A Silken Thread

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

He grinned. “Ah, a convert!” He leaned close and winked. “A pot of mustard sits in the middle of my family’s dining room table. My mother turns up her nose at it, but both my father and I partake of it liberally at every meal.” He’d done so for years, even though he wasn’t particularly fond of the taste.

  Her blush increased. “I hope you’ll forgive my lapse in manners. My mother did teach me to offer appreciation for gifts.”

  He waved his hand. “No apology necessary.”

  She fell silent, fidgeting in place and averting her gaze. An uneasy feeling gripped him.

  “Am I preventing you from going somewhere…again?”

  She sent him a wide-eyed look. “No, I…”

  He angled his head. “Are you sure? After all, you were escorted away by a gentleman earlier today. Perhaps you’re meeting him?”

  She shook her head and toyed with a loose strand of brown hair. “No. He left, along with Mama and my sister-in-law, nieces, and nephew. The little ones were getting restless, so they all went home.”

  Awareness dawned, carried on a tide of relief. “The man was your father?”

  She burst out laughing and then stifled the sound with her fingers. She swallowed twice and linked her hands together again. “I’m so sorry. No, Eugene is my brother. He is fifteen years my senior, so I understand why you might presume what you did, but he isn’t my father. Nor is he”—the blush returned—“a suitor.”

  “If I might be so bold, I’m very pleased to hear it.”

  She held her hands wide and shrugged. “I planned to walk to the fountain for my break. After sitting at the loom for hours at a time, I enjoy moving around a bit.” She paused, appearing to hold her breath. “You’re welcome to accompany me, if you’d like.”

  “Why, Miss Millard, I’ve never received a sweeter invitation.” He offered his elbow. She slipped her fingers through the bend of his arm and, to her credit, did not giggle either nervously or flirtatiously. “If there’s time, perhaps you’d enjoy walking across the footbridge to the other side of Clara Meer.”

  “I have to be back by three ten.”

  He bit back a huff of displeasure. So few minutes. But he could still make the most of them. “Only the fountain, then, but”—he guided her forward, his hand curved over her fingers on his arm—“while we walk, tell me all about yourself.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  He gazed at her through lowered lids, a look he’d used to flatter many a young woman. “Everything, Miss Millard. I want to know everything.”

  Laurel

  Laurel peeked at the wall clock, and a rush of impatience swept through her. Why couldn’t the hands move faster? Would three o’clock never come?

  After the Blue and Gray Day meeting at the base of the Women’s Building porch steps, Langdon Rochester developed the habit of meeting Laurel for her midafternoon break and taking her on a short stroll around the small fountain or a walk across the footbridge and back. They had only ten minutes together. So few. Yet during those minutes, they talked incessantly, and by the end of the month she believed she was falling in love with him.

  The rhythmic clunks, swishes, and thuds of the silk loom seemed to drift far away as she allowed herself to daydream about the one she secretly called her beloved. How could she not fall headlong in love with Langdon Rochester? He was so rakishly handsome with his thick, wavy dark hair sweeping away from his high forehead and his broad shoulders filling his fine tailored jackets. He had such impeccable manners—the kind storybook authors would describe as courtly. When he smiled at her in that low-lidded way he had, as if she were the only thing in the world worthy of his attention, her stomach went trembly and she longed to bask in the pools of his ocean-blue eyes for hours.

  When she’d read the phrase “bask in the pools of his ocean-blue eyes” in a romance serial, she’d thought it melodramatic and even bordering on ridiculous. But now? She could only hope Langdon had similar feelings when he stared into her eyes, although, being such a dull brown, they could never be described as ocean-blue pools.

  During their frustratingly short minutes together, she’d learned he had horses and loved to ride on Sunday afternoons after church. His favorite fruit was the peach, his favorite vegetable the artichoke, and his favorite animal the giraffe. He’d divulged he was given a stuffed giraffe for his third birthday and had it still, twenty years later, tucked away on a shelf in his closet. Thinking of little Langdon cuddling a stuffed giraffe nearly made Laurel swoon.

  Best of all, Langdon loved books as much as she did. He must, because he’d told her his home had a full library. Not a single shelf like she and Mama had, but an entire room lined with shelves, and every shelf filled with books. He said she was welcome to visit and borrow as many as she wanted, but she hadn’t asked Mama for permission to visit the Rochesters’ estate. It was too soon. Too presumptuous. Too…telling.

  If she asked permission to visit his home, she wouldn’t be able to keep him hidden in the secret recesses of her heart. She wanted to hold these wonderfully exciting feelings about Langdon to herself a little longer. To savor them, treasure them. When she was ready to share, she’d be sure Mama was the first to know she’d found her own Leland Millard. What song might her heart sing if Langdon placed his lips against hers?

  “Laurel, it’s time for your break. You—”

  Laurel leaped from the stool and darted past Felicia so quickly it seemed her feet had sprouted wings. She wove between the ladies visiting the Women’s Building and dashed to the porch. She came to a panting halt at the top of the steps and automatically shifted her gaze to the left-hand side of the lowest riser, and there he was, as she’d known he would be, with his bowler against his chest and with sunshine shimmering on his dark hair and illuminating his ocean-blue eyes.

  A smile dimpled his cheeks, a silent invitation. She pattered down the stairs and accepted his outstretched hand. He gave a gentle tug, guiding her away from the building. “Come quickly, Miss Millard. I’ve arranged a surprise for you.”

  “A surprise?” She had to trot to keep up with him, and her breath came out in little puffs. “What kind of surprise?”

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”

  His teasing tone made her laugh, and she held further questions inside while he escorted her to the very place she’d sat her first day at the exposition, when the little boy had toppled her lunch. A rowboat was pulled up on the bank, and the young black man Officer Sharp introduced as his best friend—what was his name?—stood next to it, as if keeping guard.

  Langdon drew her directly to the rowboat and swung his arm toward the seat with a flourish. “Here you are, my dear. It’s hardly a yacht, but then again this isn’t even a real lake.” He laughed, chasing away the slight derision in his tone. “Climb in and we’ll take a short ride across Clara Meer.”

  Laurel twirled her hair around her finger. “Is there time?”

  “There is if we hurry.”

  She hurried. The boat rocked with her weight, and she couldn’t hold back a squeal. Langdon caught her hand, and Quincy—that was his name—steadied the boat. She settled on the wooden plank seat and curled her fingers over the edge while Langdon climbed in. Quincy gave the boat a push, and they glided into the water. Another squeal left her throat, but this one of pleasure rather than fear.

  “It’s like being a swan!”

  “Oh?” Langdon plunged the oars into the water and pulled, sending them farther from the bank. “What would you know about being a swan?”

  “Very little, except that they are lovely and graceful as they float on the water.”

  “Then you know enough, but in truth, dear Miss Millard, you are more lovely and graceful than any creature, including the swan.”

  She lowered her head. “Mr. Rochester…” She peeked at him and caught his knowing grin. She hadn’t fooled him with her mild reprimand, so
she lifted her face to the breeze and breathed in the scent of the water while he rowed them slowly around the metal pipe jutting up from the center of the larger half of the lake.

  Langdon tapped the pipe with the end of an oar and released a snort. “This ride would be much more pleasurable if the fountain worked. They claim it will shoot water over a hundred feet in the air and will make pictures with colored lights. I’m beginning to think it will never happen. Divers have gone underwater every day to work on the connections, but they’ve been complete failures at making the fountain operational.”

  Laurel touched his wrist. “I don’t need a fountain shooting water or making pictures to enjoy this time. Being with you”—should she say it?—“is enough.” She searched his face for signs of displeasure.

  A relaxed smile curved his lips, and his eyelids slipped low into the familiar contented, sated look she’d come to know. “You’re easily satisfied, Miss Millard. Are you always so accepting?”

  She considered his question. A truthful answer might seem boastful, but she wanted to be honest with him. “I’ve learned to appreciate what I have rather than yearning for more. Those who strive for more and more seem to always be dissatisfied. I’d rather not live that way.”

  He winked. “You’re a wise girl. And our time is up. Let’s get back to the bank.”

  Quincy was waiting, and he pulled the nose of the rowboat onto the grass. Langdon helped Laurel alight, and then he leaped out. He dug a coin from his pocket and tossed it to Quincy. “I’ll want a boat again tomorrow, at lunchtime. Hold it for me.” He offered Laurel his elbow and escorted her to the Women’s Building. When they reached the step, he said, “Meet me by the lake for your lunch break tomorrow. Bring a basket lunch and we’ll take a picnic on the water.”

  Something niggled in the back of Laurel’s mind—a slight discomfort she couldn’t quite identify. But then he lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss onto her knuckles, and every conscious thought scuttled away. She smiled. “That sounds lovely. Tomorrow.”

  Willie

  What was that? Willie shot from his chair and reached the back door in two quick strides. He swung the door open and looked out, seeking the source of the rustle he’d heard. “Rusty?” A large bird swooped from one of the trees behind the shed, but no big orange tomcat came running. With a sigh, he closed the door.

  “God, where is he? Let him be all right, please.” Maybe it was foolish to pray for a cat, but he couldn’t help himself. The house was lonely without Pa’s quiet presence, and now the yard was lonely, too. Only two days after Willie and Preacher Hines took Pa to the convalescent hospital, Rusty disappeared. Willie had searched the neighborhood and the woody area behind his house, had called the cat’s name until his throat was hoarse, but Rusty never came. So Willie was completely alone. He missed his pa, and he missed the big orange cat.

  Heels dragging, he carried his single plate, spoon, and cup to the washstand. Sunday’s supper dishes still sat in the basin. He should wash them. Ma had never left dishes in the basin overnight. She said it would invite mice. With Rusty gone, he shouldn’t risk it. But he scuffed out of the kitchen, right past the stove’s water reservoir, to the front room. He flopped onto the sofa and stared across the dark room.

  Only eight—too early for bed. Sleep beckoned anyway. Sleep was a good escape, he’d discovered. An escape from his loneliness for Pa. An escape from worrying about what’d happened to Rusty. An escape from the scornful way the other security guards treated him during the day.

  Pa used to tease Ma about how women liked to talk, but men talked, too. Briggs and Turner did, for sure. They must’ve told all the security guards how Willie came to Quincy’s defense, and maybe Dunning’d told them how Willie wanted to keep those two pictures together, because one by one the guards had started snubbing him. Now the crew ignored him in the changing room. Out on the grounds, if he waved at one of them, they pretended they didn’t see, even though he knew they did. The only time they looked at him—really looked at him—was when he was with Quincy. Then he felt their eyes following him, searching for…what? Why did his friendship with Quincy matter to them so much?

  Here in his neighborhood nobody cared about black or white. Sure, the black families worshipped in one church and the white families in another, and the children went to different schools. But all up and down the block, the grown-ups looked out for each other’s children. The children—all the children—came together to play stickball or kick the can or hide-and-seek.

  Him and Quincy had banged in and out of each other’s house their whole lives long, and neither of their mas had ever said, “You shouldn’t be with that boy ’cause he’s not your same color.” Quincy’s ma teased or scolded or handed out cookies to Willie, and Willie’s ma did the same for Quincy without so much as blinking an eye. Willie never thought of Quincy as his black friend. Quincy was just…his friend.

  Young and stupid. That’s what Dunning had called Willie. Willie felt it, too. Mostly stupid. Stupid for not knowing that the world outside his neighborhood thought so different than he did, and stupid for not knowing how to fix it. The things he’d tried—putting Pa’s and Ruger Tate’s photographs together, stopping Briggs and Turner from bothering Quincy, stopping Quincy from starting a fight with the two guards, telling two older boys who were pointing and laughing at the little black children sitting on the porch of the rebuilt slave cabin in the Old Plantation attraction on the midway that if they couldn’t be respectful they should move on—had only made things worse.

  His supervisor’s warning, delivered after all the other guards had left for the evening, stung in remembrance. “Sharp, the black folks don’t need you stickin’ up for them, an’ the white folks don’t want your advice. You’re hired to do a simple job, an’ you’re gettin’ good money for it. So put your personal ideas in your pocket an’ leave ’em there, or you can turn in your uniform. I won’t put up with you stirrin’ conflict.”

  He was holding on to his job at the exposition by a thread. He didn’t dare let it get snipped. But he sure didn’t know how he’d do what his boss said and be able to live with his conscience.

  He sighed and glanced at the clock. Half past eight. Still early. But he’d go to bed anyway. When he was little and had a problem, Ma always told him things looked brighter in the morning. There was even a verse that talked about God’s mercies being new every morning. He pushed himself from the sofa and headed for his bedroom. He sure hoped some new mercies would wake up with him tomorrow morning.

  * * *

  “Sharp, Dunning, in my office.”

  Willie gulped. Being called into Felton’s office first thing in the morning made his knees quake. At least Dunning was going in, too. He caught a glimpse of Turner elbowing Briggs, both of them smirking, before Mr. Felton snapped the door to his small office shut and pointed to a pair of chairs.

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  The man’s dire tone chilled Willie, even though the little room was uncomfortably warm. He sat on the edge of a chair and clamped his hands over his knees. “What is it?”

  Dunning plopped into the other chair and folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t know what anybody’s told you, but I—”

  “Last night, somebody came onto the fairgrounds an’ damaged some property.”

  The pair of boys who’d taunted the little black children popped into Willie’s mind. Had they come back to get revenge on him? He imagined the slave cabin torn up or the Negro Building damaged. Quincy was so proud of the building going up for black artists to display their paintings and sculptures. He’d be awful upset if it’d been ruined.

  “Which…which property?” His mouth was so dry it was hard to form words.

  “One o’ the rooms in the Women’s Building.”

  Dunning sat straight up and bounced his fist on his knee. “It was the Silk Room, wasn’t it?”

  Felton nodded, and Willi
e gaped at his partner. “How’d you know?”

  “There’s been some fussin’ about that room.”

  And he’d never said anything to Willie. Were they partners or not?

  Dunning shook his head. “I only took it as talk—you know, cotton growers wantin’ to say their product’s better’n anything some little worm could make. A way of keepin’ folks away from the Silk Room so the owners would maybe close it up. People talk all the time. I sure didn’t expect anybody to act on the words.”

  Felton leaned on the edge of his desk and crossed his ankles. “No one else expected it, either, or we would’ve locked everything up at night. We thought it was enough to put a couple of night watchmen on the property.” He shook his head, scowling. “They swore they didn’t see anything out o’ the ordinary, nobody on the grounds who shouldn’t be. But somehow intruders got past ’em, and the exposition organizers want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Willie lifted his hand. “Sir, how bad is it?”

  “There’s a mess to clean up—broken glass an’ such. Miss Warner, the lady in charge of the room, says she’ll see to the mess. I don’t think she wants anybody else in there pickin’ up an’ maybe throwin’ away somethin’ she thinks can be salvaged. When the cleanup’s done, I’m gonna make sure all the buildings are locked up tight after closing time. For an extra safeguard, just in case somebody goes in during operation hours an’ harasses Miss Warner, I’ll put somebody at the Women’s Building full time.” His frown settled on Willie. “It’ll likely be you, Sharp. I figure that’ll solve two problems at once—keep riffraff out o’ the buildin’ an’ keep you out o’ trouble elsewhere on the grounds.”

  Heat rolled through Willie’s chest. He didn’t mind being put on duty at the Women’s Building. Somebody needed to look out for those in the Silk Room. But it shamed him to have Dunning hear Mr. Felton talk about Willie getting into trouble.

  “What about me?” Dunning sent a scowl in Willie’s direction and then turned it on their boss. “Am I gonna be left on my own patrollin’ the lake an’ the buildings around it? That’s a big piece of the fairgrounds.”