With her parents, both medical doctors, continuously away administering to the needs of others in some third-world or war-torn country, their only child was left to grow up under the strict and confining supervision of her grandparents. Each time Ernest and Terry Parker returned home to visit, laden with exotic toys and exciting stories from around the world, Sharon would ask God to make her sick, so they would stay home and take care of her. But despite her fervent prayers, Sharon’s body thrived and the Drs. Parker would once again leave their own child to take care of someone else’s.
She was orphaned at age eleven, when her mom and dad died in a minefield accident. Sharon grew up feeling abandoned by her parents and unwelcome by her aging grandparents. The constant tug of guilty abhorrence for those responsible for her unhappy upbringing nagged at her. It stunted her emotional growth and left a cold spot on her heart along with a lifelong fear of exposing herself to the joys and pains of true intimacy.
Sharon pulled herself out of her memories and back into the room with this teenager whose life in so many ways mirrored hers. It was just like Kevin had told Amanda. People who were meant to be together eventually found each other. Fate was pushing her and Amanda together and Sharon felt compelled to find out the reason why.
“Amanda, I have to get going, but here’s my telephone number,” she said as she wrote her number down on a napkin. “You call me anytime you want to talk. Believe it or not, I understand what you’re going through a lot more than you think. My parents weren’t around much either when I was growing up.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Carlson. If you really don’t mind, maybe I will.”
“Call me Sharon, and I really don’t mind.”
The two stood up from the table with genuine smiles for each other. As Sharon gathered her things and stepped away from the table, Amanda stepped toward her and delivered a shy embrace. “It really is a shame that you aren’t somebody’s mom,” she remarked sincerely.
Sharon tried to respond but was too overcome by emotion to speak. She merely smiled, silently conveying to Amanda that she couldn’t agree more.
Chapter 8
As Friday’s sunlight slipped away, John was forced to turn on the lamp clipped to the side of his drafting table. He’d left his office at five-thirty, finished for the week with the massive projects under Carlson and Tuck’s banner, and happily escaped to the place he now considered his creative haven. Upstairs he was John Carlson businessman and administrator; five floors down he became John Carlson architect and artist. It was amazing what a positive impact one short elevator ride could have on his psyche.
It was now seven-thirty and John worked in the hushed silence of a floor abandoned for the weekend. He really should be heading home himself, but he was too jazzed by the imaginative flow of possibilities now pouring from his head. His tabletop was buried with sheets torn from his sketchpad—all additional renderings for the interior of the Casa de Arte. All but this last drawing.
He sat back and took a long look at his work. He was supposed to be refining his sketches for the façade of the new hotel; instead he was holding a highly favorable and accurate portrait of Melanie Hitts’s exquisite face.
Oh, it’s a façade, all right, his inner male called out. You keep pretending that your interest in this woman is strictly professional. Isn’t it time to admit the truth?
What truth? he silently shot back. That I, John Remington Carlson, a fifty-year-old married white man, am attracted to a much younger, multitalented black woman whose creative juices I am unabashedly vampiring?
Unwilling to have this telling and uncomfortable conversation with himself, John attempted to end his internal discourse by relocating to his office couch and concentrating on the quality of his work before him. It had been a long time since he’d sketched anything that wasn’t meant to house, feed, or entertain people. He took this as yet another example of how this bright beauty inspired him. It meant more to John than he was willing to admit that Melanie had admired his paintings, though he was still too self-conscious to reveal that he was the artist.
John shifted positions and went back to work on his sketch. He took care to detail Melanie’s high cheekbones and the springy mop of spiral curls that haloed her face, loving the captivating, wild-child look it gave her.
But she’s definitely no child, he reminded himself, picturing her petite but shapely form. Closing his eyes, he could visualize the graceful sweep of her neck and back, and the enticing curves of her small but well-proportioned body. He could smell the sweet, floral essence of her signature fragrance—the classic Chanel No. 19, he was pretty sure—and for an instant he swore he could feel the soft pressure of her luscious full lips pressed up against his.
John forced his eyes open, feeling both ashamed and aroused. Since their initial meeting nearly two months ago, he’d been hiding his attraction to her behind his professional interest. It was true that Melanie Hitts was the first real source of inspiration he’d found in years and it felt good to be working with her. It was also true that she captured his imagination as no other female, including his wife, had managed to do in a very long time. John found himself irresistibly drawn to this young woman like a magnet to metal.
John put his drawing materials down, reached into his trouser pocket, and retrieved the single black pearl he always kept with him. He stretched open his palm and watched the small dark sphere roll around his hand, thinking it to be the perfect metaphor for Melanie Hitts—exotic, unique, precious, and highly sought after.
He returned to work on the portrait, further defining Mel’s almond-shaped eyes, taking special care to include the tiny sparkle that appeared each time she smiled. As he sketched, it dawned on him that his interest in Melanie went far beyond the surface physical attraction. He very much wanted to see her again and find out what was hiding behind those incredible eyes and that enchanting smile.
This nagging desire dragged him over to the phone and prompted him to dial Melanie’s number. As it rang, John rehearsed the reason for his call, wanting to sound convincing, though he was fearful that she would see right through his flimsy excuse. He took a deep breath when she answered the phone.
“Jax. It’s John. I’m sure you’re on your way out, being this is Friday night…” he quickly and rather awkwardly blurted out.
Melanie felt herself smile. She liked when he called her by this special nickname.
“Actually, I just got in from the office and plan to spend an exciting evening going through some art books.”
“I admire your work ethic,” John told her, feeling silly and grateful that she was staying home. “In fact, that’s why I’m calling. I was hoping we might be able to meet tomorrow. I’m planning to go over to the Museum of Modern Art for a little inspiration and it occurred to me that you should join me. You know, to help narrow down our twelve artists,” John added, not wanting Mel to think he was asking for a date.
“I love MoMA, but…”
“I know it’s Saturday, but it’s impossible for me to get away during the week and we should get this nailed down. Plus, we really need to discuss the rooftop sculpture garden,” John added, attempting to use her penchant for hard work to his advantage.
“Any other Saturday would be fine, but…well…”
“You have plans,” John finished, embarrassed by his disappointment. You’re behaving like a ridiculous teenager, he scolded himself.
“I was going to do some antique shopping tomorrow.”
“For a client?” John asked, knowing interior decorators often scoured vintage stores and flea markets on behalf of their customers.
“No, for me. I guess it’s time to come clean and admit that I am a flea market hag with a serious addiction to vintage jewelry.”
“A jewelry addict maybe, but certainly no hag,” John joked, as he quickly plotted his next move. “Look, I’m on a roll right now and I hate the idea of losing my momentum, but to go any further we really need to make some decisions and we have to make them be
fore the Thanksgiving break next week. So, at the risk of being pushy, how about I invite myself along? We can talk shop while you…well, shop.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” she asked with slight trepidation. Usually Mel liked to go alone so she could browse at her leisure, but how could she refuse him?
“Not if you don’t.”
“Okay, then, let’s meet at 112 West Twenty-fifth Street. Nine o’clock?”
“Perfect.” John smiled at the idea of seeing her again. The museum could certainly wait until next week.
“John, please don’t be late. The early bird gets all the tasty worms.”
“I’ll be there,” John assured her, looking down at her sketch. He had no intention of making himself wait any longer than necessary to see her.
By 8:40 A.M. John was waiting for Melanie to arrive. He distanced himself from the small crowd beginning to assemble, all eagerly waiting to see what treasures the past held for them. John peered across the street and, abandoning his usual habit of studying the architectural details of the surrounding buildings, allowed himself to get lost in his thoughts of Melanie. All last night, he had tried to block their meeting from his mind—knowing that such romantic reveries were inappropriate for a man in his situation. But the harder he tried not to, the more his mind and imagination insisted, and John felt himself being overtaken by a sensation he hadn’t experienced in decades—giddy nervousness brought on by sweet anticipation.
These sophomoric feelings were as delightful as they were outrageous. John had lived half a century and been married nearly a quarter of one. At his age, with his abundance of worldly life experience, he should be well past the time of sweaty palms and schoolboy crushes. But here he was, standing on the corner, feeling his heart go pitter-patter at the sight Melanie Hitts, and loving every minute. John watched as her denim-clad body approached, enjoying the slight sway of her hips caused by the three-inch heels on her boots.
“Been waiting long?” Mel asked, looking up at him. Even in high heels Mel was such a tiny thing, but in their brief acquaintance John had learned that her diminutive size in no way detracted from her dynamic strength.
“Not really. Shall we go inside?” he suggested as they blended into the rest of the shoppers and shuffled their way up and into the building. “This is a first for me,” he admitted.
“Then today I dub you an honorary lord of the fleas,” Mel joked, playfully tapping his shoulder. “Now let me give you the short list of rules.”
“Should I take notes?”
“Nah. The two most important things you should know are: Don’t be overenthusiastic about something or the price will go up, and don’t pay more than fifty bucks for anything unless you really know it’s a score. Bottom line: If it makes your heart sing and the price is right, buy it.”
“Sounds a lot like dealing with building suppliers,” John said.
“Exactly. Today, we are searching for charms,” Mel announced, holding up a heavy gold-bearing bracelet. “Now try to keep up,” she added playfully as she headed for a table laden with tempting trinkets and brilliant baubles. Gone from her eyes was the warm and seductive twinkle that brought John’s forgotten emotions alive. In its stead was the steely-eyed coldness of a ruthless, experienced shopper.
Melanie quickly cast her knowing glance over the shiny offerings, but nothing captured her attention so she didn’t linger. With John following, Melanie hurried to the next aisle of tables set up in the converted garage. “This is the good stuff,” she whispered before stopping at a table covered with black velveteen trays stuffed with rings, charms, bracelets, and pins—each piece of estate jewelry posing the difficult question: to buy or not to buy?
John watched as a poker-faced Melanie quickly perused the table, stopping several times to pick up and inspect the merchandise. As his eyes followed Mel’s hand reaching for an art deco diamond ring, he saw a glittery pin that caught his attention. It was a combination of baguette rubies and round diamonds wrapped around what resembled a scepter encrusted with tiny pearls. He had no idea if the stones were genuine or faux, but it didn’t matter. His interest was in the architectural flow of its design. Through his professional eyes he saw an alluring and uniquely curved staircase flanked by glistening banisters. Automatically his professional mind replaced the fiery rubies with glass blocks lit by fiber optics for sparkle and anchored by expanded steel. He then picked up an antique sapphire ring whose intricate carvings on its shank and gallery immediately conjured up visions of dramatic ceiling details and other decorative possibilities.
On impulse John purchased the ruby pin and then continued to browse with a renewed interest. Though he’d given Sharon a pirate’s bounty in gems over the years, he’d always had his jeweler pick things out, never really paying attention to his choices. Never before had he noticed how much the design of jewelry and architecture had in common. Both utilized line, form, and function to create beautiful, livable art. He smiled as he realized how this simple shopping expedition had turned into an inspired adventure. And he knew just whom to give credit to.
John caught up with Melanie at a table teeming with exquisite antique evening bags. He watched her inspect a small beaded purse and gently finger the stones embedded in the frame. “I’ll give you seventy-five dollars,” she announced nonchalantly.
“This bag is circa 1930. Three hundred,” the man behind the table replied.
“One hundred,” Mel countered. The two continued to haggle, but could not come to a financial meeting of the minds.
“Too much,” Mel announced, declining the man’s best price of $225. She handed back the purse and walked away. John could see that she was disappointed, but intent on sticking to her budget.
“I’ll give you two hundred,” John said once Mel was out of earshot. It was the least he could do to thank her for bringing him here to help replenish his creative well. “I’ll take this one too,” he announced, pointing to the small mother-of-pearl clutch with a turquoise-encrusted clasp that had called out to him, proclaiming itself to be the perfect Christmas gift for Sharon.
After nearly three hours of browsing and bartering, John and Melanie walked through the exit doors as satisfied customers and headed for the closest restaurant to have lunch.
“I can’t believe I found a complete set of milk-glass dishes for twelve. The Hawkinses are going to love them,” Mel said.
“Relatives?”
“No, though they feel like they are. They’re a family I try to help out whenever I can. It makes me feel good—you know, spread the wealth a bit. Speaking of which, your wife is going to love that clutch. Lucky girl. I can’t believe that guy sold my purse before I could get back around to him. So much for my haughty take-it-or-leave-it attitude.”
“You know the rules. If it makes your heart sing, buy it,” John repeated Mel’s words with secret pleasure. Feeling awkward about giving her a gift for no apparent reason, he’d decided to surprise her with it for Christmas.
“Which is exactly why I snatched up this lovely,” she proclaimed, holding up a tiny gold tube of lipstick that actually retracted like the real thing. “They don’t make intricate charms like this anymore. That’s why I love the old stuff.”
“As a man some might describe as ‘old stuff,’ I thank you for the compliment.” John smiled, flashing his dimples.
“You’re not old. You’re seasoned,” Melanie replied, returning his grin. John Carlson was definitely no senior citizen. Mel estimated him to be at least fifteen years older than her, yet he was more energetic, curious, and fit than many men she knew her own age.
“So, what got you interested in vintage jewelry?” he asked after they ordered lunch.
“I always loved rummaging around in Grandy’s jewelry box when I was a little girl. She was quite the socialite and for each piece she owned there was always some fascinating story behind it. Now I look at every antique and wonder what kind of life it led before it landed in my hands,” Melanie explained.
&nb
sp; “I have to admit that I was inspired by some of the designs I saw today—particularly the estate pieces.”
“I know what you mean. The rings and bracelets, especially from the twenties and thirties, are amazing works of craftsmanship.”
“I saw you examining the diamond rings,” John said, setting himself up to take the plunge. “Tell me why an attractive woman like you isn’t showing off her own engagement ring.”
“Long story.”
“Well, I’ve got all afternoon and an entire cheeseburger to go,” John prompted in a blatant attempt to satisfy his curiosity.
“I was engaged but broke it off earlier this year,” Mel conceded softly.
“I can see by your expression that it must have been a difficult decision.”
“It was…`in many ways. Will is really a terrific man, but we hadn’t dated very long, and as it turned out, there was a lot he didn’t understand about me,” Melanie admitted. “I can’t really blame him. Most days I don’t even know myself.”
“Getting to know yourself is a lot like building a skyscraper—with each new floor you add, the view changes.”
“Yeah, but from my vista, I still feel like a bungalow on a block of high-rises.”
“Sometimes when you’re on the inside looking out, it’s hard to remember what an impressive addition you are to the landscape,” John offered as both advice and a compliment.
“Maybe, but I think I’ve always felt out of place.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“In Richmond, Virginia, until I started high school and my parents moved to the Washington, D.C., area.”
“What made you feel so out of place?” John inquired with genuine interest.
“Just about everything—school, religion, clothes, family values.”
“That’s sounds heavy.”
Mel proceeded to reveal to John how she found little inspiration in the traditional family values that had obviously worked well for over five generations of her people. But then again, none of the Hitts women had aspirations of being anything more than happy homemakers. While some had dabbled in the workforce, they’d all gladly given up their jobs once married, proudly excelling in their roles as wives and mothers. Old-fashioned as it might seem, even her sister Francesca had bought into the family legacy. Only Melanie had postponed marriage for the sake of her career.
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