Once the bridal party took their places around the pulpit, two ushers rolled out the white carpet and the wedding march began. The flower girl was so shy that she didn’t drop a single petal. The organist pounded a heavy introduction and everyone rose to their feet.
Shar and her father stood in the entranceway and Warren had to admit that she was a beautiful woman, though very different than his mother. Shar’s skin was the color of cumin and her small eyes had a distinguished slant. Her champagne slip dress fell delicately over her full breasts and exaggerated hips, and when she marched, the shiny material trailed behind her. As she descended the aisle, cameras flashed in every direction. But she kept her eyes fixed on her husband-to-be. The energy flowing between them was obvious. Shar’s teeth stacked into a smile when Maynard left Warren’s side and took his place next to her. Watching them both, Warren wondered about the development of their relationship over the years. How much time had they spent? How many memories shared?
Pastor Davis asked the church to be seated and the wedding rituals began. Rings were slipped on, vows exchanged, candles lit, songs sang, and then the pastor stopped for a dramatic pause. In his deep preacher’s voice, he boomed, “Maynard Prince, please give the people what they want. Kiss your lovely bride.”
The invited guests applauded.
The wedding reception was held at the Museum of African-American Culture on Fort Place in Southeast D.C. A horse-drawn carriage sat out front with a sign on the rear of the buggy that read, “Just Married.” Inside, the gallery walls were covered with African, Caribbean, and African-American art dating back to the early 1800s. An ice sculpture of two swans greeted the guests at the entrance to the hall. When Warren first walked in, there was something about the way the female swan curved her neck towards the male that made him think of Erica. She liked being kissed on the neck, and that was where Warren snuggled his face when they slept.
“Want some company?”
Warren was sitting at a table facing the dance floor, drinking his third glass of champagne. He had just sat back down after giving the wedding toast to his father and Shar and he was replaying his speech in his head, hoping he had done an alright job. Blanche dropped her shawl over the seat next to him without waiting for his response. His father and Shar were leading the room in a fast swing to “Blue Suede Shoes.” Watching the couple encircled in each other’s arms brought images of Warren’s mother to his head. She loved to dance. On Friday nights, his mother was known to fry up a big batch of shad or porgies and potatoes, and push the carpet back so that Billie could teach her and Warren the latest steps. But he couldn’t recall his parents ever dancing together.
“What’s going on?” Blanche sipped from her glass.
“Not much,” he was still watching the floor. The couple took a bow as the people standing around the edge clapped their hands. Maynard was a natural ham, and Warren could tell by the never-ending grin on his face that he was juiced from the attention. The waiter passed with the champagne tray and Warren grabbed another.
Maynard reached the bandstand and unclipped the microphone. “I’d like to thank you all for coming out to celebrate this day with me and my new lovely wife. We’re off to honeymoon on a private beach in the Cayman’s.” Someone whistled.
“So in the words of the great Russell Simmons, who I think is a cool cat,” Maynard raised his hand in the air, egging the crowd on. “Thanks so much for coming out. God bless and good night.” He gave one last salute and then exited the stage. Back on the dance floor, he swept Shar up in his arms, spun her and then they dipped. The couple waved and made their way out of the reception hall. Guests followed them with cameras trying to get their last shots.
“Aren’t you going to take pictures?” Blanche moistened her glittery lips.
“I’ll get some from the photographer.” Warren was enjoying the way the bubbly made him feel. Invincible like nothing really mattered. He could no longer feel his toes itching. The six-piece band was playing a Stevie Wonder hit, and a few die-hards danced across the floor. But most were heading to the coat check.
“I’m going to give you a lift home.” Blanche touched his knee.
“Cool,” he said, standing and stumbling a little. Warren knew he was a few steps from being wasted but grabbed another glass on his way out.
Blanche unlocked the doors from her keypad as they rounded her candy white sports car. The night air was unseasonably warm, and her wrap was loose around her pale shoulders. After opening Blanche’s door, Warren slid into the cushy, leather passenger seat.
“Nice ride,” he tipped his flute to his lips. The interior smelled like granny smith apples, and the radio station was playing a rock song. Warren nodded his head to the hard, heavy sounds of electric guitar, bass, and drums. The combination of instruments was the perfect compliment to his mood. Music was the seat of his being, and just as he started to disappear into its clutches, Blanche asked.
“So where is Miss Erica? I can’t believe she missed the wedding?”
“We broke up,” was all he offered, because he wanted to stay inside the bass line of the music. To his surprise she changed the subject, offering to buy him a drink.
“There’s this place right down the street from my house. The waitresses are dressed like skimpy flight attendants, and treat you like you’re seated in first class,” her dress had slid away from her knee and exposed her milky thigh. Warren tried not to notice as he looked for someplace to put the empty glass.
“Give it here,” Blanche tilted the flute to her lips for the last little drop. Smiling, she tossed the glass into the backseat and revved her engine.
Her townhouse was located just a half block from thriving Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown, where the streets tipped over with hot bars, mediocre jazz clubs, and trendy restaurants. Her plan was to park the car in her driveway and walk over.
“How far is the lounge? I need to use the bathroom,” said Warren, helping Blanche from the car. The split in her dress had slipped up further and he saw that she wasn’t wearing pantyhose. Warren tucked in his shirttail.
“Come in.” Blanche flashed her teeth. “I need to grab something anyway.”
Warren followed her as she switched her narrow hips up the brick walkway to her home. The front door was red with gold trimming, and Blanche fumbled with the key. Leaning against the door frame, Warren wondered if it were a good idea for him to be there. It was late, and Blanche was his co-worker. What were they doing? What was he doing?
The lights were dim and Blanche grabbed his hand on the way up the three short stairs, which opened into the living room. Her hands were cold but the house was much too warm. While she turned up the table lamp, Warren loosened his bow tie. The living room walls were beige, and the suede sectional was just a hue darker. Hanging above the stone fireplace was an oversized framed photo of Blanche, with a red silk sheet sliding from her right breast. Her hair puffed around her, and her eyes looked like the photographer had told her to make love to the camera.
“Nice photo.”
“Thanks. The bathroom is down the hall,” she pointed.
Warren wasn’t surprised to find it small and dainty like everything else in her townhouse. He took his time washing his hands, but couldn’t look at himself in the mirror. Maybe he should just leave. He thought of Erica, and all of the accusations she made about Blanche. Perhaps he should sober up on the cab ride back to the church to pick up his car. When he returned to the living room, the fireplace had been lit and Warren found himself mesmerized by the flames. Sitting on the mantel was a collection of sculptured angels, and he turned one over in his hand.
Blanche walked into the living room, approaching him from behind. The heat from her body reached him long before her words, and when he turned to face her she was holding two wine glasses. “They come from Brazil,” she said, thickening her accent, saying Brasil instead of Brazil.
“They’re nice.” He took a glass. “Who’s from Brazil?”
“My mother
is from Bahia, but she lives in New York now. I never knew my father.” Taking a step back, Warren bumped into the fireplace, and Blanche leaned her body into his to steady him.
“Do you go to Brazil often?”
Blanche unclipped her hair and tossed it around her shoulders, “Not really. I’m a love child. My mother is the daughter of a wealthy Salvadorian, and my father was of African descent. He worked in my grandfather’s tobacco fields. My mother was disowned after I was born.” Her eyes darkened.
The temperature by the fireplace was making Warren’s armpits sweat, so he walked over to the sofa and dropped against the pillows. Blanche followed, raising her glass for a toast. She was leaning in so close that Warren could smell her. He knew what she wanted. Perhaps he had always known but could never admit it. Her fingers touched his wrist, and then she kissed him. Her lips were sticky, and tasted like raspberries.
Warren was the first to pull away. “What was that?” he asked, though it was obvious. Blanche kissed him again, with her tiny hands moving along the base of his neck. I should leave, he thought again to himself. It had reached that hour in the evening where only one thing happened when a man and woman were tipsy, by the heat of the fire, and for Warren, on the rebound with a cracked heart.
“Do you really want me to stop?” her voice was dim against the thick of his bottom lip. And as she sucked and pulled, all of his earlier hesitation withered away. Blanche pushed him further back onto the sofa, hiked her dress up and straddled his lap while her fingers worked his zipper. Slipping down her own dress, her breasts fell loose like lemons. Warren took one in each hand and was disappointed to realize that they weren’t soft to the touch. Could they have been implants? But then it didn’t matter because desire took over, and by the time the condom appeared from the side of Blanche’s panties, Warren’s sensibilities and thoughts had abandoned him. Blanche pushed him from the couch to the floor, and he navigated inside of her with a recklessness that surprised him.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Eat On
Erica was nervous, but wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was because the Wednesday lunch with LaVal turned into a Friday-night dinner. Blizzard-like conditions in the Midwest had delayed flights in and out of Chicago for two days. LaVal stayed in New York conducting business and had postponed their meeting until then. Under normal circumstances Erica would have never agreed to a Friday-night work dinner, but tonight she was relieved to have something to do. Staying busy was the key. Mind-numbing thoughts of Warren couldn’t catch her if she was busy.
Her mother was still “vacationing” at her apartment and Erica was surprised at the easy rhythm that they had fallen into. Twice that week, they had stayed up half the night talking and giggling like school friends. Her mother had scrubbed the apartment until all Erica could smell was pine and Clorox. And she prepared home-cooked meals every day: crispy fried chicken, smothered skirt steak, stewed red snapper, yellow-corn casserole, collard greens, baked macaroni and cheese, sweet potato pone with walnuts and marshmallows, and her famous 1,2,3,4 cake that she frosted with homemade cream-cheese icing. But tonight was Friday, Erica’s second weekend without Warren, and she needed something stronger than her mother’s food and good company to chase away the bleeding-heart blues. As pathetic as it seemed, a work dinner with LaVal proved to be her best option.
Traffic was heavier than she had anticipated when she stepped out of the nail salon, and although she knew the subway was the best option, she flagged down a taxicab. In the backseat, she checked her work voicemail for messages, jotted down questions for LaVal, and before exiting the cab glossed over her lips. Rain was in the forecast and out on the street, she shuddered against the chilly wind. Her winter-white skirt swung just below her knees, and the leather knee-high boots she wore gave off the right amount of spunk without being suggestive. It was something that she took into account for appointments with male clients. Never overdo it.
They were meeting at Union Square Café on 16th Street and 5th Avenue. Erica was surprised when LaVal suggested that restaurant because it wasn’t on the tourist map. The Café served American cuisine with an Italian soul, and was known for having an extensive wine selection that she couldn’t wait to try. The dinner rush had already begun, and when she walked in she had to elbow between chatty couples to get to the host stand. The place was packed with folks who seemed high off the start of the weekend.
“Erica Shaw meeting LaVal Jarvis.” She clutched her purse. The tight-lipped hostess scanned her book and then motioned for Erica to follow. They walked past the bar with the dinner specials scribbled on a chalkboard and into the main dining area. LaVal was seated at a table towards the back, looking triumphant as if he had just purchased a blue-chip stock. A bottle of white wine was sweating and breathing in the ice bucket, and he stood when she approached. The gesture made her stomach stiffen. Warren would have done the same thing.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said as LaVal pulled out her chair. He then caught her off guard by pecking her cheek. Erica pushed her bag under the table, hoping that her face hadn’t turned flush.
“I took the liberty of ordering a chardonnay and a plate of salt and pepper calamari.” He only half smiled, but his dimples still weren’t hard to find.
As usual, LaVal was dressed with guiltless style, and Erica complimented him on his chocolate suit and blond-striped tie. She asked him about his week in New York City.
While the waiter poured her wine, LaVal mentioned that he was vying to be the keynote speaker at the Black Lawyers of America conference next month.
“The original speaker canceled, so they’re scrambling for a replacement.”
“It would be a great way to kick off the book,” she said, watching him dish a few pieces of calamari on her plate, before taking some for himself. The wine was tasty. “What is this?”
“It’s Vernaccia di San Gimignano, a dry white wine from Tuscany. It’s one of my favorites.” LaVal pronounced the Italian label with no accent.
“What are you? A connoisseur?”
“Nah. Just know a little sumptin’ sumptin’ about entertaining.” His eyes held her gaze a second too long.
“Do you speak Italian?”
“Piccolo. A little.”
The waiter returned with mixed olives, warm bread and a dish of olive oil. They placed their orders and the menus were removed.
LaVal stretched back in his chair. “So, tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Are you originally from New York?”
“Newark.” Erica took a sip of water. She wanted to be sure to stay hydrated and sober. She felt shy under his spotlight and changed the subject. “Why don’t you tell me about you, since you’re the subject that I have to sell.”
“You’re selling me,” he chuckled. “I love it, but I’m sure there isn’t too much that I can tell you that you don’t already know.”
“Tell me something that’s not in the book,” she leaned in, but it didn’t take much to egg him on. In the time that it took for the first course to be cleared, it became obvious LaVal liked being on stage. His face was animated as his history unraveled, and Erica could easily picture him as a television personality, and told him so. LaVal laughed. “I’ve heard that once or twice before.”
The waiter lowered his tray onto the wooden stand, and Erica’s nose seemed to open up wide from the aroma of cheese, sherry and butter. Food had become her new lover and she couldn’t wait for her fix. LaVal had the grilled lamp chops, Erica the creamy seared scallops. Forks and knives clanked and cut, while they chatted and chewed.
“Enough about me. You’re the one I’m entrusting my entire writing career to. Who is Miss Erica Shaw? Is it Miss or Mrs?” Faint freckles dotted the bridge of his nose, and his sand dune eyes were intense but kind.
“It’s Miss.” She dragged her sliced scallop through the sauce.
“How long have you been with B&B?”
“Just over four years
.”
“Like it?”
She nodded.
“How much longer do you plan to be there?”
“Excuse me?” Erica put down her fork, and LaVal’s face widened to a flirt.
“I was just testing your loyalty.”
“You don’t have to. I’m fabulous at what I do.”
“So then I should be a New York Times bestseller this time next year?”
“Slow down, trumpet…I mean…cowboy.” Erica looked into her plate, pinching her thigh under the table.
“You play the trumpet?”
“No.” She sipped the last drop of her wine, and was grateful when LaVal poured her another without asking.
“So how did you make it out?” she turned it to him.
He shrugged. “There was always something in me that radiated greatness, even when I was on the streets dodging foster care.”
“What was your breaking point?”
“You ever been to a group home?” he asked, and then continued without waiting for her response. “We used to put our names on our socks so that they couldn’t be stolen, because you don’t want to be caught without socks in a Chicago winter. That life wasn’t for me,” he shook his head, and as he talked about the past, his speech pattern changed. Erica could see darkness etch around his brows and in the slits of his eyes. His transformation made her feel cottony towards him. Women loved a reformed man with a glint of the streets. Once she got a picture of him in the local papers with a nice write-up, the women should flock to the book signings like cattle in a herd.
“When I met my mentor, it was a no-brainer. He set me up, and I changed from working the hood to getting my education. It wasn’t hard. I was a smart dude. Every now and again I’d dip back for a little cash, but once I was focused that was it.”
The waiter topped off their wineglasses and they both declined dessert. A WASPy couple entered the restaurant and took a seat at the next table. The woman’s rosy perfume went straight to Erica’s head.
Love in a Carry-On Bag Page 17
