“Neither the jockey nor the racehorse is an American woman.”
Her face seems to crack a little at the jawline. Mrs. English dabs a handkerchief to her brow, maybe congratulating herself on ridding herself of me.
Before the teapot begins spouting, I incline my head. “I am only here to help where I may, ma’am.”
She huffs and spins around, chasing away the looks that have gathered at her back. “There’s a place for you over there.” She points to a spot in the corner, where I’m heartened to see Noemi, writing at a table, alongside two other ladies, the only other colored people in the room.
Mrs. Bullis sweeps away, and Mrs. English escapes to Lizzie’s group.
As I make my way to Noemi’s table, I catch snippets of conversation.
“—the custom of wearing black for mourning. It washes out the complexion.”
My ears perk, and my feet slow as I try to unravel the conversations.
“—baseball. I can throw better than some of our local Firecrackers.”
“—saving one’s best gloves for parties.”
A young woman with sausage curls pokes the lady beside her. “I would give up my best gloves to find out who this Miss Sweetie is. I think it’s Emma Payne.”
Her table erupts in gasps and squeals, and a smile blooms on my face. Seems as though “The Custom-ary” has worked its magic for theFocus.
Noemi grabs me by the elbows. “You made it.” She’s pinned the falcon knot I made to her hat.
“Looks good there.”
She bends her iron eyes to me. “I named it Farney.”
“Why Farney?”
“Because August was already taken. Mr. Buxbaum liked your knots. He says he’ll take a hundred at ten cents apiece if it’s exclusive. Imagine, Jo, that’s some good egg money.”
Twice as much as what Mrs. English is offering. Visions of hanging up my own little shingle on Madison Avenue dance across my vision. Would the fine ladies of New York like myknots? Perhaps I can tie and advise at the same time. My sign could readJOKUAN, THOUGHTS ANDKNOTS.
“Come, I’ll introduce you.” She pulls me toward her table. “You have trouble getting through the door?”
“A little. You?”
She snorts. “I would’ve, if I hadn’t come with Atlanta’s best seamstress. Meet Mary Harper. She works for Mrs. Bullis.” She throws a glance to the top hat, who is back to barking orders.
“Hello, I’m Jo Kuan.”
Mary doesn’t smile at me, but nods, her large eyes bright and curious. Her needle whips in and out of a wide swath of marigold cloth, already stitched with trees and flowers. Beside her, a pointy-chinned young woman with a bright handkerchief wrapping her hair gives me a look full of barbed wire. Her skin is more golden than brown, and the only soft thing about her are her full lips.
“And this is Mary’s sister-in-law, Rose St. Pierre.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Same.”
Noemi pushes me into a chair.
“What did I miss?”
“That Mrs. Bullis made a big speech about how women’s brains are just as heavy as men’s. They done research on that. Then they put us all to work on this banner for the horse race, since Mrs. Payne accepted their bid, and you know who had a hand in that.” She winks. “And, oh, did you catch the Miss Sweetie article yesterday?”
“I did,” I say, holding my breath.
