by Robin Allen
“We’re getting married in August,” Ramion said. “I heard you finished law school. Where are you working?”
“Ah, I work for an attorney,” Selena said, her expression carefully blank. “Umh, in Gwinnett.”
“Is that right? What firm are you with?” Ramion asked. “I know a few attorneys out that way.”
“Ah, there’s my date,” Selena said. “Gotta go.” She disappeared into the crowd.
“That was strange,” Sage said.
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you see how nervous she got when you asked her who she’s working for?” Sage spotted Edwinna rushing in their direction. “That damn Edwinna is coming.”
With a scowl on his face, he said, “She can’t possibly believe I want to talk to her.”
“Ramion, Sage!” Edwinna said.
Sage refused to speak to her, communicating her disdain with hostile eyes and a tight mouth.
“Edwinna,” Ramion said, his voice as warm as an icicle. I must have been crazy to date her just because she’s Edwin’s daughter, Ramion thought.
“I’m really getting into this election. In fact, I’ve discovered being a state representative has a lot of perks,” Edwinna said. “Becoming an elected official is appealing to me more and more.”
“Edwinna, do whatever you please,” Ramion said, shrugging his shoulders. “It makes no difference to me.”
“We’ll see if you feel that way on election night,” Edwinna taunted. Turning toward Sage, she said, “To be or not to be. I’m talking about the wedding, of course. It was just in the news that twenty percent of planned weddings end up being cancelled. Sometimes it’s the bride, but most of the time the groom gets cold feet.”
“That won’t happen,” Ramion said firmly.
“You just never know. You can find out something about the other person that you can’t live with.”
“Don’t count on it,” Sage said.
“Stranger things have happened.”
Rolling her eyes at her nemesis, Sage said, “Obsession does not become you. Maybe you should see a psychiatrist.”
“Let’s go, baby,” Ramion said, turning away from Edwinna.
“It’s very rare that I don’t like a person,” Sage said, as they moved through the crowd milling around the entrance to the Fox. “But I can’t stand that woman. She’s a bitch. I don’t know how you tolerated her.”
Ramion squeezed Sage’s hand as he said, “Neither do I. Don’t let her ruin this evening. Do you still want to get something to eat?”
“I’m starving. I’ve got a taste for some wings.”
Ramion and Sage walked from under the Fox Theatre’s marquee onto Peachtree Street, hand in hand. A full moon glowed brightly in the dark, clear sky.
“I had to go to court for my uncle today,” Ramion said.
Sage was silent.
“I understand you didn’t want me to represent him because of what your stepfather did to you, but I had no choice. And by helping him, I wasn’t condoning what he did.”
“I know,” Sage said. At her stepfather’s funeral she’d realized that she was angry at Ramion for doing the very thing she wished her mother had done—stand by her.
“He’s my uncle,” Ramion said, stopping to gaze into Sage’s eyes. “I promised my father I would defend him.”
“I understand,” Sage said, with no trace of anger or resentment in her eyes. “What happened?”
“They dropped the charges,” Ramion said, walking down Atlanta’s most famous Peachtree Street, as there were many streets tagged after the peach, Georgia’s official fruit. “Hayley admitted that she lied. The DA still wanted to charge Uncle Walt with statutory rape, but when Hayley showed up wearing a tight dress, breasts hanging out and heavy makeup, the judge dismissed the charges.”
“Oh, Ramion, your family must be so relieved. Especially your uncle.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes, listening to the street sounds—loud music from car radios, honking horns, snatches of conversations, bursts of laughter.
“I just wish I could have gotten my brother’s charges dropped, or at least negotiated a shorter sentence.”
“You did the best you could, honey,” Sage said, squeezing Ramion’s hand. “Don’t keep beating yourself up.”
“I feel responsible.”
“You’re not,” Sage said. They stopped at the red light. “You played by the rules.”
“That taught me the real rules.”
“Mackie doesn’t blame you, does he?”
“No.”
“Then don’t blame yourself.”
* * * * *
“Hi, Daddy,” Edwinna said, as she planted a kiss on the top of Edwin Williamson’s bald head. A founding partner in the law firm, his richly furnished corner office was decorated with expensive antiques. Flashing neon lights shone through two large picture windows. The office was spacious, but sagging bookshelves on every wall and stacks of files on the floor made the largest office in the law firm seem small.
Edwin jerked his head back. “You startled me, Winna.” Spinning the tall black leather chair around, he peered at the clock on the wall. “It’s late. What are you doing here?”
“I was working on a brief. Last-minute thing.”
“I taught you better than that. You only do things last minute if it’s strategic or at the client’s request.”
“I know, Daddy. I’ve been preoccupied.”
“With what?” he said, closing a file folder. Edwin was a peculiar-looking man with small eyes, a broad nose and a wide mouth. His most attractive feature was his voice, strong and commanding like Sidney Poitier. He spread his hands wide. “You’ve got my full attention.”
“I want to run for the state senate.”
“Winna, since when have you been interested in politics?”
Edwinna shrugged her shoulders and positioned herself on the corner of her father’s desk. She wore an ankle-length button-down brown dress, dark hose and brown pumps. “Change of heart. Change in career direction.”
“Okay, but what’s being a state senator going to do for you? Except get you in the newspaper if you do something wrong.”
Edwinna gave her father a sheepish look, knowing he would soon figure out her motives. She swung her feet back and forth, something she did as a child when visiting her father at work.
“What district?” he asked, impatiently drumming his fingers on the desk.
“District 11.”
“Okay, now I get it. This has nothing to do with your career. You’re going after Ramion.” He grinned. “Better step fast, girl, ’cause he’s got a head start.”
Edwinna perked up. “What do you mean?”
“He’s been busy getting his campaign contributors lined up. Have you forgotten I’m head of the Political Action Committee?”
“No, but, Daddy, what organization aren’t you connected with?” She leaned back, her weight resting on the palms of her hands. “Is he getting a lot of support?”
“Well, yes. He was campaigning behind the scenes early. He lost a lot of support when he resigned, but he’s working hard to make up for it.”
Edwinna reared her head back and rolled her eyes. “I betcha that damn Sage is behind this.”
“She knows how to run a campaign.”
“Well, Ramion won’t have your help,” Edwinna said in the retaliatory tone of a child rubbing something in.
“I do know something that will put you ahead of the game,” Edwin said.
“Ooh, Daddy, what’s that?”
“Roosevelt doesn’t plan on running again.”
“Really?”
“He’s been ill, and his doctors have advised him to resign. He could have another heart attack.”
“I betcha Ramion was counting on that. He knows that if Roosevelt retires and there’s no strong candidate to take Roosevelt’s place, he’ll be elected hands down.”
Edwin placed his long fingers tip to tip and smiled
encouragingly. “Interesting theory.”
“That means,” she said slowly, “I can go Republican.”
“You should think carefully about that. You won’t be the first to switch parties, but sometimes it can hurt you both politically and in business.”
“In this case,” Edwinna said, rubbing her hands together, “switching parties could mean a chance to win the election.” She grinned. “I can beat Ramion.”
Edwin patted his daughter’s knee affectionately. “I’ll vote for you, baby, but I’m not going to become a Republican.”
* * * * *
Ramion steered his car into a new subdivision consisting of two cul-de-sacs. Signs of construction were evident in the houses in various stages of completion—some houses were shells of foundation and frame, while other houses were finished, with freshly painted shutters and manicured lawns.
“The Élan,” Sage said, reading the sign posted in front of the model home. There was a “be back” clock hanging in the window, its hands set at four o’clock. “Looks like the real estate agent won’t be back for a while,” Sage observed.
“See if there is a brochure in the mailbox,” Ramion said, pointing to the black-and-white mailbox, designed in a trendy replication of a cow.
With an impish grin, Sage said, “Let’s guess what the price range is. I say, between two hundred and two hundred fifty thousand dollars”
Ramion leaned back against the car seat and peered through the windshield at the houses. “No, these are three-hundred-thousand-dollar homes. Brick on all sides, sodded lawns…”
“Yes, but this subdivision is farther from the highway.”
“I’ll bet you lunch.”
“You’re on,” Sage said, as she opened the car door and got out of the car. She reached in the mailbox, pulled out a brochure and shouted, “Ah-ha, I was right.” She climbed back inside the car and handed it to Ramion.
He scanned the brochure and shook his head. “Okay, so where do you want to eat?” Ramion reached for the zipper on Sage’s blue-jean jumpsuit and zipped it up a few notches to the base of her neck.
“How about the Horseradish Grill? We passed it earlier.”
“Yeah, the restaurant by the park,” Ramion said, and put the car in Drive. He pressed his foot on the gas pedal and slowly took off. “The houses on the other end are just about done. Let’s drive down there.”
Ramion cruised through the upscale neighborhood, driving less than fifteen miles an hour. “Looks like they’re using different builders,” Ramion said, noticing the disparate architectural styles: ranch and two-story, contemporary and traditional, brick and stucco.
“I like that,” Sage said. “I don’t want the exact same house as my neighbors.” Peering through the tinted windshield, she said “Let’s look at that one”, directing Ramion to a red brick house in the middle of the cul-de-sac.
“I thought you wanted stucco.”
“I prefer stucco, but I like that entrance. Look at the way it curves. It’s so dramatic.”
Ramion parked in front of the house and removed the car keys from the ignition. The driveway was blocked off with a Wet Cement sign, so they walked across the grass. Ramion pushed open the slightly ajar door and they entered the two-story foyer that featured a spiral staircase, marble floor and a multitiered crystal chandelier.
“Look at this kitchen,” Sage said, admiring the tall white cabinets and fruit-decorated ceramic tile that matched the wallpaper. “It’s enormous. I’ve never seen a kitchen this big! And so many cabinets! I wonder if the bedroom closet is spacious. I need more closet space for my clothes than kitchen cabinets.”
“And it has an island. Just what you wanted.”
“Uh-huh,” Sage said, opening some of the cabinets. She tilted her head back and said, “There’s a skylight over it.”
“You know, I really like this open floor plan,” Ramion said, as he stepped into the great room with its nine-foot vaulted ceiling and white-marble-faced wood-burning fireplace with decorative mantel and gas log starter, and French doors that opened onto a deck.
“I do too. At first I wanted separate rooms, but the more I see of this floor plan, the more I like it,” Sage said.
“There’s a bar in here too.”
“I didn’t even see that,” Sage said, moving into the bar area that included a small sink, refrigerator and cabinets.
“What’s that room?” Ramion said, pointing to the opening over the bar area of the family room. “It looks like a loft.”
“Let’s go find out,” Sage said, following Ramion into the formal living and dining rooms.
Ramion pointed to the key-shaped molding that trimmed the ceiling. “I like that. It makes the room look elegant.”
“Bay windows,” Sage said, nodding her head as she walked through the living room into the foyer. Waving her hand, she said, “Come on, let’s go upstairs.” She ran her hands along the wood railing as she jetted up the spiral staircase. “I love it.”
Standing at the top of the stairs, she peered through the two-story Palladian window that showcased both the upstairs and downstairs halls. “Can’t run around naked,” Sage observed.
“Just put up some blinds,” Ramion said, as he reached the top of the stairs.
“Right, Ramion. These beautiful windows were not meant to be covered up,” Sage chided.
Sage turned to the right, moving down the long hall, which featured three bedrooms and a full bath. “Guest rooms and an office,” Sage decided quickly as she looked in the rooms.
“Let’s go see the master bedroom,” Ramion said, spinning around and heading in the opposite direction.
“Wow,” Sage said, as she entered the bedroom. “This is beautiful.” Her attention going immediately to the tray ceiling and window seat.
“Look in here,” Ramion said, swinging open the bathroom door, complete with separate garden tub and shower, his-and-her marble vanities and gold-plated fixtures.
“Now this is a bathroom,” Sage said, moving around the room and touching the fixtures. She stopped in front of a door. “I wonder what’s in here.” Her eyes gleamed with approval at the spacious walk-in closet with separate shelving for sweaters and blouses, skirts and pants, lingerie, long dresses and suits. “Well, there’s plenty of room for my clothes.” She teased, “By the way, this is my closet.”
“Maybe they have his-and-her closets,” he said, opening another door that revealed a toilet. “I guess we’ll have to share.”
“I don’t mind sharing with you.”
They went back into the bedroom and noticed a door on the far side of the bedroom. “Maybe this is a closet,” Ramion said, reaching for the doorknob. He almost stumbled down two steps into an adjacent room.
“By the way, I’m sorry I can’t make the Governors’ Conference. This trial is going longer than I expected,” Ramion said.
“That’s all right. I’ll tell the president you were too busy,” she teased.
“This must be the room we saw from downstairs,” Ramion said, looking down at the family room and kitchen below.
Sage flipped through the brochure to the page describing the house they were in. “According to the layout, this is the nursery. But I suppose you could use it as an office or something.”
“A nursery is fine,” Ramion said, returning to the master bedroom. “We can make babies in here.”
“Babies?” Sage asked, her hands on her hips. “As in more than one?”
He gave Sage a thoughtful stare. “That’s something we haven’t talked about. Children.”
Sage shook her head. “I’m not ready.”
“Wait a minute,” Ramion said, placing an arm around her shoulders. “Maybe I should be asking, do you want kids?”
“Yes, I want kids,” she said in a tone that suggested the question was absurd. “I just don’t want them now. I have other things I want to do first.”
Ramion gave his fiancée a curious stare. “Like what?”
“Maybe start a cons
ulting business.”
He tilted his head to the side. “Oh, being Mrs. Ramion Sandidge isn’t enough for you?”
“You know me better than that.”
“I thought you would quit your job and stay home.”
“And make cookies and have your dinner waiting when you come home,” she said, an impudent look on her face.
Ramion touched the tip of her nose. “I’m joking, Sage. I used to want someone like that. Someone like my mother.”
“I’m not putting your mother down, but that wouldn’t work for me.”
“I know, baby. It’s a different generation. A different world, for that matter.”
“I’ll be ready to have a baby in a couple of years,” Sage said, unable to imagine herself as a mother.
“I’m in no hurry either,” Ramion admitted. He engulfed Sage in his arms and leisurely pressed his lips against hers. “This would be a great room to make a baby. Don’t you feel it?” He tightened his embrace and kissed her again, letting his lips linger.
She smiled at him, wondering what kind of mother she would be.
“Let’s try it out.” With an arm around her waist, he pulled the zipper on her jumpsuit down to her waist. He circled his fingers around her breast, stroking the tips of her nipples.
“What if someone comes in?”
He kicked the door shut with his foot.
“If someone comes in the house, we’ll hear them. We’ll stop.”
“You don’t like to stop.”
“Neither do you,” Ramion said, easing Sage to the floor as his mouth covered her breast.
* * * * *
“Ramion, I’ve got some ideas for your campaign,” Sage said, pulling a notebook from her briefcase. “Everybody always uses the promise of creating jobs or fighting crime to draw voter interest, but I think you should push the environment. Black folks may not seem to care about the environment, but if they knew that most landfills are in black neighborhoods, they might feel differently.”
“That’s interesting,” Ramion said distractedly, not really paying attention to Sage or the basketball game playing loudly on the television in Sage’s living room.
“Another thing. Your platform should center around your commitment to the community. Instead of making campaign promises, which everyone is tired of hearing, make campaign commitments. We have to come up with five major commitments that voters…” Sage said, stopping in midsentence. “Ramion, you’re not listening.”