by Sandra Kitt
Jean stiffened but smiled openly at the man. She shrugged faintly. “You have to ask Patrick.”
The conversation continued for another minute but fortunately shifted to another topic. The woman on the other side of Jean captured her attention. They’d only had time for a quick hello and introduction at the start of the evening. Marin Phillips was African American, about the same age as Jean, and very poised and attractive. She was an account executive with ESPN. They’d exchanged business cards.
“Poor Patrick,” she now said with a rueful shake of her head. “He still looks shell-shocked, don’t you think?”
“I guess so. It will all die down eventually.”
“Has he said anything about leaving the program and the station? There are people waiting for an announcement.”
“Does the station want him to leave just because he won so much money?”
“It’s not unreasonable. Then again, this whole dinner is because the ratings for REPLAY have gone up recently. I guess you could say he’s like the goose that laid the golden egg. Top management is very happy with the outcome, but Patrick was popular even before the lottery. Now he’s even more so, for more reasons.”
“Then it’s just gossip,” Jean suggested, quickly casting her gaze across the table to Patrick. He was thoughtfully listening to an older gentleman who was speaking intensely to him, making notations on a paper cocktail napkin to illustrate some point, jabbing his finger at Patrick’s chest.
“Who’s the man talking with Patrick now?” Jean asked Marin.
“He’s the top gun at the station. He’s answerable to corporate, and Patrick is answerable to him.” Marin shook her head with a grin. “I don’t think Patrick is having fun yet.”
“I agree. But I feel like everyone is hounding him. His program is doing well; the ratings have led to increased sponsors. When is enough enough?”
“It’s never enough,” Marin said calmly. “The pressure will be on for Patrick, but I think he can handle it.”
The final course plates were removed. Patrick’s wineglass was refilled.
“Patrick’s a good guy,” Marin said to Jean. “Not like some of the former athletes who end up with a TV deal after they can’t play anymore.”
“Yes, everyone seems to like him.”
“Especially the ladies. But he’s not a player. He’s too smart for that. I know it all looks glamorous, but this business can suck the life from you.”
Jean looked at Marin. Was that just an observation…or a warning? Were there a lot of ladies?
“Are people taking bets on what he’ll do?”
Marin chuckled in genuine amusement. “No, there’s none of that going on. But it’s possible Patrick could get another offer from another network, an offer he can’t refuse. Like, maybe his own program, no co-hosting. A higher salary or fabulous benefits. He certainly doesn’t need the money anymore, but money would be on the table as the incentive.”
Jean again glanced at Patrick. She met his gaze briefly as he stood up, ending the conversation. The man who’d held his attention through dinner shook his hand and walked away with a friendly slap on Patrick’s shoulder.
“I don’t know what his plans are,” Jean said honestly, mildly bewildered by the truth of that. She was thinking purely in terms of what she was to Patrick…and what he could be to her. Jean hadn’t thrown their careers into the mix. It was complicated as is.
“We’re not going to find out tonight. Let’s see how things go in the coming weeks.” Marin stood up to leave, turning to Jean with a smile. “You know, I’m sorry the whole conversation was about Patrick. I’d really like to get to know you better.”
Jean stood as well, shaking her hand. “Me too. Why don’t we plan lunch sometime?” she asked with genuine interest.
“Yes, let’s. I’ll email you,” Marin promised.
With a pleasant good night, she left, saying a casual goodbye to other guests on her way out. The evening was winding down. Many of the guests had already said their goodbyes to Patrick, shook his hand, and congratulated him on the ratings for his show.
Jean also was approached with several good-night-great-to-see-you-again comments.
As she and Patrick were leaving the dining room, they passed the maître d’ in discussion with the head of the waitstaff who had served the dinner party. They’d reached the front lobby of the hotel and the valet’s desk when they heard behind them, “Sir! Sir, before you leave…”
They turned as the maître d’ hurried to Patrick, holding out a black leather folder. Jean stepped aside, away from the exchange that went on for long moments. A few moments later, she watched the man walk back into the hotel.
She glanced at Patrick, but his expression was closed, his brows drawn together. In fact, Jean thought Patrick seemed very annoyed. Angry. What was that all about? The valet returned with Patrick’s SUV, immediately drawing attention from a passerby who stopped to admire the Porsche.
Jean was quickly guided into the passenger side by the valet.
“Hey, mistah. You famous?” a bold voice shouted from a small cluster of young Black teens who’d slowed their walk to circle the car for a closer look.
“No, I’m not,” Patrick responded, about to climb in behind the wheel. “The car’s a rental.”
“You lie. Tryin’ to play your girlfriend-in-training, man.”
The group cackled.
So did Patrick, appearing amused that they’d seen right through him.
Girlfriend-in-training? Jean wondered why the boys had come to that conclusion.
One of the teens tried to peer into the front seat on Jean’s side. “Oh man! This is sick!”
“Straight up,” another added.
“Can we get a lift?” the third teen asked, causing his friends to crack up.
Jean turned silently to Patrick, surprised that he actually seemed to be considering the request.
“Where do you live?”
“Brooklyn,” the teens said in unison.
Patrick started the engine. “You’re in luck. We’re headed to Brooklyn. Get in.”
“Gucci!” the teen shouted as he and his two friends piled into the back seat and slammed the door.
Patrick pulled away into traffic. “Seat belts,” he ordered. The teens complied, chattering between them over the features of the SUV. “Make sure you wipe down the seats when you get out.” The boys promised.
It was quickly apparent that there was no need to be wary of the three teens. They were so excited to be in the Cayenne, so grateful not to have to make their way home on the subway, wet and uncomfortable.
Jean was content to sit quietly and let the conversation take place around her. She learned the boys had been in Central Park for a soccer workshop but had stayed to wander around Midtown for the rest of the day. Their exploits and comical experiences and observations kept her and Patrick entertained for the twenty minutes it took to deliver them to Red Hook. And as the trio was thanking Patrick fervently for their ride, Patrick presented the boys with comp tickets to a baseball game, seats on the field, the next time a New York team was home. After that, Patrick could walk on water as far as the teens were concerned. They didn’t seem to mind getting wet again as they stood on the curb yelling and frantically waving a goodbye.
Patrick blew the car horn in answer as they drove away.
Despite the comical interplay, Jean was aware that Patrick seemed pensive for a full minute. She didn’t question him, instead offering comments on the many people at the dinner. This seemed to focus him, and the talk on the drive to her neighborhood became more fluid. As the SUV approached Jean’s building, she abruptly spoke up.
“Don’t turn off the engine,” she instructed Patrick. He gave her a puzzled look but obeyed, turning to her.
“What’s up?”
“I want you to drive wher
e I direct you.”
“Wait…what? Why?”
Jean looked squarely at him. “Because I ask you to,” she said quietly but earnestly. Patrick searched her face, considering the command. He put the car in gear.
“Okay.”
Jean gave him directions and Patrick silently followed them. His gaze searched beyond the streaked windshield into the dark, rainy night of slick streets and a neighborhood that was unfamiliar to him. Less than ten minutes later, Jean had him pull into the parking lot of a small restaurant with a bright yellow neon sign: Jimmy’s Pizza Palace.
“We’re here,” Jean announced, preparing to get out. Patrick’s expression was still bewildered. He reached out to grab her arm. “Wait a minute. Why are we here?”
“To get you something to eat.”
* * *
Patrick finally sat back, with a big sigh. He looked at the round metal platter with the last slice of the house special, All or Nothing, but he was done. He carefully wiped his mouth and hands on his napkin and dropped it onto his plate. He’d eaten more than half of the pizza and was still processing what had given Jean the idea to go for pizza right after the sumptuous spread served to them at the hotel dinner.
And, for the moment, he didn’t know if he should be embarrassed or grateful that this unassuming neighborhood restaurant had given him the most satisfying meal he’d had in days. Nothing fancy, and maybe that was the idea. He was full…and contented.
Across the laminate table, Jean was quietly watching him, a peaceful, knowing smile on her lips. She’d eaten a couple of slices but mostly enjoyed watching Patrick scarf down nearly all of it. He placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward Jean, his clasped hands covering his mouth and chin.
“What just happened?” Patrick said, laughter in his voice.
Jean leaned in as well, her amber-colored eyes mischievous and bright. “I just made sure you don’t go to bed hungry tonight.”
“Okay. Want to give me a hint? Did I look like I was going to pass out from lack of food?”
“Let’s just say you were giving off the signals that pretty much said, ‘Feed me.’”
Patrick was curious and amused, but his brow furrowed slightly. “What kind of signal?”
“Well, you had a serious case of the ‘urri upps’ after we left the hotel and were headed to Brooklyn.”
He silently shook his head.
“The ‘urri upps’ is your stomach letting you know you need to eat. You know. It growls.”
Patrick watched Jean hesitate for a moment before she quietly added, “I think you had something on your mind and didn’t even notice.”
He lowered his gaze, a gesture indicating that Jean was right. “Okay, I’ll bite. What exactly do…‘urri upps’ sound like?”
Jean sat straight, blinking rapidly and preparing herself. And then she took a deep breath and emitted an unbelievable, rude guttural noise that seemed to be rolling from the back of her throat. And to emphasize what was happening, she added gestures, her hands tumbling and twisting together. Patrick, totally caught by surprise, stared at Jean for a moment and then burst into a deep laugh that came straight from his belly and transformed his face. Jean continued for a few seconds more and then stopped, but Patrick couldn’t deny how funny it sounded and, shamelessly, let his amusement rip until he was done. Jean grinned, pleased that she got the reaction from him she intended. He was, too, as weird as it all seemed. In that moment he felt, unexpectedly, so happy to be sitting in a tiny pizza place somewhere in Brooklyn, laughing with her.
Finally, Patrick got ahold of himself. He studied Jean, her calm presence, her abundant hair curling from the humidity. His eyes brimmed with laughter.
“You got me. I never heard of that before.”
Jean shrugged, a little smug. “I’m not surprised. But all the Black kids know it.”
He was really surprised now. His brows shot up. “Really? So this is a Black thing?”
“Might be. I got it from a cousin growing up. But I knew a lot of kids who made up language like that. They incorporate sounds. The ‘urri upps’ was my favorite. You have to admit, it’s pretty original, right?”
Patrick shook his head, amusement overtaking him again. “Yeah, I do. I’ll never be able to ignore that noise from my stomach again without seeing and hearing you demonstrate what it sounds like.” He signaled for the one of the employees behind the counter and reached for his wallet.
Jean reached across the table to grab his hand. “I took care of it.”
Patrick slowly put his wallet away, considering the gesture. “Okay. Want to tell me why?”
“Because it was my idea. I asked you. I have to tell you, Patrick, you’re a cheap date.” She winked at him.
He grinned broadly, enjoying the moment, enjoying her. He didn’t even attempt to come up with the name of any woman he’d ever known who had done something so simple for him, so thoughtful. Jean had been paying attention to the events of the evening and put him first.
“I’ll have to do something about that.”
After considering for a second, Patrick reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He unfolded it, read it carefully. Silently he passed the paper to Jean.
Jean silently accepted it as she glanced with curiosity at him. It was a receipt, with all the details for the dinner at the hotel.
“How did you get this?” Jean asked, handing it back to him.
Patrick returned it to his pocket. “Apparently whoever organized that soirée this evening never gave a credit card when making the arrangement and left without paying the bill. The maître d’ caught up to me while we were waiting for the car.”
Jean was speechless, her eyes wide in disbelief. “So…you’re telling me you settled the bill?”
He nodded.
“For the dinner that was being given in your honor?”
He nodded again.
Jean clamped her mouth closed, and Patrick could see the astonishment, but also something deeper, like she was silently coming to his defense.
“What are you going to do?”
“That is—excuse my sarcasm—the million-dollar question. The thing is, no matter what I do, there’s a downside. I could come off as a conceited jerk or a petty jerk. This could be some sort of strange payback.”
“I don’t understand. Payback for what?”
“I have a great job. I get a lot of offers and attention and perks. I won the lottery. In other words, I have everything. Isn’t that unfair?”
“That sounds like blaming you because you’re successful.”
Patrick sighed. “Maybe. But I have to deal with the possibility. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this.”
“Everything okay, Miss Jeannie? You want a little ice cream? I got your favorite.” The short, rotund worker directed to Jean as he interrupted the conversation to clear the table.
“Not tonight, Julio. Thanks for making that delicious pie for my friend here. He was starving,” she teased, indicating Patrick.
Patrick pointed to his oily-napkin-filled paper plate. “You both saved my life.”
“I happy to make for Miss Jeannie. She special lady,” Julio stage-whispered to Jean. “He no good to you. I take care of him,” the man said without an ounce of fear just because Patrick was almost two feet taller.
“Thank you, Julio. I’ll remember that.”
“We might come to blows. There will be blood on the floor,” Patrick threatened back, grinning.
Julio chuckled amiably as he waddled away to dispose of garbage and wipe clean the serving platter. They got up to leave. Patrick made note that Jean clearly was a regular here, or at least had Favorite Person status.
He shook his head at the “friend” status he had achieved…but he definitely intended to raise the bar higher than that.
Chapter 7
Torrential rain met Jean and Patrick as they left the Pizza Palace.
“Wow,” Patrick said as they stood under an inadequate awning trying to figure out the quickest way to his car before they both became soaking wet.
“Let’s go back inside for coffee and wait this out. It will slow in a few minutes.”
“Or not,” Patrick murmured, calculating his next move. “You wait here. I’m going to make a run for it and bring the car up in front.”
He didn’t wait for a response but pulled his suit jacket up from his shoulders and covered his head as best he could. From where she stood, Jean could see the rain quickly darkening the fabric. She heard the double click of the car being electronically unlocked and the instant start of the engine. In seconds, Patrick had reversed out of the spot and drove up in front of her. Jean quickly got in but was not saved from getting wet.
When they reached Jean’s building, it was apparent that there would be no magical spot right in front either. Patrick again ordered Jean out at the building entrance and drove away to find parking. By the time he returned to her, Patrick’s hair was plastered to his scalp, water running down his face, from his chin and the end of his nose.
It was a biblical forty days and forty nights kind of rain.
They left wet footprints from the lobby right up to her apartment door, forming a small pool of water on the doormat. Inside they kicked off their shoes behind the door, and Jean directed Patrick to the bathroom.
“There are plenty of towels. Dry off as best you can.”
She disappeared into her bedroom to strip everything off and towel herself dry. She pulled on a short, black T-shirt shift and pulled her hair into a messy ponytail at the top of her head, tendrils curling riotously. Her hair cascaded about her head in tight ringlets. Jean grabbed another garment from her closet and brought it back to the living room with her. Patrick had not yet reappeared. Leaving the garment over the back of the sofa, Jean went into the kitchen and pulled several bottles and glasses from a cabinet. She also prepared a pot of coffee.
“I should hang these things up. I’m leaving water all over your place. Sorry.”
