The Blackstone Promise

by Rochelle Alers

  “Wine,” he gasped, eliciting a questionable look from her.

  Noting his pained expression, she asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” he replied a little too quickly. Reaching for the bottle of wine and a nearby corkscrew, he uncorked the bottle with a minimum of effort.

  Leaning against the cane-back chair, Veronica gave him a critical squint. “How did you do that so quickly?”

  “I’ve had a lot of experience.”

  “How?”

  “Working in restaurants.”

  And he had. After leaving the Marine Corps, instead of returning to Asheville, he’d traveled to Paris and fell in love with the City of Lights on sight. A monthlong vacation became two months, then three, and after a while he discovered he didn’t want to leave. His decision to live in France had changed him and his life forever.

  Veronica studied the impassive expression of the man sitting opposite her. His face was a work of art. High cheekbones, a chiseled jaw, a dark brown complexion with rich red undertones and large deep-set black eyes made for an arresting visage.

  “Do you still work in restaurants?” Her tone was soft, but layered with sarcasm.

  Kumi filled her wineglass and then his own, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He’d picked up on her disdain. It was the same question his mother had asked the last time he’d spoken to her.

  Jerome, darling, are you still working in restaurants?

  And his response had been, Yes, Mother, I’m still working in restaurants.

  What he hadn’t disclosed to anyone was that he hoped to open his own restaurant within the next eighteen months. He’d worked hard, saved his money and now looked forward to running his own business.

  He knew Jeanette Walker wanted him to return to the States, go to college and apply to medical school. This had been his parents’ dream after their two older sons had not exhibited the aptitude for a career in medicine. Their focus then shifted to their last-born, hoping and praying that Jerome Kumi Walker would follow the Walker tradition of becoming a doctor like his father, grandfather and great-grandfather had been.

  Capturing the questioning amber gaze and holding it with his own, he nodded. “Yes, I still work in restaurants. Right now I’m helping out my sister and brother-in-law.”

  Veronica picked up a fork. “Do they own a restaurant?”

  He shook his head. “No. They’re setting up a bed-and-breakfast.”

  This disclosure intrigued her. “Where?”

  “It’s about five or six miles outside of Asheville. Two years ago Debbie and Orrin bought a run-down seventeen-room Victorian and began restoring it to its original state.”

  “Are they doing all the work themselves?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Debbie’s an interior decorator and my brother-in-law is a general contractor. The project has become a labor of love for them, and they expect to be fully operational by mid-July.”

  Veronica’s gaze narrowed slightly. “And are you going to work in their kitchen?”

  It was the second time within a minute he’d picked up the censure in her voice. He stared at her through half-lowered lids, gorging on her blatant feminine beauty. Her white attire made her appear innocent, almost virginal. But he knew Veronica Johnson was not a virgin. She couldn’t be. Not with her face and body. She was lush, ripe, like a piece of fruit bursting with thick, sweet juices.

  He wanted to taste her, lick her until satiated. He’d lived in Europe for the past decade, traveling to every country, while taking side trips to Asia and Africa. But never had he ever seen or encountered a woman whose femininity cried out to his masculinity the way Veronica Johnson’s did. The wild, uninhibited part of him wanted her!

  “Yes, Veronica. I’m going to work in their kitchen.” He’d planned to remain in North Carolina long enough to hire and train the chefs for the elegant bed-and-breakfast.

  Her name on his lips became a caress, one that sent a shiver of warning up Veronica’s spine. Kumi was flirting with her. He was very subtle, but she sensed that he was coming on to her.

  And she had to admit it. She was flattered. Older and younger men still found her attractive. Lowering her head slightly, she said a silent grace, and then began eating.

  Kumi also blessed his food, then reaching for his wineglass he held it aloft. “I’d like to make a toast.” He waited for Veronica to raise her glass, touching his to hers, a clear chime echoing in the awaiting silence. “It’s a quote from Ecclesiastes.” She nodded. “Everything that happens in this world happens at the time God chooses. He has set the right time for everything. He has given us a desire to know the future, but never gives us the satisfaction of fully understanding what He does. All of us should eat and drink and enjoy what we have worked for. It’s God’s gift.”

  Staring wordlessly across the table, Veronica’s expression mirrored her shock. Who was Kumi Walker? she asked herself. Who was the young man who rode a Harley and quoted Bible verses?

  “Amen,” she whispered softly after recovering her voice. She sipped her wine, savoring its dry fruity taste. Her dinner guest was much more complex than she’d originally thought. Veronica smiled. This Sunday dinner was certain to be a very interesting encounter.

  Kumi cut a small portion of chicken breast, biting into the moist succulent meat. Chewing slowly, he savored the distinctive taste of buttermilk with a hint of chili, cumin and oregano. He took another bite. The chicken had been dredged in finely ground cornmeal instead of flour.

  Closing his eyes, he shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he said after opening them.

  Veronica shrugged a shoulder, smiling. “It’s different.”

  “No, it’s wonderful,” he argued laughingly. “You fried it in the oven?”

  “Yes.”

  She watched the play of emotions on his face. There was no doubt he was pleased and surprised with her recipe for spicy oven-fried chicken. It was only one of many recipes she’d inherited from her paternal grandmother.

  Kumi took a sip of wine, his eyebrows lifting slightly. Even the wine was excellent. “Would you mind sharing the recipe?” He probably could duplicate the recipe on his own, but only after several exhaustive taste tests.

  “Not at all,” she replied after swallowing a mouthful of sweet potato.

  “I’m certain it would be a favorite if Debbie added it as one of the selections on her menu.”

  “You said they’re opening a bed-and-breakfast. Do they intend to serve dinner also?”

  He nodded. “They’re calling it a B and B, but I see it more like a country inn. Of course they’ll offer the customary breakfasts during the week, brunch on the weekends and dinner every night.”

  A smile softened her mouth. “It sounds very exciting.”

  His smile matched hers in liveliness. “It is.”

  The liquid gold in Veronica’s eyes flickered with interest. Suddenly she wanted to know more about the man sharing her table. “You said you’ve been out of the country for ten years. Where were you living?”

  For a long moment, he looked back at her. “France.”

  She sat up straighter. “Where in France?”

  “Paris.”

  Her lids lowered at the same time a soft gasp escaped her. “What a wonderful city.”

  He leaned forward. “You’ve been there?”

  It was her turn to nod. “I spent two summers there studying art.”

  Kumi stared, complete surprise on his handsome face. “You’re an artist?” he asked in French.

  “No. I always wanted to be an artist, but what I lacked in talent I made up in enthusiasm. I studied drawing for two years, but abandoned it to become an art history teacher,” she replied in English.

  She’d taught art history at
a college level for five years before she left academia to open her gallery in Atlanta. She’d specialized in showing the work of up-and-coming African-American artists. Two weeks ago she’d sold the gallery to a consortium of artists who’d pooled their meager earnings to display their work.

  “Do you paint?” he asked, again speaking French.

  “The closest I get to painting is sketching. I must have dozens of pads filled with incomplete sketches.”

  “Which medium?”

  “Charcoal, pastels and colored pencils.”

  Excitement shimmered in his dark gaze. “Do you have anything to show? Because Debbie hasn’t decided what type of art she wants to display in some of the rooms.”

  “Parlez plus lentement, s’il vous plaît,” she said, speaking French for the first time. It had been years since she’d spoken the language and Kumi was speaking it too quickly for her to understand every word.

  He chuckled softly. “I’ll try to speak more slowly.”

  “Your French is flawless. You speak it like a native.”

  Inclining his head, he said, “Thank you. I’ve come to believe that it is the most beautiful language in the world.”

  Veronica had to agree with him. “I’d studied the language in high school and college, but it wasn’t until I lived in Paris that first summer that I truly came to understand the intricacies of the spoken language. I once overheard two men screaming at each other on a street corner, not realizing they were insulting each other’s mothers with references to them being donkeys and camel dung. But to me it was just a passionate heated exchange until my mentor translated the profanity for me.”

  Kumi laughed, the deep warm sound bubbling up from his broad chest. “It’s the only language in which curses sound like words of love.”

  “You’re right,” she agreed. “After all, it is called the language of love.”

  Sobering, he thought of the city he now called home. He lived in the City of Lights, spoke the language of love, yet had never been in love. But, on the other hand, he hadn’t lived a monkish existence, either. There were women in his past, but none he liked or loved enough to make a permanent part of his life. Most of the women he’d been involved with claimed he was too aloof and moody. What they hadn’t understood was his driving ambition. He’d spent the past six years working and saving his money because he was committed to establishing his own unique dining establishment in a city that boasted hundreds of restaurants, bistros and cafés.

  “Who did you study with?” he asked, lapsing fluidly into English.

  “Garland Bayless.”

  “The Garland Bayless who passed away four years ago?”

  Attractive lines appeared at the corners of her eyes with her broad smile. “The same.”

  “The man has become a legend in France.”

  “I doubt whether he would’ve become a legend if he’d remained in the States. As a college freshman, I went to his first showing at a gallery in New York, absolutely stunned by his genius. Several noted critics panned his work as amateurish. Their attack was so scathing that Garland packed up and left the country two days after the show closed. He moved to Paris and began selling his work at a fraction of what it was worth at that time.

  “I wrote to him once I completed my sophomore year, asking if I could study with him for a summer. Much to my surprise, he wrote back, encouraging me to come to Paris and stay with him at his flat. My father threw a fit.”

  Kumi swallowed a forkful of cabbage. “Did your father know Bayless was gay?”

  “No. And I didn’t tell him until after I returned home,” she said.

  Anyway her father needn’t have worried. It wouldn’t have mattered what Garland Bayless’s sexual preference had been, she thought. At that time Veronica had been so traumatized by a near date-rape episode that she wouldn’t permit any man to touch any part of her body. She’d been too embarrassed to report the incident and for years she’d lived with the disturbing fear of being raped. It wasn’t until later, after she’d married Bramwell, that she knew her reason for marrying a man thirty years her senior was because he was safe. Her husband had been impotent. She wasn’t a virgin, but she hadn’t had sex with a man in more than twenty years.

  “Garland taught me the language, how to choose an inexpensive quality wine and the differences in cheese. I wore my hair in cornrows before they became fashionable in the United States, dressed in funky clothes and shoes, and soaked up everything he taught me.”

  Kumi didn’t know why, but suddenly he envied the time Garland Bayless had spent with Veronica Johnson.

  “How many summers did you spend with him?”

  “My junior and senior years. I went back to visit him once after I got married.”

  Here it comes, Kumi groaned inwardly. Now it was time for her to talk about her husband. At first it hadn’t bothered him if there was a Mr. Johnson, but after interacting with Veronica, he now resented the man.

  He sat across the table from a woman, enjoying an exquisitely prepared meal by another man’s wife, a woman who’d turned him on just because she existed. And despite the ten-year age difference, they shared many things in common: both had lived in Paris, spoke French and were devotees of an expatriate African-American artist who had become an icon in his adopted homeland.

  “Garland no longer lived in the loft, but had purchased a pied-à-terre in the heart of the city,” Veronica continued. “His work hung in museums, were part of private collections, and he managed to find happiness with a sensitive and devoted lover. He threw a lavish party in my honor, telling everyone that I was the only woman that he’d ever considered making love to.”

  “What did your husband say when he heard this?” Kumi asked with a staid calmness. He didn’t think he would appreciate any man—gay or straight—openly admitting that he’d wanted to sleep with his wife.

  Veronica registered a change in Kumi. His tone was coolly disapproving. “Bram couldn’t say anything because he’d hadn’t gone with me.”

  Momentarily speechless in his surprise, Kumi finally said, “You traveled to Europe without your husband?”

  She bristled noticeably. He had no right to be critical or disapproving. After all, he knew nothing about her or her relationship with her late husband. “There were several occasions when we did not travel together.”

  Vertical lines appeared between Kumi’s eyes. “Were or are?”

  A tense silence enveloped the room and Veronica and Kumi stared at each other. The silence loomed between them like a heavy fog.

  He waited, half in anticipation and half in dread. He wanted—no needed—to know if this encounter with Veronica Johnson would be his last. If she was actually married, then he would retreat honorably. It had never been his style to pursue a married woman.

  “I am a widow,” Veronica said in a voice so soft, he had to strain his ears to hear her. “My husband died two years ago.”

  Slumping back on his chair, Kumi’s eyelids fluttered wildly. She wasn’t married. That meant he could court her. That is, if she didn’t rebuff his advances.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, quickly regaining his composure.

  “Are you really sorry?”

  Sitting up straighter, he met her direct stare. A frown furrowed his smooth forehead as his long fingers toyed with the stem of his wineglass.

  “Do you really want to know the truth?”

  Her expression did not change. “Yes.”

  His gaze bore into hers. “The truth is that I’m not sorry, because I didn’t know your husband. What I am sorry about is that you had to go through the loss.”

  Veronica stared at a spot over his broad shoulder. She liked Kumi Walker. In fact, she liked him a lot, especially his straightforward manner. Unlike a lot of men she’d met over the years, h
e was not afraid to speak his mind.

  She shifted her gaze to his perfectly symmetrical features. “Thank you for your honesty.”

  Lowering his gaze, he smiled. “I know no other way to be.”

  “Then you’re truly exceptional.”

  Long lashes that touched the ridge of his high cheekbones swept up, and his black eyes impaled her, not permitting her to move or breathe. He shook his head slowly.

  “I’m not worthy of the compliment.”

  “I beg to differ with you,” she argued softly. “Honesty is something I value and admire in a human being.” What she didn’t say was especially in a man.

  He noticed she’d said “human being” and not “a man.” Picking up the bottle of wine, he said, “Would you like more wine?”

  Running the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, Veronica smiled. “Yes, please.”

  Kumi wanted to put the bottle down and pull Veronica across the table and kiss her lush mouth. Didn’t she know what she was doing to him? What he did instead was fill her glass, then his own. He concentrated on eating the food on his plate, and then took a second helping of everything. She could’ve easily become a chef. Her cooking skills were exceptional. Everything he’d observed and she’d shown him thus far was exceptional.

  “I hope you left room for dessert,” she said as Kumi touched the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

  Groaning audibly, he shook his head. “Why didn’t you mention dessert before I had seconds?”

  “I know you haven’t been gone so long that you’ve forgotten that a Southern Sunday dinner is not complete until there’s pecan pie, lemon pound cake, strawberry shortcake, the ubiquitous sweet potato pie or jelly-roll cake.”

  Reaching across the table, Kumi caught her hand, holding it firmly within his larger, stronger grip. “Which one did you make?”

  She felt a jolt of energy snake up her arm, and wanted to extract her fingers from his, but the sensations were much too pleasurable. What was it about this younger man that touched her the way no other man had ever been able to do? What was happening to her at forty-two that hadn’t been there at twenty-two or thirty-two?