Chapter 7 Amy-Rose

Chapter 7

Amy-Rose

“Will you be needing this tomorrow, miss?” asked Sandra. The young maid, so helpful at the trade show, stood before her. Amy-Rose blinked, not sure where her mind had wandered. She turned and examined her belongings, draped over Sandra’s arm.

“No, thank you,” she said, gathering her thoughts. “I’ll wear the green dress to travel.” Amy-Rose sat on the settee in the enormous bedroom closet that once swallowed her meager belongings. In the month they’d spent here in New York, she had accumulated quite a lot at Mrs.Davis’s side. Now nearly all of it was neatly packed away in trunks and suitcases.

“I always get nervous the night before a long trip,” Sandra was saying. “New York has its appeal, but it’s not home.”

Amy-Rose nodded. They’d be returning to Mrs.Davis’s home in Chicago. Home . Amy-Rose wasn’t sure what that word meant anymore. To her mother, home had been a place they’d left. Once the storm had devastated their community in Saint Lucia, Clara Shepherd had scooped up a five-year-old Amy-Rose and made for the United States. Her mother had hoped to reunite with her love, only to find that he had passed away.

Then there was Freeport Manor. It was the only home Amy-Rose really knew. It was just what she and her mother had needed. There she’d found love and a family of sorts who would, later, help her through the loss of her mother. She felt an ache knowing that she would not be returning to the Davenport estate.

But there is something bigger that awaits, she told herself .

Mrs.Davis assured Amy-Rose she would have a place to live with her upon their arrival in Chicago, but that’s not what set the young woman’s insides aflutter. Amy-Rose felt goose bumps rise over her skin just thinking about the progress on the salon space Mrs.Davis and she had found before they’d left. Not only would Amy-Rose be returning home, she’d be returning to live the oldest, purest part of her dream. Her own salon . She grinned at the thought.

Sandra closed the last latch on a trunk. “Will you be needing the kitchen tonight?”

“No,” said Amy-Rose. “I’m going out tonight.” Something like excitement made her pulse quicken. Standing, she took inventory of the items left to pack. Beyond the closet, in the bedroom, she recognized Helen’s stationery among the letters on the mahogany secretary desk. Helen’s letters spoke of the goings-on at Freeport Manor, in her own strong voice and with her flare for the dramatic. Amy-Rose was keen to see how the youngest Davenport would infiltrate the company—because Amy-Rose was certain that she would. She’d change the way things had been done, the way they’d always been done. Helen’s and Olivia’s letters brought her comfort. John’s, however, remained unopened.

I’ll respond when I have more time, she thought. Amy-Rose stood and crossed the largest room she’d ever called her own. The luxurious suite, with its delicate crown molding and muted rose wallpaper, provided solace in those first days in New York, when she’d felt most alone. It had all the comforts Amy-Rose once provided for others. And yet she’d found herself counting the days to her departure. She’d made the connections here as her mentor had suggested, and she was more than ready to use them.

The healthy windfall from her partnership with Benjamin King was too much to comprehend. He’d appeared out of thin air at the trade show and managed to “bump” into her twice later that same week. He was a smooth talker, and despite herself, she enjoyed his company. Since then, he’d introduced her to other investors, like a matchmaker would. And boy, did they invest! She had never fathomed having quite such a sum at her disposal, and in such a short time.

“You look lovely,” said Mrs.Davis from behind her.

Seated at the vanity, Amy-Rose found the older woman’s face in its reflection. Warm, intelligent eyes smiled back at her. She turned to face Mrs.Davis where she stood in the bedroom doorway, arms folded in front of her. “Thank you,” Amy-Rose said. “I sometimes feel more out of place in these garments than in the rooms we enter.” The crisp white blouse was tucked into a powder-blue skirt. She pulled on a matching double-breasted blazer with padded shoulders. It was new and modern. Helen will be excited to see that women’s styles in New York have completely abandoned the corset for a freer silhouette. Her hair, which she had styled herself, was pulled into a simple bun; a few curls escaped around her temples, framing her face.

“You are a successful young businesswoman, Miss Shepherd. You must act the part.” Mrs.Davis sighed and entered the room. She dropped her hip on the edge of the vanity and pulled the young woman’s hand into hers, her expression more serious than usual. “You’d do well to make a show of your success in order to attract more. After all is said and done, you are the most important person to get you to where you want to go.”

Amy-Rose nodded. It’ll be like chatting with Mr.Spencer, she told herself. She gleaned a wealth of knowledge from him when she thought he’d be selling his storefront to her. But your storefront was sold out from under you, she reminded herself.

“You are starting to see all your hard work and dedication pay off.” Mrs.Davis laughed. “I remember when I saw you there in the foyer. That ugly garment bag at your feet. It was the night of the masquerade—the fundraiser at Freeport Manor.” Mrs.Davis shook her head. “When I saw you earlier that evening, you’d been so happy.”

She had been happy. She’d seen Mrs.Davis before stumbling across John and his father discussing how she and John would navigate a future together—or more like how they wouldn’t. “The bag wasn’t that ugly.” It was the same garment bag she and her mother had arrived with at Freeport so many years ago. It must have had some sort of luck.

“It was.” Mrs.Davis laughed, then grew serious again. “It took a lot of courage to leave your home, my dear, but you made the right decision.”

Amy-Rose thought back to that night, to the conversation she’d overheard. The words Mr.Davenport, always so kind, had used to dismiss her, daughter of a slave owner. The way John had just stood there—it caused her eyes to sting now with the threat of tears. She knew she was more than that.

“Trust yourself,” Mrs.Davis said. “And try to have a little fun.” She hugged Amy-Rose and clapped her shoulder roughly—not at all like the motherly hugs Jessie offered. Mrs.Davis stood and pulled a pocket watch from the folds in her skirt. “Mr.King should be here soon. From what I’ve seen and heard, he is something of a go-getter himself.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? You’d enjoy dinner and the music.”

The older woman laughed and it rattled in her chest. Mrs.Davis drew closer and took Amy-Rose’s chin in her hand. “My dear, people aren’t as strict about that here. Go, enjoy the company of a young gentleman and all that the Tenderloin has to offer. It’s not quite so muggy now as it was earlier in the day. I’m sure the two of you will have a splendid evening. Tomorrow, back to Chicago!”

···

Amy-Rose stood still while Sandra helped her with the buttons at the back of her skirt. The sensation of someone else’s fingers along her spine still felt strange. She had been stopped several times from fetching things over the past month. From the moment she placed herself beside Mrs.Davis, it had been a lesson in unlearning everything she used to do. Amy-Rose had not realized how tired she was, or how much time there was in a day! She had not visited so many museums or eaten at street-side cafés. Walks in public parks became aimless wanderings with no dresses to steam or hair to press. Her hair serums improved with the additional free time to experiment. The investors’ money helped too. She was able to order rarer fruits from the Caribbean to add to her collection.

“You’re all set, miss.” Sandra came around to angle the cheval mirror just so. “We have something that will cover up those freckles, if you change your mind.”

Amy-Rose bristled at the offer and took in her reflection. Her hand strayed up to her face where her smattering of freckles fanned out from the bridge of her nose. She’d grown fond of them and didn’t see the point in covering them up. They were just as much a part of her as her long, curly hair. Before she learned to resent them, and then later accept them, her mother would count them when Amy-Rose was sad. The routine would end in tickling, Amy-Rose’s giggles rising from deep within her belly. The discomfort caused in others by her ambiguous heritage often prompted such reactions as Sandra’s—people assuming she’d wish to change to stand out less. Like it would really change anything. She took a breath and said, simply, “No. Thank you.”

The maid nodded, and Amy-Rose inspected the rest of her appearance. Her cheeks looked rosy and dewy. The dark circles under her eyes, whether from grief or hard work, had faded over the past few weeks. She stood taller, bolstered by her recent success. It had been over a month since she’d left Freeport Manor. She rarely thought of John—she was too busy. At least, that’s what she told herself. But as if to contradict this, her eyes fell on the still unopened parcel he’d sent. It had preceded his letters to her. Part of her wanted to know what was inside. A greater part of her wished, finally, to put that heartbreak behind her for good.

“Is the motorcar ready?” she asked.

“Yes, Miss Shepherd. It’s downstairs.”

Amy-Rose took a measured breath and descended the main staircase. She held her head high as she made her way through the luxury around her, reminding herself she had every right to be there.

Benjamin King waited in the foyer. He wore a gray worsted-wool suit, lightweight for the summer heat, and held a straw hat with a thick black ribbon, which he balanced on a hooked finger beneath the brim. His face split into a grin when he saw her. “Well, Miss Shepherd, you are as pretty as a picture.”

“Thank you, Mr.King,” she said, ignoring the heat rising to her face.

“It’s nice out, I thought we could walk.”

Amy-Rose dipped her head and stepped through the door he held open for her. Outside, the sun was low in the sky, the streets busy with men in suits carrying briefcases, women pushing prams, and young couples strolling arm in arm. Motorcars outnumbered horse-drawn carriages on the streets here. The sight would make Helen’s head spin and only strengthen her argument that horseless carriages were the future. The sounds of engines and horns created a symphony as they mingled with live music and snippets of pedestrian conversation from a nearby restaurant that filled the air with rich scents of sautéed peppers and roasting meat.

“The place is just around the next corner,” Mr.King said, after they’d walked in silence for a minute or two. Amy-Rose felt his eyes on her as she tried to take everything in. He stood between her and the traffic. His elbow brushed her arm, his hands hidden in his pockets, his movements languid and free. Unsure of what to do with her own hands, she let her small handbag swing from the cradle of her arm.

“This is it,” he said.

Amy-Rose looked at the small establishment in front of them, wedged between an inn and a furniture store. “Here?”

The door opened and sounds of revelry poured into the street. A white couple exited, tangled in each other’s arms, laughing. The brassy tones of a wind instrument floated in their wake. “Are you sure we can go in?” she asked.

“Of course.” He caught the door and opened it fully, revealing a portal to a bright, vibrant scene. It was a club. Inside, people stood in small groups, laughing and shouting over their drinks and the music as a band played. The bartenders mixed drinks with flourishes that looked like a dance. The waitstaff pirouetted from table to table, balancing small plates and cocktail glasses on round trays held high above their heads. The smoke drifting along the ceiling was sweet smelling and gave the scene a dreamy haze. Oversized chairs faced the stage, and open doors led to a back patio illuminated by gas lamps, creating a romantic glow.

“Ben!” A young man, who didn’t look old enough to be out, jogged to where they stood. “Your regular table?” he asked, then winked at Amy-Rose.

“Yes, thank you. This is Amy-Rose Shepherd. The next big thing.”

“Pleasure,” the young man said, bowing slightly, and ushered them to a table where they had a clear view of the room. The crowd was a well-dressed array of mixed company. Black and white music lovers danced together in the space immediately in front of the stage. Amy-Rose’s shoulders relaxed. This was a place to let loose, to have fun.

“How is business?” asked Mr.King.

She couldn’t slow the grin spreading across her face. “Better than I’d hoped. Mrs.Davis rented booths and tables at trade shows all over New York and in Connecticut. I feel like I’ve met every Black housewife on this island and then some. Sales are great—so great that I have more than enough to lease the Chicago storefront from Mrs.Davis.” The wheels in Amy-Rose’s mind were turning. “Perhaps the unfinished space on the second floor can be converted into a manufacturing studio, if the time comes. Not only could I hire hairdressers, who can also help me make my wares, but I could save to buy the whole building from her.”

He studied her, smiling, then said, “I’d guess by the look in your eye, there’s no chance you could be convinced to stay? To become a New Yorker?” He held his arms wide. “The ’Loin is filled with music, theater, restaurants. Chicago is nice, but you know what’s better? Establishments that serve Black and white and all colors in between. What do you think?”

His question gave her pause. Amy-Rose looked around her. She spotted a young man with features close enough to hers that they could be related. He appeared at home in this place, in his own skin. She thought about the small amount of renown she’d gained in the few weeks since she’d been here. Could she abandon Chicago for New York? The Tenderloin appeared to have just as much opportunity as Downtown Chicago, perhaps even more.

But the smile on her face faltered when she remembered the letters she received from Helen. Her newly repaired friendship with Olivia. Jessie, like a mother to her. She missed them and the Davenport household. She may have been hundreds of miles away, and this city was tempting, but what bound Amy-Rose to Chicago was strong. She smiled. “No,” she told Mr.King.

He shook his head, disappointment pulling at his expression. “A full-service salon in Chicago?”

“Yes, but I think I’ll find staff and spend most of my focus on my hair care line. Not everyone can afford to spend hours at a salon. I want to give people the option of taking care of their hair at home.” Amy-Rose smiled. “Some of my fondest memories are of sitting on the floor in front of my mother as she parted and braided my hair. Many of the formulas are her own home remedies.”

“Thus, the importance of hibiscus,” said Mr.King. His brown eyes sparkled as he looked at her. It made her skin tingle. “She must be an extraordinary woman.”

“She was,” Amy-Rose said, placing a hand on his forearm. He dropped his gaze to it. Amy-Rose pulled away, but he caught her hand, nodding as if asking her to continue. “She was lovely, and I enjoy talking about her.” Amy-Rose sighed. “She would have loved to see this.”

“Then count yourself very lucky.” He turned his hand over to grasp hers. His was warm and soft. His thumb traced circles on her skin. Amy-Rose shivered despite herself. “I’m not quite sure if my parents are proud. I think they still think of me as a kid, talking my way into free meals or admission into the Negro theaters.” He shook his head. “I was young, having fun, and chasing dreams of my own.”

Amy-Rose thought of Mr.Davenport and his children. His stoic, sometimes rigid way, his sense of how things should be. “Sometimes it’s hard for people to see you for what you are and not how you were.”

Mr.King pressed his lips together and held Amy-Rose’s gaze. She could have sworn she’d seen something else in his face. When he spoke, he had to clear his throat first. “Thank you for that,” he said.

As their meal went on, the two leaned closer. Mr.King reached for her often. His fingertips grazed the back of her hand, her wrist, as he spoke about the club—which he owned!

“You own this?” she asked, incredulous, when he mentioned his own hurdles securing his first loan.

Mr.King smiled wide. “I do.” He leaned back in his seat and laced his fingers behind his head. “And a few others here and there.” He furrowed his brows at Amy-Rose. “You don’t think I get around on just my good looks, do you?”

Amy-Rose blushed and smiled back. “No,” she said. “I suppose not.”

Mr.King nodded and launched into an abridged account of his thoughts on the success of failure. And his many business ventures. He had an eye for that something special, he’d said. His eyes locked on Amy-Rose and she felt she had captured his full attention. She was the priority here. She barely let herself feel a twinge when John crossed her mind.

After the plates were cleared, Mr.King leaned close and wrapped a stray curl around his finger. He tucked it behind Amy-Rose’s ear, making her skin tingle from scalp to toes. “I’m a New Yorker,” he said, leaning back in his seat again. Amy-Rose drew a breath in the space he created. “I grew up in the house I was born in and raised right here in the Tenderloin. My parents still live here. We have lunch after Sunday service every week.” His gaze dropped to the table, smiling. He seemed not to see the polished wood but some happy memory. He nodded before looking up at her. “Yeah, I’m a New Yorker.” He held up two fingers to the young man who greeted them earlier. “Let’s toast to our good fortune, shall we?”

Amy-Rose wanted to know what thought had brought him such joy. But the night was young and Mr.King was right—there was much to celebrate. “Let’s,” she agreed with a smile.

···

The two-person sleeper car rumbled along the track, one in a long line of cars on the 20th Century Limited train from New York to Chicago. The car smelled of wood and Mrs.Davis’s citrus-based perfume. Some of their luggage was tucked neatly on the overhead shelves, and a rolling cart with their spent tea service sent delicate notes through the air with each sway of the car. Amy-Rose, Mrs.Davis, and the older woman’s staff traveled overnight to get the most of their last day in New York, which had meant sleeping in and a trip to the newest modern world wonder—the Statue of Liberty.

After a marvelous final day, Amy-Rose had listened to Mrs.Davis snore peacefully in her couchette until Amy-Rose too fell asleep, lulled by the rocking of the train. When the conductor announced they were an hour from their destination, they got dressed and ready to be received in Chicago.

Ah! Amy-Rose thought. She pressed her knees to keep them from bouncing. She feared all the butterflies in the state had found residence in her chest. She didn’t know what to do first when she arrived: visit her friends or the storefront.

“The renovations should be done by the time we arrive,” Mrs.Davis had said not an hour ago. Now the older woman laughed. “Your skirt’s turned around.” She gestured at Amy-Rose, who sat at the window with her outfit askew.

“I’ve looked forward to this for so long,” Amy-Rose confessed. She stood to adjust herself. “This past month—everything. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s really happening.”

Mrs.Davis tied a silk scarf at her neck, then placed her hands on either side of Amy-Rose’s face. They were warm—warmer than the blood rushing to Amy-Rose’s cheeks. “It is happening,” she said fiercely. Her gaze bore into Amy-Rose’s until the young woman’s eyes began to sting with tears. “I am so proud of you, my dear.”

A tear escaped and ran down Amy-Rose’s face. She nodded, not trusting her voice. She sat and turned to the woman, who had become more than a mentor, nestled in the opposite corner of the seat, her purse on her lap and her legs crossed at her ankles. Mrs.Davis believed in her. The fact made Amy-Rose sit even straighter in her seat.

She turned back to the window. Sometime later came the announcement she had been waiting for: They’d arrived in Chicago.

Amy-Rose watched the city buildings replace hours of flat plains until the train, at last, pulled into the station. “We’re here, Mrs.Davis,” she said. “Perhaps we should go back to the house first. See to it that all our things arrived, then head to the salon. What do you think?” She turned. “Mrs.Davis?”

The older woman had not stirred. A strange feeling replaced the giddiness Amy-Rose had felt just a moment ago. It was an old sensation—of panic, of confusion and dread.

“Mrs.Davis,” she repeated. She leaned closer to the older woman. Mrs.Davis’s arm was cool to the touch, a striking contrast to just an hour before. Amy-Rose shook her gently. The older woman did not wake. Panic began to swell in Amy-Rose where butterflies had swirled only moments before. “Mrs.Davis!” she said, louder. Still nothing.

This is wrong, she thought. And her voice was the only thing she had.

“Somebody, help!”