Chapter 3 Amy-Rose

Chapter 3

Amy-Rose

The motorcar came to a violent halt at 127 and 129 West 53rd Street. Amy-Rose Shepherd readjusted the hat on her head as the driver stepped out to assist Mrs.Davis. Rising above them, the buildings of New York City’s Tenderloin reminded her of home. These brownstones that made up Marshall Hotel beat at the center of business and culture in NYC, where Black and white folk mingled to enjoy music, drinks, and the exchange of ideas. Every street corner in the Tenderloin felt like Great Central Market, with crowds of people, motorcars, and carriages. Her mentor insisted this was where Amy-Rose would get the most support for her hair care business.

Since arriving in New York from Chicago, they had dined with sophisticated entrepreneurs while listening to Black musicians play soulfully to mixed crowds. She’d attended the theater. She’d walked the sun-dappled paths of Central Park. And she’d visited an array of vendors who could provide her the raw materials to create her product line. All of it brought her one step closer to her dreams.

Amy-Rose took the driver’s hand now and exited the automobile. Heat rose from the pavement. She felt a line of perspiration slide down her back. Today she had to be in top form. It was her biggest chance yet to secure the capital she’d need to progress forward with her salon. She stared up at the building before her, picking at a loose thread near the wrist of her glove.

“My dear, relax.” Mrs.Davis placed her own gloved hand on Amy-Rose’s arm.

Amy-Rose offered her mentor a shaky smile. Mrs.Davis had been nothing but kind to her—generous beyond measure. In Chicago, the business-savvy widow had noticed Amy-Rose’s talent for styling hair, and had taken an interest in the young woman’s dream and drive to sell her hair care creations. Only a few weeks ago, Amy-Rose had traveled halfway across the country in luxury at her mentor’s side. Mrs.Maude Davis was one of the wealthiest Black women in Chicago. She’d been widowed three times, and had used whatever money that was left to her to make smart investments into the city’s South Side. Investments that proved fruitful. For their journey east, Mrs.Davis had bought out an entire train car for her and her staff, a feat Amy-Rose suspected required some bribing. Oh, but she did enjoy watching the country fly by from the window!

It had also given her more than enough time to think about what—and whom—she had left behind. She’d rushed out so quickly, she’d only time to write one letter. To John Davenport. There on the train, Amy-Rose had felt a sharp pinch in her chest thinking of him. They’d spent hours at Freeport talking about their futures, their dreams. She knew her feelings for John, ones she kept close, were reciprocated. She knew he loved her too. She didn’t need to open the parcel he’d sent or any of his letters to know that. But in the end, it hadn’t been enough.

She’d sat up straighter on the train then, remembering that John was not the only person who loved her. She’d written to Helen, to Olivia and Jessie and Mrs.Davenport, of course, once things had settled. Their letters in return had kept her grounded. They eased the feeling that she had run away from her problems rather than strode, dignified, into her future. Can’t both be true? She’d had to move on. She’d had to put some distance between her and the loss of the Chicago storefront she had worked so hard for, and her dreams of John Davenport at her side.

“Do not tell me you are thinking of that young man again.” Mrs.Davis frowned now from beneath her truly wonderfully extravagant hat. “We do not have time to wallow, Miss Shepherd. Look around you and drink this in.” Mrs.Davis’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep, satisfied breath. “The time we are given is limited.”

She was right. Amy-Rose breathed deep and closed her eyes. When she exhaled, she’d returned to the present. The Black-owned hotel before them was only a few blocks from Mrs.Davis’s Manhattan apartment. It would not have done to walk, though. They’d had to arrive in style so as to impress possible investors. Amy-Rose had been outfitted in the latest fashions while living with her new benefactor in an opulent brownstone where she now had staff that waited on her ! Today, the exaggerated shape of her jacket accentuated her waist and, when buttoned over the straight skirt, it made her feel polished and powerful.

“Miss Shepherd, are you getting cold feet?”

“Not at all,” Amy-Rose said, and meant it.

“Good,” said Mrs.Davis. “We have people to meet and product to sell.” She picked up her skirt with her free hand and gestured to the hotel with her ivory-laced parasol. The same color of her dress and hat, the pale shade made Mrs.Davis appear all the more genteel. Even her slight misstep forward appeared graceful. People forget, delicate flowers have thorns, she’d told Amy-Rose over tea one afternoon. And roses can draw blood.

Amy-Rose puffed up her chest and followed her patroness.

Two stoic men, dressed in black livery despite the oppressive heat, opened the doors to the hotel’s paneled foyer. It was like walking into a dream. Her heels clacked against the polished marble. White columns stretched up to the high ceiling. Large oil paintings in meticulously carved wood frames hung below the soft white light of golden sconces. Music wafted from down the hall, and one of Mrs.Davis’s maids stepped on her heel. “Ouch!” Amy-Rose hadn’t realized she’d stopped walking, causing the girl to crash into her.

“Apologies, miss,” said the maid, who looked no older than Amy-Rose herself, maybe eighteen or nineteen. The young woman’s hair was braided away from her face, revealing a clear, slightly perspiring terra-cotta complexion, and secured in a bun at the nape of her neck. In her left hand, she gripped the handle of the small cart of Amy-Rose’s hair products.

“It’s all right, Sandra.” Amy-Rose pulled on the strings of her handbag, fighting the urge to take the cart herself and send the girl down the street for a cool drink. But now the young woman’s eyes were bright, focused on something over Amy-Rose’s shoulder.

A group of Black women, dressed in the year’s most popular silhouettes, had just strolled past them. Their hair was neatly pressed and swept up. Loose, manipulated curls framed their faces. They walked with a speed Amy-Rose had come to associate with New Yorkers. The shortened hemlines of their skirts swayed well above their glossy brown ankles. Amy-Rose admired them for a moment.

Then she stood straighter. With her chin up, she made eye contact with each person who looked her way as she walked to the exhibition hall. Amy-Rose refused to let anyone, or anything, prevent her from making the best of this opportunity. She belonged here. The puffy sleeves that hindered her from completing menial tasks proved it.

“Miss, should I go on ahead and prepare your table?”

“No!” Amy-Rose’s voice escaped, much louder than she intended. “No,” she repeated, more ladylike. “Thank you, Sandra, but I’d like to do it myself.”

Excitement thrummed through her veins. Amy-Rose grew highly aware of her surroundings. Women from all over the city and as far as New Haven, Connecticut, had gathered in the ballroom of the hotel to view the wares of several female business owners. Handmade leather goods were displayed alongside hats and elaborate fascinators. The scents of cosmetic creams and ointments mixed with the fruity tang of jarred jams and citrusy perfumes. Rainbows of silk added a splash of color under the warm gaslight chandeliers above.

Beyond the fabric vendors were the pastry chefs. Cakes and truffles arranged on tiered platters made Amy-Rose’s mouth water. As did the breads that sat on beds of parchment. The women on either side of Amy-Rose’s own space displayed grass baskets and beaded necklaces. It was time for her to show her own wares.

Across the crisp white linen of the table, Amy-Rose staged the jars she had stayed up every night preparing. She had pored over the notes in her book and tried new extracts from the imported fruits Mrs.Davis had been able to procure. The most difficult to obtain had been the hibiscus leaves her mother had used in Amy-Rose’s hair when she was a child in Saint Lucia. The smell always brought memories of her mother closer—getting her hair washed over the kitchen sink, her mother’s strong hands massaging her scalp with a roughness that made her wince but would be so welcome again if only it were possible. Memories like this fueled Amy-Rose. She would succeed. And now she had the hibiscus spread to prove it.

“My, do these really work?” A woman about Mrs.Davenport’s age sidled up to the table with a gaggle of women behind her. She lifted a jar of pressing cream and eyed it suspiciously. Her gaze seared Amy-Rose. “This gonna make my hair look like yours?” The women behind her laughed. The ladies of New York’s influential Black society had made their way through the banquet hall. While setting up, Amy-Rose had tracked their progress through the room, buying up wares and sending their parcels ahead with the staff. They were the wives of prominent leaders, the growing middle and upper classes and entertainers Amy-Rose hoped to persuade to support her. And thanks to the strings Mrs.Davis had pulled, her booth was set in a prime location with heavy foot traffic.

Now Amy-Rose faced their scrutiny. She resisted the urge to touch her own brown curls, which hung down the middle of her back, secured with a tortoiseshell barrette. Her mixed heritage produced a unique texture that she could not bottle, and it sometimes prompted equally unpredictable reactions from strangers. Her freckled, medium complexion and hazel eyes had made her stand out in Freeport, but here, as in downtown Chicago, she marveled at the diversity around her.

“What about it, miss? This gonna make my hair like yours?”

Amy-Rose smiled her best smile, the way she’d seen Olivia do in the shops downtown, or when Amy-Rose herself had walked to Binga Bank to deposit her savings for her now lost storefront. “It won’t,” she said honestly. “This is exclusively made to protect the hair before applying a hot comb. It reduces damage to the strands from the heat.”

The woman huffed. She placed the jar back on the table and took a step back.

“But,” Amy-Rose said, “if I were to style your hair, I would use…” She let her voice trail off as she considered her spread of products.

“And what makes you think you can style my hair?” The other woman cut in.

“Ma’am, I am a professional.” Amy-Rose knew the woman meant to challenge her. She felt rather than saw the other women follow their captain’s lead, now scrutinizing Amy-Rose’s wares. “This,” she finished. She presented the woman with a leave-in oil. “This product will hydrate your natural texture. Combs will glide through your strands and make styling much easier. Over time, you’ll see that your hair will be healthier and shinier.”

“Are you saying my hair looks brittle?”

Amy-Rose blushed. The woman fisted her hands on her hips, a haughty tilt to her brow. Amy-Rose knew that her next decision would make or break her. The other women hung on their leader’s every word. They would look to her before making any purchase. This woman’s opinion mattered—and it was just what she needed to get more people on board. “I’m suggesting,” Amy-Rose said, “that you take great pride in your hair. It’s your crown, and you would have it be as polished as possible.”

Then she held her breath. Did I go too far?

The woman threw a meaningful look over her shoulder to her friends. When she turned back, Amy-Rose thought she would faint from the anticipation.

“I’ll take three.”

Amy-Rose quietly exhaled. “Of course.”

After that, women flocked to her table. They peppered her with questions and requests for advice. She chatted with other vendors. Each sale was confirmation she had what it took to get this business off the ground. She thought of her mother, the ache of her loss, soothed by the promise of all she was on her way toward achieving.

By the end of the trade show, Amy-Rose’s feet were so swollen, she thought they might burst out of her shoes. And she felt wonderful. The table was empty except for a few sample jars, and she had pages and pages of orders. Orders! She could hardly believe it. She stood taller and smiled to herself, feeling a flutter in her chest. This was what she had dreamed of. John would be happy for me. Amy-Rose was caught off guard whenever thoughts of John slipped into her mind. She wanted to tell him her good news, to have him by her side in this moment.

No, she reminded herself. This moment is yours. You worked hard for this . She straightened and focused on Sandra taking another order. A whistle came from over her shoulder.

Amy-Rose turned and found a young man, maybe a year or two older than she was, rubbing his chin. He picked up a sample jar of a deep conditioner and smelled the contents. It was one of her favorites. Figs and aloe.

“You are going to be a very rich woman,” he said. He placed the jar back on the table and hooked a thumb in his belt.

“Excuse me?”

“I watched you. You’re a natural. Clear-voiced. Passionate. And you have an in-depth knowledge of the product.”

“I made them myself. They’re my recipes.” Amy-Rose’s smile faded at the way his face changed. “What? You don’t believe me?”

“Oh no, I believe you. It’s just,” he said, and cleared his throat, “these old birds will clean you out if you’re making each of these yourself. Unless you have a small outfit in an attic somewhere?”

Amy-Rose thought of her attic room at Freeport Manor, the room she once shared with her mother. It was miles away. Now she worked out of the study and kitchen in Mrs.Davis’s brownstone. But it was just until she was established. She hoped one day to need a bigger facility. “I don’t, yet, but I will have what I need.”

His lip twitched and he tipped his hat to her. “I’m sure you will.”