Page 67 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
I avoided their eyes as I retrieved my errant knife. I had promised myself: no more love. I didn’t have any space in my heart or life for that. Not after William. Not after René. Not after Rohan. Not after the baby.
“I’m not up for meeting anyone new.” I tried to brush off my outburst with a smile, but Willa didn’t seem to buy it.
“I just thought—you never go out. You’re always bent over that typewriter up in that window. You deserve a good time.”
I’d hurt her feelings. The silence drew out as we picked at our peas. “I’m sorry. I just ... have been suffering from a broken heart.” Four times over. But the half truth felt good. Something in my friend’s reaction made me relent. “You’re right. I do deserve a good time. Yes, I’ll go.”
Willa clapped her hands, barely containing her excitement for me. “How wonderful!” With that, all the tension melted away, the conversation resuming easily, for which I was glad. I had no need for dates, but I appreciated a friend.
“Should be a good time,” Nathan said. “Finally, a place where we can go. Not one only catering to only white folk who want to come uptown for some color.” He detailed all that he’d heard from his friend about the new “black and tan” establishments opening for Black clientele to enjoy live jazz music.
As the conversation turned to the excitement of going out, I realized I still had one problem.
I needed a dress.
To solve my problem, I went to Ms. Martin’s dress shop, where all my dresses were made. I worked with Gertrude, a tiny light-skinned Black woman with gray hair streaking through her dark curls, who helped me select the fabric and pattern—a cream cotton dress with a high neck and a soft sage folded into the pleated edging. Other women may have worn more eye-catching colors, but I stuck with muted neutrals, best suited for blending in. Gertrude confirmed my measurements and promised she’d have it ready on time.
With my errand done, I had nowhere to be, so I walked down the street, window-shopping, mindful of my purse. It was a respectable area of town, but you couldn’t be too sure.
A cold wind swept through, the day blustery, but I enjoyed the fresh, crisp air after being inside. New York was a mix, a few blocks determining the difference between an Italian, Jewish, or Black neighborhood.
I continued to walk and found myself on Ladies’ Mile, admiring the wares on offer. Of all the cities I’d been in, New York was the one most on the rise. The stores displayed their goods, and you could buy anything you could think of.
I lingered at one window and admired a set of silk gloves trimmed in green on display, with elaborately trailing embroidered flowers. I had no use for them, but they were lovely—something for beauty’s sake.
A knock startled me.
A hand rapped on the glass above my head.
I flinched, expecting trouble. I’d been in New York long enough to know that the people of this city had no problem expressing how they felt, good, bad, or ugly.
The shopkeeper waved from inside, a pale man with black wavy hair, grinning, motioning me to come inside.
I shook my head no, but he gestured again, smiling. I stepped back and scanned inside the shop. No signs barring my entry were on the windows, but that didn’t mean it was friendly to “coloreds,” as we were called then.
Come in,he mouthed, grinning again, almost like a dare.
I wasn’t sure why I went in—I would’ve kept walking in any other instance, but he’d made me smile despite myself, so I entered through the front door.
The tiny bell chimed through the empty shop. The light was dim, just the sunshine coming through the large display windows as the shopkeeper stood in the middle of the floor. He was less pale up close, his skin faintly tan, with a scattering of reddish freckles across his nose.
“Am I allowed in here?” I glanced around as I looked for white women, often upset at the presence of Black customers.
“You could be anywhere you like. Why not here?”
“This store may not cater to a particular type of clientele. Can’t be too careful.” Nerves fluttered in my stomach, increasing as I glanced around, taking in the expensive wares. The man’s outfit was exquisite, matching the quality of the merchandise. The store’s wooden fixtures gleamed handsomely, indicating clientele of the noncolored type.
“Normally, you’d be right, but I have the run of the place today. The owner’s down with the flu.” He made a swift bow, and I blushed. This person was eccentric. I’d never met an American white man of this era who’d been so friendly. “May I interest you in that set of gloves today, miss?”
“I was just browsing. I already have a set,” I said.
“Yes, and while they are lovely indeed, I don’t believe you can’t also have these too.” He fished them out of the display. “They are silk, edged in silk brocade and embroidery.” He lifted them to the light, his hands smoothing the fabric. “Just in on the last shipment from Paris. You’d be one of the first to own gloves in this style.” He tilted them for a better view.
I flashed him a warm smile. “As nice as they are, maybe another time.”
“What time?” he asked point-blank, startling me.
“What time for what?”
