His desk. The centerpiece. It was a replica of the Resolute desk that had been given by Queen Victoria to one of the American presidents and was in the Oval Office even now. My mother had ordered the piece for my father’s first office, his gift from her for stepping into his calling. It was going to be a while before my parents finished touching and agreeing with the people, so I did my absolute favorite thing when I came into my father’s office: I sank into the red velvet cushion of my father’s chair. This chair with the wooden armrests trimmed in gold always looked like a throne to me.
I smiled, remembering the first time my father scooped me into his arms and lifted me up and into his chair. The cushion had been so soft, like a cloud, the way it felt now.
“You look just like a princess,” Papa had said. Then he’d spun me around and around until I was giggling and dizzy.
That memory made me close my eyes and spin in the chair the way I’d done that day and on hundreds of days that followed.
“Weeeeee.” Just like back then, I lifted my legs as the chair spun.
“You still love that chair, don’t you, princess?”
I grabbed the desk to stop, a little embarrassed I’d been caught acting as if I were seven. My father beamed with the love he’d shown me my entire life. Yes, our relationship was complicated, but in this moment, in this way, all I saw, all I remembered, was that this was my daddy.
He’d been holding my mother’s hand, but now he opened his arms to me. I jumped up, eager to step into his embrace. He folded me inside his arms, and even though I had on heels that edged me over six feet, I felt dwarfed in my father’s hug.
When he stepped back, he held my hands. “How’s my princess?”
“I’m good. How are you, Papa?”
His eyes shined, but this time, the light was on my mother. “I am so blessed and so favored by God that all I want to do most days is jump and shout.” He released me and rushed back to my mother as if he’d been away from her for too many seconds. He pulled my mother into his chest, and she wrapped her arms around his waist. My parents looked like a soap opera couple.
“And it’s all because of the man above me”—my father pointed toward the ceiling—“and this woman beside me.” When my mother looked up at him, he kissed her nose, then motioned for us to sit down as he rounded his desk. “I just have a few things to wrap up before we head home.” He paused. “We have quite a celebration planned.” He chuckled when I rolled my eyes. “You know those facial expressions don’t mean anything to me. Didn’t matter when you were a teenager and don’t matter now.”
I laughed with my parents.
“Yes, indeed,” my dad continued. “We have so much to celebrate when it comes to you, princess.”
“You’re making me feel like the prodigal daughter,” I said, thinking that was how I often referred to myself.
“Far from it,” my father boomed. “Though I do feel as if you’ve been away for about as long as that son in the Bible.” That quickly, the ends of his lips dipped, and in the moment of silence that followed, I wondered if I’d heard a bit of an accusation inside his tone. But then, just as fast, his smile returned. He leaned back in his chair, formed a steeple with the tips of his fingers. “My princess is home, and she’s now a partner at the Divorce Concierge, no less.”
“Well, I have you to thank, Papa. I wanted to do it on my own, but your connections have certainly boosted my career.”
He shook his head. “I made a few referrals, but you did the work.” He chuckled, though the sound was filled with regret. “It’s a shame I know so many people who want to end their marriages. That’s not the way it should be.”
I wondered if he was thinking about himself and how blessed he’d been not to be in that situation. I said, “That’s the way it is, though. And in today’s times, with the amount of money at stake in some of these divorces…” I didn’t have to say any more.
“I understand that in this fallen world, these types of safety nets must be in place,” he said. “Divorce is not God’s will, but that doesn’t take away from how proud I am of you. Your mother and I”—he paused and gave my mother another one of those adoring glances—“are happy to have you home.”
He had to make an effort to reach across his desk, which was a mile wide. But he was able to do it because my mother met him halfway. She rose up a bit, and with her hips in the air, she held his hand. As uncomfortable as they looked, as uncomfortable as that stretch had to be, they held each other, and gazed at each other, and smiled at each other—like in a soap opera.
And for the first time, I saw what my mother believed.
6 Chastity
After I slipped out of the Uber, I marveled for what had to be the 1,932,576th time that I was going on a date—Xavier’s word, not mine. But it wasn’t like I could pretend that once I stepped over the restaurant’s threshold, this would be anything else.
But it was time for me to do this, the first step in releasing my father (and myself) from the transgressions of his past. Finally, I could see it: he was not who he used to be. Sisley and Kareem Jeffries were walking examples of grace—the extender and the receiver.
Still, as I pulled open the huge glass doors of Turning Point, my stomach fluttered. I’d hidden behind my father’s infidelity for so long, I’d forgotten all the other insecurities that came from meeting up with a guy. What was I going to talk about? Suppose after five minutes I was bored—or worse… suppose after two minutes, he was bored?
“It’s just a dinner,” I whispered as I stepped inside the new restaurant on the northern edge of Central Park. “Nothing more. It will be fine if I never see him again.”
Inside, I paused so my eyes could adjust from the six-o’clock brightness of the August evening to the dim lights inside. The space was body-to-body packed, a scene similar to Melanie’s party on Friday. Only this time, there was no dance floor. Just drinks and dining for the young elite, black and white—all mixing their mingling as they wound down from a day of high-powered negotiations in law firms, brokerage houses, consulting groups, and every other kind of corporation.
Right before I stepped to the hostess, my cell phone vibrated with a message:
Look to your right, beautiful.
My head snapped up and there was Xavier, his half smile greeting me from afar. His expression, warm and welcoming, made my shoulders relax, made me grin in response, made me realize that since Xavier had asked me to dinner on Saturday, I’d been looking at this the wrong way—this wasn’t a date, this was a gathering of two friends, new friends, who hoped to become good friends.
As he stepped from the bar, I appraised him once again: today, he wore a charcoal-gray suit, as exquisitely expensive as the one he’d worn Friday. Still a crisp shirt, still white (that was so this group in New York), and by the time he reached me, I was not surprised when I caught a quick glance of his still-spit-shined-after-a-long-day shoes. “Hey, beautiful.”
“Hey yourself.”
Xavier wrapped his arms around me, and I inhaled his scent—Creed. Enough men who favored this brand had walked into my office. He held me for longer than a greeting moment; I was the one to step back first.
“I’m glad you came out.”
I had to take a breath and another step back before I said, “I’d heard about this place and I’d wanted to check it out, since it’s not far from where I live.” And when I added, “I’m glad you invited me,” that was my truth. Because without his invitation, I would have been home, among my dozens of still-unpacked boxes.
Xavier placed his hand on the small of my back as he led me toward the hostess stand. “There’s a wait,” he said, “but I’m a regular with a reservation, and so Stephanie told me she’d seat us when you got here.”
Stephanie?
All he’d done was mention the hostess’s name with a good explanation, but still my radar (which I’d developed in childhood) shot up. Just a moment later, though, I took a calming breath. Xavier and I didn’t even kno
w each other like that; why was I concerned about Stephanie?
At the hostess’s stand, a twentysomething blond woman—Stephanie—greeted Xavier with an orthodontist-perfected smile, and when he leaned over, whispered to her, she pressed her hand against her chest and giggled. But then she maneuvered around him and spoke to me. “Would you follow me, Ms. Jeffries?”
There was nothing but charm in her tone, and I followed her through the vestibule of the restaurant into the dining area, where Stephanie stopped at a table that was almost exactly in the middle—the place to be seated to see and be seen.
Xavier moved ahead to hold the chair for me. I thanked him and then, when we sat, Stephanie said, “Mr. King, it was good to see you again.” Turning to me, she added, “Enjoy your dinner, Ms. Jeffries.”
When she stepped away, I said, “You must come here a lot if the hostess knows your name.”
He said, “This is my firm’s new go-to spot whenever we want to meet clients uptown. Most of us love getting away from Wall Street.”
“Well, this is my first stop at what I’m sure are hundreds of new places that have opened in the city since I left.”
“That’s right; you said you just got back, but you’re a native New Yorker, right?”
I raised my hand. “Proud native here. From the Valentine’s Day on which I was born.”
He leaned back in his seat. “Really?”
I wiggled my fingers at him. “Go on, bring it. What kind of joke do you have about me being a Valentine’s baby?”
Xavier said nothing as he reached into his jacket, pulled out his wallet, then slipped out what I, at first, thought was a business card. But it was his driver’s license. “Check this out.”
In just seconds, my eyes scanned the relevant information, and then I gasped. “You were born on February fourteenth, too?”
He nodded. “We have the same birthday, though I have a feeling I have a few years on you. Since I’m a gentleman, though, I would never ask for your license.”
I glanced at his license once again and laughed so loud, I had to cover my mouth with my hand. “We were born on the same day, the same year.”
His eyes widened. “Get out.”
“Yup.” I handed his license back. “And unless you were born in the very early hours of that Valentine’s Day, I might even be older.” We laughed, and I added, “What a coincidence.”
He shook his head. “I would have thought you were much younger.” Then he assessed me in that way only an attorney could. Not a direct stare, but his glance moved slowly, appraising all the vital parts he could see. Finally, he responded to my statement: “I don’t believe in coincidences.”
I chuckled. “That’s what my dad always says.”
“Your dad—a smart man.”
Pressing my lips together, I glanced down at the menu, sorry I’d let that slip out. Beyond Melanie, I never spoke much about my parents. There was no indication Xavier had any idea who I was, and it was always best for me to keep it that way. “So, as a regular, what’s your favorite dish?”
The change of subject was natural. Xavier answered, “Now, that’s a two-part question. Are you asking me my favorite dish here or overall?”
I put down the menu, crossed my arms, and leaned forward on the table. “Both,” I said.
“Okay, well, here, my favorite dish is the shrimp and grits.”
“Get out of here.” I laughed. “I’ve survived off of shrimp and grits for the last ten years—that is, when I wasn’t eating sushi.”
This time, it was his mouth that opened wide. “You’re making that up.”
“What? No. I love sushi.” I paused, holding up my hand. “Don’t tell me…”
He nodded. “The first time I had sushi was about ten years ago, but I’ve eaten about twenty years’ worth since.” He motioned for the waiter, and I took that moment to do my own assessment of the man. He was, as I remembered, smooth, sophisticated, and even suave, which was a word I was probably using for the first time to describe someone.
He placed our order—a double shrimp and grits—and when the waiter stepped away, Xavier said, “So that’s two things we have in common,” he said. “Let’s see if we can make this three for three. What about music?”
“There’s nothing like the nineties.”
He grinned. “I’m with you. Maybe it’s because that’s the decade we came of age.”
“Or maybe it’s because those were the best of music times.”
We laughed before he said, “Whitney, Mariah, Mary J, and that’s when Janet came into her own.”
“And Johnny Gill, Jodeci, Blackstreet, and Bell Biv DeVoe with one of my all-time favorite songs.” Before he could ask, I sang in the lowest of voices, “It’s driving me out of my mind… that’s why it’s hard for me to find…” I stopped when Xavier stiffened and his smile faded. “Whaaat?” I dragged that word out. “You don’t like my singing?” I asked, feeling as if I needed to make light of whatever had just happened.
Then, just as quickly, his lips pulled into that bright half smile, lighting up the space. “Your singing is fine—beautiful, even.” He shook his head. “It’s just that song… has the best of memories for me. I was just surprised to hear you singing it.”
“Okay, good,” I breathed.
He leaned back in his chair, loose, once again. “You almost know as much about music as I do.”
We chuckled together again, and our laughter continued through our dinner. As time passed, we shared our interests:
“If I’m ever on a deserted island, I need my phone,” I said. “And not to talk to anyone. I just love to read.”
He pulled out his cell and we compared our digital libraries. His was packed with a bunch of what I called political thrillers—and they weren’t even fiction. And then mine, historical, definitely fiction.
Then, we talked about sports—tennis and football—and movies—action and rom-coms.
Over a brownie drenched with chocolate ice cream (because that was his favorite flavor, too), we shared the dessert and our obsession about the current political climate, something I’d never been interested in before 2016, though, again, that was different for Xavier.
“From my first year in college, when I ran for class president, I’ve been enamored with politics. It’s something that, eventually, I’d like to get into.”
“Really?” I shuddered. “Too much vitriol for me.”
“Yeah, but I can’t let that stop me from making a difference if that’s what I’m called to do.”
His words made me smile inside, but I just nodded. He knew his calling, something my mother believed in.
Xavier continued, “I especially want to work at the local level, where change can really happen.”
“So what are you thinking about? Being mayor of New York?” I asked, though I was surprised when he nodded.
“Absolutely,” he said. “Of course, I’d start on one of the commissions or maybe even as the public advocate. I’ve always been intrigued by that office. Then, after that”—he shrugged again—“I think the city is ready for a black mayor again.”
Perching my elbow on the table, I rested my chin in my palm. “I think it’s admirable you want to go into public service after being at such a high-powered firm like Steyer and Smith.” I winced a bit and hoped that Xavier hadn’t noticed that, one, I’d flinched, and two, I’d mentioned his place of employment when that wasn’t something he’d shared.
After Xavier and I talked on Saturday, I’d gone straight to one of the Internet services I’d used at my firm. I hadn’t been out in these streets much, but I was smart and not about to be fooled by some dude I’d met in a club.
After a few minutes, I had a few answers: He really was an attorney, a graduate of NYU for both his undergrad in political science, and then his JD/MBA. He was currently an associate at Steyer and Smith, his third law firm, working in their civil rights division (where he’d received huge settlements on two cases), he owned a unit in Leno
x Luxury Condos, and there were no (online) pictures of him with a wife. Beyond his professional photos, there was nothing; he had a very light social media footprint, which indicated he was serious about what he was going to do in the future.
Although I could have gone deeper (I’d learned how to find out a lot since dealing with celebrity divorces), I’d stopped there. Xavier King was who he said he was… and he wasn’t married. So I trusted him to tell me anything else… if we got that far.
“It was my desire to go into politics that led me into the law,” he said, not having noticed I’d mentioned his firm. “And it was my desire to make a difference that made me focus on civil rights at Steyer and Smith.”
I smiled but kept my lips pressed together as he went on to tell me facts I already knew.
“I just finished up a case with…”
I could have mouthed the words with him. He’d been the lead counsel on a discrimination case with the Port Authority that had a multimillion-dollar award at the end.
When he stopped, I said, “This really is impressive.”
He shrugged as if what he’d just told me wasn’t massive and monumental. “It’s what I do. I’m taking on civil rights one case at a time until I can address it on a larger scale… through a political office.”
“That’s going to be your platform?”
He nodded. “But for right now, I’m gonna keep doing it at Steyer and Smith, keeping my focus on becoming a partner. I’m on the verge of that now.”
“That’s terrific,” I said. “I feel like I should say congratulations already.”
“What about you?” he asked. “What are your plans?”
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