by Donna Hill
“I’m so sorry, Cara. I swear I don’t know how you do it.”
“Most of the time more good is done by my work than harm, but it can be overwhelming. Anyway, I’m going to take a hot bath and dive into bed.”
“I hear ya. If you need anything, you call me.”
“Will do.”
Traci disconnected the call and flopped back against the cushion of her armchair. So much for an evening out. She picked up the remote and aimed it at the TV. After ten minutes of scrolling it was clear that there was nothing worth watching on the more than three hundred channels. She tossed the remote onto the couch. She glanced at the time on her cell. The movie started in an hour.
She’d never gone to a movie alone, but she didn’t feel like staying in, and going to a bar or a club alone was definitely out of the question.
What the hell. She hopped up and changed from her work clothes to a pair of faded jeans, oversized black cotton sweater, and ankle boots. She checked herself in the mirror, ran her fingers through her twist outs, and added a splash of lip gloss.
Traci drew in a breath of fortitude, grabbed her purse and coat, and headed out. First time for everything.
It was about a twenty-minute walk over to Metropolitan Avenue to the Nitehawk Cinema. The Nitehawk specialized in offbeat, independent, and foreign films. But its real claim to fame in the neighborhood was the reclined theater seating and meal service brought to your seat by a waitress.
Traci paid for her ticket, went upstairs, and found a seat in the sixth row. Shortly after, a waitress came to take her order. She opted for nachos grande and iced tea, then settled back to watch the noir film The Train to There—the untold story of the slave trade in New York City from the late 1600s to the 1800s, centered right on Wall Street. The irony didn’t escape Traci.
The film was heartbreaking, enlightening, and inspiring. Traci left the theater, feeling awakened about the ugly past of this city she loved, and was more determined than ever to push forward with her own vision.
She stepped outside to the shock of the drop in temperature. She buttoned her coat, adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder, and was about to make the walk home, when she was pleasantly stopped.
“Hi.”
Traci’s heart did a complete tumble in her chest. For a moment she couldn’t get her thoughts to line up. What was he doing here? Same as you, silly. She was alone on a Friday night. How dismal was that.
“It’s . . . Noah from CoffeeMate,” he said in response to her startled expression. He pointed a finger at her. “Mocha latte, extra whip.” He grinned.
Traci blinked. “Of course. Hi. How are you?” She stealthily looked for his date to show up.
“I’m good. Which film did you see?”
“The Train To There.”
His beautiful eyes widened. “So did I. How did you like it?”
“Loved it. Just political enough, without being preachy, and the history . . .” She sighed in awe.
Noah’s smile lit his eyes. “I know exactly what you mean. Well worth the price. And what about that Wall Street scene? If people really understood the history . . .” He shook his head sadly, then looked into her eyes. His brows drew together for a moment. “We’ve never been formally introduced and here I am keeping you out in the cold.” He stuck out his hand. “Noah Jefferson.”
Traci allowed her hand to be enveloped in his. “Traci Long.”
“Good to finally meet you, Traci.” He paused a moment. “You waiting for someone?”
“Um, no.”
“Me either. You in a hurry?”
Her lips parted, but nothing came out. She sort of shook her head no.
“Wanna grab something to eat, talk about the movie?”
“Well . . .”
“Ever eat at the Lo-Res?”
“The theater restaurant?”
“Yeah.”
“No. I haven’t.”
“Food’s good,” he coaxed.
The appeal of those eyes and that smile could do serious damage. Should she trust him? Better yet, should she trust herself? Her instincts were telling her to take a chance.
Finally she gave a slight shrug, as if hanging out with Noah after a movie was no big deal. “Sure, why not.”
“Great.”
They did an about-face and returned inside, and Traci concentrated on putting one booted foot in front of the other and not the feel of Noah’s gentle hand at the small of her back.
Once inside, Noah led the way. Lo-Res was on the ground floor of the theater. They offered specialty drinks and a versatile menu, but it was the ambience that made it special.
Traci looked around in admiration. The retro restaurant and bar boasted a collection of long-forgotten videos that had been digitally preserved and were projected on a screen to the delight of the diners and drinkers. On any given night customers could be treated to one of the great classics, cult films, or something totally campy and anything in between. The lighting and red-and-black leather booths, jukebox, and fountain-like counter gave the space a feeling of being in a throwback diner.
“There’s a spot in back,” Noah said with a lift of his chin. He maneuvered Traci in front of him and guided her around the tables to the back.
Noah helped Traci out of her coat and draped it along the back of her seat. He slid in on the other side.
“This is nice. I had no idea,” Traci said, looking around.
Casablanca, with Humphrey Bogart, was playing on the big screen.
“Sometimes I come here just for the atmosphere and a free movie,” he added with a grin. “Hungry?” He flipped open his menu.
Traci did as well. She was starving, but she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to eat a thing while sitting across from him. “Um, maybe something light.”
“I’m going for my favorite, the Wolfpack.”
Traci giggled. “What is that?”
Noah pointed to it on the menu. It was lasagna with Italian sausage, ground beef seasoned with oregano, homemade sauce, ricotta cheese, and a side salad. Traci’s stomach rumbled.
“Hits the spot.”
“Hmm, sounds good, but I think I will go with the quesadillas and a kale salad.”
On cue a waitress sidled up to their table. “What can I get you tonight? Would you like to start with something from the bar?”
Noah gave Traci a quick look. “Sure. I’ll have the Brooklyn Blast.”
“Bottle or from the tap?”
“Tap.”
“And you, ma’am?”
“White wine.”
“Are you ready to order now or should I come back?”
“We’re ready,” Noah said.
They gave their orders, then settled back to wait for the drinks to arrive.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been in here before,” Traci said.
“Yeah, it’s a pretty cool place. The owners who came up with this are really onto something. I’ve watched it grow and mature. I come here for inspiration.”
Traci tilted her head to the right. “Inspiration? For what, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Hmm, what I’d like to do someday.”
“What is that?”
He leaned forward. An eager gleam lit his eyes. “I would take the concept of CoffeeMate and blend it with music, art, and theater. Basically, it would be a cultural sanctuary with food and drink.” He weighed her expression for signs of dismissal or disbelief.
“Wow. I love the idea. I haven’t been everywhere, but I’ve never run across anything quite like that.”
The knot in his gut loosened. “I know. The closest that I’ve seen is the Knitting Factory in the Village. But even that club is pretty specific.”
“True.” She nodded her head thoughtfully. “So . . . how are you moving toward your dream?”
He offered up a half smile. “One step at a time.” He linked his fingers together on top of the table. “And you . . . always busy writing. How is that going?”
Tr
aci blew out a breath. “Slow,” she admitted. “It’s a play. I’ve been working and reworking it for longer than I care to admit,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Ultimately I want to see it staged. I know it will happen . . . I just hope in my lifetime.”
Noah laughed. “I’m sure it won’t be that long.”
The waitress returned with their drinks. “Your food’ll be out shortly.”
“Thanks,” Noah said. He turned to Traci and raised his glass of beer. “To dreaming and fulfilling.”
Traci tapped her glass against his.
The topic shifted back to the film and from that the state of black life in America. Noah had strong views on pretty much everything. He was focused and knowledgeable, well read and articulate, and funny. He had her cracking up with his take on some of the customers who came into CoffeeMate. She told him about her students and her love of theater, her years at NYU and her best friend, Cara. Before she realized it, they’d been in Lo-Res for nearly two hours. Their plates were long gone and their glasses were empty. The crowd had thinned, and when Traci looked around, it was clear that it was closing time.
Noah checked the time on his cell. “Wow. One-thirty. They close up shop in a half hour.” He signaled for the waitress and handed over his credit card to pay the bill.
“I can pay my half,” Traci insisted, and reached for her purse to get her wallet.
Noah covered her hand to halt her search. “Next time.”
She stopped breathing for a second. Next time.
* * *
“Can I get you a cab?” Noah said once they were outside.
“No. I’m not that far. I can walk.”
“Me too. Lead the way.”
It was almost a date.
The twenty-minute walk was as equally entertaining as the earlier part of the evening. So much so that Traci was able to push aside her apprehensions, stop looking over her shoulder, and simply enjoy. Noah was full of anecdotes about the neighborhood, the effects of gentrification, and its ramifications on the community that was being pushed out.
“Did you grow up here?” Traci asked.
His expression tightened. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “No.”
For the first time that night Traci felt that she’d dipped her toe into murky waters and his answer didn’t leave space for discussion. She let it drop.
“This is me,” she said, stopping in front of her building.
He gazed up at the three-story brownstone, noted the number 40 on the front step. Forty South Second Street.
“We’re practically neighbors.”
“Oh.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“I’d better let you get inside.”
“Yeah,” she said on a breath. Her eyes darted down the street, then returned to him. “Thanks for turning me on to Lo-Res.”
“Glad you decided to join me. Maybe we can do it again sometime.”
Traci hesitated.
“So I guess I’ll see you for your next latte.”
“Definitely.”
“Good night.”
“Night.” She turned and walked up the steps to the double door at the top of the stoop. She took a glance over her shoulder and Noah was standing there waiting for her to go in. She fished her keys out of her purse, unlocked the door, and waved the all clear. Noah waved back and then headed down the street.
Chapter Four
“Remind me again why we decided to take Pilates classes?” Cara groaned as they made their way to the showers at the YWCA.
Traci laughed and ignored the faux whining. Even after six months it was still Cara’s mantra every time they finished their Saturday class. But as much as she griped, she couldn’t deny the results. Both of them had trimmed and tightened their core, strengthened their legs and thighs, and walked with an easy, confident grace. Cara’s husband, Phillip, never hesitated to let Cara know that he liked what he saw.
Showered and changed, Traci and Cara stepped out into the blustery afternoon. They walked along Bedford Avenue and stopped at the Colador Cafe.
“Great, it’s not crowded,” Traci said as she pulled open the heavy door.
The warmth of the interior welcomed them. As usual the locals who benefited from the café’s free Wi-Fi occupied several of the tables. Laptops ruled as centerpieces on the wood tabletops.
They walked up to the counter to place their orders. Traci was addicted to their smoothies and ordered her favorite—mango. Cara did the same and added a Caesar salad. They grabbed a table along the sidewall and hopped up on the tall stools.
“I decided to go to the theater last night anyway.”
Cara’s eyes widened in surprise. “You? You’re kidding. You went to the movies by yourself.”
“Yep.” She nodded.
“Wow.” Cara pushed out a breath and grinned. “Well, damn, good for you.”
For all of her intelligence, great personality, and talent, Traci was a victim of self-esteem deprivation. Years of living in the shadow of her flamboyant mother and absent father, and a debilitating relationship with her ex, had left her in a constant state of second-guessing herself. For her to have gone to a theater on a Friday night alone was a major achievement.
Traci grinned. “You’ll never guess what happened afterward.”
“Girl, after that bombshell, I am clueless.”
“I had a late dinner and drinks with that guy from CoffeeMate that I’ve been telling you about.”
“What? Wait. Hold up. You did what?”
Traci giggled. “You heard me. Is that so hard to believe?”
“You’re damn right it is, and I want to hear every detail.”
Over smoothies and salad, Traci recounted her night on the town.
“He sounds really nice, T.”
“Yeah, I know. Almost too nice.”
“Don’t go there. Okay. You’ve had your eye on him for so long, and now that you’ve finally had a real chance to break the ice, don’t sabotage yourself before you get started.”
Traci pushed out a breath. “Yes, you’re right. It’s just hard, you know.”
“Yeah, I do. But at some point you’re going to have to give a man a chance, and yourself, too.”
Traci lowered her gaze. “It’s so much easier said than done.”
“Give him a chance. I’ll even ride shotgun with you if necessary.”
“Just what I need, a grown-ass chaperone.”
“At your service!”
They both laughed.
* * *
Traci spent the balance of her Saturday doing her food shopping and then cleaning her apartment. Today was “love it or toss it” day. At least once per month she went through her drawers, closets, and cabinets and tossed what she didn’t need, and organized what remained. Even as often as she purged, it never ceased to amaze her the amount of foolishness that could gather in a month. Maintaining order was the thing she could control in her life, something that she could be certain of.
She’d taken the row of books down from the top shelf of her six-shelf bookcase so that she could dust. As she was putting the books back, a photograph fell from between the pages and fluttered to the floor. She bent to pick it up and her stomach knotted, the way it always did when she saw it. It was a picture of her taken on the steps of the church after her wedding. She had a wide-eyed look, almost as if she was alarmed.
She should have been alarmed. She should have listened to her instincts. She should have heeded the warnings. Should have . . . should have. Humph. Should have. But she didn’t. And so she’d walked down that aisle, out of that church door and straight into hell. Well, not right away. She stayed in purgatory for a while.
She couldn’t tell anyone. She was too ashamed and guilty and weak, and a part of her somehow believed that she deserved it.
Traci stared at the face of the expectant woman in white. That was four years ago, after three years of hell. Sometimes, though, when those internal scars started to itch and b
urn, it felt like yesterday.
Traci stared at the picture for a moment more. She should toss it and rid herself of the ugly reminder. But she needed to be reminded so that she would never again be that woman in the picture. She shoved the picture into a different book this time and returned them all to the shelves.
* * *
It had begun to rain by the time she got to the CoffeeMate on Sunday, a perfect day to get some writing done. But the real reason that Traci braved the rain and the chill was her hope to see Noah.
She grew anxious while she scanned the menu board as if she hadn’t memorized it. Maybe he’s in back, she thought when she gave a young woman her order. Or maybe he’s on break. Any minute now he would pop up with that sexy smile and those eyes that held promises. But he didn’t. She sipped her coffee, ate her Danish, and typed gibberish on her computer, but Noah never showed up. After two hours she packed up, with the intention of walking back home, but instead, since the rain had stopped and the skies had cleared, she decided to take a walk down to the North Fifth Street Pier.
It appeared that there were plenty of other locals who felt the same way. The sidewalks were dotted with singles and couples and strollers along the commercial streets that led to the pier.
Traci let her mind drift while she meandered along, checking out shop windows and sidestepping running toddlers, when she heard her name being called. Her heart stilled in her chest. She glanced up and into the eyes of the man in front of her. Her stomach roiled.
“Not going to speak?”
She swallowed over the dry knot in her throat. “Hello, Jason.”
“That’s the best you can do.”
Her heart was beating so fast she began to get light-headed. Every ugly name she’d been called and unspeakable things that had passed between them during their three-year marriage whirled in her belly like an approaching cyclone.
“Well,” he demanded in that voice that always led to something worse.
She started to move past him and he grabbed her arm, as if with a blink he could yank it out of the socket. “I’m talking to you. No need to be rude.”
