by Naima Simone
He nodded, stroking a reverent hand over the cover before setting it aside and picking up the next one, simply entitled Coltrane. “I have CDs, even some old tapes. But nothing like this. None of the originals. I would’ve loved having them, though. Especially when I was a kid.” Lifting his head, he stared out the large picture window next to the entertainment center. The serene view of the empty street, trees thick with summer green leaves and yards of green grass greeted him, but he didn’t really see any of it. Instead, hazy, sepia-toned images of the kid he’d been wavered in front of his eyes. “Moe and Dad have never treated me differently from Wolf, Leo or Sinead. Ever. Yet, they made sure I knew who my biological parents were, even if it meant taking me over to the Riveras’ and Narvaezes’ homes to learn and appreciate my Puerto Rican heritage. And I loved Moe and Dad for that. It made me feel closer to my biological parents. But about thirteen, I became obsessed with them.”
He sensed movement out of the corner of his eye, and he shifted his gaze from the window to Sydney. She still held a book in her hand, but she’d turned completely toward him, settling her shoulders against the bookcase and giving him her full attention.
And though the instinctive need for self-protection ordered him to draw back, to shush, he continued speaking. Continued sharing with this woman something he’d never told anyone else.
“Florence hadn’t come to us yet, and regardless of the unconditional love and acceptance of my family, I felt...different. And I became consumed with finding out everything I could about my birth parents. And not just about my culture, but them. Their likes, dislikes, their habits, what they were like as children, teenagers... What their dreams were together—what they were for me. That information included why they named me after John Coltrane. Turned out, my father was a huge jazz fan. From what Moe told me about him, I think he would’ve lost his mind over your collection.”
He thumbed through the stack he’d pulled out before spotting Coltrane’s music. Straight-ahead jazz, as they called it. The greats. Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis, Freddie Hubbard, Ahmad Jamal. And even some Sarah Vaughan and Ella Fitzgerald. Oh, most definitely Sydney and Mateo Burgos would’ve bonded.
“So anyway, one obsession led to another, and anything John Coltrane I could get my hands on, I snatched up. Records, tapes, videos. He was gone, but I so desperately wanted to bond with my birth father through the music of the man he admired so much he named me after him.”
“Cole,” Sydney whispered.
The low sound of his name snapped him from his tumble into the past.
“Anyway, I started out listening to ‘Trane’ for one reason, but ended up loving his music for his absolute genius.” He shook his head, releasing his breath on a short huff of laughter. Embarrassment trickled through him as he ran through what he’d divulged to Sydney. Jesus. Where had all that come from? “I must’ve driven Moe crazy with playing those records and tapes over and over. And then the endless questions. But she answered every one and never made me feel guilty for asking. Even though, sometimes, I could tell in her eyes, it hurt her.”
“I’m sure she understood,” Sydney said. “That’s how Moe is, who she is. You probably don’t remember because you were gone away to school, but on Carlin’s birthday and on the anniversary of her death, my parents would go to the cemetery to spend time at her grave. I’ve never gone. When I was younger, I’d pitch a fit so bad, they left me with babysitters. And when I was older, I would leave the house and not return until later that day. One of the places I would go was your house. Moe never asked me what I was doing there, or made me feel guilty for being there instead of at the grave, or tried to convince me to go like other adults did. She just let me hang out with her, Leo and your family, offered me a safe space and fed me. God, did she feed me.” Sydney laughed, but after a moment, the warmth faded from her eyes and her mouth lost its curve. “There were times I...” She paused, frowned and fidgeted with the book in her hands before turning around and sliding it on the bookshelf.
“Times you...” he gently pressed.
Her hand lingered on the book, her shoulders so stiff with...whatever was rippling through her, he knew before she even pivoted to face him again that she wouldn’t finish that sentence.
Hypocrite that he was, he almost stood up and stalked over to her, insisting she open up to him, share with him.
But then she might demand the same from him. And that wasn’t happening.
“Your mom sent lemonade over with us. Would you like a glass?” Sydney asked, swiping the back of her hand over her forehead.
Alarm sizzled through him as he narrowed his gaze on her slightly glistening skin, noticing the tautness around her lush mouth. In an instant, he shot to his feet and covered the distance between them.
“Hey,” he murmured, peering down at her and studying the signs of fatigue he couldn’t miss from this close. The haziness in her espresso eyes and the faint smudges underneath them. Earlier in the kitchen, he vowed not to touch her again, to keep his distance. But he broke that promise to cup her elbow. Hell, it was safer than putting his thumbs to those bruises that denoted lack of sleep and trying to smooth them away. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she maintained. “Just a little thirsty—”
“And tired,” he interrupted with a wry smile. “You won’t be any less of a superwoman if you admit it, you know,” he teased. “I remember—”
His swift intake of breath cut off the words that had been ready to tumble so easily from his mouth. I remember how tired—and cranky because she was tired—Tonia would get.
Oh dammit.
The memory of leading his wife to their bedroom and cajoling her into lying down by offering to nap with her pummeled him with meaty fists, leaving him emotionally bruised and his lungs constricted.
Where had that come from? Why would he think about her here of all places? Now? He swallowed, panic scraping his throat. With...Sydney?
“Cole.” A hand on his upper arm snapped him back, centered him. He focused on her face, not realizing until that moment that he’d shifted his gaze over her head and stared blindly at the far wall. “You’re right. I am a little tired. Would you mind if we called it a day?”
She was giving him an out. Again.
And this time, he accepted it.
Because that crack into his past had him open, raw. And bleeding.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need anything before I leave?” he asked, his voice rough. Jesus, he felt like he was seconds away from flaming out. He had to get out of here.
She nodded, her pretty eyes solemn.
“I’m good.”
He returned her nod, his jerkier.
“Moe has my number if you need,” his throat closed on me, “anything,” he rasped.
He didn’t wait for her reply. Twisting on his heel, he strode across the room and exited through the door without glancing back.
And tried to convince himself he wasn’t escaping.
He failed.
CHAPTER FIVE
“SINCE YOU JUST had an appointment with your OB-GYN last week, we don’t need to do an exam today. So, I’ll see you here in another two weeks for your five-month checkup,” Dr. Kelly Prioleau said, tapping the screen of the tablet she held. Wow, her dad’s clinic had stepped into the twenty-first century. How ’bout that? “And since you mentioned not having an early noninvasive prenatal test, you can find out the baby’s sex during the ultrasound, too. If you’d like.”
“Oh, I’d like,” Sydney agreed. “The pregnancy was surprise enough. I don’t need the baby’s sex to be one, too.”
The lovely Black woman with the short, gorgeous twists and wide smile laughed. Just another reason Sydney liked her father’s new partner. Well, that and she could take a joke instead of getting all judgy, and her bright, popping red lipstick. The doctor obviously had style.
And a
wonderful, warm confidence that had immediately set Sydney at ease when she’d entered the doctor’s office this morning. In the time since she’d left Rose Bend, her father had hired the woman who appeared to be in her late thirties as a partner. Sydney couldn’t help but think her mother had something to do with that. As in laying down an ultimatum—cut back on work or else.
Luke Collins was a dedicated and great doctor...and a workaholic. At least, that’s how Sydney remembered him. Aside from the hospital, the Rose Bend Family Practice was the only clinic in town. The residents adored him, and most would rather see him before going to the larger, more impersonal hospital. Which meant the chairs filling his waiting room were never empty.
The thriving practice provided more than its fair share of patients, and as Dr. Prioleau had assured Sydney, she was kept much busier here than she’d ever been in her bigger, fifteen-plus medical group in Charleston, South Carolina.
Regardless, Sydney was glad the other woman had made the move because it meant her father wouldn’t be checking her cervix.
Yeah, she’d always desired to be closer to her father but not that close.
“I definitely respect that.” Dr. Prioleau smiled, pushing back her chair and rising from behind her desk. “If you don’t have any more questions, I look forward to seeing you in a few weeks.”
Sydney stood from the visitor’s chair and shook the doctor’s extended hand. “Thanks, Dr. Prioleau. I’ll see you then.”
She exited the spacious office, the doctor beside her. As soon as they entered the lobby, a tingle started at the nape of Sydney’s neck, marching over her skin like an army of fire ants. She didn’t glance behind her to verify, but it seemed as if every eye in the packed waiting area was trained on her. No doubt, in the span of seconds—as long as it required to tap out a text or make a covert phone call—most people would know she’d visited her father’s office.
This—the avaricious curiosity and gossip—she hadn’t missed about living in a small town. There’d been a certain freedom and peace in living in a city the size of Charlotte. Except for her small circle of friends, anonymity had meant she could be whoever she wanted without comparison to who she used to be. No judgment. No condemnation.
Dr. Prioleau patted Sydney’s hand one last time. “I’ll see you soon, but remember, if you have any questions, concerns or feel any discomfort, please don’t hesitate to call or come in, okay?”
“Got it.”
Seconds later, Sydney stepped outside the clinic. The late morning heat warmed her upturned face, and she closed her eyes, breathing in the clean air. Fresh coffee and the scent of pancakes from the diner down the street. The sharp taste of acrylic from the workers painting the dentist’s building next door. And underneath it all, the faint, nebulous fragrance of home. Even though she’d lived in Charlotte for eight years, even with her complicated feelings about this place, that particular fragrance had always been missing.
Sighing, she headed toward her car. Just as she hit the key fob to open her doors, her cell buzzed against her hip.
“This better not be you, Katherine,” she grumbled, pulling the phone free.
Katherine Rhys owned Grant Resources, the organization Sydney worked for as a contractor. The company posted requests from agencies and corporations seeking grant writers. In the five years she’d been working with Grant Resources, Sydney had written more than a fair share of successful grants. But she’d informed Katherine that she wouldn’t be accepting any jobs for the next few weeks while she settled into a new—or old—home. She could afford not to work right now. Old-fashioned in his view of marital roles, Daniel had refused to allow Sydney to pay any of their house bills. Hell, if it’d been up to him, she wouldn’t have worked at all. But she’d put her foot down hard on that position. So, all of her earnings had gone into savings. If she chose not to work for the next year, she could. But being stagnant that long would drive Sydney crazy.
You could always work on that urban fantasy book you’ve been too chicken to finish.
Sydney flipped two middle fingers at the irritating sneer in her head. Leave it to her to not only talk to herself, but to have that voice be a know-it-all bitch, too. Since she was a teen, she’d harbored the dream of writing and publishing a book set in a seemingly not-too-distant, apocalyptic world. But it was just that—a dream.
She’d shared the desire with Daniel once, shortly after they’d married. And once was all she’d needed to decide never to make that mistake again. He’d been so patronizing, so damn logical, that she’d ended up agreeing with him. The time for childish things had passed, and grant writing, which actually earned her money, should be her focus. And in the end, he’d been right. It would be her job that provided a stable, secure home for her and her baby.
She glanced down at the cell phone screen.
Speak of the devil.
Grimacing, and then immediately feeling guilty about it, she swiped her thumb across the answer bar. “Hey, Daniel.”
“Hello, Sydney.” Her ex-husband greeted her in his cultured, deep baritone.
In spite of the strained terms they’d parted on, a rush of affection and maybe a little nostalgia trickled through her. Yes, they’d divorced, and he hadn’t agreed with her moving hundreds of miles away, but she’d been with him since she’d been twenty years old, married to him at twenty-one.
An image of her ex-husband solidified in her mind’s eye. Tall and lean, skin a beautiful mahogany, his strong, fit body clothed in one of his customary tailored suits with a tie. A handsome, distinguished, successful man who made the perfect dean of students at a prestigious private high school.
Nine years older than her, he’d been her rock, her support system, her friend for over five years. It wasn’t his fault she’d grown and decided she needed—something different. Something more. She’d hurt him with her decision to separate and then divorce. And for that, she would always bear regret.
“It’s good to hear from you. Did you get my text about getting here safely?” She’d taken the coward’s way out and dashed the text off the night she’d arrived, a week ago.
“I did. Thanks for letting me know.” An awkward pause that was becoming their norm. “How’re you feeling? And the baby?”
“Good. Both of us. As a matter of fact, I just left my dad’s clinic after meeting with my new doctor. My first checkup will be in two weeks. I’ll find out if we’re having a girl or boy,” she said, injecting a cheer into her voice to counterbalance the guilt. Selfish. There was that word again. Was she selfish for stealing these sorts of milestones from him? As the father, he had the right to share them. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she squeezed her eyes closed and fought against the urge to apologize. Again. “If you’d like, I can record the appointment for you. So, you can still...be there.”
“Sure, sure. I’d like that,” Daniel said. But his pause vibrated through the open line with tension, with frustration and anger. All directed at her. Not that she could blame him. Because she didn’t. “God, Sydney,” he exploded, but just as quickly, cut himself off. She could easily picture him straightening, composing himself, submerging his emotion behind that polite mask. To Daniel, emotion was messy, a sign of being out of control. And Dean Pierson was never out of control. “I respect your father, but a clinic? You should be going to a hospital with all the best and most advanced technologies. Your OB-GYN here was one of the best in the state. But instead you’re at a clinic being cared for by a doctor you don’t know. A doctor who—”
“Who graduated from Harvard Medical School, completed her residency at Johns Hopkins and was one of the top physicians at MUSC Health-University Medical Center before deciding to move here,” she said, quietly reciting Dr. Prioleau’s credentials. “My father wouldn’t have taken on a partner in his practice unless she was the very best. I did my homework, Daniel. Our baby’s health is just as important to me as it is to you.”
<
br /> His sigh echoed in her ear. “I know that, Sydney. I didn’t mean to imply...” He trailed off. “You shouldn’t have left. We could’ve made it work.”
“Daniel,” she interrupted, tired. So damn tired of this conversation. Of how she just couldn’t make him understand how she’d been disappearing in her marriage. He didn’t get it. Would never get it because his big, forceful personality wouldn’t allow him to grasp how she couldn’t have been happy being by his side as his wife, all her needs taken care of, wanting for nothing.
Wanting for nothing except her identity.
Happiness.
Love.
To Daniel, they’d been happy, enjoyed a good, solid marriage. For her? She’d been slowly suffocating.
The breaking point hadn’t been an argument. She hadn’t caught him cheating. It hadn’t been his antiquated ideas of gender role assignments—though heaven forbid he wash a dish, or she take out the trash.
No, it’d been none of those.
The catalyst had been when she’d attended one of many school fundraising functions with him and one of the board members had introduced Daniel and her to a potential benefactor as Dr. Daniel Pierson and his wife.
Just his wife.
As if she had no identity, no, no...purpose other than being an extension of her husband.
In that moment, the restlessness that had been hounding her for months crystallized inside her chest like a diamond of truth. Clear. Sharp. And precious.
She couldn’t do it anymore.
But the realization had blindsided Daniel. Her request for a divorce had left him frustrated and confused.
“No,” he insisted. “You walked away instead of trying. That’s what married couples do. They work hard at their relationship. They don’t just quit. You quit on me, Sydney. On us.”
