The Davenports(80)

“You made it.” His face broke out in a grin. The sight of it made her heart flutter in her chest.

“I did,” she said, smiling.

He offered his hand. “Hungry?”

“Starved.” His fingers closed around hers and the electricity that had thrummed in her all day arced.

He led her down a winding path between the outdoor tables and into the hole-in-the-wall restaurant, where every square inch seemed to be occupied. Behind the counter, she saw the cook waving a spatula like a conductor before an orchestra. The sound of a dozen voices pressed in on either side of them. The dining room was alive. It lacked all the decorum and pageantry she was used to. People sat with elbows on the table, grabbed from one another’s plates, and spoke too loud so as to be heard over each other. It was intimate in its chaos. And she loved it.

“Is something wrong, Washington?” she asked when he stopped abruptly. All the seats around them were filled and there was no space at the counter. He still held her hand. His felt like a torch in hers, radiating heat that traveled up her arm.

Mr. DeWight lowered his voice to match hers. “They lost each other in 1906, during the riots in Atlanta.” She followed his gaze to a couple in the corner. Their heads tilted close to each other. The look they exchanged made her blush for witnessing it. “A chance meeting at the Loop near Wabash brought them back together. You missed the ceremony, simple vows, but now’s the time to celebrate.” Olivia saw her favorite side of Washington DeWight: hopeful.

“A happy ending,” she said. “My father is still searching for his brother. It’s hard to believe that he’s still out there after so much time.” She thought of the letters and the meetings, dead-end leads and all the disappointments. “They were lucky enough not to be separated as children. It wasn’t until they escaped the plantation that they lost each other. He has people following rumors of my uncle’s last known location, men who fit his description. We pray for his return. With each year, though, it seems less likely.”

Mr. DeWight drew circles in her palm with his thumb. “They are proof that it can happen. Have faith.” His gaze lingered on the couple a moment longer, then he tugged her hand for them to move on. Olivia took one last look, hoping he was right.

They wound around the boisterous kitchen, down a thin hall, and finally up a narrow set of steps. A warm breeze cleared the savory and sweet aroma that had filled her head. Olivia stared in wonder once they made it to the roof. All of Chicago was laid out before them. The sun, setting in the distance, painted everything in warm, broad strokes. A small round table, set for two. A cluster of candles served as a centerpiece. Music traveled on the breeze and a sun-bleached couch created a cozy nook in the corner.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

He came up beside her and placed a hand on her back. Instinctively, she fell into step with the music. He trapped one of her hands between his chest and his free hand. Olivia pressed her cheek to his. “Someone’s been practicing,” she said.

“Turns out I just needed the right partner.” His voice sent shivers down her body. Olivia was acutely aware of the weight of his hand, the gentle pressure a little lower than decent. The heady scent of him muddled her thoughts.

The rooftop door swung open then and two servers came into view carrying steaming dishes. “Ya’ll better be careful of that door. It only opens one way,” said the taller of the two. He was a lanky man with a long, lazy stride. He murmured instructions to the other man. The taller dipped his head as he passed Olivia, still tucked close to Mr. DeWight. He kicked a small wooden wedge on the floor under the frame of the door so that the same sliver of space she noticed on the way up separated the two of them from the rest of the world.

Olivia and Mr. DeWight walked to the edge of the rooftop and watched the last of the sun’s light disappear between the buildings. The setting sun seemed to melt like an amber flame behind the city. “It truly is beautiful,” she said. She looked at him. “I don’t think I slept a wink the night before or after the rally.” Her voice became firm. “It felt right being there, like I was exactly where I was meant to be, even though I had no idea what I was doing. It wasn’t until we had to run for our lives that this thing that’s been slowly dawning on me made sense. It was love. For this city. For—” She cleared her throat. “For the me I am when—I’m with you.”

Twilight had fallen around them, but Washington DeWight’s eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “Love for just the city and yourself, huh?” His lip twitched.

Olivia laughed. “I mean, there is this relentless lawyer I’m starting to grow fond of.”

“I see,” he said. He swept her up close and held her there, searching her face. She freed her hand and gently ran her fingers across his brows, his high rounded cheekbones. She gasped when he laughed to reveal bright, white teeth. The knot in his throat bobbed as her touch dipped and they both shivered. She wanted to hook her fingers into his collar and pull his lips to hers, but he released her. Her stomach protested her hunger loud enough for both of them to hear.

“Let’s eat before it gets cold,” he said, a laugh in his voice.

They sat at the table and tucked into the thick soup and hard-dough bread. Washington recounted stories of his activist upbringing. Raised by a teacher and a lawyer, he was forever full of questions and a yearning for answers. After, they danced and lay on the couch, where he pointed out the stars, explaining how to find your way by the constellations. She felt warm and safe tucked beside him. He’d removed his jacket and placed it over them to keep their body heat close. Olivia was sure that she produced enough to chase the chill out of a banquet hall. Mr. DeWight’s legs tangled with hers and she cuddled in tight.