by Shelly Ellis
“Well, she’s still early in the pregnancy and we didn’t want too many people to know yet. Lots of women miscarry in the first trimester.”
Evan’s smile faded. He went somber. Back when Evan and Charisse had been in their slightly better days, she had successfully gotten pregnant a few times herself—only to lose the baby each time. Evan, understandably, had taken the miscarriages pretty hard. Their marriage, which had been on shaky ground, suffered even more with each loss.
“I also didn’t tell you,” Evan continued, “because I didn’t want to bring up something like this while you were going through your . . . your thing. You know? It didn’t seem appropriate.”
“What thing would ever make you think I wouldn’t want to know about something like this?”
Evan pursed his lips. “You’ve been in a dark place, Terry. For a while I couldn’t talk to you. None of us could.”
Had he really been so wrapped up in feeling sorry for himself, in being so angry at the world, that his own brother hadn’t felt comfortable telling him that he and his fiancée were going to have a baby? A new life was on the way and Evan had felt it better to keep it a secret from him? Was he really that bad off?
“I’m sorry,” Terrence muttered.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Evan insisted, holding up his hand. “I know how—”
“No, I’m sorry.” His voice was stronger now. He met his brother’s eyes. “I’m sorry for being so bogged down in my own shit that I forgot other people existed.”
After some time, Evan nodded. “I accept your apology.”
Terrence nudged his shoulder. “Go ahead and check on Leila. Make sure she’s okay and that she didn’t throw up on the marble floors out there.”
“Are you sure?” Evan asked, now gazing at him worriedly. “You’re going to be all right in here by yourself?”
Terrence nodded. “I’ll be fine. I’m a big boy.”
When Evan still lingered, Terrence nudged him again. “Go on. I’ll throw up the bat signal if I need your help.”
Gradually, Evan pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “I’ll be back in five minutes, tops. Okay?”
Terrence rolled his eyes and made a shooing motion. Finally, Evan pushed his chair back to the table, turned, and left.
Terrence raised his flute of champagne back to his lips and gazed around the room. He watched as people flitted from table to table, flirting and hobnobbing with the best that Chesterton had to offer. As the band kicked up a slow song, he watched as couples embraced on the dance floor, gazing into one another’s eyes as they slowly turned in circles. He would probably never be able to dance like that again. But it wasn’t the end of the world. He was still alive, still breathing. He had to stop feeling sorry for himself.
“Terry?” a female voice said behind him.
Terrence turned to find Monique, the psycho who had been stalking him for months, standing behind him, holding a glass of champagne. She was wearing a black velvet minidress and silver stilettos. A look of sheer horror was now on Monique’s face as she stared at Terrence.
Of all the people to run into right now, why did it have to be her?
“Hello, Monique,” he answered, resigned.
“Oh my . . . oh my God!” she cried, dropping her red nails to her ample chest. She looked and sounded mildly drunk. “I heard you were in an accident. But I didn’t know . . . I didn’t know it was this bad! What happened to you, Terry?”
“Nothing happened.” His jaw tightened to the point that he felt like he would crush his molars. He started to feel hot again. Sweat began to form under the collar of his tuxedo shirt. “I got injured. I’m getting better. It’s not that big of a—”
“But your eye!” she yelled. Her false eyelashes opened and closed like black window shades as she blinked dramatically. “Is that . . . is that a cane I’m seeing? Are you walking with a cane now, too?”
He couldn’t take this. Just when he had felt himself getting better, he had to encounter his worst nightmare: outright pity.
“Yes, it’s my cane,” he muttered before grabbing the carved wooden handle and slowly rising to his feet. “And now I’m using it to walk away. It was nice seeing you again, Monique,” he lied.
He then shoved past her.
“Hey!” she yelled with outrage. “When did you get so rude?”
He didn’t answer her. Instead he continued to make his way to the bar across the room, or to the ballroom doors; he didn’t care where he went. He just wanted to get away from her.
“Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it, Terry!” she shouted after him, making his shoulders and back go rigid. “You treat people the way you do and life has a way of getting you back!”
He still didn’t respond; instead he continued on his path, deciding to head to one of the many exit doors after all.
Five minutes later, Terrence leaned against the wall of a long corridor where only a few people lingered. He waited for his anxiety to wane and for his heartbeat to slow its rapid pace. He stared out the window at the enclosed atrium with a trickling water fountain that was lit by a few floodlights. It looked vaguely like a Hawaiian sanctuary. Behind the glass were vibrantly hued birds of paradise, red ginger, and yellow heliconia caribaea.
I shouldn’t have let that chick get to me, he thought as he gazed at the flowers. He knew that Monique had wanted to piss him off, to exact her last revenge. But that still didn’t prevent the shame and hurt from slicing their way through his chest. Would he always be vulnerable to people like that?
Terrence watched absently in the reflection of the atrium window as a woman walked by him with a notepad and pen in hand. She was wearing a pale gray chiffon gown that draped over her sumptuous curves. Its spaghetti straps revealed slender, nutmeg-toned shoulders. A nest of wiry curls was piled on top of her head in a hasty updo. As she passed, she glanced at him and slowed. Her brown eyes widened. She openly gaped.
Terrence rolled his eye. He had come out here to avoid the stares, but they had followed him anyway.
Enough of this shit, he thought.
“Can I help you?” he asked irritably, turning around to face her.
She closed her gaping mouth. “Uh, no. No! I-I . . . uh . . . I didn’t . . . You’re Terrence Murdoch, right?” she stuttered before pointing at him.
He took a long, tired breath and slowly nodded. “The one and only, honey.”
“I didn’t expect to see you here!” she cried, breaking into a smile. “I knew about your accident and that . . . that you were in recovery, but . . . but . . . Wow!”
He cocked an eyebrow. Wow?
“I mean, you . . . you look so . . . so . . .”
When will this agony end? Terrence pushed himself away from the wall, preparing to retreat again. Maybe he would head back to the ballroom. He would stop by the cash bar and get a drink—a stiff one.
“You look so good!” she shouted, still grinning. “You look great!”
That gave him pause. He narrowed his eye at her. “What?”
“I mean, I can barely tell what happened to you! Well, besides the . . . you know.” She pointed to her own left eye. “But otherwise, you look amazing! It’s great to see you like this.”
Amazing? He didn’t know if that was a word he would use to describe his current state. But she didn’t seem to be lying. Her effusive compliments seemed genuine. He inclined his head. “I’m sorry, but . . . do I know you?”
“No. No, you don’t. But I’ve heard about you and your family.” She held up her notepad and pen. “I work for the local paper . . . the Chesterton Times. I’m covering tonight’s event.” She offered her hand to him for a shake, taking on a more formal tone. “My name is C. J. Aston. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Murdoch.”
He shook her soft hand and the instant he did, an electric charge traveled up his arm. It caught him by surprise. He hadn’t felt a charge like that in quite a while. Suddenly, the “old, normal Terrence” increased by another fifteen percentage
points.
“Please, call me Terrence. And it’s a pleasure to meet you, too,” he said, now smiling.
“So, are you enjoying yourself tonight, Terrence?” she asked, drawing back her hand and flipping to a blank page in her notepad. “I know tonight’s event is supposed to raise funds for leukemia research. Your family is involved with this charity, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, we’ve donated a few times, but we . . .” He paused when she began to scribble on her notepad. He squinted. “Are you writing this down?”
She nodded. “So you said the Murdochs have donated a few times. Any personal relationship to the cause? I know some attendees said that they had people in their families who suffered from—”
“Don’t do that,” he said, shaking his head.
She looked up from her page and gazed at him quizzically. Her pen stopped midstroke. “I’m sorry. Don’t do what?”
“Don’t quote me. I thought we were having a conversation. I didn’t want this to go in the paper.”
“Oh.” She lowered her notepad and anxiously cleared her throat. “I’m s-sorry. I didn’t know. We were talking so . . . I-I assumed . . .” Her words drifted off. She gnawed her glossy lower lip.
“Don’t men just talk to you sometimes?” He chuckled. “You know . . . playful banter or boring conversations about the weather or sports or politics?”
Her cheeks reddened as she tucked her notepad into the satin purse that dangled on her shoulder. “Not in quite a while,” she mumbled.
“Not in a while?” He smirked. “Oh, come on! You really expect me to believe that?” He let his appreciative gaze travel over her, settling for a second too long on the cleavage peeking over her heart-shaped neckline. “A beautiful woman like you . . . I would think men would go out of their way to strike up a conversation with you.”
She slowly raised her eyes to stare at him. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Murdoch?”
He laughed again. “I told you to call me Terrence. And I guess I’m not flirting very well if you have to ask.”
She joined him in his laughter. Terrence thought she had a lovely laugh. It sounded almost melodic, like tinkling piano keys. “Oh, you’re doing better than you think!” she muttered before giving him a rueful grin.
They continued to talk and he continued to flirt, emboldened with each blush that painted her cheeks. After a while, he grew tired of standing with his cane, so he sat on the windowsill facing the atrium and motioned for her to take the space on the ledge beside him. She hesitated briefly before accepting his invitation. Their shoulders brushed as she sat down and Terrence felt a slow heat surge through him that he hadn’t felt in months. He wasn’t just attracted to this woman with the dark eyes and musical laugh, but he actively desired her. He slowly realized this as they spoke about Chesterton and movies and the trials of his recovery from the accident. He fought to tear his gaze from her sumptuous lips and the curve of her breasts. Her intoxicating smell made his mouth water and every time she threw back her head and laughed, he wanted to lean over and kiss her.
He wondered what Dr. “How do you feel about that?” would think about all of this.
Suddenly, C. J. looked up and gazed around her as if waking up from a daze. “Hmm, where did everybody go?”
Terrence followed her gaze. The corridor was nearly deserted. “I don’t know,” he muttered.
And frankly, I don’t care. He was happy to be alone with her.
“How long have we been out here?” she asked, furrowing her delicate brows. She reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She gazed at the screen and gasped. “Oh, wow! It’s almost midnight.”
He frowned. “That can’t be right.”
She showed him her phone. The screen read 11:56. They had been talking for more than two hours and he hadn’t even noticed.
She quickly rose to her feet and tossed the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “I should be going. I can’t believe I’ve been back here so long!”
“Why leave now? Is your carriage about to turn into a pumpkin?”
She stared at him in confusion. “Huh?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “I was just making a bad Cinderella joke.”
“Cute,” she said flatly, then laughed. “No, I’m not worried about my carriage, but I do think my Honda Civic is illegally parked. I hope I don’t get towed.” She glanced down at her notepad and began to randomly flip pages. “Hell, I’ve only gotten quotes from, like, two people! My editor is going to be so pissed, but . . . oh well.” She shrugged and looked at Terrence. “I’m sorry for monopolizing all your time tonight.”
“No need to apologize,” he said softly. “I enjoyed myself.”
“I did, too. My day started off bad, to say the least, but this was a vast improvement.” She sighed and stared at the double doors leading back to the ballroom. “Well, I really should get going. I have to cover a court hearing that starts bright and early at eight a.m. I should head out now if I want to get a few hours of sleep. You have a good night, Terrence.”
She began to walk down the corridor toward the exit sign, but Terrence grabbed his cane and pushed himself to his feet. “Hey, C. J.!” he called after her, making her pause.
She turned to face him. “Yes?”
“Would you . . .” He hesitated.
He couldn’t get the words out of his mouth. He wanted to ask her out on a date, but the voices of doubt were shouting in his head again. Why would a woman like her want to date a broken man like him? Why should he set himself up for this type of rejection?
“Would I what?” she asked.
“Do you . . .” He took a deep breath, telling the voices to shut up for once. “Do you have any plans for Saturday? Maybe we could meet up . . . you know, get some coffee.”
“Are you . . . are you asking me out?”
“Well . . . yeah.” Apprehension crept over him again as she stared at him. Was she going to tell him no? “I mean, if you’re not interested, then—”
“I’d love to. I just thought that . . . well, never mind.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. “My cell number is on there.” She handed it to him, then paused. “You’re serious, right?”
“Of course I’m serious! Why wouldn’t I be?”
She shook her head again. “Nothing. Nothing. I just . . . wondered.”
He gazed down at the laminated card and smiled at her. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“You’d better,” she muttered before turning away and walking down the hall.
He watched her until she disappeared behind the double doors.
“The old, normal Terrence is now at one hundred percent,” he whispered before tucking her card into his suit jacket pocket.
Chapter 12
Evan
“When should I come back to get you, sir?” Evan’s driver, Bill, asked from the front seat. “Would you like me to wait for you in the driveway?”
Evan swallowed two aspirins, tiredly opened his eyes, and gazed at the stately colonial outside of the Town Car’s tinted windows. A dull ache spread across his temples. He now regretted staying out so late at the charity banquet, dancing the night away with Leila on the dance floor. He also regretted breaking his “no alcohol” rule and drinking one champagne too many. But he had been so happy to see his brother, Terrence, finally cheer up, to see him confident again—that he had thrown caution to the wind last night. He was paying the price for that decision now.
“No, don’t wait for me, Bill. Unfortunately, this might run a bit long,” he murmured. “Just come back in an hour. If I need you sooner, I’ll call you.”
Less than a minute later, Evan stood at the end of a brick walkway that was bordered on both sides by a kelly-green lawn and blossoming daffodils. A birdbath sat not too far away. He remembered walking this same path six years ago with Charisse on his arm.
“Don’t be nervous,” she had assured with a mischievous grin as she
tugged him to the red oak door to meet her parents for the first time. “Mom and Dad are going to love you, Ev!”
Unfortunately, Charisse’s mother and her now-deceased father hadn’t loved him. Her mother had at least remained awkwardly polite though gracious throughout the entire dinner, but her father had radiated no warmth. He barely had spoken and rarely seemed to address Evan directly.
Evan wasn’t sure if the reason her parents had seemed so withdrawn, even downright standoffish, was because he was black. He didn’t know what else it could be. He was educated; he had a master’s from the Wharton School of Business, for God’s sake! He wasn’t poor. He came from one of the wealthier families in the D.C. region, which was one of the wealthiest regions in the country. The Murdochs certainly had more money than Charisse’s family. So, why else had Charisse’s mother been so stiff? Why else had her father behaved so rudely, if it wasn’t because their future son-in-law was black?
Evan had posed the question to Charisse, but she had been clueless.
“What do you mean?” Charisse had asked as he drove her back to her condo all those years ago. “I thought the dinner went well, quite frankly.”
He guessed he would never get a straight answer to his question, but at this point, it no longer mattered. He and Charisse were no longer together, and with today’s meeting, he hoped they were finally on their way to solidifying their divorce. Evan had had to reschedule with her over the past month, perhaps subconsciously hoping that she would call off the meeting and send him the signed divorce papers anyway, but no such luck. She had stuck to her guns. She wanted to talk.
He walked the length of the brick walkway, climbed a short flight of stairs, then reached the front door. He rang the bell and heard the discreet chime that played inside the house. A few seconds later, Charisse’s mother, Agatha, stood in the doorway.
She was a more mature version of her daughter, though petite. Her blond hair had long ago faded to a pale white that made it look almost platinum. Today she wore it in an understated chignon. Agatha and Charisse’s figures were similar—trim enough to be appealing, but not so slim that they looked emaciated. She was wearing a simple white blouse and gray slacks on her slender frame. A yellow cardigan was tied around her shoulders. He had never seen pictures of an older Grace Kelly, but Evan imagined that Agatha resembled the screen queen in her later years.
