Love in New York ; Cherish My Heart

by Shirley Hailstock

  “Next Friday night,” he replied. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “I live in Flushing now,” she reminded him. “Funny, the only thing I used to know about Flushing came from Fran Drescher on The Nanny. I’ll take the train to Harlem.”

  “No way,” he said. “I’ll pick you up.”

  She smiled at him as she added a pinch of red pepper flakes to the egg mixture in the bowl. “Okay, but I can’t spend the night on Friday because Susie and I are doing some painting on Saturday. But I’ll be free for our Saturday night date, as usual.”

  He hoped the disappointment didn’t show on his face at that bit of news. He knew she was helping Susie renovate her house so that she could sell it for a good price, but any time she spent with Susie was time not spent with him.

  He smiled, though, and said, “I’ll try to be a good boyfriend and share you with your friends. I’ll even help you paint.”

  She went over to him and stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his mouth. “That’s sweet of you. We’re almost finished. She’s going to let the Realtor start showing the house in August. In the meantime, I think my agent has found me an apartment in Harlem.”

  “Harlem?” he asked. “Why Harlem? I thought you might find something closer to me. Or even move in with me.”

  “I like Harlem,” she said patiently. She reached out and grasped both of his biceps, her hold firm. “You and I can’t live together. Didn’t you tell me you thought we should be discreet about our relationship?”

  “I hate feeling as though I’m hiding. I want the whole world to know how happy you make me.”

  Her smile broadened, and her eyes were alight with joy. “You make me happy, too. But we’re attending the gala for the series launch in December together, so everyone will know then.”

  He hugged her tightly. “Besides our families, only Susie knows, so I guess we’re good until December. By then, it’ll be clear that you earned your spot on the network because you’re highly qualified, not because you’re sleeping with the CEO.”

  “We’ve done everything the hard way, haven’t we?” she murmured against his chest. “Sleeping together before we knew each other and having an inappropriate employer/employee relationship.” She looked up at him, her expression skeptical. “Do you suppose we can do things in a more traditional manner from now on?”

  “Like what?” he asked, smiling.

  “Like when your parents ask how we met, you’ll say something like I saw her on the subway and had to say something.”

  He chuckled. “I can’t tell them the subway story because I rarely take the subway. I’m just going to say we met at the meeting with the conservancy. If we hadn’t met a few hours earlier, that would have been how we met.”

  She smiled at him, obviously satisfied.

  He released her. “Now, let’s finish cooking breakfast. I’m ravenous.”

  “I’m hungry, too,” she said with a sultry smile and a naughty twinge in her big brown eyes.

  And that was all it took for his libido to go into overdrive.

  He turned the stove off and swept her into his arms.

  “I’ve lost five pounds since meeting you,” she complained as he carried her into the bedroom, but she was laughing, and he knew she was as game for some morning loving as he was.

  * * *

  The following Friday, Petra was enjoying the view as Chance drove them to his parents’ brownstone in Harlem. She’d read that Harlem, in its heyday, used to be the mecca of blacks who moved to New York for opportunities they couldn’t find down South. Not just for American blacks, though. Senegalese also made up a small part of Harlem, as did Hispanics, who occupied Spanish Harlem.

  Harlem was a place of dreams, and the people who came there contributed to its unique culture. During the Harlem Renaissance many famous artists, politicians and businessmen lived in row houses in the Sugar Hill neighborhood of Harlem. And many Harlem neighborhoods boasted beautiful brownstones and tree-lined streets. Today, gentrification had put its stamp on the community. It was more racially mixed than ever.

  Chance’s parents’ home was a three-story brownstone in Sugar Hill. They parked at the curb in front of the house and got out. Chance placed his hand on her lower back as he walked with her to the front steps.

  She paused a moment to admire what must have been turn-of-the-century architecture. “How old is it?” she asked, her voice awe filled.

  “It was built around 1910, I believe,” Chance said. “My grandfather bought it in 1950. The family has renovated it several times since then. Mom jokes that there’s always construction going on in order to keep it from falling down on our heads.”

  “And they’re called brownstones because of the kind of stone that was used in construction more than a hundred years ago, right?”

  “That’s right. I looked it up once. Brownstone refers to a townhouse that’s covered in brown sandstone that comes from the Triassic-Jurassic age.”

  “How did you remember that?” Petra asked, gazing at him with admiration.

  “I’m weird that way,” was his reply.

  They walked up the steps and he rang the bell. “I have a key, but Mom likes to greet guests, so I let her have her fun.”

  Petra smiled at that. A son who indulged his mother. That was so sweet.

  They didn’t have to wait long. In less than two minutes, the door was unlocked and a lovely petite woman with reddish-brown skin, silver hair which she wore short and curly, and eyes the same shade as Chance’s cinnamon-colored ones answered the door with a broad smile on her elfin-like face. She was about the same height as Petra and wore a simple black scoop-necked silk dress, black suede pumps with two-inch heels and silver drop earrings.

  Petra’s dress was quite similar except it was rust-colored, the soft material falling down her fit body and clinging in all the right places. She also wore pumps in leather that were the same shade as her dress. Her hair was in a casual upswept style.

  “Hello!” Debra Youngblood cried. She reached out and grasped Petra by the arm. Her hand was warm and soft. Smiling, she looked into Petra’s eyes. “Come in, dear, come in. Welcome to our home.”

  Petra stepped inside, Chance right behind her. She took in the resplendent stairs in front of her. It appeared that the Youngblood family had tried to save as much of the house’s historic features as possible because the staircase was an intricately carved marvel. She guessed it was made of cherrywood, and some artisan had carved images of grapevines into it.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Youngblood,” she breathed. “You have a beautiful home.”

  Debra looked pleased. “I’m glad you like it. Would you like a tour?”

  Chance took that moment to clear his throat and say, “Hi, Mom, how are you?”

  Debra laughed. “Sorry, baby.” She hugged him briefly and kind of shoved him in the direction of another room in the house. Petra smiled at that. It showed that Debra Youngblood could be playful, suggesting, not too subtly either, that she wanted to talk with her without her son present.

  Chance took the hint and said, “I’ll go see what Dad’s up to.”

  “He and Brock are talking sports, as usual,” Debra said drolly. She smiled at Petra. “This way, my dear, we can do the tour thing later. Alia and I are preparing dinner in the kitchen.”

  Petra walked alongside her. “Oh, good. I’m beginning to like learning how to cook.”

  Debra laughed. “It is a learned skill. Cooking used to be a necessary skill that some elevated to an art form. Therefore, more people learned to do it from their youth. Nowadays, women are having to be the breadwinners and the homemakers. It’s a lot of work. I don’t know how some of them do it. Plus, families are going in so many directions, it’s difficult to get everyone at the dinner table at the same time. Prepackaged foods are popular, as is takeout from fast food restaurants. No wonder we’re f
atter than we’ve ever been.”

  Petra laughed with her. She liked Chance’s mother already.

  In the kitchen, they stepped into a modern wonder consisting of a high ceiling, a beautiful timber floor, a waterfall granite island, pendant lighting, white cabinets and brushed stainless steel appliances, including double ovens. Standing at the farmhouse sink was a tall, fit woman dressed in black slacks and a white pleated tunic, her feet in black boots. She turned when Petra and Debra entered the kitchen, and flashed Petra a white-toothed smile.

  “Hey, Petra, I’ve been dying to meet you!”

  Petra was hugged enthusiastically, and when the woman released her, she knew she must be Chance’s sister because looking up into her face was like seeing Chance in female form. She had Chance’s cleft in the chin, his cinnamon-colored eyes and his exact shade of dark brown hair. Her genetic mixture was, however, unmistakably feminine, whereas his was ultramasculine. When she’d met Brock, she had noted no real resemblance between him and Chance.

  “Oh my God, you and Chance could be twins!”

  Alia laughed heartily. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that. Yes, my baby brother and I look quite a bit alike. I’m the female version of him, and he’s the male version of me. Genes did a number on us.”

  Debra chuckled. “In other words, they look a lot like their father, and Brock looks a lot like me.”

  She went and grabbed a couple of aprons from a drawer near the farmhouse sink. “For you, my dear. What are you comfortable doing, making salad or grilling steaks?”

  “Better put me on the salad,” Petra said. “I’ve never grilled a steak before.”

  “Done,” said Debra.

  Petra breathed a sigh of relief as she washed her hands at the sink and tied the apron around her waist. In the past few weeks she’d become adept at making salads, and she felt she could do a good job preparing the salad for tonight’s meal.

  “So, tell me all about where you lived in Africa,” Alia said as the three of them went about preparing the meal. Alia was seasoning the steaks, her mother was at the gas range getting the grill ready for the steaks and Petra was getting vegetables from the crisper in the refrigerator.

  “I lived in Kinshasa,” she said. “That’s the capital of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. It’s the biggest city in the Congo, and it’s a mixture of rich and poor. Some parts of it will remind you of South Florida with congested freeways and palm tree–lined roads. The weather’s like Florida, too, hot and muggy because it rains a lot.”

  She continued describing Kinshasa to Alia as she choose two kinds of lettuce, cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, bell peppers, Vidalia onions, snow peas in their pods, carrots and radishes. There was also a pint of fresh strawberries in the refrigerator, which she grabbed.

  “There’s a great divide between the rich and the poor in Kinshasa,” she said. “There are few rich and a lot of poor people. The country is constantly thrown into chaos by so many civil wars that many people never get the chance to get back on their feet. Corrupt government officials make it worse by catering to rich businessmen who want to rape the country of its natural resources. It’s like they’re selling out their country to get rich while most of the people suffer.”

  Alia and Debra were both shaking their heads sadly. “There’s so much of that going on in the world,” Alia said.

  Finished choosing the ingredients for the salad, Petra set them on the counter beside the sink. She saw that someone had already placed a big salad bowl on the counter along with a salad spinner. She recognized the salad spinner because she’d seen one demonstrated on YouTube, but she’d never actually used one.

  “Africa never catches a break,” Debra said. “But in spite of it all, many African countries are progressing, establishing democratic governments and championing human rights.”

  “Oh, the people themselves are wonderful,” Petra wholeheartedly agreed. “It’s the politicians who’re greedy and corrupt.”

  Alia walked over and handed her mother the platter of steaks she’d seasoned. “Chance says you were there for years,” she said softly.

  “Six years in total,” Petra said. “So I got to know the people pretty well.” She washed the vegetables under running water and placed them in a colander to drain before tearing the lettuce into pieces and putting it into the salad spinner.

  “They’re so hopeful for a better future, in spite of everything they’ve been through.”

  “Yes, that’s a hallmark of the human spirit, isn’t it?” said Debra. “We endure. We have to. There is no alternative. We have to keep going.”

  Alia, obviously the prankster in the family, sidled up next to Petra now that she was finished with her task and said, her eyes sparkling with humor, “Is it true you’ve got a black belt in judo? Could you beat up Chance if you wanted to?”

  Debra laughed. “Alia, quit being nosy.” But she turned her gaze on Petra too, and asked, “Do you?”

  Petra laughed as she kept pressing the button on the spinner that propelled the spinning action. “I do have a black belt in judo. Dad made sure all his girls took lessons. But I’m out of practice, so I don’t know if I could beat Chance in hand-to-hand combat. And I hope I never have to attempt it.”

  “Good answer,” Debra said, giggling. “Now, Alia, help Petra with the salad.”

  Alia immediately did her mother’s bidding, going to get a vegetable peeler out of a drawer and starting to peel a couple of carrots. “I have to tell you,” she said for Petra’s ears only, “Chance is one happy guy since he met you. I couldn’t be happier for you two, and I hope you and I will be friends.”

  Petra met her eyes and smiled gratefully. “I’d like that. Chance talks about you a lot. He really adores you.”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” Alia said. “We’ve always been close. Speaking of which, he says you have four sisters. Wow, your cup runneth over! I always wished I had a sister. Sometimes having brothers was frustrating. They just don’t think the same way a female does. Their behavior can be confusing.”

  “If you’re talking about males versus females,” Debra said from her position in front of the grill, “you couldn’t be more on the money. Males and females don’t think alike. You’d just as well get used to it.”

  “They believe they’re logical,” Alia said as she scrapped the skin off the carrots. “But actually they’re illogical.”

  “They think they’re unemotional compared to the emotional creatures females are supposed to be,” Debra said. “But let an emergency happen, and they fall apart while we unemotionally handle it. Although we might fall apart later.”

  “But I wouldn’t trade them for the world,” Petra said, thinking of Chance.

  “Amen!” said Debra and Alia in unison.

  * * *

  Chance’s father, James, wanted to know where Petra was the moment Chance joined him and Brock in the library. His father looked askance at his youngest child, while Chance thought he detected a smirk on Brock’s face.

  “Mom stole her right out from under me,” Chance joked. He was happy his mother seemed to take an instant liking to Petra. But who wouldn’t? Petra was a sweet person.

  “Let’s hope that’s not a portent of the future,” Brock said.

  Chance cocked a disapproving eyebrow at his brother, but didn’t rise to the occasion. Sometimes Brock liked nothing better than to get into a battle of wits.

  His father stood six foot tall, and like his youngest son, he had dark brown skin that was like smooth dark chocolate. He had wrinkles around his eyes, but otherwise his age was indeterminate at a glance. His hair was still mostly black with a little gray at the temples. Brock was more reddish-brown skinned like their mother.

  “Still in the honeymoon phase?” Brock asked about his and Petra’s relationship.

  Chance mixed himself a drink while he ignored his brother. “
How’ve you been, Dad? Still trying to figure out what you’re going to do now that you’ve been retired for two years?”

  It was a running joke among the family. James had officially retired, but hadn’t yet figured out what to do with his retirement. Debra wanted to move someplace tropical. But James was so used to Harlem that he thought he’d go crazy with boredom anywhere in the world where the seasons rarely changed and the pulse of the community was slow and steady. He’d grown up on action.

  James had risen when Chance had come into the room. He sat back down and picked up his drink. Whiskey, Chance guessed. His dad took a sip, gave an audible “Ah,” and then regarded Chance with sober eyes. “Retirement is for the birds. I’d rather be working. Your mother looks at this time as an opportunity to get closer as a couple. She’s got me going to classes with her. We’re doing something called hot yoga for couples. I don’t want to do yoga, let alone hot yoga. It just dehydrates me and I have to drink a couple beers before I feel right again. Your mother thinks it’s sexy.”

  Chance couldn’t help laughing. “It does nothing for you, huh?”

  James smiled. “Your mother doesn’t need hot yoga to be sexy. That woman’s still got it. I don’t know if I’m still man enough to handle it, though.”

  Both he and Brock laughed this time. Their father had always been frank on the subject of sex, although never explicit about his relationship with their mother. He promoted respect for women. He urged his sons to choose women who not only turned them on sexually, but intellectually. Someone they could be friends with as well as lovers. That was the sort of relationship he had with their mother.

  “You and Petra, son,” James said, looking expectantly at Chance. “Do you think she’s the one?”

  Brock made a choking sound, his eyes filled with pent-up laughter.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Chance asked, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.

  Their father was watching both of them with a confused expression on his face.

  Chance didn’t want to get into an argument in front of his father, so he put his drink down and gestured to Brock to follow him. “A word, please, brother.”