Page 46 of Meet Me on Greenwood

My jaw clenched. "You are accusing me of something that has not occurred."

She tilted her head. "Has it not?"

I stepped closer, resting my hands on her shoulders. "Sarah, I won’t hurt you."

Her gaze softened as the tension drained from her shoulders.

"I know," she finally whispered. "I just love you so much."

I leaned down and kissed her, her lips familiar and sweet. Even with Sarah in my arms, I found myself wondering what Gema’s mouth would feel like pressed to mine.

19

Gema

Big Rally for Mt. Zion Church

"This is where you live?" I asked incredulously.

I'd been in a state of quiet disbelief since we'd turned into the circle drive where luxury homes were set back from the street behind manicured lawns, each one more beautiful than the last. Rita's home was three stories high with a wraparound porch on every level, and shutters painted the same deep green I’d seen before in New Orleans. All the houses looked like they had been designed by people who were well-traveled.

Rita pouted. "I know. We have the smallest home on the block." She pointed down the cul-de-sac. "Stradford lives there, and I heard it has 18 bedrooms. Can you imagine?"

My eyes widened. The house was built like a literal castle with a stone gate that no doubt. "I thought those were apartments. You are saying one family lives there?"

"They are so lucky," she said, waving her fan to cool herself off.

It was a hot day. I was grateful for the overhead fans and the high ceilings. Rita and I walked into a parlor with velvet furniture and an upright piano. Family portraits from years past lined the walls.

"Is that Booker T. Washington?" I asked.

"Yes, he came here last month. They are going to name a school after him. That is my dad next to him. There’s another one with W.E.B Dubois."

The way she talked so casually about the most influential Black leaders in American history was astounding, like it was just another day. I followed her through a study filled with law books and business ledgers. Several issues of the Tulsa Black Star hung framed on the walls.

Rita turned to me as we made it to the staircase. "I’ll show you my room first."

To call it a room was ridiculous. She nearly had the entire third floor. Four large spaces made up her bedroom, which held a carved wooden bedframe and a separate space designated to her vanity, littered with perfume bottles and hair combs.

Another room held rows and rows of gowns and day dresses. Most were in soft colors, but I saw a few more formal gowns in red and pink.

"Can I look out on your balcony?" I asked, intrigued.

"Of course. Please." She waved me toward the doors like it was nothing.

It was not nothing.

The city opened up below us—rooftops and streets and the quiet district of Greenwood laid out in every direction. I understood immediately why C.J. had chosen this lot. From up here you could see everything.

The balcony itself was furnished like a small outdoor parlor with wicker chairs and white cushions. A decorative light fixture hung over a little iron cafe table, and a hammock was strung in the corner at an angle that suggested someone spent real time in it.

"I've become rather devoted to coffee since Paris," Rita said, appearing beside me. "Café au lait. Have you had it?"

"I have, but not in Paris."

"I already miss the macarons. You will have to accompany me when I go back."

"Maybe," I said non-committedly. I hoped to be back home by then.