Vulnerable

by Bonita Thompson

  “I like that. You’re direct.”

  “I know Daphne. We’ve worked together.”

  “Well, Henderson and I are very close friends. I love him, of course.”

  “Wait!” D’Becca placed her wineglass on a decorative coaster in front of her on the perfectly squared table. “Threads! By appointment only. I’ve been to your boutique. You are the Tamara that owns Threads, right?”

  “I knew you looked familiar! I couldn’t place you.”

  “Well, D’Becca’s a model. You probably saw her modeling something in an ad, or in one of those My Little Secret catalogues that every woman gets in her mailbox.”

  “I remember D’Becca from fashion week a few years ago. But yes, you’ve been to Threads. I believe you’re on my mailing list.”

  “I love your designs. That dress BabyGirl wore to the Grammys was stunning!” She retrieved her wineglass with a happy grin. “Not pas cher, but quite chic. A friend of mine modeled one of your originals at Ebony Fashion Fair. And I bid on a dress for an AIDS charity in L.A. Someone else out-bid me, though.”

  “How much?” Sicily was interested to know.

  “I bid two thousand. I’m not sure what the final bid was.”

  “Goodness, Seattle’s too small for my blood,” Sicily said, in an exhaustingly good mood.

  “Are you bi?” Rawn asked.

  “Rawn!” said D’Becca.

  “Really, it’s okay.” Tamara said, “I don’t define myself. My mother’s Jamaican and my father’s Caucasian, from Washington, D.C. They’re politicians. And much to my mother’s chagrin, I don’t identify myself as any one race—black, white or biracial. Straight, gay, bi. It’s all labels. Who cares? I play by my own rules.”

  When Sicily kissed Tamara and their tongues stroked, Rawn, unconsciously, crossed his legs. D’Becca leaned into Rawn and said, “Sicily’s like so hot.”

  A Scandinavian pine table was perfectly set for four. D’Becca loved the elegant centerpiece and candleholder, and the Kenyan dinnerware. With tears in her eyes, she said, “Sicily, maybe you haven’t outdone yourself, but this, it’s absolutely lovely. I am so touched for being included.”

  It was an elysian meal. There was no other way to describe it. Rawn and D’Becca stayed long enough for seconds of dessert, which they shared—an espresso sweet potato cheesecake Tamara made from an online recipe that was beyond decadent. While Rawn watched the ending of a football game, D’Becca, Sicily and Tamara washed, dried and put away the dishes and leftovers while they gossiped.

  Good-bye felt terribly long to Rawn.

  D’Becca could not stop talking about Sicily and Tamara. In the car, speeding across the floating bridge, she went on and on about the two women who were so “majestic” to her, and how much she enjoyed Thanksgiving and how long it had been since she had a night like “this one.” “Holidays,” she told Rawn, “can be so wonderful when they are shared”; but her words were meaningless to his ears. And he listened intently to D’Becca, hoping to feel a connection to her, and optimistic that she would touch his heartstrings. But nothing, nothing she said meant anything to him. D’Becca could have been any woman he picked up off a street corner who was hitchhiking for a ride home. And for the first time since he had known her, Rawn felt nothing for her; his mind was quite preoccupied. He needed to be alone. Firstly, because making love to her would most likely create more chaos in his head; and secondarily, he was not exactly sure he could even be with D’Becca.

  “D’Becca, please,” he butted in on her rambling conversation. Rawn failed to know what on earth she was talking about. “Take me home,” he directed.

  “What?” She yielded at the stop sign a block away from her townhouse.

  “Turn here; take me home.”

  D’Becca followed his instructions. Presumably, he wanted them to sleep at his place instead of hers. When she pulled up to the curb and turned off the engine, he said, “Let’s pass tonight, D’Becca.” Gingerly he caressed her cheek with his warm lips, his breath bitter from alcohol, espresso and the spices that enriched the Thanksgiving dinner. “Good night.” A voice in the past always alive and tender was now cold, detached, and tight.

  D’Becca was so astounded she felt tears dampen her bare lashes. By the time she was home, she was not sure what route she took to get there. For at least ten minutes she parked in her garage and stared into the darkness. She blinked when she heard her cellular ring. She reached for it in her leather jacket pocket, and once she identified the caller, she spoke softly, “Hi, Troy.” Thirty minutes later, after making herself a cup of soothing Ginseng tea and hoping it would relax her, she curled up with her cat, Chai, and Pricilla Miles’s best seller which she borrowed from Sicily, it registered: Rawn was jealous of Sicily’s relationship because he was very attracted to Tamara. The sexual energy between them was fervent and she could not avoid it if she tried. And if D’Becca did not miss it, certainly Sicily could not either.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  He could not sleep, and Rawn knew he was going to battle with the sheets. On impulse he called Khalil because he was a night owl. When he answered his landline, Rawn was relieved. He shared with his best friend in great detail how Thanksgiving at Sicily’s unfolded, and it managed to make him feel better. Perchance he needed to voice his confusion.

  Khalil lived above Sunset Boulevard in a cottage that hung off a cliff and offered an awesome setting of L.A.’s sprawling panorama. With a bottle of beer in his hand, he leaned against the patio door taking in the sights down below. He could hear, although faintly, music coming from a popular nightclub on the famed boulevard. Rawn said on one of his visits: “Man, I sure hope the ‘big one’ doesn’t come any time soon, because this place will slide right off this hillside and land straight on the Strip.” It was a quiet West Hollywood night and Khalil was feeling a little lonely; he would never confess that to Rawn, though. “Man, sounds like to me you’re in the middle of a ménage à trois. I’m seriously feeling this, bro.”

  “What’s the deal with Tamara and Henderson?”

  “That’s outdated. He’s back on track,” Khalil said. “Hell, I think Tamara’s fine and everything, but a little too… She’s too demanding. Henderson’s head got turned around for a minute, but Tamara’s not the kind of woman you lose everything for. Now Daphne? Man, she’s the ultimate!”

  Rawn bent over and looked inside his refrigerator. He was talking more to himself than to Khalil: “I should have brought some leftovers home. I’m hungry.”

  “Look, if you’re thinking about dipping into Tamara, man, don’t drink that Kool-Aid. That chick, she’s that can’t-get-rid-of trouble. That woman wreaked serious havoc in Henderson’s life. In order to put that whole thing to bed, he silent-partnered some boutique she wanted to open in Seattle. That’s where he was playing when they met, and she moved there to be near him. She makes Glenn Close look like she had an infatuation for Michael Douglas in Fatal Attraction. Man, she knows how to turn a brother sideways, so…”

  “It’s Sicily I’m worried about.”

  “Sicily’s a big girl who can surely take care of herself. I have to admit, though. I never would’ve fantasized Tamara and Sicily hooking up. Can you imagine? Whew! That’s got to be…I’d love to be in the room when the lights go out, know what I’m saying?”

  “Is she still mixed up with Henderson?” Rawn leaned against the kitchen counter in the dark; the full moon streaked the room with an amazing glow.

  “They have this weird friendship, that’s the most I know.” Khalil walked back into the well-lit cottage. He reached for the remote control to turn off the television. “There’s something missing with that woman. She uses her sexuality for personal gain. There’s always an agenda with her. Sicily has to know that Tamara isn’t someone she can get serious with. That woman’s dangerous.”

  • • •

  The following morning when the telephone brought Rawn out of a deep sleep, he was pretty confident that it was D’Becca. But he turne
d his back to the whole idea of getting together with her to go shopping and to catch a film. Although they made plans, he was not in the mood, pure and simple.

  Less than two miles away, D’Becca slammed the receiver down and voiced angrily, “You bastard!” She was furious, and to distract herself she started on the StairMaster until she was weak from fatigue—over forty-five minutes of a high-impact workout. She stripped the damp unitard off her moist body and took a cool shower. Towels wrapped around her head and her body, with a click of her mouse, she ordered the French La Femme Nikita DVD from Kozmo.com. By the time it was delivered and she sat down with a bag of Tim’s to relax and enjoy the film, D’Becca was much too antsy.

  Hastily, she grabbed her scarf and keys and stepped into her Z3 without knowing where she would end up. She passed by Rawn’s and could officially say she had done a drive-by. Food immediately crossed her mind. D’Becca had an eating disorder—food kept her from going mad when she really wanted to go mad; it was her coping mechanism. The craving for comfort was so intense she began to shake. She needed to nourish her empty places. Barely stopping at the stop sign, she turned onto Crescent Island Boulevard and pulled into a market parking lot. Larry’s was not crowded. A cashier and a bagger talked casually at the nine-items-or-less checkout lane. A couple in workout clothes strode through the aisle where the smell of freshly grounded Millstone coffee beans permeated the space. D’Becca’s first stop was in the gourmet section where she reached for a box of Seattle Chocolates. After yesterday’s meal, D’Becca should have a New York cleansing cocktail, but Troy’s idea of eating tofu for the next few days—that was definitely not going to do the trick today. She tossed a box of tampons in the cart and headed for the ice cream section, snacking on the blissful chocolate along the way. Momentarily, she contemplated between a Ben & Jerry’s fat-free sorbet and Chunky Monkey. She and Rawn got in the habit of eating Chocolate Cherry Garcia. They talked about life while they shared the pint, and it was those simple moments that made her relationship with Rawn real.

  Once home, anger still claimed every ounce of her. D’Becca felt so bloody angry she could scream at the top of her lungs! She began to pace, growing increasingly uptight, anxious, and this kind of nervous frenzy drew her to do something rash, something desperate. She continued to pace and pace, trying to avoid finishing off the bag of Tim’s. She reached for her cellular and started making a call. No, she talked herself down. You can’t.

  So not to go to a dark place, she tried to busy herself by cleaning the townhouse from room to room, moving and singing to the sounds of Seal over and over again—“Bring It On,” “Dreaming In Metaphors,” “Kiss From A Rose”—until she was plain sick of Seal. She reached for another CD from the stack—Taylor Dayne. The sound of her voice singing “Tell It to My Heart” added to the depth of her implacable sorrow. D’Becca needed to push back her misery, her emptiness. The thought of stuff. Which emotion was she experiencing, of the four primary emotions characteristic of emotional overeating: fear, anger, tension, shame? She wanted desperately to be with her feeling, whatever that feeling was. She began to overthink. Rawn, was he with Tamara? Something was going on between them; their body language at Thanksgiving was adequately transparent. Jealousy was not D’Becca’s thing. She felt it deep in her core—Rawn wanted Tamara. She walked through every room. With love songs playing—songs about desperation and despair—she let her weakness take over and pulled out the Chunky Monkey. Her willpower could be so unreliable. It was food that knew how to soothe her emotional distress. Unlike people—men—food never let her down.

  It had all started when she went to Milan—the bingeing, the purging. The powers that be told her she needed to lose at least ten pounds, and D’Becca could not believe it. All the boys who gave her attention back in her small hometown in North Dakota had told her she was too skinny. But she did lose ten pounds; in fact she lost fifteen pounds, and she worked throughout the season. She was told she would make it in Paris. But when D’Becca went to Paris, she was told she needed to lose a few inches off her hips. Lose ten more pounds, ma chère.

  Chai was fed and she cleaned her litter box, but D’Becca found she had nothing else to do. The boredom overwhelmed her. She could very well go to Pacific Place and shop alone, or perhaps make an appointment to get a massage. But D’Becca wanted to spend the day with Rawn, and she had been looking forward to spending time with him. She thought to herself, I could be like the young woman in the TV commercial: I could study a sunset or discover a color or memorize clouds or be amphibious.

  Fed up, lonely, D’Becca breathed deeply, leafing through her tattered black book with dozens of international numbers. Everyone was far, far away. Spontaneously, she called Sicily, and by chance she would discover that Rawn was with her. She was oddly relieved when Sicily answered on the second ring. When she said she was about to head out to take advantage of Black Friday, D’Becca said, “Is Tamara joining you?”

  “Are you kidding? This is a big day for Threads.”

  “Do you mind if I come along?”

  “Sure, it sounds like fun. You want to drop by and park your car, or do you want to meet at the mall?”

  “Well…”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Chunky Monkey.”

  “Girl, doesn’t that do the trick?” Sicily laughed.

  “Every time,” D’Becca managed to say in a definite voice.

  “Well, look, we can grab something light at Il Fornaio. After last night… Tamara’s cheesecake—with espresso and sweet potato—was so-so divine…” Sicily laughed even louder.

  Is her happiness all about being in love?

  Sicily continued. “We couldn’t miss each other if we met at the open café. Whoever arrives first grabs a table,” she suggested.

  The idea of not being alone lifted D’Becca’s spirits.

  “Say three?”

  “Three’s good.” D’Becca made note of the time on her two-time zone watch. Chai leapt on top of the table and she gently nudged her off.

  “Three,” Sicily confirmed. “In the terrace, yes?”

  Sicily was a lifesaver.

  • • •

  “No, no. Don’t worry. It’s my pleasure,” Tamara said, reaching for a straight pin from the wrist-held pincushion. She inserted a pin on the side of the sleek black dress. The glamour of the dress was the delicate flare directly above the ankle, and the hem ever so subtly brushed against the ground.

  “Have you had an exhausting day?”

  “It was really a zoo this morning. This small place—I had ten women in here at one point. Imagine the energy. It’s the only day of the year I allow clientele to shop without an appointment. I finally managed to sell that mini you liked but dared not wear in public. By one o’clock I had the nerve to feel lonely. I managed to rush over to Briazz and grab a salad. Not two seconds after I returned, you popped in. I’m glad you caught me.”

  “You need to hire help, Tamara.”

  “I’m going to call an agency Monday. Good help doesn’t come cheap.”

  The thin, pale woman gazed at her reflection in the mirror, her arms raised while Tamara continued to take in the dress. Her client always had a rather melancholy cloud hovering over her, and she was desperately unhappy. No, the better word would be miserable. Six months ago she designed the black dress for Ingrid Michaels—the one she was now taking in. It was a first for Tamara. No client had ever come to her and requested to have a dress taken in.

  A slender, not a minute older than twenty, hip-hop artist was finishing up the West Coast leg of her U.S. tour, and while playing one sold-out night at the Tacoma Dome, dropped in Threads with her entourage. She bought a seductive Tamara Original that Tamara had not been able to sell to any of her regular clientele; perhaps because it was a smidgen too revealing. But the very young artist showed up wearing it at a glitzy red carpet event and dozens of photographs were published capturing the flavor-of-the-month hip-hopper in the Tamara Original. The next day Tamara�
��s telephone would not stop ringing.

  Six months ago the elegant black dress fit Ingrid Michaels like a Maserati on the Autobahn. Now, as she stood in front of her, Tamara tried not to state the obvious: Woman, you are skin and bones. “So what’s the occasion?” she asked to take her mind off other things. Not only for the sake of Ingrid, but likewise herself. Tamara was trying out this staying present idea Sicily talked about, and Pricilla wrote about in her Times best seller.

  “Our last one…She’s soon off to Cambridge. I’m going to miss her.”

  “She’ll love being near London. It’s no more than an hour by train.”

  “It’s her seventeenth birthday this Saturday. I can’t believe how fast time flies.” Her voice was hollow and pathetic.

  There was nothing Ingrid Michaels could not acquire if she wanted it. The idea that happiness was not for sale applied in her case. She was the least cheery, least fulfilled woman Tamara had been around, and certainly the most depressing client. The bulk of her clientele were career women in their thirties; some in their early forties. They wanted the East Coast look, and while some of the popular department stores—The Bon Marché, Nordstrom—carried the latest styles, Tamara emulated the East Coast trends and her designs were never, never duplicated. While a few regulars had seen her dresses worn by a public figure and tried to talk her into having the design made for them, Tamara was firm. She had an implied contract with each client: she would never produce two of the same design. It was precisely why she never agreed to have her designs sold in major department stores, even when she had been approached numerous times. Once she used the design, she handed it over to her accountant, who had each Tamara Original locked in a vault.

  But dear Ingrid loved to spend her unfaithful husband’s money. She would have a dress designed because. Tamara did not really care whether she ever wore them, yet Ingrid did wonders for her business. Each season she had a well-publicized auction to raise money for one thing or other, and Tamara’s designs were exposed to women married to some of the wealthiest men in Washington State. Ingrid was genuinely altruistic, and her business sense was to be admired. The woman knew how the marketing game worked because prior to marrying her entrepreneurial genius of a husband and having back-to-back children, she was VP or some such thing at a Fortune 500 company marketing their products in New York and Chicago. Tamara imagined her being like Diane Keaton in Baby Boom—before Keaton’s character inherited a baby.