They stopped for gas in Gainesville, and while filling up, Tak pulled a map from his glove compartment and spread it over the hood of his Ferrari.
“How’s Atlanta sound to you?”
Atlanta. Home of the Bank of America Plaza, the tallest building in the country outside of New York and Chicago. Also home of the Flatiron, a wedge-shaped, window-wide building that was the second oldest skyscraper in the nation. In fact, some of the greatest architects in the world had shaped Atlanta’s skyline—Richard Meier, Michael Graves, Daichi…
“You know your father—”
“Yes, yes, I know. My dad designed Peachtree Emporium.” Tak crumpled the map and jammed it in his pocket. “Listen. I’m sure Atlanta has some great architecture and I’ll make sure you see as much as you want. But keep in mind we’re going a lot further than here and time is finite.”
He took a deep breath, paused and offered her a smile. “So, I’m thinking a show at the Fox Theatre, the night scene in Underground Atlanta and maybe a stroll in Olympic Park. We could tour CNN or Coca-Cola if you want.” He withdrew the nozzle from the car and placed it back at the gas pump. “How’s that sound, love?”
Deena lowered her gaze. There it was again, sweet words, warming her. And even as she uttered the words, “It sounds wonderful,” she wondered if she was talking about his suggestions or simply the sound of his voice.
THEY ARRIVED IN Atlanta at four-thirty and, at Deena’s insistence, checked into The Mansion on Peachtree, a luxury hotel designed by renowned architect Robert A.M. Stern. As Tak retrieved the bags from his car, she lectured him on the structure, the architect, and his visionary design.
“Stern’s generally classified as a postmodern architect but he prefers being called a ‘modern traditionalist’. You can see why though when you look at his work. He’s really big on tradition. He—”
“Hey, are you bringing this stuff inside?” Tak held up a pair of fuzzy pink slippers, wrenched free from Deena’s partially closed duffle bag.
“Damn it, the zipper keeps getting stuck and then everything falls out.” Deena tucked the shoes underneath her arm and Tak slammed the trunk of his Ferrari before following her towards the hotel. He nearly collided with her when she stopped.
“What? What is it?” he said.
“Look at it. It’s wonderful. The limestone and cast stone are for dramatic effect.” She glanced back at him. “I’m so sorry. You’re bored.”
She did that sometimes, use architecture as her failsafe. She could spout arbitrary facts at awkward moments and prattle on about nuances till her nerves calmed or a blush subsided. He’d wondered at what her protective shell could be. Deena didn’t see how he hadn’t guessed: architecture.
Tak shook his head. “It’s okay. I’m Daichi’s son, remember? I’m used to marveling at concrete structures for hours on end.”
“Limestone.”
“What?”
“It’s limestone and—” Deena sighed. “Never mind. For once, I want to forget about the structure of the building and enjoy whatever’s inside. Maybe there’s a hot tub. I’d love to soak in one.”
“I’d love to see that,” she thought she heard, but reconsidered given that Tak didn’t seem so…bawdy.
But what if he was? What if he had said it?
Her heart drummed its response.
They settled on a deluxe room, a marble and velvet delight with an enormous tub, a thirty-seven-inch flat screen and two queen size beds. The two showered and dressed before deciding on dinner.
“How do waffles sound?”
Deena glanced at her watch. “Tak, it’s seven in the evening. What do you mean, waffles?”
Tak threw an arm around her, grinning. “Come on, Dee. Waffles it is. Allow me to rock your world.”
“TWO PECAN CHECKERBOARDS, four eggs wrecked and two heart attacks on a rack. Sweep the kitchen and give it to me scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, topped and diced!”
Deena’s waitress cupped her hands over crimson painted lips, gave her chewing gum a few more pops, and sauntered off in her crisp white blouse and black slacks.
Deena scrutinized the diner. They were at the Waffle House, a place she’d never heard of until half an hour ago, despite Tak’s insistence that this was impossible. The place was a diner in every sense of the word, from its broad counter and bar stools where patrons speculated about Georgia prospects for the upcoming football season, to the single row of tables and chairs waited on by sassy waitresses who insisted on calling you ‘hon’ even when you asked them not to.
“So, what does my little architectural scholar think of the Atlanta skyline?” Tak asked as he took a sip of sweet tea.
Deena lowered her gaze. It was the right question, a distraction from the jitters she felt from being hundreds of miles away from home with a man who made her wake up in desperation.
She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. There’s a lot of modern and postmodern stuff here, but that’s not surprising. Atlanta’s a southern city, but it’s a hybrid one. In a time when much of the south rejected what they saw as an encroachment on an old way of life, Atlanta was going through a transformation, if you will. They wanted to be seen as a progressive city, a sort of beacon of the ‘New South’. You know how some of the best architecture reflects the values of the people around it? Well, Atlanta’s no exception. You can see the rejection of antebellum roots and—”
Deena paused, her cheeks coloring. “I’m so sorry. Before this is over you’ll wish you asked some other girl to come with you.”
Silence followed. Her words implied more than she’d intended about their reasons for being there, implied more than the careful friendship they’d maintained to that point.
A slight smile played across Tak’s lips. “Don’t be silly, Dee.” He watched her as she shifted, before apparently deciding she’d squirmed enough. “You’re a genius. My otosan must love talking to you.”
Deena shrugged. “It’s a big firm. I don’t really spend time with your father.”
Tak laughed. “You do. You just think you don’t.”
“Now what in the world does that mean?”
“My dad’s a brilliant man whose whole life is wrapped up in that firm. He hired you because he saw something. While you were his intern, he studied you, figured out what you were made of, and decided that he liked it. In other words, he was spending time with you even if you weren’t spending time with him.”
Before Deena could respond, the waitress returned with their food. Pecan waffles and scrambled eggs, biscuits and country gravy and two unidentifiable piles on saucer plates were placed before them.
“What in the hell is this?” Deena said, lifting the edge of a saucer for inspection. Her nose crinkled at the mass.
“It’s hash browns. Try it.”
Tak grabbed a bottle of syrup and went to work on his waffles.
“Hash browns where?”
Tak grinned. “Hash browns there.” He jabbed at the mass with his syrup-covered fork. “There’s also onions, ham, cheese, chili and tomatoes.” He pointed at each item with the utensil before returning to the slicing of his waffles. “And it’s all quite good.”
She looked at the red and yellow goo that covered the potatoes in distrust. She didn’t want to think of how many calories might be in that little saucered dish, with its fried potatoes and ooze of cheese. She didn’t want to think of what her ass would look like in a swimsuit after a bite of that stuff.
“Come on, Dee. Open up already.”
Tak stuck his fork into his mouth to clean it before taking a stab at her hash browns. He came away with a thick wad, and trained it towards her mouth. “Just a little now.”
With a hand beneath her chin, he guided the gooey hash into her mouth. An explosion of flavor slipped between her waiting lips, and with it the fork that had once been in his mouth. She blushed.
“Uh oh,” Tak said as he caught chili with his thumb. Quickly, he returned the finger to her mouth, her lips parting
to accept it. He gasped loud enough to draw the eye. Their gazes connected, locking for too long. Staring, neither speaking, breathing as the seconds passed until he receded. Wide-eyed, Deena cleared her throat and looked away, red-faced and stiff. Tak stared, a sober, blinking astonishment on his face. Both finished their meals in silence.
THREE DAYS IN Atlanta. In it, they strolled the lush greens of Centennial Olympic Park, admired the architectural wonders of Peachtree, and danced till exhaustion in Underground Atlanta—Deena’s first foray into a nightclub.
Underground Atlanta wasn’t so much “underground” as it was downstairs. Furthermore, the entrance to it looked seedy and suspect, but she took Tak’s hand and allowed him to lead her in. There were nightclubs down there, at least half a dozen, and tonight, he said, they would dance.
Deena produced a shiny, laminated new driver’s license for entrance to the club. The bouncer who took it was tall enough so that the back of his head pressed against the bit of wall above the door. He scrutinized the picture and handed it back as if unimpressed. The bouncer repeated the ritual with Tak before they were finally admitted.
They stepped inside and darkness swallowed them. People were pressed on a vast floor, swaying to a trance-inducing beat. Deena blinked. It was damp and humid as sweat and liquor coalesced. The music throbbed, a light, pop-like tune that was almost disco. It was paired with an airy voice.
Tak squeezed her hand. “Want a drink?” he shouted over insistent bass.
Deena nodded gratefully.
They weaved through the club, hands clasped, till they reached the bar at the back. He ordered a Heineken draft and a Strawberry Daiquiri before looking down at her hand.
“You okay?”
She blushed, grateful that it was too dark for him to see. Her grip was clammy and tight, her resolve to keep him in reach unshakeable.
“A little nervous.” She peered around. “You’re probably eager to dance.”
At UCLA, he’d been a beer-chugging frat boy of a stereotype who partied four times a week.
He shrugged. “Whatever you want to do.”
She lowered her gaze. “Just—enjoy my drink, maybe?”
Tak nodded. “Sounds good to me.”
He released her when his beer arrived and tossed back a big swallow. She brought the daiquiri in a big pilsner glass to her lips for a sip.
“Good?” Tak asked.
Deena nodded. “Very.”
She drank the first one and had a second. The music was southern rap now so it had a slower tempo, claps on the backbeat and constant references to sex, strippers and alcohol.
The liquor had a warming effect. She peered in her glass. What was in a daiquiri? She had no idea, but it was marvelous.
“You uh…want another?” Tak said. He was smiling.
Deena nodded. “One more. Not too much.”
Her words didn’t sound right. Running together and enunciating all at once. She frowned.
Another daiquiri was placed before her and again she peered in the glass.
“These are very good. You should try one.”
Tak grinned. “I generally steer away from drinks with umbrellas and sliced fruit adorning it. Not good for the image.”
“Fine,” Deena said. “Suit yourself.” She tossed it back for a big gulp and got brain freeze. “Ow!” She gripped her skull with both hands.
“Just let it pass,” Tak advised. “And drink slower.”
She looked up at him suddenly. “Wanna dance?”
He looked surprised. “Uh—sure. If you’re okay with that. I’d love to.”
She took another gulp of her drink and abandoned it, near full. She started for the floor. Tak dropped a few bills on the counter and followed.
“I’ve never danced,” Deena gushed. “Tell me what to do.”
“Not much to tell. Just feel it. Feel it and have fun.”
“Feel it. Fun. Got it,” she said.
Tak smiled. “Follow me.”
The music was club rap, a few intoxicating beats, a breathy male voice and a few sexy and well-placed hooks. He pulled her into his arms and began to sway. She followed with ease.
“Like this?”
Tak grinned. “Just like that.”
It was easier than she thought. When she told him that she’d never danced, what she meant was that she never danced in public. In her room with a radio and a broomstick, she’d held jaw-dropping concerts for an audience of none. She’d danced in those days, as a girl all alone. But in his arms, it seemed her self-less abandon had found her again.
“Someone told a lie,” he teased.
He pulled her closer, till their bodies molded—his arms around her waist, hers at his neck. He was hard and hot and moved like liquid. She imagined he was a skilled lover for the motions to come so easy. It wasn’t the first time they’d been so close—after all, they hugged each time they saw each other—but this was different. This was lingering and indulgent and…intoxicating.
She knew what was happening, happening to her, to them and between them. She wanted to stop it, felt like she had to, to avoid pain down the road. But her heart took no heed from the tyrant that was her mind. It wanted him near and was willing to do anything to make that happen.
FROM ATLANTA, IT was on to the Big Easy for jazz and jambalaya in The Quarter and riverboat gambling on the Mississippi. For two days, they combed the streets of that old historic district, marveling at the Creole townhouses by day and downing hot Cajun food and “big ass beers” by night.
With New Orleans behind them, they headed for Memphis in a six-hour tear up I-55. There, Tak insisted, they would find the best barbecue on the planet. But they did more than gorge on butter-soft baby back ribs and pounds of pulled pork; they lost themselves in the melancholy sound of blues on Beale Street, danced rooftop at The Peabody Hotel and strolled the banks of the Mississippi by moonlight.
“My mom never said why she killed my dad,” Deena said, the Mississippi River to her right as they strolled. The moon was high and shone on the water, shimmering with its fullness as if promising to pop. The air was thick with the heat of the south and summer.
“Not even after she was convicted?” Tak said.
Deena shook her head. “No.”
Another couple passed, staring. Tak either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Deena figured it was the second one.
“You said that you didn’t remember much. Could you have suppressed her explanation?”
Deena shrugged. “I suppose. But I doubt it. When I say I don’t remember much, I mean about the murder. Like, it comes in snippets for me. The blood, my mom with the gun, things like that. Never in sequential order.”
“And when you dream, is it the same way?”
She hesitated. “I don’t dream about that very much anymore.”
Instead, images of her parents were being ousted in dramatic fashion by lurid snippets of sex, courtesy of a sweating and shirtless Tak.
He glanced at her. “You don’t dream about them much?”
She shook her head.
“Well, that’s odd. When did that happen?”
Instantly, she wanted to say, “right about the time I started wanting you inside me.” After all, they were the same moment.
But she cleared her throat instead. “Um, I’m not sure.”
When he glanced at her, she looked away. She dared not look up, so afraid was she that he knew her secret, so certain was she that everyone did.
Four hours separated Memphis from St. Louis, next on their list of “must sees”. The I-55 corridor that linked the two cities weaved them through highlands and plains before dumping them in St. Louis, the self-proclaimed “Gateway of the West”.
They were hurdling towards exhaustion, crisscrossing first the south and now the mid-west at breakneck speed. By the time they arrived in St. Louis, they’d clocked better than 1800 miles over two weeks in Tak’s Ferrari. More telling, however, was the way they traveled—top down, wind in their hair, hi
s arm around the back of her chair.
Deena identified with the conundrum that was St. Louis, Missouri. An independent city, it seceded from its county better than a hundred years ago. It was a speculative place, being equal parts north and south, east and west, and therefore a different thing altogether. It endured extremes with sweltering summers and frigid winters, and whole sections of it had been abandoned. Deena could definitely relate to St. Louis.
They were touring the city, architecture and art museums, sights and tourist traps, when they decided to stop at the Gateway Arch for pictures. A massive and gleaming structure of stainless steel, it was the tallest monument in the country.
Deena brought a hand to that iconic image, the identity of St. Louis, made not by others, but by what it envisioned itself to be. It was then that her phone rang.
A sort of resigned indifference passed over her at the sight of her grandmother’s name on the caller I.D. Deena answered with a sigh.
She was calling to complain, to do nothing but bitch. Lizzie had been suspended again, this time for fighting. When Deena breathed a sigh of relief, she nearly laughed. How desperate did she have to be to be relieved that her sister had been fighting? But as far as Deena was concerned, fighting was a damned sight better than nickel and dime blowjobs on the bathroom floor.
“They talking about putting her out of school for good because she so much trouble,” Emma said. “And when they do, you gonna be the one to pay for private schooling.”
Deena chuckled. She loved the way her grandmother thought that a college degree came standard with an inflated bank account. If she only knew, her granddaughter could barely afford the vacation she was on.
Crimson Footprints Page 8
