Hitts & Mrs.

by Lori Bryant-Woolridge

  “That almost killed my mother,” Mel revealed, surprised by how comfortable she felt discussing this very private part of her life with John. “I think she could accept the idea of a ‘spinster’ daughter who gave up marriage and children to be something important like a doctor or lawyer, but to buck the family legacy for a career decorating office buildings and hotels is troubling. She doesn’t seem to grasp that the opportunity to be creative and work at my passion is very fulfilling—at least for now.”

  “You’re lucky. Very few people love what they do. Most work simply to pay the bills. It’s also a shame that most people see artistic endeavors as egotistical and unproductive, when really the opposite is true. They have no idea of the time, commitment, and perseverance it takes to realize one’s dream,” John stated with aged impatience cracking his voice.

  “Well, enough about me. Shouldn’t we discuss the hotel?” Melanie asked, veering the conversation onto safer, less personal ground.

  For the next hour they reviewed various aspects of the project, concluding with satisfaction that their concept was fresh and strong.

  “One more thing,” Mel said after discussing the lobby. “I think your artwork should also be displayed,” she suggested.

  “Mine?” John paused before admitting the truth. “How did you know?”

  “Just a gut feeling. When we talked about it, you had the look of the embarrassed but proud artist. You’re very good. Why didn’t you pursue it professionally?”

  “Long story.”

  “Well, I’ve got time and half a cup of coffee left,” Melanie replied impishly.

  “Fair enough. I know very well how it feels to be ‘different.’ As much as I always loved building things as a kid, I loved painting more.”

  With the annoying jabs of childhood pain punching at his gut, John explained how his announced intention to move to Paris to paint and study art was answered with an unscheduled trip to the state fair the day after his high school graduation. Instead of viewing the prize cows and pie-eating contests, his father proceeded to point out all the folks trying to eke out a living drawing caricatures of people for two dollars a pop—making it clear that no son of his was going to sit around all day painting pictures like a child because he was too lazy to get a real job.

  “Did you ever make it to Paris?” she asked, fighting the urge to wrap her arms around him in a comforting hug. Melanie could hear his bitterness in each word and feel the hurt in each breath.

  “No. I stopped painting that very day and haven’t picked up a brush since. I still sketch every now and again, but those paintings you saw in my office were my last.”

  “Only the last of that era,” Melanie encouraged. “Every great artist, from Matisse to Warhol, went through some sort of tough transitional period. Maybe our hotel will mark your reentry into the art world.”

  John said nothing. He simply smiled slightly and shrugged his shoulders before reaching for her hand across the table. This day spent shopping and sharing everything from their views on jewelry to the painful and intimate secrets of their pasts had caused a shift in the tide between them. No longer simply bound by work, Melanie and John had fused a undefined connection to each other that teetered precariously on the border between friendship and something deeper and far more complicated.

  “Thank you for spending this day with me, for listening, for everything,” John said tenderly.

  “No, thank you,” Melanie murmured as she leaned forward and delivered a lingering whisper of a kiss to John’s cheek. She pulled away, but their gazes held and Mel witnessed a tender meltdown take place behind his eyes. For a brief moment, they each sat studying the other’s face for a clue to what was happening between them. The same bewitching pull they’d felt between them the day her beads burst was back, once again playing tug-of-war with their hearts and minds.

  The earlier comfort Melanie had felt was gone, replaced by the immediate need to remove herself from this perplexing situation. “John, I really have to go. I didn’t realize it was so late,” she said abruptly, looking at her watch for added emphasis. She quickly gathered her things, extended a brief farewell, and hurried toward the exit.

  John sighed as he gently stroked the place where Melanie’s soft lips had touched his skin. It was the most innocent yet powerful kiss he’d ever received. Its residue lingered, propagating disturbing questions in his mind. Was he falling in love with this woman? And why did she run off so suddenly? Did she feel it too?

  Be serious, John thought, quickly pulling back the notion and discarding it from his mind. She ran off because you probably scared the hell out of her. The reality is that the idea of a taboo love affair excites you. With Melanie you feel young, adventurous, and a bit dangerous. So chalk this up to a simple midlife crisis and get over it.

  Be it midlife crisis or true love, John knew one thing for sure. This five-foot-one dynamo who reeked of mystery, undeniable sensuality, and talent with a capital T had gotten firmly under his skin.

  Chapter 9

  “I’m not sure that ‘only twenty-three shopping days left until Christmas’ qualifies as a legit reason for skipping work,” Melanie told Candace as the manicurist filed her nails. Mel was still feeling guilty for letting Candy talk her into calling in sick today. Celebrating Thanksgiving down in Richmond with her extended family last week had afforded Melanie little time to whittle down her lengthy To Do list for work, and she still had at least five major tasks to complete before her meeting next week with John.

  “Consider this a mental health day. You’ve been working so hard and I never see you anymore. How can I be your nosy best friend if we never talk? Now, what’s been bugging you?”

  “It’s really nothing,” Melanie insisted. “I met this guy through work—”

  “You met a man?” Candace shrieked in disbelief. “How can you hold out on me like this?”

  “I meet men all the time. Don’t make this into something bigger than it is.”

  “Then why don’t you tell me exactly what it is?”

  “Do you want your cuticles clipped or pushed back?” the manicurist asked.

  “Pushed, please,” Mel replied, grateful for the interruption. She was reluctant to answer her friend. Melanie was too confused by what was going on between her and John to even attempt to explain it to anyone else, particularly Candace, whose understanding of men and the complicated relationships often associated with them was based solely on the notion of “What have you done for me lately?”

  Melanie knew that Candy would have a hard time understanding her attraction to John Carlson. First of all, John wasn’t Will Freedman and Candace still championed Will’s cause, seizing every opportunity to remind Mel what a great catch she’d given up. Second, he was white, and for reasons unknown to Mel, Candace abhorred the idea of dating “Europeans.” When it came to men, she didn’t care if he was older, younger, single, married, with kids, or without, as long as he had a big johnson, an even bigger bank account, and was a man of color—any color but white.

  “What it is is friendship. He’s a colleague whose work I admire very much and whom I find really inspiring,” Melanie replied, concentrating on her half-finished French manicure.

  “Friendship?”

  “Friendship,” Mel reiterated.

  “Between a man and a woman? I don’t think so.”

  “You want to join us in the new millennium? That attitude is as old as Jesus.”

  “I’m sorry, but men and women are not meant to be friends,” Candace refuted, while signaling the manicurist to clip her acrylic tips a tad shorter.

  “And why not?”

  “A little thing called s-e-x. I don’t know one man who is satisfied with talking and swapping secrets without hitting the sheets—unless he’s gay. Besides, almost every pain-in-the-ass ailment that inflicts women starts with men.”

  “Like?” Melanie asked, knowing she was venturing into dangerous territory. For as much as Candace loved men, there was also a rancid bitt
erness that ran through her heart.

  “Like MEN strual cramps. MENtal illness. MENopause. With that kind of track record, why would you want one as a friend?”

  “Yeah, but there’s also MENtor, which is a very positive thing. We all need one and should be one. And what about MENage à trois? I know that’s a fantasy that’s kept you up more than a few nights,” Melanie joked.

  “True, that,” Candace replied, “but don’t try to change the subject. Let’s get back to this new colleague who is talented, insightful, and inspirational. All admirable attributes, but the question remains: Is he fine?”

  “I think so.”

  “And you’re not drawn to him at all? Not one little iota of a I’d-like-to-break-me-off-a-piece-of-that buzzing around your head or other, more pertinent parts?”

  Melanie took a moment to quickly analyze her attraction to John. She liked the way he listened to her with rapt attention, as if what she were saying was the most important thing he’d heard all day. She enjoyed the way his face glowed with almost childish pleasure when they came up with an idea that worked, and the way his eyes set off a chain reaction of facial movements that erupted into a smile which could only be described as sunshine personified. Did she find John physically appealing? Absolutely. Mentally stimulating? Without a doubt. Melanie found pleasure in his conversation, genius in his work, and eager anticipation preceding every meeting with him. But was she sexually attracted to him? Mel genuinely didn’t know.

  “Maybe. I’m not sure,” she said honestly.

  “I rest my case. Even if you’re not sure, the fact that there’s even a question means that something is there to keep you and your ‘colleague’ from being ‘just friends.’ Sexual desire and friendship do not mix. That’s like dipping ants in chocolate.”

  “Listen, counselor, have you ever once considered the fact that you can just delight in being attracted to someone without having to end up in bed together? That it’s okay to simply feel and enjoy sexual energy without doing anything with it?”

  “But why not do something if the attraction is there?”

  “Because it’s not always the right thing to do. Sometimes acting on it just complicates the situation more than necessary.”

  “Well, that’s you, girlie. If the spark is there, I’d rather light the fire than wonder what I’m missing,” Candace declared as the two crossed the salon headed for the pedicure tubs.

  “And speaking of sparks, you and Griffin have been spending a lot of time together. What’s going on?” Mel asked, dipping her toes into the tub. Melanie felt herself relax the moment her feet slipped into that warm soapy water.

  “Nothing,” Candace replied coyly, avoiding Melanie’s eyes.

  Mel noted with interest the glaring lack of detail provided by her friend. That, in combination with the soft coo of her voice and sanguine grin that threatened to erupt from her lips, confirmed Melanie’s suspicions. Mutual interest was definitely blowing in the crosswinds between Griff and Candace. Was Candy actually falling for a man whose essence outweighed his wallet?

  “So has he heard anything about the movie?”

  “They hired Joe Brandon.”

  “Well, he still has the play. How’s that going?”

  “Good. Griff’s playing the lead.”

  Was that pride lurking behind her words? Mel wondered. “That’s great. Griffin is really on his way.”

  “Come on, Melo. He might be working, but we’re not talking August Wilson on the Great White Way here,” Candy said, snapping back to the wickedly sarcastic, openly judgmental girlfriend Mel knew and loved. “This is a show written by some unknown playwright, being performed in some tiny hole-in-the-wall theater situated in a dark alley somewhere south of where-the-hell-are-we. He’ll be lucky if anybody besides us and the rest of the cast’s families show up.”

  “Plenty of great careers got started off-Broadway.”

  “We’re talking so off-Broadway it’s practically New Jersey. Translation: He ain’t getting paid. But he still seems excited. Go figure.”

  “He should be excited. And you should be for him. Don’t be so hard.”

  “I like hard. Especially when it comes to Griffin,” Candace replied, sticking out her tongue.

  “So he’s just your boy-toy for when Frank’s not around? Nobody you could get serious with?” Mel asked as Candace merely rolled her eyes in response. “Look at him, Candy. Sure, he’s not rich, but he’s fine, smart, funny, and thoughtful. He’s got it all.”

  He’s got it all and still has nothing, Candace screamed in her head with unspoken frustration.

  She knew that Melo found her high standards to be unreasonable and unfair. But how could Melanie possibly understand? She grew up on D.C.’s gold coast, high among the branches of a family tree that bloomed generation after generation with doctors, lawyers, professors, and entrepreneurs. Candace, raised by a single mother who never married the selfish bastard who impregnated her, clung to feeble boughs of a Charlie Brown-esque pine tree, dropping to the ground weary kinfolk who never learned the fine distinction between living life and letting life live them.

  Melanie took for granted all the wonderful, beautiful things that growing up with pedigree and disposable income could buy. Things that made her a member of the elite black bourgeois. Things that screamed to the world that she belonged.

  Where Melo belonged, Candace simply associated. Candy grew up in Dayton, Ohio, and like her best friend, spent time socializing with the exclusive cliques of groups like Jack and Jill and the Links, but with a gaping difference in their connection. While Melo attended as a member, Candace frequented these functions as a visitor. Candy had swum in the warm sapphire-blue waters of the Caribbean, got up close and personal with Mickey Mouse, trekked the Mayan ruins of Mexico, and stayed in the luxurious surroundings of five-star hotels on family vacations, but always with someone else’s family—never her own.

  Candace’s youth was spent making guest appearances in the good life. She had long determined that her adult years would be markedly different. She and her husband would plant their own strong, distinguished family tree—one that replicated the timbers she’d been temporarily nesting in all her life. Candace was smart enough to realize that the luxury cars, diamond jewelry, designer clothes, and world travel wouldn’t make her happy. They would, however, place her squarely within a class of people who looked down instead of being looked down upon; folks who walked into the room like they owned it, not like they cleaned it. Candace wanted money not to buy happiness, but to purchase legitimacy and all the lovely acceptance it brought with it.

  How could she make Melanie understand that Griffin Bell just didn’t fit into her future? Griff was all those wonderful things that Mel had mentioned and more. But it would be years, if ever, before he could afford her the prestige and lifestyle she desperately craved. She had sacrificed a lot these past years, concentrating solely on building her own professional reputation, which is why exclusively dating married men had worked so well. But now that she was ready to settle down with a man of her own, Candace had neither the time nor the interest in backsliding into an one-day-we’ll-have-it-all relationship. As far as Candy was concerned, that one day was already here.

  “Look, Griff is a genuinely nice brother and has skills, both on-and offstage. But unfortunately, talent is all he has to offer. I need more,” Candy explained with a hint of resignation in her tone.

  “And Frank’s got what you need?”

  “Yeah. He does.”

  “Including a wife?”

  Candace responded with a quick cut of her eyes in her friend’s direction, letting Melanie know that she was trampling on dangerous ground. This time last year her days as his mistress seemed numbered, but now, with Frank’s public profile quickly rising, his marriage appeared to be on a steady course toward reconciliation. And all this newfound marital bliss was reeking havoc on Candy’s quest to become the next Mrs. Franklin Warren.

  “Well, I think you really d
o like Griffin,” Mel said quickly, jumping to safer conversational ground. “Much more than you’re ’fessing up to.”

  “I do like him. We’re buddies,” Candace replied, unwilling to concede any further information on her feelings for Griffin.

  “Didn’t you just tell me that men and women can’t be friends?”

  “You have your kind of buddies and I have mine.”

  “Oh,” Melanie said as it dawned on her what Candace meant. “You and Griffin are fuck-buddies.”

  “Exactly. And he exceeds all standards in that category.”

  “Spare me the details. You’re talking to a woman who’s been celibate for nearly a year. And you know what? Sex is like a postage stamp. It’s not important unless you need one,” Melanie groaned.

  “A year? But you and Will have only been broken up for six months. Wait, are you serious? You and Will never did it?”

  “No. We were waiting until our wedding night.”

  “How could you agree to marry him without a test drive? That’s like buying shoes from a catalog. How do you know they’ll fit? And how can you go this long without sex? Don’t you miss all that delicious pokin’ and strokin’?”

  “Yes, I do, so can we change the subject now? Talking about it just makes me more frustrated.”

  “Weren’t you just telling me that it was a good thing to simply feel and enjoy your sexual energy but not do anything with it?”

  “Shut up, ho,” Melanie retorted, making them both laugh. “Don’t you know that chastity is a virtue?”

  “Yeah, chastity is a virtue, and celibacy will have you biting your nails, thus ruining a perfectly good manicure,” Candy said, waving her newly wrapped nails for emphasis. “Either way, you still wind up mad and horny.”