“You need to call your sister.”
“My sister? You mean Kenya?” Imani barely spoke to Kenya, and knew that her calling the studio meant something was up. Divorce? No, her marriage was solid. Besides, she probably would not bother to call Imani with that news. Pregnant? That might warrant an e-mail, but a call, and to the studio? Their father, Dante Godreau, the celebrated jazz pianist, was on both of his daughters about grandchildren. Imani was not feeling that; Kenya would tell Dante and Dante would tell Imani. She refused to go to any number of dark places. Imani reached for her tote and draped it over her forearm. “What did she want?”
“Imani, you need to call your sister!”
The pitch of Patsi’s voice gave Imani pause. The receptionist was so unyielding.
“Call Kenya,” said the receptionist, in a no-nonsense tone.
When Imani opened her studio, no one on Crescent Island had even heard of Pilates. After a serious Vespa accident while vacationing in Montenegro five years back, she had to end her career as a professional dancer. Roughly ten years ago, a colleague introduced Imani to Pilates, and following her accident it helped to put her body back into alignment. Something Imani lacked was concentration, and Pilates worked wonders for her awareness of the breath; likewise, her balance.
She traveled for a year until she met someone, and she fell deep; so much so she lost all sense of her self. When they broke up, it was both devastating and heartrending. Imani was not sure she could trust herself again. While visiting a close friend, Jean-Pierre’s wife, Carmen, on Crescent Island, her spirit felt renewed and whole and she decided to move to Washington. The Pilates studio was Carmen’s idea. Imani, who customarily waited until she stopped overanalyzing the pros and cons of a decision, enrolled in a Pilates teaching course in Vancouver, B.C. two days later. She dared not ask her father, Dante, for one red cent. As an alternative—and it was potentially risky—Imani took every dime she saved while dancing and opened the first Pilates studio on Crescent Island, and purchased a fixer-upper in Seattle.
“It’s not like you to be impulsive,” her father said.
“This one, Dante. Feels very right.”
“And it has nothing to do with Blaine?” her father, Dante, asked.
“Of course not,” Imani snapped. Blaine had everything to do with it.
“Kenya?”
“Where have you been, Im?”
“Well, hello to you, too.”
“I don’t have time for this. You need to get to New York. Papa’s in the hospital.”
“Why? What?…”
“You need to get to New York as soon as humanly possible. I’m leaving Toronto in two hours!”
“Kenya, you’re scaring me.”
“Have you watched the news? I know you don’t have cable, but you do listen to the radio. It’s all over the news, Im.”
Imani reached for her chair and pulled it close, then sat. “Kenya, you have to tell me what’s happened to Dante.”
“Im,” Kenya sighed. “It’s serious…he—he may not make it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” she yelled into the receiver. Mechanically, she stood and planted a hand on her hip.
“Get your ass on a plane!”
Stunned, Imani looked at the receiver. “No she didn’t hang up on me.”
CHAPTER SIX
Kickboxing never let D’Becca down. When she put in a workout she felt such freedom, and any angst was released. Whatever stress claimed her spirit, kickboxing took care of it. Troy, her dear friend and personal trainer, could detect her aggression with each kick and punch. When the fifty-pound heavy bag scarcely missed his groin, he said, “Whoa, hey!”
“Sorry!”
“Look,” Troy said, “let’s call it a day, all right?”
D’Becca, hyped and sweaty, felt better at that moment than in weeks. “I needed that, thanks.” She tried to control her breathing.
Troy helped her take off her striking pads. “You want to talk about it?”
Wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, D’Becca said, “What do you mean?”
“Come on, it’s me, Becca.”
She reached over and gently caressed Troy’s cheek with her lips. “I’m fine, really.”
His eyes lingered on her face for a brief moment. “Tonight?”
“Tonight.”
“You know I leave for South Beach first thing, and I won’t be back before the New Year.”
“I hate that you’re opening up a gym in South Beach. Not only am I losing my trainer, I’m losing one of my dearest friends.”
“Come to Miami. Hang out. My place is more than big enough for the both of us.” Troy studied his friend, trying to decide where her head was. “The climate’s about to change here. Soon it’ll be raining every single day. You’ll get really moody—that winter blues thing you go through every year since I’ve known you. You love South Beach.”
“I used to love South Beach. I’m not in that frame of mind anymore.”
“But a hiatus will do you good.”
“You know I can’t do that. Don’t even tempt me,” she warned him, fanning her damp and flushed face with her hands.
Troy took her into his arms and they shared an affectionate, lingering embrace. He released her and said, “Go! Tonight. Seven?” His left brow placed an emphasis on seven.
“Seven! Cheers!”
D’Becca started walking toward the showers, and Troy slapped her buttocks with a towel. “And I mean seven, Becca!”
“Seven. I cross my heart and hope to die.” D’Becca sketched a cross against her chest with her index finger.
Although he said it in a voice that was not intended for her ears, D’Becca heard Troy say, “You need to learn to choose your words carefully.”
Twenty minutes later, she was towel-drying her hair while reciting a mantra: “I will be on time.” In a pair of boyshorts and a demi bra, D’Becca reached for her ringing cellular nearby. “Hello. Hey.” After listening to the caller momentarily, her shoulders drooped in apparent disappointment. “What now? So when?” And with an edge to her voice, she said, “Fine.” D’Becca rolled her eyes. Not exactly sure when, but she had finally reached a breaking point with the lame excuses and hollow apologies. “Okay, sure. Sure. ’Bye.” She stared at the cellular before tossing it to a gym bag nearby. The workout with Troy must have mentally prepared her for this moment. Even while she was quite let down, oddly, D’Becca did not pity herself as she had done numerous times in the past. Maybe—Am I immune to being treated this way?
When D’Becca entered Street Two Books and Café, the first person to catch her eye was the black guy she saw in Café Neuf a week before. If the concept that nothing happened randomly was a sure thing, then to presuppose that they both being at the same place at precisely the same time could only mean that it was incontrovertible fate. But that was purely based on whether one believed in that sort of thing. She could ignore the fact that she saw him—because so what that she did—and chalk it up to no more than a coincidence. A fluke was something she trusted far more than metaphysical ideas about nothing in life happened by chance. Still, running into the same person twice—and in the same neighborhood?—was not something that happened to D’Becca. Surprises, serendipity, that kind of stuff—it was not her brand of karma.
Leisurely, she browsed through the café-bookstore, her sullen mood not yet lifted. She could easily go for some Chunky Monkey right about now and not even feel a pang of guilt. Yet she was not so low that she did not have the willpower to talk herself down. When D’Becca felt lack—of love, of attention, of compassion—food or shopping was her cure. Standing in the center of the classy bookstore owned by Troy’s ex-lover, she tried to recall exactly why she came. The magazine section was to her left, and she could grab W, Elle, Vogue and George since she was there. Along the wall, lined with magazines on every subject imaginable, two men were flipping through tech and sports magazines. When she passed them, D’Becca felt
their eyes travel the length of her; and while she was in no way fazed by the attention she received, it felt kind of good that she managed to maintain some level of effect on men.
She reached for Seattle and stared at the cover. Sebastian Michaels, the fifth richest man in Washington State, was on the cover. He had a year-round tan—not too dark, but darker than his natural skin tone. His salt-and-pepper hair made him look distinguished, and the suit he wore was most likely designed by his personal tailor in Italy. The cost of Michaels’s yearly wardrobe could put, at the very least, a dent in India’s rising poverty. D’Becca flipped through the magazine until she came to the article on the high-profile entrepreneur. Before she could start to peruse it, the bolder one of the two young men sharing the magazine section with her said, “Hello!” He held a race car magazine and an iced espresso drink, and wore a silly, immature grin. Right off, she detected that he was the type who took chances when it came to women solely because he had nothing to lose.
D’Becca took her time meeting his startling green eyes. “Hello,” she said, but barely looked up from the magazine.
He was young. Maybe twenty-six, if that. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I really am seriously not in the mood. The attention he’s giving me doesn’t make me feel any better about myself. D’Becca replaced Seattle on the shelf and she could see the guy’s lips start to form words—some corny, inexperienced, sad and pathetic line he used on every woman he tried too hard to pick up. She interrupted his generic introduction she had heard far too many times with, “Excuse me,” and walked around him.
Why am I in here? Visibly bored, she started looking at titles displayed on a small table. She reached for a book and glanced over to the black guy from Café Neuf. He was toward the rear of the store at a picnic-style table stacked with “employee recommendations.” Curious, she watched him. Every time he picked up a book he read the blurbs on the back cover. She began to mimic his actions by picking up a book, pretending to be interested in the cover or the flap, and then replaced it and repeated the action several times. When she looked back over to where Rawn was standing he was still there, taking a serious interest in the employee recommendations.
On impulse, she approached him holding several magazines in her arms like she did schoolbooks when she was a child. “It’s you!”
“Excuse me.” Rawn frowned.
“You were mean to me. Remember? At Café Neuf?”
“Mean?” Rawn chuckled. He pretended to be vague about having seen her at Café Neuf a week or so back and replaced the book on the table. “So, you live around here?”
“Yes. Do you?”
“I do.”
“Are you into poetry?” D’Becca retrieved the book Rawn replaced on the table moments before.
“Actually, I’ve been trying to ease thirteen-year-olds into it. It’s good to start early as possible with poetry. Besides, the Internet—if it’s going in the direction I think that it is—it’s only a matter of time before it will eventually change the way young people learn. The influence, and well…Poetry won’t stand a chance if the Web changes the way we process information.”
“You’re an idealist, I see. Poetry’s a hard sell.”
Amused, Rawn replied, “It can be.” He watched her looking over a poem from a book by Browning. “Listen, I was about to go and have a coffee. You want to join me?”
“You aren’t…Are you picking me up?”
He chuckled, and her insinuation made Rawn feel awkward. “I asked if you’d like to join me for coffee.”
“I came here to get a book for a friend. Why don’t I join you afterwards?”
“Okay, sure,” his tone casual.
D’Becca walked around him, flipping her hair off her slender neck, throwing him that same attitude she exhibited at Café Neuf—uppity and insecure.
Rawn sat at one of the tables in the bookstore’s small attic café. He looked around to see if he could seek out D’Becca in the bookstore below, but he was unable to spot her. Did she leave? Thoughtlessly, he glanced at his watch, and his waiting for D’Becca felt much longer than it naturally was. Out of the blue, she appeared at the table, and came across in a way that suggested to Rawn she had looked all over to find him.
“There you are,” she said in a cavalier voice.
She sat in the accompanying seat and placed a bookstore bag on the table and her oversized bag on the striking maple hardwood floor.
“What did you buy?”
“An Oprah book. A friend in Deauville is into books she chooses for her book club, and I send her the ones she isn’t able to get her hands on. It’s amazing!”
“What’s that?”
“The Oprah Winfrey phenomenon. She can share her ‘favorite things’ and the Zeitgeist trusts her judgment and they go out in droves and buy a favorite thing. How do we ever really know if we sincerely like something, or if we’re swayed by an invisible force to go along with it?” D’Becca sighed. “I don’t know your name.”
“Rawn.”
“D’Becca.”
“That’s different.”
“What’s different?”
“Your name.”
D’Becca avoided Rawn’s warm and sensual eyes, making every effort not to display even a nominal degree of intrigue.
“What did you want?” And he added, “I’m buying,” out of respect.
“I’m taking a risk. Surprise me.”
When Rawn left the table, D’Becca could not resist checking him out. This guy is dangerous. I’m not in a good place. This is trouble. She tried to distract herself by looking at her watch even though she made note of the time while climbing the wide-planked stairs that led to the café. Occasionally she looked over at Rawn at the bar talking to the barista preparing the beverage. D’Becca admired her French-manicured nails so as to prevent from looking over to Rawn being cordial, if not reverential, to the teen-something barista. D’Becca smiled secretly; some part of her was reacting to how attentive and friendly he was to the young café worker while she flirted in that not-really-experienced sort of way.
He returned with the tea served in a small porcelain teacup and sat with a private look on his face. Apparently the barista said something to him and he was embarrassed for her, or amused.
D’Becca took her first sip of the tea. “If we could taste paradise, this could be it. Good choice.” Her full mouth spread subtly.
“I’m sure you’ve heard it before, but you have a—your smile pops!”
“Pops?” She chuckled, looking directly into her cup of tea. Her voice blasé-like, she said, “Thank you.”
“You don’t look like someone who lives on Crescent Island.”
“How is someone supposed to look who does live on Crescent Island?”
“Do you own a pair of Birkenstocks?”
With a hearty laugh, she exclaimed, “Hell no!”
“Enough said!”
“Well, do you own a pair? Because it’s not like you—your energy doesn’t feel like someone who’s from the Pacific Northwest.”
“That’s not because I’m black, right?”
“Of course not. You’re…you have a look, a feel. Classic comes to mind.” D’Becca scanned the six-table café. “You see that guy?” she said. “Over there,” she directed with her chin. Rawn followed D’Becca’s gesture. “He feels like he belongs in the Pacific Northwest. And he has that nerdiness, L.L. Bean thing going on.”
“Yeah…”
The young man, with an early thirties look about him, sat across the small attic-style room and Rawn could only see his tight dirty-blond curls; his upper body was hidden behind a laptop. His table was cluttered with a coffee mug, an already-read Wall Street Journal, an empty plate, and several books on a variety of subjects that he had not yet purchased piled in a chair.
“He probably made his first million at Microsoft, retired and is trying to decide exactly what he wants to do now.”
“I know someone who retired from Microsoft last yea
r. He’s thirty-five. He’s in Dubai right now, and he’s—he has private jet money. So,” she said, and took a small sip of her vanilla mint tea. “What should I be looking like?”
“There are no women to compare you to.”
She glanced over at the order counter. “Not the barista?”
Rawn checked out the barista reading The Stranger, her elbows resting on the counter. “She’s got that Capitol Hill look about her—tatts and piercings.”
“Why are you here?”
“You mean on Crescent Island? Teaching brought me here.”
“Ah, there’s the connection: Easing thirteen-year-olds into poetry.”
“When I visited Gumble-Wesley Academy–it’s where I teach…I liked it and decided to get a place on the island instead of in Seattle.” Rawn leaned his forearms on the edge of the table. “What about you?”
“That’s a long story. It’s complicated. It’s crowded. It’s sad. But I’m trying to learn not to be so hard on myself.”
“You make it sound like your life is like a Jane Austen novel. Everyone has a story that has a range of things we didn’t expect.”
“True.” She looked into his magnetic eyes and could not bear to hold them for long. “Sages and mystics—they claim but for the complicated and the sad, one cannot have a life worth talking about. It makes sense, but in theory. In the real world…”
“What exactly has happened in your life? What, are you like a walking wounded?”
“No, I’m not a walking wounded, but each of us has some…regret?”
“Regret? Sure,” said Rawn, his eyes resting on his cup on the table. “But I suppose I haven’t lived long enough to know what it’s like to hold on to it.”
“Well, perhaps not. It’s coming. What are you, twenty-nine?”
“Thirty-three,” he corrected her. “And with a birthday on the way. You don’t look like you’ve lived long enough to have that much regret.”
“How old do you think I am?” she asked.
“Oh no, I miscalculated once. Never again.”
D’Becca was the type who never felt the need to lie about her age. Over the years, she met a number of women whom she believed were self-conscious about aging, which meant they struggled with the woman they had become. She never got that, and she always hoped that as she aged she would feel even better about herself. Although desperate to live this beautiful life she had long imagined as a child, even back when she was naïve and insanely insecure, D’Becca not once fibbed about her age. “Thirty-seven, and with a birthday on the way.”
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