by Donna Hill
"Hey, I'm sorry." She clasped Celeste by the shoulder, her expression contrite. "Seriously. I'm sorry. It was just a shock."
Celeste rolled her eyes.
"So...tell me what happened."
Celeste took a step back from the door and went to lean against the sink, careful of any wet spots. She began telling Leslie about the day she met Sammy at the club, how she felt when he touched her, the look he'd given her. "I know it sounds twelfth grade but I don't know how else to explain it. The night I went to my mother's gathering, all I could think about is what would happen had I brought Sammy instead of Clinton."
"Cee, I don't want to bust your bubble or anything, but do you think that maybe your attraction to him is the same thing as what you do with the rest of your life--do things to piss your parents off?"
"Doing things and feeling things are different, Leslie. I may be mixed up in the head sometimes, but I'm not stupid." She cut her eyes in Leslie's direction, the beginnings of a Cheshire cat smile on her lips. "But could you just see their faces?"
Leslie held up her hand. "I can't even imagine." She heaved a sigh. "So, what are you going to do? You plan on letting him know you're here?"
"I don't know. What do you think?"
"I think if you feel something you should deal with it...on all levels." Her tone was filled with the enormity of taking on an interracial relationship. Had it been any other white girl, it probably wouldn't be a problem, but the Shaws were one of those "blue-blood families," who prided themselves on their whiteness, their ancestry, their money. Corrine just may have a heart attack.
"What if what I saw in his eyes was just my imagination?"
Leslie had never, in all the time she'd known Celeste, seen her look so uncertain, so vulnerable. She was always the one with the answers, the quips. This was a revelation. "I guess you'll never know unless you take that chance."
They held each other's gaze and Celeste understood that Leslie would be there for her if she fell flat on her face. She drew in a breath. "Okay."
"Okay, what?"
"Okay, I'm going to see what happens. If I get the chance to talk to him...I will."
"Then let's go before you change your mind and we miss all the music." She flashed her a big smile and they walked out.
By the time they returned to their table, the quartet was finishing up a number. Sammy saw Celeste and he nearly missed a note. What was she doing here, of all places? He tried to concentrate and keep up with Nick's changes even as his line of sight and concentration was on Celeste.
Sam was a guy straight from the streets. He prided himself in his blackness, on being a black man in America even though it was still the hardest job on the planet. He loved black women, the sassiness of them, the beauty of their skin, hair, the darkness of their eyes. But something happened when he met Celeste Shaw and he hadn't been able to shake it. The whole idea of him and a white girl went against every grain of who he was, but he couldn't stop thinking about her and the possibility of a "them."
Mercifully, the set came to an end. Nick lowered his sax and spoke into the mic over the rousing applause of the audience.
"Thank you. Thank you! We're going to take a short break and we'll be back with a special surprise."
The band moved off the stage and music from the DJ filled the room. The crowd returned to their loud conversations while some took to the small dance floor.
"I need another drink," Celeste said, getting up. "You want anything?"
"No. I'm good." Leslie held up her half-filled glass of Diet Coke.
Celeste moved through the tightly wound bodies until she got to the bar. "Apple martini," she shouted to the bartender.
"Definitely a ladies drink," a voice from behind her said.
Her heart banged against her chest. She glanced over her shoulder and up into his eyes. Her throat went completely dry and she wished she had her drink before she strangled.
The bartender put her drink in front of her.
"I'll take care of it," he said, placing his hand on top of hers when she went for her purse.
A charge raced up her arm. "Thanks," she managed to say. She grabbed her drink and took a sip.
"This is the last place I expected to see you," Sammy said.
"Why?" she countered, immediately on the defensive.
He held up his hands. "Whoa, take it easy. I'm just saying this place is kind of off the beaten path, that's all."
She relaxed her tight shoulders. "Leslie and I have been coming here off and on for about a year."
His right brow rose and fell.
Silence hung between them, louder than the noise and music.
"So, how have you been? Close any more deals?"
She took a sip of her drink and tried to relax. "No. The market is really bad right now. Everyone is really cautious."
"Same thing I told Nick. Times are tight. But he insisted that the time was what you made it." He shrugged. "I gotta agree. You make your own magic in this world." His gaze swept over her. "What do you think about that?"
Her brain was on scramble. The crush of bodies had pushed them within a breath of each other and the warm scent of his cologne short-circuited her common sense. "Hmm, magic is what two people make it."
A slow, easy smile moved across his mouth and sparkled in his eyes. "Yeah," he affirmed, saying the word like a musical note. He glanced over his shoulder then back at her. "Gotta run. You and Leslie plannin' on being around for a while?"
"Sure."
He nodded. "Good. I'll see you after the set." It wasn't a question, and before she could pull herself together he was up onstage taking his place behind the piano.
Somehow she had the presence of mind to return to her table. Her hands were shaking and her back was damp. She wrapped her fingers around her glass.
"I saw him when he came over to you," Leslie said in a conspiratorial whisper. "What did he say? What did you say?"
Celeste blinked, looked at Leslie and said, "I have no idea."
The band launched into a series of original pieces that were a mix of jazz and R&B soul that had the crowd on their feet. Then the spotlights dimmed on the band and focused on a lone image.
The slender figure held the stem of the microphone, stroking it like a lover as the sultry and haunting strains of Billie Holiday's "Strange Fruit" rose through the charged air, bringing a shuddering hum of quiet on the audience. Parris covered the piece with her own unique play on the words and melody, riffing above and below the notes, making it totally her own, before smoothly segueing into an original composition, "When I First Saw You," that had the audience bobbing their heads and popping their fingers. Then she did a totally soul-stirring rendition of Kem's "I Get Lifted" that had the audience banging tables and hollering for more.
"She is awesome," Celeste shouted over the din.
"Told you. And she isn't even warmed up good. I've listened to her some nights when she was at Downbeat and her voice would make your soul ache." She continued rocking her foot and bobbing her head to the music.
Parris was in another space, taken on a ride by the music, the emotion held her in its grip as she allowed the words to become an extension of herself. She closed her eyes, let the words flow, and all was right with the world. The disappointments, the losses, the lies, none of it mattered. Not when she sang, not when she rode the crest of Nick's sax notes. It was like making love in front of an audience, intimate and public, erotic and raw, needing and wanting it so much you had to share the power of what you felt and it didn't matter that anyone saw you naked and vulnerable. That was music to her and had been since she was a little girl singing in the church choir in Rudell, Mississippi, in the shower, local clubs, in her dreams. This was when she truly came alive.
The roar of the crowd's applause vibrated within her center. The lights blinded her to the faces in front of her, but she knew they were there, feeling her, feeling the rhythm.
Nick stepped next to her as the houselights came up. "Parris McKay.
Give it up!" he shouted into the mic.
Parris stole an ecstatic glance at him then took a bow of her head. "Thank you, thank you," she said to the audience. She waved and walked off, leaving the crowd on their feet.
Tracey ambled back out onstage. "Let's have another round of applause for our guests tonight, Turning Point featuring Parris McKay! Give it up! Please enjoy the rest of your evening here at yours truly's, Tracey's," she hollered over the clapping and foot stomping, then sauntered off stage.
"Don't look now," Leslie said into the mouth of her Diet Coke, "but here they come."
Some of Celeste's drink dribbled down her chin and she quickly reached for a napkin.
"Sam told me you two were here," Nick said, walking up on them and holding Parris's hand with Sam close behind.
"Hey," Parris greeted with a broad smile as she looked from Celeste to Leslie.
"You were fabulous, Parris," Celeste said in awe.
"Thank you." She smiled demurely.
"What about me?" Sam asked, stepping into the conversation but his stare and question were directed at Celeste.
"You weren't half-bad," she teased.
He pressed his large hand to his heart. "I'm wounded."
They all laughed.
"Mind if we join you, ladies?" Nick asked.
"Sure. Grab an extra chair," Leslie said.
Sam snatched an empty chair from the next table and pulled it next to Celeste. Nick and Parris took the two vacant seats at the table.
"What are you ladies drinking?" Nick asked.
"Diet Coke," Leslie answered.
"Apple martini, right?" Sam said to Celeste.
Her throat was suddenly bone-dry again. She nodded her head in response.
"What about you, babe?" Nick asked Parris.
"I think I'll take an apple martini, too."
Nick stood. "Be right back."
"I had no idea you all would be here tonight," Leslie said. "It was definitely a pleasant surprise. I hadn't heard you sing since Downbeat."
"Nick pulled me in at the last minute. These two kept talking about a jam session tonight. When we got here the truth came out," she said, laughing.
"How was your trip?" Celeste asked, turning to Parris.
"Not what I expected," she said, the light dying from her eyes. "But, as they say, it is what it is."
Celeste thought about Parris's confession to her about her mother and her decision to seek the truth. It was clear she didn't really want to talk about it, at least not now. She touched Parris's arm lightly in understanding consolation. Parris mouthed her thanks.
Nick returned, balancing their drinks like the experienced waiter he once was, and set them down on the table. He took his seat and then raised his glass. "A toast--to good music, good friends and good times ahead."
They all touched glasses.
"Speaking of good times, are we still on schedule?" Nick asked Celeste.
"I'm hoping to wrap everything up this week, for sure. Then it's all yours."
"And I'll have the first set of drawings and quotes for you in a couple of days," Leslie added.
Sam raised his glass of Hennessy. "Let the good times roll."
The DJ switched the tempo to a Luther Vandross classic, "A House Is Not a Home."
Sam leaned toward Celeste's ear. "May I?"
She turned and they were practically nose-to-nose. She could see her reflection in his eyes. She'd swear the entire club went dead quiet waiting for her answer. "Uh, sure."
Sam stood and helped her out of her seat then led her onto the dance floor with his hand at the dip in her back. It felt like a heating pad, Celeste thought as she found a space and turned into his hard body. He looked down at her and lightly wrapped his arms around her waist. They found their rhythm and moved to the sway and pull of the music, the plaintive cry of Luther begging his baby to be home when he got there, like a magnet, drew them together. For an instant, Celeste's muscles tensed when she found herself flush against the bold, defining lines of Sam's long, hard body. Her heart skipped and stumbled in her chest, shortening her breath. He stroked her back as if letting her know it was okay and she could feel the strumming in his throat and chest as he hummed along with the melody. She closed her eyes and allowed her body to unwrap itself from the knot it was in. She rested her head against his chest and was relieved to discover that for all his outward cool, his heart was racing as fast as hers.
Leslie sat at the table alone, nursing her Diet Coke after insisting that it was fine for Nick and Parris to leave her at the table to dance to their favorite song. As she watched the couples that were snuggled up on the dance floor and scattered throughout the club, she took an unfiltered look at her loveless life. A condition she'd been in for longer than she cared to admit. The last man whom she'd been involved with eventually became fed up with her array of insecurities, her own doubts about his feelings for her and her overall dismal view of men in general. That was nearly three years ago. She'd had a date or two since then but it never went beyond the first outing. And then her mother got sick.
She finished off the last of her soda. A woman's laughter rang out behind her. She turned and saw the thrill of happiness splashed across the woman's face as she leaned into the man who held all of her attention.
Leslie couldn't ever remember that kind of laughter, that unabashed joy, and had no clue what it felt like. For so long all she felt inside was a gaping hole that was filled with anger and resentment, a hole that she tried to fill with food when she reached her teens in an attempt to rid herself of the bitter taste always in the back of her mouth. The one bright spot was long gone, having left its indelible mark years ago. When she was a little girl and her mother worked the overnight shift, her mother's brother--Frank--would come to keep an eye on her. So many times she'd ask her uncle Frank where her dad was. Did he know him? What did he look like? Why won't Mom tell me who he is? He'd never answer her directly but would find other ways to soothe her childhood curiosity.
Uncle Frank was so handsome and he always smelled good. He would stroke her ponytails and help her into her pajamas, taking his time as he put the nightgown over her head, and tell her how beautiful she was. Sometimes when she would cry, he would climb in bed next to her and put his hand between her thighs, or rest his head on her budding breasts until she fell asleep. Once when she was about ten he sat on the edge of the tub while she took her bath, talking to her in the deep lulling voice that she loved, while he helped wash between her legs. She remembered the shuddering sensation and the way her eyes almost rolled to the back of her head when he touched her there.
Then one day, Uncle Frank didn't come back. Leslie blamed her mother. She never saw him again, only in the faces of the men she met throughout her life. His face and the imagined image of her father.
It wasn't until years later that she understood what had gone on between her and her beloved uncle. She never told anyone, not even Celeste. But she always wondered if her mother had known.
A sob lodged in her throat, rose then stuck in the roof of her mouth, and in a room teeming with people and laughter, she felt utterly alone.
When the two couples returned to the table, Leslie begged off with a "monster headache," and bid them all good-night.
As she lay in bed that night, she imagined Uncle Frank's smiling face, the scent of his cologne, and wondered why he never told her about her father, either.
Chapter Thirteen
The cab drew to a stop in front of Emma's destination. Throughout the winding ride from the place that had been her home for more than two decades, Emma barely moved, hardly blinked as the landscape--and what semblance of her life remained--became smaller and more distant.
The only image she could conjure in her mind's eye was Michael as he'd watched her leave. As she'd walked toward the waiting car, she'd prayed that she would hear his voice calling after her, his footsteps on her heels. And she would turn, and he would be there, tall and still incredibly handsome, with a gli
mmer of hope in his sea-blue eyes, and he would tell her to come inside out of the rain and they would work it out. Somehow they would work it out.
He didn't. And the cab pulled away and she watched the house until she couldn't see it anymore and she knew that her life was over. She had no one to blame but herself and the choice she'd made all those many years ago. A choice that haunted her mother, Cora, then her daughter, Parris, and destroyed the one person who'd ever made her happy. Michael. Yet, her choice had been made for her before her tainted birth.
"Madame? Madame?"
Emma turned in confusion to see the driver peering at her from the opened passenger door.
"This is the address, madame. We are here."
Her chest constricted. Here. "Yes, thank you," she mumbled and reached for her carry bag and purse on the seat next to her.
The driver extended his hand and helped her out.
She dug in her wallet and handed him his payment. Her bags were on the curb. Her knees weakened.
"Madame!" He grabbed her arm to steady her. "Are you all right? Should I call someone?"
Emma drew in gulps of air as her head began to clear. Rain splattered her face. "There's no one to call," she said almost to herself. "Thank you," she added absently. She walked the few steps to the front door and the driver came behind her and placed her bags at her feet then hurried back to his cab.
For several moments she stood on the porch listening to the sound of the rain hitting the roof, bouncing off the sidewalk and sluicing in between the cobblestone paths. She was still standing there when the door suddenly swung open and a young woman jumped back and gasped in surprise.
"Oh! I'm so sorry. I did not hear the bell." She held a bag of trash in her hand. "Come in, s'il vous plait." She dropped the trash in the can. "Can I help you with those?"
Emma numbly glanced at her bags. "Yes," she whispered.
The young woman grabbed up the bags and hurried inside. "I do apologize for having you stand out in the rain. I was in back." She led the way in with a suitcase in each hand and set them down beside the front desk.
