Crimson Footprints

by Shewanda Pugh

  Deena looked down at her plate. “And Japanese.”

  Keisha snickered. “I can’t see no black dude speaking Japanese.”

  “I know, right? All that ching ching chong!” Aunt Caroline hooted.

  Deena sighed. They were impossible. If she were another woman, a braver woman, she’d stand up and demand an end to this foolishness. She’d declare her love for Tak and do so unflinchingly. She would seize this opportunity, and in doing so, tell them everything. But she couldn’t. She thought of the way Aunt Caroline would look at her after finding out that she was sleeping with an Asian man—as if she were somehow less black, and less of a woman for desiring him. And she thought of Grandma Emma and the way she’d turn her back on her when she found out that Deena was sinning against the Lord.

  Rhonda glared at Caroline. “Must you always be offensive?”

  Caroline rolled her eyes at her younger sister. “Boy I swear, let a nigga go to college and they come back siddity every time.”

  “Maybe a lil’ bit o’ college would of did you some good, Caroline,” Emma surmised with a point of her fork. Her eldest daughter was a shift manager at a fast food restaurant.

  Rhonda turned back to her niece. “What’s your friend look like, Deena? Is he handsome?”

  Deena’s cheeks flushed scarlet. “Well—”

  Grandma Emma’s fork clattered to her plate. “Child, what is this foolishness? You think somebody here thinks this just your friend?”

  Deena concentrated on her food, avoiding her grandmother’s glare.

  Emma sighed in exasperation. “Well, is he a good man at least?”

  Deena looked up, smiling. “Very.”

  “Not liable to run off and leaves you with no kids, I suspect?” Emma glanced out the corner of her eye at Caroline and Keisha. Caroline stared back at her mother, saucily.

  Deena thought of Tak’s playful declaration while in Sayulita that he would accept no less than a dozen children from her. “No,” Deena assured her grandmother. “He wouldn’t do that.”

  Emma nodded thoughtfully. “Well then, child, I reckon you best not let nobody get in the way of dat. When you find a man you loves, you keeps ‘em. Any fool can tell you that.”

  DEENA STARED AT her clock in an attempt to ignore the pulsating pain at her temples and the insufferable waves of nausea. Were it not the day they broke ground on Skylife she would’ve stayed home. But this was her opportunity to pose alongside Daichi, the city’s mayor and powerful businessmen who had the potential to be her next clients. So, she would spend the morning posing for pictures with pangs of nausea and too-high pumps, smiling a smile that never reached her eyes.

  William Henderson, the project’s primary investor, spoke of the Skylife project as though he were the one to design it. It was a “re-envisioning of the Miami skyline,” he said, and a challenge to investors everywhere to start rethinking their place in history. Would they rise to the challenge, as he had done, and create models for the future of environmentally conscious yet posh accommodations? Or would they fall short, as so many do, in making excellence meet conscientiousness?

  Deena’s head throbbed with the heat of the morning, and the memory of her and Henderson locked in heated battle as they squabbled over expenditures. She couldn’t recall him possessing such lofty principles on that day.

  “As I conclude,” Henderson said with a flourish of the hand, “I ask each of you not what architecture can do for you, but what you can do for architecture.”

  Deena groaned.

  “And here I thought I was the only one unable to stomach Henderson’s grandstanding,” Daichi said. He turned to Deena with a secret smile. “Perhaps we should let him lay hammer to nail, as he seems so inclined to do.”

  Deena giggled.

  Deena spent the morning hobnobbing with bigwigs, and was most excited not by that but by the opportunity to meet Mahmoud, Hudson and Marshall. The four of them, along with Daichi, posed for pictures and answered questions, and when Miami Design asked Deena if they could have a word with her, she nearly hemorrhaged on the spot.

  When Deena finished shaking the hand of the stocky blonde who’d interviewed her, she found her way over to Daichi, centered in a cluster of fellow architects. He ignored the refreshments, as he usually did at events, and opted only for a bit of soda water.

  “So, I tell this intern, listen, if you want to be ‘imaginative’ head down to Brickell and see if Tanaka’s accepting new recruits. He’s got interns over there working million dollar projects.”

  Michael Cook, the former professor who saw fit to confront Daichi so many years ago, was met with a roar of laughter as he brought a glass of ice water to his lips. Deena wasn’t surprised that he didn’t remember her as a former student; he could never be bothered with learning the name of an undergrad.

  Daichi wasn’t smiling. “Interestingly enough, I’ve found that genius discriminates not in terms of age or race. Perhaps if my peers were better able to grasp that concept, then our field might better reflect the populace.”

  The laughter died.

  “Incidentally, Ms. Hammond’s not an intern. She’s a registered architect and the genius behind the innovative design you’ve spent all morning fawning over.”

  He gestured to the small-scale model of Skylife on display. It was a stately stem, and once completed, would be the narrowest, tallest, most graceful creation to dawn Miami’s skyline to date. With a walkway like an undulating ribbon, the building managed curves in its ascent as if to mimic ocean waves. Its lean appearance gave residents a startling three-sided view of the water while its one hundred and twenty-five floors served to shatter the skyline.

  “She designed this?” Cook said. He was the classmate of Daichi’s who had designed Tak’s building. “You’re being far too generous.”

  Daichi stared at the man with impatience. “I’m not.” He glanced at Deena. “Are you ill?”

  Deena blinked in surprise. He’d only spoken to her once that morning and she knew of no other time where he’d so much as looked her way.

  “I’m—I’m feeling a little under the weather.”

  “Then why are you still here? Are the hors d’oeuvres so delightful?”

  “No.”

  “Then leave.”

  “Yes, sir.” Deena turned away, then paused. “Would you like me to meet you back at the office?”

  “Is that where the ill go? To the office?”

  “No.”

  “Then no, Deena.” He turned back to Cook.

  Still, she hesitated. In her four years at the firm she’d never taken a sick day. Better still, her days of month long vacations weren’t far enough in her rearview mirror for her to feel comfortable.

  “So, Daichi,” Cook said. “I hear you’ve been shortlisted for the Pritzker.”

  The Pritzker Prize was the architectural equivalent of a Nobel.

  Daichi rolled his eyes.

  “I’ve no information indicating such, and considering what I know about you, I suspect you have cause to say the same. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business elsewhere.”

  DEENA HAD NO idea that something could be both really good and really bad at the same time. But she’d discovered just that when Daichi invited her to his California mansion for the holiday season. He wanted the opportunity to comb through their plans and ensure perfection for what was fast becoming a daunting project. His extended family would be in attendance because of the New Year, as it and not Christmas was the apex of the holiday season for the Tanakas.

  It should’ve been cause for excitement. Meeting her boyfriend’s grandmother, aunts, uncles and cousins. And it was, except for the fact that they couldn’t know that Tak was in fact her boyfriend. Or that she even knew him.

  Two weeks. That’s how long they would be at Daichi’s estate. How long she would be under the same roof as Tak, forced to feign indifference. The thought made her sweat.

  Daichi’s sweeping estate was in Encinitas, a cliff-side retreat just no
rth of San Diego. It boasted twelve bedrooms, three floors, five bathrooms, two dining rooms, a private stretch of ocean and a tennis court. Its views of the Pacific were breathtaking, made possible through generous floor-to-ceiling windows and sliding glass doors.

  Since Daichi had pressing matters elsewhere, he hired a driver to pick up Deena at the airport. He was a dapper fellow, with white gloves and the lot, and it was all Deena could do not to giggle as he took her luggage and helped her into the back of the Towncar.

  When Deena arrived at the estate, she was met by Tak. Her face lit up when he answered the door. At this point, he’d been in Encinitas for four days.

  He squeezed her quickly before releasing her and glancing over his shoulder. He took her hand and led her inside.

  “Where’s your family?”

  He shot her a sneaky smile and brought a finger to his lips. They left the luggage in the foyer and made their way down the hall. Past the reading room, past the den, and past the dining room before he pushed her in a closet and closed the door behind them.

  “Tak! Your father—”

  “Quiet, Dee. I’m busy.”

  He smothered her words with a kiss. She pulled him closer, unable to play at indifference with those lips on her, with those hands roaming her figure.

  “You should’ve come sooner,” he said, his mouth at her throat, his hand on her breast.

  She didn’t know the moan would escape her, though those gliding, practiced fingers of his never neglected to please. But he had no patience for much foreplay today. She hadn’t been writhing long at all, when, with a guttural grunt, Tak snatched her skirt upwards, fumbled, then lurched, burying in her to the hilt. Deena jerked as a jolt of molten pleasure shot up her. Her back arched in the time it took for her to adjust, body stretching like some wanton cat. When she curled back around him, he began to pump slow, sure strokes into her and through her, it seemed. Fingers scrambling at his back, Deena bit down on his shoulder to keep from crying out.

  “God, Tak. Don’t stop, just—just hurry.”

  Not that she really had to say anything; the both of them were far too impatient and much too desperate to keep up any sort of leisurely pace.

  WHEN TAK AND Deena parted a half hour later, they veered in different directions, making it only a few steps before hearing Daichi’s voice.

  “Deena!”

  With a hand on the stair’s railing, she froze.

  “I contemplated forming a search party for you. No one seemed to have seen you arrive.”

  Daichi folded his arms as he stood at the foot of the staircase. “Now how did you ever manage that?”

  Tak stood back, near enough to intervene, yet not sure if he should call attention to himself.

  “I uh—I wasn’t feeling well. The flight. Air sickness,” Deena said.

  “And are you better now?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good.” With a clap of the hands Daichi turned to Tak. “Then I’d like you to meet my son, Takumi. Takumi, this is Deena Hammond, a colleague from the firm.”

  Tak watched Deena descend the staircase. Would she really stand there, moments after having him inside o her, after whimpering her love for him—after all that, could she pretend that they were strangers?

  As Deena extended a hand to him, his stomach turned. He would’ve ended the charade there, had he not been so certain that she would pretend to be confused and leave him looking like a fool.

  “Takumi,” she said softly, the smile on her lips not bothering to reach her eyes.

  She sensed it too, the insanity of it all, of two adults pretending to be nothing to each other. She had to.

  “Deena.”

  Tak clasped her hand, his fingers stroking the palm and brushing her fingertips as she withdrew from him. He met her gaze, challenging, daring her to do something about the intimacy of his touch. She did nothing.

  DAICHI GRABBED DEENA’S luggage from the foyer and showed her to her bedroom. Once inside, he cleared his throat as if uncomfortable with the intimate quarters of his own guestroom. His gaze swept the confines in appraisal before returning to Deena.

  “And how do you find your accommodations, Ms. Hammond?”

  Her first reaction to the room had been awe.

  “It’s beautiful, Daichi. Everything you make is just so beautiful.” She thought of his son and blushed. “I mean—architecture, of course.”

  He hesitated. “Of course.”

  “There are so many little touches.” She said, eager to press on. Deena scanned the room hurriedly. “The stretched ceilings, for example, are amazing.”

  They were polished white and cast a gleaming reflection of the room. The four walls of the room alternated between ecru and a rectangular maple wood grain paneling. A four-paneled eggshell room divider mirrored the queen-sized platform bed and its pristine white linen. All of it was accented by bamboo stalks on either side of the bed that reached to the ceiling.

  “And the wood grain paneling is wonderful. The geometric patterns offer a dramatic play of lights and shadows.”

  Daichi stared at her. “Dinner is being served in a moment. I’m not sure how familiar you are with Japanese fare, but you’ll find that the Japanese American family is the originator of so-called fusion food.” He flashed a smile. “There’ll be some sushi, which I know you enjoy, probably some teriyaki and tempura, and always a great deal of seafood. As an aside, you’ll find that our vernacular vacillates between English and Japanese. We make every attempt not to do this with guests, but occasionally we err. I feel obliged to apologize in advance.” Daichi paused. “Perhaps I should brief you on etiquette.”

  “I’ll be fine, Daichi. You’re not the first Japanese American I’ve encountered.”

  Daichi’s lips curled into a smile. He offered a curt nod and then opened the door. As they descended the stairs, Deena spotted Kenji at the bottom. His back was to her as he faced a diminutive man with broad frames and an even broader grin. Deena placed him at thirty.

  Kenji turned at the creak of the stairs and his face lit up at the sight of Deena.

  “Hey Deena!”

  Two steps ahead of Daichi in her descent, Deena froze. Cringing, Kenji looked from Deena to his father.

  “You’ve met?” Daichi said.

  Kenji’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged.

  “Dad, I—no, we just…”

  Deena turned to Daichi with a desperate smile. “We met earlier. Briefly. Probably when you were wondering how I managed to be so stealthy.”

  Daichi frowned. “And have you met my nephew Michael as well?”

  He gestured to the slight and awkward creature beside Kenji.

  Deena shook her head.

  “Michael, this is Deena Hammond, an employee at my firm, and Deena, this is my nephew Michael. He’s a systems analyst with IBM. Attended your alma mater, in fact.”

  Michael’s eyes lit up. “A fellow Beaver? What class?”

  “2003. And you?” Deena extended a hand.

  “2000. The Brass Rat says it all.”

  With their hands clasped, Michael turned his fist clockwise, giving Deena a view of the gold ring. The bezel held the MIT mascot, a beaver, the school’s shield and the year of graduation. “Never leave home without it.”

  Deena smiled politely. She was not so fond of her days at MIT She found the winters harsh, and the people impersonal. She took away no mentors and no friends, though she suspected that much of it was due to the protective shell she’d formulated for herself long before her collegiate days.

  “Do you have your class ring? I’d like to compare the designs.”

  Deena hadn’t been able to afford a class ring, but she wouldn’t tell him that, even if he did look like a shrunken and unsightly version of Tak.

  “Those rings are far too bulky for me, I’m afraid.”

  Michael grinned a grin with too much gum. “You know, William Wang once said that there are three recognizable rings in the world. The Brass Rat,
the West Point ring, and the Super Bowl ring.”

  Daichi scowled.

  “I don’t bring guests here for you to accost them, Michael. Now we are weary and famished. Has your obachan finished preparing dinner?’

  Michael nodded, jabbing the bridge of his glasses with an index finger. “She’s been waiting for you.”

  “And yet you detain us?”

  Daichi pushed his way past his nephew and led Deena through the foyer and into the dining room.

  Like the rest of the villa, the dining room was decorated in simple, subdued earth tones. Warm cream and soft browns came together in a streamlined, sophisticated homage to the Orient. The dining room table was sleek and minimalist, made of dark birch wood and was long and narrow, with seating enough for fourteen. Beneath it was a splash of bright in a cream tatami mat that offset the dark table and the ebony wood-paneled walls. Rice screen doors with dark wood trim folded back to reveal broad glass doors, and beyond that, a panoramic view of the Pacific.

  “I can see that this room meets your approval,” Daichi said with a teasing smile.

  Deena returned it. “If I didn’t know you so well I’d ask who you hired to decorate.”

  Daichi rolled his eyes. “Now you simply flatter.”

  The Tanaka brood was watching them. Tak sat on one side, sandwiched between John and Kenji. There were two middle-aged men, one that would’ve been striking if not for his widow’s peak, and another, with a gut, comb-over and too-thick eyebrows. Deena was certain she knew which one was Daichi’s brother.

  “Deena, might you do a fellow beaver the honor of breaking bread together?”

  Michael was by her side, slender arm already extended. He had donned a Dodger blue t-shirt, bare save for the stylized arrowhead just over his heart. A Master’s degree and five years at MIT told her it was a Star Trek tee. On this evening, he’d paired it with some snug jeans.

  Deena glanced at Tak, who made a point of looking away.

  “Well? What do you say?”

  She turned back to Mike. “I—I guess so.”

  “Great!” Mike said, leading her to a seat across from John. Mike sat down across from Tak.