The chemistry between Erica and Claire was apparent in their first meeting together. Erica was delighted to have the chance to work with a woman who reflected her own ambition and she decided right away to do whatever it took to work side by side with Claire. But that plan came to a halt the moment Edie Butnick, vice president and director of publicity, strolled in with her long legs and narrow eyes, sucking up the air like a parched potted plant.
“You’ll report directly to Edie,” Claire introduced the woman as her right hand and Erica soon discovered that just as the Christians believed that the way to God was through Jesus Christ, in the publicity department the only way to Claire was through Edie.
From Erica’s first encounter with Edie it was apparent that they were as likely to get along as oil and water. Edie looked down her nose at Erica and had a tendency to talk in a condescending voice that Erica found offensive. She was a knit-picking control freak who didn’t hesitate to call Erica at home on things that could be solved the next morning. Worse, she was constantly removing Erica from projects she started and giving them to other publicists to finish. Whenever Edie pulled one of these stunts, she explained that she was putting Erica on books that were a higher priority to the House. This would have been flattering coming from Claire, but from Edie it just aggravated the issues between them.
So on that Monday morning after her blow up with Warren, Erica heard a light tap on her office door and was astonished and surprised to see Claire breeze in. Women as high up on the chain as Claire never visited their subordinate’s offices, and Erica sat up taller in her chair to greet her.
“Good morning,” Erica smiled.
“Always here early.” Claire’s designer sling backs carried her to the empty chair in front of Erica’s desk. The soft wool coat she wore was opened and the fluorescent overhead light twinkled against the gumball diamonds dripping from her ears, throat and ring finger. Erica touched the hem of her gray sheath dress. It was one of the more expensive pieces she owned, and she was happy that she was well dressed for this impromptu occasion.
“How was your weekend?” she asked Claire.
“Busy, Reverend Black is holding a major conference down in Atlanta and I’ve been on the phone with his people all weekend hammering out details. It’s a big deal even though we just found out about it.” Claire gave Erica a knowing look.
“Anyway, everything is set—the press conference, dinner, and a satellite tour. Black will be promoting the Powerful Men book and audiotape. His office wants us there for show. No one from editorial is available and Edie can’t travel, so I’m taking you.”
If pigs could fly there would be one buzzing around in her office. Erica couldn’t contain her disbelief.
“Don’t look so surprised.” Claire pushed a file across the desk towards Erica. “You know you are my go-to-girl. This trip should be interesting.”
“Thanks so much. I’m looking forward to it,” said Erica, and before she could add to the conversation Claire was on her feet cruising out on the same air she sailed in on.
She called over her shoulder, “We’ll meet again after lunch.”
Alone, Erica pumped her fist in the air. Her insides were turning as she got to her feet, dancing a hip-shaking jig. This was it. The opportunity had finally come for her to prove herself. She had been pulled in on the Reverend Black campaign, a coup in itself and the sweet strawberry on top was that she was going to Atlanta with Claire. Just the two of them, without Edie breathing her dragon breath down her neck. What would she wear? Her mind was working through her wardrobe as she flipped through the folder that Claire had given her. For the tiniest moment, she had forgotten that Warren hadn’t called last night when he got home nor had he phoned her this morning. It had felt like her entire life was intact. Then, on page three, she saw scribbled in Claire’s curvy handwriting that the trip was scheduled for this coming weekend. Erica fell back against her seat.
Why was she even surprised? Nothing ever came easy.
Chapter Eleven
Dad Knows Best
As soon as Warren skidded away from the curb, he knew that smashing Erica’s lamp was wrong. He hadn’t meant to lose control, but it pissed him off that Erica didn’t even try to understand his position. Why did she always insist on making the fight him versus her, when really the fight was them versus the distance? And where was all this pressure coming from? In the year and few months that they had dated, the couple had never missed a weekend. Didn’t that speak to his dedication to her?
The light drizzle elevated to a windy storm, and the rain splattered against his windshield on the ride down the New Jersey Turnpike. By the time he crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge, he had run out of adrenaline. The tasteless cup of coffee he had picked up at a bodega on 135th and Madison sat cold and abandoned in the cup holder on his right. Sleep deprivation caught him by the toe, and he wrestled his vehicle into the parking lot of the Rest Area. His SUV had tinted windows, so he climbed into the spacious backseat and made a pillow with his scarf. Lying there, he thought about how many times he and Erica had made love in that very spot.
It was like a weekly ritual for them. They would carry their portable chairs to Central Park’s Summerstage with mixed drinks disguised in soda bottles. When the show was over, they would giggle their way into the backseat for a steamy romp. The windows would fog and the air conditioning could never cool their flaming bodies. Warren wanted that time back, when every moment flowed with effortless ease. He drifted to sleep with those memories rolling through his head. Two hours later, his cell phone vibrated against his hip. It was his father. Warren straightened up in his seat.
“Sir,” he cleared his throat.
“Son, how are you?” his father’s voice boomed.
“Fine. Heading back from New York.”
“Maybe we could do an early dinner or something when you get into town.”
Warren looked at the clock on the dashboard. “I should be home in about two hours.”
“Great, I’ll be at the Willard.”
The valet attendant opened the driver’s door and Warren stepped out in front of the Willard hotel, two blocks from the White House. He was still wearing his all black ensemble and was pleased that it was wrinkle free. Walking through the lobby, Warren passed the hand-crafted fireplace, china flower vases and sofa tables. The hotel was a bit gaudy for his taste with all of its Persian rugs and antique chairs, but it was his father’s favorite place to dine.
Inside the Willard Room Restaurant, his dad was already seated at a center table, bent over the Sunday Post drinking a cup of coffee, looking very much at home.
“Son,” he rose, pulling Warren into a hug.
“Afternoon, Sir.”
Warren took the seat opposite him and opened his menu. The pianist sitting at the baby grand started to play a composition of Bach’s. Warren knew the tune well because the composer had been one of his mother’s favorites.
“How was your trip?” His father looked up. Maynard Prince was a youthful-acting older man with a full head of salt and pepper waves. His skin was the same rich brown as Warren’s, but he stood an inch shorter. He wore a navy blue suit with a canary yellow shirt opened at the collar and a gold link chain that had been his grandfather’s around his neck.
“It wasn’t bad. Traffic was easy.”
The pointy nosed waiter approached the table. “Good afternoon, can I interest you in something to drink, Sir?” He sounded nasal.
“Dad, you ready to order? I’m starved.” Warren hadn’t eaten since his breakfast with Erica and with all of the fighting, it hadn’t stuck.
“Just the lobster bisque,” he said. Warren ordered grilled shrimp and lamb sirloin.
The waiter took the menus and disappeared.
“Stan called me. Congrats on the extension.”
Warren felt the smile start down in his belly and drift up to his face. His father didn’t dole out praise often, and he was glad to be on the receiving end.
&nbs
p; “It’s a big step for you.” He tossed his newspaper aside. “So I can’t understand why you were the last to sign?”
Warren draped his napkin across his lap, hating that his father knew everything that happened at work. It was one of the downsides of the job. Snitches were everywhere.
“I was just trying to figure some things out with Erica and the music.”
“What’s there to figure out?”
“She wants me to move to New York.”
“And do what?”
Warren hesitated. “Concentrate more on my music.”
“Son, please. Don’t start that starving artist, hippy bullshit.” His father flipped his vintage watch around on his wrist.
The waiter appeared with an iced tea for Warren and fresh coffee for his father.
“With your new contract, you are making more money than any of your friends. Keep climbing that ladder. Stan says sky’s the limit.”
But at what cost to his soul, Warren thought, chewing the side of his lip.
“Trust me,” his father continued, as if answering his thoughts. “Erica doesn’t want some man depending on her for a glass of water. That gets old real quick.”
The waiter dropped off the first course and Warren plunged his shrimp into the drawn butter.
“Have you dry cleaned your tux for Friday night?”
Warren looked blank.
“Son, tell me you have not forgotten about the ‘Man of Honor’ dinner this Friday. I bought a table for your coworkers at two hundred dollars a plate.”
With everything going on, it had slipped Warren’s mind. “I’ll drop it off tonight.”
“You really must stop waiting until the last minute to do things. There’s no room for error.”
Warren knew that all too well. The main course was served and, as his father chatted over the details for Friday, Warren’s mind wandered over to the piano.
Chapter Twelve
The Waiting Game
Once two nights passed without a call from Warren, Erica started to fret over their last conversation. Perhaps she was pushing him too hard. The fight had been one of the bigger ones and the broken lamp a first. This space they were in made her antsy and she had a good mind to call out the next day and head to D.C. They needed to straighten things out, especially since she had to work that weekend. But with so much preparation needed for Atlanta, she didn’t have the gall to ask Claire for a day off. This was corporate America, where a certain protocol was demanded. Work came before everything: sickness, death, vacation, maternity leave and most certainly a long distance love affair. The job was always number one. She decided a call would have to be enough to fix things. But after four rings she got his voice mail, and didn’t leave a message.
On Tuesday morning, she sat at her computer trying to distract herself with a manuscript from one of her favorite mystery authors. The sales team wanted to reposition the author with the hopes of driving up sales. Erica’s job was to comb through the manuscript for clues on how to angle the new novel to picky media outlets that wouldn’t otherwise budge.
Her assistant buzzed. “Warren’s on line two.”
Relief and anxiety fought for space as she answered the call.
“Hey.” His voice sounded normal.
“How come you haven’t called?”
“I had lunch with my dad Sunday and last night was the jam session.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
“Yeah, well. I’ve been thinking.”
“About?”
“Don’t cut me off,” he said a little too sharply. “This conversation that we keep having is moot. Instead of us arguing over me working another year, let’s figure out how to get more time in to make things better.”
It wasn’t what she had expected. Her emotional strings had been pulled. “You’re right,” her voice was faltering.
“Are you crying?”
“No.”
“I want to be with you, girl, but this is not a ten-city publicity tour. Things aren’t always going to fall according to your plan.”
“Okay, Honey.” Erica’s line blinked. “Hang on, Warren.” She blew her nose and then flipped over. “Yes, Prudence?”
“Lillian’s on line three. There’s a major snowstorm in Denver and she’s worried about her signing tonight at the Tattered Cover.”
Erica went back to Warren. “I have to take this call.”
“Okay, but before I forget, can you leave work early on Friday? My dad is being honored for his 35 years of military service.”
“What? How come you haven’t mentioned this before?”
“I forgot,” he offered, but since they had just made up she tried not to get upset, even though whenever she had a function she gave Warren plenty of notice.
“Claire asked me to go to a conference with her in Atlanta this weekend.”
“Now you’re working weekends?”
“I was going to see if you could meet me. I’m staying at the Ritz.”
Another one of her phone lines flashed and she really needed to go. “Babe, we have to finish this tonight. I’ll ring you as soon as I get home.”
It was almost nine o’clock when Erica got in from work. When she reached her floor, she could smell something buttery. Tess, her sister-girl from across the hall, was home, which meant that something was on the stove. Erica knocked.
“Sha-low,” Tess greeted from the doorway. She was tall and thick, wearing her surplus like none of it was extra. A maroon mushroom wig covered her head and her eyelash extensions were at least a full inch long. She was a lounge singer so Erica was accustomed to seeing her in costume.
“You sound like my sister. What smells so good?” asked Erica, pushing past Tess into the apartment. Diana Ross’ Greatest Hits was playing. Tess was Diana’s biggest fan.
“Little something.”
“Nice wig.”
“You like? Thinking about wearing it to my tribute. Does it look like the one Diana wore in Mahogany?”
Erica nodded her head in agreement while removing her coat.
Their apartments shared the same floor plan, except Tess’ faced the back of the house. Since she didn’t get as much natural light as Erica did, she had amassed a quirky collection of lamps, stacking them in every other corner. Without asking if she was hungry, Tess dished up two plates heaping with rosemary mashed potatoes, French cut beans and oversized turkey wings smothered in gravy. Erica sat across from her at the dinette covered in a printed kente cloth and told Tess about the conflict with this weekend.
“You know I’m a hopeless romantic, but are you kidding me? This is totally the break you’ve been waiting for,” Tess fanned her large breasts.
“And I bought a new suit last week that would be perfect. It’s just…”
“Warren will be fine, and two weeks ain’t the end of the world.”
“You’re right.” Erica pushed her plate aside. Tess was a true southern girl, and her comfort cooking reflected all of the heavy ingredients.
“Sugar, Tess Rodgers is always right.” She reached for her pack of cigarettes and lit one. “Glad you’re saving room. I baked a pineapple upside down cake.”
“You spoil me,” Erica reached for the lit cigarette and took a long drag. She only smoked with Tess, who fired up another.
“We can eat dessert and watch a Diana movie?”
Erica flicked the ashes. “I’d love to, but I need to go home and deal with Warren. Can I get the cake to go?”
Tess pouted.
“I promise to stay next time, Sweetie. I’ll even watch The Wiz and you know how I feel about that long ass movie.”
“It’s Diana at her best,” proclaimed Tess, and the two hugged the way true girlfriends did.
Across the hall, Erica dialed Warren’s number. Her living room seemed to be collecting dirty laundry, papers and book galleys by the hour. While the phone rang, she removed her work clothes, unclipped her too-tight bra and slipped into one of his sweatshirts.
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br /> “Hello,” Warren answered.
Her eyes were closed and she pictured him with his arms wrapped around her.
“Babe?”
“Just picturing you here,” she said.
“Yeah, I’m missing that fat booty, too.”
“That all you miss?” She took a fork and stuck it into the cake.
“What’re you eating?”
“Tess baked.” Breathing. “You cool with this weekend?”
“Not really.”
Erica put down her fork. “I can’t get out of it. Edie’s too pregnant and Claire said I’m next in line.”
“That’s nice.”
“So you understand?”
“Yeah, it’s cool. I know you’ve been waiting for this.”
“I’ll send your father flowers first thing.”
“Okay.” Warren told her about the applications program he was working on but had to put her on hold. When he came back to the phone, Erica was skipping down memory lane.
“Do you remember the first time you told me you loved me? I was in the kitchen, washing the dishes and when you said it, I dropped the plate.”
“That’s because you didn’t love me.”
“I was in love with you by the second week,” she confessed, “doodling your name on my work pad, putting little hearts around us.”
“So you’ve always been corny?”
“Just soft on you.”
“Well, I remember the first time you took the train to D.C. to see me. The weather was still warm, you showed up in a pair of cut-off’s, flip flops and your hair wild. I thought I hit the jackpot when I saw you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, man. So beautiful.”
Erica twirled the edge of her sweatshirt. “Do you remember the first time we made love?”
“In your apartment.”
Love in a Carry-On Bag Page 7