She hung up and got out of bed. Her father wanted her to marry a man who, like himself, was white, but the last thing she wanted was a marriage complicated by the social problems that her parents faced. Besides, she was attracted to black men. Her father could hardly be called prejudiced considering that he’d married an African-American woman and embraced her entire family. Pamela tossed her head as if in defiance and headed to the kitchen to make coffee. He married the person he wanted—and against his family’s wishes, I might add—and, if I get the chance, I’ll do the same. As soon as she got to her office, she phoned a florist and ordered flowers for her mother, specifying that they arrive Tuesday morning.
Shortly before noon on Saturday, Russ arrived at Harrington House—the place where his room always awaited him—with Velma Brighton, his bride-to-be and Alexis’s older sister. Weeks had passed since Drake and his two older brothers had been together, and it seemed to him almost like Christmas as they greeted each other with the customary embrace. He loved his brothers and welcomed the women of their choice as he would have blood sisters.
“Only three more months,” Drake said to Velma. “How do you keep Russ’s feet on the ground?”
Velma winked, displaying the wickedness that he associated with her dry humor. “With patience.”
“Not so,” Russ said. “I’m a changed man. I wait till the light turns completely green before I enter the inter section.”
“I never knew you to do otherwise,” Telford said.
“Was he always like this?” Velma asked, standing against Russ with his arms snug around her.
“Always,” Henry put in. “Ain’t a one of these boys changed one bit since they were little. Instead of being an impatient kid, Russ is an impatient man.” He rubbed his chin as if savoring a pleasant thought. “But I’ll say it right in front of him. He’s as solid as they come.”
Although Henry had worked as the family’s cook since Drake was five years old, Drake and his brothers regarded him as a member of the family who did most of the cooking. Long before their father’s death, it was Henry to whom they looked for guidance and nurturing, for Josh Harrington worked long hours to build a life for his children and to ensure their status in Midwestern Maryland. They couldn’t count on their mother—a woman who didn’t want to be tied down and who left home for lengthy periods of time whenever it suited her—to be there when they needed her. So they turned to Henry, who treated them as if they were his own children.
Henry’s pride in the three men was obvious to anyone who knew the family. Indeed, acknowledging his role as a father figure to the Harrington men, Alexis had asked Henry to escort her down the aisle at her wedding to Telford, for which she earned his gratitude and deepening love.
“You got all your wedding plans straight?” Henry asked Velma. “Let me know if you need me for anything.”
“I wish I had me to do the catering,” she said, and not in jest, for she had achieved wide fame as a caterer of grand affairs. “And I just found out that one of my bridesmaids is almost four months pregnant and showing. Since I have a matron of honor, I don’t know what to do with her. In three months, she’ll be over six months and even bigger than she is now. Other than that, everything’s fine.”
“Aren’t you going to replace her?” Alexis asked. “She’s got a lot of chutzpah to spring a late pregnancy on a bride.”
“Not to worry,” Velma said, “I’ll think of something. For the last three days, I’ve been lecturing to myself that she doesn’t deserve any more consideration than she’s giving me, but…she’s a friend.”
Drake listened for Russ to tell Velma that what that bridesmaid was proposing to do was unacceptable, but Russ said nothing, and he wondered at the change in his brother. Time was when Russ would have pronounced that the woman be excluded, and in a tone so final that his bride-to-be wouldn’t dare object.
Later, as the three men sat together in the den discussing the advisability of entering into a contract with the Ghana interior minister to build a shopping mall, Drake observed the calm and assurance with which Russ accepted Telford’s rejection of one of his ideas, where months earlier, he would have complained that his two brothers always got their wishes because they voted together. On this occasion, Russ merely said, “What’s your reason?” then listened and nodded his approval.
She’s all the balm Russ’s ego needs, Drake thought. She’s good for him. Again, the memory returned of those moments with Pamela’s arms around him, teasing him, and how like a king he felt when she unashamedly adored him.
Henry looked into the den. “Drake, did you see the mail I put on yer desk?”
“I haven’t looked at that desk since I’ve been back here. Thanks.”
“I’d like to know who scrambled yer brain,” Henry said. “If it’s who I think it was, you shoulda been home Friday night before last when she called ya.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said to his brothers, bounded up the stairs and went to his room. He dug through a week of mail and found the one thing he didn’t care to see: the tiny, stingy handwriting of Selicia Dennis. Although tempted to throw it away without opening it, he decided to read it.
Dear Drake,
I’m sorry that we haven’t hit it off. I fear I’ve misrepresented myself to you. Doris Sackefyio was kind enough to give me your address, and I’m apologizing if I made a nuisance of myself. I’m enclosing two tickets to the memorial jazz concert at the Kennedy Center next month. I hope you’ll use the second ticket to take me with you.
Warmly, Selicia
He noted that she included her phone number, but not her email address. He put the tickets in an envelope, debated whether to enclose a note, decided not to and sealed it. To be sure that she got it, he would send the letter by certified mail, return-receipt requested. Feeling the need to be outside and alone, he put on a storm jacket, stopped by the den to tell his brothers he’d see them later and walked out toward the Monocacy River. If he encountered a living being, at least it wouldn’t be able to talk.
On Monday, having convinced herself that she should attend a luncheon of industry professionals, Pamela found herself seated beside a likable man who obviously had the respect and—she thought—the envy of his peers. Oscar Rankin—tall, handsome, fortysomething, white—had the veneer of success wrapped securely around him. He set his cap for Pamela and made no effort to hide his interest. She’d heard of Oscar Rankin—who hadn’t?
“Would you like more wine?” he asked her. When she rejected the wine and his other offer to be of service to her, he changed tactics. “I saw you on the national evening broadcast a few nights ago,” he said, “and you brought that show to life. Of course, looking as you did—stunningly beautiful with a no-nonsense attitude—would captivate any sensible man.” In a subtle and innocuous way, he managed to claim her attention throughout the luncheon.
“Let me help you with that.” She looked up and saw him beside her at the cloakroom window, and before she could discourage him, he was holding her coat for her. Mildly irritated, she asked him, “What do you want, Mr. Rankin?”
With a diffidence that she didn’t believe was real, he shrugged slightly and let a smile flash across his face. “You shouldn’t ask a man that question unless you want the answer. I want to get to know you, because you’ve got me damned near besotted, and I’ve only known you an hour and a half.”
She stared at him for a full minute in disbelief, but his facial expression didn’t waver. For reasons she didn’t fathom and didn’t try, laughter floated out of her. “Are you serious?”
“As serious as I’ve ever been in my life. Have dinner with me this evening.”
She released a long breath. He didn’t look one bit like the father of her children, because they would have dark brown, sleepy and long-lashed eyes. Harrington eyes. “Not this evening. I’m busy.”
“Tomorrow evening. Before you give me the brush-off, get to know me. If I come up short, I’ll take my medicine and gracious
ly step aside.”
Talk about self-confidence! “Where do you want us to meet?”
“At your front door. Where do you live?”
His directness reminded her of boardroom tactics. He’d have to learn that she wouldn’t roll over for him. “We’ll do it my way this time. Where may I meet you?”
He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Are you married?”
“No, I am not. Are you?”
“Definitely not.” With that remark, she heard the implication that he wasn’t planning to marry anytime soon.
“Well?” she asked, letting him know that she’d stated her position and that the next move was his.
“I acquiesce to your wishes.” However, both his faint smile and his demeanor told her that acquiescing was not a thing with which he’d had much familiarity. “Meet me at Le Cheval Blanc. Seven o’clock. I do hope you will extend me the courtesy of seeing you safely home.”
She let a quick grin suffice for an answer. “See you tomorrow evening at seven.”
He was punctual, as she knew he would be, and he rose and went to greet her as she followed the maître d’ to his table. He thanked the maître d’ and tipped him, then leaned down and brushed her cheek with his lips. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
“I try to keep my word. I’ve always liked this restaurant. It’s one of the most elegant in town. Thanks for choosing it.” She wondered why he seemed crestfallen and asked him, “Did I say something wrong?”
“No. I suppose I’m disappointed that you know the place well. I had hoped to give you a unique experience, but I imagine a woman like you has been treated to everything special that Baltimore has to offer.”
She chose not to answer. She hadn’t seen it all, but that wasn’t his business. She soon decided that he was most comfortable talking about himself, his ideas and his accomplishments, and she let him do that. She didn’t find him offensive, but he didn’t appeal to her, so she decided to settle for a pleasant evening with him, and whenever he made a joke, she laughed.
The evening passed pleasantly enough, and when they stood in front of her apartment door, her one thought was of gratitude that Mike, her favorite doorman, was not on duty. “You’re pleasant to be with, and I would like to spend a lot of time with you. Did I make any headway with you?” Oscar asked her. “I have a sense that, while I didn’t strike out, I haven’t gotten to first base. I won’t ask if there’s someone else. Just tell me if he’s special to you.”
How was she to answer that? “There is someone, and he is very special.”
He grasped her hand, looked at her ring finger and shook his head as if perplexed. “I hope he knows what a lucky man he is. If I were special to you, I’d do something about it.”
“Thank you, and thank you for a very lovely evening.”
He gazed down at her until she had to struggle not to fidget. “Forgive me. That was rude, but you’re so beautiful. Goodbye.”
She went inside and closed her apartment door. Had she gone out with Oscar Rankin because of her father’s nagging? If so, her libido, or whatever caused her to be attracted to men, proved more reliable than filial regard for her father’s wishes. But why couldn’t she like him? It wasn’t as if he were like Lawrence Parker. She checked her phone messages, didn’t have one from Drake, flipped off the machine and got ready for bed.
“There’re other men, and I am going to be attracted to at least one of them,” she said aloud. “Drake Harrington is not the only man I can like.” Then, in her mind’s eye, she could see him leaning against the doorjamb of her front door, his height of six feet, four inches nearly reaching the top of the door frame. She pictured him relaxed and lithe, his long-lashed dark brown eyes glittering with some pleasant thought and a smile on his incredibly handsome face. And every time he laughed, really laughed, the look of him reduced her to putty. Mesmerized.
Maybe it wasn’t intended that such a man should give himself to one woman. “He’s trouble,” Rhoda had said to her the last time they lunched together. “Every woman who sees him will be after him.” However, Drake seemed to have no grandiose notions about himself. And although Rhoda swore that Drake was a stud, that he’d go after any woman who showed an interest in him, she knew better.
“I’m going to join the Urban League, the NAACP, and I’m going on the next Million Man March,” she said aloud, and then laughed at herself, for she knew she wouldn’t do any of that. She crawled into bed and fought for sleep.
Several mornings after that, Drake entered the construction site of the Josh Harrington–Fentress Sparkman Memorial Houses in Frederick, Maryland, that honored his late father and uncle. As the project’s engineer, he planned to check the pipes that had been installed up to the first floor, and arrived early so as to complete the inspection before noon that day. A series of strange noises got his attention, and he followed the sounds to an area where boards were measured and cut.
“What the devil are you doing in here?” he asked a small boy who held pieces of wood that should have been too heavy for him to carry.
The child stood before him clutching the boards, his body shaking. “I…uh. You’re not going to put me in jail, are you?”
“This is a hard-hat area. Something could fall on you and kill you. What’s your name?”
“Pete. Pete Jergens. Are you going to call the police?”
“No. How old are you?” He noticed that the boy still held the pieces of wood close to his body. “Well?”
“I’m nine, sir.”
Hmm. Good manners. Drake took the boy by the arm and walked with him out to the van that bore the legend Harrington, Inc.: Builders, Architects and Engineers. “Get in here. You and I are going to talk.”
“But can I go home first, sir? My mom will be worried about me, and I have to be at school by eight-thirty.”
“What are you going to do with that wood?”
The boy held his head down as if ashamed. “Cook breakfast, sir.”
He stared at the child. “With wood? You have a kitchen stove that burns wood?”
“No, sir. We have a gas stove, but the gas was turned off, so we have to cook in the fireplace.”
His whistle split the air. “Where’s your father?”
“My dad’s in jail. A man called him the n-word, and he beat him up so bad the man had to go to the hospital.”
“How many sisters and brothers do you have?”
“Four. I’m the oldest. Can I go now, sir? Please. I’ll be late for school.”
“I’ll drive you home. Where do you live?”
Drake drove the three and a half blocks thanking God that he didn’t grow up in an environment where broken glass littered the streets, cars had to skirt automobile tires, boarded-up houses lined every block and the stench of refuse offended one’s nose. He parked the truck, locked it and walked with Pete to the house.
“What are you going to do?” the boy asked him.
“I’m going to get that gas stove turned on.” He imagined that the children were nearly frozen. “Call your mother to the door.”
“Mom. Mom, can you come here? My new friend wants to see you.” He realized the boy referred to him as a friend so as not to alarm his mother.
Stella Jergens, a tiny woman little more than five feet and one inch tall, appeared at the door and gazed up at him. “Please don’t punish him for stealing the boards. If we didn’t have them, we would freeze, and I couldn’t cook.”
“Don’t worry about that. I don’t countenance stealing. But he was trying to help you.” He looked at the boy. “Next time you have a problem like this one, go to the social-service center on Franklin Street.”
After getting information on the name and location of the utilities company, he gave the woman three twenty-dollar bills and drove Pete to school. “Get some milk and a sandwich,” he said, offering the boy a five-dollar bill, “because you didn’t have any breakfast.”
“Thanks,” the boy said, “but I can get something to eat at s
chool. What’s your name, sir?”
“Harrington. Drake Harrington. Those are my buildings you’ve been stealing from. Tell your mother I’ll be by your house around five.”
“Thank you, sir. I think my mom is happy now. See you later.”
He drove directly to the utilities company, ordered the gas restored and paid the gas and electric bills for the next six months. Then he went to a local market and purchased coal and firewood for the fireplace, since he didn’t know whether the Jergens family had another source of heat. On his way home, he stopped by their house to find out whether the gas had been turned on, discovered that it had been and asked Stella Jergens if she needed anything for her children.
“Thank you, Mr. Harrington, but we’re warm now. I can cook, and the money you gave me will last awhile.” She blinked back a tear. “I can’t work because I can’t leave the little ones alone. I’ve been praying so hard. God will bless you.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I’m already blessed.” And he knew he was, because he’d never been hungry in his life.
Pete ran to him. “Thanks, Mr. Harrington. I’m real glad you caught me this morning. I don’t like to steal, but—”
He patted the boy’s shoulder. “But never do it. There’s always a better way.”
“Yes, sir. Can I come by the place and see you sometime? I bet you can help me with my arithmetic. I like it, but I don’t have time to study. I have to help my mom.”
“I’m not always there, but if it gets rough, you may call me.” He gave the boy his cell-phone number. “Never mind the money. You may call collect. Be a good boy.”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir.”
He drove home glad that it was he and not his foreman who caught the boy. Jack would have called the police immediately. The man had no compassion for those less fortunate. And he wondered what miracles Stella Jergens would work in order to make sixty dollars feed six people “awhile.”
“It’s just you and me tonight,” Henry said to Drake when he got home. “Tara’s in the school play, so Tel took them out for dinner before the performance.”
Love Me or Leave Me Page 6
