When I'm With You

by Donna Hill

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “Good.” He slapped his palm on his desk for emphasis and stood. He extended his hand, which she reached in and shook.

  “I’ll get back to work,” she said with a smile.

  “Yes, and set up with my assistant your firing-range review and field physical.”

  “Of course.”

  “And...as you know your name is still in the running for the assistant deputy director position. We put everything on hold while you were recovering. Of course, going forward, much of the evaluation will hinge on the final medical report and your field physical.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course. I understand.”

  Director Fischer gave a short nod. “Welcome back.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She turned to leave, forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other. The top of her head felt as if it would explode. She needed her medication and she needed it now before she passed out. “I’ll call to make the appointments,” she managed to say to the director’s assistant and then hurried down the hall to the elevator.

  She smiled and waved, made brief cursory small talk to the colleagues that greeted her en route to her office. Once inside, she quickly locked the door. Her vision began to blur. She breathed in deeply through her nose while fumbling in her purse for her pain medication. Her hands shook as she tried to twist the childproof cap off. She shoved two tablets into her mouth and swallowed them dry.

  Still leaning with her back against the door, she shut her eyes and imagined the calming waters of the Caribbean ebbing and flowing toward white, sandy shores. She saw herself drifting away toward the horizon, carried along by the soothing blue waters.

  By degrees the intensity of the pain lessened. She squinted against the light coming in from the window behind her desk and slowly crossed the room. No sooner had she sat down, her desk phone rang.

  She reached for the phone and slowly brought it to her ear. “Richards.”

  “Hey, girl. Didn’t want to call your cell in case you were still in the middle of things. How’d it go with the doc and Fischer?”

  “Perfect.” She gave Kerry a quick rundown.

  “Whew. That’s a relief. Well, I know you need to get settled and up to speed. I’ll see you later at the house. I have off-site work today.”

  “Okay. See you later.”

  Avery hung up the phone, leaned back against the headrest of her chair. The pain meds were starting to kick in. It worked. She should be happy. This was what she wanted. But at what cost? Her eyes filled. At what cost?

  Chapter 10

  Rafe checked in his desk drawer for the keys to his silver Lexus. It had been a while since he’d taken his birthday present to himself out on the road. Although the car was more than a year old, it barely had eight thousand miles on it and still had that brand-new leather smell. He’d treated himself to the luxury automobile to celebrate the success of his foundation landing a major grant and, of course, his thirty-fifth birthday. Cars, clothes, travel, money were abundances that were commonplace in his life. He didn’t grow up worrying about his next meal or if he’d get ragged at school for not having the latest Jordans. The Lawsons traveled in the rarified air that most black folk only dreamed about. But “all that stuff” never meant much to him. It was just the way things were. But as he traveled across the country, he came to understand the adage, “to whom much is given, much is expected.” It took him a minute to find his way, but he did when he launched his foundation. They were making real progress, and this year would be the first that the foundation would be able to award three full college scholarships for musicians of color. His father did it his way through politics, and Rafe would make his mark with music.

  He grabbed his black, hip-length leather jacket from the hook by the door and walked out to the garage through the kitchen.

  For all the cities he’d visited there was always something special about his hometown of New Orleans that drew him back. The rich, dark history and culture of the city of New Orleans exuded an energy that went beyond the parties in the streets, sticky pralines, spicy gumbo, Anne Rice’s vampire novels, Mardi Gras, impromptu street performances and iconic structures. It was the people that made it magical—with their big hearty smiles and the swag in their step within their multi-colored milieu, even in the midst of despair and abject poverty. The city, like blood, flowed through his veins, and each time he returned home, he was transfused.

  Behind the wheel, the thought of permanently moving away gathered speed in concert with the Lexus. It was a bridge that he and Avery would have to cross. But as he drove through the streets that ranged from palatial estates tucked behind professionally manicured gardens and wrought-iron gates to the trailers and prefab homes occupied by the survivors of Katrina, to the lull of the mighty Mississippi, he was no longer sure that he’d be willing to give it up.

  He exited the I-610 and took the main streets into downtown. His office was located on Canal Street, once the pathway for horse-drawn carriages for the wealthy, while others rode the streetcars that withstood the test of time and the upriver boundary of the French Quarter. Street parking was at a premium along this stretch that was peppered with luxury hotels like the Ritz Carlton or the Astor Crowne Plaza, which were converted from their historic predecessors, the high-end stores—Maison Blanche, Godchaux’s and D.H. Holmes—and theaters and restaurants that overflowed with residents and tourists at all hours of the day and night.

  Rafe drove past his office and the Joy Theater, went around the block to the lot. He maintained a monthly account for days like this. Walking back to the building where his office was housed, he was pleasantly assaulted by the live music floating from the opened doorways of restaurants, followed by low-and high-pitched laughter and the unmistakable ’Nawlins twang.

  Tourists strolled wide-eyed, laden with bags, and in awe of the assault on the senses from every direction, while the residents reveled in the ordinary everyday-ness of their lives.

  Rafe pulled on the vertical silver bar handle of the glass door and stepped into the refreshingly chilly air, a respite from the wooly weight of humidity, a hallmark of Louisiana weather.

  He took the elevator up to the tenth floor, which housed the suite of six offices and a conference room. For now the space was large enough to accommodate the needs of the RBL Foundation, but Rafe knew that, as his vision continued to expand, so would the need for more space.

  “Halle, how are you?” he greeted his receptionist, before he plucked a rose from the vase that held the dozen he’d sent her like clockwork each week. He handed it to her with a bow.

  Halle’s laughter, which always sounded like runs on a Steinway piano, filled the reception space with her ever-ready joy.

  “Why, Mr. Lawson,” she purred, lowering her long lashes over rum-colored eyes and slowly dragging the bud of the rose beneath her nose, “how gallant of you, kind sir.”

  Rafe grinned. “I can only try. What do I need to know?”

  Halle easily shifted back to full business mode. “The board members should be here in about an hour. I’ve ordered lunch from Creole House, and Danielle said she wanted to see you as soon as you arrived.”

  “Thanks. Danielle’s in her office?”

  “Yes.” He started off but then stopped and turned back. He pointed a warning finger in her direction. “Tell whoever it is that keeps sending you flowers that I’m a very jealous boss,” he teased with a wicked glint in his eyes.

  She shook her head and laughed at their inside joke. “Will do.”

  Rafe strode down the carpeted corridor, passing the five office spaces that occupied the spine of the space. Along the soft white walls hung framed photos of the galas, the political and fund-raising events, and the staff and members of the board. He turned left at the end of the hall, away from the conference room, and stopped at Danielle’s office, which was across the hall from
his. He knocked on the closed door.

  “Yes. Come in.”

  Rafe eased the door open and poked his head through the gap. “Busy? Halle said you needed to see me.”

  Danielle whipped off her designer glasses—today they were blue rimmed—and placed them on the desk, which was stacked on either side of her with folders. “Hey.” She waved him inside. “Come on in.”

  Danielle had been with him from the beginning. They’d met through his sister Dominique’s business, First Impression. Danielle had been instrumental in promoting Dominique’s dream to the general public. But her skills extended beyond publicity. She had an MBA with a specialty in finance, was detail-oriented, great with seeing the small things in the big-picture world of Rafe Lawson, could run numbers in her head at lightning speed, knew what he needed before he needed it and, at the drop of a hat, she could stand in for him at any venue. When he took all that into account, he knew he was making the right decision and was confident that the board would agree.

  She leaned back in her chair, rubbed the bridge of her short, slender nose. “How are you? It’s been a minute.” She tucked her shoulder-length, bone-straight hair behind her ears.

  Rafe came around and sat in the overstuffed paisley-print chair opposite her desk. He draped his right ankle across his left thigh. “I know.” He blew out a breath. “Lot going on, but I knew I had you holding everything down. Anything I need to know before this meeting?”

  She reached into her desk and pulled out a red folder and handed it to him. “Basic notes on where the scholarships stand, list of donors, quarterly projections and an outline for the summer fund-raiser.”

  Rafe flipped open the folder and quickly scanned the very detailed notes. He bobbed his head. “Thanks. Anything else?” He closed the folder and rested it on his thigh.

  “The scholarships are a big deal, Rafe. Three full rides.” She beamed in delight. “That was no small feat. So the roll out and the event have to be larger than life. I’ve already started the plan, secured the venue. I did want to sit down with your sister Desiree. With her being on the city council, it can only help to bring in more support with her connections.”

  “Not a problem. We want big-ticket donors at the event, along with the presidents of the universities.”

  “On my list.”

  “I want to personally sign all of the invitations.”

  She nodded and made a note. “I’ve asked Halle to put together a list of caterers.”

  “No. I’ll get my brother-in-law Spence to handle the menu. His staff is big enough to handle it.”

  “Got it.” Danielle tipped her head to the side, her dark chocolate eyes locking on Rafe. She put her notes aside. “How are you...really? And how is Avery? I’ve seen the papers lately.”

  Rafe’s brows rose and fell. He pushed out a breath and brought Danielle up to speed.

  She linked her slender fingers together, and Rafe wondered as he spoke how she was able to be so productive with her long embellished nails.

  “If there’s anything I can do, you know you only have to say the word,” she said once he was done.

  “’Preciate that.” He pushed to his feet. “See you at the meeting.”

  “Yep.”

  He left and went to his office across the hall.

  As much as he would like to take total credit for the foundation and its mission, the idea was originally Janae’s. She planted the seed of the idea years earlier, when they were on a weekend getaway to Aruba as part of her social-work studies. They visited several schools on the island. After talking with many of the students, they were both moved by the students’ love of learning and desire to go to college one day. Unfortunately, that would not be a reality for many of them. Janae said that, back home, so many students were faced with the same fate, and with the Lawson family name, connections and wealth, they could make a difference—offer scholarships to deserving students. He let the idea sit, not sure if he was really the one to take on that role.

  Still, it wasn’t until years after he lost her, after no longer caring about much of anything, that her vision took root again. He knew that if he was ever going to find his way back to some sense of normal, he needed to find a purpose in his life that went beyond satisfying his own needs. With the legal help of his brother Justin, he formed the foundation. He sat behind his desk and looked around at the plaques and framed citations on the wall. He shook his head and smiled in bemusement. Had someone told him ten years ago that this was where he would be, he would have laughed in his face. Now, he couldn’t see otherwise.

  He leaned back and exhaled as a melancholy smile shadowed his mouth. Janae would be proud. Her spirit was part of the success of the foundation. Whenever he spent time here, he often wondered what things would be like if Janae was with him. His smile widened, sure that Janae’s “save the world” mantra would be imprinted on all their endeavors. That’s why it was going to be hard to let the board know that he was turning the reins over to Danielle so that he could take a back seat. The notion that he would possibly have to relocate to DC was already difficult, but if he could set things up so that the transition would be smooth, that’s what he would do.

  He frowned, stroked his smooth chin. Funny, if Janae was here, this would not be on the table. Reflexively his jaw tightened. But she wasn’t. He pushed back from the desk, pulled the lower drawer open and pulled out a striped tie—part of boardroom décor, which he always bucked against. But wearing a tie on today of all days was the least he could do.

  Rafe took his suit jacket from the hook and slipped it on. Hopefully Danielle would take the announcement well, since he’d chosen to hold his cards close to his chest until this meeting. Harder for her to say no.

  * * *

  “You blindsided me,” Danielle said, staring across at Rafe. Her palms were planted on her desk, her body tense. “Why? And why the hell didn’t you say something?” She held up her hand. “No. Don’t bother. I know why you did it...so that I wouldn’t say no.”

  Rafe’s attempts to look sheepish didn’t move Danielle.

  “There’s that,” he admitted and slid his hands into his pockets. “Look, there’s no one more qualified to run the foundation.” He slowly paced in front of her desk, his head lowered in thought as he spoke. “You do it anyway.” He turned to face her. “You deserve the title of CEO and the perks that go along with it. I’ll still have my hand in—you know that. But you’ll officially run the day-to-day.”

  Danielle looked directly at him. “I don’t know what to say.” She paused. “Thank you for the confidence you have in me. I won’t let you down.”

  “I know that.” He gave her that half grin. “So...we good?”

  “Did you give me a choice? Yes,” she said with a conceding smile, “we’re good.”

  He loosened his tie, pulled it from around his neck and then stuck it in his pants pocket. “Let me know when the invites are ready for my signature, and have Halle draft up a press release with the announcement.” He winked. “Talk to you soon.”

  His next stop was his club on Bourbon Street, centered in the heart of the French Quarter, renowned since the mid-1800s as the hot spot for Mardi Gras. He could have chosen any number of locations for a nightspot in New Orleans, but the energy, the history, the thrill of the Quarter was visceral. There was no place like it in the world. Although his club was one of many, what he offered was a menu prepared by a chef who trained under Emeril himself. Pair that with his highly skilled bartender who created a one-of-a-kind version of the infamous Hurricane for weekend guests, and Lawsons was the place to be. It didn’t hurt that he often played a set and used his connections in the music industry to bring in some of the top-named jazz musicians.

  His co-managers, Marcus and his wife, Antoinette, ran Lawsons like a well-oiled machine. The staff was happy, the customers were thrilled and business boomed.

 
When he popped into the club the lunch crowd had dwindled down to those who struggled with the reality that they had to return to work. His club was fashioned after the clubs he’d visited in Europe; although large in space, they were designed with a feeling of intimacy. Circular tables that seated no more than four and private banquettes for larger parties were situated on gradient levels. The dark wood walls were adorned with signed black-and-white photographs of film, television, athletic and musical stars. Every seat in the house had perfect views of the stage, and the dim, recessed lighting provided the perfect ambiance.

  “Mr. Lawson!” Antoinette walked toward him from the back while wiping her hands on a towel. “I didn’t expect you. Everything okay?”

  Rafe leaned down and buzzed her cheek, lightly squeezed her shoulder. “In town for a few days.”

  “Congratulations on your engagement.”

  “Thank you.” He took a quick look around. “How’s everything going?”

  “Busy,” she said on a breath and with a full-bodied smile. “We had to hire two more wait staff.”

  “Whatever you need to do. Who’s on the entertainment lineup?”

  “Thinking about sitting in?”

  Rafe chuckled. “Never know.” He folded his arms and leaned against the bar.

  She gave him a rundown on the upcoming performers.

  “Real tempting,” he said, nodding his head in appreciation. “Probably on my next visit. Tryin’ to get Quinten Parker to come down.”

  “Now, that would be fantastic.”

  “Flying up to New York in the morning. Gonna twist his arm.”

  “Make sure you do. Me and Marcus will make it the event.”

  “I know ya’ll will. Anyway, I’m out. Just wanted to stop in and see how things were going. I’ll be back in town in a few weeks. But anything come up before then, you know you can always reach me.”

  “Marcus will be sorry he missed you,” Antoinette said while they walked toward the front door.

  “We’ll catch up next time. Let him know the new website for the club is fire! The shots of the interior, menu, photos of the performers—perfect. Brotha got skills.”