Breaking the Ties That Bind

by Gwynne Forster

  He reached over and grasped her hand. “It’s all right, Kendra. I’m as flummoxed as you are.”

  “Confused is one thing. I’m scared to death.”

  “Not me. I’ve waited a long time to feel like this in a woman’s presence. You are right to be careful, because you don’t know me, but don’t be afraid. If it will give you a greater sense of security and if you’re willing, I’ll take you over to Alexandria to meet my dad. We lost my mother two years ago.”

  “Oh, Sam. I’m so sorry. I’d love to meet your dad, but not because I don’t trust you. It’s just . . . Sam, life isn’t like this. We don’t get happiness tied up in neat packages. At least I don’t. For me, it’s rare and usually so flimsy that it has to be figured out, rather like a difficult mathematical equation. But you . . . I didn’t even pray to meet you, because it was such a long shot.”

  A grin spread over his face. “Trust me, sweetheart, a long shot’s better than no shot. Right? Let’s give it a chance.”

  Before she could answer, the waitress arrived with their orders. He said the grace, surprising her. “Can you arrange it so that we can spend either Saturday or Sunday afternoon and evening together next week? Sunday would be better, because you would have gotten your assignments out of the way. If you have written homework, why not dictate it, insert it into the computer, edit it, and print it out, saving time with homework?”

  “I would, but I don’t have a suitable recorder.”

  He stopped eating. “Then we’ll find other ways in which to ease your burden. I definitely don’t plan to let weeks go by without seeing you. He pried a mussel out of its shell and ate it. “Kendra, this is really good stuff.”

  “It sure is. I was thinking of asking the waitress if that happy chef would give me the recipe.”

  “He’s Italian, and he takes his reputation as a chef seriously. That means he is not going to create competition for himself.”

  “In other words, don’t expect success.”

  “Don’t ask, is what I was thinking.”

  “Well, I can’t make this cioppino, but I could make this wonderful bread . . . provided I had a brick oven, that is.”

  Both of them refused dessert. “I’ll have an espresso, though,” she said.

  He appraised her appreciatively. “So will I.”

  Later, he parked in front of the co-op building in which she owned and cut the motor. Something told her to wait until he walked around and opened the door for her. Doing so made her uncomfortable, but she sat there. He opened the door, reached in to unfasten her seat belt and help her out, looked at her face, and frowned. To her amazement, he closed one eye, the frown disappeared and a smile altered the contours of his face. Then, he laughed and laughed.

  “Do whatever the hell you like,” he said. “I don’t enjoy making you miserable.” He stepped back and allowed her to unfasten her own seat belt, get out of the car as best she could, and close the door.

  “I’m sorry, Sam, but I honestly have never liked women who expect men to toady to them, to kill themselves making the woman’s life queenly. That’s why most survivors of marriage are women.”

  “I’m not going to question your logic, but I will certainly check your facts. If you’re wrong, you will hereafter stay in that seat until I walk around, open the door, unhook your seat belt, and assist you in getting out.”

  She couldn’t help laughing, although she suspected that he was serious. “It’s a deal.”

  “Good. You can start right away to look for statistics on how this problem stacks up when both the man and the woman work eight hours a day in paid jobs. If men’s death rates aren’t lower than the rates of men in similar jobs and whose wives don’t work, you’re it.”

  “That won’t be proof positive,” she countered, “but I’ll take it as the answer. Shake?”

  He ignored her outstretched hand. “Come on, woman. I’m taking you to your door and leaving you there while I’m still ahead. I’ll call you tomorrow morning at a quarter of eight.”

  At her door, he gazed down at her with such intensity that shivers raced up and down her arms.

  “You’re very special, Kendra. Good night,” he said, surprising her with the seriousness of his mien. He opened the door with her key, handed it to her, and left.

  Chapter Five

  Sam walked away from Kendra’s apartment door deep in thought. If he’d done what he’d felt like doing, he’d probably have sent her into shock. It had been a good ten years since he wanted a woman with the intensity that he wanted her. Not for anything would he have gone into her apartment.

  After a lifetime of thinking through every step, plotting every move, and shoving aside any- and everything that didn’t fit the mold of his ideals, he’d stepped in the quicksand of Kendra Richards’s personality. What was more, he expected to be there for a while. And he couldn’t say he was unhappy about it, either. He’d spent with her one of the most pleasant, most comfortable evenings in memory. But he knew that what he saw of her and what he’d heard her say merely scratched the surface of Kendra Richards.

  When she wrote that letter to the Post, she’d been seeking a way out of her own dilemma. The woman about whom she wrote was obviously her own mother, and nothing would make him believe otherwise. Oh yes, and she was that “child.” He hadn’t brought up that matter when they were alone, because he didn’t want to ruin the evening, and he didn’t want to give the impression that he judged her. Indeed, any person who’d gotten as far in life as Kendra had, in spite of such a mother, could boast of his full admiration and respect.

  He settled into his Buick Enclave, ignited the engine, and headed for Appleton Street, not too many blocks north of Kendra’s apartment on Woodley Road.

  “I’ve got some thinking to do,” he told himself, and then laughed. Thinking be damned. He either accepted it and cultivated it to find out what it could mean to both of them, or walked away. He doubted he’d succeed easily in dropping the relationship. It had a preordained quality, and though he was neither overly religious nor superstitious, he had a feeling that she was for him.

  His cell phone rang, but he didn’t answer it, because he didn’t use it while he drove. He parked in the garage beneath the condominium building in which he lived, took the elevator to the ninth floor, and was soon inside his two-bedroom, den, living room, kitchen, and dining room apartment. He’d bought it with an eye to marrying Giselda Darden. But that was another story, one that he refused to unearth.

  He checked his cell phone, saw that the call was from his father, made himself comfortable, and telephoned Jethro Hayes, who lived in Alexandria, Virginia.

  “Hi, Dad. You called me?”

  “Yes I did. You usually call me every Sunday. You hadn’t called today, so I was checking to see if you were all right. No problem, and especially not if you were out with a nice girl.”

  Hmm. This was one man you couldn’t fool. “Did you catch the radio show this evening?”

  “I did indeed. You were articulate as usual. I’ve heard Prill before. What’s she like?”

  “Why? You want to meet her? I can certainly arrange it.”

  “I think we met about twenty years ago, but at the time, we were both married. So . . . well, you know.”

  “She hasn’t been married for quite a while, I don’t think. Maybe I’d better have a dinner party. Lettie’s always after me to give her a reason to cook.”

  “Nice idea.”

  Coming from his father, that was tantamount to saying, please hurry up and do it. “I’ll make a note of that,” Sam told him. “I’d rather plan it for a Saturday or, if necessary, Sunday evening.”

  “Any time is good for me.”

  Well. I’ll be damned. Who’d have thought it? To his father, he said, “What do you want Lettie to cook?”

  “Anything she cooks is good. The food won’t be my main interest.”

  He didn’t laugh, but it cost him not to. “Thanks for straightening me out. How’d you like the program?
”

  “It was one of Unger’s better offerings. That Richards woman has a beautiful, soothing voice. If she looks like she sounds, she must be a knockout.”

  “She looks like she sounds, and she is definitely a knockout.”

  “Really? Are we getting close to the reason I didn’t receive a call from you tonight?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, well! I hope you’re going to invite her to the dinner party along with Edwina Prill.”

  “I’ll ask her, but you must remember that I met her this afternoon for the first time.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll remember that you’ve just met her. But I’m curious. You don’t usually veer from your routine commitments, and that’s another reason why I want to meet her.”

  “I hope you’re not saying that I’m inflexible.”

  “I definitely am not. If you were, I’d pity you. I’m saying that for you, a promise or an obligation is sacrosanct, as it should be. Did you have dinner with Ms. Richards because she’s intelligent and affable or because you’re attracted to her?”

  “All of those.”

  “Interesting. I hope you arrange that dinner soon.”

  “I’ll do my best, but I’d like to make it convenient for Kendra.”

  “Any special reason why that may prove difficult?”

  “She’s in her junior year at Howard, and she works at night as a disc jockey at radio station WAMA.”

  “How old is she, for goodness’ sake?”

  Sam treated his father to a hearty laugh. “She’s thirty-two.”

  “All right. For a minute, I thought you may have become attracted to a teenager. Just joking. If you have time, call me for lunch.”

  “I’ll do that, Dad. Have a pleasant night’s rest.”

  He hung up, slid down to the floor, maneuvered himself into the lotus position, and closed his eyes. Edwina Prill? His dad once wanted Edwina Prill? The world wasn’t only small, it was damned crazy. He got ready for bed, crawled in, and told himself to sleep. But instead, thoughts of the life Kendra must have suffered with an uncaring and unfeeling mother plagued him. What kind of woman could do the things reported in Kendra’s letter, and what impact would it have on that woman’s daughter?

  He awakened more tired than when he went to bed. And both his common sense and his professional training told him that he shouldn’t wait too long before he discussed with Kendra her relationship with her mother.

  To Kendra’s mother, it was not she who represented the problem. She meant to get even with Kendra for letting her stay in jail with common criminals. She didn’t expect more from her brother, Ed. But Kendra was going to rue the day she turned her back on her.

  “I’m in no hurry,” she said to herself as she sat in her kitchen mending a half-slip. Imagine Ginny Hunter mending something that should be pitched into the trash. She got up, went into her bedroom, picked up the land-line phone, and dialed a friend, one on whom she’d spent a good deal of money.

  “Hi, Arlena. I’m so bored I could die. How about going to Rooter’s in time for happy hour.”

  “Great. You want us to meet there?”

  Arlena’s eagerness suggested that she expected Ginny to pay. But I got news for you, sistah, I always pay every place we go. This time, the bill will be on you, and I intend to put it down.

  “Good,” Ginny said. “Meet you there at five. And bring some money, ’cause I won’t have any till Friday when I get paid.” She thought she heard Arlena gasp, but it was time that deadbeat spent some of her own money.

  Feeling both vulnerable and reckless, Ginny put on the red woolen dress that exposed enough cleavage to assure her that if Arlena didn’t pay her bill, some man at the bar would. She added a pair of fishnet stockings and five-inch-heel shoes.

  “I may be fifty-two,” she preened, “but I can still pin the tail on the donkey.”

  At five o’clock, she stepped into Rooter’s and saw Arlena leaning against the bar talking to a man. Hmm. She works faster than I thought. I’ll have to find another woman to slum around with. In order not to be the second woman in a threesome, she decided to talk with the first man who indicated that he wanted company.

  “I haven’t seen you in here before,” the bartender, a reasonably attractive man of about forty, said to Ginny. “You live around here?”

  “About five blocks. I’m on Kalorama Road. When did you start working here?”

  “A couple of weeks ago. This place has the most loyal regulars of any bar I ever worked. But this is the first evening you been in here.” Of course it was; she’d spent the three previous weeks in jail.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I would have remembered you, lady. What are you drinking?”

  “Margarita. The original.”

  “Lime only,” he said. “You got it.”

  He put the drink in front of her. “Don’t drink too many of these things. I like my women cold sober.”

  She gazed into his eyes for a long time and then pushed the drink back to him. “Make it a tonic on ice with a twist of lime.”

  He nodded, understanding her perfectly. “It’s on me.”

  Tonic water was the last thing she wanted, but it served her purpose, so she sipped. She didn’t care for the nuts and trail mix in front of her, so she ordered some miniature quiche, each one not much bigger than a thumbnail. To her surprise, the bartender said, “You’re not only an eyeful, you’ve got class. Plenty of it. I get off at eleven. Are you still awake?”

  She chewed with care and let him wait, giving him the impression that she was both weighing his suggestion and mindful of her decision. She finished her third quiche, dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin, and said, “Not as a rule.”

  “What about tonight?”

  With her facial expression, she conveyed to him the idea that he was being scrutinized for more than the width of his chest. “I can manage to stay awake, considering what I’m anticipating.” Slowly, she ran the tip of her tongue over her top lip and then her bottom one. “Yeah. I can stay awake for that. I wouldn’t even be able to sleep.”

  He stared at her so intensely that she began to wonder if she’d overdone it. Then, proving that he could equal or better her as a player, he half smiled and said, “Just be sure you get some rest.”

  Figuring that she’d better quit while she was ahead, she fumbled in her pocketbook as if searching for money, until she heard him say, “Forget the money. See you later.” She didn’t say thanks, but wrote her address and phone number on a napkin, pushed the napkin in his direction, and got up.

  She approached Arlena, who, to Ginny’s surprise and irritation, was still deep in conversation with the man she’d seen her with earlier when she first entered the bar, a man who appeared to be of a more appropriate age for Arlena than the bartender was for Ginny. The bartender. What the hell was his name? Her shoulder jerked up in a shrug. She hadn’t asked him, and he hadn’t told her.

  “See you another time, Arlena,” she said, as she passed her friend, knowing that Arlena had her evening cut out for her and that the woman welcomed the opportunity to avoid paying for Ginny’s drink. Oh, but she would pay. Arlena owed her plenty.

  The sound of an alarm clock awakened Ginny at two o’clock the following morning. She tried to sit up and turn off the offending thing, but the weight of an arm across her belly hampered her movements. “What’s that noise?” she asked the man sleeping beside her as the ringing continued.

  “Sorry,” he said after a few minutes. “That’s my watch.” He turned it off.

  Angry and suspicious, she asked him, “Why do you need an alarm clock? You said you’re not married. So what’s the rush?”

  “Take it easy, Ginny. I live in Columbia, Maryland, and a man will be there at nine in the morning to cover the pipes in the basement of my house.”

  “You own a house, and you’re not married? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Right, and I’m thirty-s
ix years old, work ten hours a day, six days a week, and don’t answer to anybody.”

  “Well, ’scuse me.”

  He got out of bed. “You throw a great party, but let’s get this straight. I punch a clock at Rooter’s, and I’m well paid for it, but nowhere else and for nobody. If you can handle that, I’ll see you tonight. Otherwise, it’s been nice.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that. Sex was easy to get; if the guy didn’t know what he was doing, she delighted in teaching him. And she liked strong men, but tough guys didn’t appeal to her. She wouldn’t go to bed with a man unless she figured she could handle him. But this one was a pistol. The problem was, he knew it.

  “Did you tell me the truth when you said your name was Asareel?” she asked him, figuring that was a reasonable question.

  He fingered the stubble on his cheeks as if deciding whether to answer her. Then he said, “I don’t lie to anybody about anything, babe. My mother loved the sound of that word. She combined two names of old friends, but I don’t know who they were. Everybody calls me Asa. I gotta get moving, See you tonight.”

  “What if I’m busy?” she asked, testing him.

  He didn’t turn his head, but looked at her from the corner of his eye. “You aren’t going to be busy. If you get your kicks from variety, I can certainly provide that, but you’re not getting it on with any man but me. Get it?”

  Figuring that she wouldn’t get another chance to let him know she didn’t take stuff from a man, and still keep him, she slid out of bed, wrapped herself in her pink peignoir, walked over, and caressed his chest with both hands.

  “Honey, tough doesn’t cut it with me. Nice and gentle like you were last night, and baby, you get whatever you want whenever you want it and just the way you like it.” From his facial expression, she couldn’t figure out his reaction.

  “I’ll be here tonight as soon as I get off. Cook something. I get tired of sandwiches and junk food.”

  “Honey,” she began, resorting to her old line, “I don’t even cook for me. I never learned, and I don’t own a cookbook. Stop by a takeout place and get enough for both of us.”