“I’m glad you like it. Actually, I purchased two of the condos, had an architect and contractors knock out a few walls, make the floor plan flow, and make it my own. I’ll show you the rest of it later. Let’s go outside, kick back, and get better acquainted.”
Mars poured Keshari a glass of chardonnay, then went to attend to their meal. He brought back salads, handmade chicken ravioli with a spinach and cream sauce, and fresh Italian bread with extra virgin olive oil.
“You said that you dabble a bit in the kitchen. You didn’t tell me that you’d been to culinary school. Did you really make all of this yourself? And how did you prepare it so fast? What? Did you leave your office to start cooking as soon as we finished talking on the phone earlier today?”
Mars laughed. “Cute,” he said. “Very cute. I made the ravioli a couple of weeks ago. I vacuum seal it and freeze it. The cream sauce only takes a few minutes to make. My housekeeper picked up the bread for me. And, no, I haven’t been to culinary school. I took a few cooking classes at Williams-Sonoma. You know, a little sumthin’ sumthin’ to add to the ol’ repertoire.’”
“A New Millennium Black renaissance man,” Keshari said as she tasted the food. “Ummmmmm…, this is really good.”
The sun had almost completely set and the burning candles on the table illuminated Keshari’s face with a warm glow. Mars stared across the table at her and took in everything that he possibly could about her, from the mystery in her almond-shaped, green eyes to the curve of her beautiful, full lips when she smiled and savored her food. Everything about her attracted him to her. He sipped his wine and began to talk animatedly about growing up in Brooklyn, New York.
He was the younger of two children. He had an older sister, a professor of African-American Studies at Columbia University. His mother and father, who still lived in Brooklyn, were happily married after more than forty years together. His mother was a retired schoolteacher and his father was a recently retired attorney.
Mars had lived in Los Angeles ever since graduating from Stanford Law School. He’d never been married, had no children, but was certainly not averse to commitment. One day, he said, he hoped to have a wife and family.
“So Keshari Mitchell, tell me all about you.”
“Well,” Keshari said, gazing out at the man-made lake outlining Mars’s terrace, “I graduated with honors from UCLA. I got my MBA from Wharton. I began setting the groundwork for my record label while still working on my master’s degree. I’ve been in love with hip-hop since high school and am currently delving on a serious level into the genres of jazz and R & B at my record label…”
“Okay,” Mars said. “Now, that’s the professionally prepared bio from your PR department. Tell me more about Keshari Mitchell. We’re off the record. You can tell me anything.”
“Anything?” Keshari asked half-jokingly with an eyebrow raised. “We just met. I’ll give you an abbreviated version and allow you to build up some trust points for more.”
Mars chuckled. “Sounds cool. How did you get your start in the industry?”
“I think I’ve always been in love with music,” Keshari said, “especially jazz. Miles, Mingus, Bird, Billie Holiday, Dinah Washington, Ella and Coltrane, some of the contemporary stuff, old school R & B. Before my mom passed, she listened to jazz almost all the time. I guess the fond memories of her cooking and playing cards with her girlfriends with good jazz in the background made me become especially attached to the music too.
“Then, along came hip-hop,” Keshari continued. “MY music…OUR music…music that had its start in my generation, created by my very own peers. I couldn’t get enough of it. Eric B & Rakim, A Tribe Called Quest, Brand Nubian, EPMD, Das EFX, X-Clan, Pete Rock & CL Smooth, LL, Big Daddy Kane, Nas… I could put my hip-hop collection up against any DJs, East or West Coast, and win hands-down.
“I did internships at MCA and Sony during undergrad. My best friend started doing party promotion while we were at UCLA. She knows some of everybody and I made quite a few industry connections that way. When I started in the Masters program at Wharton, I knew what my ultimate goal was. I wanted to start my own record label and turn my passion for music into a lucrative business enterprise.”
Mars smiled as she spoke candidly. He was too impressed with this woman for words.
“I did extensive research on every facet of the music industry and my internships provided some inside knowledge. I formulated a solid business plan and submitted a proposal package to several corporations who had programs that awarded business start-up grants to minority entrepreneurs. The corporate board of directors for TCG Management and The Enrichment Project, Inc. took a huge risk on me. I took a huge risk on a VERY talented artist…”
“And the rest is history. Well…history still in the making,” Mars said. “You’re thirty years old and the most powerful woman… the most powerful BLACK woman…in the music industry. Now, tell me a little bit about the phenomenon’s personal side.”
“The phenomenon?” Keshari mused, and then smiled at the compliment.
She sipped her wine, hesitating before she proceeded to tell him a bit about the side of herself that so few people knew.
“Well,” she said, “I certainly don’t have the whole Cosby-like familial background that you have. My mom died of cancer when I was a teenager. I never really knew my father. My grandmother took over trying to raise me when my mother passed away. She died a year ago. We were never really that close, even though I was her only child’s grandchild. Other than that, I don’t really have any biological family to speak of. I’ve got no children…and I’m not sure if I’ll ever meet the man I love enough to want any…and I’m definitely not sure when my life will slow down enough to even be a parent. I’ve got two purebred Rottweilers, Hannibal and Marcus Garvey. They’re probably the closest I’ll get to having children. Then, there’s my best friend, Misha, who’s always been like a sister to me.”
“Damn,” Mars said seriously, sipping his wine, “that’s deep. It’s amazing where you are now, considering your losses and all else that you’ve been through so early on in your life.”
“I have to admit that I never fathomed achieving the kind of success that I have. I often wonder if my life would have taken even remotely the same direction if my mother were still alive. I wonder if my life would be anything like it is now if I’d made a few different choices along the way.”
Mars made eye contact with Keshari across the table and held her gaze for a lingering moment. He seemed to look through her, into her, and take an unobstructed view all the way to the heart of her, and his eyes said, I’m here for you. I’ve got you if you need me. For someone who literally rubbed elbows with some of America’s most dangerous on a regular basis, Mars Buchanan put her completely off balance. She gulped a huge swallow of her wine and got up from the table. She strolled down the dimly lit terrace toward the gazebo where the Jacuzzi was situated. Mars watched her intently and wondered what she was thinking.
“Tell me,” Mars said, coming up behind Keshari and playing with a lock of her hair, “just how is it that a breathtakingly beautiful, single, extremely successful sista like you has managed to escape getting married? Or being hemmed up in an exclusive relationship with some understandably overprotective boyfriend?”
Keshari spun around, surprised at Mars’s closeness to her. Her heart was racing again like it had been when she arrived at his apartment.
“Do you really have to ask that question?” She laughed. “It’s like I told you. I’m married to my career. There has not been time…in years…for me to get seriously involved with anyone.”
Her and Mars’s eyes met again. He was close enough to her now to practically feel her heart racing. His closeness made her feel as if all of her vulnerability was exposed like physical nakedness. It made her awkward and anxious and wanting to put some space between her and this man.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Mars asked as if he was reading her thoughts.
&
nbsp; “What makes you say that?” Keshari said.
“Your body language. You look like a deer in headlights.”
“No, you’re not making me uncomfortable,” Keshari responded.
In actuality, the whole situation was taking her way out of her comfort zone. There was a serious amount of attraction building quickly between the two of them, far more quickly than Keshari would ever have anticipated.
She moved away from Mars back toward the dinner table and he quickly followed. He caught her by the wrist and brought her around to face him again.
“Keshari, I’m only trying to get to know you. So, why don’t you relax, stop over-analyzing the possibility of what will happen between the two of us before anything even has the chance to happen, and just play things by ear. For now, we’re having dinner… no pressure. If I’m delving into territory that you really don’t want to talk about, tell me that it’s none of my business and I’ll back off. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.”
Keshari smiled and relaxed a bit. It was just dinner, she thought, and she had no idea why she felt so out of control of herself. It was probably because she was having dinner with this gorgeous, successful, funny, cool, considerate, intelligent brotha producing vibes from the very start that she’d never, ever felt before…not even with Rick.
Boney James’s Sweet Thing filtered out onto the terrace from Mars’s Bose sound system. The breeze that whisked across the terrace blew Keshari’s tousled curls into her face. Mars reached out and gently stroked them away and she was wide open all over again like a deer in headlights.
“Damn,” he said, “you really don’t seem to have any idea how beautiful you are, do you?”
He took a huge gamble and kissed Keshari. The moment just seemed right, and during that moment when his lips, all warm and soft and perfect, touched hers, a fiery charge shot through Keshari’s entire body…CHEMISTRY.
It had been a bad idea to accept his dinner invitation. The timing…she had some very significant issues to resolve before she could start living her life like this, with her guard down.
“I’m sorry. I have to go,” she said quickly, pulling away from him. “I really have to go.”
“What’s the matter?” Mars questioned. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Of course not,” Keshari said. “I just…I can’t do this. My life is complicated enough as it is. I don’t need a romantic entanglement in my life to further complicate things.”
She grabbed up her purse and was out of Mars’s apartment in a flash. Mars was left standing in complete bewilderment, wondering WHAT had just gone down.
When Keshari arrived at her Range Rover parked in the subterranean garage outside Mars’s condo, all four of her tires were slashed and the body of the truck had been viciously keyed all the way around.
Mars was grinning as sweat poured down his face and chest. He dribbled the ball. He was an agile, left-handed player. He did a couple of crossovers, some fancy footwork, and then plowed straight up the court.
Swoosh! Another basket. Twenty-one. Mars’s game.
“Man, you must be gettin’ old,” Mars gibed at his best friend, Jason Payne. “Either that or married life has fucked up your game. It’s been a LONG time since I kicked your ass on the court two weeks in a row.”
Every week, the two men, who’d attended Stanford Law School together, got together to play some one-on-one or get in on a pickup game with some of their boys at The Spectrum Club in Culver City or at the exclusive Los Angeles Sporting Club.
“Man, fuck you,” Jason snapped with a toothy grin. “Married life is just fine…and so is my game. Don’t knock what you don’t even have the guts to try.”
Jason popped Mars in the back with his sweaty towel. They headed for the locker room showers and the next group who’d reserved the basketball court took the floor.
“Guts,” Mars said, “has nothing to do with the reason that I’m not married. You know that I’m not knockin’ marriage. I have yet to meet the woman qualified to become Mrs. Buchanan.”
He stepped out of his workout clothes and under the steamy jets of shower water. Jason laughed, and then turned around to rinse off.
“The woman ‘qualified,’ as you put it, to become ‘Mrs. Buchanan’ doesn’t seem to exist. You keep raising the bar or changing the rules.”
The two men stepped out of the showers simultaneously and cinched towels at their athletically chiseled waists.
“Whatever happened to the sista who decorated your condo?” Jason asked. “What’s her name? Portia something. She was a runway model or something before starting her own design firm. Now, there’s a beautiful sista.”
“Portia and I still see each other off and on,” Mars answered. “She wants a lot more than I’m capable of giving her. She wants commitment and I’m just not feeling that with her.”
They stood at their adjacent lockers and began to dress. Mars slipped into a cream-colored, velour Sean John sweatsuit and zipped the jacket over his bare chest. Jason slid on black Armani trousers and a black silk knit tee.
“I met somebody,” Mars said suddenly.
“And?” Jason said disinterestedly. “You meet women all the time.”
“Jay, man, you’re not listening. This is different. I think this one could be ‘Mrs. Buchanan.’”
Jason spun around to look at his friend. He saw the look in Mars’s eyes and knew that he was serious.
“Ahhhhhhhh shit,” Jason said. “My brother looks like he’s already on the verge of buying the five-carat rock. Who is she?”
“Keshari Mitchell,” Mars said.
“Why does that name sound so familiar?” Jason said. Then his eyes bugged out. “You mean, the head of Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment?”
“The one and only,” Mars said proudly.
“DAMN-N-N-N-N,” Jason said.
“I’ve never met anyone like her,” Mars went on. “I mean, she’s the most powerful woman in the music industry, but when we were alone…she was SHY, vulnerable, innocent even, and so-o-o-o-o damned sexy at the same time.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen her in a few photos and I sat behind her at last year’s Grammy Awards. Many have said that ol’ girl makes Halle Berry look like your average, around-the-way girl. I’m jealous.”
“She is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life,” Mars said.
“You’re GONE!” Jason laughed. “So, when’s the wedding?”
Mars laughed. “It’s not that deep yet.”
“You know, I don’t want to piss all over your good vibes. I’m always happy to see my bro find happiness. But there are a few rumors in the industry about your new paramour.”
“I cannot believe that you’re about to try and feed me some industry gossip,” Mars said.
“Nah, man, on the real, there’s been talk that Keshari Mitchell’s record label is a front for drug money, that she’s involved in organized crime on a MAJOR level.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mars said. “I don’t believe that shit for a minute and you know as well as I do that anytime a brother or sister achieves the massive level of success that Keshari Mitchell has in an arena that has typically been dominated by White folks… especially when this brother or sista didn’t resort to selling himself or herself out in the process of achieving success…the rumor mill becomes inundated with lies to try to character assassinate them. You KNOW this and I would think that you would be a whole lot more supportive of a sista making major strides in the industry, rather than becoming party to malicious gossip meant to tear her down.”
“Yeah, you’re right, black,” Jason said, grabbing his duffle bag and keys. “Hey, I’m sorry. Just…be careful. Keep that third eye open.”
“Always,” Mars said, giving his best friend a brotherly “pound” in that cool way that Black men do.
They said their goodbyes in the parking lot and went their separate ways. Mars had no plans for the day and was headed back to his condo. Jason was headed to a lunch d
ate with his beautiful, pregnant wife.
Mars slid behind the wheel of his Mercedes and picked up the phone to check his voicemail messages at home. There were several, business-related calls, a message from the housekeeper about his dry cleaning, and a final message from Portia Foster.
“Hi, sweetheart. I’m back in town. I’ve got a bottle of Perrier Jouët, some food from our favorite, little spot, a purse full of condoms, and I’m coming your way. I hope eight o’clock is okay. Bye.”
Mars shook his head as he hung up and pulled out of the parking lot into the busy, Saturday afternoon traffic. He was growing increasingly annoyed by the presumptuous way that Portia conducted herself with him. She acted as if the two of them were involved in an exclusive relationship. It was high time that he removed any possibility of confusion about what the two of them really were to each other. He needed to establish some easy-to-comprehend parameters in regard to their dealings immediately.
At 8:15 that evening, Mars’s doorbell rang. Portia Foster had arrived.
“Hi, sweetie,” she said, planting a kiss on Mars’s lips and breezing into his apartment on a cloud of Christian LaCroix perfume.
Portia Foster had a very strong resemblance to the model and actress, Kenya Moore. She was thirty-two years old with deep, flawless, mahogany skin, smoky, bedroom eyes, beautiful, jet black hair that usually cascaded down her back in huge curls and she currently wore in a short, funky, pixie-type cut, and legs that went on for days and days.
She was six feet tall, yet possessed an affinity for four-inch heels. She’d been a runway model for Yves Saint Laurent and Emanuel Ungaro in Paris and Milan prior to establishing a successful interior design firm in Beverly Hills. Mars and Portia had been seeing each other off and on for nearly two years since meeting at a book signing for Tavis Smiley at the Beverly Center.
“So, where’ve you been for the past couple weeks?” Mars asked.
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