Driving Heat

by Day, Zuri

  He settled his head against the pillow and activated voice mail.

  “Byron, I’m calling to thank you for the dinner and massage. That was very thoughtful and, obviously, totally unexpected.”

  A long pause, during which Byron wondered, Is she crying? Changing her mind? Trying to find the right words to put their world back together?

  “You are a good person, Byron, and I . . . like being around you. I didn’t expect that either. I’m not sorry for the time we spent together, but all things considered, this was probably the only possible outcome.”

  Byron’s thumb hovered over the phone face. Save or delete? He tapped a button, deciding to do the same thing with the message that Cynthia had done to their friendship.

  Delete.

  He called Douglas.

  “What do you want, dog?” is how his brother Douglas answered the phone.

  “Ten million dollars and a getaway car.”

  “See, listen to you. Why do you assume the money would be illegal?”

  “Because I know your mama don’t roll like that.”

  “Ha! Daddy either.” The brothers laughed, enjoying the easy camaraderie they’d shared for years. Unlike Barry, who Byron wanted to knock upside the head every other time they were together, Douglas was a lot like their father—steady, pragmatic, an upstanding man. “What’s up, Byron?”

  “I was calling to get the number of that attorney you told me about awhile back.”

  “Tony Jackson?”

  “I guess so. I don’t remember his name.”

  “Is this about Tanya?”

  “Yeah, going through the courts to get a paternity test.”

  “For that, Tony is definitely the man to either do it or knows who does. I’ll get it for you right now.”

  “I appreciate that, man.”

  Byron ended the call and after going to bed scrolled to where Cynthia’s smiling face looked back at him, daring him to call her. He’d deleted her message but wasn’t quite ready to delete her number. With a sigh, he placed the phone on the nightstand, turned off the light, and rolled over.

  Leah, I hope you appreciate what all the people who care are doing for you.

  33

  She hadn’t expected pain. Three days after what she’d hoped was a quick, clean break, the inevitable outcome of an imprudent decision, Cynthia felt loss, guilt, sadness, and an unrelenting feeling that she’d really screwed up. It wasn’t just the dinner and spa treatment. It was the late-night phone calls she hadn’t planned to miss, a memory of something silly he said, the nights of tender loving. It was the fact that the only person who could possibly make her feel better was the one she’d had to let go.

  In deep thought, she barely looked at the clothes being thrown in the carry-on, used autopilot to add shoes and jewelry.

  Did you really have to end it, Cynthia? And is the potential threat to your career the only reason?

  She walked into the en suite bath and pulled her travel bag of toiletries from a drawer. Whatever the reason, what’s done is done.

  She went back into her walk-in closet, threw the toiletries into the case, and slammed down the lid. “Stop it, Cynthia.” She angrily zipped the luggage and snatched it from the stand. “Enough is enough!”

  “Mom! Can you come help me? I don’t know what to wear.”

  Grateful for the distraction, Cynthia hurried from the room that seemed filled with the essence of her and Byron’s last encounter. A short time later she and Jayden were in her car, headed for the airport. During the meandering journey from LAX’s security area to the gate, she was determined to place her focus where it would be productive—her career, and her son, which meant coming to grips with her past so that Jayden could hopefully have a relationship with his father.

  “The father’s identity is part of your son’s identity, and is something he needs to know.” There it was again, Byron’s voice, seeping into her consciousness. She willed her emotions to settle, her resolve to strengthen. This wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to leave someone she cared for. There was enough of Anna Marie Hall in her to cut off unproductive feelings with a snip of reality and a clip of bourgeoisie.

  The plane took off. Cynthia vowed that while she couldn’t control thoughts about Byron, she would leave all feeling for him in Los Angeles. By the time they touched down in the City of Lakes, she felt she’d done just that.

  “Grand-mère!” Jayden’s excited shout seemed to reverberate in a house that was as quiet as a tomb.

  Cynthia’s first thought was of walking into Byron’s house to the sounds of a loud television, playing children, and his lively mother. She observed the thought as a magician would a rabbit before making it disappear.

  “Hello, Jayden.” Anna Marie knelt and gave her grandson a warm hug.

  “Hello, Mom.”

  “Hello, dear.” Another hug, but this one short and not quite as cozy. “Jayden, let’s place your luggage in the guest room. And remember, while in the home of Grand-mère, please remember to use your inside voice.”

  Cynthia rolled her eyes as she also rolled her luggage down her mother’s prized acacia walnut floors, part of a $40,000 renovation two years ago, and over a Persian rug runner that she felt compelled to explain had been hand-woven in a one-of-a-kind design. She tried to shake the aloofness of her mother’s greeting along with the demand that she be called Grand-mère, not Grandma, a distinction still irksome after eight years. “Ma is the language of commoners,” she’d explained, as if her ancestors arrived on Ellis Island and not Jamestown.

  “Grand-mère is proud of you, lumineux petit garçon,” Cynthia heard Anna Marie say while passing the smaller guest room for the larger one she’d use.

  “Excuse me, Grand-mère?”

  “Petit garçon means ‘little boy.’ You’ve forgotten?”

  Not surprising considering it’s only heard once a year, at this house.

  One of Anna Marie’s proudest achievements was the ability to speak conversational French, an ability aided by annual jaunts to this favorite country and the help of a personal tutor.

  That spattering of words is about the only thing French here, Cynthia mused as she emptied her carry-on and hung its contents in the closet. Other than a loaf of bread on occasion. You don’t even like fries!

  She turned from the closet to see her mother standing in the doorway. “Cynthia, I do hope you’ve brought something appropriate for the country club. I’m not sure I told you, but that’s where the party will be held.”

  “Where is Dad? And Jeff?”

  “Jeff is with his gorgeous, corporate attorney girlfriend—Fortune 500, mind you—showing her the town. I assured them that with seventy-five hundred square feet there was adequate room to house them, but they’ve opted for a suite at Four Seasons. It’s obvious she comes from wealth and impeccable breeding.” Anna Marie’s eyes fairly sparkled. “I’d welcome her to our family with open arms.”

  Her face a mask of peaceful repose, Cynthia’s answer was as bright, fake, and rote as a Stepford wife. “I look forward to meeting her.”

  In truth, she already envied the girl who in one visit received the one thing Cynthia had never gotten from Anna Marie: admiration.

  “Carlton is on the golf course with Fred,” Anna went on, “where he is some afternoons and most evenings.”

  “Always working on his golf game.”

  “Or so he says.”

  Cynthia ignored the comment. For as long as Cynthia could remember, her mother had insinuated her dad was unfaithful. Neither she nor her brother knew whether or not it was true, but after years of seeing him being browbeaten for the possibility, she no longer cared.

  Less than ten minutes, and she’d already spent too much time with Mrs. Hall.

  “Mom, may I borrow one of the cars? I brought something for the party, but something new would be nice. Plus, it would give you quality time with Jayden.”

  “That’s fine, dear, though I wish you’d planned ahead. Yo
u’re running the risk of being duplicated.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Once in her mom’s sedan, Cynthia felt she could breathe. She’d known what to expect from her mother and was angry for allowing the behavior to get to her. A subtle, gnawing tension, bubbling like molten lava, had existed between them for the past nine years. Unacknowledged anger. Unspoken words. Cynthia had a feeling that one day that volcano may explode.

  Taking in the town’s scenery along with blue skies and abundant greenery, Cynthia decided to heed her mother’s advice and drive to Minneapolis to shop. It was late, but she knew just the place to go, a boutique where she could always find something simple and elegant. Just then, she reached the exit for the country club. “Maybe Dad’s there,” she murmured, deciding to run by there on a whim. While his personality was that of a quiet, introverted man, they’d always enjoyed a warm relationship, another reason for her mother’s iciness, Cynthia believed. When she became pregnant, her father, though disappointed, never demeaned her but rather pragmatically helped her chart the best course of action. A hug from Carlton Hall was just what she needed.

  She parked her car, walked up the familiar pathway to the country club, and went inside. No one was at the receptionist desk, so she continued down the hall to the restaurant. Her dad and his friends sometimes stayed there for hours, drinking, networking, or shooting the breeze. Halfway to her destination, a voice stopped her.

  “Cynthia?”

  No. Way. She slowly turned around and looked into the eyes of Jayden’s father.

  On the other side of the country, at this exact time, Byron turned off the bus to take his break. He pulled out his cell phone and called Cynthia. He thought about her all morning and while he’d told himself he wouldn’t, he decided to give her a call.

  Voice mail. “That’s no surprise.” He pushed the pound key to bypass her message.

  “Hey, Cynthia. Got your message. On my break and thought I’d call you back. I’m glad you enjoyed the chef and spa and whatnot. Had I known it was going to be my last supper so to speak, I might have just sent over a pizza, five dollars with everything on it, know what I’m sayin’? On a serious tip, though, it’s kind of cold how you called me and ended everything, like—bam—just like that. It’s like what I was feeling or thinking wasn’t important at all. That was just wrong, straight out.

  “It’s all good, though. You did what you had to, and now I’ll do my thing. But if this . . . what did you call it?—transportation director—could offer a word of advice, it would be to look at everybody the same, treat everybody the way you want to be treated. I know you’re a career woman and everything, but don’t go so hard. Be gentle, like you were at around two, three o’clock the other morning. That’s all. I wish you the best, baby.”

  As Byron ended the call, the phone vibrated. “Yeah, Tanya, what’s up?”

  “A little birdie told me you brought somebody to the block party.”

  He started the bus and opened the door for the waiting passengers. “You know what they say. Never trust a little birdie.”

  “I know I’ve been riding you hard for money, Byron, and I was wrong for that. But you know I’ve always been down with you. No matter what.”

  “Okay, that’s good, but what is this call about? Do you need me to keep Tyra this weekend so you and Ricky can have some quality time?”

  “I kicked him out, told him to come back when his act was together. I was hoping Mama Liz could keep her and you and I could go hang out somewhere.”

  “Have you sent the paternity results to my lawyer?”

  “Forget you, Byron.”

  “It’s a court order, Tanya. Get it done.”

  In a few short months, he’d found out a boy might be his, met the woman of his dreams, filed a paternity suit, had his first work-related accident in ten years, lost the woman of his dreams, and now had the baby mama of one and swearing it’s two call to “hang out.” Sometimes, life could be a trip.

  34

  “Thanks for agreeing to speak with me.”

  “Ha! Agreeing? That’s a stretch.” Cynthia looked at the closed door to one of the clubhouse’s private rooms, imagining how it would feel to do as she desired—introduce the freshly poured lemon water to Stewart Monihan’s face before running out of the country club screaming like a banshee. The nerve of this man is beyond belief. Here she’d gone looking for her father and found Jay’s dad instead. There were so many thoughts and emotions running through her that the chance of keeping it together was fifty/fifty at best.

  “Okay, you’re right. When the manager stopped to chat, I knew it was my opportunity to finally have the conversation that’s long overdue.”

  Cynthia’s body fairly shook with anger. She clasped her hands together, speaking through lips that barely moved. Back straight, chin angled, anyone watching would see graceful poise. Another story if they were listening. “The only reason I am sitting here is to gather my composure because I don’t know what would happen if I moved, but I am fairly certain it would involve a physical altercation. In fact, moving that silverware may not be a bad idea.”

  Stewart laughed. Cynthia did not. His smile disappeared. She eyed the stark white linen napkin wrapped around a four-piece set of sterling silver flatware. He deftly reached over and pulled it to his side.

  “You have every right to everything you’re feeling. I just ask for five minutes. After that, if you still feel the way you do right now, I’ll never bother you again.”

  Cynthia looked at her watch, and slowly relaxed against the chair back.

  “When I found out you were pregnant, it was one of the happiest days of my life.” Cynthia reached for her purse. “No, please. I’m begging you, Cynthia, just hear me out.

  “Yes, I was married. Yes, it was wrong. I had every intention of telling you, was ready to end that miserable life. But when you got pregnant, your mom went ballistic. The next thing I hear is you’ve moved to escape me and I’ve ruined your life. Everything happened so quickly and involved so many variables: your parents, my family, the business deal with Carlton.”

  “And your wife, don’t leave her out.”

  “By then she was the least of my worries, had been married in name only for years. We met as children. Our fathers had known each other since before either was married. We attended the same private school, traveled in the same circles. Our families spent vacations together. We were friends and then, as we got older, we were more than friends. I can’t recall when the talk of marriage began, but by the time I’d graduated college and gotten my master’s, the wedding was all but a fait accompli. I loved her, true enough, but it’s one thing to be friends and another to be married. We should have stayed friends.

  “Of course, I found this out after the vows had been taken and the wedding cake cut. Two years in, I’d had my first affair. The next year was her turn. Within five, we were sleeping in separate rooms. The kids came and we stayed together largely for their sake but for our families, too. Appearances, you know, and our social status and private club memberships. I was still making my way in the world of finance and image was very important. I’m not proud of it now, but back then I would do almost anything for a successful career.

  “And then I met you. Actually, no, you met me, ran straight into my chest. A beautiful, wet, precocious, naïve wonder of the world. From that moment, I have thought about you every single day.”

  Cynthia looked at her watch, as cool as an ice cube on top of a glacier. “In the minute remaining, is there anything else you’d like to add?”

  “Yes, a couple things, in fact. The only thing I regret worse than losing you and not knowing my son is that I took the deal your parents, mainly your mother, offered: a quarter million dollars and open access to your dad’s business contacts to grow my clientele. In exchange, I agreed to exit my son’s life . . . and yours.”

  Two hours later, Cynthia carefully navigated the side streets as she made her way back to the Hall manse. One might thin
k it was because at the club she’d drank one glass of wine too many. No. It was the thought of returning to her parents’ home. Had Jayden been with her, they would have headed straight to the airport and caught the first flight west. As it were, tomorrow, no, today was her dad’s birthday and she was supposed to help him celebrate.

  “I can provide the fireworks,” she announced to the car’s interior. “That’s for damn sure.”

  She placed a hand to her mouth in surprise. Did I just curse? The thought amazed her, so complete had her mother’s training—translated: brainwashing, browbeating—been on the absolute boorishness of a lady using foul language.

  Would a lady pay the father of a child to abandon it? I’m surprised she can spell the word.

  Cynthia reached her parents’ home, pulled into the driveway, and cut the engine. She was desperate to talk this out with someone, to get the perspective of someone not involved. She thought of her girls, and wondered what they’d say about Stewart’s story, and what they would do.

  “I should have told them.”

  But she didn’t. Following her mother’s advice, she’d told no one. Until Byron.

  She pulled the cell phone from her purse and called Byron without hesitation. Don’t send me to voice mail, Byron. If you do, I’ll call again. And again and again until you—

  “Hello?”

  His voice hit her like a hug and pulled the plug on steel will. “My life is so fucked up!” she managed, between sobs.

  Two seconds passed. Five more. “Cynthia?” She covered her face and cried silently. “Cynthia, what’s wrong?”

  “I saw Jayden’s father and he told me, he told me . . .” The crying began anew, this time with audio added.

  “Stop!” The command was so forceful that Cynthia pulled half of the sob that had spilled out back into her mouth. “Pull yourself together and talk to me. I can’t help you if I don’t know the problem.”

  His stern directive was just what she needed.