Chapter 26 Olivia

Chapter 26

Olivia

With one final swoop, the last stubborn curl at Olivia’s temple now lay flat on her skin. Amy-Rose always made this look so easy, she thought. Olivia stood back from the mirror and examined her reflection. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed. Her nervousness and frustration with her hair gave way to giddy anticipation. She admired the burnt-orange silk draped over her skin like the glow of the setting sun. The fabric felt luxurious if a little overstated for dinner. The dress was the new style, and it made Olivia feel daring. Ankles! She glanced at her heel and the beaded details of her shoes peeking below the hemline.

Mr.Stone will be here.

“Have you finished looking at yourself yet?” asked Helen. She slouched on the chaise, playing with a loose thread on her sleeve. Sprawled out as she was, the creases on her ivory dress were minimal. The light linen fabric was whimsical and daring for Helen’s taste but befitting a debutant.

Olivia turned to her sister and pulled a face. “Yes, I have,” she said. She clipped the thread on her sister’s sleeve with a pair of scissors from her top drawer.

“You both look lovely,” said Amy-Rose as she entered the room. Her eyes darted to where Olivia had just smoothed her hair down, as if she knew where she’d struggled.

“Thank you, Amy-Rose, so do you. I’m glad you changed your mind about attending dinner tonight.” Her friend glanced down at the yellow dress she wore. With her hair pulled away from her face and falling down her back, she appeared to stand straighter. There was something about her that seemed different. “How are you settling in at the boardinghouse?”

“It’s comfortable, and the other girls are quite nice. It’s a wonderful feeling to have something of your own, however small. And it’s so close to the salon, I can walk.”

“I’m glad,” said Helen, beating Olivia to a response. “But…you’ve read John’s letter, no? Did you not want to stay and see where it might lead?”

Olivia yelled at Helen with her eyes. Though she too was curious to know if Amy-Rose’s feelings had shifted at all since the night their father had returned, this question was bold, even for her sister.

Amy-Rose caught Olivia’s expression and laughed. But her eyes soon sobered. Olivia wondered what her friend knew. She herself was aware John had spoken again to their father since his return, but she wasn’t privy to the content or outcome. John had kept it to himself.

“It’s okay, Olivia,” said Amy-Rose, mustering another smile. “I did read his letter, Helen. And he told me he spoke with Mr.Davenport about his intentions the day I left Freeport.” Olivia noticed the slight tremor in her friend’s voice. “Despite that”—she cleared her throat—“we remain at an impasse. It is…a confusing situation for me.” She shook out her shoulders then, and said, “But there are the letters my half sister sent.”

Helen and Olivia exchanged a look, and Helen sat up, “It’s amazing that both your parents kept them, Amy-Rose, and that you can now can piece everything together.”

“It’s so romantic,” Olivia added. She took a seat beside Amy-Rose on the couch. “And to find a lost sibling? It is the bright spot in all this. The sunrise after a storm.”

“Lovely, Livy,” said Helen. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you should become a writer.” She grinned.

“Ha-ha,” said Olivia. She turned back to Amy-Rose, whose gaze had fallen to her hands in her lap. “Don’t let Helen pressure you into deciding how you feel. She’s just cross about her outfit tonight.”

Helen stood and tugged at her dress. “I don’t understand why we need to get dressed up.”

“We’re celebrating Daddy’s recovery.” Olivia turned and smiled at Amy-Rose, grateful for her friend’s role in her father’s improving health.

“I’m glad I could help,” Amy-Rose said. “Should I be aware of any other guests?”

“Like Mrs.Johnson?” Olivia raised her hands. “No.”

Amy-Rose laughed. Then added nervously, “Or Miss Ruth Davis. One of the ladies at the salon says she’s trying to sell off her mother’s businesses and properties, but it’s all stalled at the bank. I’ll just feel better once I know she’s returned to wherever she came from and the salon’s ownership can’t be contested. I do keep having nightmares that she shows up to dinner.”

Olivia reached for her friend’s hands. “The salon is safe. Mrs.Davis always planned ahead, and the deed is yours. Let Ruth Davis bully about.” Olivia glanced at Helen, then back at Amy-Rose. “But speaking of surprise relations, have you finished a response to your sister?”

Amy-Rose pinched her bottom lip. “Dozens,” she said. “None is right.”

“I’m sure she’d love to hear from you just the same.” Olivia thought of her father and his search for his brother. His disappointment when yet another report came back with no leads to his whereabouts. She stood. “Let’s go down for dinner.” She placed a comforting hand on Amy-Rose’s shoulder, but a flutter to her left caught her attention. “My goodness, Helen, leave the bodice alone.”

Helen rolled her eyes. “You and Mama just like getting dressed up.”

Olivia shrugged, enjoying the way the cool fabric of her own dress felt on her skin. She walked past her sister. “You do look nice too, Helen,” she said, and meant it. Helen scoffed and slipped around her to the hallway.

“Do you smell that?” asked Helen.

Amy-Rose laughed. “Jessie and Ethel wouldn’t let me near—not one pot!” She looked to Olivia. “I’m looking forward to formally meeting this Mr.Stone you and Hetty are so fond of.”

Olivia smiled. She could hear her parents speaking as the trio descended the stairs. She let Amy-Rose and Helen enter the sitting room before her, Amy-Rose drawing John’s immediate attention. In the calm of the hallway, Olivia smoothed the imagined wrinkles from her dress. Then she entered the room.

To her surprise, the first gentleman she saw was not her father or brother. It wasn’t even Mr.Stone.

“Good evening, Miss Davenport,” said Washington DeWight, all charm and sass and standing next to her father. The pair nursed tumblers of amber liquid in front of the empty fireplace. An unlit cheroot cigar was pinched between her father’s fingers. He seemed to think better of it and placed it on the fireplace mantel.

“Good evening,” she said, looking between them both, “Mr.DeWight.” Olivia felt her temperature rise. Washington offered his signature smile, a sparkle in his honey-colored eyes. He looked at home in the sitting room. The guest Olivia was expecting had not yet arrived. A glance at her mother revealed that she shared Olivia’s unease.

She crossed the room to her mother’s side. “Mama, what is going on?” she whispered, worry growing in the pit of her stomach.

“I don’t know. I came down here and was just as surprised as you were to see him. Your father mentioned in passing that he’d invited someone to dine with us and that we would need another place setting.” Mrs.Davenport’s look of confusion turned to concern. She brushed Olivia’s chin gently with her thumb. “We can accept an abundance of love, but can only give our heart to one,” she whispered.

Olivia forced a smile. Her mother’s words voiced what she feared to be true. You can manage this, she told herself. She clasped her hands tightly, hoping to hide her nerves, and rejoined her father and Mr.DeWight.

Mr.Davenport shifted his weight on his cane to place a kiss on her cheek. Amy-Rose’s treatment had improved his gait. They expected he’d soon be back to his natural condition. “I invited Mr.DeWight to dinner. I’m interested in what he has to share about the demonstrations in the capital.” He sighed. “I regret I missed the election. I’m afraid my friend has had a difficult time of things.” He turned to Washington. “Mr.Tremaine is devastated by the results. We need to know what the next steps are. We were so close—and can’t lose hope now.”

“Of course, Mr.Davenport,” said Washington. “We must always be looking ahead. I’d suggest when his mourning period wanes, he resumes his investment in the city as if he were still running. Unwavering commitment will not only keep him in the minds of voters but, I hope, they’ll also stave off some of what I’ve seen in the South.” Washington DeWight shook his head. “I plan to make my way back to Virginia before the end of the month.”

Olivia’s head snapped up. Make his way? Washington DeWight traveled extensively, of course, but some part of her had expected, when he’d declared his intention to win her heart, that he would make Chicago his home base. As he and her father continued speaking, his passion, the conviction that drew her to him—it recalled for her what Ruby had said after she and Washington first met. He never stays in one place long .

Mr.Davenport nodded at something Washington said, and just behind him, Helen caught Olivia’s eye and signaled toward the door.

Before Olivia could think, Mr.Stone stepped through.

“Apologies for my late arrival,” he said. “I had quite the eventful trip up here.” He indeed looked bedraggled. The tops of his shoulders and thighs were wet. “I decided to ride today. The weather had other plans.” His eyes found Olivia’s and she felt her heart flutter, whether from anxiety or at her happiness in seeing him, she wasn’t sure. “Where are my manners? Good evening, everyone,” he said.

The room replied in kind and then resumed their conversations. Helen and Amy-Rose migrated to the large picture windows to watch from a safe distance. She wished she could join them. She hoped propriety would keep her courtship with both gentlemen secret and this dinner civil. Mr.Stone, a head taller than Mr.DeWight, watched her, knowingly it seemed. Olivia wondered if her vague descriptions during their conversations was the cause.

Washington DeWight turned to him. “You’re the lawyer who represents the imprisoned?” He examined Mr.Stone’s damp suit and foggy glasses.

“I am. I believe you are the lawyer of whom Olivia speaks fondly when she mentions her activism—the protest that turned violent?” Mr.Stone removed a silk handkerchief from inside his jacket to polish his lenses. His expression was friendly, but he stood straighter, taller. The shyness that usually blunted his movements was gone. This was the gentleman who stood before a judge to defend those in need.

“Olivia, I thought you decided to support the community center, with Mrs.Woodard?” said her father.

“Yes, Daddy, I volunteer at the community center.” There was no way now she could deny her greater involvement in the civil rights issues to which she gave her time. “And I’ve been assisting the women’s unions and suffragists movement. With Mrs.Woodard.”

“She and Hetty have been very vocal and careful,” said her mother. “Mrs.Woodard works with both groups and has taken Olivia under her tutelage.”

Mr.Davenport grumbled. “I returned to one daughter planning a coup and the other a revolution.”

“Daddy,” John began, but their father waved away his words.

“You are just as rebellious,” he said, and Olivia saw the way he watched John and Amy-Rose move in harmony. Was there a subtle change in her father’s expression? An interest? If so, it was followed by a grunt. “When are you and your sister going to show me the stock car you built?”

John, to his credit, kept his face neutral. “Tonight, after dinner. Mr.Stone, Helen, and I have a plan we’d like to formally present to the board following the exhibition race where we debut the prototype. We’re confident a Davenport automobile will not only be ready for production, but be the hottest, most desired ride in town.”

Helen beamed. “We’ve worked out the numbers. It would take some planning to cover production, but the cost should be comparable if not lower than the buggies.”

Olivia, her own turmoil forgotten for a moment, fought the urge to cheer. Instead, she, like her siblings, waited for their father to strike down this speech.

Mr.Davenport looked at each of his children in turn, his wife, Amy-Rose. “Is there anything else I should know?” Olivia started suddenly at his tone. It was almost…playful? She looked to Helen and John and saw the same confusion she felt. There was plenty more, but as if by some unspoken pact, the three of them assured their father that he was caught up on the major developments during his absence. Could his trip to London have changed him so much? She looked to her mother, who gripped the family dog to her chest.

“Do you mind if I remove my jacket—let it dry?” asked Mr.Stone.

“We could call Hetty—” said Mrs.Davenport.

Mr.Stone shook his head. “No need to disturb her. If it’s all right by you, I can leave it on the back of the chair.” At Mr.Davenport’s approval, he removed his jacket, revealing broad shoulders. Olivia didn’t dare let herself stare. She tugged at the sleeve of her dress. It suddenly felt hot and close in the room. She glanced around the space that seemed to be shrinking around her.

“I didn’t know you like riding, Mr.Stone,” said Mr.Davenport.

Everett Stone smiled. “It was one of my favorite activities as a child. It’s a shame I don’t have much time for it.”

“We will have to change that!” Mr.Davenport turned his warm expression toward Olivia. “I know of a young lady who quite enjoys riding.”

Olivia’s cheeks burned. She could feel two pairs of eyes on her in addition to her father’s, and it was all she could do to keep up her smile. She most certainly avoided the stares of her siblings, whom she felt grinning at her growing discomfort. How did you think you could have avoided a situation like this? It was one small blessing that any unpleasantness would be contained to the present company.

“I’d like a companion,” said Mr.Stone. “Riding and conversation is always enjoyable.” He nodded to Olivia. She felt heat rise to her cheeks and pool low in her belly at the way he looked at her.

“I agree, Mr.Stone, it is wonderful,” she managed to say.

Washington DeWight watched their exchange, his brows pinched together and chin thrust forward. Olivia imagined him piecing together what Mr.Stone’s presence and her father’s demeanor meant.

“So, you are not quick to join the automobile race, Mr.Davenport?” he asked. His words were directed to her father, but his eyes didn’t leave her face.

Mr.Davenport leaned on his cane. “I think there is something to be said about a well outfitted buggy on a nice spring day. The horseless carriages are fun, of course, but a conversion like that at our factory would require a lot of work. Time. Expense.”

“But they’re not all spring days,” interjected Helen.

“That is why there are covered carriages, my dear,” said her father, sounding more like himself, to her sister’s clear disappointment.

Helen exchanged a look with John and Mr.Stone before she retreated to her corner with Amy-Rose. Olivia noted that Father hadn’t said no. That is what mattered. This small victory would have to suffice for Helen and John until the race. Then he would realize there was more going on than tinkering with an engine.

Edward entered the room. “Dinner is served.”

The family and their guests filed into the dining room and sat in the same groupings in which they’d gathered in the sitting room. Olivia sat to her father’s right. Mr.DeWight to her father’s left. Mr.Stone sat at her other side. The two men stared at each other when they weren’t studying her. Olivia kept her face open and relaxed. Under the table she kneaded her palm with her thumb. Her appetite gone, she picked at the pot roast and mashed potatoes Jessie had prepared. A hearty, flavorful meal her father enjoyed. One she liked as well.

The first half of the dinner passed slowly, with one half of the table avoiding eye contact or conversing with the other. Helen was too excited about the race to truly focus on the details of her party. John and Amy-Rose managed to sit next to each other. Their heads bent as they whispered words too quietly for Olivia to hear.

“It’s like it says in the Defender, ” Washington was saying, “?‘Hope visits us in many forms.’?”

Olivia’s attention snapped to Mr.DeWight.

Mr.Davenport set his cutlery down. He leaned back in his chair and looked at Mrs.Davenport. “Isn’t that something you said your mother told you?” he asked his wife. Her mother nodded. “Strange for it to appear in a newspaper,” he continued.

Olivia realized that they were speaking about an essay she had written about the charitable work the women’s organizations carried out to serve the poor—work that would no longer be necessary if the government provided the same assistance to its Black citizens as it did their white counterparts.

“Those who speak the truth about such things should be believed,” her father said to Mr.DeWight.

Mr.Stone agreed. “The author highlighted the benefits of clubs and fraternity and sorority in the advancement of Black people. There are many ways to approach a problem. Hope and creativity can be powerful.”

“I’m not saying that the author should not be believed,” said Washington DeWight. “I only say, use your name and stand by your word. Our detractors would only use this ‘Anonymous’ as proof that accounts of horrific prison conditions and the infringement of the freedom to protest are false. When there’s no person attached to such statements, where is the credibility?”

Olivia spoke, her voice hoarse and her hands still for the moment. “Isn’t the fact that it was published by the Defender enough?”

“No publication is immune to scrutiny, especially one produced in an apartment. No matter how great its impact.” Washington answered. “People against progress will say the accounts of injustice printed in Black papers are exaggeration. For example, take the case of the young Chicago woman who was held after her cousin posted bail. People will say, ‘If she was protesting peacefully, why was she arrested? If bail was paid, why was she not released?’ They won’t believe the truth of what’s printed. We’re seen as different, not equal. The accounts in these essays will always be challenged if the events and the authors cannot be connected to something or someone tangible.” Washington DeWight’s voice carried across the table. Her mother gripped the arms of her chair.

“You…you do not agree with what the person who wrote that said?” asked Olivia.

Washington sighed. It was a defeated sound. Olivia fought the urge to sink into her chair. “It is not that I disagree with the sentiment. It is that I cannot condone the method.”

“I think it’s brave that the author chose to speak out. They must have chosen to remain anonymous for a reason, and we must respect that and the courage it must have taken to submit their piece at the risk of being found out,” said John.

“It is cowardice,” said Washington. “There’s nobility in what they were trying to do, but it was done from a place of fear.”

“Fear can be a powerful weapon,” said Mr.Davenport. He looked at each of his children. When his eyes settled on Olivia, she felt him connect the dots. It was her mother’s phrase that gave her away.

Beside Olivia, Mr.Stone’s hand clenched into a fist. “I believe judging someone so harshly when they may not be present to speak for themselves is truly cowardice,” he said.

“Well”—Washington spread his hands—“if he’d printed his name, our gracious hosts could have invited him to dinner.”

Olivia shook off her disappointment. She had hoped Washington would have felt differently about the pieces, but working in the background was not his way.

When he spoke again, it was with a measured glee directed at Mr.Stone. “And so I shall refrain from further remarks until Anonymous chooses to reveal himself and joins us at the Davenports’ table.” He held his hands up high as if in surrender. The grin he offered Olivia faded when their eyes met. His gaze then slid to Mr.Stone, and visibly cooled. Everyone else at the table shifted uncomfortably.

Does Washington suspect Mr.Stone wrote the article? Olivia was sure he knew there was something more between her and Everett Stone.

Helen coughed daintily into her napkin. “Mother, I’ve finally settled on what I want to wear for my party. I’m not wearing a veil, I’m not a bride, but a tasteful headpiece that I’ve consented to. Of course, Livy, I’d have you and Mama to see it together with the dress I’ve selected before it’s too late for adjustments.”

Olivia said, “I’d be delighted.” She mouthed thank you. Helen’s imperceptible nod was their mother’s cue to pepper her sister with questions. What happened to the other dresses we bought? And so on. Such conversation then dominated the table. John updated her father on the state of the Negro League standings. They talked about the upcoming party and the Greenfields’ party and the Giants’ box scores. They even touched on Ruby’s wedding, a much more welcome topic for Helen. Finally, as the dessert course was served, Mr.Davenport called for quiet.

“I’d like to take a moment to thank you, Amy-Rose,” he said. “You have cared for me and this family in many roles, and I am grateful you were here in my time of need.”

“Hear, hear,” chimed Helen.

Amy-Rose blushed, brighter still when she met John’s gaze.

Mr.Stone nodded and his look to Olivia was one of quiet pride. Her spine straightened, and she remembered why she chose to write, the satisfaction she felt when what she put to paper made it to print: To give voice to those who didn’t have one. And why she chose not to sign her name: To let the subjects of her articles, and not her last name, be what sparked the discourse.

Still, it stung that Washington couldn’t get past the anonymity and let the merits of the essays stand on their own. And to assume that the author was a man! That assertion made her want to disclose her identity right then.

But she didn’t dare.

Did she?

No. She’d worked hard on her essays, and valued the time people took to share with her their fears and triumphs and all the words that now lived in print beside her grandmother’s. Her name—it wasn’t just her name. It was one she shared, one known for ingenuity and tenacity. And wealth. Known for the wealth and privilege she and her family, sitting around this table, now enjoyed.

Olivia watched as a dessert plate appeared at her setting. Tiramisu, a favorite of hers.

But she was too full of indecision to enjoy it.