by Zuri Day
27
Angelica fixed Stan with a come-hither smile, flinging back her locks seductively. She took in his thinning blond hair, watery blue eyes, hawkish nose, and nonexistent lips. It was all she could do to flirt convincingly, but Angelica plowed forward because the end justified the means.
“I’ve always been interested in business.” She placed her toffee-colored hand on top of Stan’s freckle-blotched one that rested on the tabletop. The contrast in their skin color was nothing compared to that of their personalities. Stan was quiet, 5'9", a brainiac, who’d lost most of the family fortune in a day-trading scheme gone bad. It had happened almost a decade ago and he’d been trying to recoup the losses ever since. Angelica, on the other hand, considered herself a winner who only dated those who stayed on top.
Angelica got up, walked to Stan’s side of the tucked-away restaurant booth, and slid in beside him. “I can tell you’re good at what you do,” she said, leaning toward him so that her breast touched his arm. “One of the best. I’m sure I could learn a thing or two from just, you know, being around you.”
“Well,” Stan stuttered, blushing at the praise. “I’m nowhere near where I want to be, or where I was, but like I told you the other night, that’s all about to change.”
“How is that deal going? Making any progress?”
“It’s going beautifully. The Chinese partners are hoping to have the first ten clubs opened by 2012, expanding to one hundred clubs in ten years. It’s an aggressive plan, but that country has the people and the money to make it a very doable goal.”
“So, when is your next trip to China? Do men travel with their wives or…significant others? Because if so, I’d like to travel with you, make you look good.” Angelica was dead serious, but defused her comment with a brilliant smile.
“Darling, you can come with me anywhere.” Stan hadn’t missed the envious looks cast his way when he and Angelica had walked into Stanfords. She looked darn good on his arm, he thought, improved his status and his stature. “Having you by my side would be terrific, Angelica.”
She licked her lips seductively and kissed his cheek. Ever since she’d researched Stan’s boss, Keith Bronson, Angelica’s attitude toward the blue-eyed blondie had changed. Not her opinion: She still thought he was a trust-fund wimp, but he offered another kind of value. She’d never think of going to bed with him, but she acted in a way that made him think it was just a matter of time. By the time he found out otherwise, she would have used him and gone.
“So when’s your next function?”
“There’s a little gathering tonight, as a matter of fact. I hadn’t thought to go to it but if you want to, I’m game.”
“I absolutely want to,” she gushed. “Now, what kind of gathering? Will there be food there? Because I’m starved.”
An hour later, Stan and Angelica stepped into the foyer of a Holmby Hills mansion. A large chandelier glistened overhead and the sound of ivories being tinkled wafted from somewhere beyond. As the doorman was taking their coats, the hostess came forward, arms outstretched.
“Stan, darling,” she said, offering air kisses to his cheeks. “It’s about time you accepted an invite. And I can see why,” the effervescent, heavily yet attractively made-up brunette continued. “You’ve got someone to show off.” She winked at Angelica and offered a warm handshake.
After assuaging their appetites at the lavishly furnished buffet, Stan and Angelica worked the room. Stan introduced her to a variety of professionals: a bank president, CEOs, real estate moguls, a politician. Halfway through the soiree, they stopped in front of a distinguished-looking man, handsome in a stately kind of way. He and Stan exchanged cordial greetings before Stan turned to introduce his date.
“Angelica, I’d like you to meet one of the finest businessmen I know, Keith Bronson. Keith, this is Angelica King.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Angelica said softly, accepting Keith’s handshake.
Their eyes met and held as Keith covered the hand he held with his other one and squeezed. “The pleasure is mine.”
28
“I can’t believe it’s been five years since I’ve seen him.” Tiffany eyed herself critically in the mirror above her fireplace before joining Joy on the couch. She reached over for Tuffy and smashed him to her chest. Joy eyed her friend with concern. “Calm down, Tiff. You don’t want to work yourself up into a panic attack.”
“You’re right, I don’t.” Both women knew it was circumstances like these, when Tiffany felt claustrophobic, or in this case extremely nervous, that could bring one on. Tiffany took a deep breath, loosened her hold on the bear, and continued. “Here I am at twenty-eight years old, acting like I’m five. Some father/daughter relationship, huh?”
“Better some than none at all,” Joy countered as she munched on a chicken finger Tiffany had made. “My daddy could walk right by me and I wouldn’t even know it.”
Both ladies became quiet as they pondered this unfortunate commonality. Not having fathers in their lives was one of the things Joy and Tiffany had found they had in common when they met at a suburban school during seventh grade. They’d both been part of just a handful of African Americans in that environment, bussed in as part of the nation’s continued attempt at integration and cross-cultural relationships. Along with the absentee father status, they also shared a love for In-N-Out Burger, Michael Jackson, Kris Kross, and fellow seventh-grader heartthrob Mario Vasquez. Their anthem was Hammer’s “2 Legit 2 Quit,” outfit of choice: baggy pants, bright-colored T-shirts and suspenders like their girl-group idols TLC. Tiffany had grown up in a protective environment, not allowed to play in the South Central streets her mother deemed unsafe. Few children lived in Grand’s View Park neighborhood, where she could ride her bike up and down the street. So much alone time in those early years gave Tiffany a shy, almost withdrawn personality, the exact opposite of the boisterous, mischievous Joy, who waylaid Tiffany in the hallway the second week of school.
“Ooh, girl, your braids are the bomb. Are those beads heavy, though, ’cause I can’t have my hair falling out.”
Before Tiffany could form a response, Joy had plowed on, rolling her eyes at a beautiful, curvy redhead walking in the opposite direction, with an equally handsome, high-top-fade wearing football jock.
“Honey, these ’itches around here better back the bump up ’cause ain’t too many brothahs even go to this school. Ooh, but I like him, though.” She slowed down as they passed the locker of an earring-wearing Latino. “Yo hablo español, papi,” she flirted. The boy, who they later learned was named Mario and whom Joy would date from eighth to eleventh grade, showed a set of even, pearly white teeth as he smiled at her.
“Shoot, I can’t stand Mr. Calvin’s evil ass,” Joy had continued as they kept walking. “Those math equations are stupid hard. Good thing I’m sitting by the smartest boy in class, ’cause I’m sure going to copy off his test, you watch. Hey, what time is your lunch period? You should meet me by the gym ’cause me and some seniors are going to ditch that crap they call food in the cafeteria and head to In-N-Out. Wanna come?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” And with those four words, the only ones in what was an otherwise one-way conversation, Joy and Tiffany became best friends.
Tiffany’s ringing telephone shook both women from their ruminations. “It’s Dad,” Tiffany said after she’d peeped at the ID. “Probably calling to cancel as per usual. Hey, Dad.”
“Hello, Tiffany. I’m just calling to make sure we’re on for lunch. I’m in Beverly Hills. We can either meet here or I can come toward Culver City. Which do you prefer?”
“Why don’t we meet in the middle, maybe Jerry’s Deli?”
“Why don’t we choose something a bit more upscale, honey? I haven’t seen you in five years, let’s make it a celebration of sorts.”
“Okay.”
“Tell you what. I need to take this call, make another one, and then I’ll phone you back with the place. Work for you?”
&nbs
p; “Works for me, Dad.”
“Tiffany, honey, I’m looking forward to it.”
“Me, too.”
An hour later, Tiffany sat across from her dad at Chart House, a medium-priced restaurant with marina views. He devoured his crab-stuffed mushrooms while she nibbled on seared, peppered ahi tuna, served with mustard, ginger, and wasabi. It was prepared very well, but Tiffany didn’t have much of an appetite.
“You look good, Tiffany,” Keith said, for the second or third time. “You’re twenty-eight years old, but I still can’t get over the fact that you’re a grown woman!”
“Time flies, I guess,” Tiffany said softly.
Keith put down his fork. “I feel horrible about it being so long since we’ve seen each other, Tiffany, about so many things, really. Too late, I’m realizing how neglectful I was to you, and to your mother while she and I were married.”
“Can’t change the past.” Tiffany shrugged. “I came out all right.”
“Better than all right, according to Janice. She told me about her trip to your restaurant, and how excellent you are at what you do. I’d like to experience your cooking sometime.”
Tiffany snorted. “What’s with the change in attitude? Sasha leaving you for a younger man has you seeing the error of your ways?” When Janice had told Tiffany about her dad’s latest separation, she’d immediately assumed that that was the reason for his sudden change of heart where she was concerned—his loneliness brought on a case of the guilts. She hadn’t intended to speak so harshly, but since it was an honest question to which she wanted to hear the answer, she let it hang in the air instead of apologizing.
Keith paused while the waiter delivered his lobster bisque and Tiffany’s chopped spinach salad. “I know I was pretty hard on you about your career choice. It’s only because I wanted what I thought was best for you at the time. You’d graduated with honors, a degree in business. I wanted you to work with me, follow in my footsteps.
“Now I realize that was my dream, not yours, that maybe you knew a little more about what you wanted to do than your old man. And yes, Sasha walking out on me has me taking stock of my life, and what’s important.” Keith then told her about the wedding he attended, and how seeing Tim with his daughter made Keith miss Tiffany. “You’ve always mattered to me, Tiffany, even though I wasn’t around to show it. Yes, I worked for me, for the success and prestige, but I also worked to secure your future. My heart was in the right place even if my actions weren’t. I can’t undo what happened in the past, but I’d really like to try and establish a relationship with you. Do you think you can forgive me, and let us work on that?”
“I can try, Dad. But you’ve said some pretty mean things to me over the years. Those words don’t just wash off. Nor does the fact that you weren’t there when I was growing up and really needed you.”
“I’m trying to be here now.” Keith reached into his suit pocket for a handkerchief and gave it to his daughter, whose cheeks were stained with tears. He took a deep breath and continued. “Honey, I apologize for those hurtful, unkind things I said in anger. They were immature and stupid, spoken by a man who’s been self-centered for far too long. If I could take them back I would, but I can’t. I can only try my best to do right by you now. Will you help me do that?”
Tiffany nodded and finished off her salad. With every word of Keith’s apologies, her appetite grew.
Through courses of parmesan-and-cracker-encrusted snapper, topped with lump crab and shallot butter on a bed of rice pilaf, tenderloin medallions and sweet potato rings, Dungeness crab clusters and pan-seared sea scallops, Tiffany and Keith began the tedious process of rebuilding their relationship. Keith shared parts of himself that Tiffany was hearing for the first time: how he grew up poor and lacking in Detroit’s mean streets, his own father an absent figure from his life. He came of age in the turbulent sixties to a soundtrack dominated by Motown. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to follow in the footsteps of crooners Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson, or the Four Tops’ lead singer, Levi Stubbs, his attention turned toward world events. He threw his share of Molotov cocktails in the ’65 riots, the same year Malcolm X was assassinated, and was an Afro-wearing, dashiki-dressing thirteen-year-old when Martin Luther King was killed in 1968. By the time he was seventeen, many of his classmates were on drugs or in prison, and if it hadn’t been for a certain high school teacher who saw Keith’s potential, he might have ended up there, too.
“He helped me to focus, work hard to keep my GPA up. That’s how I earned a scholarship, and what brought me to California, and your mother.”
“Dad, I just can’t picture you wearing a dashiki with your fist in the air.”
“Baby girl, your old man was the stuff back then. You should have seen me in my Superfly suits and platform shoes! I’m telling you, your pops was outta sight!”
Tiffany laughed at the thought and soon Keith joined her.
“Your aunt has tons of pictures from that era. Come to think of it, your mom does, too. Ask her about them the next time you’re home.”
“Oh, I will most definitely do that. I don’t think I’ll believe it until I see it!”
Their conversation had started out tentatively, but by the time they split a decadent slice of hot chocolate lava cake, its chocolate liqueur molten center covered with vanilla ice cream, warm chocolate sauce, and Heath bar crunch, Tiffany and Keith had discovered they were more alike than different, and that after all was said and done, they might be able to not only love each other, but to like each other as well.
It was nine P.M. Keith sat in his hotel suite quietly sipping a snifter of premium Courvoisier. He felt good, better than he had in a long time. Thinking back to his time with Tiffany that afternoon, he laughed at her dry sense of humor. I can’t believe how much of me I see in her. How could I have missed that before? As Keith walked to the minibar to replenish his drink, he heard a light knock on his door. He walked toward the sound, pulling down his V-neck cashmere sweater and straightening out his gabardine slacks as he did so. He didn’t have to look through the peephole to know who it was, but he did so anyway. His smile was bright as he opened the door.
“Hello, Angelica.”
“Keith.” Angelica held a model’s pose, showing off her coral, stretch silk Nicole Miller dress, tailored to fit her body like a glove.
Keith reached for Angelica’s hand and led her inside. “You look beautiful. But then again, I’m sure you know that.”
“I’ve been told a time or two,” Angelica replied playfully.
“Something to drink?”
“Grand Marnier, if you have it, on the rocks.” Angelica continued into the suite and stopped at the floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of Westside Los Angeles all the way to downtown.
Keith joined her at the window and gave her the drink. “What shall we toast to?”
“Hmm…to new friendships, perhaps,” Angelica said as she took a step toward him.
“What about Stan? I thought you two were friends.”
“We are, but that’s strictly platonic.”
“Is that what you want this to be, another platonic relationship?”
“Hardly,” Angelica said. She boldly stepped up to Keith, who immediately embraced her with his free hand. He ran a casual hand down her back and cupped her backside. Angelica licked his lips, reached down, and stroked his manhood. “When it comes to this relationship, Keith Bronson,” she breathed huskily, “I think we both want exactly the same thing.”
29
Tiffany reclined on the lounger by Nick’s pool and tried to relax. It wasn’t easy. Not when she’d vowed that this visit would be strictly platonic, yet felt her insides quiver as she watched Nick swim. The muscles in his arms, legs and back rippled as he sliced through the water. Damn. Fluctuating feelings aside, Tiffany was glad to be here with Nick, glad she’d accepted his invite to join him for a casual dinner. Especially when he said he’d cook. Tiffany smiled, remembering the conversation.
> “When is your next day off?” Nick asked, after Tiffany had answered her phone and they’d exchanged opening pleasantries.
“Tomorrow, why?”
“Because I want you to come over.”
“Look, Nick—”
“No, Tiffany, you look. I want to see you, and at the risk of sounding incredibly arrogant, I believe you want to see me too. I miss our time together, and it’s obvious you could use a break. I had one of my managers bring up the crew schedule. You’re working too hard.”
“It’s what I love, Nick.”
“Well, you know what they say about all work and no play…”
“Geez, what is it with that line? You sound like Joy.”
“Who’s Joy?”
“My best friend. I’ve mentioned her before. She used that same tired cliché.”
“Joy sounds like a smart woman, and a good friend. Come over for dinner tomorrow, Tiffany. You won’t have to do anything but relax, and unwind.”
“Oh, really? So our meal is being catered? Or do you have a chef?”
“I’ll be the chef tomorrow.”
“You?” Tiffany laughed. “Seeing you in an apron is worth the price of admission.”
“So you’ll come?”
“For dinner and conversation, nothing more. And it needs to be early. I only have one day off and want to get a good night’s sleep.”
When I’m finished with you, you’ll sleep like a baby. “Okay, then, what about five o’clock? Better yet, make it four. You’ll miss rush hour traffic and can take a dip in the pool.”
“Four sounds good, but I’ll pass on the swim. I have a hair appointment in the morning.”
“That’s fine. But bring your suit. I want to see some brown sugar.”
“Nick…”