Grown Folks Business

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  This is not about Quentin.

  She closed her eyes and imagined what Quentin would feel, think, say if he knew about Brock.

  This is not about Quentin.

  She pushed aside her reservations. This weekend would be perfect. Christopher would be at church, and she’d been promising Tori a sleepover with her friend Joy. She’d call Joy’s mother and find out if Friday would work.

  She closed her eyes and the stalker invaded her space, dragged her back to the recital. And Quentin. With Jett. She squeezed her eyes and tried to expunge the image. A moment later, she opened her eyes. Friday would be a good day. Maybe Brock Goodman could help her erase her stalker permanently.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  This is just a dinner.

  Sheridan shook the raw silk pants suit off the hanger. She slipped the tank top over her head, careful not to disturb the hair-style Crystal had given her, then stepped into the cabaret-style pants. She posed before the mirror.

  This is just a dinner, nothing special.

  Her shoes waited at the foot of her bed and she eased into the open-back pumps. She returned to the mirror and, as quickly as she’d been doing for years, completed her makeup, using her fingertips to smooth on lip gloss. When she stepped back and took the full view, she smiled her approval.

  This is just a dinner, nothing special, just a distraction.

  She picked up her purse as the grandfather clock struck eight. Downstairs she peeked through the curtains, not wanting to be seen if Brock was walking up to the door.

  Five minutes later she was pacing.

  It’s just five minutes. And then the other side said, Suppose he’s changed his mind?

  When the telephone rang, she jumped and ran to the kitchen.

  “What are you up to?” Kamora asked.

  I’ve got to get caller ID for this phone. “Nothing.”

  “Do you want to hang out with your best friend?”

  “What are you doing home?” Sheridan asked, not remembering a time when Kamora called her on a Friday night.

  “I was supposed to be with Sheldon tonight, but he canceled. So I was thinking about curling up with my Columbo tapes, and then I thought about you.”

  Great. I come after Sheldon—whoever he is—and Columbo.

  Kamora said, “Do you want to go to the movies or something?”

  “Nah.” Sheridan studied the moving hands of the clock. “I’m going to cool out tonight.”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Nothing much. Christopher and Tori are out.”

  “Great, I’ll come over.”

  “No,” Sheridan said a bit too quickly. “I really don’t want to do anything.” Then she added, “Just wanna rest.” It didn’t even sound good to her.

  “Okay,” Kamora said slowly.

  “It’s been a hard week,” Sheridan continued. “With the recital, and Quentin, and Jett.”

  “Oh, sweetie. I didn’t think about that.”

  Headlights beamed through the living room curtains and Sheridan sighed, relieved.

  Kamora continued, “Are you okay?”

  You have no idea. “Yeah, I’m fine. Listen, I’ve got to go.”

  “Okay, but call me if you want to talk.”

  When Sheridan opened the door, her first thought was that as fine as he looked in his uniform, Brock looked even better in his tan suit. And then she wondered why she’d given him her address. But she didn’t know the dating rules; and now she didn’t care. Not the way Brock Goodman looked standing in her foyer.

  Brock glanced around the entryway. “You have a beautiful home, Sheridan. I got lost coming into this place. This is not on my route.”

  “I’m surprised; the church is not far and you deliver there, right?” she asked, as he helped her slip into her jacket.

  “Yeah, but I don’t come across Manchester.”

  He waited as she locked the front door, and then helped her into his Camry. Before he pulled out of the driveway, he pushed in a CD, and Lionel Richie’s voice filled the car. “Zoom, zoom. I’d like to fly away.”

  “This is my all-time favorite song,” Sheridan said.

  “You’re kidding. Mine too.”

  She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Were you even born when this song came out?” She was kidding but then did the calculation. This boy was born in 1974.

  “Yeah…I think,” he said, as he maneuvered through the streets. “But I love old-school music.”

  “Who you calling old?” She laughed.

  “I meant the music, not you.”

  They were quiet for a moment, letting Lionel finish his serenade.

  “I didn’t ask where you wanted to go,” Brock said.

  “You decide.”

  He smiled. “I like that. I was thinking of checking out a new place—well, new for me. Everyone talks about it, and I wanted to take someone special.”

  That’s sweet.

  “Have you ever been to Carousels?”

  She was glad her groan stayed inside. “I’ve been there.”

  “Did you like it?”

  She shrugged, trying to hide her deep breaths.

  “Do you want to go someplace else?”

  She thought about Quentin and Jett. In Carousels. “Carousels is fine.”

  “Great.” He grinned. “So, who do you like besides Lionel?” He held up his hand. “Wait, let me guess. Luther.”

  “Check.”

  “And Marvin.”

  “Double check.”

  He laughed. “They’re my favorites too. Now see, aren’t you glad you agreed to have dinner? We were made for each other.”

  She joined his laughter. “So, you only like these old-school guys?”

  “No, I listen to all kinds of music. Especially hip-hop and rap.”

  “Really? After Marvin and Luther, how can you listen to that?”

  “I listen to the words.”

  She scrunched her face. “It’s the words that make me keep that music out of my house.”

  “I listen beyond the cursing. Get rid of the words you hate, and these kids are telling quite a story. Of their world, their trials, their tribulations. Of what they see every day, of what they hope for in life. It’s no different than other musicians. Take Marvin. He sang about the social issues that were troubling him. The things he wanted to change.”

  “I know you’re not comparing them to Marvin.”

  “Oh, no, but I believe their objective—their desire to be heard—is the same as it was for Marvin. They’re using their talent to speak out.”

  She nodded, although she wasn’t sure she agreed.

  “These kids are the same as everyone else,” he continued. “We all want someone to listen, and they sing to be heard. Through music, they know someone is listening.”

  As Brock eased into Carousels’ parking lot, Sheridan scanned the spaces for Quentin’s Mercedes or Jett’s Jaguar. Seeing neither, she took Brock’s hand when she stepped from the car. Inside, Joseph greeted her.

  “Mrs. Hart, good to see you.” The maître d’s smile vanished when he noticed Brock behind her.

  Sheridan rescued Joseph from his surprise. “This is my friend, Brock Goodman,” she said.

  The men shook hands, and Joseph’s professionalism returned. He led them to their table and chatted as if he’d always seen the two of them together.

  Once alone, Brock said, “So you’ve been here often.”

  “I wouldn’t say often.”

  “Enough for Joseph to know your name.”

  She shrugged and leaned back, and as a waiter filled their water glasses, she glanced around.

  “Looking for someone?” Brock took a sip of his water.

  A rush of heat blanketed her face. She shook her head, took her own sip.

  Brock placed his elbows on the table. “It’s no problem. I know you have a history.” He paused. “I have one too.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Tell me about it.”

&
nbsp; “Already did. You know about my grandmother, what I think about the president, what kind of music I like. You even know where I work. But I don’t know anything about you except you have children who can’t help me reach my new registered voters quota.”

  She chuckled. “There’s not much more than that to tell,” she said, and thought how pitiful that fact was. Her life had been about being Quentin’s wife, being Christopher and Tori’s mother. She still had Hart to Heart, but she could count on one hand the hours she’d spent working on the business since she lost the man who had inspired their enterprise. She had to do something about her life.

  Brock said, “I look at you and know there’s more.” He leaned forward, and Sheridan loved the way the flickering candlelight made his eyes dance. “I look at you and want to know everything.”

  “Are you ready to order?” the white-clad waiter asked.

  Sheridan wanted to kiss the young man for the reprieve. The waiter stepped away while she and Brock scanned the menus. Even when Brock put his card down, Sheridan kept the list of culinary choices in front of her. It didn’t matter that she’d already decided before she walked through the door what she was going to have. But the menu gave her a stay; not a word needed to be spoken while she supposedly agonized over her choices.

  “There’s so much here,” she said, feeling Brock’s stare. I bet he’s wondering right about now if I can even read.

  “Take your time.”

  “Are you ready?” the waiter said as he returned with his pad in hand.

  They gave their orders, and once alone, Brock asked for her life story again.

  Sheridan took a deep breath and gave the short answer. “I’ve lived in California my entire life, went to college here, married young, had children, started a business, divorced…”

  “Is that something you can talk about?”

  No. “There’s not much to tell. Just didn’t work out.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She nodded. “It’s a little like our favorite song. I’ve had many days when all I wanted to do was fly away.”

  “Well, I hope tonight you’ll allow me to help you do that.”

  Every muscle in her body relaxed when he didn’t push. “You’ve already done it,” she said, as their drinks arrived.

  Over a chocolate martini and a Samuel Adams, Sheridan bragged about Tori’s recital.

  Over her pine nut halibut and his prime tenderloin of beef, Brock talked about Charles Gibson, the young man he was mentoring who lived with a great-grandmother too old to care what her fifteen-year-old grandson was doing.

  Over tiramisu cheesecake, they shared dessert and thoughts about what was most important in life.

  “I want my children to be happy, well-adjusted adults,” Sheridan said.

  “You have the most important job in the world.”

  “That’s why I always wanted to be a stay-at-home mom.”

  “I’m impressed you did that. I believe the future lies within us. Not only in the children we parent but in the children we impact just by being—by being in their communities, by being in the political process, by being involved in any manner. I’m a big fan of each one teach one. I just hope I can reach and teach two, three, four…” He stopped, but Sheridan understood his point.

  She had no response. She didn’t want to say what she felt. Brock Goodman was a special man.

  When the waiter returned to fill their water glasses for the fourth time, Brock held up his hand and handed the young man the check with cash. Then he stood and took Sheridan’s hand. She peeked at her watch as she slipped into her jacket, and couldn’t believe it was almost midnight. They’d talked for over three hours, yet it didn’t feel like any time had passed at all.

  At the valet Brock held the door as she slid into his Camry, then he jumped into the driver’s seat.

  “I hope you had a good time,” he said, as he eased the car from the parking lot.

  She nodded and wished there was more. “I enjoyed talking to you.”

  Brock slipped another CD into the player, and Marvin Gaye sang on the ride home. As they edged off the freeway and stopped at the red light, a man hobbled toward their car. Sheridan shuddered as the man begged with his eyes. At this time of night she would never open her window if she were alone. A second before she opened her mouth and her purse, she felt the car pull forward—the moment to help, gone.

  “I need to make a quick run, would you mind?” Brock said.

  She frowned, wondering what he could possibly need to do at midnight. But before she could ask, he turned into a McDonald’s and, at the drive-thru window, placed an order large enough to feed both of them.

  “Don’t tell me you’re still hungry.”

  He laughed as he exchanged money for food, then sped back to the corner. He pulled to the edge of the curb and stopped the car, and before she could ask a question, Brock opened his glove compartment, grabbed a small book, and jumped out of the car. He dashed across the divider, dodging two cars speeding down La Cienega.

  With wide eyes Sheridan watched Brock hand the bags of food and the book to the homeless man they’d passed minutes before and then chat with him as if they were friends. Minutes went by and he pulled a card from his suit and handed it to the man before he trotted back to his car.

  Wordlessly he jumped into his seat, shifted the car into gear, and took off. Sheridan twisted slightly so she could see him better.

  “What?” he asked, when her stare stayed with him.

  “That food was for him,” she said, stating the obvious.

  He nodded. “Wanted to make sure he had something to eat.”

  “And something to read?”

  Slowing the car, he reached over her, opened the glove compartment, and handed her a book like the one he had pulled out before.

  In the dark she could see the gold letters—Holy Bible, Pocket Edition. She looked at Brock as if she hadn’t just spent hours with him.

  Again he said, “What?”

  She smiled. How could she tell him all that she thought when she looked at him? “Nothing. I just think…that was very nice.”

  He leaned across the console. Before she could imagine what was happening, his hand touched hers. The moment was tender…and electric. His long fingers wrapped around her hand and squeezed gently. Then just as fast as his touch was there, it was gone.

  She kept her eyes away from his, looking through the windshield, remembering his touch and the shivers that had surged inside her.

  It’s a good thing he’s just dropping me off, she thought, as he turned into her driveway.

  Brock turned off the car, and Sheridan was surprised when she turned to him and he opened his door, leaving her. She’d been hoping he would touch her again. Give her a good-night kiss. Something to help her remember this night.

  He’s way too much of a gentleman.

  He helped her from the car, then walked her to the front door. For years she’d been able to open the door with her eyes closed, but tonight she fumbled with the key. Finally the lock clicked, and she turned back to Brock. In the dark his eyes were like matches, burning right through her.

  “I had a great time,” she was able to say.

  “I tried to tell you. Dinner with me is always a good time. So, I won’t have to work so hard to get a date next time, right?”

  Next time? She smiled. “I’ll give you a call.” She moved to turn, but he stepped closer, blocking her.

  “I was hoping you’d give me something more.”

  The horror on her face made him laugh. “A good-night kiss, Sheridan. That’s all.” Then his cheer went away, and his fiery gaze made her smolder some more.

  Sheridan’s eyes darted around the surrounding homes, settling on Mrs. James’s across the street. She imagined the old woman peeking from behind those heavy curtains, watching her kissing a stranger at midnight.

  “Why don’t you come inside?” she said.

  It was his turn to show surprise and Sheridan’s
turn to laugh. “I don’t want my neighbors…”

  He nodded and followed Sheridan. The light from the outside door illuminated the room, washing it in a golden glow.

  She leaned against the banister. “You know, Brock, I don’t know the rules, but I’m sure no one kisses on the first date.”

  He chuckled. “You’re right. You don’t know the rules. People do a lot more than kiss.”

  She shook her head. “Not this girl,” she said playfully.

  “Glad to hear that.” She frowned, and he said, “Glad to know I was right about you. With what women are willing to do these days, it’s nice to meet someone who holds on to their principles.” He paused. “So good night, Sheridan.”

  When he moved toward the door, she wanted to scream that she’d only been kidding. She wanted to at least feel his lips on hers. But before the words rushed from her, he turned around.

  “You know, technically,” he began, rubbing his chin as if he were in deep thought, “this isn’t really our first date. We’ve been out twice—really three times.”

  She laughed and crossed her arms. “You have to explain that to me.”

  “Well,” he said, taking a step toward her, “the first time was when we met at church.” He held up his hand, stopping her protest. “In many circles, those five minutes count as a date. Now the second time,” he took another step, closing the space between them, “was when we were at Starbucks. Any time you spend a couple of hours with someone, it’s definitely a date.” He paused as he took another step. “And the third time,” he held up his hands as if he were resting his case, “was this wonderful evening.” The next step he took put him so close she could smell the lingering aroma of the cheesecake they’d shared. “So you see, Ms. Hart,” he said in that voice that had the potential to bring her to her knees, “I’ve been waiting for a kiss for a long time.”

  She would have laughed if her heart weren’t beating so fast. With the confidence he’d worn since the moment they’d met, he lowered his lips to hers. His kiss was tender, soft, wonderful, just as she’d imagined. When his arms wrapped around her, her purse slipped through her fingers, and she fell into the gentleness of his embrace.

  And then the stalker returned.

  The images of Quentin and Jett. Holding hands. Touching. Kissing. Caressing.