“Really? I guess the older woman wanting a younger man isn’t new,” replied the man who looked to be at least twenty years younger than his date. “There’s nothing new under the sun. The real deal is that they remained married until he died.”
She gave him a small smile.
“Kids?”
“No, but they had one another and their work.”
The man stared ahead, seemingly captivated by painting of a man and a woman, in a stark setting, with their heads bowed in gratitude over bowls of food. It was entitled They Were Very Poor.
“They must have been kindred spirits.” Referring to the program she juggled with her drink and a plate of appetizers, she said, “This says they were married for almost sixty years.”
Lance considered the woman’s words. Kindred spirits. The kind of love that is all about partnering with someone who shares more than just the same space, but a willingness to help each other achieve what is wanted out of life.
He thought he’d found that once but he had made the unfortunate mistake of losing her. Instead, he had married Charlotte Johnson because he had taken her virginity and gotten her pregnant. Their families insisted that they give the marriage a long, hard try. But they were never friends or lovers—only trapped. And that “long, hard try” had been one hell of a long lesson.
The one good thing that had resulted from the relationship was his daughter, Yasmine. Lance smiled when he thought of her. She was the best part of his life. Both he and Charlotte had agreed that, no matter what, Yasmine would have two parents. That covenant was the super glue that had bound them. Yaz, as Lance affectionately nicknamed his baby girl, was what made their sacrifice well worth it. Now that she about to graduate and head off to Hampton University, Lance wanted to be free and so did Charlotte. After years of walking on eggshells to avoid conflict with his hypersensitive mate, he looked forward to being peacefully alone.
Lance Crayton aimed to make one last pass around the gallery and have a final look at Carpenters. He’d seen it a half dozen times, and each time, being a painter himself, the blue, brown and red hues drew him in more deeply.
He moved to the northeast wall of the gallery, where a tall, decidedly elegant woman stood alone near the painting. Her well-defined profile vaguely reminded him of someone from his past. The mere thought of that woman quickened his heartbeat.
She looks so much like … But it couldn’t be.
He hurried toward the painting and the woman. Suddenly his view and his path were blocked by an elderly couple walking slowly past him arm-in-arm. Lance deftly sidestepped them, but when he arrived at the painting, the woman had vanished. He scanned the area in time to see the elevator doors shut.
Lance’s heart was still thumping in his chest. The coincidence was too great. It couldn’t possibly have been April Madden. It had been over seventeen years since they had broken up, and if his soon-to-be ex-wife, Charlotte, was any example, April was probably married and overweight. The hot looking woman in the short black dress was a ringer for the April he had kept tucked away in his mind’s eye.
His youthful lust had spoiled their relationship and had caused him to pay a hefty price. But in thirty days it would be over. Thank God.
Lance glanced up at a backlit, framed black and white photo of Jacob Lawrence with his wife Gwendolyn Knight Lawrence that hung near the elevator. They had been married most of their adult lives, and he wondered what it must have been like to be with someone who genuinely understood you—a kindred spirit.
He plucked a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and drank a silent toast to the Lawrences. Those two had managed to create and leave an artistic legacy. Lance wondered how a man even found that kind of woman—one with whom he could share a common purpose.
“Jacob, old boy, you were a lucky dude,” he said, lifting his champagne glass to salute the man he so admired, then draining the contents before handing it to a server.
Like the Jill Scott song said, soon he, like his artistic mentor, would be living his life like it was golden.
Chapter 3
“Suri I’m going to go with Ace,” April said, swiveling in the executive chair to face her assistant. “I liked him, and he’s a member of the Northern Illinois Home Builders Association.”
Bob Grayson of Ace Complete Construction came highly recommended by two of her clients who had built homes in Olympia Fields, the village where she wanted to live.
Suri cocked her head to the side, and her hair fell over her dark brown eyes. “So let me understand you,” she began, her bracelets tinkling lightly as she wrote on her note pad. “I should call LC Construction and cancel your meeting … again?”
April detected the annoyance in Suri’s voice, but she had already made her decision. LC looked good on paper, but Ace was a third-generation African American construction company with strong ties to city hall, which in Chicago meant City contracts and a well-capitalized business. A business with a better than adequate cash flow, meant stability in April’s book. Ace would also likely have contacts in Olympia Fields that could hasten her new construction.
“A good homebuilder is a good homebuilder,” she said to Suri, whose lips were drawn into a frown. “I’m not building a five-star hotel. I’m going with Bob.”
Suri’s shoulders slumped in an uncharacteristic display of frustration. “Understood. I’ll take care of it.”
April stared at the door long after her assistant had cleared the threshold. She and Suri didn’t always see eye to eye. However, April had learned long ago that to have inner peace, she had to let go of things she couldn’t control and focus like a laser on her own goals. She thought back to the lesson she had learned long ago when she had focused so much attention on a relationship that sent her into a tailspin.
Jean Baptiste Point DuSable High School, Senior Year
Seventeen-year old April Madden had no way of knowing when she entered the alcove outside of the boys’ gym that her heart was like an ice crystal—able to shatter into a thousand bitter fragments.
She was all set to give Lance “Cray-baby” Crayton, a peck on the cheek and a “have a good game” hug. April walked up just in time to hear Charlotte Johnson, one of the long-haired, big-legged cheerleaders, tearfully plead, “But I’m going to have your baby. You can’t just leave me.”
Lance looked up at that moment and locked a fearful gaze directly onto April. April didn’t need to ask if what Charlotte said was true. The mixture of pain and fear instantly transmitted between them was clear. Crystal clear.
Charlotte lifted her head from his chest slowly, following Lance’s stricken gaze to April. The victory in her glassy eyes pierced April’s heart. Her lips, though pursed together in disappointment, still seemed to say, “He’s all mine now.”
Like a wounded animal, April tucked tail and walked briskly from the alcove to put as much distance between her pain and that memory as possible. Then, clutching her school books to her chest, as if to still her beating heart, she broke into an unbridled sprint. She didn’t remember the mile-and-a-half run home to her family’s apartment on 47th and Drexel.
Lance, the only person in the world she had shared all her dreams with, the boyfriend she dreamt of marrying after college, had gotten Charlotte Johnson pregnant.
Hot tears flowed down her face, and the heaving sobs that ensued took away the innocence of first love and soured her belief that the girls who wait get the love they deserve.
While at the Museum of Contemporary Art, she had found herself drawn to the painting entitled Carpenters—her favorite among all of Lawrence’s works. Something in the strength portrayed in the painting just spoke to her. It was the only thing that had captured her attention that evening. That is, until a man wearing a Giorgio Armani suit caught her eye. She could almost swear that he was a mirage of her first love.
She shook off that memory and pulled out the documentation on the next wave of bad press to assail Pastor Kinky & Company, the nickname she had given the wild m
inister, his wife, and the more-than-willing parishioner.
April was a strategic thinker. She hadn’t gotten a reputation as a top public relations specialist in Chicago by making stupid decisions. Suri might be upset with her choice to contract Ace without meeting with LC Construction, but the youngster would get over it.
Just like April had gotten over Lance Crayton.
Chapter 4
Lance whizzed past Marshfield Plaza and the Kroc Salvation Army Community Center on the way to his West Pullman office. His early morning breakfast meeting with a city inspector had been fruitful in a number of ways. His friend, also a former building commissioner, had tipped him off as to which inspectors required cash to grease the wheels and which ones were legitimate. He’d rather do business with a man who was on the up and up any day, even if it meant that he sometimes lost the bid.
The cell phone rang, but he let it go to voicemail.
Ordinarily, he answered all calls immediately. Yaz had been on him recently about being as busy in the car as he was in his office. But before he left the house that morning, she had pleaded with him to make a change. “Daddy, I saw on Channel 7 this morning that a woman crashed her truck because she was caught up in an argument over her cell phone and lost control of the car.”
Her weary eyes were burned in his mind this morning, and he had purposely left his cell in his briefcase.
Lance slowed his truck to a stop outside of his office in a new industrial corridor that promised to stabilize the Greater Roseland-West Pullman community. The area had undergone the kind of transition that meant growth and business development. The community was once a retail center and a thriving economic engine for the South Side. He wanted to help bring it back its glory days. He was hoping to help ease the rampant unemployment in the area, particularly with young men who were more often characterized as “gang-affiliated” than as human beings needing skills, discipline, and meaningful employment. His own bootstrap approach, along with the training he had received in the Army, would be critical to the success he hoped to have with the youth.
He grabbed his yellow hard hat from the passenger seat and walked the gravel pathway to his building, a renovated warehouse with offices and a garage for heavy machinery. The headquarters of LC Construction was almost hidden in plain sight on 121st and Ada, nestled behind MIFAB Industries, the Legacy Ballroom, and several acres of uncultivated brush.
Mondays were reserved for clearing his paperwork, checking his billings with the company’s accountant, and troubleshooting any issues.
Lance opened the dark brown briefcase and pulled out his phone. Two messages. He took the most important one first.
“Daddy, I just wanted to say I love you,” Yaz said. “I know I sounded a little dramatic this morning, but it’s just because I love you, and I know how you are. Have the best day ever.”
Lance paused for a moment. Then smiling, he replayed the message.
He didn’t recognize the phone number for the second voicemail, but when the message played, his anger skyrocketed. In seconds he was behind the steering wheel again, throwing the truck in reverse. He made a U-turn and created a cloud of dust heading for the highway.
* * *
Lance flung open the heavy glass doors to A-Game Public Relations, LLC and rushed towards the petite woman behind the reception desk.
“I need to see Mr. Abbot, young lady,” he snapped.
The woman, who sounded like the same person he’d been communicating with during the bidding process, gave him a look of barely veiled defiance as she corrected him with, “Ms. Abbott.”
“Oh really, no matter, I’m the president of LC Construction Company …” he replied, then scanned the nameplate to confirm. “We recently bid on a job, Suri. And the meeting was canceled. Again.”
She looked up at him with a calm demeanor that further irritated him. Glancing at the 23-inch computer monitor, she said, “Sir, I delivered the message my boss asked me to relay. I’m sorry, but there isn’t going to be a meeting. A contractor has already been chosen.”
“The hell you say,” he snapped, glaring at her. “Without even giving me an opportunity to show my portfolio or what I could bring to the project? That’s not how to do business. What kind of operation are you all running?” He simmered down, realizing that the woman was only carrying out someone else’s instructions. “I want to see your manager!”
Suri stood and pressed a button that obscured the text on the screen. “Fine, let me ask if she has a few minutes to speak with you, Sir.”
Four-inch heels clicked against the tile as she walked a few feet toward frosted glass windows.
“Suri, what’s going on out there?” a sultry voice inquired of her assistant, who was standing in the open door of the carpeted office. “Is there a problem? I thought I heard—”
“The guy from LC Construction is at my desk,” Suri said in an excited whisper, peering out the door to look back at him, before turning her focus back inside the office. “And he’s pissed because you canceled his meeting again. He’s demanding to see you.”
Chapter 5
April slammed down the stack of photos for a press junket with a rising Neo Soul recording artist and said, “But I told you I already selected a contractor.”
The normally unflappable Suri responded in a whisper, “Boss lady, this man is serious. My only other option is to call security.”
“Absolutely not,” April said, rising from her desk. She removed her reading glasses and pushed them into her hair like a headband. “We’re not going to have the other tenants gossiping about security having to come to my office.” She glared across the desk at her assistant. “My goodness. Why can’t he just take no for an answer?”
Suri shrugged, gripping her ballpoint pen tightly. “I have no idea.”
April sat down in her cushiony ergonomic chair and took a deep breath. “Show him in.”
The assistant cleared out of the office in record time. Her voice carried back into the office when she said, “This way, Mr. Crayton.”
April winced. What? Did she say … Crayton?
The man who crossed her threshold was casually dressed in a well-cut pair of jeans and a dark green tee-shirt with LC CONSTRUCTION written in gold block lettering. Underneath the bold lettering, the company tagline read, On point. On time. On budget. The shirt, tucked and belted into his jeans, strained to fit broad shoulders and an expansive chest, and finally tapered to hug the taut, muscular waist.
Lance Crayton was every bit as handsome as she remembered. Age had only smoothed his rough edges, and for a moment her heart thumped.
Suri looked back and forth at what could only be shocked expressions on Lance’s and April’s faces. “You know one another, I take it?”
Barely able to keep her jaw from dropping open, April managed a slight nod.
Lance recovered and said, “Yes. We do.” His baritone voice was steady and confident. Here was a man used to having his way, one way or another.
As Suri moved to exit, she looked over her shoulder at April. “Ms. Abbott, would you like me to leave the door open for air?” Code for: Can I hear this conversation or not?
“Close the door, Suri.”
April motioned for her visitor to sit. “This is awkward, Lance.”
The audacity of him to impose himself on me in this way.
“So now I understand why I got shut down,” he said, sinking into a high-back chair directly across from her. “I had no idea that you were A. Abbot.”
“And I didn’t know you were LC Construction,” April said sitting forward in her chair. A scowl created a furrow across her brow. “Suri uses my initial to keep my gender concealed,” she said, trying to mask the amusement in her tone. “Men—especially contractors—deal differently with men than they do with women. You, of all people, would know that.
“Abbott?” he said, with a speaking glance to her left hand where no wedding ring resided.
“Not that it’s any of your business,
” she answered coolly, “but I was married briefly eleven years ago.” She focused in on him. “You’re in construction?” she asked, toying with a paperweight on her desk and trying to look into the calmness of Lake Michigan and beyond the turbulence rolling through her mind.
“I was good, but I was never destined to be a professional basketball player and when—”
“You let your little head do all your thinking?” she supplied with more than a slight edge in her tone.
He grimaced, shifting under her penetrating glare. “Yes, when … everything happened, I was forced to rethink my goals. I lost the scholarship. Couldn’t concentrate on school, basketball, a wife, and a new baby.” He took a breath and looked away as if deciding whether to continue. “I’d lost you. Joining the Army got me a better way through school and the funds to provide for my family, but I’m not a career soldier. To be honest, I was kinda lost. Eventually, I settled on doing something constructive, pun intended.” He smiled, revealing a perfect set of pearly whites with a tiny gap between the two front teeth.
“I’ve selected another company,” she answered, hoping her disinterest came through. She wasn’t going to get sucked into a friendly conversation with him.
“So I gathered from the message. To me that means you don’t want the best man for the job.”
“You have no right to say that,” she shot back, crossing one leg over the other. “I want the best, and I think I got it.”
Lance walked over to a mahogany credenza and fingered a few framed photos of April—one with Whoopi Goldberg, another with singer Neo, and an NAACP Image Award photo with a host of celebrities.
He scanned a handful of public relations industry awards before saying, “How can you know that when you didn’t even listen to my proposal? If that’s how you would proceed with a construction bid to build a brand new home that,” he looked at her surroundings, “based on the level of quality I’m seeing in your offices, might be worth more than a quarter million without talking to me first …”
Signed, Sealed, Delivered ... I'm Yours Page 25
