by Francis Ray
He caught up with her two blocks away and stayed a couple of car lengths behind until she pulled into her apartment complex, a twelve-story, glass-and-rose-stone structure that screamed wealth and luxury living. When she parked, he drove up beside her.
He felt utterly helpless when he saw her press her forehead on top of her hands resting against the steering wheel. He’d caused that. She’d called him to help and instead, he’d caused her to lose a job she loved.
His father had always told him that he’d ruin anything he touched.
“You got book sense, but no common sense,” Myron Crawford had taunted his oldest child and only son too many times to count. And, if he felt like it, he’d pull out his belt or grab the extension cord or anything handy to drive home his point.
His mother had been able to shield him at times, but his temper often ran ahead of good sense and he’d get another beating. After his mother died when he was sixteen and his sister, Shayla, was fourteen, the beatings grew worse. Then his father married Lilly and Rafe thought he’d change. He hadn’t. Now he had two targets.
Rafe had stayed to graduate from high school because Lilly had begged him to do so, but after receiving his diploma, he hadn’t gone back to the house—too many bad memories. If he had, the next time his father hit him, one of them would have ended up dead. So, he’d hitchhiked to New Orleans and only returned to see Lilly and his grandmother when he was sure Shayla, his father’s favorite, or his father weren’t there.
One night he’d awakened from a sound sleep and known his beloved grandmother had passed. He’d mourned her and known she’d understood that he couldn’t have gone home for her funeral, just as he’d known Lilly would understand. She was only six years older and he’d never thought of her as his stepmother, but as a loving big sister. By then he and Shayla had drifted farther and farther apart.
She thought nothing of asking for new clothes, which she usually got, while Rafe’s were threadbare. She seemed oblivious to their father’s harsh treatment of Rafe. He’d tried to reason that maybe she was afraid to speak up or try to help because she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of their father’s wrath. Sometimes he was more successful than others.
His love and respect for Lilly, who tried so hard to stand between him and his cruel father, enabled Rafe to put aside his hatred and return to Little Elm for her divorce hearing. Despite all her good work in the church and in the community, people were ready to believe the worst of her. Rafe’s testimony and the scars on his back changed their minds and that of the judge. Myron Crawford might be a deacon in the church and a pillar of the community, but he also abused his wife and son.
Rafe rolled his shoulders, almost hearing the whish of the lash, the biting sting. His hands knotted. No matter how hard he tried to run from the truth or to make things different, his father had been right. He was worthless to anyone. It was best for everyone if he stayed to himself.
Putting the truck into gear, he backed up and sped off. He’d done enough to hurt Kristen. She was home safely. The least he could do was honor her wish to be left alone.
Arriving at his carpentry shop a short while later, Rafe went straight to his workshop on the bottom floor of the warehouse he’d scrimped and saved to buy. His small apartment was on the second floor upstairs.
Pulling on his goggles, he set about cutting the legs for the highboy. This was the only thing he was good at. The only thing that he didn’t mess up. He’d learned that in his father’s house.
He wouldn’t forget again.
four
“I’d like to tie Maurice’s thing into a knot—perhaps then he’d think twice about trying to use it indiscriminately.”
Kristen sat on the sofa and watched Angelique Fleming, her best friend and next-door neighbor for the past two years, pace in front of her. They’d met the day Kristen moved into the high-rise building. Angelique, a fabulous cook and deplorable housekeeper, had brought over a fish stew and lemon cake, then pitched in to help.
She’d amused Kristen’s family with colorful stories about the city and about how she’d come to live in the upscale apartment. The original owners had divorced and both refused to sell. The solution was to lease it out. They were in their late sixties and each was hellbent on outliving the other and moving back in.
Angelique and Kristen’s friendship had started that day and had grown to a solid bond. She’d been the only person Kristen had been able to tell the truth to about losing her job.
“Perhaps I should have called the police last night.”
Angelique, five-feet-nine, voluptuous, and exquisite, spun around on tennis shoes. Hazel eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare blame yourself! You wouldn’t have had to make a decision if Maurice hadn’t made the proposition. You’re the wronged party here.”
Kristen’s hands flexed on the mug of Angelique’s hot chocolate heavily laced with whipping cream. “I still lost my job.”
“That’s what steams me.” Hands on her shapely hips, Angelique shook her head of thick, curly, auburn hair that reached almost to her tiny waist. “Men have been getting away with this crap since the beginning of time. I see them all the time at The Inferno. Pillars of the community, frothing at the mouth over the women working there, willing to slip them a little money under the table for a private get-together. Well, when my dissertation is published, their little ‘fun’ will be exposed.”
“You still plan to use their real names?” Kristen asked, her feet tucked under her as she sipped the hot chocolate, wanting to feel warm again.
Angelique grinned. “I certainly do. I’ve checked with a lawyer friend of mine. There’s nothing they can do because I’m only telling the truth. I’ve got names, dates, everything I need to nail their sorry hides to the wall.”
Kristen’s shoulders slumped inside the fluffy, white terry cloth robe. “Wish I had something on Maurice.”
“Me, too.” With a scowl, Angelique plopped down beside Kristen on the camelback sofa covered in a soft floral print. “I bet you dollars to beignets, you aren’t the first woman he’s pulled that on and you won’t be the last.”
“I was so gullible,” Kristen mumbled.
“You’re naive,” Angelique said. “Men like that have a sixth sense about women they can come on to.”
“Women without a backbone.” Kristen slid down on the plump sofa, her misery increasing.
“Trusting women or women who have nowhere to turn or who have something to lose.” Angelique patted Kristen’s knee beneath the cashmere throw. “You fit all three. He didn’t count on you getting the best of him.” Her white teeth flashed in her exquisite face. “I’d like to have seen the look on his face when Rafe punched him.”
“He never knew what hit him,” Kristen said, perking up a bit at the memory. “His nose was still puffy today.”
“Good. He won’t underestimate you again.”
Kristen set the mug on the polished cherry end table next to her. “I don’t ever want to see him again.”
“If you do, look the bastard in the eye and do this,” Angelique said, making a balled fist then twisting it. “He won’t bother you again.”
Kristen pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m thinking of going home to Shreveport.”
Angelique reared up. “This is your home! Don’t let him win!”
“That’s what Rafe said,” she admitted softly.
“He’s right. Wish I had met him the day you moved in. Too bad he’d already left when I came over. Sounds like a nice guy.” Angelique settled back in the sofa. “Why haven’t you two gotten together before?”
Kristen shrugged. “I don’t know. I called a couple of times and left messages on his machine. He called back and got my machine. We just got tired of playing phone tag, I guess.”
“Well, it’s a good thing he was home last night.”
“Yes, I didn’t know what to do after I couldn’t find you.”
Angelique made a face. “Pete was just in one of his antis
ocial moods. I was at the club. I’ll wise him up on that. If he doesn’t tell me when I have a phone call again, I’ll pluck his eyebrows the next time he gets drunk and passes out.”
Kristen was amazed as always by Angelique’s courage and her ability to handle any situation, especially the ones involving men, with ease. She would have made mincemeat out of Maurice. “You’re going to the club tonight?” A couple of nights a week Angelique went to The Inferno to interview the dancers.
“Nope.” She toed off her spotless white tennis shoes, then pulled her purple-sock-covered feet under her jean-clad hips. “I’m staying here with you and we’re going to think of a thousand ways to punish Maurice—then you’re going to forget him and move on with your life.”
“It’s not going to be that easy. The museum was more than a job—it was my chance to make my mark,” Kristen said quietly.
“All the more reason to grieve for the loss, then go on. Take control of your life.”
“I’m not like you, Angelique,” Kristen said, aware that while she was tiptoeing through life, Angelique was living hers to the fullest. She held down a full-time job as a counselor at a rehab center while writing her dissertation.
Angelique smiled impishly. “Like Mama Howard said, there’s only one of me. I’d been through five foster homes before she and Papa Howard got me when I was eight. They had to nail the windows shut to keep me from running away.”
“Now you’re twenty-seven, and weeks away from graduating with your doctor’s in psychology.”
“Yeah. I thank God for my foster parents every day.” She elbowed Kristen in the side. “How do you feel about pouring syrup over Maurice and staking him to a bed of fire ants?”
“I know the first place I’d pour the syrup,” Kristen said, her eyes like shards of glass.
Angelique whooped. “That’s my girl! I knew you had it in you. Tell me more.”
Kristen obliged, but soon the novelty wore off and when Angelique left an hour later, Kristen was back to fighting tears and questioning her judgment. Dragging herself to bed, she huddled beneath the down comforter, knowing the worst was yet to come when her mother and stepfather returned from his medical conference in Hawaii. How was she going to explain to them that she’d lost her job?
* * *
The moment Kristen had dreaded for the past three days finally happened Sunday night at 7:10. Her answering machine clicked on on the fourth ring.
“Kristen, Jonathan and I just got back from his conference. We had a wonderful time. Wait until you see the video of us doing the hula.” Her mother’s bright laughter filled the line. “But there is something else. I met a woman, one of the other doctors’ wives, who has two paintings by Tanner and one by Johnson that she’ll consider placing on permanent loan at your museum. I told her all about your plans. I’m so proud of you and what you’re doing.”
Arms wrapped around her waist, Kristen listened to her mother with a sinking heart. She’d worked so hard, waited so long, to hear her mother say those words and feel she deserved the praise. She’d wanted to accomplish so much. Now that was impossible.
“When we talk I’ll give you her telephone number. I love you. Jonathan sends his love. Good-bye.”
Kristen went out on the balcony in the living room. Spread out before her was New Orleans, a city of endless possibilities and delights. To her left was the French Quarter. In the distance was the tower of the Saint Louis Cathedral. At night the complexion of the city changed completely. Sedate and easygoing by day, the city became untamed, mysterious, and seductive once the sun went down, luring you with the feeling that anything could happen.
In New Orleans, it usually did.
She’d come to Orleans during her junior year in college and fallen in love with the city, the history, and the rich heritage of the people of color. Despite the obstacles in their path, they had accomplished so much. She’d felt a kinship with them, felt she could do the same.
Maurice’s accusation had made that impossible. Her eyes briefly clamped shut.
How could she tell her mother and stepfather that she’d failed? She braced her hands on the balustrade. If they were aware of the accusations against her, they’d instantly leap to her defense. Her mother would be on the next plane. Eleanor Wakefield Delacroix was a lioness when it came to her children. She’d proven it time and time again. Kristen remembered when Adam lost his sight after a severe beating by car thieves. Her mother had never backed away from making tough decisions or lost faith that he’d regain his sight.
She’d been right. He had regained his sight and his neurosurgery practice was thriving. But he’d regained more than his sight; he’d gained a new outlook on life. These days he was happier, less driven. He took time out to enjoy his life with Lilly and their son. Life had knocked him down, but he’d be the first to say it was worth it because it was during his blindness that Lilly had come into his life. What he’d thought was the worst thing that could happen to him had turned out to be the best.
Kristen wished she could look past today and see that for herself. She gazed back at the phone. If she didn’t call her mother, Eleanor would try to reach Kristen tomorrow. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to call the museum and learn she didn’t work there. But she hated lying. She shoved her hand through her hair and went to the phone, praying she’d think of something.
“Hello,” said a deep, male voice that sounded breathless.
Kristen bit her lip. Apparently she’d caught her mother and stepfather in one of their frequent romantic moments. For some reason she always felt embarrassed. Perhaps because it always reminded her of the shameless way she’d acted when she’d seen them kissing for the first time. “I’ll call back.”
“Kristen, don’t you dare hang up this phone,” Jonathan said. “We were just unpacking.”
She laughed in spite of herself. That wasn’t all they were doing. “Mother said you had a great time. Welcome back.”
“We did. Your mother is tapping me on the shoulder. Here she is.”
Kristen’s hand flexed on the phone as she waited for her mother to come on the line.
“Kristen—hello, sweetheart. How are you doing?”
Kristen forced brightness into her voice. “Just fine, but I wanted you to know I’ll be out of the museum on another project for the next couple of weeks so call here if you need me.”
“You’re going to be searching for paintings and donors to the museum?” asked her mother.
“Yes.” She could certainly keep that from being a lie. “You mentioned a woman you met who might want to help.”
“Paulette Banks. She lives in Virginia. I’ll find her address and phone number and fax it to you tomorrow at home.”
“Thanks, Mother. I’m glad you’re back and that you had a good time.” Kristen shifted the conversation to a surefire topic, her mother’s first grandchild. “I spoke with Adam and Lilly earlier in the week and they’re fine. So is Adam Jr.”
“He is such a precious little angel. I bought him all kinds of souvenirs,” her mother practically cooed. “I hope he has cousins to play with one day.”
“Take your time, Kristen,” Jonathan spoke into the receiver. “You deserve the best.”
“Of course she does,” her mother said. “I just want her to start weeding though the frogs to find her prince.”
“Don’t mind your mother, Kristen. She loves too much, but that’s why I love her.”
“And I, you,” Eleanor said softly.
Kristen didn’t have to be there to know they were sharing a kiss. They were a loving couple. So were Adam and Lilly. “I’m happy you two have each other,” she said, meaning it.
“You’ll find the one for you one day. It took me fifty-nine years. You have a long time to go,” Jonathan told her with a laugh.
At the moment a man in her life was the last thing Kristen wanted. “Welcome home and good night.” After her mother came on the line to say good-bye, Kristen hung up.
Jus
t as she stepped away from the phone, a knock sounded on the door. Glad for a distraction, she went to answer it. Angelique stood in the doorway, dressed in a fitted black top and slacks.
Gazing at Kristen’s somber face, the other woman shook her head. “Thought so. Grab your purse and let’s go.”
“Angelique—”
“It’s Angel tonight. Come on or you’ll make me late.”
Angel was the name Angelique had used when she worked at The Inferno to put herself through undergrad school, and now when she did research for her dissertation. “I can’t go to a man’s club.”
“Why not? You don’t have the excuse that being there might be a bad reflection on the museum.”
“You’re right.” Angelique never tiptoed around anything.
“Get your purse. I want to show you women who’d give their souls—hell, they probably already have—to be in your shoes for one day.”
“I know I have a lot to be thankful for, but it’s just that…” Frustrated, Kristen shoved her hand through her hair.
Angelique brushed by her and went to the bedroom. She came back with Kristen’s purse. “Come on, I’ve seen your world. Let me show you mine.”
five
The Inferno was just off Bourbon Street. After passing gentlemen’s clubs in the French Quarter with pictures of women with their hands coyly covering their bare breasts clearly proclaiming the type of entertainment inside, Kristen was surprised when Angelique stepped into a recessed doorway next to a courtyard and rang the bell beneath a small brass sign that read PRIVATE.
She heard a lock click, then the red door opened. She stared at a mountain of a man dressed in a black tee shirt and slacks. His bald head was as slick as an egg.
“Hi, Angel. Didn’t expect you tonight,” he said, his gaze running briefly over Kristen.
Smiling, Angelique looped her arm through Kristen’s and stepped onto the polished hardwood floor. “You should remember that I like to surprise people, Mack.”
