Breathless(50)

Portia didn’t bat an eye. “And I hope you understand that I’d rather not have an invitation from someone with your appalling lack of manners. Have a safe trip home, Mrs. Jakes.”

Wanting to cheer again, Kent watched Winston lead his sputtering mother away.

On the short walk back to where Regan and the others stood waiting with the buggies, he said to the obviously furious Portia, “You handled that very well.”

“I wanted to set her hair on fire.”

Laughing at her warrior spirit, he walked her back to where her sister stood waiting with Matt and Cal.

“You look fit to be tied,” Regan said. “Did the bullfrog offer a parting insult?”

“Yes.” And Portia repeated the exchange.

Regan rolled her eyes. “As if someone wanted an invitation. She’ll probably serve her esteemed guests flies.”

Portia laughed. “I love you so much.”

Kent thought that pretty much summed up how he felt about Portia. She moved him like no other woman had before and he was convinced his future would be bereft without her at his side.

“Before we head back, I’d like to check and see if there’s any mail for us,” Regan said.

“I have some errands to take care of as well,” Kent said. Matt and Cal said the same.

“How about we meet back here in an hour?” Portia asked.

Everyone agreed.

Portia hadn’t said anything about this, but with the start of her new business in mind, she set out to approach her first potential customer, Sadie Welch, owner of one of the city’s most exclusive restaurants, an exclusiveness that banned members of Sadie’s race. It wasn’t an uncommon practice. Due to Jim Crow and the legions of Whites who refused to support enterprises that catered to a Colored clientele, many Colored business owners were forced to choose between profit and race. Some like Sadie Welch bridged the gap by offering a specific time or day of the week when their neighbors and family members were welcomed. For Sadie it was Sunday evenings.

The place was usually closed at the time of the day when Portia arrived, so she went around the back to the kitchen.

Julia Lane, her aunt Eddy’s friend and wife of rancher Howard Lane, was one of the cooks. Seeing Portia, she called out, “Morning, Portia. How are you?” Julia was seated on a chair and plucking a chicken with such speed the feathers were flying.

“I’m well. Is Miss Sadie around?”

“Inside.”

“Do you think she has time to speak with me for a few minutes?”

“Let me go and see. Be right back.”

When Julia returned a few minutes later, she was accompanied by the tall, golden-skinned Sadie. In spite of her segregated business practices, Sadie was a member of the Tucson Good Works Society, an organization composed of local women of the race who did volunteer work to uplift and support people of color in the surrounding community. Portia and Regan were members as was her aunt and her friends.

“Hello, Portia. How can I help you?”

“I’d like to speak with you about a business proposal.”

Sadie paused, her blue eyes taking her in for a silent moment. “Come in.”

Portia was led to the book-lined office and offered a seat. From her chair behind the large mahogany desk, Sophie said, “So tell me about this proposal.”

Portia did and when she finished, she said, “So, I stopped in to see if I can be of any service to you and the restaurant.”

She graced Portia with a kind smile. “I’m sorry, honey, but I already have someone doing my books. His father is also one of my investors. I can’t change horses in the middle of the stream without suffering some serious repercussions.”

Portia hid her disappointment. “I understand.”

“However, I know how skilled you are, so I will ask around on your behalf.”

The support brightened her mood. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Good luck. I’ll see you at the next meeting.”

Portia left. Keeping an eye on the time, she stopped in at the barbershop owned by Ephraim Forth. He, too, was kind enough to hear her out, but in the end he told her his nephew James Cordell handled his books. “And I don’t have to pay him,” he crowed.

Portia gave him a false smile and her thanks and left his small shop to the tinkle of the bell over the door. Refusing to be discouraged, she headed up the walk to speak to the owner of another barbershop and saw Darian Day, overdressed as always leaning against the wall of his haberdashery. In spite of the climbing temperature, he was attired in a brown and black checkerboard suit, a buttoned-up shirt with a bow tie, and a black bowler sat on his head. Just looking at him made her perspire. She knew he wouldn’t let her pass without speaking, so she tamped down her temper in advance.

“Well, well,” he said, looking her up and down as if she were some type of dessert. “How are you, Miss Portia?”

“Hello, Mr. Day.”

“When are you going to address me by my given name?”

When horses learn to knit. “It’s a sign of respect.”

“I see. What brings you to town? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Portia considered lying but there was always a ghost of a chance he might have information on a potential client, so she told him her plans.