A Private Affair

by Donna Hill

Her eyes stung and her throat felt tight. This was the last thing she’d expected.

  “I…don’t…know what to say.” She sniffed back impending tears.

  “Just tell everyone how much you missed them so we can dig into these bagels,” a familiar voice rang out from the back of the group.

  Nikita looked up and her eyes widened, then narrowed. She pointed an accusing finger in Grant’s direction. “You…you knew all along. You sneak!”

  “I confess.” He made his way toward her. “But they swore me to secrecy,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

  “I’ll pay you back later, bud,” she said, low enough for only him to hear.

  She looked around and beamed. “You guys are really something. This is great.”

  Monica slipped her arm around Nikita’s waist. “’Scuse us a minute, Grant.” She squeezed between the couple, pulling Nikita aside. “Girl, it’s good to have you back.” She ushered her toward the spread of donuts, bagels, juice and coffee. “Just want to warn you. I set up a lunch meeting with that new author I told you about. He’ll be in town tomorrow, then we can talk contracts.”

  “No problem, as far as I know. I’d have rather had some more time to go over the manuscript before meeting with him. But I’ll try to get through as much of it as possible between now and then.”

  “You would have thought, with a novel like this, he’d have gone to one of the major houses for the big bucks,” Monica said, “but hey, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Right?”

  She was getting that funny feeling in her stomach again, as if she were on a roller coaster. She smiled faintly. “Right.”

  Grant stepped up to the duo. “Listen, sweetheart, I have to get back to my office.”

  Just that quickly, she’d forgotten he was there. “Oh, Grant.” She blinked. “How did you manage to get away? Those tightwad accountants are sticklers for time.”

  He grinned. “I told my boss I had an appointment with the IRS.”

  Monica gave him a blank look, obviously not getting the joke.

  Grant’s sense of humor somehow always reflected numbers or accounts in some form or fashion. It took some getting used to, and his years in the air force had only made him stiffer.

  Nikita tiptoed and brushed her lips against his. “Thanks for coming, sweetheart.”

  “Pick you up after work?”

  “I drove in. I didn’t feel like being at the mercy of a cabdriver today.”

  “Then I’ll see you at six. Try to be ready.”

  “Very funny.” That was the one bone of contention between her and Grant. He was a stickler for time, just like that group he worked with. Often it bordered on annoying. Her thoughts had already shifted to the manuscript, and she was actually eager for Grant to leave so she could get to work.

  After the staff had devoured the morning feast and returned to their desks, Nikita and Monica retreated to Nikita’s office.

  “Wow, this feels good.” Nikita sat, then leaned back against her high-back leather swivel chair, just like the one she’d seen in her little-girl dreams.

  She let out a breath. “Okay, so let’s have it. What’s the story on the new author?”

  Monica sat down, a Cheshire-cat grin on her butterscotch face, and crossed her long legs, purposely dragging out and dramatizing the moment. “W-e-l-l, as I mentioned in the fax, about three weeks ago I got this package—no agent, just regular mail. I started to just put it aside, but when I had some time on my hands I took a peek. Let’s put it this way—I started reading and couldn’t stop. It’s that good, Nikita. It’s hot. It had me laughin’, cryin’ and swearin’. I’ve read few stories like that, written by a man, with so much passion and insight.” She shook her head. “This author has talent to the bone.”

  “Can’t wait to read it.”

  “I’ll bring it right in.” Monica popped up from her seat, went to the door and stopped. “Hey, Niki, didn’t someone named Quinn work at the magazine from time to time just before I started?”

  Her stomach rose and fell. She focused on her appointment book while she answered. “Yes. Why?”

  “Q. J. Parker. His name is Quinten. Wouldn’t it be something if it was the same guy?” She hurried out.

  Her world started to spin.

  Moments later, Monica reappeared with the box containing the manuscript. “Here it is. Enjoy. I have a stack of stuff on my desk to take care of. See you later.”

  Nikita’s eyes trailed to the box as if magnetically drawn. “Sure,” she mumbled. “Thanks.”

  For several interminable moments, she just sat there staring at the covered box, teetering on the threshold of indecision. A part of her, the publisher part, was eager to read the contents. But the woman, the one who was still trying to put her life back together, hesitated. Hesitated, because if Quinn had written a book that took the reader’s breath away, she didn’t know if she would be woman enough to publish it. No matter what the rewards.

  She turned her attention to her calendar, checking production dates for upcoming titles and reacquainting herself with appointments that had been made months ago.

  She spent the next three hours returning phone calls, reviewing bills and catching up on correspondence. But her gaze and her thoughts kept drifting back and forth to the box.

  “This is ridiculous.” She swallowed and tossed her pen down on her desk. She reached for the cover and snatched it open.

  There, staring at her in big bold letters was A Private Affair, by Q. J. Parker. She inhaled a shaky breath and reached for the first page when the phone rang, a momentary reprieve.

  “Imani. How are you?”

  “Not so good, Ms. Harrell. My contract says that I have no input about the cover art. That’s totally unfair. Suppose the artwork is horrid?”

  Generally, Nikita didn’t take these calls. She let Monica handle them. But Imani Angoza was a brilliant, budding novelist who needed to be handled with kid gloves. Although she loved Monica to pieces, Monica had a way of expressing her displeasure that wasn’t always too subtle.

  “You did sign the contract. And I know you had your attorney look it over, because she returned it to me personally before I went away.”

  “But, Ms. Harrell. I—”

  “Tell you what, when the cover layouts are submitted I’ll call you and we’ll review them together. How does that sound?”

  “Great. Thank you, Ms. Harrell,” she said, finally losing the whine in her voice. “I don’t mean to be a nag, but this is important to me.”

  “Of course it is. It’s important to me, also. I’ll keep you up-to-date on the progress.”

  “Thank you. I’ll call you. Soon.”

  Nikita smiled. I know you will. “Do that.”

  She leaned back in her seat, resting her head against the cool leather. She closed her eyes. Her head was starting to pound, and when she opened her eyes and looked up at the antique grandfather clock that sat in the corner of her office, it was past one.

  Well, she’d successfully gotten through her morning without reading one word of the manuscript. She sighed. She’d planned to cut her day short anyway, in preparation for the evening. If she left now, she’d have plenty of time to take care of her running around, read some of the contents of the box and be ready in time for Grant to pick her up at six.

  She shut off her computer, packed her briefcase and tucked the box under her arm. The office had cleared out for lunch by the time she came out front. She left a note on Monica’s desk.

  Impatiently, she shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for the elevator. Grant was such a pain about time, and could make her entire evening an exercise in misery if she weren’t ready. She didn’t want anything to ruin her reunion with Parris.

  They’d made plans to meet after her show for a late dinner. Just the two of them. To catch up.

  While she waited impatiently at a red light, she checked her watch. Time seemed to be moving at an incredible speed today. Then, when she looked up at the street signs
, she realized that she’d taken the wrong route home and had completely bypassed the cleaners. She had to pick up the dress she’d planned to wear tonight and stop at the market, which was in the opposite direction. She took a left at the intersection and sped off.

  What’s wrong with me? Can’t seem to stay focused. Maybe it’s just the aftereffects of the trip.

  She stopped by the market and selected the few items that she needed to prepare a light meal for her and Grant.

  Jumping back into the Benz, she pulled out into traffic and zipped around a slow-moving Caddy.

  As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she knew it was the resurgence of old thoughts and feelings about Quinn that were playing havoc with her emotions.

  Annoyed with herself—her weakness and inability to seal her heart against memories of Quinn—she slapped away the lock with the little seashell, the one that now reached below her shoulders, and turned on two wheels onto her block.

  She was almost grateful that Grant would be coming in a few hours. If anyone could put order back in her life, Grant could.

  Nikita hung the dress in the closet, chuckling on her way to the kitchen. She knew Parris would leap at the chance to steal it from her if she wasn’t careful.

  “Not this time, sistah.” That dress had been pure extravagance. She’d paid nearly a month’s rent for the creation.

  She began gathering the ingredients for an early meal with Grant. She whipped together a pasta salad on a bed of fresh spinach, lightly seasoned with oil, just the way Grant liked it.

  Yet, no matter how hard she tried, memories, visions and desires for Quinn seemed to taunt her, come to life with every blink of her eye.

  Her hands had the slightest tremor as she replaced the condiments. Her heart beat a little faster when she briefly shut her eyes and imagined his scent. The assault on her senses was almost more than she could stand. What was worse was accepting how desperately she still missed him.

  “Go away!” She pounded her fist against the yellow counter-top that they’d prepared so many meals on together, and lowered her head. “Go away,” she whispered.

  Totally frazzled, she returned to the living room, the box with the manuscript calling out to her from the coffee table where she’d left it. She moved slowly toward it, picking up its weight and settling herself down on the couch.

  She pulled off the box top and the cover page beneath and began to read….

  Steam rolled off the New York City streets in waves, pushing intrepid strollers to seek refuge in the cool confines of cafés, malls and local bars. The heat this summer afternoon was beyond intense. But that wasn’t why the folks on Malcolm X Boulevard and 135th Street would remember that day. No, it wouldn’t be remembered for the heat, but for the many lives that were irrevocably changed by an ugly twist of fate.

  The small church was packed. Neighbors and friends stood shoulder to shoulder, whispering among themselves how tragic it all was. Marcus stood alone—from the world and with his grief. He couldn’t count how many times he’d asked himself: Why his sister?

  Parts of him felt as if they’d break into a million pieces. Other parts of him were infused with an anger that was barely contained. The pain was so deep, so pervasive, that it stooped his proud shoulders.

  He tried to pay attention to what the minister was saying. It was all a haze. The trip to Tracy’s final resting place was a dream scene. Words of condolence were met with his vacant stare and empty smiles. The sultry, steamy days that followed blended together into a nothingness.

  Marcus forced himself to go out every day, to the street that was his home. He seemed driven by forces that he could not control. He pushed himself with a vengeance. Maybe if he had worked harder, faster, none of this would have happened. He and Tracy would have been out of the clutches of the drive-bys, the drugs, the gangs. It was his fault. And he felt so alone—until he met her.

  He’d been sitting in the local jazz club, nursing a glass of Jack Daniels, when she’d walked into the club. He felt his heart pick up just a notch, and the hair on the back of his neck began to tingle with awareness. Even the music seemed to pulse with a little more intensity, like a scene in a movie building toward the climax.

  He tossed down the last of his drink and watched her move—in what seemed like slow motion—across the crowded room. She wore a white spaghetti-strap T-shirt that molded to the curves of her breasts from the dampness that clung to her body like a satisfied lover.

  She was a bit on the short side, Marcus noted, but she was packaged well. The pale-colored shorts cupped her round bottom in a most appealing way. Her curved legs were a glistening bare brown, the color of honey, her tiny feet encased in white deck shoes.

  Marcus swallowed hard, and swore that the air-conditioning must have burst a circuit, because it was suddenly damned hot.

  She signaled for the waiter and ordered a Pepsi with lemon.

  He slid slowly around on the bar stool until he had a view diagonally across from where she sat, apparently very content with her surroundings. She wasn’t meeting anyone.

  He didn’t know how he knew it. He just did.

  She seemed to sense his approach. Slowly, she raised her eyes. They didn’t register alarm, Marcus realized, but acceptance. He watched her swallow the last of her drink, and followed the path of the cool liquid down the line of her slender throat. She smiled when he stopped and stood above her.

  “I’ve been watching you for a while,” Marcus said. He’d memorized the perfect slope of her brown eyes, the arch of her chiseled cheekbones, the curve of her full lips, but up close they were even more intense. The sensation had him reeling.

  He took a quick breath and slid into the seat next to her. “I’m glad you’re alone.” He looked casually around the darkened room. “You aren’t waiting for anyone,” he stated more than asked.

  “What makes you think that?”

  Her voice was low and throaty, inviting, just like he’d imagined it would be.

  “Because we’ve been waiting to meet each other for a long time. The time is now.” He gave her a slow, lazy smile. “My name is Marcus Collins, and yours…” He reached across the table and took her hand. He felt her tremble, and instantly knew that she wasn’t as full of all the bravado she’d displayed. That tiny realization inched open the doorway to emotions that he’d nailed shut.

  And he was suddenly afraid. Afraid of what feeling again would do to him.

  Through a veil of tears, she wiped her eyes and continued to read, reliving their life together, page after page, the loving, the laughter, the fighting, and his secret pain.

  He wasn’t sure anymore where he began and she ended. The more he gave, the more she wanted, never seeing that all he wanted, all he needed in his life, was for her to love him, just to be loved for who he was: a simple man. Maybe not the perfect man, but one who was willing to try, who was doing all that he could, in his own way, to make her happy. Even, it seemed, to give up a part of himself in the process.

  That Christmas, at her parents’ house, was the beginning of the end. He didn’t realize it then, but it was.

  In vivid, anguished clarity the eloquent prose painted a portrait of a man emasculated, humiliated, in front of the woman who claimed to love him. Why, the writer asked, would she have put him in that position when she said she cared? So he’d put on his front, his don’t-give-a-damn attitude, hidden behind his facade of indifference, and she hadn’t seemed to notice.

  But it wasn’t her fault. He couldn’t blame her. Never would. It was all she knew. She came from a world where everything went according to plan. There was no struggle, no hard-core reality check. She stayed so busy planning the future, she couldn’t see the now. But still he tried, until he couldn’t try anymore.

  And how could he tell her what was going on inside? He’d never really learned to share emotions. That was for women, he believed. She saw him as a tower of strength. No weakness. This vision of invincibility. He couldn’t show any other face to
her. Not now. Not after all this time. The only way he knew how to show her that he cared was by giving her what she needed. And giving her his body. It was the only time he could let go, bridge the gap that separated them. There was no other plateau on which he could reach her expectations. It was only there that he filled her.

  And finally, even for him, it was no longer enough.

  She didn’t want to read any more. Didn’t want to feel those feelings again. She’d never known. Never understood how deep his feelings went. How empty he felt without his sister, how guilty he felt about his mother’s abandonment, the loss of the women in his life, his fear that it would only happen again. She’d tried to fill it by making him do, do more, do better.

  And then it hit her like a surprise left hook. She’d done to Quinn exactly what her parents had done to her. And just as it had pushed her away, it pushed him away, too. He had to find his own way.

  And he had.

  “Oh, God, Quinn, I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

  She covered her face with her hands and wept.

  On the ride to the club she tried to keep up a cheerful front, to smile in all the right places, say the right thing. But it took all she had not to come apart.

  Grant looked at her after another bout of silence. “You want to tell me what’s wrong, Nikita?”

  She forced another smile. “Nothing. Just tired, I guess, and anxious to see Parris again.”

  “You sure? You seem totally preoccupied—”

  “I’m fine, Grant, really. Just…please…leave it alone.”

  “I would if I knew what it was I was leaving alone.” He focused all of his attention on driving, hoping that she’d finally tell him about whatever was bothering her.

  The club was packed by the time she and Grant arrived. Michelle, still the hostess, wiggled around the patrons and showed them to their tables. Jewel and her soul mate Taj were already seated.

  Taj stood and kissed her cheek. “Hey, lady. Long time.”

  “Listen to you, Mr. World Traveler.” She turned toward Grant and introduced him to Taj.