The Davenports(74)

“Can we talk?” He stood in the doorway, waiting. He was out of breath. The top button of his shirt was undone and his hair, normally slicked back into place, was starting to stick out at the temples.

“This is my room.” She looked around the space, imagining what it must look like. The odd mix of old and new garments, an overstuffed suitcase and her mother’s letters. She wanted him out. Needed him out.

John’s face fell. “I’m sorry.” He drew back, and she took an unthinking step forward. She could tell it gave him pause. From the hallway, he said, “What I did at the party was unacceptable. I never should have treated you—or let others—treat you that way. My mother and I had just had a row about how I spend my time. She accused me of being distracted and I guess—”

“That doesn’t make what you did okay.”

“I know. Can I come in?”

She sighed and sat down on the bed, clearing the doorway. She pulled her mother’s letters, bound by a white ribbon, close for comfort.

He stepped deeper into the room, hunching under the angled ceiling. She watched his eyes scan the room: the suitcase, emptied closet, the small bundle cradled in her arms. “You’re going somewhere.”

Amy-Rose placed the letters on the bed, stood, and picked up the dresses she planned to leave behind. “Yes, I’m leaving for California.” She faced him and fought the urge to smooth down the front of her dress.

John passed his hands over his face. “California?”

Her eyes flitted to his. This was happening all out of order. She was supposed to tell Mr. and Mrs. Davenport first. They didn’t need her. They kept her on out of generosity and fondness for her mother. Surely they wouldn’t have objected to her moving on, when they’d done the same to start their own lives here. Amy-Rose plucked at a loose thread in a dress she held and tried to quell the emotions tumbling through her. She hadn’t exactly come up with a plan to tell the girls. Or John. A part of her thought she wouldn’t have to.

“Amy-Rose?”

She pulled Tommy’s reason from a thousand things she could say. “I need a fresh start, and California seems a place as good as any to do it.”

“You can’t throw everything away to move halfway across the country.”

“You can’t throw away what you don’t have,” she shouted, shocking even herself. She took a breath and her vision blurred. She had gone a whole two days without crying over Mr. Spencer’s barbershop. She had packed away those painful, awful feelings into something smaller and more manageable. “The salon space was leased to another.” She watched his eyes shutter closed and felt her heart break, not only for the store, but also for what had been growing between them. He understands the depth of this blow, she thought. He looked at her now, silent. And if there seemed to be some other, puzzling emotion alight in his eyes, she couldn’t afford to wonder about it. “I don’t have a reason to stay,” she said. “It’s time to move on, start fresh, in a new town where I won’t be known as the maid.” Tommy’s own reason for leaving had never been so clear.

John took a breath. “What if—what if that space wasn’t your only option?”

“I’d say you’re grasping at straws. I’ve combed downtown looking for a new spot I can afford. It doesn’t exist.”

His eyes sparkled—that puzzling look returned to his face. “But it does.” John’s face split into a boyish grin. He pulled a bundle of papers from inside his jacket.

Amy-Rose took them. “What is this?” Her breath hitched. The papers rustled loudly as she unfolded them, her eyes still on John.

“Read it.”

She did. She tried. Tears quickly obscured the text after she saw the deed to a salon, and her name on the first page. “I don’t understand.”

“Greenie works at Binga’s,” John said. The nickname made Amy-Rose’s stomach turn. She recognized it as the name of John’s friend who’d played a hand in her public misstep. John continued, “He’s sorry too. He mentioned you had your heart set on Mr. Spencer’s old space and that the barber had leased his store to someone else.” His voice softened. “I know how much you wanted it.”

“You knew . . . ?” She trailed off. Read the deed again.

“Don’t go. You’re not the maid and . . . just stay.”

Amy-Rose couldn’t believe her ears. “Why?” she asked.

“Because I can’t handle you not being here,” he said, his eyes pained, his steady gaze holding her own.

He began to pace her room, which was so small, he appeared to be turning in a tight circle, neck bent. She considered his face, and moved toward him until she was close enough to touch him. He stood very still, except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest, his breaths just as shallow as hers. She placed a hand on his chest. Beneath her palm, his heart raced.

It would not undo her embarrassment at the party. But he’d done this for her. Her dream. And because he knew what that store meant to her. Amy-Rose shook her head in disbelief. “Where did you find—where did you get this?” She couldn’t believe her eyes. The property was much larger than Mr. Spencer’s place. And bought, not leased. It must cost a fortune. She brought a shaking hand to her forehead. Her breaths were shallow and uneven.