The Davenports(25)

“I have to get back,” he said. He took her hand and helped her to her feet.

Ruby pouted, which made his smile widen.

“I’ll see you later,” she said to Olivia.

After Ruby had joined her mother, Olivia asked, “Does any of this remind you of home?”

Mr. Lawrence dragged his eyes from the children at play. “No, I spent most of my time elsewhere.”

Olivia picked a crumb from the napkin. “Did you grow up with many siblings?”

“I’m my parents’ only child.” He glanced down at the blanket.

“I don’t know what I’d do if it were just me,” she said. As frustrating as her siblings could be, she imagined it was far easier to share her parents’ attention than bear the full brunt of their expectations. “It must be difficult. And lonely?” she offered. “I’ve always had my siblings.”

“I know nothing else.” He glanced briefly at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed. “Ruby is an only child and has never complained.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “It was, at times”—he nodded once—“lonely. But I have cousins who kept it at bay. I’m sure for Ruby, your friendship is cherished.”

Olivia sucked in her bottom lip, not sure where to go next. “Do you enjoy your work? With your father?”

Mr. Lawrence brushed the ends of his mustache with his fingers. “Being in business with family . . . It’s complicated,” he said. He picked up another crêpe. “These really are delicious.” He smiled as he took a bite, but there was a shadow in his eyes, an emotion Olivia couldn’t quite read. She noticed the crease forming between his brows and felt the sudden urge to smooth it down, wipe away the stress that encroached on his features. She also noticed how he sidestepped the question.

From her spot on the blanket, Olivia felt her mother’s eyes on them. It was a beautiful afternoon and the grounds had grown crowded with Chicago’s “leisure class,” as Helen would call it. White ladies and gentlemen with wealth and time to spend strolling through gardens and museums. Though her family subscribed to the “double-duty dollar” practice of shopping Black-owned business that supported the community, white patrons and business partners kept Davenport Carriage Company at the top of the market. Few people would be outright rude or hostile to a Davenport, but again, that didn’t mean they didn’t stare.

“Haven’t you ever noticed the way people gawk at you?” she asked.

Lawrence followed her gaze and leaned back. With a cheeky grin, he said, “I have learned there’s not much you can do about how people look at you.” He smiled politely at the passersby. “I’m sure you’ve felt eyes following you before.”

She remembered again the afternoon in Marshall Field’s, the encounter that made her burn with anger and run up her family’s credit.

“Most days, though, I find myself wondering how, or even why, I am where I am.” Lawrence twirled his empty wineglass between his fingers. “I mean, I know my family worked hard for generations to build our name. But I am a Black man in England, where in every space I am the minority. The Other. And here, like at home, I am both exulted and cursed for my circumstances. None of which I can change or take credit for.”

“There must be a kind of pride in being able to add to that legacy,” she said, knowing that’s how she felt every time she saw a Davenport carriage cross her path. It’s why she imagined her parents held so tightly to the everyday workings of the business as it grew, and in the preparation they put into John’s education. She wondered how the next generation of Davenports might feel, or be treated. Better than us, she hoped, looking at the gentleman beside her and trying not to let the contents of the Jim Crow pamphlet intrude on the present.

Mr. Lawrence dipped his head. His words were not what she’d expected. It was as if they were plucked from her heart and spoken with his lips. Jacob Lawrence understood. Born into his wealth and name like her. Behind his bravado, charm, and well-tailored suits lay a kindred spirit.

I may have misjudged him, she thought. Time and familiarity would close this gap between them. Olivia stretched her hand out to Jacob Lawrence like an olive branch. He placed his warm palm in hers and squeezed tight.





CHAPTER 13


    Helen



Her mother’s blue china glistened on the stark white linens arranged with a care Helen saw no point in adjusting. It was a beautiful day outside and about half an hour ago, John strolled past the dining room with his shirtsleeves rolled up and a towel and wrench sticking out of his back pocket. Her hands ached to hold that wrench herself, elbow deep in the horseless carriage he’d brought home. Instead, she stared at the place setting before her, trying to figure out what was amiss. The rigid woman beside her watched intently. Mrs. Milford’s eyes, though a warm brown, followed her with a scrutiny that left her feeling raw.

Helen had come down that morning dressed in a simple rough-spun dress she’d outgrown—perfect for the work she had planned. She’d intended to ask Amy-Rose to braid her hair away from her face in two neat rows, the ends just brushing her shoulders. Her mother and Olivia were expected to be out of the house for most of the afternoon, leaving Helen free to do as she pleased.