There was a lull in conversation as everyone concentrated on eating mounds of meats, vegetables and salads set out in serving platters. Veronica had sampled Jeanette’s delicious potato salad, declaring it one of the best she’d ever eaten. Kumi, assuming the grilling duties from Marvin, grilled rock lobster tail with a red chili butter dipping sauce, swordfish, chicken, butterflied lamb and filet mignon with a brandy-peppercorn sauce.
Marlena wiped her hands and mouth, then said, “I think I want to become a chef.”
Her mother’s jaw dropped. “I thought you wanted to become a lawyer.”
“I’ve changed my mind. You know I love to cook.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Marvin said, smiling.
“Really, Daddy?”
“Really, princess,” he confirmed, ignoring his wife’s scowl.
Leaning closer to Kumi, her bare shoulder touching his, Veronica whispered for his ears only, “I think you’re responsible for spawning the next generation of insurgents.”
Turning his head, he smiled down at her. “I believe you’re right,” he said softly. “Tattoos and cooking instead of medicine and law. What are the Walkers coming to?”
She smiled and wrinkled her nose. “What would you do if your son decided he wanted to become a ballet dancer?”
Lowering his head, his mouth grazed her earlobe. “Have my son and you’ll find out.”
Veronica stared at Kumi as if he’d touched her bare flesh with an electrified rod. He wanted her to have a baby—his child. He wanted a child, but it was he who had always assumed the responsibility of protecting her whenever they made love—all except the one time she had initiated the act. The one time she hadn’t been able to hold back—the one time she’d risked becoming pregnant because it had been her most fertile time during her menstrual cycle. But her menses had come on schedule, belaying her anxiety that she might be carrying his child.
“That’s not going to become a reality.”
Kumi recoiled as if she’d slapped him. He stood up, stepping over the wooden bench, while at the same time anchoring a hand under Veronica’s shoulder and gently pulling her up.
“Please excuse us,” he said to the assembled group staring mutely at them. “I have to talk to Veronica.”
If there was ever a time she wanted to scream at him, it was now. Whatever he wanted to talk to her about could have waited until they returned home.
Kumi led Veronica across the spacious backyard and into the flower garden. Sitting down on a stone bench, he eased her down beside him, his arm circling her waist.
Unconsciously, she rested her head against his shoulder. “What do you want to talk about that couldn’t be discussed at another time?”
“Us.”
“What about us?”
There was slight pause before Kumi spoke again. “I love you, Ronnie, and you love me. But where are we going with this? Our feelings for each other?”
Raising her head, she stared at his composed expression. “What is it you want from me?”
“I want you to marry me, Veronica Johnson. I want you to become my wife and the mother of my children,” he said smoothly, with no expression on his face.
“I’m too old to have children—”
“Then one child!” he snapped angrily, interrupting her.
A slight frown marred her smooth forehead. “There’s no need to take that tone with me, Kumi.” Her father had never raised his voice to her, and she would not tolerate the same from any man.
His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Ronnie.” His voice was softer, apologetic. “Wanting you in my life permanently is eating me up inside. I think I’m losing my mind.”
Closing her eyes, she bit down hard on her lower lip. Kumi was offering her what every normal woman wanted—a man who loved her enough to offer marriage and children. He wanted to marry her when too many men were willing to sleep with or live with a woman without committing to a future with them.
She opened her eyes, forcing a smile she did not feel. “Will you give me time to consider your proposal?”
An irresistibly devastating grin softened his stoic expression. Shifting, he picked her up, settling her across his lap. “Of course, sweetheart.” He curbed the urge to pull her down to the grass and make love to her.
When he’d returned to her house earlier that morning she’d given him the news that she wasn’t pregnant, and it wasn’t until after he’d recalled the time they’d made love and he hadn’t protected her that he understood her revelation. He wanted Veronica to have his child, but only after she committed to sharing her life with him.
Cradling her face between his palms, his lips brushed against hers as he spoke. “Thank you for even considering me.”
Veronica felt his lips touch hers like a whisper. “You honor me with your proposal.”
“No,” he argued softly. “I’m honored that you’ve permitted me to become a part of your existence.” Even if it is only temporary, he added silently. There was still the remotest possibility that she would reject him. And what he had to do was prepare himself for that time, because it was just six weeks before he was to return to Paris either with or without Veronica Johnson.
“Make a left at the next corner.”
Kumi followed Veronica’s directions, after they’d left a security gatehouse in a private community, overwhelmed by the magnificence of the structures situated five miles north of downtown Atlanta, spreading outward from the nexus of Peachtree Street, Roswell and West Paces Ferry Roads. He’d visited Atlanta the year before he’d applied to Morehouse College, but he hadn’t been to Georgia’s capital city’s wealthiest neighborhood.
He’d agreed to accompany Veronica to her family reunion, committing to spend a week with her before returning to North Carolina. He’d also agreed to drive her Lexus back to North Carolina, because she had planned to fly back a week later. He maneuvered around the corner she indicated, his gaze widening as he encountered a cul-de-sac. Four large, imposing Colonial-style structures were set on the dead-end street, each a gleaming white in the brilliant Atlanta summer sun.
“I’m the first one on the right.”
Kumi stared numbly through the windshield. A sloping sculpted lawn, precisely cut hedges, a quartet of towering trees and thick flowering shrubs provided the perfect reception for the place Veronica and Bram had called home.
Veronica reached under the visor and pushed a button on an automatic garage opener. The door to a three-car garage slid open silently. Kumi drove into the garage next to a Volkswagen Passat and turned off the engine, while she removed another small device from her purse and pressed several buttons, deactivating a sophisticated alarm system.
Kumi got out of the truck, coming around to open the passenger-side door for Veronica. She smiled at him when he curved an arm around her waist and helped her down.
“It’s going to take at least an hour to cool the place to where it’s comfortable.”
He nodded. It was as if the words were stuck in his throat. It was as if he were seeing Veronica for the first time. He hadn’t even seen the interior of this house, but he knew instinctively that it would be nothing like the one on Trace Road. That one was modest while this one quietly shouted opulence. He did not have to read a real estate listing to know that the homes in the cul-de-sac were probably appraised for a million or more.
Veronica opened a side door, leading into the house, while he lingered to retrieve his luggage from the cargo area. He followed her into the house, mounting three steps and walking into a spacious kitchen. He didn’t know what to expect, but he went completely still, staring at a kitchen that could’ve been in any French farmhouse. A massive cast-iron stove from another era took up half a wall.
He walked numbly through the kitchen and into a hallway that
led in four directions. Antique tables, chairs and priceless lamps were displayed for the admiring eye. Shifting his luggage, Kumi ambled around the downstairs, peering into a living and dining room decorated in the recurring country French design. A smile crinkled his eyes. It was apparent Veronica hadn’t let go her love for France as evidenced by her home’s furnishings. He made his way up a flight of stairs, feeling the cool air flowing from baseboard and ceiling vents.
“I’m in here,” Veronica called out from a room near the top of the carpeted staircase.
He entered a large bedroom boasting a queen-size mahogany sleigh bed. All of the furnishings in the room were white: a counterpane with feathery lace, a nest of piled high gossamer pillows, embroidered sheers at the tall windows and the cutwork cloths covering the two bedside tables.
Staring at her smiling face, Kumi felt a fist of fear knot up his chest. Veronica’s home and its furnishings were priceless. And if she married him, would she be willing to leave it all behind?
Veronica smiled up a Kumi as they made their way up the path to Bette Hall’s house. They had to park on a side street because of the number of cars and trucks lining the Halls’ circular driveway. Veronica’s and Kumi’s arms were filled with desserts they’d made earlier that morning. She’d baked two sour-cream pound cakes and a sweet potato pie. Kumi had put his professional touches on a gâteau des rois, a marzipan-filled puff French pastry that was served on the final feast of Christmas—Twelfth Night—to mark the arrival of the Three Kings to Bethlehem, and a traditional American chocolate pecan pie.
The screen door opened with their approach and Veronica came face-to-face with her sister and brother-in-law, who had just arrived. The spacious entryway and living room were filled with people of varying ages. Infants in their parents’ arms cried and squirmed; toddlers were scampering about, seeing what mischief they could get into; teenagers with earphones from disc players and portable tape players gyrated to the music blasting in their ears.
Candace’s gaze lingered briefly on Kumi before she turned her attention to Veronica. Curving an arm around her neck, she kissed her cheek. “Hey, big sis. Who is he?” she whispered sotto voce.
A mysterious smile touched Kumi’s mouth. There was no doubt Veronica would be asked the same question over and over before the day ended.
“Kumi, this is my sister, Candace, and brother-in-law Ivan Yarborough. Candace, Ivan, Kumi Walker.”
Kumi flashed his hundred-watt smile, charming Candace immediately. “My pleasure.”
“Oh, no,” Candace crooned, “It’s my pleasure.”
Ivan and Kumi nodded to each other, exchanging polite greetings as Candace and Veronica carried the desserts into the kitchen where every inch of counter space and tables were with filled platters and pots emanating mouthwatering aromas.
Half a dozen fried turkeys, hundreds of pounds of fried chicken and countless slabs of spareribs were transported from the kitchen to the backyard by relatives Veronica hadn’t seen in a year. Candace clutched her arm, pulling her out of the path of people coming and going in the large kitchen.
“He’s gorgeous. Where on earth did you find him?”
Veronica stared at Candace, baffled. “What are you talking about?”
“Kumi. That is his name, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Why?”
Candace shook her head. “What am I going to do with you? I can’t believe you brought your man to a family reunion where every woman from eight to eighty will be drooling, analyzing and dissecting him within the first five minutes of his arrival. And you know how Aunt Bette likes young men.”
“Kumi will be able to take care of himself.”
“It looks as if he’s been taking good care of you, Veronica.”
Heat stole into her face, burning her cheeks and for once she did not have a comeback. “Let’s go outside,” she said instead.
Bette Hall’s house was built on five acres of land, most of which had remained undeveloped. She’d had a landscaping company cut the grass, and she’d set up eight tents to accommodate the eighty-three family members who were confirmed to attend the annual gathering.
The weather had cooperated. The early afternoon temperature was in the low eighties, and a light breeze offset the intense heat from the sun in a near cloudless sky.
Veronica was handed an oversize T-shirt with Wardlaw Family Reunion inscribed on the back, along with the date. She slipped it on over her shorts and tank top, the hem coming to her knees.
Reaching for a pair of sunglasses from the small crocheted purse slung over her chest, she put them on the bridge of her nose. She waved to a cousin who’d traveled from Ohio, before moving around the grounds to find her parents. She found them in a tent with several other older couples.
She kissed her mother, then her father. “I have someone I’d like you to meet,” she said mysteriously.
“Who?” Irma asked, smiling.
“Don’t move.”
Veronica left the tent, searching for Kumi. She spied him with Aunt Bette’s teenage granddaughter. It was obvious the scantily dressed young woman was openly flirting with him, despite his impassive expression.
“Excuse me, Chantel, but I’d like to borrow Kumi for a few minutes.”
Chantel Hall’s jaw dropped when Veronica curved her arm through Kumi’s and led him away. She was still standing with her mouth open when an older cousin came over to her.
Chantel sucked her teeth while rolling her head on her neck. “Isn’t he too young for her?”
“Don’t be catty, cuz. If he can drive, vote, buy cigarettes, liquor, serve in the military and not be drinking Similac or wearing Pampers, then he’s not too young.”
Chantel sucked her teeth again, rolled her eyes and walked away with an exaggerated sway of her generous hips.
Veronica led Kumi into the tent where her parents sat on folding chairs, drinking iced tea. All conversations ended abruptly at the same time all gazes were trained on the tall man with Veronica Johnson-Hamlin.
“Mother, Daddy—” her voice was low and composed “—I’d like you to meet a very good friend, Kumi Walker. Kumi, my parents, Harold and Irma Johnson.”
Leaning over, Kumi smiled at Irma, who stared up at him as if he had a horn growing out the center of his forehead. The spell was broken when she returned his sensual smile.
“I’m so glad you came with Veronica.”
His smile widened appreciably. “So am I, Mrs. Johnson.” He extended his hand to Veronica’s father, who rose to his feet and grasped his fingers in a strong grip.
“Nice meeting you, Kumi.”
Everyone stared at Veronica in suspended anticipation. She ended the suspense, saying, “This is Kumi Walker. Kumi, these wonderful people are my aunts and uncles.”
There was a chorus of mixed greetings before several put their heads together and whispered about their niece’s choice in male companionship.
It was something Veronica overhead many more times before night descended on the assembled. Most of the younger women whispered about how “hot” and “fine” he was, but the older ones shook their heads claiming Veronica had gone from one extreme to the other. First she’d taken up with an old man, and now a young boy. Poor Irma must be so embarrassed.
Dusk came, taking with it the heat, while the volume of music escalated. The hired deejay played the latest number-one hip-hop tune and couples jumped up to dance.
Veronica sat on the grass, supporting her back against a tree, watching her extended family enjoying themselves while Kumi lay on the grass beside her, eyes closed.
She stared at him. “Don’t go to sleep on me, darling. I’ll never be able to move you.”
He smiled, not opening his eyes. “I’m just resting. I think I ate too much.”
“Yo
u’re not the only one.”
“I like your family, Ronnie. They’re a lot less uptight than mine.”
“That’s because we have a few scalawags and riffraff who managed to sneak in under the guise that they were respectable ladies and gentlemen. Personally, I think it’s good because they add a lot of flavor to the mix.”
“Who made the punch?”
Veronica laughed, the sound low and seductive in the encroaching darkness. “That had to be cousin Emerson. His grandfather used to make moonshine during and after Prohibition. The recipe was passed down from grandfather to son, and finally to grandson.”
Kumi blew out his breath. “That stuff is potent.”
“How much did you drink?”
“At least two, maybe even three glasses.”
“It’s no wonder you can’t move. Didn’t somebody warn you?”
“Nope. At least I wasn’t doing shots like some of the others.”
“Kumi! Were you trying to kill yourself?”
He opened his eyes, a sensuous smile curving his strong mouth. “No. I’m not ready to die—at least not for a long, long time.”
Chapter Eleven
Kumi lay quietly, watching Veronica stretch like a graceful feline. She turned to her left, throwing her right leg over his and snuggled against his shoulder. A soft sigh escaped her parted lips at the same time her eyes opened.
Cradling the back of her head in one hand, he pressed his mouth to her vanilla-scented hair. “Good morning, sweetheart.”
The Blackstone Promise Page 25