by Ashley Clark
Her mother continued as if Millie hadn’t made that remark. “You’ve heard talk of folks passing for white all around the country. I’ve never mentioned it to you until now, but I’ve long thought you could do it, Millie. I was waiting for the right time to bring all this up.” She shook her head and looked off, her gaze somewhere else. “I know this may seem like a lot to consider, but after what happened to your father . . .” Her eyes clouded, and she looked back to Millie. “Well, I don’t want that happening to you too. Folks like that boy are the reason he’s dead.”
The memory of Millie’s father flashed through Millie’s mind with vibrancy.
Mama rubbed Millie’s arms. “You remember that town your cousin was talking about, on the Gulf Coast of Alabama? Fairhope, it’s called. What about that place? They’re real accepting of folks. If you could just get there, Millie . . .”
“Then what?”
“You could have a different sort of life.”
“I don’t want a different sort of life.” But didn’t she? Why else would she pretend as she did with Harry?
Of course she knew the answer. It had nothing to do with denying Mama—Lord knew she was prouder of her family than a peacock of his feathers—but no. The truth was, Millie wanted to know what it might feel like to live without fear. To be given respect in an instant and to watch the world from inside the windows: to watch from all those spaces that same world wouldn’t allow her passing through.
“Really?” Mama looked at her through eyes framed by long, beautiful lashes. “Even if it means you could own that dress store you always dreamin’ about?”
“Not if it meant leaving home. Not if it meant leaving you.”
“Hush, child.” Mama swallowed visibly. “’Course I don’t want to say good-bye to you. You’re the reason I rise in the morning and the thing that keeps me breathing.” She shook her head slightly. “But Millie, don’t you see? I want more for you than this. I want you to have your dream.”
It was at the word dream that the front window shattered.
A loud, violent crash.
And then deceptively melodic chimes as the glass hit the floor beneath their feet.
Mama shoved Millie hard onto the sofa and told her to cover her head.
Millie listened.
She should’ve been the brave one. She should’ve done the pushing to be sure her mother was clear out of the way, but instead she just cowered there with her hands over her head like Mama said to do.
Mama picked up a brick from the floor. With her free hand, she brushed the tiny shards of glass—the nearly invisible ones—from her dress before they could cut her, and she braved a long look around the windowsill.
When she stepped back over to the sofa and pulled Millie to standing, Millie’s heart raced so fast she thought she might never catch it. But Millie knew then that whoever was responsible had fled, else Mama would’ve gone after them.
Her mother looked down at the brick she still held. “Harry is their son,” she mumbled.
Millie couldn’t seem to so much as blink. “I don’t understand.”
Mama met her gaze. “The men who killed your daddy. One of them is Harry’s father and another is his kin.” Mama moved the brick back and forth between her hands. “I didn’t tell you before because I saw no sense in making you scared, but the boy clearly thinks like his father and is old enough now to be a problem.” Mama never looked away. “They own the dress store, Millie. Don’t you see? If you follow that dream here in Charleston . . . well, I’m not even sure you’re safe, let alone that they’d give you the opportunity. You have to go.”
Millie swallowed.
“Do it for me, Millie.”
Charleston Train Station, 1946
Two Weeks Later
Millie listened for the whistle of the train as she gripped her carpetbag. The early morning air was already thick with August heat, and she moved her face from a bug flying past.
Mama and Millie stood outside Union Station on East Bay Street, the railway station’s stunning architecture looming.
Mama’d insisted she wouldn’t go inside. “Don’t want any other passengers getting suspicious,” she’d said. “Why would a white woman and a Black woman be out here socializing?”
But the thought of it turned Millie’s stomach. What was she doing? Could Millie really up and leave her family, even if staying was dangerous? Was she doing right by them? She loved them something fierce and was so proud of them too. Mama knew that, didn’t she?
It felt terribly as though she were pretending. Like the time she wore those handmade wings and tried to jump from the top of the shed in the backyard. That hadn’t ended well. What’s to say this flight would be any different?
But she’d hardly had time to process all that. Mama had been so sure, so convincing.
So here Millie stood. Carpetbag in hand—a photo of her mama inside as well as some benne wafers, and a few coins within a tiny sweetgrass container Mama wove years ago.
None of this was enough to get her by in Alabama, and they both knew it.
But none of this was enough for her life here, either. Millie was beginning to see that much plainly.
Mama straightened Millie’s cloche and pressed the shoulders of her dress, the mended tear hardly noticeable. “Now you be careful, mind for strangers, and keep your talkin’ brief. We don’t want nobody asking questions, you hear?”
Millie nodded.
Mama’s grip on her shoulders tightened. Her eyes looked tired. How long had they looked that way? “No matter what, you remember this, child. You got a place in this world. God gave you those big dreams, and you’re gonna see them come into being. Don’t let nobody tell you differently.”
Millie breathed it all in. The comfort of her mother’s words, the way her mother smelled of the soap they used on clothes, and the strong and very firm grasp of her mama’s hands.
Just because Mama was strong didn’t mean the same for Millie. Truth is, she was scared out of her wits and hadn’t a clue what she was doing. But she’d pretend. Pretend to be strong, that is. For her mama’s sake.
Then her mother did something unexpected. She opened Millie’s right palm to face upward and dropped something into her hand. More coins, perhaps? But how would she have come by them?
Millie looked down and saw two buttons.
She gasped. “No, Mama. I refuse.”
But Mama’s response was simply to close Millie’s fingers around the buttons. “Hush, child,” she said.
That moment—that single moment—Millie knew she’d better leave or she’d never find the courage.
She kissed her mother’s cheek and closed her eyes. Then Mama squeezed her arm once more.
Millie knew. It was time.
With a wobbly smile Mama probably saw straight through, Millie stepped into the train station and toward whatever was coming.
An hour later, she was sitting on the hard bench toward the back of her train car and watching for Mama as they pulled out of the station.
Mama’s instructions had been very clear. She would wave, but Millie mustn’t.
Everything within Millie groaned as one hungry for home, and the feeling nearly gave way to tears.
That’s when she saw him. Chasing the train.
He wore black trousers rolled up at the hem, a white shirt, and a pair of suspenders. She couldn’t make out his features, but he was a white man and about her age.
Nothing like Harry.
In an instant, he vanished.
Mama waved, and Millie smiled, and for some reason she couldn’t quite explain, she was desperate to find out what happened to him.
The boy who was chasing the train. Just like she did. Albeit, in a different way.
SEVEN
Charleston, Modern Day
“Dude, I told you not to wear that tie. It screams historian,” Declan said.
“Well, that’s good, because I am a historian.” Peter Perkins set his hammer down on the drop cloth he’d used to prot
ect the original wooden floor. He was halfway through his renovation of the space above the dress shop and had big plans to convert it into another one of his short-term rentals. With the way tourism in Charleston continued rising, it should become a profitable property, especially if he could manage to brand it by preserving its history.
With the back of his hand, Peter wiped sweat from his forehead and repositioned his backward ball cap before glaring at his cousin Declan. “Look—if a woman writes me off because of something so innocuous, I’m not sure I have any interest in a second conversation.”
Even if she looked like an angel. He knelt on the floor and worked to scrape cheap plaster from off the antique brick column he’d uncovered in the middle of the loft space.
“You keep wearing clothes that look like they belong on Saved by the Bell and even I am not going to be interested in another conversation.”
Peter picked up his brush to wipe away plaster dust from the beam, choosing to ignore Declan’s jab. “She left an impression. I’ll give you that much.” Truth was, he hadn’t been able to get Harper out of his mind since the engagement party. Kept wondering what happened with that dress she’d made and if her professor liked it as much as he did. Although he imagined her professor might have different criteria . . .
Peter cleared his throat. “You think she really will call about renting the store?”
Declan rolled back on the soles of his loafers and groaned. “I just realized what you’re doing.”
Peter took the scraper to a stubborn corner. “What’s that?”
“You’re sprucing up this place in hopes she’ll rent it from you. She said she’ll call about the store below, right? You’re hoping she rents it, and you can throw this loft in too.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” A large chunk of plaster fell to the drop cloth, sending a cloud of white dust into the air. Peter raised the hem of his T-shirt to cover his nose. “I had already planned out the renovations before meeting Harper. I’ve done this a few times before, Declan.” He wouldn’t mention how often he’d been thinking about her. Because then he would have to admit his buddy was right about his tie choice.
“So, are we going to lunch or what?” Declan asked. “I’m hungry for pizza.”
Peter brushed the dust from his jeans and stood. “Yeah, just let me move these boxes over to the window.” He reached down, careful to lift from his knees.
“Let me give you a hand.” Declan unbuttoned the sleeves of his pressed shirt and rolled them. Then he took the other box and hauled it toward the window, setting it down beside Peter’s. “What do you have in these things? Lead?”
“Leaded glass, actually.”
Declan stood upright. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
Peter laughed. “Actually, I’m not. I found these antique pieces, and I’m going to use them to restore the mosaic glass window.” He shifted the drop cloth and moved the curtain he’d hung to protect the original piece.
“Only you.” Declan looked at the damaged stained glass and whistled low. “Wow, that thing sure is beautiful.”
Peter brushed more plaster dust from his shirt. He should be fine wearing these clothes—they were only getting pizza, not meeting the pope. Besides, he’d gotten used to feeling underdressed every time he grabbed lunch with his cousin. Declan had followed the wildly lucrative lifestyle of both his own father and Peter’s stepfather, and he needed to dress the part to be taken seriously. Peter did not.
Peter patted the pockets of his jeans to check for his wallet, then realized it was missing. A phone he could do without, but he’d need a way to pay. He looked around the room as he tried to remember where he’d seen it last, then grinned as he took in the progress he’d made. This rental was turning out pretty great.
The long windows overlooked the comings and goings on King Street, and the loft was plenty large enough for a living area, small kitchen, and if he played his cards right, two bedrooms. He focused on the historical elements in all of his short-term rental properties because renters wanted to feel like they were being offered a story. And truthfully, Peter wanted the same thing.
“I saw your dad today.” Declan started toward the stairwell.
Peter followed. “My stepfather, you mean?” Under regular circumstances, a person in Peter’s position would probably ask, “Did he mention me?” But these were not regular circumstances, and Peter had long ago given up on being mentioned.
“I’m sorry.” Declan stopped short on the top step. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I know you left that life behind after what he did.”
“It’s fine, man.” Peter blew out a deep breath and shoved his hands into his pockets. “And I wouldn’t say I left it behind . . .” More like I finally realized I never belonged there to begin with.
The thought of his stepfather giving away that box full of his mother’s heirlooms not even a month after her funeral—just up and giving them away, like a pair of worn-out shoes—still hollowed Peter out with loss.
Declan hit Peter on the shoulder. “I really do think you’ll find her stuff someday.”
“Thanks, but I don’t even know what was inside that box. I wouldn’t recognize it even if I did find it. I’d give anything to go back, to go through everything when I still had the chance.” At least one good thing had come from it—Peter finally found the courage to uncover almost-forgotten stories, away from the scorn of his stepfather’s elitist friends.
Declan took two steps, then looked back over his shoulder. “Do you think I’d be crazy to ask out Harper’s friend Lucy?”
Peter shook his head and grinned. “Never a dull moment with you.”
Radcliffeborough, Charleston, Modern Day
The next morning, a group of ladies with large beaded earrings and grey hair curled from here to high heaven clustered around a kitchen table lined with green Depression glass.
They had a saying around here. The higher the hair, the closer to God. And if that were true, well, the women of the Holy City would be a shoe-in when it came time for the rapture.
Peter maneuvered around them, straightening his glasses and turning to Sullivan, one of his buddies who worked part-time for him. This was not their first estate sale. Not even their first this month. And secretly, Peter loved the good-natured competition—swooping up artifacts before the minister’s grandmother got to them. Some of the artifacts he would resell, while others he would use to furnish his rental properties. Rarely, he’d find an item for his own stash of historical treasures. “Let’s head upstairs and see what furniture they’ve got in the bedrooms.”
The oddity of estate sales could never quite escape him. Strangers coming into someone else’s home as if they belonged, then evaluating what to keep, what to buy, what to sell. All in a bedroom or kitchen someone once called home.
But in cases like this one, where the old house would surely be demolished in the months to come and the lot developed from scratch, Peter would come in and save what he could because that’s what gave him breath each morning.
An old chocolate Lab ambled closer, its claws clicking against the floor.
“Come ’ere, Billy girl.” A man’s voice from the other room called. The dog hesitated. Peter smiled, then reached out to briefly scratch the dog’s grey-peppered ears. Satisfied to have received some attention, she rubbed her head once along the leg of Peter’s jeans, then turned the corner back toward the owner.
Sullivan took the creaky stair steps two at a time. He always ducked a little when he climbed stairs, a habit Peter suspected he’d developed because his height kept him bumping into low ceilings. Peter was mid-step toward the landing when Sullivan whistled low.
Few other people had made the trek upstairs, so he and Sullivan had the space to themselves.
The wood-slat ceiling covered a room filled with old furniture. Peter watched the ceiling fan push a light haze of dust into a swirl, dust that fell upon decades-old pieces that were all remarkably salvageable.
Then his
eyes widened. “This is a gold mine.”
Sullivan stepped toward a few antique bed frames and pushed up his sleeves as he began to sort through the piles.
Peter skimmed the edges of an old writing desk with his thumb. A basket full of books next to the desk showed water damage, suggesting the house had flooded at some point.
But the desk was in immaculate condition. The no-nonsense frame of it made him guess it was over a century old.
Nervous energy had Peter tapping his foot among the dust as the morning sunlight streamed in. He was a twenty-eight-year-old grown man, for crying out loud, but he felt like a kid again whenever he found pieces like these. Every single time.
The reaction was enduring, probably pathetic, and a complete romanticization of history. But he couldn’t help but wonder who lived in this house and who did they care for and a hundred other questions about their lives.
It was the entire reason he started his company—because maybe if a child used a century-old desk, something of the original owner would affect him or her, even if the memory itself did not. Like a heritage passed down, even if that heritage was never realized.
Sullivan cleared his throat. “Get a look at this.” He stepped closer to the desk and held a bag toward Peter. “Found it in one of the drawers over there.” Sullivan nodded to the other side of the room.
Peter frowned. He’d found plenty of items stashed inside drawers before—like cross-stitched bookmarks or broken cufflinks—but the items were typically small. Little reminders that the house had once been lived in and the items, used, long before the estate sale.
He took the fabric bag from Sullivan. A satchel, perhaps? Looked more than a hundred years old, easily.
Threads in brown and pink and green embroidered the time-stained satchel.
Peter read the inscription aloud.
“Rose, mother of Ashley,
gave her this sack when
she was sold at age nine in South Carolina.
It held a tattered dress, three handfuls of
pecans, a braid of Rose’s hair,
and two buttons from Rose’s own dress. Told her,
