Brickhouse

by Rita Ewing

  brickhouse

  rita ewing

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty–one

  twenty–two

  twenty–three

  twenty–four

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  By Rita Ewing

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  one

  The airplane continued its descent, and Nona leaned back in the seat, gripping the leather armrest. As the L-1011 slowed, she opened her eyes and sighed, taking in what were the still regal edges of the New York skyline. The Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, and even the gaping hole where the twin towers of the World Trade Center had once stood welcomed her into the city. Despite the deep pang that jolted through her as she fought back the memory of September 11, Nona found herself saluting Lady Liberty as she caught a perfect aerial view of the famous monument.

  Home sweet home. Those were the first words she thought every time her returning plane’s tires touched the tarmac. Today, though, she felt those words deeply. Fifteen days was the most time she had ever spent away from home while on business. She couldn’t wait to lie on the smoothness of her own silk sheets and sink her head into the softness of her own feather pillows.

  Her heartbeat matched the slowing of the plane’s speed until it no longer raced. She spent what seemed like foreverin airplanes; still she didn’t like the takeoffs and landings. As the plane taxied toward the gate, Nona began returning the papers on her lap to the leather folder she’d placed on the empty seat beside her. She glanced through the appointments marked on her upcoming week’s schedule, which her assistant had faxed to her. She shook her head. The 168 hours in each week were not enough to accomplish all that was expected of her. But that didn’t matter–her to-do-list would have to wait. She planned to put aside as much as she could for a few days to make room for her most important priority–her daughter.

  The thought of Kelly made Nona smile. Still, her heart ached with thoughts of her eleven-year-old and how she hadn’t seen her in over two weeks.

  The jetliner jerked as the plane came to a complete stop and before the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign clicked off, Nona was standing with her backpack slung across her shoulder.

  “Ms. Simms, here’s your jacket,” the flight attendant said, handing Nona her ankle-length cashmere duster.

  “Thank you.” She beamed her practiced smile with her picture-perfect teeth and stood at the door as the jetway moved toward the plane. She impatiently tapped the tips of her Gucci pumps, waiting for the airplane’s door to open.

  Nona wouldn’t fly unless she could have seat 1B in first class. That way, she never spent a moment longer than she had to in the confined space. When the door opened, Nona hurried through, and was greeted by Marco, who had a special pass to meet her in the terminal.

  “Hey, Nona.” Marco smiled as he reached for her carryon.

  “It’s so good to see you,” she replied. “Now, show me just how good you are and get me home to my baby.”

  Marco laughed. He’d been her bodyguard for the last fifteen months–ever since the mass marketing of her last video made it impossible for her to go out without being mobbed. “The car is circling,” Marco said. “By the time we get to baggage claim, you’ll be able to go right to it.”

  Nona nodded her thanks, put on her sunglasses, and lowered her head. They walked quickly, past the shops in the Delta Air Lines terminal. At five-feet-eleven, Nona strutted like a model, and her arms swayed with the elegance of a ballet dancer. With her short black hair slicked back, her chiseled facial features were even more prominent. Many had wondered why Nona Simms wasn’t gracing the runway for a top European designer. But even with her looks, modeling had never entered her mind. Nona was all about business.

  She had scheduled her arrival for the middle of the afternoon; still the terminal was filled with people, and in moments, Nona began to feel the stares. Then, a few minutes more and the stares turned to shouts.

  “There’s Nona Simms.”

  “Hey, Nona. I love your books. Especially the last one.”

  “What’s up, Nona? I have every one of your workout tapes.”

  She kept her head down, but could still see the glare from a flashing bulb. She hoped it was one of her fans rather than the paparazzi. She’d had enough of made-up tabloid stories.

  Her bodyguard kept Nona at arm’s length from her admirers, but Marco couldn’t stop the swell of the crowd that followed her. As they trotted down the escalator, the screaming requests continued.

  “Can I get a picture, Nona?”

  “I just want your autograph.”

  “I just want to touch her,” Nona heard someone say. “Maybe some of her looks will rub off on me.”

  The people around her laughed, but Nona’s eyes remained lowered. She didn’t want to be rude, but she couldn’t stop–not today. She’d given herself to her supporters for fifteen days. It was time to go home.

  By the time they reached baggage claim, they were almost running. ’I’ll go back for your bags.”

  “Let’s just get you into the car, where it’s safe,” Marco yelled above the crowd’s cheers.

  Nona took a deep breath as they swept through the automatic doors into the chilled New York air. Just as they stepped outside, her black Cadillac Escalade with the license plate “BRCKHSE” veered to the curb. Marco opened the rear door for her, and the automatic running board hummed as it dropped.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Simms. May I have your autograph?”

  It was the gentle voice that made Nona turn. While the rest of the crowd had remained inside, two young girls had followed her. They couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. The one who spoke was tall, almost five-seven, with her head covered in hundreds of microbraids.

  The other girl stood behind her and was at least four inches shorter. But what she lost in height, she made up in weight, and the shorter girl lowered her eyes when Nona looked their way.

  “We just bought your new exercise video.” The taller girl took another step closer while the other stayed in place. “We’re your biggest fans. Could we have your autograph?” she repeated.

  Nona stared at them for a moment. Times had certainly changed. Today girls who had barely reached puberty were working out and starving themselves, trying to conform to some made-up American standard.

  Nona’s objective had always been to encourage people todevelop a healthy body through a healthy lifestyle. But somehow that had become twisted. Now, girls who should have nothing more on their minds than school and friends and music and movies were thinking about dieting and trying to exercise until they looked like Halle Berry–or even worse, until they looked like her. That thought made Nona shiver as her own daughter’s words flashed through her mind.

  Mom, I just wanna look like you.

  Nona stared at the girls for a moment longer, and this time when she smiled, it wasn’t rehearsed. She took the torn loose-leaf pages from the girl’s hand.

  “What’re your names?” she asked softly.

  “I’m Leslie,” the tall one said. “And this is my friend Kelly.”

  Nona stared blankly when she heard her daughter’s name, but then regained her composure. She signed the papers and handed them to the gi
rls.

  “Thank you,” they said in unison.

  Leslie added, “I can’t wait for your next video. When I grow up, I want to look like you.”

  Nona almost shook her head. Was this the new teenage mantra? She wanted to tell the girl the same words that she voiced to her own daughter over and over. But instead she waved good-bye, and then slipped into the car.

  “I need to do something about that,” Nona muttered.

  “Did you say something, Ms. Simms?” Ray, her driver asked.

  “No.” But she made a mental note. She would produce a video or write a book geared toward teen girls. If they were watching her videos, she needed to make sure they were getting the correct message.

  She leaned back against the soft leather of the seat. This was the first time in days she’d sat still, without a pen andpaper in her hand, or a cell phone pressed to her ear. Feeling as if she hadn’t slept in days, she closed her eyes. But a moment later, she opened them when she heard a tap on the front window.

  “This is for immediate loading only,” the airport security guard snarled when Ray rolled down the window. “You’re going to have to move, buddy.”

  As Ray eased the chrome-trimmed vehicle from the curb, Nona sighed. This would slow down her trip home. Kennedy Airport had been a circle of mass confusion for as long as she could remember. New construction was constant, and with the traffic, it would take them at least fifteen minutes to get back to Marco and her luggage.

  She leaned back again, closed her eyes, and focused on the breathing techniques she taught her clients. She inhaled and began counting, “One, two, three …”

  And this is my friend Kelly.

  Her eyes snapped open when she heard the girl’s voice in her head. But it was her daughter’s face that her mind’s eye saw. Recently, almost any thought, word, or sound made Kelly come to mind. It was as if guilt had its hands gripped around her throat. She was constantly being reminded of how her frenzied schedule kept her from giving the most important gift to her daughter–her time.

  What made it worse was that Kelly never complained. Her eleven-year-old suffered through her mother’s absences and workaholic pace like a martyr. She was an expert at the role, having been forced to play the part since she was two.

  Nona hadn’t designed it this way. When she started Brickhouse, it was going to be a neighborhood health club–something she would do part-time in the evenings and on weekends.

  It seemed like such a good idea at the start–a perfect marriage of her several years of experience as marketing director for the New York Fitness Club and her love for a community that every major health club facility ignored. Her idea came only after the New York Fitness Club denied all her requests to open a facility in Harlem–even though she was responsible for selecting new locations, and during her tenure she’d never been wrong; every one of her recommendations turned into a hot new club.

  It didn’t make sense to her. The New York Fitness Club reveled in being first and best in the industry. So, when they turned down her Harlem recommendation for the third time, Nona approached her boss.

  “Marilyn, we’re passing up a great opportunity,” Nona said one day while they were at lunch in the Jamaican restaurant One Love. “Maybe you should come up to Harlem with me so I can show you the location I’m recommending.”

  Nona had almost laughed at the horror that flashed in Marilyn’s blue eyes. She could imagine her boss’s thoughts: Me, in Harlem? Isn’t it enough that I’ m eating peas and rice with you?

  Nona was sure that Marilyn’s only exposure to black people were the few she worked with and her weekly visits to One Love.

  It took Marilyn a few moments to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat and gather what she thought were the politically correct words, “Nona, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but let’s be real. Harlem doesn’t fit the demographics … no matter how you fudge the numbers.”

  “I didn’t fudge anything, Marilyn. The numbers prove that Harlem is as promising as any of the other locations. With all the new construction and conversion of apartmentsto condos, Harlem is not the community you saw on Eyewitness News twenty years ago.” Nona reached for her folder. “Maybe you should look at the numbers again.”

  Marilyn held up her hand. “There’s no need to discuss this. Case closed.”

  But it wasn’t closed for Nona. She was tired of fighting “the man’s” stereotypes of her people. According to them, black folks didn’t exercise, read, or appreciate the finer things in life. Right then, she decided to stop her battle with Marilyn and turn her energy elsewhere.

  As Nona worked, she made mental notes, determined to learn every aspect of club management. A few months later when she read an article stating that diabetes affected ten percent of African Americans, compared with only five percent of the general population, she knew what she had to do. It was then that she decided it was time to bring an exercise facility to Harlem. She would help her people get on the healthy path to living, just like the rest of America. She’d be damned if African Americans weren’t given the same opportunities for a healthy lifestyle that the major chain gyms afforded millions in the general population.

  It took one week to work out a deal with Reverend Zolle of Mount Sinai Baptist to use the church’s basement. Then she spent the next two weeks developing a schedule and printing flyers, which she mailed to area churches and other organizations and distributed through two teenagers she hired to be her street team. She called her program in the holy facility the African American Wellness Center since she wanted it to be more than a gym. It was going to be a complete information center.

  On the first day, only six people came to the aerobics class, each paying ten dollars for four sessions. Another three joined them for the free lecture on diabetes that sheheld after class. The attendance was a disappointment, but Nona worked as if fifty people had attended.

  Within two weeks, fifty people did show up. It was as if a hot new jazz club had opened uptown. The word spread faster than gossip did over the old Harlem party lines.

  Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday she held two exercise classes–one for seniors over the age of fifty-five and the other for everyone else. On Saturdays she brought in guest speakers who were experts in their fields. Lectures were held on everything from AIDS to lupus.

  It was an exhausting schedule, but an exhilarating one. With her fine arts degree in dance, her master’s in business, and her experience with the New York Fitness Club, she began to think of this small community health club as something more than a part-time gig.

  Within a year, the classes swelled to fire-hazard levels, and Nona had to rent three rooms in a four-story walk-up next to the Apollo Theatre. Now she had classes every evening and twice a week during the day. Allen Wade, one of the trainers from the New York Fitness Club, believed in her mission so much, he joined her, covering her during the day while she continued to work. She never worried about staying with the New York Fitness Club, as she built her own facility, and her contract did not prevent her from freelancing. She knew none of the big boys like Bally’s, Gold’s, Equinox, or even her current employer were willing to touch Harlem–not even with a ten-foot pole. She was no competition for them, or so they thought.

  A few months later, Nona developed a special workout that combined muscle-sculpting aerobics, kickboxing, calisthenics, and yoga. A regimen that had Nona looking finer than ever. With her tall, lean frame and shapely, toned assets, Nona quietly accepted the Brickhouse nickname herbrethren folk bestowed upon her as she walked the streets of Harlem. What quickly became known as the Brickhouse Technique brought more people to Nona’s place in Harlem. When the time came for Nona to name her place of business, there was no doubt in her mind that Brickhouse was the perfect fit and her only option.

  Although the hours were long, it was a welcome indulgence–her job and her small business were distractions from her faltering marriage.

  In the end, her marriage hadn’t survived, but her
business had thrived. While she was proud of what she’d accomplished, it was hard to reconcile it with what she believed she missed at home.

  “Ms. Simms,” Ray called, bringing her thoughts back to the present. “Marco’s outside now. We’ll be out of the airport in a few minutes.”

  Ray slowed the SUV, and Marco tossed her bags into the trunk. Then he slid into the car.

  “Ms. Simms, is there anywhere you want to stop first?”

  Nona glanced at her watch. She wanted to be home when Kelly arrived from school. But today she’d have an extra hour since Kelly had her acting lessons–or was it dance class today? “Take me to the office, Ray.” She could spend a little time with her other baby–Brickhouse. Only forty-five minutes, and then she’d go home for sure. She wouldn’t allow herself to slip back into her old bad work habits. She smiled; with a bit of planning she could have it all.

  Ray snaked the Escalade through the heavy Friday airport traffic, and Nona settled back again. It was difficult to remember a time when she wasn’t being whisked through cities in limousines or jetting across the country for special appearances. As she let the past years fly through her mind, she found it hard to believe how far she’d come. But whatwas even more fascinating was what lay ahead: more books, more videos, more appearances, and the opening of her new restaurant in the new mall in Harlem. Sarah, her assistant, told her there was even a movie script sitting on her desk for her review.

  But nothing excited Nona more than her upcoming Central Park production. It was going to be a video–taped live from New York’s urban oasis–that combined exercise with a discussion on how to live a healthy life. She had just inked a record-breaking deal with HBO to provide international coverage and sponsorship.

  As Nona’s thoughts drifted, various hues of gray whizzed by the tinted car windows in the form of nondescript factory buildings, box-style two-level homes, and leafless trees that lined Grand Central Parkway. By the time the truck passed through the E-Z Pass lane and crawled over the Triborough Bridge, all that was on Nona’s mind was what she had to get done when she reached the office.