husband, holding one of his hands in hers. Her eyes were puffy. Mr.Davenport had rolled up the leg of his pants above a very red and swollen knee. He had removed his jacket and tie too, and rolled up his sleeves. It was the most informal she had ever seen him. Like this, his features seemed gentler, younger, more like Helen’s, though she proved to be just as strong-willed as her father.

Amy-Rose tried not to focus too long at the thin uneven scars at his collar and along his arms. Or the burn that covered the brand on his wrist.

Following her gaze, he said, “It was to mark us as their property and differentiate us from the neighboring plantations. I could no longer look at it. My brother did it after our escape, the night before we had to separate. Each year it’s harder to remember his face.” He studied her now. “I imagine you might feel the same way about your mother.”

Amy-Rose cleared her throat. “I remember parts of her better than others. The smell of her soap. The texture of her hair. Her smile. It’s all sharper in the morning.”

“Yes, in that space between sleep and waking,” he said.

Amy-Rose nodded. Her eyes and nose stung at his words. She met his and Mrs.Davenport’s gaze in turn. They’d known her mother, welcomed them both when no one wanted to take on an extra mouth to feed that could not work. Even her role as maid hadn’t felt like true work compared to the other staff, or the work the salon required.

She was aware of, but did not see, Mr.Davenport’s eyes on her and John. John took her directions: More water. More oil. Together they prepared the poultice her mother had left in the pages of a notebook, memorized long ago. The crushed vegetation and coconut oil filled the air with a pungent smell. I hope this works.

“Here, rest your hands.” John closed his hands around hers. His touch traveled from the points of gentle pressure from his fingertips to every inch of her being. Her next breath shuddered through her, and the intense expression of hope mixed with gratitude he gave her. She released her grip, not trusting her voice. She sat back on her heels, her focus attuned to the place where their knees touched and the weight of Mr.and Mrs.Davenport’s presence.

Mrs.Davenport placed a pillow under his knee. With the injury now fully exposed, she took the finished paste Amy-Rose and John had made and applied it to the area. Mr.Davenport sighed with relief. Mrs.Davenport rocked onto her heels, the back of her hand pressed to her forehead.

“Here,” said Amy-Rose, holding a damp towel in her outstretched hand.

“Daddy?” Helen poked her head through the gap in the door. Then she lurched through. “Livy!” she hissed.

Mr.Davenport waved them in. They moved slowly, Olivia stumbling at the sight of his swollen knee. Sensing a change to an intimate family gathering, Amy-Rose attempted to stand. John’s hand grasped hers with a fierceness that stopped her. Once the girls were settled around them, Mr.Davenport sat up. His gaze moved over her hand in John’s, and found his wife.

···

Amy-Rose watched from the register as the young women who’d mastered her styling techniques set about cleaning their stations. The chairs were empty, including the ones by the windows that baked in the warm summer sun of her waiting area. Word of mouth. That was how the women who waited to have their hair styled heard about Clara’s Beauty Salon. For years, the high-society women had seen the fruits of her labor in the Davenports’ coils, finger waves, presses. Now she could do all sorts of modified arrangements that celebrated the various rich textures of many women’s hair. But the heat today had everyone fleeing for cooler climates.

Amy-Rose was exhausted. A room at the boardinghouse nearby had opened and, with the help of Sandra and Harold, she’d finally made the move out on her own. Chin propped in her hand, she tried to follow the conversation around her. The stylists’ chatter reminded her of the kitchen of Freeport Manor, Jessie and Ethel bickering as they worked.

One of the hairdressers called to her. “Miss Shepherd, please tell Martha that if she keeps moving the pin tray, I’ll stick her with one.” The young woman’s threat was softened by her dimpled smile and Martha’s unapologetic shrug.

Yes, exactly like Jessie and Ethel. “I think the two of you can come to some sort of understanding without me playing umpire,” said Amy-Rose. She watched them resume their work. Mama, she thought to herself, do you see this? She sighed. Her heart ached for the years her mother must have spent thinking that her love no longer cared for her. It was a terrible truth to carry, and Amy-Rose wondered how her sister lived with the knowledge. Her sister . Elizabeth had ended her letter with a hope that they could one day meet. Amy-Rose could tell she did not know Clara Shepherd had passed. And there was no way Amy-Rose could express her gratitude for the letters her mother had written to her father. She’d spent whole nights reading them, pairing them with the ones her father had sent. She had yet to reply to her half sister, though. Every attempt seemed somehow insufficient.

How could I have been so stubborn? If she had just opened the package John had sent, she would have discovered all this so much sooner. Her mind turned to the afternoon a few days ago. She did not know what to make of the events around Mr.Davenport’s injured knee. It had felt, perhaps, like something had shifted…but she hadn’t seen or heard from John since.

Amy-Rose was lost in her thoughts when she saw Mr.King striding up the street. He pushed through the door with a flourish, then crossed the salon space in moments, his long gait eating up the distance easily. He wore a lighter suit, and the smile on his face promised adventure. “Amy-Rose,” he said, her name rolling off his tongue. “I’d like to take you out to lunch.”

Amy-Rose straightened and adjusted the belt at her waist. “Mr.King—Ben,” she said warmly, hoping to soften her refusal, but her stomach roared in protest. His smile widened at the use of his first name.

“Now, I think that was a yes,” he said. They laughed.

“I suppose it was. I just need a moment.” She walked to the back, ignoring the crumpled stationery in the waste bin—failed attempts to write to her sister. The words will come. She grabbed her small purse and came around the counter. Mr.King took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm.

“I made us reservations at the Blackstone,” he said, leading her out of the salon.

Amy-Rose had heard of it. She’d never had cause to enter such a space. It was only a few blocks from where the salon was located. Her heart sped up as it came into view, faster still as they passed through the entrance. There were several open tables at this time of day, and the dining space was quiet as a library. This is where Olivia dines with potential husbands. Amy-Rose looked at Ben, hoping she had not led him on since they’d parted in New York.

“I’ve had a great time in Chicago, but I’m afraid my time is soon up.”

“Oh,” said Amy-Rose. “That’s too bad.” She kept her smile subdued.

“Now, there’s one matter that needs attention. I must say, it’s rare for a salon to experience such instant success. You must be very proud.”

“I am, yes,” she said. Around them, crisp white linen covered the tables set with bone-white china, and gold cutlery gleamed like treasure. Diners, both Black and white, enjoyed their lunches, reminding Amy-Rose of photographs from a magazine. “Thank you,” she said.

They were escorted to a table near the window where she had a perfect view of two other nearby Black-owned businesses—a pharmacy and haberdasher. To be part of the Black entrepreneurship that was flourishing in this part of the city—Binga Bank, barbers, grocers, boutiques—it made her feel proud. Honored. She felt a lightness in her chest she hadn’t experienced since she’d boarded the train in New York. This was only the beginning. Yes, there was still a lot to do, but she was willing and capable. And she had plenty of support.

“How have you been?” Mr.King asked. “Is it strange being at the salon without Mrs.Davis?”

“Some days. When we left it was just a shell. It had been stripped of everything, and we’d left her designer in charge with my sketches and suggestions, some fabrics and furniture selections.” Amy-Rose looked down at the napkin she’d placed in her lap. “She never got to see the finished space. Or how successful it’s been.”

Mr.King opened his menu. “She did the right thing ensuring it was placed in your capable hands instead of Ruth’s.”

“Ruth?” The mention of Mrs.Davis’s estranged daughter startled Amy-Rose. “I wasn’t aware that you were acquainted with Miss Davis.”

Mr.King’s mouth parted. “Yes, she and I met years ago when they moved to New York—before Mrs.Davis returned here to Chicago.” The waiter arrived, filled their water glasses, and lingered expectantly.

His casual mention of her mentor’s child made her curious, especially when Amy-Rose herself had not heard of Ruth until after Mrs.Davis’s funeral. “Do you know what led to their falling out?”

Mr.King shifted in his seat. “I do.” Amy-Rose waited for him to elaborate. “Mrs.Davis prides—took pride in her business mind. Ruth got into some trouble and sold some information her mother kept private, nearly ruined the Davis name.”

“Oh, I had no idea. Poor Mrs.Davis.”

“Mrs.Davis was far from poor.”

Amy-Rose frowned. “You know what I mean. Money can come and go, but a name and how it’s remembered, there’s no price on that.”

“Right you are,” he said.

The rest of the lunch passed quickly. Mr.King was a natural storyteller, his voice smooth, his expressions animated. He spoke as if to fill the silence before it could come. He then walked her the short distance back to the salon. “You made the salon a reality, Amy-Rose. Now is not the time to stop dreaming. The hair care line…it’s gold.” He leaned in slightly. “Dream bigger.” She noticed he was standing quite close to her when he said quietly, “I’d bet on you, Amy-Rose.”

He gently cupped her chin and slowly bent his face toward hers.

“Ben!” She stepped away. Amy-Rose remembered their evening in New York City when she was fresh off the heartbreak of leaving John and her home behind. And she and John were…Well, she wasn’t sure what they were, or what they would ever be, but she couldn’t deny the feelings that lived always under her skin, especially now having heard his confession and read his letter. She smiled, hoping to soften her reaction. “Thank you for lunch. I hope you’ll allow me to return the favor before you leave for New York.”

Before Mr.King could respond, Amy-Rose turned and entered her salon.