The Davenports(41)

Mr. Tremaine regarded her. “Young lady, you will mind your tongue.” Ruby suppressed an eye roll. Taking offense at her language in the face of what they were asking her to do hardly seemed just. She felt the same about the reasons they needed her to speed the progression of things with John. It was a challenge, yes, but they could at least give her some credit.

Mrs. Tremaine removed her gloves and Ruby’s father sat back in his chair. “What kind of plan?” her mother asked.

Ruby cleared her tightening throat. “Don’t worry—”

“Ruby, you do still care for John, don’t you?” her father asked.

“Yes!” The force of her answer surprised even her. Ruby took a step back, her eyes focusing on the pattern on the rug. She felt the sudden need to sit down. Just not here, where her parents were sure to continue questioning her. Honestly, she was shocked they even cared to know how she felt.

Her mother stood. “You must not lose sight of what’s important then, my dear. Never settle.”

Ruby, halfway out the door, feeling the weight of their expectation, said, “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”





CHAPTER 19


    Amy-Rose



A man held the door of Binga Bank open for Amy-Rose as she floated into its busy swirl. She felt as if the spirit of her mother cheered her on. She’d taken her time to write out her business ideas on heavy card stock borrowed from Helen. Each letter of her itemized list was penned with care. It was her dreams, her heart, her soul on a sheet of paper that she willingly handed over. “My next deposit is in there too,” she added.

“I’ll be sure to give this to Mr. Binga,” the banker said. “But I’d say you’re on the right track.” He pushed his glasses higher up on his nose and added Amy-Rose’s latest deposit to the ledger on his desk. He continued speaking. She saw his lips moving. Mr. Binga, she thought to herself. She couldn’t believe her good fortune.

The crisp sound of the receipt he tore from his book jolted her back to her senses.

“Here you are, young lady,” he said with a calm smile. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you saving up for?”

“I’ll be opening my own shop. To do hair.” She’d practiced this statement until the confidence she feigned sounded real. If her dream was going to become a reality, she’d have to treat it like an inevitability.

“Is your husband on board with you spending all that money?”

“I don’t have a husband, sir,” she replied, keeping her voice as pleasant as before. Her hand remained extended for her receipt, just out of reach. “I earned that money.”

“I see.”

“See what?” she asked, feeling hot under her collar.

“It’s unusual for a young woman to go into business alone, with no help or experience.”

“I’ve done my research,” she added. “I understand about as much as I can without actually doing it, and I’ll have help. Besides, nearly every Black business owner in this city has started where I am now.” Amy-Rose wasn’t sure why she felt the need to argue. It was her money. But she had the desperate sense that if she didn’t, something terrible would happen. The change in the banker’s demeanor made her stomach clench.

And she’d noticed the way he stiffened when she said Black, as if her lighter complexion negated the part of her identity she’d inherited from her mother. Yes, it allowed her to move more easily in white spaces. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt when it was later held against her, when she was made to feel less than. But he was just one person and Binga Bank existed to promote Black entrepreneurship. Amy-Rose sat taller in her seat.

He shuffled through the papers on his desk. None of them appeared to be about her account. But her smile faltered when the banker’s brows creased. “And where did you want to open this . . . shop of yours?”

“Mr. Spencer’s. It’s the barbershop, not too far from here.”

He nodded his head slowly. “I know of it.” He nodded again. “Best of luck to you,” he said.

One step closer. Amy-Rose took the slip and stuck it in the back of the book John had called precious. If her calculations were correct, a few weeks more would do it. She was already so much further along than anyone had expected.

“I don’t need luck,” she said lightly. Her mother taught her to work hard, that it could get you anywhere. She imagined Clara Shepherd’s proud face for the progress made. The heels of Amy-Rose’s shoes clacked against the parquet floor as she left the bank. She stopped at the dry-goods store to pick up Jessie’s order. Normally, she chatted with other customers and asked the clerk about his family. But today she was distracted by the treatment she had received at the bank. The clerk silently slid packages across the counter, the cost added to the Davenports’ tab.

“Thank you,” she said, and, leaving, set a brisk pace down the sidewalk. Her shoes began to bite into her ankles as her feet carried her to Mr. Spencer’s barbershop.

She paused outside. Her reflection in the glass looked like a businesswoman’s. She had debated on her dress and hairstyle all morning. Her thick wavy hair was tucked neatly under a broad-brimmed hat. The A-line cut of the skirt under the simple jacket made her look serious, trustworthy. She hoped her savings and her preparation were enough.