Mr. Kamau nodded. “I am sure some of these boys are approaching eighteen or older. Do they still qualify for those programs?”
Davis shook his head. “Unfortunately not. Once they turn eighteen, they’re legally considered adults.”
“Humph,” the older man grunted softly.
“But there are other organizations working to help them with school or employment,” Davis added. “So, there are other options available to them.”
“So how do we move those young boys who aren’t eighteen off the corner where they’re being disruptive and into a center?” Neema asked, her gaze narrowed. Until her question, she’d been sitting quietly, eyeing Davis intently.
Davis shifted his gaze to stare back. “I can request increased police presence. I can also personally visit and talk with them. Sometimes all it takes is showing them that someone cares about what happens to them.”
Mr. Kamau gave him a nod. “How can I and the other home and business owners help?”
Davis reached for a flyer atop his desk. He passed it to the man. “There will be a community town hall in the upcoming weeks. I hope you’ll come and encourage others in your neighborhood to attend, as well. The more families there, voicing their concerns, the better.”
“Yes! We will do that,” Mr. Kamau said.
For the next few minutes Davis talked, the conversation between him and Mr. Kamau as easy as the flow of water. The topic shifted from community interests to the national political climate. They also talked food, television and pop culture. Before any of them realized it, a whole hour had passed them by.
During the chat, Neema had studied him keenly. Something like amusement painted her expression and, when Davis realized he was being scrutinized, he’d found himself feeling anxious again. He’d shot her an occasional glance but kept his focus on her father, even if it had been a struggle.
Mr. Kamau stood and extended his hand. “I appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule to speak with us. We didn’t mean to take up so much of your time.”
Davis stood with him, the two men shaking hands. “It’s been my pleasure, sir. I appreciate you voicing your concerns and, more importantly, wanting to be part of the solution.”
He turned, his arm sliding out in Neema’s direction. Their palms touched, skin gliding sweetly against skin, and a current of energy surged like a firestorm between them. Davis held on to her fingers a second longer than necessary, not wanting to let go.
* * *
Neema found herself holding her breath to stall the rise of heat that was suddenly consuming her. She gasped, her breath catching deep in her lungs. She snatched her hand from his, feeling out of sorts as she tried to play it off, pretending the simple gesture wasn’t anything more.
“Is your invitation for dinner still open?” Neema questioned as they moved toward the exit. She’d folded her arms across her chest, her hands tucked beneath her armpits.
Davis smiled, his lips lifting to a full, deep grin. “It is. It definitely is!”
“Does seven o’clock work for you?”
“It does.”
“I’ll text you my address.”
“So, you do text,” Davis said, chuckling softly. “I was starting to wonder.”
Neema smiled a little too sweetly. “I text when I have something to say.”
“So, you were ignoring me.”
She laughed. “I was.”
Her father stood watching, his gaze shifting back and forth as if he were observing a tennis match. He seemed to find them entertaining, saying nothing as the two blatantly flirted with each other.
Neema was slightly self-conscious as the patriarch gave her a look. She shook her head. “I don’t eat seafood,” she concluded as she stepped through the door.
Mr. Kamau leaned closer to Davis, his voice dropping to a loud whisper. “My Neema is allergic to seafood. And to peanuts. Be mindful what you feed her. That one is my whole heart, and her mother and I would be devastated if anything happened to her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And my Neema is a very good girl. Do nothing to tarnish her reputation or disgrace our family name.”
“Yes, sir,” Davis said.
“We hope to find her a good husband. Someone worthy who will treat her well. She will make a good wife. She’s a very good cook, keeps a clean home and has promised her mother many grandchildren!”
In the doorway, Neema stood wide-eyed, her expression aghast. Her cheeks were a heated deep shade of embarrassed and she felt her heart palpitating like a high school drum line. “Baba!” Neema tossed her hands up in exasperation. “Unbelievable,” she exclaimed.
The two men laughed, the wealth of the sound chasing after her as Neema spun on her orange-leather pumps and scurried back to her car.
* * *
Neema had a plan. Or at least the semblance of a plan, she thought as she stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Having a plan was the only reason she had agreed to dinner with the man. Dinner would open the door to that story she needed to boost her career. Dinner would be a game changer. At least, that’s what Neema had been trying to convince herself of since she began getting dressed. Why else would she be excited about having dinner with Davis Black? And trying to convince herself that getting to know him was only a means to an end?
Granted, she’d been mesmerized at their meeting. The alderman had made quite an impression on her and her father. Not only was he intelligent, but it seemed that he also had a compassionate heart. He was likeable and she fully understood the campaign slogan that had described him as “good people.” Their time together had made her want to know him better. Even if her agenda wasn’t quite on the up-and-up.
So why was she feeling so out of sorts? Neema wondered. Why was she second-guessing herself? It wasn’t like they were good friends or seriously dating. She just wanted to discover for herself whether Davis Black was as upstanding as he professed to be. Or if his campaign slogan was a lie. If there was a side to his persona that kept him tied to criminals like Alexander Balducci. A side secreted away from everyone else. It was her journalistic duty, she thought to herself.
The reflection staring back at her didn’t look convinced. Neema slid her hands down the length of her silk dress, newly purchased for just this occasion. The price tag was still hanging from the sleeve. Searching the top drawer of her nightstand, she found a pair of craft scissors and used them to cut it free of the garment. She shook her head, unable to believe that she’d paid such an exorbitant price for the designer dress. But it was pretty, looked amazing on her slim frame, and she wanted to make a memorable impression at dinner.
“This is not a date!” Neema muttered under her breath as she headed out the door. “This is anything but a date!”
* * *
“I’m glad you agreed to this date,” Davis said as he guided the way into Oriole. The two Michelin-starred restaurant was well hidden, the entrance off the back alley of a loading dock side street in Chicago’s West Loop neighborhood. Its vibe was slightly unnerving and Neema couldn’t help but wonder if they were in the right place. Only seating twenty-eight in an intimate dining room with its open kitchen made the restaurant a culinary favorite, the reservations list miles long.
“My parents love this place,” he was saying as Neema eyed him with furrowed brow. “It’s one of my mother’s favorites, and the last time I was here, I had a spectacular meal.”
He pressed a large hand to the small of her back as he maneuvered her into a freight elevator to reach the restaurant. The ride was dark and shaky at best, but Neema barely noticed, solely focused on the nearness of him. His touch was gentle, and brief, but left Neema nicely heated. She took a slight step from him, hoping the disconcertion didn’t show on her face. She bit down against her bottom lip to stall the rise of anxiety that suddenly flooded her spirit.
; As they stepped into the dining room, it was clear that Davis had chosen well. The ambience was warm and inviting, the lighting setting a whole mood against the wide-open kitchen at the far end of the room. With the brick walls, exposed timber ceiling, and banquette seating, it was intimate and comfortable.
“I’ve read the reviews,” Neema said as her gaze skated around the room. “I never gave any thought to trying it, though.”
“Really? Was there something about the menu that turned you off?”
“The price per plate, for starters!”
Davis laughed. “I admit, it’s a bit pricey. But I’m showing off—you know that, right?”
“Burgers and fries would have done the job just as well.”
He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders then shook his head. “No, that dress you’re wearing required a five-star meal!” And it did, he thought, the formfitting red silk accentuating her slight curves. Its plunging neckline teased the round of her small breasts and the vibrant color against her dark complexion was jaw-dropping. She was stunning, and it took every ounce of his fortitude not to stare.
Neema smiled, holding her comment as the hostess, a tall blonde with ocean-blue eyes, greeted them warmly. The woman called him by name.
“Welcome, Alderman Black. Your table is ready, sir.”
“Thank you, Lena. How are you this evening?”
“Well, thank you. And yourself?”
“I have no complaints.”
The young woman named gave them both a bright smile as she led them to a corner table adorned with simple white linens.
“This is very nice,” Neema said as Davis pulled out her chair.
“So, I’ve done good so far?”
“I’ll reserve judgment, but it seems to be headed in the right direction.”
“I can see you’re not going to give me any slack, are you?”
“Should I?”
“I’ve never backed away from a challenge. I look forward to proving myself worthy,” he answered, his expression smug.
Neema groaned, her eyes skyward as she took her seat.
Their server suddenly appeared as if by magic and welcomed them to what would prove to be an extraordinary eighteen-course meal. The first dish of paper-thin slices of seared scallops capped with dabs of caviar, a rye crisp and an egg yolk turned into gelato by a Pacojet set the stage for what would come. Eight courses in, they were swooning over the truffle-kissed fettuccine blanketed with hand-grated, toasted rye berries. The tenth course was Davis’s favorite. He had dipped grilled Icelandic steelhead trout topped with smoked roe into a rich artichoke-marjoram broth. They agreed the Thai-influenced chilled Alaska king crab dish with bursts of Cara Cara oranges in a milky Vidalia onion soup was a close second to being both their favorite.
“So, tell me...” Neema began. “You and Mr. Balducci...are you good friends?”
“We’re definitely are not friends,” Davis said sternly. “He and my father are friends. Why do you ask?”
She shrugged. “Just curious. He has quite the reputation. My father says he’s done a lot of good in the community. And you two appeared close the other night.”
Davis dropped into a moment of thought before he responded. “No, that was actually my first time being in his company since I was maybe ten or eleven. He had a business proposal he wanted to run by me. That’s the only reason I was there. But he’s not someone I have a whole lot of respect for.”
“Why is that?”
Davis paused. “It’s a long story for another time. It would kill our good mood, so let’s talk about something else. Please.”
“I’m sorry,” Neema said softly. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No apology necessary,” he said as he changed the subject.
Between the decadent dishes the conversation was easy. They asked each other questions, enjoying the opportunity to get to know one another. It was an engaging give-and-take where both felt heard and respected.
“I’ve never been to East Africa,” Davis said, “but it’s on my bucket list.”
“I think you would like it. My parents and I go to Kenya every year to visit family.”
“One of my college roommates was from Kenya. He said the same thing. We used to have some interesting conversations about the philosophical differences between Black Africans and Black Americans. And the disdain they sometimes have for each other.”
Her brow lifted. “I imagine that was interesting.”
“It was. It gave me a different perspective in how I saw things. When he and I first met, I didn’t think we could ever be friends. He was standoffish and I thought he was looking down his nose at me. I later discovered he thought the same thing about me. We were the best of friends after that.”
“Well, what I discovered in my travels is that people abroad have limited perceptions about Black Americans. And those perceptions are sometimes negative. In Africa, people are usually learning about Black Americans from missionaries who visit the country and most of them are white men. They’re told that Black American women are loud, rude and incorrigible, and that as a people we are typically lazy, abusive and incapable of profound thinking. It was also disheartening to see their reactions when I told them that despite my Kenyan heritage, I was a Black American woman. I’m very proud to be a first-generation American, but for many in my family, I should only think of myself as Kenyan.”
“It all plays into the negative stereotypes the media continues to perpetuate. People don’t know what to expect when they never see us in a positive light in books and movies, which is a whole other conversation,” Davis said, resignation fueling his words.
Neema continued. “What I discovered, though, is that Africans don’t want to hear that their brothers in America are failing. They don’t want to believe the poison being spewed by the media and missionaries and even some tourists. They have grand expectations that we are doing well and being successful.”
Davis nodded. “It’s amazing what getting to know a person will do for you. We can erase so many stereotypes by simply talking to each other.”
“So, why politics? I’m surprised that you didn’t follow your father into law enforcement.”
“I thought about it. But my mother encouraged me to get a law degree. Then I couldn’t pass the Illinois state bar.”
Neema laughed, pulling her hand to her mouth to muffle the sound. She had a beautiful laugh, joyful and slightly silly. The wealth of her mirth filled the room, drawing others to stare and smile in their direction. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “You probably don’t think that’s funny.”
Davis chuckled. “Quite the contrary. I think it’s hilarious now! I’ve taken that exam three times. I finally just gave up. I’ve never tested well. It’s truly a miracle that I made it out of high school and college. After my last failing, I took a short sabbatical and that’s when I met Congressman Harris. I was one of his interns and realized I could make a bigger difference on the front lines, fighting for people’s rights. He encouraged me to run for public office.”
“And you enjoy being an alderman?”
“I do. Very much.”
“So, what’s next? Mayor? Governor? President?”
Davis laughed. “I need to get through my current term first. Then we’ll see. Have you ever thought about being First Lady?”
“Aren’t you funny!” Neema laughed.
Davis laughed with her. He reached for his wineglass and took a sip of the beverage paired with the last course. It was a woody 2011 Cascina delle Rose Barbaresco served with paper-thin slivers of Mishima rib eye.
“But enough about me,” Davis said as he rested his glass back against the tabletop. “I want to know more about you.”
Neema shrugged. “There’s really nothing to tell.”
“Have you always wanted to be in the restaurant business? Or do y
ou work with your parents by default?”
“Definitely default. Don’t you know a good daughter honors her parents by giving up her life to live their dreams and wishes?”
“Do I hear a hint of resentment in your voice, Neema Kamau?”
“Not at all,” she said facetiously.
Davis chuckled. “Have you ever done anything else? Or wanted to do anything else? What’s Neema’s dream?”
Neema hesitated for a split second, considering her answer before she spoke. She wanted to tell him about her journalism degree and her job at the paper. She didn’t want to lie, but omitting a few key facts in her bio wouldn’t be that bad. Telling him, she reasoned, might compromise her getting the story, if there was a story to be found. But why, she thought, did it feel so darn wrong?
She sighed softly and smiled. “I’m actually very happy with the choices I’ve made for my life. Don’t let my snark give you the wrong impression.”
Davis nodded. “So, do you waitress every night?”
She paused a second time, wanting to choose her words carefully. “Not every night. I’m not waitressing tonight obviously.”
“That’s good,” Davis said, his smile beaming. “Because I would really like to see you again. Maybe dinner tomorrow?”
Her laughter rang around the room once again. “We haven’t even had dessert yet and you’re already planning our next date,” she said, the four-letter word slipping off her tongue before she could catch it.
Davis’s wide grin filled his face. “I like dating.”
Neema’s eyes widened. “Do you date often?” she asked, curiosity filling the space between them.
“No. But I am hoping to date you often.” His expression was smug as they locked gazes that held for a quick few minutes.
Neema blinked the moment away. “I’d be willing to bet you have many girlfriends, Alderman Black.”
“You’d lose that bet. Badly. Women tend to throw me into the friend zone real quick.”
“Is that a bad thing? To be a woman’s friend?”
“No, not at all. But it would be nice to be more than a friend.” His gaze dropped as he drifted into thought, memories of past relationships likely flashing through his mind like snapshots.
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