by Robin Allen
“He did have a niece who died from an overdose. But she OD’d on speed, not cocaine, and there was no connection between her and Mackie. The detective had a mistress, though, and when Mackie started messing with the girl, she ended her relationship with the detective. The jerk was very upset.”
“Mackie was dating his girlfriend?” Sage asked, incredulous. Confused, she shook her head, “You said she was his mistress. Was the detective married?”
“Yes, but he claimed to be in love with the girl he had on the side, and then Mackie comes along. She dumps the detective for Mackie, and that’s when all the trouble starts. The detective framed Mackie, and…”
“You beat him up?” Sage asked, finding it hard to believe that her mild-mannered fiancé could be violent. He’d once told her he used to argue his way out of fights when he was in high school.
“I kicked his ass, and I’m sorry to say it, but the bastard deserved it. As a man I was right as rain, but as an attorney I was dead wrong.”
“Did he press charges against you?”
“No, but only because I knew about some of his dirty dealings. I knew about some of the other officers in his department too. I watched him for a week before I did anything, and I learned a lot.”
“So nothing happened?”
“No, he didn’t do anything, because I had the power to destroy him. But what I’m worried about is the present. He’s been suspended from the police force, and he’s having financial problems. He had to sell his home, and then his wife left him,” Ramion said, before standing up. “With problems like his, you can never be sure what a person like him will do. That’s the only snake in the closet that may come out to bite me.”
* * * * *
The wedding was four months away, and Sage still hadn’t selected a gown. She had searched through catalogs and racks of gowns at bridal boutiques, but she wasn’t satisfied with her choices. She was considering a custom gown and hoped that the designer she was about to hire would have the creativity, talent and time to make the wedding gown she envisioned.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” Sage said to a Hispanic woman bent over a sewing machine, guiding the sleeve of a wedding dress under the needle in a precise, straight line. The dark-haired woman looked up at Sage, her eyes darting about nervously. “I’m looking for the designer Xavier Xandu,” Sage said, carrying her Day-Timer and an envelope stuffed with pictures of wedding gowns.
“No speak English,” the woman said, pointing to the stairs at the back of the building.
Sage walked past several rows of sewing machines and bolts of fabric, heading toward the staircase. Along the way, she stopped several times to ask for directions before finally finding Xavier’s office.
“I thought I’d never find you,” Sage said, when she marched into Xavier Xandu’s office. She towered over the fashion designer, who reminded her of one of the Keebler elves. He had a round brown face and a long fluffy beard. He was extremely short, four feet nine inches. A frayed measuring tape hung around his neck, and a pincushion wristband was fastened on his wrist.
“Ah, Miss Kennedy,” Xavier said. “I’m sorry about the miscommunication. My secretary stepped away from the office. Otherwise she would have paged me,” he explained while removing bolts of fabric from a chair. “Have a seat.”
Sage sat in the only chair in the crammed office.
“It’s been a hectic morning,” he said apologetically, closing the door to drown out the sounds of the throbbing sewing machines. “I just got a very special order. It’s supposed to be confidential, but I have to tell someone. You must swear to keep it a secret,” Xavier said, placing his index finger over his mouth. “Calvin Klein wants to use my designs for his spring collection.”
“How wonderful,” she said, wondering whether to be impressed or skeptical. “That will certainly get you some recognition.”
“Big-time.” He spun around and raised his arms in the air, sputtering, “Oh thank you, God! Thank you!” He caught Sage’s bemused expression. “Excuse me, I’m just beside myself with joy.” Xavier reached for the half-filled cup of coffee sitting on the edge of his cluttered desk. “Now back to reality,” he said, giving Sage an assessing stare over the reading glasses perched atop his nose. “You were referred by a very good friend of mine.”
“Daphine Struthers. I attended her wedding last year, and her gown was absolutely beautiful,” Sage said, as her eyes traveled to the montage of pictures hanging on the walls. There were pictures and sketches of wedding gowns, evening gowns and cocktail dresses.
“Thank you, dear. I see that you have good taste. That’s a Donna Karan outfit you’re wearing. Nice touch,” he complimented, pointing to the butterfly diamond pin on the collar of her black-and-white houndstooth pantsuit.
“Are all those pictures your designs?”
“Yes, I won’t display other people’s work.”
“My little sister wants to be a fashion designer,” Sage said. “She’d find this place exciting.”
“Bring her down. I’d love to show her around and give her tips about the big, bad fashion industry.” He took a sip of coffee and made an ugly face. “Ugh, this is cold.” He moved to the lone file cabinet in the corner of his small office, where a coffeepot sat. “Do you want some coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Sage replied. “I’ve been looking for a wedding gown, and I haven’t found the right one. I’ve seen some I like. The style or the cut is right, but there’s always something about them that turns me off. So here I am.”
“Do you have a picture in your mind?”
“Yes, something elegant and glamorous, but not too frilly or too weddingish, if you know what I mean. I don’t want traditional. I want something with some funk, some style. A gown so unique and stunning it leaves me breathless.”
“Ummh,” Xavier said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “What kind of neckline do you like? High-collared…”
“Oh, don’t cover me up!”
“You want cleavage,” Xavier teased.
With a rueful smile, Sage said, “I brought some pictures of gowns I like.” Sage opened the envelope and removed several pictures of wedding gowns, torn from different bridal magazines. “I like the cut of this gown, the detailing on this one, the train on this one.” She spread the pictures on his desk, pushing aside stacks of fabric samples and patterns. “Can you somehow put all of this together into one gorgeous wedding gown?”
“Let me see,” Xavier said, his lips pursed together. Pointing to the floor-length sheath, he said, “I like this one. The pearls are exquisite. It looks hand-sewn. How much time are we talking?”
“The wedding is in August.”
“That gives me four months. I can work with that. First I’ll do some sketches, and then, once we agree on the design, we’ll pick out the fabric.”
“How much?” Sage asked, knowing that the soon-to-be-famous Xavier was not going to be inexpensive. But she didn’t care; she had to have a gown that she loved.
“That’s going to depend on the fabric and the amount of handwork. I’ll give you an estimate when we agree on a sketch.”
“When can you have the sketches ready?”
“How about late next week?”
Sage flipped open her Day-Timer. “Okay, I’ll put you down for Friday afternoon.”
“That’ll work. Now let me walk you out of here.”
* * * * *
A foreign, acrid smell assailed Sage’s nose as she entered Cameron’s library. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the furniture massive—huge tufted leather chairs and dark oil paintings of wealthy families from the eighteenth century, their faces stern and unfriendly. She took a deep breath, identifying the distinctive odor of a Havana cigar and, at the same moment, she remembered the last time she had smelled the pungent scent—the day Cameron was elected governor of Georgia.
“What are we celebrating?” Sage asked as she approached the governor sitting in front of the burning fireplace. Cameron puffed on a long brown
cigar, his face reflecting contentment.
He cocked his head to the side and twisted his mouth into a relaxed smile. “I’m celebrating a moment. A rare personal moment.”
“I can come back later, Cam.”
Placing the cigar in the ashtray on the end table, Cameron shook his head. “I’ve had my moment.”
Sage eased into the leather chair next to the end table. “Are you happy with your speech?”
“Benjamin is impossible to work with. He insists on writing the damn thing.”
She gave him an incredulous look. “That’s what I hired him to do.”
“I like to use my own words.”
“I know. You can speak from the heart and sermonize when you’re campaigning, but this is a different audience. You’re going to be speaking to governors. Heads of state. So the speech has to be strong and powerful, creative and polished.”
“What are you implying, Sage?”
“Your national image is at stake. It’s an honor that you’ve been asked to be the keynote speaker, but you have to talk about the issues that are of concern to other governors. It can’t be full of rhetoric or sound like a Sunday sermon.”
“You sound like Benjamin. He’s working on the draft. We agreed on the theme and the key points.”
“Cameron, the conference is in three weeks,” Sage chided. “You should be working on the final draft.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll ad lib.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” she said, chuckling softly. “I’ll talk to Benjamin tomorrow.”
Cameron leaned back against the chair and picked up the cigar. “What else is going on?”
“There’s a problem with Nona Corporation.”
Cameron’s demeanor changed from relaxed to worried.
“I thought it was a done deal.”
“It was, until South Carolina countered the bid.”
“They’ve got to bring that plant here. That’s a possible two hundred additional jobs in an area of the state desperate for jobs. I’ve told some of the community leaders that the manufacturing facility was a go. I’ll look like a fool.”
“Clark Anderson has arranged another meeting with Nona’s president and the board of directors,” Sage said. “But he doesn’t want to go in empty-handed. He wants to know if you would authorize tapping into the building funds to float them a forgivable loan.”
“I hate to do that, Sage. I know I’m going to need that money to entice other companies.”
She rested her chin on the palm of her hand. “We may not have any other choice.”
“If all else fails, tell Clark to negotiate on the price of the land,” Cameron said. He put the cigar in his mouth and inhaled the bitter tobacco. “We’ll give them a loan, if they provide two hundred jobs over a three-year period. But they have to give us a guarantee.”
Chapter Fifteen
It was early evening when Sage drove out of the heavy rain into her garage. As the garage door descended to the ground, she heard the door to her house open. Peering through the windshield, she saw Ava motioning for her to hurry. Sage reached across the seat to retrieve her briefcase and shopping bags, opened the car door and climbed out.
“Come on, Sage,” Ava urged. “Hurry up.”
Oh, no, something was terribly wrong, Sage thought, assuming the worse. “What’s the matter?”
“Something came for you. Come into the living room.”
Sage placed her briefcase and shopping bags on the kitchen table and followed her sister into the living room. A large package wrapped in heavy brown paper leaned against the sofa.
“That woman from next door brought it over. She said they left it on the porch. She’s a nosy woman. I always see her peeking out the window,” Ava said.
“That’s Ms. Odom. I guess she doesn’t have anything else to do.” She picked up the rectangular-shaped package. “It’s from Aunt Maddie,” Sage said, glancing at the return address.
“Open it,” Ava urged.
“Girl, you scared me. I thought something was wrong,” Sage said, tearing away the wrapping with the excitement of a child opening a Christmas present.
“Let me help,” Ava volunteered, ripping away the brown paper.
They were momentarily speechless when they saw what was hidden under the brown packaging—a spectacular, gold-framed painting, an abstract depiction of a man, woman and child connected by a heart.
“Wow,” Ava said.
“It’s beautiful!” Sage gushed, her eyes beaming with admiration and pride. “This is my father’s work. Look at the bold lines and vivid colors.”
“There’s a note on the back,” Ava said, removing the envelope and handing it to her sister.
Sage recognized her aunt’s large, expressive handwriting. The note read,
This painting was stored along with several others in Mama’s attic. Since we’re moving her to a nursing home, we have to get rid of some of her belongings. Satchel painted this shortly before he went to Vietnam. I thought you should have it.
“This is a wonderful surprise,” Sage said, stepping back for a fuller view of the painting. “I always wondered if Daddy had done more paintings. Mama said that he painted a lot when they first met, and then he stopped. She said she begged him to keep painting, but he was discouraged, complaining that no one would buy his work. When I was born, he started painting again.”
“He was talented, that’s for sure,” Ava said, plopping down on the chair.
Sage ran her fingers over the painting, imagining the brushstrokes. Her thoughts swirled along with the painting’s circular strokes, swimming back to a past of turpentine, paint and musk, remembering her father standing in front of an easel with a faraway look on his face and paint smeared on his face, hands and clothes. A Billie Holiday album would be spinning on the record player, her distinctive voice filling the air. “Turn it over, Sage,” he would say when the last song on the album ended. It took many tries and several scratched records before Sage learned to position the needle on the beginning edge of the 33-1/3 vinyl record.
“It reminds me of Gauguin,” Sage said distractedly, memories spinning in her head. “You know, if he had lived, Daddy might have been another Jacob Lawrence or Romare Bearden.”
“Or William Tolliver,” Ava said, giggling mischievously.
Sage turned toward Ava, her eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“He’s the only artist I know,” Ava said, pointing at a Tolliver print hanging over the sofa.
“I know it’s crazy, but this reminds me of the painting I bought from Tawny,” Sage said. An inexplicable eerie feeling washing through her.
“I don’t think so,” Ava said, shaking her head emphatically. “Let’s go see.” She rose up from the sofa and went into the hall.
Sage followed behind, her curiosity fully aroused.
They stood in front of the picture of three women in motion, dancing to a drumbeat.
“It’s the colors. The color palette is the same,” Sage said. “The bright reds, greens and purples.”
“I guess,” Ava said, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly.
“So where are you going to hang it?”
“Over the sofa.”
Talking to the lone figure sitting on the bench in the William Tolliver lithograph, Ava said, “Well, old man, it looks like you’re going to have to find somewhere else to hang around.”
Chuckling, Sage glanced at the picture. “By the way, you had another message from Kelly. She’s been trying to reach you.”
“I know. But I’ve been trying to stay away from her.”
“Really?”
“All she wants to do is get high. Every day. All day. I’ve decided that’s not what I want to do.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I’ve been worried about you since the funeral. I’ve noticed that you haven’t been going out much.”
“I haven’t felt like partying,” Ava said, taking a few steps up the staircase. She stopped and then turned back around. “
To tell you the truth, the last time I went out with Kelly, she took me somewhere.” Ava paused, and a trace of fear glazed in her eyes. “She said it would help me forget Daddy. It was real scary, Sage. Everybody was high. I didn’t like it. I made her take me out of there.”
Sage noticed the fear in Ava’s eyes, and wondered what her sister had seen that had frightened her. For a brief moment, she thought about asking Ava about the place, but decided she didn’t want to know. “That’s good.”
“I miss Daddy a whole lot. I think about him every day,” Ava said somberly. Leaning against the railing, she continued, “It hurts to think about him, but I don’t want to forget him. But even though he’s not here, I wouldn’t want to do anything that would hurt him. Anyway, I’ve decided to go to school.”
“Atlanta School of Arts?”
“Yep, I really want to be a fashion designer. Mommy is sending my sewing machine.”
“I’m proud of you, girl,” Sage said.
* * * * *
Ramion reached for Sage’s hand as they walked out of the lobby of the historic landmark Fox Theatre, where Broadway plays and musicals were staged and singers, dancers and comedians performed. Ramion steered her through the crowd of people dressed in fancy suits and cocktail dresses.
“Didn’t you just love it?” Sage asked.
“Yes, it was very powerful, very moving.”
“August Wilson’s plays are always so deep and spiritual. You know, the next time he has a play in New York, I’d like to go.”
“Let’s plan on it.”
“Ramion,” a squeaky voice called out.
Ramion and Sage stopped in front of the ticket counter.
“Ramion,” the voice repeated. An attractive, petite brown-skinned woman with long, flowing hair emerged from the crowd. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Selena. How about you?”
“Great!” she answered with a flirtatious smile.
“I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Sage Kennedy,” Ramion said. “Sage, this is Selena Tucker. She used to work at Edwin’s law firm.”
Selena flashed Sage a cold look. “Hello,” she said, turning her eyes immediately back to Ramion. “I didn’t know you were getting married.”