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Harriet Shadow’s high-rise open concept penthouse overlooked the Ronson Street Pavilion. Unlike the Lovelaces’, the place was spare. Sure, there was furniture, and it was nice—expensive, tasteful—but there wasn’t much of it.
The place smelled nice too, like lemons or limes. It had a breathtaking view of the city skyline, but I got the feeling that she wasn’t here very much.
There was full wall of books—mostly by black authors. James Baldwin, Frederick Douglass, bell hooks. The kind of books that I didn't have the mental energy or time to read but were apparently important.
Several black people were gathered in the living room, chatting quietly. They stopped talking to look at me, studying me up and down and sizing me up. They must not have seen a threat, because they went back to ta
