Lacing his fingers together on top of his desk, Ivan gave each of his friends a long, penetrating look. “You guys need to stop trying to micromanage my love life, or lack thereof. You see me with different women and you assume I’m sleeping with them. When, Duncan and Kyle, do I have the time to bed half the women I’ve seen? You know my caseload, that I teach two classes twice a week, and between hanging out with you guys—no, let me backtrack. I used to hang out with you before we bought this place and you two got engaged. I’m only going to say this once. Back off, and please let me do my thing.”
Kyle shook his head. “You’re taking it the wrong way, Ivan.”
“How should I take it, Kyle?”
Duncan looped one leg over the opposite knee, his eyes narrowing. “What’s going on, Ivan? Kyle and I have teased you before and you never came at us like you are now. Why so defensive?”
“When did you become a therapist, DG?”
“Oh, hell, no!” Duncan said between clenched teeth.
Kyle knew Duncan and Ivan were about to butt heads. “Yo, brothers. Cool it. We’ve been through too much to argue about a woman. Since when have we ever let a woman come between us?”
“Never,” they chorused.
“Dr. Campbell—Oops, I didn’t know you had company.”
Ivan glanced at the clock on the credenza before beckoning his secretary. It was eight-thirty and she was half an hour early. “After you put your things away, I need to see you.”
Chantal Howard smiled and nodded to the other men in her boss’s office. “Good morning, Mr. Gilmore.”
Duncan gave her a warm smile. “Good morning, Chantal.”
“Good morning, Mr. Chatham.”
Kyle winked at her. Chantal, Duncan’s executive assistant and the receptionists had taken turns coming to his second-floor office with the hope of catching a glimpse of Jordan Wainwright, who’d joined Kyle’s practice and now was partner. Jordan had become such a distraction that Kyle’s office manager had put a stop to their unannounced visits. Jordan, embarrassed by all the attention he was receiving, had elected to take his lunch outside the building rather than eat in the employee dining room.
“Good morning, Chantal. How is Kassim?”
“He’s real good, Mr. Chatham. Thanks for asking.” She turned to head for her desk.
Duncan lowered his leg. “I know you’re expecting a client, Kyle, but I want to get together sometime next weekend. Why don’t we hook up Sunday afternoon?”
“Count me in,” Kyle said. “I don’t mind you guys hanging out at my place. Are you in, Ivan?”
“Yeah, I’m in.” Ivan had to ask Nayo if she wanted to go with him to meet his friends. “I told you I want to throw a little something to celebrate your engagement to Tamara,” Ivan said to Duncan.
“Are you cooking?” Kyle teased with a wide grin.
Ivan narrowed his gaze. “Matter-of-fact, I am. Now, what are you going to say to that?”
“Are you really cooking?” Duncan asked.
Ivan was saved from answering when Chantal returned. He stood up. “Gentlemen, I’ll talk to you later.” Kyle and Duncan rose and walked out of the office, muttering about having to eat his cooking.
It would serve them right if he did attempt to prepare the foods for the small, intimate gathering. Duncan, an only child, had only one known relative. He never knew his father, and his mother passed away the year he celebrated his fourteenth birthday. Duncan went to live with his schoolteacher aunt in Brooklyn, but never lost touch with his two best friends from the projects.
He motioned to the chair beside his desk. “Please sit down, Chantal.”
Chantal sat, staring at the man who’d hired her when no one would after she’d had Kassim. The moment she mentioned she had a small child, most employers told her they would have to get back to her. And that meant thanks, but no thanks, regardless of her secretarial skills.
She knew by his expression that what Dr. Campbell wanted to talk about did not bode well for her. He was the most generous boss she’d ever had, but she wasn’t certain how much longer he would be her boss. A notation on her last evaluation indicated that if she didn’t improve her attendance and tardiness, she was in jeopardy of losing her job.
When her mother had come to the office to give her a set of keys, she’d introduced her to Dr. Campbell. Later her mother told her that she should’ve waited for a man like her boss, rather than take up with the unemployed man who’d gotten her pregnant. Chantal stared at her boss’s yellow silk tie. During the months of June, July and August, the psychologist was rarely seen wearing a suit and tie. His colorful Hawaiian shirts, lightweight slacks and slip-ons had become his trademark, warm-weather look.
Ivan gave the young woman a direct stare. “Chantal, I know we’ve had this conversation before and I’d hoped we wouldn’t have to revisit the problem of your lateness and attendance.”
Chantal dropped her head. “I’m sorry, Dr. Campbell.” A profusion of neatly braided hair fell around her thin face. “I’m having a problem with my son’s father—Big Kassim. He goes out at night after I come home, but doesn’t get back in time to take care of Kassim when I have to leave in the morning.”
“Is he aware of the time you need to leave to get to work on time?”
“Yes. Most times I have to blow up his cell for him to call me back. Then we get into it because he feels I’m clocking him. I’ve warned him that I’m going to kick him out, but he says he wants a relationship with his son.”
Ivan went completely still. He hadn’t known the man was living with Chantal. A muscle in his jaw throbbed noticeably when he clenched his teeth. “Does Big Kassim have a night job?”
Chantal’s head came up. “No.”
Counting slowly to ten to keep from losing his temper, Ivan’s frown deepened. “Where does he go if he’s not working?”
The young woman twisted her mouth in a nervous gesture. “I asked him once and he told me he’s just hanging out.”
“He hangs out every night?”
“Just about.”
Ivan wanted to shake Chantal until she was breathless. Talk about denial. It was obvious the man was using her under the guise of wanting a relationship with his son. And if he was hanging out, most likely it was with another woman.
“Well, his hanging out at night has to stop, because I’m not going to put up with you coming in late and taking off because your baby’s daddy can’t find his way home in time for you to leave for work. I have the name, address and telephone number of the director of a day-care center that’s only a few blocks from here.” Opening a drawer in his desk, he took out a business card and handed it to Chantal. “I want you to call her and set up an appointment to enroll Kassim in a setting where he can be socialized with other children his age. You have exactly one week to make it happen. That will be all.”
Chantal knew she’d been summarily dismissed. What she didn’t want was to lose her job. It paid well and had afforded her a modicum of independence when she’d moved out of her mother’s apartment into her own place. It wasn’t furnished the way she’d wanted it to be, since she’d had to give Big Kassim money because he couldn’t find a job.
Rising to her feet on trembling legs, she stared at her boss. “Dr. Campbell, do you think Big Kassim is fooling around with another woman?”
Leaning back in his chair, Ivan gave her an incredulous stare. “You don’t want me to answer that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t want to hear my answer.”
“My mother said he’s using me.”
“I think you should listen to your mother.”
“How do I get rid of him, Dr. Campbell?”
“Sit down, Chantal,” he ordered in a quiet voice. “I’m not your therapist, but if you were my sister, I’d advise you to give Big Kassim an ultimatum. Either he gets a job or he’s out. You can’t afford to take care of yourself, your son and a grown-ass, able-bodied man. Even if he gets a position fli
pping burgers or frying chicken, at least he would earn enough to take care of some of his needs.
“You may not realize it, but you’ve got two children—your son and your son’s father. You’re providing shelter, food and clothing—”
“And don’t forget the cable premium channels because he wants to watch all the baseball and basketball games,” she interrupted angrily.
A grim smile replaced Ivan’s scowl. “There you go.”
“I can’t even save enough money to buy a dinette set because he’s always asking me if I have some spare change. Then he complains about eating off TV trays.”
Ivan wanted to give the woman a high five. He’d always lectured his patients, the women in particular, to empower themselves, and it was apparent Chantal had finally opened her eyes enough to rid herself of the leech sucking her dry.
“I think you know what you should do. I need you to give me the case files for today’s patients. Then call the day-care center and get your son into a safe, healthy social environment.”
Chantal popped up like a jack-in-the-box. “Thank you, Dr. Campbell.”
Pushing back his chair, he stood. “You’re welcome, Chantal.”
Ivan was still standing when Chantal left his office, closing the door behind her. His first patient was an Iraqi war veteran with multiple deployments who’d been diagnosed with PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. He’d been referred to a psychiatrist at a local veterans’ hospital, but he claimed he didn’t like the doctor because he’d prescribed medication that made him feel like a zombie.
U.S. Army Corporal Billie Shannon had been scheduled for a dishonorable discharge after attacking his superior officer before he was reevaluated and granted a medical discharge, after a psychiatric evaluation ruled he exhibited all the signs associated with PTSD. Soldiers who were granted medical discharges were entitled to veteran benefits.
Retaking his seat, Ivan opened the file again to review the notes from the last session. Five minutes before Billie was scheduled, he turned off the overhead light, switched on a table lamp and adjusted the window blinds, shutting out most of the sunlight and creating a soft, calming environment.
Within seconds of Chantal’s escorting the former soldier into the office, Ivan felt the man’s agitation. But after spending a wonderful night with Nayo, he was prepared for whatever the day presented.
* * *
“Nayo, please come look at this.”
“What is it, Dyana?” She continued to stuff large, square, white envelopes with the catalogs she’d spent months designing for the small auction house. Ryker’s wasn’t as well-known as Christie’s or Sotheby’s, but their list of elite clients was a testament to their success.
“I need your help identifying the figure on this dish cover.”
Smothering a curse, Nayo walked over to a worktable where Dyana Ryker sat with several hand-painted plates cradled in bubble wrap. She wanted to finish stuffing the envelopes, put them in the mail before the five-o’clock pickup, then go home to relax before preparing for the pre-Halloween party later that evening. She’d sent Ivan a text, giving him her address and the time he should pick her up. The text also included the address of the loft where the party was to be held. He’d returned her text, typing he looked forward to see her again.
Peering over the shoulder of the auction-house owner, Nayo studied the figure of a cherub perched on the outer edge of a dish cover. “That’s a putto. It’s Italian for ‘boy’ or ‘cherub.’”
Dyana stared at Nayo over a pair of rimless half-glasses. “Isn’t it a little strange to find an Italian ornament on a nineteenth-century Copenhagen dish cover?”
“Angelic spirits were used during the Renaissance and were still very popular in the Baroque period. This piece is an example of Renaissance Revival and probably a holdover from the seventeenth century.”
“We have only four pieces in this set. I really don’t see how we’re going to sell it.”
Nayo returned to the task of stuffing envelopes. She didn’t want to engage in a dialogue with the longwinded Dyana, because she’d never leave. The woman had earned the reputation as one of the most knowledgeable collectors of antiques. Tall, thin and anemic-looking in appearance, she could recognize ceramics from ancient China to twentieth-century toys with a cursory glance.
The Upper East Side shop was not much more than a junk shop, where Andres Ryker, Dyana’s now-deceased husband, had paid little or nothing to those who didn’t know the value of an heirloom. When Dyana had walked into the shop and offered to pay Andres ten times the sticker price for a French opaline scent bottle, circa 1845, Andres asked the young art-history student to come work for him. He hired Dyana and married her a year later. After forty years of a loving, childless marriage he died, leaving Dyana bereft but incredibly wealthy. There was never a time Nayo saw Dyana wear any color other than black. And with her flaxen hair pulled tightly off her pale face, blue eyes and somber attire, she reminded Nayo of a vampire.
“Someone will eventually purchase it,” she said.
Dyana’s pale lips parted in a smile. “They always do. I’ve decided not to open Monday.”
Nayo removed the strips on the flaps of the self-sealing envelopes before affixing postage to the stack with domestic addresses. “What’s happening Monday?”
“It’s that dreadful day where people believe it’s okay to run amok. One year a group of children came into the shop and broke a Lalique dish. I made a solemn promise to Andres and myself that I would never open on Halloween.”
“Do you want me to come in on Tuesday to make up for Monday?”
“No, Nayo. We’re a little slow right now, so you can come in on Wednesday as scheduled.”
Nayo enjoyed working for Dyana because regardless of whether she worked one day or three, she was still paid her full salary. Dyana had hinted that she wanted her to come onboard full-time, but Nayo needed at least two days off each week for her photography.
The only exception was when Dyana took on the job of estate liquidator. They usually spent weeks, sometimes months, identifying and pricing antique items.
She finished the envelopes in time to put them into a mailbox on the corner before the mail carrier came to empty the box. Returning to the shop, she gathered up her tote. “How long are you staying before you lock up?” she asked Dyana.
“I plan to be out of here by six.”
“Have a good weekend. I’ll see you Wednesday.”
Dyana smiled. “You enjoy your weekend.”
I plan to, Nayo mused as she walked to the door. “Thank you,” she said, instead.
She knew Dyana would probably remain here much later than six. She didn’t have far to go home—she lived in an apartment above the shop. Not only did she own the spacious, six-room apartment, but also the entire four-story building.
* * *
Nayo always took the bus uptown rather than the subway because she preferred sitting down to standing up. It took her longer to get home, but at least she wasn’t jostled or sandwiched between people who didn’t care what they ate or drank before blowing their fetid breath in her face.
It was completely dark by the time she turned down her block. The clocks were scheduled to go back an hour this coming weekend, and that meant she would gain an extra hour of sleep, but it also meant fewer hours of natural daylight—light she needed when photographing her subjects. She’d told Ivan to pick her up at eight-thirty. The party was scheduled to begin at eight, and by the time they arrived around nine it would be in full swing.
She didn’t see Mrs. Anderson or Colin when she got to her floor, but heard canned laughter from a sitcom through the door of her neighbor’s apartment. There were times the volume on the television was turned up so loud Nayo suspected the woman had a hearing problem.
Tossing her mail and magazines on the table with her computer, she slipped out of her shoes and coat. She checked her phone. The display read: NO MISSED CALLS. She had nothing to distract her as she prepared
for her date.
Date. The word sounded strange because she couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually had a date. She didn’t count the times she went to a movie, a restaurant or a party with Geoff as dates. He was her friend and she was his friend. Holding hands or a slight brush of their lips was the extent of their physical contact. People usually gave them a second look when they walked down the street together, not because they appeared to be an interracial couple but because they were complete opposites. Geoff was tall and blond and she was short and dark. Whenever she went out with him, she tended to wear heels in an attempt to minimize the height difference. She was five-two in her bare feet and Geoff six-two.
Most of her friends had become Geoff’s friends and vice versa. They were a cohesive group of about twenty, many of whom were artists or involved in the arts. The woman hosting tonight’s party was a professional dancer who’d set up a dance studio in her TriBeCa loft.
Using the remote, Nayo turned on the television to catch the evening news. The temperature was forty-two with clear skies. She smiled. At least they wouldn’t have to put up with rain or sleet. Stripping off her clothes, she walked on bare feet to the bathroom. She’d planned to take a leisurely bath, but now decided to take a shower and wash her hair. An electric curling brush usually worked wonders with her short hair.
* * *
Nayo wielded the curling brush like a professional as she dried her hair. The normally tight curls were looser, making it appear as if her hair had miraculously grown several inches. Using her fingers, she picked at the hair on the crown to give the illusion of added height. Satisfied with the results, she left the bathroom and walked over to her bed to get dressed.
She’d wear the ubiquitous New York City black: a body-hugging, jersey dress with long sleeves, a mock turtleneck and a hem at her knees, along with sheer black hose. A pair of black suede pumps added three inches to her diminutive height.
Nayo had just returned to the bathroom to apply her makeup when the intercom buzzed. She glanced at the glowing numbers on the clock-radio on a shelf in the bathroom. It was only minutes after eight. The intercom buzzed again. She wondered if it was someone who lived in the building who had forgotten their keys.
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