“You were nervous and fucking the shit out of me.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“Don’t get all bigheaded. I was just a little sore.”
“I don’t hurt you now,” his voice mellowed an octave.
“You didn’t Saturday,” she whispered.
“Take your clothes off.”
“Huh?” And when he didn’t respond, Erica put the telephone down and stretched out of her layers. “Are you naked too?” She could hear him fumbling around.
“Yeah.”
Erica walked to her bed and propped the phone on the pillow next to her. On nights like these, Warren always found slumber before her and for the next hour she let the sound of his breathing lull her into sweet dreams.
Chapter Thirteen
Absence Makes the Heart...
It had snowed two inches in D.C. overnight. Warren’s leather boots crackled against the gritty salt scattered around the employee parking lot. Although the temperature had dropped below thirty degrees, Warren didn’t hurry away from the cold and the chilling air felt good in his lungs. He breathed in as much as he could stand before walking into the office building.
When Warren got to his desk, he thought about calling Erica. All of the sudden he was nervous about attending the dinner alone, and if there was ever a moment for her to take one for the team tonight was the night. His father was receiving the highest military honor for thirty-five years of service and it would have made Warren’s world to walk in with his woman on his arm. Since he was trying hard to be understanding, he wouldn’t beg. So he put the phone back into its cradle and turned his attention to an unfinished computer program.
“Going to lunch, cowboy?” Blanche popped her head over the cubicle wall.
“Yeah,” said Warren, saving his work on a disk and slipping it into his pocket. Since that night when his computer inexplicably froze on him, he didn’t trust leaving any valuable work around.
“I’m starving, I don’t know why I keep skipping breakfast.” She rounded the wall between them with her red wallet in her hand.
“It’s the most important meal of the day,” Warren replied.
“But a girl needs to hang onto her girlish figure,” she winked. Blanche followed Warren down the hall and they caught the elevator to the cafeteria. The lunchroom was crowded as usual, but the food stations helped with the flow of traffic. Warren walked to the sandwich section for a turkey wrap while Blanche went in the opposite direction, grabbing a pre-made salad. Warren paid for both, following Blanche to a seat by the window overlooking the ice pond.
“Thanks for lunch.” Blanche tossed her hair over her shoulder.
“You going to the ‘Man of Honor’ dinner tonight?” he asked, making conversation. Stan, with his military background, went to the dinner every year and as a thank you for his support, Warren’s father bought extra seats for some of the company’s key employees.
“I wouldn’t miss it.” She took a bite of her salad. “Is Erica coming?”
“No, she’s working in Atlanta this weekend,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the look in Blanche’s eye told him that she didn’t buy it.
“So, you don’t have a date?”
He shook his head.
“Well that just won’t do. You and I will go together,” she finished.
“Blanche, I’m fine. You don’t have to go through any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. My date cancelled this morning, so it’s a win-win.”
He hesitated.
“Your father is being honored for all of his years of service. We can’t have his son walking in alone.”
At least she got it.
“So, I’ll meet you in the lobby of the hotel at seven.”
That evening Warren arrived at the Fairmont Hotel on time and as planned Blanche was there waiting for him. She was dressed in a black beaded halter dress, with her blonde streaks pinned into a loose twist.
“Hey you,” said Warren, extending his arm out to her, but she threw him off by kissing his cheek.
“I took a cab over. Do you think you could give me a lift home?”
Warren nodded.
Dinners, charity events and award ceremonies had been a fixture in Warren’s life for so long that he wore his black tuxedo like a comfortable uniform. His hair had been cut hours before. The shoulder pads in his jacket gave his arms and chest an added layer of bulk, not that Warren needed it. Blanche’s heels echoed on the black-and-white marble floor as they walked through the airy lobby to the reception hall.
Inside there was a six-piece band playing a ballroom tune that Warren could play with his eyes closed. It was one of the first pieces that he had learned in the band at Howard and he hoped the musicians would kick it up a notch before the night was over. The reception hall had high ceilings with thick crown moldings and oversized chandeliers. White-gloved staff members swept through the room balancing silver trays filled with half-full wine glasses. Guests dressed in their formal best made polite conversation to colleagues, whom they would later dish dirt about that night over their bedroom pillows.
Warren’s table was situated opposite the band. His father was already seated, with his secretary, Shar, by his side. Although Shar had worked for his father for more than ten years, Warren hadn’t expected her to be there and certainly not as his father’s guest. Her skin was the color of oak wood and she wore her hair in a short relaxed style popular for ladies in her late-forties group. She was a pretty woman. A different pretty from my mother, he thought to himself. Warren pecked Shar’s cheek and shook his father’s hand.
“This is my coworker, Blanche.”
Shar looked quizzical.
“Erica’s away on business,” he finished.
His dad gave Blanche a once over. Warren knew his father’s facial expressions well enough to know that he thought Blanche was hot. The room was filled with friends and acquaintances of the family and once Blanche was seated, Warren excused himself to offer hellos. When he returned dinner was being served.
“How’s the salmon?” Blanche leaned in. Warren told her it was fine, dutifully asking about her chicken.
“Perfect. Marinated in a lemon crème sauce,” she said, while placing a piece on his plate without asking. The gesture made him think of Erica, who loved to share.
Once the dinner dishes were cleared, the band took a break, allowing the DJ to play a soft waltz. The dessert buffet was set up with dishes so eye-pleasing and elaborate that it was difficult for people to choose. Warren and Blanche continued to exchange pleasantries regarding the food over a fig marmalade tart. Then the master of ceremony took his place at the podium.
The MC wore a navy blue dress uniform, adorned with three medals and four ribbons. He was such a short man that he needed a wooden stepstool to reach the microphone. A mole the size of a grape hung from the edge of his chin. Two long hairs curled downward toward his collarbone. But when he cleared his throat and spoke, the peculiarities of appearance were immediately excused. The booming power in his voice made it obvious that public speaking was his calling.
“The ‘Man of Honor’ dinner is a celebration of the military’s finest and most distinguished men. As the Army’s Chief of Staff, Maynard Warren Prince has served our country for more than 35 years,” he said, spending the next ten minutes listing the honoree’s accomplishments. When he concluded, Warren was the first on his feet leading the room in a fierce applause. His father raised his hand in thanks as he walked to the podium with a smooth stroll that came with confidence, experience and age. Standing close to six feet, his body was lean with just a trace of mush around the middle. His hair was brushed back in a fit of tight curls.
“Thank you,” he said, raising his large hand again, but as the applause continued, more people got to their feet. Soon the entire room was standing and he waited for the excitement to die down. After dabbing his handkerchief across his forehead, he began offering his acceptance speech—a healthy mix of wit and charm. The audience responded by l
aughing in all the right places.
When he returned to his seat, Shar was the first to greet him. Warren was next. “I’m proud of you, Sir,” he said, pulling his father into a hug.
“I have something else to announce tonight and I hope you’ll be equally as thrilled,” he said with a wink, but before Warren could ask, his father had lifted his champagne flute and tapped it with his fork.
“May I have your attention?” he said, just loud enough for only their table to hear. “I’ve been waiting all night to do this.” His father blushed, and the red in his cheeks caught Warren off guard. He couldn’t remember seeing his father so open, especially not in public.
“Last night, I asked Shar to be my wife. And I’m happy to announce... she said yes.” He reached for Shar’s hand and the three-carat solitaire glowed like he had handpicked a star. It was Shar’s turn to redden.
“The wedding is in a month and you’re all invited,” he said, giving Shar a full kiss on the mouth.
Another first for Warren, he couldn’t recall his father ever showing his mother any public affection and the shock of it all stampeded through him like a stable of spooked horses. His mother had only died six months ago after a quick battle with cancer. How could his father have moved on so soon without breathing a word of it to him? Blanche touched his bicep.
“I need to get out of here,” he whispered to her, and after mumbling something that resembled congratulations to his dad, he headed for the door.
Chapter Fourteen
One Night Stand
Warren drove quickly to Blanche’s townhouse in Georgetown, dipping into potholes and bends in the road like a staggering drunk. They had been silent for most of the ride.
“Glad Alan didn’t show,” Blanche said, attempting to break the silence in the car.
“Yeah, he would have been annoying.” Warren chewed the inside of his jaw as he made a left onto her block.
“It’s the third house on the right,” she pointed. The street was narrow with cars crammed on both sides. Warren double parked in front of her house. He was so caught up in his thoughts about the night that he didn’t hear Blanche until she repeated herself for the third time.
“Earth to Warren.”
“Sorry.”
Turning in her seat, her dress opened around her thigh. “I said would you like to come up for a drink. You look like you could use a friend.”
A friend was what he had in mind but Blanche wasn’t it. A Ford pick-up honked a horn behind him.
“Look, I’m blocking traffic. Maybe another time,” he said, looking through his rearview mirror. “I better go. Thanks again for coming.”
Blanche pushed the heavy car door open, but as she moved to get out of the car she dropped her purse. The clasp came undone and the contents spilled all over the seat and floor.
“Sorry,” she mumbled with her head in the floor. The Ford honked again.
When Blanche finally closed her front door, Warren peeled off down her street. It had been almost a year since he stopped smoking marijuana, but after his father’s news, sitting in his living room in a foggy, purple haze was all he wanted to do. Driving faster than he should have, he cranked up the volume of his sound system. The grimy rap lyrics from a New Orleans artist spilled from his mouth as he rhymed along. The clean sidewalks and thriving businesses of Northwest turned into dilapidated housing projects as he headed for Southeast D.C. He knew that his partner James would have a stash. He always did.
When Warren reached the front of James’ building, he dialed his buddy’s number. James didn’t have a working front bell. Once they connected, Warren got out and made his way up. James was the drummer in Warren’s band. The two had been close since college.
“What’s up, Prince? You look good, son. What’s the occasion?” James leaned into Warren for a half hug, half handshake and snapped his fingers.
“Nothing, just a dinner for my Dad. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by for a sec.”
“Well, I’m glad you did. Come on in. I was just listening to some old Dizzy. You know how I do.” James closed the front door. The white T-shirt he wore had “Free Mumia” typed across the chest and his long dreadlocks were tied behind his head. Warren removed his shoes as was the custom. James was bent on keeping his coconut-colored carpets clean.
The apartment had an artsy feel to it. The walls were decorated with paintings that James had splashed together himself. None of the stuffed furniture matched as a set, but somehow it all meshed well. Warren unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket and plopped down on the plaid sofa that doubled as James’ pull-out bed.
“Dog, I can’t stay long. I just stopped by to see if you had some bud.”
James flicked his tongue against his teeth. “Thought you quit.”
“Just relapsing.”
Smiling, he disappeared behind a red and gold shoji screen. “Don’t they test your piss at work?”
“Yeah, but it’s cool,” said Warren, drumming his fingertips on his thigh. He wanted to dump his problems on James but felt too anxious to talk. His horn would suit him better.
James wrapped the grassy bundle in Saran Wrap, covering it with aluminum foil. “This good?”
“Plenty. Thanks, man,” and the two slapped and pounded, the black man’s universal sign of brotherhood.
As soon as he walked into his apartment, Warren took the phone off the hook. He didn’t feel like being bothered by anyone, not even Erica. He rolled the weed, puffed, and when he started to float, he reached for his horn. Just the weight of his trumpet on his lips made the pressure in his throat subside. It was like he could breathe again. The first few slow notes cried over the loss of his mother, because he still woke up some mornings forgetting that she was gone. His tempo picked up and in marched Erica and their complications. His father’s news was next and the resulting sound was so incredible that he had to stop playing to write it all down.
Chapter Fifteen
More Like Claire
“Stay close to Reverend Black during his signing. Fanatics show up at these events,” Claire said to Erica as the chauffer-driven car pulled into the circular driveway of the W Hotel.
Erica nodded while Claire rattled off last-minute instructions: the correct color of Sharpie pen, how to flap the books, and the Reverend’s preference for Dr. Pepper with plenty of ice. The prep continued into the entranceway of the hotel where a stout woman in a yellow hat waved for their attention.
“That’s Alana, Black’s personal publicist,” Claire led.
“Praise the Lord, Claire. It’s so good to see you.” Alana wrapped her blubbery arms around Claire’s petite neck and once Erica was introduced, she was hugged too.
“I’m so glad y’all made it safely. God is sure enough good.” Alana clapped her wiggly hands and as she led the way to the Reverend, Erica couldn’t help watching her large hips shake like a bowl of Jell-O.
When they arrived in the private holding room, the Reverend was seated behind a large table with his bulky bodyguards flanked on each side. All three men were dressed in fashionable suits and the Reverend looked just as he did on television and in pictures. A fair-skinned man, easily categorized as a pretty boy with features best described as fine. Deep natural waves swept through his auburn hair, and his eyes shifted between shades of hazelnut and gray. Erica had always found him attractive but didn’t understand the fuss until he took her hand and shined his signature smile.
The Reverend’s teeth were like a bracelet of freshwater pearls with each tooth filed in perfect succession, partially hidden by lush lips that spilled from his mouth like poetry. As his smile began to fade, Erica glimpsed a gold-faced crown that hinted at a less-than-Christian past. Yes, she could see why folks were smitten.
The book signing was held in a large reception room with a line that twisted itself anxiously in knots and clusters with people who had traveled both near and far to meet their beloved Reverend. They brought with them children who needed anointing, marriages desp
erate for prayer, illnesses to be healed, and sinners whose souls needed saving. When the Reverend entered the room, you would have thought that Jesus Christ had arrived. Women began fanning themselves like they were in a breezeless church packed with sweating bodies, and men waved hands shouting hallelujah.
The Reverend was gracious, signing every book placed in front of him, including the Holy Bible. Pictures were snapped, hands shaken, foreheads kissed, bodies blessed until the last customer was satisfied. When the signing was over, Claire sent Erica back to the hotel to confirm the media portion of the itinerary for the next day. It was late and she didn’t expect anyone to answer, but it was important to leave messages with her telephone number should something arise. When working a publicity campaign everything had to move like clockwork, there was no room for a mistake.
For the evening dinner, Erica changed into a simple black scoop neck dress that was fitted at the waist and stopped an inch above the knee. It was one of her favorite work dresses and went well with a pair of black and white zebra-striped heels. She gathered her red hair up into an elegant twist, which left Grandma Queeny’s earrings dangling from her lobes. After sweeping a light blush across her cheeks, she grabbed a white patent purse and made her way to the elevator.
The Atlanta Grill, a sumptuous steakhouse located in the center of the Ritz-Carlton hotel, was where Erica had arranged the private dinner. Before the other guests arrived, she wanted to be sure that everything in the room was appointed as she had requested. Indeed it was. Erica checked the place cards against her seating chart to make sure everything was right, and talked to the head waiter with last minute instructions on how to cater to the Reverend’s whims. When she felt confident that everything was right, she slipped her phone from her purse and called Warren. After two rings, his voice mail picked up.
“Hey, it’s me. I hope things are going well. Atlanta is lonely. Call me.”
Moments later, Claire swept in with the Reverend and his six-member entourage which included his publicist Alana, the two macho body-guards, a deacon from the church, his head consultant and a personal assistant. His wife was not present. Claire looked radiant in a short gold suit with big jeweled buttons. Onyx dripped from her neck and wrist. Everyone found their assigned seats with ease. Claire sat next to Reverend Black and Erica across from her.
Love in a Carry-On Bag Page 8