The Davenports(6)

“About two months ago,” she continued when Jessie didn’t reply, “I asked Mr. Spencer if he’d be interested in selling one of my deep conditioners in his barbershop.” Amy-Rose felt a warmth spread through her. “They were a hit. He said they practically walked off the shelf. Since then, he’s been reunited with his daughter down in Georgia. He’s a grandfather and—”

Jessie brushed excess flour from the top of the cup in her hand. “Girl, get to the part about the store.” She turned then, and watched Amy-Rose with misty eyes, a hand settled back on her hip. “Well, go on,” she said after clearing her throat.

Amy-Rose flushed. “Mr. Spencer agreed to rent his barbershop to me so he could move South.” The words came in a rush that blew all the air from her lungs. She watched the other women stop their work. Her heart raced as she took in their wide eyes and their slow turn to Jessie. The Davenports’ cook and self-appointed leader of the household took her face in her hands as she walked around the butcher-block table to embrace Amy-Rose.

“Oh, your mama would be so proud!” Henrietta cried from her station at the silver cabinet.

“Hetty’s right. Your mama’d be proud.” Jessie patted Amy-Rose’s cheek. “Now, until then, separate the yolks from the whites.” Her order lacked any of its usual sternness and Amy-Rose obediently picked up a knife.

Hetty sidled up to Amy-Rose and said in what she may have thought was a whisper, “What about Mr. John?”

“He’ll inherit his father’s company one day.” Amy-Rose chased away the image of John in the garage, his worn trousers and shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows. The way the muscles in his forearms moved under his skin. “And I’ll have mine.”

Jessie turned, her face screwed up for a lecture, when something outside the window caught her eye. “What does that boy want now?’

Amy-Rose followed the cook’s gaze and saw Tommy, Harold’s son, waving from the garden. He had warm brown skin and wide, eager eyes such a deep, calm brown, they could set anyone at ease. After Amy-Rose’s mother had died, she’d spent time watching Tommy feed and brush the horses as she feed them apples and other treats. Long rides on the grounds led to a close friendship between the two. When Amy-Rose shared her dream of one day opening a salon for the care of Black women’s hair, Tommy congratulated her as if she’d already done it. His hope buoyed her own.

“It can wait,” Jessie complained, but Amy-Rose was already on her way outside.

Tommy paced along the fence, wringing a hat in his hands. There was an unusual fervor in his eyes and an energy about him that filled her with both excitement and dread. Like Amy-Rose, Tommy had grown up alongside the Davenport siblings, but he’d always respected the line that separated the help from the family. He’d never befriended John, a boy his own age, even though the Davenports’ only son had spent as much time in the garage and stables as the lead coachman’s only child. Tommy seemed to be the only person immune to John’s endearing charm.

“I’m leaving,” Tommy said by way of greeting.

Amy-Rose skidded to a stop.

Tommy barreled on. “I spoke to the conductor of the Santa Fe Railway, and he agreed to give me a reduced fare on a transcontinental headed west.”

“West?” Amy-Rose said, her mind still struggling to catch up with Tommy’s words. It should have come as no surprise. He’d been trying to escape Freeport ever since he was old enough to work, or “earn his keep,” as his father said. Tommy vowed he would leave this place and make a fortune of his own.

“I’ve been talking to a member of the Chicago chapter of the National Negro Business League. He said that there’s new cities growing like daises all over the country. Full of new opportunities.”

“Where could you have more options than here?”

“I need to start somewhere new, where I’m not one of the Davenports’ boys. I’m not trading in a bridle for a shoe-shine kit when they eventually switch to horseless carriages.” Tommy twisted his hat some more. It was barely recognizable. “Amy-Rose, the man offered me a job at his insurance company.”

Amy-Rose was confused. “You want to sell insurance?”

He laughed. “They do more than that. They secure loans and real estate for Black entrepreneurs. It’s what built the South Side.” Tommy closed the distance between them and took both of Amy-Rose’s hands in his. “I aim to be on the California Express in six weeks’ time.” He cupped her shoulders. “I wanted you to be the second person I told, after my dad, of course.” He let her go and shook his head, as if surprised by his own news. “I also wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“You’ve inspired me. I listened to your plans for a salon, watched you pepper every business owner downtown until they chased you out and onto the street.” They both smiled at the memory of the dry-goods store owner, Clyde, doing just that. “You were a force to be reckoned with when you brought your savings to the bank.” He laughed. “Not sure you needed me at all.” Tommy looked at her with a genuine warmth that made her heart swell. “You’re on your way to make everything you want a reality. And I want that. For you, and for myself.”

Amy-Rose threw her arms around his neck. He smelled like hay and horses, sweat and determination. Tommy was a salve to her battered soul when she needed a friend. A good man, hardworking and proud. How could she not want the best for him?