by Diana W.
Realizing he wasn’t the courteous type and would open the door for her, Harley did it herself and climbed into the back seat.
There was an older black man at the wheel, wearing a hat like a traditional chauffeur. He turned around and, with kind eyes, nodded his head. “Afternoon.”
Harley almost fumbled a response, not expecting his politeness.
“Hi.” She gave him a nervous smile and wondered if he was aware of what was going on. Or maybe all he did was drive, nothing more, nothing less.
When Smitty opened the door to retake his seat, she noticed how quickly the driver turned his head back to the front as if their interaction never happened, which made her even more fidgety.
She continuously stared at the cars passing by, hoping her breathing would eventually slow down. Her heart felt as if it was about to grow legs and take off at any moment. The vehicle stopping seemed to finally calm her, and she looked out and up at the massive building. The Vieux was written in stone by the large glass doors of the entrance.
“Let’s go.” Smitty opened her door, already holding her bag that she must have missed him grab during her fixation on the tower.
She followed his lead into the building, past the smiling doorman. Smitty nodded at the two security guards sitting behind a desk who returned the gesture and they entered one of four elevators. He stuck a keycard into a slot above the open and close buttons, making the number twenty-three appear above the doors. Harley silently braced herself on the ride up and held her breath when they stopped. Expecting to see a hallway of some sort, her mouth fell open at the sight of a living room.
They both walked in, and Smitty disappeared down the hallway, leaving Harley standing alone in the middle of her unfamiliar surroundings. Everything looked so immaculate and expensive, that she was afraid to breathe too hard for fear of disrupting something.
“Fridge is stocked.” Smitty reappeared just as quickly as he left and headed toward the elevator. “Boss said he’ll be by shortly.”
“Wait.” Harley panicked and stepped in his direction. “You’re leaving me?” She didn’t know whose home she was standing in, so the thought of being left alone in it was alarming.
“It’s not like you can go anywhere.” He held up the keycard to remind her that the elevator was useless without it.
Harley started to object but instead swore under her breath, took a seat in the middle of the brown, eight-seater sectional, and slid off her khaki sneakers. She was almost certain there was a no-shoe policy in effect just by looking at the impeccable floors. As soon as the doors on the elevator closed, she sighed and held her head in her hands.
“Oh my God.” She massaged her temples. “What am I doing here? What am I doing here?” She could feel herself starting to hyperventilate. “Ok, Harley,” she took a deep, cleansing breath, “let’s just calm down. We can’t afford to freak out. Not right now.”
If she was at home, she would’ve already taken a shot of tequila to get her mind right, and that idea made her rush to the spotless, magazine cover-worthy kitchen in search of a suitable beverage.
She pulled on the door of one of the cupboards, but it wouldn’t budge. Frustrated, she tried another, resulting in the same outcome.
“Seriously?” she gritted.
Before she realized it, she had pulled and punched on every single cabinet door in the kitchen and now had a knife wedged into the corner of one, trying to pry it open.
“What are you doing?”
The deep voice startled the knife from her hand, and it bounced off the counter and onto the hardwood floor, forcing her to jump back to avoid a toe stabbing.
She brushed her hands down her jeans, trying to appear unfazed by his presence, but his scrutinizing gaze and three-piece suit the color a fine Merlot proved difficult.
“Trying to find a glass and something potent enough to put in it.” She swung her locs over her shoulder, wasting no time remembering why she was frustrated in the first place. “Is that allowed or is this some Hunger Games scenario where I only get access to things after I do a task?”
Cornell raised a brow at the indirect accusation. “You peg me to be sadistic?” It's not that he couldn’t be, but this situation didn’t warrant it.
“I peg you to be somebody who does whatever it takes to get the outcome you want. It’s not like I’m here by choice.”
“No.” Cornell raised a finger in objection. “You are here of your own free will.” He moved further into the kitchen. “You chose to work for me. Just like you chose to steal from me.”
Harley cut her eyes at him, ready to tell him how very insignificant the amount of money she stole was compared to how much she now knew his family’s company was worth, but she had a feeling that wouldn’t go over well. She instead redirected her attitude to the immediate problem at hand.
“Just like you chose to purchase irregular kitchen cabinets.” She picked the knife up from the floor and placed it on the counter. “Is that a rich people thing? Price over practicality?”
Cornell’s eyes lingered on her, trying to decide if he should dispute yet another false assumption she had of his character. If he did, it would make him seem bothered by her view of him, which he wasn’t, although their previous interaction at Madam Sinclair’s made speaking with her uncomfortable and somewhat awkward. She’d seen him at his weakest, and now, he felt that he had to overcompensate for it by being tough with her like at the warehouse where he all but threatened her life. But it was only because he knew she could take it. He had Clark research her entire life, down to the toilet paper she preferred once he found out that she was Eden. It was almost obsessive how much he analyzed her upbringing with a jailed father who still seemed more present than her now-deceased live-in mother ever was. She was a survivor who would do what was necessary to protect herself and her sister.
“Miss Dupree.” He approached her, appreciating the fit of her jeans around her thick thighs. “Sometimes, the answers to our questions are often the simplest.”
Her eyes traveled up to his hardened expression and followed his hand to the cupboard that he gently pressed, causing the door to pop open effortlessly.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” She looked at the now opened cupboard and then back at Cornell. “I did that!” she defended.
“I doubt you did anything gently,” he responded, knowing it would piss her off. Verbally sparring with her was starting to become a welcomed source of entertainment. “And I’m reminded that we should discuss your language.”
Harley’s neck recoiled as if he slapped her.
“First of all, I didn’t think you liked anything ‘gently’.” She refused to miss an opportunity to take a jab at him about his special club membership. “And second of all, I speak perfectly fine.”
Deciding to ignore her first point, Cornell leaned against the counter with his arms folded. “You speak as if you’re about to drop a rap album.”
Offended, Harley nearly gasped. She bit the inside of her cheek and shook her head, refusing the bait to curse him out. “Do you have alcohol here or not?”
He walked past her, into the dining room, hiding his vindictive smile. He reached behind the black and stainless-steel bar counter, situated in the corner, and retrieved two short tumblers.
“I guess you missed this during your search.” He reveled in his sarcasm and placed the glasses down on the table. He then pulled out a large, circular black bottle with a gold label, poured a small amount of brown liquor into each glass and handed her one.
“What is this?” She cautiously sniffed her glass.
“A project of mine.” Cornell took a sip, savoring the cognac’s smooth taste. He wasn’t in the mood for a drink, but at least Harley would see that he wasn’t trying to drug her. “I recommend that you sip it. It isn’t for the weak.”
Harley eyed him. “I assume you’re here to discuss in detail what I have to do.”
“That’s correct,” he nodded.
“Well,”
she placed the glass on her lips, “fuck it then.” She swallowed every ounce of the liquid, needing all the liquid courage she could get to deal with his bullshit. She blew out the fire that had exploded in her chest. It was most definitely smooth, but the kick at the end was lethal.
Cornell brushed off Harley’s little rebellious display and motioned for her to take a seat. When she did, he unbuttoned his jacket and followed suit.
“Miss Dupree, the Rowe family, whom you’ll be interacting with, hails from the upper echelon of society. They only run in exclusive circles. They are, for lack of better words, the poster children for how the one percent behaves. And what I meant by your language is—”
“They’re uppity negroes who look at swearing as a sign of ignorance, right?” she finished, cutting him off. She wasn’t far removed from people like that. Her mother’s side of the family, who were upper middle class at best, disowned their mother before she or Gianna were born for choosing to be with their father. Her mother, at her lowest, which was around the time their father went to jail, went to them for money, and Harley never forgot how they treated her like a stranger off the street. Watching from the backseat of the car, Harley watched them shut the door in her mother’s crying face, and from that day forward, Harley vowed to die before she would ever ask another person to do for her or her family.
“They are black, aren’t they?” She was borderline panicked. The thought never crossed her mind that she may have to flirt with someone of a different background than hers, which would be unchartered territory.
“They are,” he assured. “Justin Rowe is your target.” Cornell pulled out his phone from the inside his jacket pocket and retrieved an image of him to show her. “That’s the eldest son who’s putting up the most resistance to the acquisition, and here are some other pictures of his immediate family, who you will more than likely have to encounter—or endure—for lack of a better term.”
Internally, Harley breathed a sigh of relief. Justin wasn’t in the same as Cornell in terms of looks, but he was still decent looking, which would make the process of getting to know him more tolerable. There was still a major issue at hand, though.
“So, I don’t know if you noticed, but I’d look like a discarded chocolate chip trying to blend in with a sea of sugar cookies.”
Colorism in New Orleans was one of those things you were made to be aware of whether you wanted to or not. Harley was born just outside the city but knew from the time she hit grade school that there was an unspoken hierarchy amongst black people there. People were often confused when it came to her last name. Though she and Gianna used their mother’s Creole maiden name, they inherited every bit of their father’s mahogany genes, which essentially muddied the Dupree bloodline. It infuriated her mother’s side of the family that she not only fell in love with but allowed herself to get pregnant not once, but twice, by a man they didn’t deem worthy of the air they breathed. They considered her father a low-life and as his offspring, Harley and Gianna were too. “Is Justin even into non-translucent women?”
Cornell snorted involuntarily and tried his hardest not to grin. Harley wasn’t one to mince her words, and he could always appreciate that type of honesty—and humor.
“I assure you, Miss Dupree, you have everything you need to get his attention. We just have to put you in the same environment as him to create the opportunity for him to notice.”
Harley stroked her glass. “And where exactly will this environment be?”
“There’s a scholarship gala tomorrow night that you’ll be attending. All the who is who of New Orleans will be there, including the Rowes.”
“What?” Harley sat forward. “What do you mean tomorrow night? What....what am I supposed to wear? What do I do with my hair?” She feverishly toyed with the ends of her locs.
Cornell motioned his hands in a calming matter. “I assure you, everything is taken care of, which leads me to my next request.” He took a brief pause. “I need those out of your hair.”
“Those what?” She froze.
“You just said it yourself that these were, in your words, ‘uppity negroes’. Well, they don’t do well with those.”
Harley threw her locs to one side. “So, not only do I have to pretend to be somebody I’m not, but I have to look like it too?”
Cornell reached for his glass and took another sip. “These are the rules. Is this going to be a problem?”
Harley contemplated it. This entire situation was a problem for her. She hated not having a say so, not having any control. It was everything she ever opposed. Fitting in was never a desire for her, and now, it was a necessity. A big, ole fucked-up necessity.
“It’s not.” She slid her empty glass toward him. “Can you pour me another?”
Cornell eyed the glass then her. “After I give you a tour, you can help yourself to as much as you’d like.”
“I’m really good on the whole tour thing. I can tell by the level of security, and that sofa in the front, that your place is really nice.”
Cornell, at first confused, quickly realized the misunderstanding. “Miss Dupree, this isn’t my place, it’s yours.”
“What?” Harley’s eyes ballooned “Why would I...What?”
“You have to not only play the part but look the part at all times.” Cornell stood up and adjusted his suit jacket. “The closer you get to Justin, the more his family will attempt to dig into your life. Everything has to look legit. This will be your home for however long it takes for the acquisition to be completed.”
Harley swallowed at the thought. “And what happens if the deal doesn’t go through?”
“That outcome isn’t an option, Miss Dupree.” Cornell gave her a lingering look, letting the threat brew before walking off to signal that the tour had started.
CHAPTER 13
Cornell parked in the adjacent driveway of the modest shotgun house and stared at the surrounding trees. There was always a sadness that weighed on him anytime he came out here, but he made sure to conceal it from the time he exited the car. He approached the front door and grabbed the few pieces of mail from the box before keying in the entry code.
He pushed open the door and paused when he heard Nina Simone’s voice coming from the surround sound system he had installed a month ago.
“Well, hey there, Cornell.” Miss Lou Ann stood up from the recliner in the corner with a book in her hand. “I didn’t even hear you come in.” She opened her arms wide for a hug to which Cornell returned. “How are you, baby?”
“Same ole, same ole.” She held him tight and patted his back. “How about you?”
“You know me,” she smiled. “I’m always good as long as I have one of these.” She held the book up.
“Yeah, I know, that’s why I keep you stocked.” Cornell grinned when he realized it was one of the Octavia Butler books he had delivered last week. He loaned Miss Lou his Kindred book a couple of months ago, and she raved about it so much, that he decided to gift her the beloved author’s entire works. “How did she do this week?”
Miss Lou’s expression faltered slightly, sending an ache to Cornell’s chest. “This week…wasn’t a good week. Barely got two words outta her.” She placed a comforting hand on his arm. “But...today’s been different, just in case you couldn’t tell by the music. She must’ve sensed you were coming.”
“She picked this song?” Cornell couldn’t hide his content. She loved music almost as much as she did sewing.
“She did.” Miss Lou gave him a smile that made her eyes disappear. “Go on and see her. She’s back there, staring out the window again. Hopefully, she’s still with us.”
He nodded and placed the mail down on the coffee table before carefully heading toward her room. He gently pushed open the French doors and saw her wrapped up in a blanket, sitting on the rocking chair that faced her window. Even at sixty, his mom was more stunning than he could remember. No illness could change that. Her salt and pepper afro was pushed back from her face, courtesy o
f a yellow and green African print scarf, revealing her kind, walnut-colored eyes and the two signature moles on her cheek. When he was younger, he could remember his dad saying that their mom could get him to do whatever she wanted if she stared at him long enough. He still often wondered how his father could go from praising her like the queen she was to shunning her as if she were some random whore on Bourbon Street.
He took a deep breath and kneeled down in front of her, hugging her waist. “Hey, Mama.”
"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.” Almost zombie-like, his mother continued to stare out at the trees. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.”
“Mama.” Cornell placed his chin on her thigh.
He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when his mom had deteriorated mentally, but it was sometime after he graduated from college and decided to work for his father. He sensed the decline in his teens, but it was nothing like it was now. No doctor could give him or his brothers a diagnosis. They all deduced it to an early form of dementia, although her symptoms said otherwise. From time to time, she’d have spells where she wouldn’t talk at all, appeared completely “normal”, or like now, would repeat biblical scriptures. She was never a religious woman, so it was perplexing as to why she resorted to her chant-like repetitions. Cornell always believed it was some extreme form of stress from having been with their father. He cut her off when she refused to move from their childhood home into the mansion he lived in now. It was the primary reason neither he nor his brothers could respect him outside of business.
“Talk to me, Mama, please.” The past two times that he visited, she didn’t say a single word.
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.”