“Would you rethink your options if I made life harder for you?”
And it was that last question, on top of being called a bitch, that did it. Yes, she realized, now that she was out of the showroom and walking down the hot pavement of Baker Street. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Talking to him, she’d known that a single word would be one too many, but she spoke anyway. “You know what, Kelvin? You threw me out, left me pretty damned-near penniless, and then laughed your ass off while I tried to figure out how to keep mine out of the gutter. There’s not a whole lot else you can do to make my life difficult. You’re going to get your money when I get it, and calls like this won’t make that happen any faster.”
“Sounds like you need a lesson…”
“Sounds like you didn’t learn a lesson. Next time you threaten me, next time you get enough nerve to call me a bitch, I’m not going to be the only one getting surprised. Count on it.”
Clicking the phone closed, she’d leaned against the cool tile wall, her knees weak. Her sagging body slid slowly to the floor, and she’d crouched there for a long time, arms wrapped around her bent legs. Resting her cheek against her knees, she wondered if she had sounded brave or crazy on the phone. Probably a little of both.
Standing, she’d walked to the sink to wash her face and hands. On the counter in front of her, her phone danced and buzzed again. Kelvin apparently disliked being hung up on and was trying to have the last word. Silencing the phone gave her a tremendous amount of satisfaction, and Bianca found herself humming by the time she returned to the showroom floor. She might well have continued humming for the remainder of her day—if it hadn’t been for Julia.
Julia had launched her crusade at lunch on Wednesday. And it’s my fault for giving her the opening. If I hadn’t gotten caught up in the storeroom, I would have been on time and she never would have met Akemi. If she hadn’t met him and gotten wrapped up in all that charm, he would never have asked her out, and my life would be easier.
But she had been late. And now Julia was determined to go—dragging her sister with her. And here she was on the line again. Feeling guilty for letting the last four calls go to voice mail, Bianca had answered—and the floodgates opened.
“Bianca, I know you said you weren’t interested in going out and being a third wheel, but I think this might be just what you need to get you out of your rut.”
Determined not to scream, Bianca had headed back to the ladies’ room. “Don’t you have any real work to do? You’ve been on the phone with me at least four out of every eight hours, and my answer is still the same: NO! The man is my boss, for heaven’s sake. I need this job, Julia. You have a fight with him, do the wrong thing, make the wrong moves, and I’m out. You going out with him complicates everything, and if you dare add sex to the mix…”
“Are you saying that you think I’m bad in bed, because…”
“Aargh! I don’t want to know anything about you and a bed. Nothing, do you hear me? Absolutely nothing!”
“You started it,” Julia sulked.
“Did not. I simply said…Never mind what I said. I am not going out with you. In fact, I’m going to pretend like I don’t know you two have ever met. I’m going to ignore both of you.”
And she might have done exactly that had Akemi Jordan not walked out with her at the end of the day.
Self-possessed and securely masculine, Akemi held the door and walked to the elevator with her. He’d cheerfully told her to think of Friday as being completely casual and that he was looking forward to it.
“Friday? What’s happening Friday?”
“My brother and I will be meeting you and the lovely Julia at Dugan’s for karaoke. It’s a nice place. We should have a good time.”
“Your…” Did he say brother? Bianca stumbled and would have gone face-first to the floor had he not caught her elbow. “No, no,” she stuttered. Why is he nodding? Can’t he hear? “No, no.”
She was still auditioning various forms of the word ‘no’ when the elevator doors opened. “Ah,” Akemi said, “I need to go back for my book.” He stepped back and smiled. “I’ll be out of the office tomorrow during the day, but Harry and I will definitely see you tomorrow night.”
“I am not going,” she promised herself. “I will not be there to see you or your brother.” The elevator reached the lobby and she remembered that she had to make a quick grocery run. But I never said a word about going anywhere with my sister and Akemi Jordan. Or his brother, Harry.
Pushing a cart through the produce department, Bianca refused to believe that Akemi Jordan needed to bring his brother, Harry, along because he was afraid of Julia. He’s probably just trying to do him a favor.
Kind of like Julia probably thinks she’s doing for me, she told herself.
Joi had met the brother, said he was very nice, then kept the rest of her thoughts to herself. To her credit, Joi Lansing was no workplace gossip, but what she was not saying spoke volumes. Harry was probably some kind of loser and Akemi was just being a good brother.
As Bianca unloaded her basket at the checkout counter, she found her tolerance for sibling meddling had grown, marginally. Maybe Julia and Akemi really did just want their siblings around as buffers. He was divorced and she had thrown away the love of her life—maybe they really were just a little gun-shy.
Hoping that her sister was above trying to set her up, Bianca took her bags and left the store. Two blocks later, she finally reached Museum Tower and, grateful for the assist, she waited for a tall smiling man to open the door for her. In the lobby, she set the bags at her feet and pulled off her suit jacket. The corner of her mouth ticked upward when she noticed the Out-of-Order sign on one of the two passenger elevators.
She pressed the call button on the lone functioning elevator and eased her foot free of her leather pump. Wiggling her toes, she thought of how good it would feel to get into the condo and get out of the rest of her suit. Pajamas. And dinner with time to crash on the sofa.
Watching the elevator’s floor indicator, she realized it was still going up, and sighed. This was going to take a little while. Bringing her fingers to the bridge of her nose, Bianca closed her eyes and massaged lightly, the little effort making her long for her favorite spa. But the spa, like many other things, would have to wait for a little while. Everything, it seemed, took a little while. Getting her life back was taking a little while, paying off her watch loan was taking a little while, getting the Neiman’s order finished was taking a little while, and yet it was all good. She opened her eyes and found she was still alone in the lobby, but the elevator was finally descending. Her cellphone vibrated in her pocket just before it buzzed. It was Julia again.
“So, did you decide about tomorrow night? Will you come? Say you’ll come.”
“You didn’t tell me his brother was coming.”
“Didn’t I? I thought I did, but we’re only including him because you said you didn’t want to feel like a third wheel. With a second man there, you won’t have to. Come on, Bianca, I’ve been asking, begging you, for two days. Don’t make me call this rent. Say you’ll come.”
“I’ve already told you no. You like him and he likes you; you don’t need me.”
Not ashamed to wheedle and bribe, Julia whined. “I wouldn’t ask you, except that you’re my sister and if I can’t turn to you, then…”
“All right! Karaoke and strange men, one of whom happens to be my boss, and you just happen to find him irresistible. Oh, how can I possibly resist?”
“So you’ll come?”
The elevator doors opened, and Bianca grabbed her groceries and stepped on board. Feeling coerced, she gave in. “I’ll come, but only because I suspect that this is one of those sister things, and you’ll set up a petition to send me straight to hell if I don’t.”
Julia’s shrill cheer filled her ear and nearly drowned out the sound of the man rushing into the lobby as the elevator doors came together. Instinctively helpful,
Bianca slapped at the panel of buttons, hitting everything except OPEN. The man slapped at the doors again.
“Oh, great,” Bianca muttered. Now she was going to stop on nearly every floor, and her helpful effort had been for naught. She sighed heavily and stepped out of her pumps. “Just great.”
“Great,” Harry Jordan said, watching the elevator doors close. “With my luck, it’ll go all the way to the top, hitting every floor, and then stop.”
He pulled his tie loose, and removed his jacket, folding it over his arm. He pulled his cufflinks free, then rolled up the sleeves of his pale-green shirt. Even as he became more comfortable, Harry found himself thinking that Kemi would never do what he’d done. Fashion was his brother’s religion and he would never spoil the lines of his GQ look. Then he thought of his brother’s latest Harry Rejuvenation Project: trying to fix him up with the sister of a woman he’d just met.
No, thanks, he promised himself. When he was ready to meet a woman, he would do it on his own. Turning away from the dawdling elevator, he looked out at the street and saw the shimmer of not-yet summer heat rising off the sidewalk. He saw women in cool summer dresses, men in shorts and sandals, ready for the already hot weather, all headed for the park.
When I’m ready to meet a woman, I’ll do it on my own, he thought again, as his fingers brushed the postcard from Karen. She was in Portugal again and had thought of him. She’d scrawled a teasing nod to their former acquaintance across the back of the card.
He’d jammed the stupid thing into his pocket earlier—not sure why, he’d just done it. Maybe because it was easier than leaving it out in plain sight where someone else might see it, and he would feel compelled to explain. How do you explain a woman like Karen Dodge? She was une femme de goût, a woman of taste; no, she was a woman of certain tastes, and in another time she would have been called an adventuress.
He fingered the card and out of nowhere, recalled the words of an old song—a song about falling for the wrong woman and never being able to love again. Funny I would remember that, but I have trouble remembering her face. As much as I thought I loved her…
Without trying very hard, Harry could almost smell her cologne, and could remember the cool trace of her fingers against his skin when it was still hot from sex. If he closed his eyes and stood very still, he could still feel her kisses, the little ones when her lashes touched him like butterfly wings. The sweet ghosts of what might have been still lingered. And that was really all she’d ever given him, wasn’t it? Wispy promise of what might have been.
But she had never lied, he had to admit. From the very beginning, she told him that whatever they made of a sunny holiday would never last. She told him he was only her present and that he should never confuse the moment with love. She had told him she was not for him.
He stood there waiting for the elevator, the glossy card between his fingers. We loved each other for the moment; we just couldn’t get that moment to last. That wasn’t exactly true. They loved being together; laughing together, making love together. When she had enough, she’d shed him like a loose garment and gone her way. Never took his calls, and or bothered to make further contact—until now.
He pulled the postcard from his pocket. Lisbon, Portugal. He closed his eyes, remembering the city. Springtime temperatures in winter, freshened by a breeze blowing in from the Atlantic, built across seven terraced hills along the Tagus River. That was Lisbon, the city he’d shared with her.
Looking at the card, he saw that it had been forwarded from the Lapa Palace. Offering a sumptuous courtyard view, the Lapa Palace was exactly the sort of place where a man would expect to find a woman like Karen. He turned the card over. For a second, he saw nothing, only felt his own heartbeat and imagined the turn his life might have taken if he hadn’t let his heart get involved.
Imagination failed him, and he forced himself to focus on the card. Written in her languid scrawl was her message: Still beautiful. Still magical. Lisbon is fabulous, too. Stay well and enjoy life. Karen.
Sounds just like her. Harry flipped the card over and looked at the Lapa Palace again. Guess I should consider this as closure, huh? It’s been three years. That ought to be ‘closed’ enough for anybody else, why not me?
He imagined her again, the way she’d been on the last day, her long, lithe body a twist of molten chocolate amid the toss of soft white sheets. Her hair, a fall of sooty black lace across her shoulders, had curtained her eyes, but he would never forget the smile. She’d sent him off on some fool’s errand and was gone when he returned.
She’d left a postcard behind then, too.
And as he recalled, it had said pretty much the same thing as this one. He folded the card between his fingers, then creased it hard. He didn’t know why he’d kept her a secret. Even from Kemi. He folded the card again and tore it in two—who knew that his heart would still be raw?
Looking down, Harry found he’d pretty much shredded the postcard. Two long steps took him to a chrome urn that looked like it was for trash. He dropped the remains of the postcard into the urn. I’m going to call that closure. A man is entitled to some life to call his own, right? Right.
Kemi’s got the right idea. He might be the younger brother, but when it came to affairs of the heart, he was the one on the right track. Maybe, Harry thought, I ought to take a lesson from him. He got married, found that he was growing and Alicia wasn’t, that she wanted to continue to be the cute little girl he’d fallen in love with. Even after they were no longer a couple, he found the right way to help them love each other and still be themselves. Now, he had met this new woman, and all he asked Harry to do was play wingman.
“He’s my brother, and he doesn’t ask for a lot. I can do this,” Harry told himself.
The arriving elevator made him turn. Stepping aboard, Harry took out his phone and speed-dialed his brother. “Kemi? Harry. Look, you still want to get together Friday, I’m there.” He listened and nodded as the elevator hummed softly open. “Yeah, I guess I’ll have to take my chances.” He chuckled self-consciously. “You’re right, it’s time to get on with life.”
The elevator doors opened on the penthouse level and Harry Jordan stepped out feeling better than he had all day. Then he whistled every step of the way down the hall.
CHAPTER 9
Wearing jeans, with his shirt hanging long on the outside and his sleeves rolled to his elbows, Harry figured he might not pass for cool, but comfortable on a hot Friday night in May was as good as it was going to get. “Besides, it wasn’t my idea to come here.”
“Huh? What’d you say?” the short balding man in the faded gray Dugan’s T-shirt looked up, squinting.
“Nothing. How much?”
The parking attendant reared back in his folding chair, tipping the front legs high. Flashing his dentures, he jerked a thumb toward the sign at his side. “Eight.”
Harry peeled a twenty from the cash in his hand and handed it over then started across the parking lot, headed toward Dugan’s.
“Hey! You got change comin’!” The man rocked in his chair, waving crumpled dollar bills in the humid air. When Harry lifted a hand and kept walking across the graveled lot, he happily folded the bills between his gnarled fingers and pocketed the cash. “Nice to meet a gent,” the man said softly, giving his pocket a satisfied pat.
With ragged second thoughts, Harry crossed the lot, ignoring the urge to go back to his car. I made a promise, and I’m here now. Might as well go on in. It was not quite nine o’clock.
Walking to the entrance, he came around the side of the building and felt a warm wash of nostalgia and the dizzying sensation of having stepped back in time. Lugging groceries in plastic Kroger bags, a trio of women in cutoff jeans and belly-knotted T-shirts drew even with him. They smiled and murmured hello—casual and friendly. He smiled back and returned the greeting, one of the things he truly enjoyed about his hometown, that sense of friendly acknowledgment—no obligation, just being pleasant and part of the community.
One of the women listed slightly as she turned and shifted her bags to wave at him. Knowing that she was flirting and that it wouldn’t take much more than a grin to make her drop the bags and run back for extended conversation, Harry returned the small wave. She blushed and giggled, while her friends put their heads together and whispered.
Harry was glad they kept walking.
Looking up at the thick green paint coating the front of the bar and grill, and the neon beer signs glowing boldly in the windows, Harry remembered the place from way back. During his days at Morehouse, Dugan’s was the place for hot wings. Hot and zesty, with grease for days, he remembered. Used to open the bag and the heat and spices would just rise up and make your mouth and eyes water. For a second, he could almost taste the memory. We ate ’em and we didn’t die. They must have been good.
He gripped the door’s curved brass handle, pulled, and stepped into the noisy bar. Harry stood on the scarred hardwood floor and looked around. Without trying too hard, he could smell those wings. He couldn’t think of anything he’d eaten anywhere else in the world that could compare to those artery-blockers. Hot wings on his mind, he looked around for his brother. No Kemi. Figures.
Round tables, wooden chairs, and laughing people occupied the center of the room. Banks of booths filled the corners, and voices rose and fell, challenging the sounds of a juke box and several wall-mounted television sets. Same old Dugan’s. Bet the jukebox still plays 45s. Unsure of whether he should seat himself or just wait for his always fashionably late brother, Harry shoved his hands into his pockets and stood looking around. Behind him, warm air from the street pushed against his back.
“Are you looking for me, or your lost youth?” Akemi stepped through the door. “You look a little nostalgic,” he said, taking in his brother’s casual attire. “In more ways than one. What’s up with the old-school chic?”
Should have known he’d have something to say…He eyed his brother and pushed his lips together. Kemi was dressed exactly the way Harry had known he would be: polo shirt, leather flip-flops, jeans with a great belt—all topped off with cool sunglasses. “Man, can we just find a table? You told me casual. This is casual.”
Wayward Dreams Page 12
