Love in a Carry-On Bag

by Johnson, Sadeqa

  Usually she found riding the train comforting; the chugga-chug of the engine, the cushiony window seat, the long bridges, crystallizing bodies of water, and the multiple colors of piney vegetation. But on this trip Erica’s chest throbbed and the passing scene did nothing to stop her crippling thoughts.

  There was no way that the condom just “slipped” from Blanche’s purse. Baby girl had that planned from the moment she stepped foot into Warren’s car and what made Erica furious was that he was being so naïve.

  Through the reflection of the glass window, she could see Blanche’s face, eventually remembering her well. They had met at last year’s company Christmas party. Model thin, oversized eyelash extensions, teeny clothing, chatty, blonde patched hair, mole on left nostril, sing-songy voice, flat ass, Thumbelina feet, and the ability to shine in a room filled with straight, successful men. Women like Blanche didn’t drop anything accidentally.

  By the time Erica arrived in New York her temples were tender from overthinking, and she couldn’t see straight. So she hailed a taxi, and it was in the backseat of the car that the blues found her. Biting down on the collar of her sweater, she tried sending those feelings away. As they passed through Times Square, Erica couldn’t believe that she had put her job in jeopardy by going to D.C. Sure Claire had told her to go, but she should have declined, saying that work was much more important. How was she supposed to climb the corporate ladder if she was busy chasing Warren? Then out of nowhere, the next thought hit her so hard she bolted straight up in her seat. What if this weekend had been a set-up from Claire, testing her dedication? Well, then Erica had failed miserably, and she felt even heavier as she tugged her luggage up her front steps.

  The telephone message light was blinking when she entered her apartment; two from her mother, one from Edie, and the last from an irritating author complaining about the thread count of his hotel sheets. Erica wasn’t in the mood to deal with work yet so she called over to Tess’ to see if she wanted company. When she didn’t get an answer, she surprised herself by dialing her mother.

  “Hey, Slim,” she answered on the second ring. “I been calling you all weekend.”

  Erica explained that she had been away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t tell me nothing, girl. I can hear it in your voice.”

  It always amazed Erica how well her mother could read her, even over the phone. It was like some sixth sense that she had or a radar that always zeroed in at the right moment. Erica rewarded her by recounting the story.

  “So whatcha gut saying?” her mother was munching on something crunchy, probably salt and vinegar potato chips.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know.”

  “No I don’t,” Erica yelled back, but her mother was unfazed by her outburst and spoke even softer. “Then you ain’t listening. Slim, push past the anger and feel Warren. You know his heart. ’Cause you’re in it.”

  When did her mother get so smart? Erica pulled her chenille throw up to her chin and wiped the tear now slumped in the corner of her lip.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Not Trying to Fool You

  Falling in love with Erica had been like coming down with a terrible bout of bats in the belfry. There was no escaping his feelings when it came to her. In those first few weeks, Warren remembered being consumed by the raw scent of her skin. She rarely wore perfume, but it was her natural scent that made him feel like a crazed mammal. During that first summer, they had spent every single day together until he left for his job in D.C., and up until her trip to Atlanta they had been together every single weekend. So it was hard to understand what was going wrong.

  Thank God it was Monday, and when Warren pushed through the entrance of Sweet Melodies, he whistled along with his favorite Wynton Marsalis tune. Dark-haired waitresses in loafers and leggings hastened around the lounge taking orders. There was Sissy, the bartender, chatting it up with the patrons. Warren’s band was hosting the weekly jam session again and just being in the room relaxed him. With his horn strapped across his chest, dressed in his black uniform, he strolled through the crowd soaking up praises from the regulars until his head had comfortably ballooned. This momentary brush with fame pleased Warren, and tricked him into believing that all was right with the world, if only for a few seconds. On stage, James sat tightening his drums.

  “What up, Black man,” James stood and pulled Warren into a half hug, half handshake. “How was the bud?” A drum screw sat between his lips and it flopped up and down like a cigarette.

  “Just what the doctor ordered. You always come through.”

  “Solid.”

  “Wanna grab a beer?” James shrugged, following Warren to the bar. He was shorter than Warren by a head, but the same dark complexion. Tonight he wore a bright orange T-shirt with “Free Sudan” typed across his chest.

  Sissy pitched two lagers on the counter for them and as she sashayed the length of the bar in a yellow slouchy dress, James followed with his eyes.

  “You know she’s too old for you,” Warren teased.

  “I’d still like to taste that,” James reached for his beer. “You see how she was looking at me?”

  “She looks at everyone like that,” Warren said, and after a long gulp of beer told James what was on his mind: his father’s announcement at the dinner and the problem with Erica.

  “Think of it like this, at least someone’s taking care of your dad.”

  Warren admitted that he hadn’t looked at it that way.

  “And Erica? Man, you two are made for each. You probably just need a change of scenery.”

  “It does feel like the honeymoon is over.”

  “Well I have just the place,” said James, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet, producing a tattered business card. “My snow bunny took me here for my birthday. This place will cure anything.”

  Warren turned the card over in his hand, thinking that James just might be on to something. When he got home he called Erica. The line was busy, and he knew she took the phone off the hook to get back at him, but what she didn’t realize was that he was an effective stalker, so he just kept calling.

  After two sleepless nights, three calls from Warren, a full word search book completed, a pint of butter pecan Häagen-Daz ice cream, a bottle of Shiraz, a few shots of vodka and four pieces of catfish fried hard, Erica finally picked up the phone when he called that Wednesday night.

  “Stop fighting with me over bullshit,” he said.

  “Learn to keep the bitches at bay.”

  “Can’t help it if I’m good looking.”

  “And charming.”

  “You think I’m charming?”

  “I’m talking to you, ain’t I?”

  Warren laughed at her slick girl tongue.

  “So you’re coming up this weekend?”

  “I’ll be there before you know it,” he answered, and he meant that literally.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Cleopatra Room

  Warren was on the road heading to New York before he decided to tell Erica his plan. It was a surprise, a risky one, but it was time for some spontaneity to spice things up. James had provided the lead on the Pocono Mountain resort, which inspired Warren to research the best restaurants, antique shops, and hiking trails for their weekend. Blanche agreed to cover his projects at work, so the only thing left to do was call Erica and invite her.

  She answered the phone. “Erica Shaw.”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Looking over a satellite tour,” she replied, sounding distracted. “Where’re you? What’s that noise?”

  “I’m on the highway, heading up to see you.”

  “Stop lying,” she giggled, but when he didn’t recant his statement, she laughed out loud. “You serious?”

  “You need to take tomorrow off. We’re going away for a long weekend.”

  “Oh my goodness. Warren.”

  “We need t
his.”

  “I know but…”

  “We’ll get what you need along the way.”

  “Honey, I…”

  “See you at seven,” he said, powering off his phone.

  The arrogance of Warren both infuriated and excited Erica and at that moment she didn’t know which emotion took the lead. He could be so damn cocky, assuming that she could just take off from work at the kick of his heel. She had responsibilities. People depended on her. Projects needed overseeing. But as soon as she stopped fussing with Warren in her head, she gave in to the excitement.

  They were going on vacation. A nice long, quiet weekend with just the two of them and, knowing Warren, it was someplace romantic. The last time he took her away, they spent a week in a sleepy little shore town in the Outer Banks where Erica had barely dressed and stayed drunk off the scenery. Though she hoped this getaway didn’t involve a bikini because her body was not summer-ready. Tapping her pen against her pad she wished she had scheduled a wax, plus her nails could use a fresh coat of polish. But there was no time for vanity. She needed to get focused if she planned to leave on time. She made a must-do-list to stay on track. Thank God Edie was out and she could put in her personal day via email. After that she needed to finish up a satellite tour, meet with Prudence, and then carry the Kessler manuscript with her to read over the weekend.

  At 7:01 Warren called from the downstairs lobby. With her work bag packed, she stopped in the bathroom to touch up her lips and give her lashes a quick swipe. Her tweed pants and brown riding boots were nice, but she wished that she hadn’t spilled the oily salad dressing on her turtleneck. Because even though she had blotted it twice, the stain wouldn’t let go.

  Outside, Warren leaned against his shiny SUV dressed in an ivory shearling and matching Kangol chewing on a toothpick. He made the simplest gestures look sexy and her breath stalled at the sight of him. If only she had her camera. Hurrying towards him, her tan swing coat rustled and her bone-straight hair blew.

  “You think you’re so slick,” she smiled up at him, while pulling a few stray hairs from matting in her plum lip gloss.

  He kissed her cheek. “It’s the only way to get on your calendar.” Then he took her bag, helping her into the car. Once he was behind the wheel, he brushed her thigh. “You look beautiful, baby.”

  “Sweet.” She held his hand from her seat.

  Traffic was heavy, and despite the fact that Erica’s office was a few blocks to the Holland tunnel, it took over thirty minutes to get out of the city. Once they reached Route 80 though, the ride was tranquil. Erica could feel the stress in her shoulders unwind, like calm fingers on knotty laces. Even in the dark, she was comforted by the silhouettes of evergreens, oaks, pines, and maples.

  Warren had made a playlist of different versions of “Wild is the Wind,” and they had a private listening party on the drive.

  Erica was digging the scratchy vocals of Esperanza Spalding, asking Warren to play her version again.

  “I knew you would like her. She’s a beast on the bass.”

  Erica let the music take over, and when it ended she wanted to hear it once more.

  “No, junkie. Nina’s next.” Warren let the song play.

  The piano started with a down-tempo belly crawl, slowly introducing her melodic, manly voice.

  “Esperanza sounds good,” said Warren, “but Nina Simone’s version is heavy, soulful.” He paused and Erica could see his mind working out the notes. “Yeah, she touches me in a place that only the most accomplished singers can reach,” he said, turning the music up so high Erica felt her senses awaken. The clarity and sound did something to her heart.

  “Singing like that is a skill that comes with aging,” she offered finally. Warren looked at her like she was pure love.

  Erica cracked her window just enough to let some of the breeze flow into the car and mix with the renditions of David Bowie, George Michael, Amel Larrieux, ending with Cat Power, a singer she hadn’t heard before. Warren was up on everything.

  “I don’t think men do the song justice,” she said, admitting that Cat Power’s breathy voice and folksy sound had her mesmerized. Cat took the vibe back to jazz.

  Erica grew up on the music, her father had as many jazz albums as Warren, and used to quiz her on what instruments she heard when he played his tapes in the car. It was almost funny that she was having a similar experience with Warren.

  Thick chunks of gravel crumbled under the tires as he pulled into the couples-only resort, and from the headlights, Erica spotted two fawns scampering for the woods. When she stepped out of the car the air was wonderfully exhilarating. She felt like dancing.

  “I hope you like it,” Warren said, leading her from the reception area down the beige-and-gold hallway where pictures of snow-capped mountains and shy forest animals covered the walls. He was carrying a duffle bag, and told her that he had lifted her toothbrush and some hair products from his bathroom. Erica squeezed his hand in anticipation while waiting for him to use the key.

  “Welcome to the Cleopatra Room,” he grinned while pushing the door open, where a seven-foot champagne-glass whirlpool greeted them in the center of the living room.

  “Wow,” she whispered.

  To the left was a wood burning fireplace and further in sat a heart-shaped plunge pool. The suite was bigger than her entire apartment, and although the features were over the top, she more than appreciated the effort.

  “Hon, this is awesome. You are the sweetest to go through so much trouble for me.”

  “There’s more,” he led her into the bedroom, pulling her onto the rounded king bed. When she looked up, she couldn’t help but smile at the celestial ceilings.

  “It’s like sleeping under the stars.”

  Warren opened his mouth over hers. “You like?”

  “I do, I do, I do,” she hugged his neck. Being with him was all she needed. The rest was extra.

  “Hungry?” Warren backed off the bed, disappearing into the next room without waiting for a reply. When he returned he handed her a glass of Prosecco and explained that a seafood platter and salad was on the way.

  “To a great weekend,” he clinked.

  “To my thoughtful man,” she chimed.

  “Now, let’s try out that tub.”

  Erica followed him up the metal stairs and dipped her toe, but Warren jumped right in. After a few minutes she eased the rest of her body in while the steamy water sloshed between them. Champagne-like bubbles gurgled from the core of the whirlpool’s glass and splashed against their bare skin. The warmth felt wonderful, but after a while the moisture began drawing up her hair. When she started twisting it off her shoulders, Warren told her to leave it down. He moved closer, his big round eyes holding hers, looking like he wanted to possess her.

  “I don’t want to fight anymore,” she said with her fingers working the nape of his neck.

  Warren responded by positioning himself in the fold of her arms. “I’ve missed you.”

  They sighed and spooned.

  The food was delivered and after about ten minutes there was very little evidence that it ever existed. Drawn butter had dripped into Warren’s chin and Erica used the sleeve of her terry robe to sop it. Their bellies satisfied, Warren poured a second round of Prosecco.

  “Brought Boggle,” he said.

  “Well let’s get it on.”

  He set up the game in the living room near the fireplace while Erica went into her bag for paper and pens.

  “I hope you brought the dictionary,” she called.

  “Don’t worry, I know how you like to cheat.”

  The two were fiercely competitive at all games, but Boggle was their number one battlefield. Erica thought she was the smartest at the game because she manipulated words for a living, but Warren claimed he was king because of his MBA.

  After three rounds, the king was winning, prompting Erica to complain that the fireplace was making her too warm. Slowly she removed her robe.

  “Are yo
u trying to distract me?” he reached over and lifted her left breast.

  “No, just hot,” she swatted his hand away, quickly flipping the hourglass for another intense round.

  Warren found two five-point words, and was the first to reach fifty. He was a showy winner, pumping his hands like he had just won the World Series. His confident gesture aroused her. It was something about the way he dropped his head to the side and gave her that crooked grin that made her leave her robe and find his lap.

  Warren never turned her down, but before she could start something, there was a knock at the door. They exchanged looks, before he moved to answer it, allowing Erica time to put on her robe.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Prince,” she heard a man’s baritone voice, but couldn’t see past Warren. “I’m sorry to bother you but your phone line was down and we’ve just corrected the problem.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “There is an urgent message that came in for you from Ms. Blanche Laurent.” He handed Warren a slip of paper.

  Anger pricked Erica’s skin.

  “She said for you to please call immediately.”

  Warren thanked the man and closed the door.

  “How does she know we’re here?”

  Warren ran his fingers over his damp hair. “She’s covering for me on my projects. Something must be wrong.” He went into the bedroom to use the phone.

  Pulling her robe tighter, Erica moved toward the empty food platter, scrounging the garnish for a piece of celery. She needed something to settle her nerves. Blanche, again? She drained the bottle of Prosecco of its last drops and tried to concentrate on the lemony fizz of the Italian sparkling wine, rather than eavesdrop on the conversation going on in the next room. But no such luck. Warren’s voice was gaining strength by the minute.