A Love for All Seasons

by Bettye Griffin

  Her demeanor had improved, he noted, even if her diction hadn’t. Good. That meant the fresh air helped. “I’ll bet. Have you known Pete and Rhonda long?”

  She breathed deeply. The crisp fall air was as fresh as air could be in New York. She felt significantly better now than she had upstairs in her apartment, cooler and less light-headed. “Rhonda and I useta work down the hall from each other. We kep’ bumpin’ into each other in the ladies’ room, and both of us liked to walk at lunchtime. We went from casual acquain…acquaintances to real friends. That was, oh, I don’t know how many years ago, but it’s been awhile.”

  “Were you at their wedding?”

  “I’d planned to be there, but my mother had to be hospitalized, so I wasn’t able to make it. I could have managed if they’d gotten married locally, but they got married in Ssssss…somewhere in the Caribbean,” she concluded after giving up on trying to remember the name of the island.

  “Saint Croix.” That explained why he didn’t see her at Pete’s wedding. But he’d seen her now, and he would do all he could to ensure he’d see her again. “I was Pete’s best man.”

  “Fortunately, I wasn’t Rhonda’s maid of honor. I’m afraid my having to cancel at the last minute might have caused them real problems.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. They only had me and Rhonda’s sister as attendants. I remember Pete saying they didn’t want to saddle their closest friends with the expense of wedding attire after they paid for their trip. We didn’t even rehearse. Pete and I wore our own clothes, navy blazers and white slacks; and even Rhonda’s cousin wore an ordinary dress to be maid of honor.”

  “An ordinary dress?”

  “You know, not one of those bridesmaid dresses.”

  She chuckled. “I guess even a man can recoc…knows a bridesmaid dress when he sees one.”

  “The puffy sleeves usually give it away.” He laughed, then turned serious. “I’m sorry to hear your mother was ill,” he said. “Did she recover?”

  “She rebounded, but her health hasn’t been good for a long time. It’s taken a turn for the worse since the spring.” She sounded sad, and he could readily understand. She brightened a little with her next words. “That’s why I had this little get-together tonight, because I’ve been spending most of my time with her. I haven’t seen any of my friends in weeks, aside from the one I work with every day. And she’s not here tonight.”

  Jack nodded.

  “I know it’s become cliché to say one’s mother is a saint. I get this mental picture of Richard Nixon, looking all pinched and righteous, resigning the prez-i-denzy,” she said with a giggle.

  His eyes widened with curiosity. “You actually remember when that happened? That was over thirty years ago.”

  “No, of course not. I’m only thirty-four. I saw the news ar…archives in history class. But I can truly say that my mother is a completely kind person.” She shrugged. “Of course, I’ve only been around maybe half her life, but I’ve never known her to say a mean thing to or about anyone.”

  “Is it just the two of you?” He welcomed this opportunity to learn more about the woman who’d so captivated him.

  “My father died two years ago. My folks were older than the parents of most of my friends. Late bloomers, they used to say.”

  “Are you an only child?”

  “Nah, I’ve got a sister.”

  He looked at her sharply. Alicia spoke of her sister with a dismissive air very different from the loving way she described her mother.

  “So whawazit that brought you to New York from Alabama, Dev?” she asked, then stopped and drew in her breath. “Doggone it, I did it again. It just keeps slippin’ out.”

  “It’s all right for you to call me that,” he said easily. He liked the thought of Alicia having her own name for him that was hers alone. He’d noticed that Derek Taylor kissed her on the mouth when he left the party, and he didn’t like it. It made him wonder about the nature of their relationship.

  “I doan know why I keep doin’ that,” Alicia said, sounding frustrated.

  “Alicia. Don’t worry about it.”

  “What’d you call me?”

  “Alicia. Isn’t that your name?”

  “You say it differently.” He pronounced it A-lee-see-a, which sounded more melodic than the usual A-lee-sha. “Alicia,” she said, saying it the way he had. “Thas pretty. I like it.”

  “A pretty name for a pretty woman. And in answer to your question,” he said, feeling he’d made his point and not wanting to fluster her in her slightly intoxicated state, “I took a job here.” He named the pharmaceutical firm that employed him, a name Alicia instantly recognized. “I’m Director of their Creative Network division.”

  “Ah, good for you. I guess they paid all your relocation expenses.”

  “They reimbursed me, yes.”

  “What do you think of our fair city?”

  “I think it’s an exciting place, but not for the faint of heart. I’m glad I live in Stamford.”

  They shared a laugh. Jack glanced at the street sign and saw they were approaching Seventy-Ninth Street. They’d walked nearly seven blocks. “How far did you want to walk? Remember, we have to turn around and walk back. But if you’re tired I guess we can always flag down a cab.”

  “Oh, I’m fine. This walk is doin’ me good. Lez go another couple o’ blocks. Unless, of course, you didden wanna get home too late.”

  “Not a problem. I’m not driving, so all I have to do is cab it to Grand Central and I’m good to go.”

  They walked down to Seventy-Second Street before turning around to head back to Alicia’s apartment. Their conversation flowed just as easily as the traffic headed down Broadway.

  “I’d like to see you to your door,” he said when they approached the dismal-looking five-story building of dark brown brick.

  She smiled knowingly. “Oh, thas not necess…sary.”

  Her knowing smile both embarrassed and annoyed him. “I’m sure you’ve heard that line before, but this is on the level, Alicia. I’m concerned for your safety.”

  “Once I get in the building I’ll be fine. Besides, for all I know you’re an ax murderer.”

  “It would be pretty hard to conceal an ax,” he said, looking over his crew neck sweater, sports coat, and slacks.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. She stopped suddenly, placing her hands on her hips. “Iz that an ax in your pocket, or are you jus’ happy to see me?” she said in an imitation of Mae West. Then she broke off into a fit of giggles.

  Jack managed an uncomfortable smile, resisting the urge to look down. He assumed that his navy slacks gave him a certain amount of discretion. Had she actually noticed….?

  He decided to make light of it. “You’re a fun person, Alicia. I’d like to see you again, if you haven’t noticed.”

  She hesitated long enough to make him nervous. Had he misread the vibes? She seemed to be as drawn to him as he was to her. How could he be so wrong?

  “Call me,” she finally said.

  He tried not to show his relief. Then again, the excessive liquor she’d consumed could have made her a little slow on the draw.

  “I don’t have your number.”

  She recited it.

  “I don’t have a pen,” he said.

  She smiled slyly. “Then you’ll have to remember it, won’t you?”

  Jack knew then that her slow response to his suggestion that they see each other again hadn’t come from liquor. Alicia’s words might be slurred, but her mind remained sharp as a Ginsu knife. Something else had made her hesitate. He wished he knew the reason.

  “Are you sure you’ll be able to make it up all those stairs?” he asked, genuinely concerned. She had to climb three flights of stairs to her fourth-floor apartment in the building, which had no elevator.

  She chuckled. “You know, that man in London they called The Ripper, his first name was Jack, too.”

  “All right, all right. I get the messag
e.” He couldn’t fault her for being cautious, even if he knew his motives were pure. He just wanted to make sure she got safely inside her apartment. He wouldn’t trust himself if she invited him in.

  “Let me make sure I’ve got it,” he said before repeating her telephone number. When she nodded he said, “I won’t forget it.”

  “G’night, Dev. And thanks for the walk. I feel a lot better now.” She unlocked the front door to the building rather smoothly and slipped inside the vestibule, leaving him to stand and watch her through the glass window as she passed the mailboxes and headed for the stairs. He hoped she’d turn and wave to him, but she didn’t. Maybe she thought he’d already gone.

  Or, he thought with a sinking heart, maybe she just wasn’t interested enough to want to.

  Chapter 4

  Behind That Locked Door

  Somehow Alicia managed to drag herself up the stairs. Her knees felt like they would buckle at any moment, and she panted as she fumbled with her keys. Eventually she managed to turn the key in the Medeco lock on her door and get inside.

  She’d rented this fourth-floor walkup apartment for a song four years ago. It had been in deplorable condition then, but after putting considerable work into it, it truly felt like home. And it was cheap.

  She did a quick inspection of the studio, suddenly grateful to Rhonda for insisting she help with the cleanup. The leftover food had been put away, the counters wiped down, and as a result nothing imperative had to be done tonight. She could go to sleep without guilt and simply do a quick clean and vacuum in the morning, before she left for her mother’s.

  Out of habit she carefully hung her clothes up and tossed her undergarments in the hamper inside her large walk-in closet. She pulled on a button-down-front flannel sleep shirt, then removed the oversize pillows that covered her daybed and climbed between the covers. She realized too late that she’d forgotten to get her sleep pillows out of the closet, so she angrily kicked the covers off and got back up again to retrieve them.

  The moment she laid down the second time her thoughts immediately went to Jack Devlin. What was it about him that unnerved her so? Usually at social functions she had no more than two drinks, and not particularly strong ones at that, like wine spritzers. On the other hand, tonight she’d consumed so many Kamikazes she’d lost count. She never drank this much, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Jack Devlin lay at the root of her behavior.

  Clearly, she’d had an effect on him as well, a more traditional one. She hesitated when he asked her out, torn between curiosity and apprehension before the former won out. How could it not? Every time he said her name her body tingled.

  Still, she wasn’t sure whether or not she should see him again. She certainly had a demanding schedule, between work and her mother’s illness. She really didn’t need another complication in her life. Surely Jack Devlin, a man she’d never seen in her life but who had an almost haunting familiarity about him, represented an upset to a demanding but manageable life….

  Her head felt a little heavy when she awoke at eight the next morning, a fact she became painfully aware of when she tried to sit up. She raised her hands to steady her head, expecting it to be as wide as a football, but surprised to find that it felt like its normal size. Instantly she remembered the events of last night and the tall stranger who made her react so oddly.

  Slowly she pushed her body up until she reached a standing position, supporting herself with a hand on the tall headboard. She’d purchased this daybed at an estate sale in Westport after she rented this apartment in a deplorable run-down condition and did enough work in it to make it habitable.

  She still remembered the first day she’d come to look at the apartment that had been her home for more than four years. She’d taken one look at its filthy linoleum floors, its walls full of holes, and the flood-damaged kitchen floor and prepared to walk out, cursing the rental agent who told her about this place, but then the landlord named an incredibly low rent figure. That number enticed her to take a closer look. The landlord preferred to rent the apartment in its present condition at a substantially low rent to a tenant willing to work hard to restore it than to make the repairs himself and rent it at market rate.

  Alicia decided that the thousand dollars or so it would take to rehab the studio apartment would be well worth it. She’d recently invested in the court stenography business of her childhood friend Shannon Anderson, and she preferred not to make that long commute to Connecticut every day. Besides, she wanted to offer more than financial backing to the business. That meant she had to attend school to learn how to do court transcription and how to edit the transcripts, a process called “scoping.” If she took classes in the evening she wouldn’t have so far to travel to get home. Her new field of business couldn’t be learned in a few weeks or even months; it would take at least two years.

  The apartment required long weeks of work, so Alicia had plenty of time to look for furnishings. She began attending estate sales all along Long Island Sound. When she saw this bed she knew she had to have it.

  One of the reasons she liked it was that the four-foot-high head and foot boards shut out much of the light, providing a cocooned environment that felt safe and welcoming for a person like herself who had no enclosed bedroom. Its rather odd appearance, with only the high sides and no back, made it look more like an unusual sofa rather than a daybed, which were supposed to be low-key but were generally as easily identifiable as Smokey Robinson’s falsetto. Once covered with an Aztec print throw and a dozen pillows of different sizes, shapes, and colors, most guests at her apartment weren’t aware this odd-looking piece of furniture served as her bed.

  Alicia stumbled a few feet to the bathroom. Maybe a cold shower would help clear her head.

  She felt better when she emerged, dripping wet. How could people stand to drink large quantities of alcohol? She couldn’t understand how anyone could function after waking up feeling like this.

  She checked the time. Eight-forty. At least she hadn’t slept the morning away. If she hurried she could catch the nine-fifteen at One-Hundred-Twenty-Fifth Street.

  Chapter 5

  Isn’t It a Pity

  At Alicia’s direction, the taxi driver pulled over in front of a stately tan brick Georgian colonial set back from the road. The glistening water of Long Island Sound could be seen in the background. She didn’t even have to look at the meter; she knew from having made this ride many times what the fare would be. She handed him the money. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks.” The cabby looked at the impressive house. “You work here, huh?”

  She sighed. She’d heard this many times before. “No, actually, I live here.”

  The cabbie chuckled. “Yeah, and I’m George Dubya.”

  Having already placed her wallet back securely inside her shoulder bag, Alicia grabbed her nylon duffel bag and opened the cab door, slamming it shut behind her forcefully. She heard these types of remarks all the time, and they never failed to tick her off. No one wanted to believe that anAfrican-American family could reside in the fashionable Green’s Farms section of Westport, one of many monied suburbs in Fairfield County. But Fletcher Timberlake, her father, hadn’t believed in living small. A successful criminal attorney who served clients of all races at a time when African-Americans were just beginning to rise in the private sector, he’d become only the second person of his race to own a seat on the New York Stock Exchange. He didn’t care whose eyebrows went up when he purchased this house over twenty-five years before. Most of the neighbors welcomed them, whether out of honesty or out of a wish not to be viewed as bigots.

  Alicia smiled at the memory of her father. He truly had been larger than life, and he enjoyed himself right up until the day he died of a sudden, massive stroke.

  She let herself in the front door. She put her bag down in the large foyer with its sweeping staircase. Before she could go into the living room on the left, a full-figured woman clad in a light blue blous
e and navy slacks appeared in the doorway. Her concerned expression quickly turned into a smile. “Alicia!” she said happily, arms outstretched. “I’m so glad to see you, dear.”

  “Hi, Martha!” Alicia warmly embraced the woman who’d worked for her parents since she was in college, probably about fifteen years now. “Didn’t Daphne tell you I’d be up today?”

  “She sure didn’t. But she’s been having a hard time of it lately. Your mother’s illness has her worried and unhappy.”

  “She also doesn’t think of anyone outside her own little circle,” Alicia remarked. She regretted her words when she noticed the uncomfortable expression on Martha’s face. After all these years, Daphne still treated Martha like a servant, but Martha simply regarded it as part of the job. She was much too conservative to ever complain about it, nor would she be at ease with anyone else speaking badly of Daphne.

  Alicia changed the subject to put Martha at ease. “How’s Mom feeling today?”

  “About the same. Daphne is up with her. Todd and Fletcher are out somewhere. They took Lucky with them.”

  Alicia nodded. Daphne’s husband and son loved the gentle Irish setter that had been part of the household since the cocker spaniel that had been their childhood pet passed on. “No wonder Lucky didn’t come to greet me.” Lucky had always been more attached to her than to Daphne, who, it was discovered soon after the arrival of their first pet, had an allergy to dog hair. Unfortunately, Alicia’s studio apartment simply didn’t have the space a dog of Lucky’s size needed. Here in Green’s Farms she had plenty of room to run around, plus she was well cared for. Her presence made it seem less like a house of sickness.

  “Why don’t you go on up, and I’ll bring you something to drink,” Martha suggested. “What would you like? Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate with whipped cream?”

  “Hot chocolate sounds great. It’s a little nippy out this morning. Thanks. Hey, how’s Marvin and the kids?”