As a young girl, she could remember being in her father’s auto shop, watching him change colors depending on the needs and background of the customer. “Know how to talk to people on their level, and they’ll keep coming back,” he’d say, and as she watched her author speak, she saw that it was true.
Forty-five minutes later LaVal opened the floor to questions, and then concluded with a pitch for his new book that was so tight Erica scribbled it in the margin of her notebook. She would use his own words to get the major media to cover him. LaVal was a star, and she was happy to be on his team.
“Thanks for coming,” LaVal said to Erica, as he shook his last hand goodbye. The auditorium was mostly empty, and Erica had waited for him in the last row.
“No problem. You were great.”
His eyes traveled over her. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really. Is there someplace where we can talk business?” she reached for her work satchel.
“I thought we could try a restaurant down the street.”
“It’s late LaVal, I’d really rather…”
“Promise not to keep you out long,” he held out his hand to help her from her seat, and then stepped aside so that she could pass through the door first. Erica decided to go with it.
Five minutes later, the hired car dropped them in front of a swanky Southwestern-style restaurant. Although the kitchen was about to close, LaVal did a bit of smooth talking with the hostess, and she ushered them to a quiet spot in the corner. Erica dropped her napkin in her lap and glanced over the menu. The waiter appeared, and LaVal took the liberty of ordering a bottle of Chilean wine for the table and a few lite fares.
“Thanks again for setting everything up for me,” Erica looked up. “The hotel is lovely.”
“My pleasure,” he flashed his dimples. “So what did you think of the talk?”
“Like I said, you were great. Poised, charming… the book should do really well,” she fingered her beads.
The waiter returned with the bottle and served LaVal a taste. Once he nodded his approval, wine was poured into Erica’s glass. Their table was pressed against the window, and Erica gazed at the street lamp.
“You know, you really look beautiful tonight,” LaVal said, interrupting her thoughts.
An uncomfortable feeling trickled down her spine. “Thanks.”
“Are you seeing anyone?” he looked her dead in the eye.
“Excuse me?”
“I was just wondering.”
Erica picked up her wineglass and took a sip. What the hell was he thinking? This was a business meeting, not a date, she thought.
“So?” he tilted his head, looking her over like a man who was accustomed to making women swoon.
“So, what?”
“Are you?”
Erica rolled back her shoulders. “I really don’t think that’s any of your business. I thought you brought me down here to discuss your lectures.”
“I did,” he hurried. “But I just had to put it out there.”
“For what?” Her patience was waning.
“Because if you’re not seeing anyone, I thought we could get to know each other a little better.” He leaned in on his elbows and Erica was floored by his boldness. She couldn’t believe he thought that putting her up in a fancy hotel entitled him a glimpse into her personal life, or worse, that they were going to sleep together. She had come to D.C. to discuss work and now felt like a trapped possum. Disgusted, she pushed back from the table.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” she glared.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. That night at the jazz club I thought we made a connection.”
“This is work for me, LaVal,” she was still standing.
“Please sit. I misunderstood. It won’t happen again.”
Erica looked around the restaurant, and could tell that she was causing a small scene. So she sat back down, but with her chair pushed slightly away from the table. LaVal drank his wine.
“I take my work very seriously, Mr. Jarvis,” she chewed on his name and spat it from her lips, like a high school principal would a child about to be suspended. “So please don’t waste my time. If you are interested in me being your lecture agent, then you’ll have to remain professional at all times. I will not tolerate you crossing the line. Ever.”
LaVal’s sandy eyes flickered with surprise, and Erica knew he was caught off guard by her forthrightness. But she didn’t care. Men in business were notorious for blurring the line, and Erica wouldn’t stand for it. She had come to D.C. depending on closing the deal. It was her first step in getting out from under B&B, and she couldn’t let him ruin it for her.
“Does this mean you’ve decided to represent me?” he asked.
“If we can agree to the same terms, which include the utmost level of discretion and respect, and my fee of 20 percent.”
“I was thinking more like 15,” LaVal tossed.
“Eighteen, with the possibility of renegotiating in a year’s time.”
LaVal put his hand out. “Deal.”
“Great,” she left him hanging. “I’ll get a contract over to you as soon as I return to my office. Enjoy your dinner,” she said, throwing her napkin in her plate, and then she moved towards the front of the restaurant before he could stop her.
Chapter Forty-Six
I Just Don’t Know
Warren hadn’t been able to get himself on track. He had drifted through his week on auto pilot, only doing what was necessary to survive: go to work, eat, shower and swallow as many cups of coffee as it took to accomplish the minimum on the job. Erica never returned his calls, and his heartache sat in his stomach curdling like expired sour cream, making him feel nauseous and nasty.
“You look like shit,” Alan paused at the new cubicle that Warren had taken over since his encounter with Blanche.
“Whatever man,” Warren fingered his beard.
“Things not working out with you and Blanchey?” Alan leaned in, and Warren felt his fists roll up into an involuntary clench. Punching Alan in the face, knocking him to the ground and stomping him until he vomited would make Warren feel so much better.
“Why don’t you put your efforts into trying to get laid for the first time? What are you, like forty now?”
Alan turned pink in the face. “I’m not a virgin.”
“Forty years. Damn, that’s a long time.”
“Shut up.”
“Or what?” Warren stood up, pulling himself to his full height. He was about three inches taller and twenty pounds thicker than Alan. “What’re you going to do?” Warren mocked, begging the geek to give him a reason to punch him out.
The two were staring each other down when Blanche breezed past wearing an extra short mini dress, carrying a stack of folders and ignoring them both. Alan took the opportunity to step away and slink back to his corner of the room. Warren unclenched his fists and opened his mouth so that his teeth would stop grinding against each other like a salivating dog.
A few hours later, he reached home. His place was much messier than usual. Empty soda cans, cheeseburger wrappings, banana peels and the crust of a two-day-old pizza littered the kitchen countertop and the glass coffee table. His plants needed to be watered, and his socks and shoes were left wherever Warren had taken them off. His life lacked order, and Warren couldn’t see a sliver of relief in sight.
The only saving grace was his horn. The showcase at the Iridium had plenty of promoters calling, and James was negotiating with one of them to get their band on stage at Rhode Island’s Newport Jazz Festival. The band would only perform the opening song, but the exposure would be tenfold. Every night that week, Warren had come home, slipped into the same funky sweatpants, and composed new music. It amazed him how much beauty could be sketched from shattered pieces.
He had tried not to think about his last conversation with his father; in fact, Warren had let that part of himself drop numb. So when the doorman buzzed from downsta
irs telling him his father had arrived, Warren was more than surprised, and dashed around his apartment tidying up while trying to make sense of the visit.
Five minutes passed, and then there were two swift knocks on the door. When Warren turned the latch and pulled it open, his father filled the hall with the presence of royalty. He stood erect with his shoulders back and his head held high, reminding Warren of James Earl Jones as the king in the movie Coming to America.
Warren stepped aside.
“Sorry for not calling first. I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”
The only sound in the apartment was the hum from the refrigerator. His father removed his overcoat and pointed to the easy chair. “Do you mind if I sit?”
Warren gestured for him to take the seat.
“You left the party without saying goodbye.”
Usually when Warren played, it took the music forever to halt in his head, but with his father sitting in his living room the sound had gone silent.
“What were you doing before I came?”
“Practicing for a gig in Newport.”
“The Jazz Festival?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a mighty big deal, Son. Your mother would have been proud.”
“What about you?” Warren was done tiptoeing.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you proud?”
“Son, I couldn’t be prouder if I gave birth to you myself. Brett tells me that you’re irreplaceable at work.”
“I’m a musician, Dad.”
His father took a deep breath, and then replied, “I know, Son.”
“So why haven’t you supported me?”
“You had your mother for that stuff. You didn’t need me tagging along.”
“I can’t remember one recital that you attended.”
“Well, I was somewhere working. I didn’t think it mattered.”
“It mattered, Dad.” Warren looked him straight in the eye. “Do you know what it’s like as a kid to feel like your father doesn’t accept you? You treated me like an outcast. It was like growing up living a double life.”
“And it’s served you well. You’ve got the high salaried job that I’ve always wanted for you, and you still have your music on the side. Seems like a perfect balance.”
Warren shook his head. ”You just don’t get it.”
“But Son, I do. You wanted me to make it easy for you. Tell you to go off and follow your dreams, but the world doesn’t work that way. I’ve had to work hard for every damn cent that I have,” he punctuated the words by slapping his thigh. “Nothing has been easy for me. Do you know that I grew up in a shack smaller than this room with four brothers and three sisters?”
Of course Warren knew, and nodded his head.
“Well my daddy was a flugelhorn-playing drunk. He didn’t give a damn about us. He was too busy chasing music, pieces of tail, and corn whiskey in juke joints up and down the Mason-Dixon Line. Ain’t no fun starving, I can tell you that,” his father looked away. “My mama picked cotton and did days work for the little white family over the hill that wasn’t much better off than us to put scraps of food on the table, but it was never enough. I was the eldest child, so I had to help. That’s why I joined the army, for survival, not because it was my lifelong dream. That’s how things were done in my day.”
Warren threaded his fingers in his lap.
“Then I met your mother, and she got pregnant with Billie so we had a shotgun wedding in her mama’s living room. Then you came and we tried to make it work, but we never really fit. As beautiful as your mother was, we were too different. She wanted one thing and I wanted another,” he paused, and then finished softly. “She knew everything. We had an agreement, Son.”
“Knew what?” Warren leaned forward in his chair.
“That I was in love with Shar,” his face sunned into a smile. “I’ve been in love with that woman since she walked into my office over ten years ago. I remember it like it was yesterday,” he said, almost getting lost in the memory. “Your mother knew, Son, so you don’t have to hold this against me.”
“Well why didn’t you tell me? And what about Bernard and Jared?”
“Your mother was the one who didn’t want you and Billie to know. She didn’t want her church friends looking at her differently, so she just asked me to be discreet and I did, out of respect for her. But when she passed away I couldn’t wait any longer. I needed Shar to be my wife. I needed to make her an honest woman. It was what she deserved, and what I wanted more than anything in life.”
His father removed a handkerchief from his inside pocket and sopped up the wetness from his forehead.
“So the boys are your sons?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you just say that in the study?”
“Because you barged in on me in the middle of a party, like you had no cotton-picking sense. That wasn’t the time for this type of conversation.”
Warren was up pacing the floor. His whole family life had been a farce. His mother knew? How could his parents keep this from him?
As if reading his mind, his father interrupted. “We were just trying to protect you. Your mother wanted you and Billie to have a two-parent household, that’s why she didn’t want to split. I realize this is a lot, and you may need some time to digest it all.”
“That’s an understatement,” Warren said with more sarcasm than he intended.
“Well, I know Shar can’t replace your mother, but I would like you to give her a chance, and your brothers.”
“You dump all of this on me and I’m supposed to just what?” The vein in Warren’s forehead protruded through his skin like a thick slab of bacon.
“Accept me. Accept us, for who we are right now. Even if all of my decisions up until this point haven’t made sense to you. Believe me when I say life is short, Son.” His father chuckled to himself and then said, “and I don’t want to be on the Maury Povich show saying I haven’t seen my son in ten years, can you help me find him?”
Warren didn’t take to the joke.
“Does Billie know?”
“I need to tell her too.”
Some fresh air was what Warren needed, and he walked over to the window and opened it a quarter of an inch.
His father stood and reached for his overcoat. “I’ma take leave. We’re having dinner at the house after church on Sunday, and we’d love for you to be there.”
Warren moved towards his father and picked up his cashmere scarf that had slipped to the floor.
“I understand, no pressure,” his father draped the scarf around his neck, and then held out his hand to shake Warren’s. The two men locked eyes, and then his father pulled him to his chest and hugged him. “No matter what you’re still my son,” his father said, pressing his palm into Warren’s back before releasing him.
Warren followed his father into the hallway to see him to the elevator, and when he looked down the hall, there she was standing in front of the elevator, looking breathless.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Swallowed Pride
Erica took a step forward, leaned in, and gave Warren’s dad a squeeze. He smelled comforting, like a pot of warm spices bubbling up on a cozy day. His fatherly embrace eased her shaking nerves.
“Mr. Prince, it’s been too long.”
“We’ve missed you, dear. Where have you been?” He held her at arm’s length and Erica smiled sheepishly.
“I’ve been caught up with work and a few personal things.”
“Well, I’m happy you’re here now. You know Shar and I got married?” he chatted, as if they were two friends catching up over lunch.
“Yes, and I’m so sorry I missed the ceremony. I know it was a beautiful affair, and all of the who’s who of D.C. showed up to pay homage.”
“Well, I don’t know about all of that,” he chuckled.
“You don’t have to play modest for me.”
“It was a very nice affair,” Warren cut in
. “So, um, Sir? I’ll call you and let you know about Sunday.”
His father looked him over, surprised, and then replied. “Don’t wait too long, Son. A wise woman once told me: life is short, live it. Love is rare, grab it. Anger is bad, dump it. Memories are sweet, cherish them.”
With that he saluted his son and then took Erica by the hand. “Please drop by the house before you leave. Shar would love to fatten you up.”
“Will do.”
The mobile on his hip started chiming and the goofiest grin appeared on his face. “See what I mean,” he said, stepping inside the elevator. “Hey baby, I’m on my way home.”
The elevator doors closed and Erica and Warren were left in the hallway alone.
“I’m in town on business and thought I’d stop by. Hope I’m not intruding.”
“Of course not. You are always welcome,” Warren wiped his hands on the front of his sweatpants. “Come on in,” he said, stepping aside so that she could walk down the hall and into the apartment first.
Erica had imagined what she would do if she ever saw him again, and now that she was here with Warren she felt as flimsy as a wet paper towel. Unconsciously, she wrung her hands to keep them from bursting into a cold sweat.
Warren dipped his head into the refrigerator and came back holding a can of ginger ale.
“You want?”
“When did you start drinking soda?” she dropped her bag on the kitchen bar stool.
He clicked the can open and slid it across the granite countertop towards her. “Comes free with Chinese food if you spend ten dollars or more,” he mimicked a Chinese accent. Erica turned the corners of her mouth upward, hinting at a smile.
Warren couldn’t help watching her, noting everything: the lovely fitted dress, pretty glass beads, pout of her lips with just a touch of gloss, reddish hair free and loose, eyes soft but confused. She looked like his girl standing in his kitchen on any ordinary weekend, and he wanted to grab and kiss her until his lips felt cracked and dry. But he played it cool.
Love in a Carry-On Bag Page 25
