21 Questions

by Mason Dixon

  Kenya closed the website after the video ended. “Simone’s pretty level-headed. I think she’ll keep Reagan on an even keel.”

  “Are they an item?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so. I’ve only heard Simone mention a professional relationship with her, not a personal one.” Kenya felt a stab of what felt like jealousy as she considered the idea Simone and Reagan might be lovers. She tamped the emotion down as she shuffled one of the stacks of paperwork on her desk. She had no reason to be jealous. The very idea was absurd. She was involved with Mackenzie, and she and Simone were just friends. Simone was free to date who she wanted. So was she. But Bridget was her friend, too, and she hadn’t felt this possessive when Avery had entered Bridget’s life. What did that say about her relationship with Simone? What did that say about her? Could she be involved with one woman but have feelings for another? She turned her attention back to work so she wouldn’t have to consider the possibility. “Do you have the final head count for next week’s retreat?”

  Celia consulted her notes. “Yes. Everyone’s on board. I called the resort yesterday and confirmed our room reservations. I’ve also made sure the motivational speaker we wanted still has us on his schedule. Everything’s good to go. Since we’re allowed to take spouses and children to the after-work events, will you be inviting Mackenzie to join you?”

  “I can’t see her twiddling her thumbs in our hotel room while she waits for me to finish running my coworkers through their paces. If I were attending the annual HR Professionals’ convention in Las Vegas, it might be a different story. The bright lights of Sin City are more her speed than the spinning teacups in the Magic Kingdom. I’d probably be forced to bail on all the morning sessions because she kept me up too late the night before gambling in a casino or exploring the nightlife on the Strip. Besides, she has meetings all next week for a project she’s working on so it would be a wasted invitation.”

  “That’s too bad. Juan was hoping for an introduction. Actually, he was hoping to be able to do some deep-sea fishing on her yacht, but first things first.”

  “Maybe next time. And that takes us to the next item on our agenda.” Kenya checked her to-do list. “We’ve received a request to convert from our current layout to an open office concept. We would keep the conference room for client meetings, but we’d knock down most of the other walls and get rid of the private offices. When it’s done well, it makes for a more collaborative work environment.”

  “And when it isn’t, it turns everything into one huge clusterfuck. Wait. Did I say that out loud?” Celia asked with mock innocence.

  “I don’t come up with the ideas. I just follow through on them.” Kenya liked being able to close her door and shut herself off from the world when she was dealing with confidential issues or she simply needed some quiet time. “Because most of the personnel issues we deal with are private, I’ll make sure our respective spaces are exempted from any potential renovations.”

  “Hallelujah. What do you need from me?”

  “Team up with the facilities manager, get some contractors in here, and get them to give you some numbers and designs I can take to the management team.”

  “I can do that. Is there anything else?”

  Kenya needed to address the growing debate over a proposed company ban on e-cigarettes, but her ringing cell phone convinced her to table the issue for a later discussion. “That’s all for now.”

  “I’ll get started on the items we’ve discussed and give you an update after lunch.”

  “Sounds good.” Kenya brought her phone to her ear after Celia pulled the door closed with a soft click. “Would it be premature of me to say a star is born?”

  “Shh,” Simone said. “Don’t say it too loud or you might jinx everything.”

  “I consider myself sufficiently warned.”

  “You saw the video?”

  “I did.”

  “What did you think?”

  “Reagan is as amazing live as she is on record. No wonder you’re excited about working with her. Nice marketing, by the way. Whose idea was it for her to sing karaoke?”

  “Mine.”

  “Did you choose the songs, too?” Kenya clicked on the second link and another video began to play, this one featuring Reagan doing a cover of a Bob Marley song. The Marley tune didn’t have as many hits as the other video that had been uploaded, but the number was steadily growing.

  “I chose the first one. Reagan picked the second.”

  “Nice job.”

  Reagan’s song choice made Kenya wonder if Celia’s question about Simone and Reagan being an item wasn’t as far off base as it had initially seemed. Bob Marley was the most popular musician in Jamaican history. He sold millions of records around the world before his untimely death. Was Reagan’s decision to sing a song he was known for a testament of her love for his music or for the woman who would be making music with her?

  “I didn’t call for compliments,” Simone said. “Well, I did, but it isn’t the only reason I called.”

  “Let me guess.” Kenya muted the sound on her computer. “You have a question to ask me.”

  “I do, though it isn’t one from my list.”

  “That sounds mysterious.”

  “You’ll probably say no because I’m sure you already have plans, but I figured I’d ask anyway.”

  “That sounds even more mysterious.” Kenya spun her chair around so she could take in the view of downtown Miami outside her office window. “What did you want to ask me?”

  “My family’s having a get-together Saturday afternoon and I wanted to know if you’d like to come. You wouldn’t have to stay long. An hour at most. I thought you could use something to take your mind off the competition.”

  Kenya got butterflies in her stomach every time she thought about her upcoming performance. She was looking forward to it, but she also couldn’t wait for it to be over. She put so much pressure on herself to succeed that the anticipation was often worse than the actual event. “I might be able to spare a few minutes.” Even though her schedule was tight, she didn’t want to appear rude by turning down Simone’s invitation. And whatever Simone had in mind might provide a welcome distraction from Saturday night’s big event. “What’s the occasion?”

  “It’s my sister Jayden’s birthday. She’s turning twenty-nine for the sixth time. Not that anyone’s counting, of course.”

  “I remember when I turned thirty. My friends kept going on and on about it like it was the end of the world. But to me, it was just another birthday. Fifty might give me pause, but thirty didn’t scare me.”

  “I’ll let you know when I get there.”

  “What time does this shindig start?”

  “You’ll come?”

  “You make it sound like so much fun. How could I not?” She hoped it would be better than the last time she broke bread with someone else’s family. She still had nightmares about her evening with Mackenzie’s parents. Or, to be exact, her after-dinner discussion with Mackenzie’s mother that had made the extravagant meal sour in her stomach and had nearly caused her to end her fledgling relationship with Mackenzie.

  “I’ll text you the time and address. On second thought, I’ll pick you up.”

  “Are you afraid I won’t show?”

  “No, I’m afraid your BMW wouldn’t survive a trip to the ’hood. By the time you were ready to leave the party, all you might have left would be the frame.”

  The local newspapers were filled with horror stories about unsuspecting tourists wandering into the wrong neighborhoods and getting carjacked or worse. Kenya wondered if she was about to suffer the same fate. “Should I be afraid?”

  “Stick with me and you’ll be fine. Trust me.”

  In Kenya’s world, trust was easily requested but not so easily given. In the short time they’d known each other, Simone had managed to become a trusted friend. One of the few people Kenya knew without a doubt had only her best interests at heart. Like Bridget, Simo
ne would never lie to her. No matter how much the truth might hurt.

  “In that case, I’ll see you Saturday.”

  Chapter Nine

  Simone placed a can of coconut milk on the counter and watched her mother add it to the simmering goat curry. Her mother stirred the fragrant concoction with a long-handled spoon and took a quick taste. “Better. You can still taste the Scotch bonnet peppers, but they’re not as pronounced. We wouldn’t want to set your friend’s mouth on fire, would we?”

  “Do you need anything else?” Simone had run track in high school. By the time she graduated, she had carved out a reputation as one of the fastest runners in Florida. She’d gotten her start running back and forth between her parents’ house and the Caribbean grocery store down the street to pick up the various ingredients her mother needed to make her favorite native dishes.

  “No, I’m good.” Her mother stirred a pot of vinegar, onions, and hot peppers that would reduce to form the sauce for the escovitch fish, one of Jayden’s favorite dishes. Along with the goat curry her mother was tending to and the jerk chicken and pork her father had wrapped in pimento leaves that morning and tossed in a backyard barbecue pit filled with hot coals.

  “Are you sure?” Simone asked. “You always say you don’t need anything, but as soon as I sit down, you suddenly think of something that conveniently slipped your mind during my first five trips to the store.”

  “Ah, go on with you now.” Her mother’s thick Jamaican patois provided the perfect complement to the island rhythms blaring from the sound system out back. “You’re just afraid I’ll make you late to meet up with your lady friend. How long have you been spending time with her, anyway?”

  “Kenya’s ‘spending time,’ as you put it, with someone else. She and I are just friends.” Simone grabbed some plantain chips from a nearby bowl and shoved a handful in her mouth to prevent her mother from asking any follow-up questions. No such luck.

  “How did you meet her?”

  “She came into the bar a few weeks ago to attend one of the events we were putting on that night.”

  “And what does she do for a living?”

  “She—”

  “Stop talking with your mouth full.”

  After she swallowed the rest of the plantain chips, Simone pulled a chair from the table and took a seat. She figured she might as well make herself comfortable. Once her mother started asking questions, she could keep going for a while. “She’s head of human resources for a marketing firm in town.”

  “So she makes good money.”

  “I guess. I’ve never asked to see her check stub or a copy of her tax returns.”

  Her mother arched her eyebrows as she stirred the curry, a sure sign she was about to say something Simone might not like. “It’s a good thing she’s well-off. You’ll need someone to take care of you now that you’ve gone and quit your job.”

  Simone sighed in frustration. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me, Mom. And I didn’t quit my job. I changed careers. There’s a difference.”

  Her mother’s eyebrows rose even higher. “The difference between getting paid and collecting unemployment?”

  Her father’s mantra was “idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” When Simone and her sisters were growing up, their parents had worked three, sometimes four jobs at a time in order to provide for the family. Even though her parents had been retired for several years now, their days were still filled with activity—and her mother’s with concern she was living for the present instead of planning for the future. Her future was now. And she meant to take advantage of the opportunity, no matter what anyone else thought about her decision.

  “I’ll be fine, Mom.” She pushed herself out of her seat. “I have to go pick up Kenya. And don’t give her the third degree when she gets here.”

  Her mother began battering and frying red snapper for the escovitch fish. “My house, my rules.”

  “I’ve heard that saying more times than I can count.”

  Her mother wagged a flour-covered finger in her direction. “And it still holds true, so don’t you forget it.”

  “I consider myself warned. I’ll be back in a few.” Simone gave her mother a kiss on the cheek and drove her bike across town.

  The contrast between the neighborhood she had grown up in and the new ones that sprang up every few years never failed to take her breath away. Rich and poor alike called Miami home. The physical divide between them was narrowing all the time, but the metaphorical gap grew wider every day. Simone had managed to carve out a niche for herself in both worlds, though she didn’t feel she truly belonged in either. Her dreams were too big for the ’hood, but she didn’t have the financial standing to do much more than visit how the other half lived. And not for long, at that.

  One day, she thought as she neared the swanky condos in the heart of town, one of these bad boys is going to be mine.

  She stowed her motorcycle in the parking garage next to Kenya’s building and headed up to Kenya’s condo. She took the stairs instead of the elevator so she could burn off her nervous energy. Kenya’s visit meant a lot to her, even if it would only last a few hours.

  Kenya opened the door wearing a floral print tank top, cream-colored shorts, and canvas tennis shoes. She looked ready for a day at the beach or a vacation in the tropics. Simone wanted to take the tank top’s delicate spaghetti straps between her fingers and slowly slide them off Kenya’s shoulders. She wanted to run her hands over the newly exposed skin and feel its warmth. She wanted to sample its flavor. Did Kenya taste as good as the coconut-scented lotion she had used or more so? Simone clamped her tongue between her teeth to keep it from wandering off on its own.

  Kenya held up a bottle of Jamaican rum. “The owner of my favorite liquor store said this is a good brand. Was he right?”

  Simone examined the label. The brand Kenya had chosen was her father’s favorite. “My dad loves this stuff. Don’t let him see it or he’ll add it to his private stash before anyone else has a chance to take a sip.”

  “What about you?” Kenya asked after they rode the elevator to the ground floor and headed to the parking garage. “What’s your favorite whiskey?”

  Simone placed the rum in the leather storage pouch strapped to the back of her bike. “I used to prefer vodka.”

  “Used to?” Kenya pulled on Simone’s spare helmet and fastened the chin strap. “What happened? Did your palate change?”

  “No, I grew up.” Simone tried to explain her newfound sobriety. “I was enjoying myself a bit too much, and I decided to pull back before it became a problem.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  Simone started the bike and raised her voice to be heard over the sound of the engine. “Fairly recently.”

  “Is that one of the reasons you’re giving up bartending? To avoid temptation?”

  “Yes.” Though not in the way Kenya was thinking. One of the temptations Simone needed to avoid was her, a woman she wanted more than any other but couldn’t have.

  Kenya cocked her head. “What else don’t I know about you?”

  “Not much. I’m a bit of an open book.”

  Simone tried not to tremble with desire when Kenya slipped her arms around her waist and rested her chin on her shoulder. “Then it’s a good thing I like to read.”

  In a perfect world, Kenya would treat Simone’s body like a copy of War and Peace, taking her time as she read every word. But the only pages Kenya wanted to turn were Mackenzie’s. And those were so well-worn they were dog-eared. Perhaps it was time to introduce her to a new story.

  “What am I in for?” Kenya asked after Simone parked her bike in one of the few remaining spaces near her parents’ house. “I’m a little gun-shy after my most recent family dinner.”

  Kenya had yet to tell her what went wrong that night, but if she didn’t plan on volunteering the information, Simone wasn’t going to press her for details. She retrieved the bottle of rum and tucked it under her arm as they w
alked toward the house. “You won’t find any linen tablecloths or sterling silver place settings at this meal. More like paper napkins, plastic forks, and red Solo cups.”

  Kenya grinned. “Sounds like my kind of party. When I was a kid, my relatives on my mother’s side of the family had a family reunion each year on the Fourth of July. My father and grandfather were in charge of the meat. Each year, they would buy a hog and stay up all night barbecuing it and a case of chickens over a pit filled with red-hot coals. My mother and grandmother would stay up to make all the sides. My cousins and I always tried to pull an all-nighter, too, but none of us ever made it past three a.m., no matter how many naps we took to prepare. After we inevitably fell asleep in the living room or the den or wherever we settled for longer than five minutes, we’d wake up the next day to the smell of barbecue, potato salad, baked beans, a huge pan of mac and cheese, and every kind of pie you could imagine. I miss those days.”

  “Why did they end?”

  Kenya shrugged. “The usual reasons, I suppose. The kids grew up and had families of their own, and we slowly lost touch with our old traditions.”

  “Once people are able to afford the bigger things, they usually forget about the little things.”

  Simone regarded her cousins playing bid whist on the front porch, her aunts and uncles playing pétanque on the lawn, and her nieces and nephews kicking around a soccer ball in the side yard. She was glad to see her family’s traditions had survived. And with Kenya at her side, perhaps she could establish even more.

  *

  Simone’s sisters, Jayden and Miranda, looked just like their father. Simone, on the other hand, was the spitting image of her mother. They had the same mocha skin, earthy laugh, and mischievous grin. They even sounded alike, though Charlotte Bailey had a much thicker accent than her daughter. The longer they stayed at the cookout, however, the more Simone’s roots began to show.

  Simone’s family was large and welcoming. They made Kenya feel like she was part of their brood instead of a visiting stranger. The contrast between this gathering and the meal she had shared with the Richardsons couldn’t be more obvious. Instead of bone china, filet mignon, and perfectly decanted carafes of fine wine, there were paper plates, pit-roasted pork, and bottles of Jamaican rum. The conversation was natural, not stilted. Laughter was plentiful, and so was love.