Alyson and my mother wiped tears from their eyes. Denny, who was holding Sage in his arms, squeezed her a bit tighter. I did the only intelligent thing—slammed the last bit of my wine, stood and walked into the house. I placed my wineglass into the sink and rushed toward my room, where I sat on the edge of my bed and let the tears flow. After I got myself together, I began to place fresh clothing into my overnight bag when strong, familiar arms wrapped themselves tightly around me.
“What’s going on in that beautiful mind?” Jackson whispered part of the lyrics of the song he’d just sung.
“What are you doing in here?” I asked, glancing at the door to make sure it was shut and that no one had followed him.
“I’m falling for you,” he whispered.
His lips gently kissed mine. I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in his neck. It felt good there. Safe.
I looked into his eyes. “You need to get out of here before someone sees you.”
“I’ll see you at the Grove later, right?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t wait.” He crept out of my bedroom.
I stood there for a moment, still in awe that he’d had the nerve to come into my room. I wondered if he’d encountered anyone on the way out. But my trepidation was far outweighed by the anticipation of another night with Jackson.
* * *
At the Grove, Jackson and I sat on the back porch. Reclined on the wooden lounger, I relaxed between his legs. My back rested against his stomach, my head against his chest, and his arms held me tight. We gazed at the moon and discussed everything under the stars.
“You’re still going with me to Louisiana, right?”
“Yes.” I said it emphatically.
“Thank you.”
He hugged me tighter, and we remained that way for most of the night.
Chapter 15
Jackson
Jasmine and I strolled down Bourbon Street arm in arm. She sipped on a hurricane from a plastic cup, while I held on to the neck of a bottle of Budweiser. Ragtime music played as we passed by souvenir shops and voodoo stores, and half-naked women danced along the street, encouraging the average passerby to come inside. I slipped a twenty-dollar bill into the hand of a homeless man who slept on the pavement. People stood on balconies above, offering green, purple and gold beads to anyone willing to flash their breasts.
“Want some beads?” I teased Jasmine.
“No, I’m good.” She grinned and winked. “These babies are for your eyes only. But I will give the guys up there a little bit to dream about tonight.”
She was beautiful in her baseball cap turned backward on her head. She wore a sexy, cropped Oakland Raiders T-shirt, skinny jeans and sneakers. Men on balconies whistled and clamored, as she shook her hips to the music. She decided to give them a show, rotating her hips in a circular motion and causing a louder rumble from her male onlookers. When one of the men tossed her a set of beads, she caught them and placed them around her neck. Normally, I’d have been jealous and admonished my woman for being so brazen, but I didn’t. Couldn’t. I appreciated that Jasmine was gregarious and comfortable in her own skin. It was the thing that attracted me to her. It contributed to her sexiness, and I found myself rumbling with the onlookers. I knew that as much of a show as she gave them, she’d be going home with me, and me alone.
We strolled past a dimly lit nightclub, where a heavyset Aretha-Franklin-looking woman belted out her version of Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On.” Farther down Bourbon Street, people danced to hip-hop music inside of a small space.
“Let’s go inside.” Jasmine pulled me toward the loud nightclub.
Strobe lights flashed across the ceiling and floors, and the smell of tobacco filled the room. The music was so loud I could barely hear myself think. We went straight for the crowded dance floor, and before I could protest we were already in the midst of the crowd, dancing to the deafening music. I wasn’t much of a dancer, but I could hold my own. Jasmine, on the other hand, was a great dancer. She moved in perfect rhythm to the hip-hop sounds.
She would’ve danced for hours if I hadn’t pulled her from the dance floor and outside for a breath of air. Not fresh air—there wasn’t much fresh about the air in New Orleans, but it was air nonetheless. I was tired, on the verge of a headache, and had worked up quite an appetite.
“Let’s get a bite to eat,” I suggested. “We haven’t eaten since breakfast at the hotel.”
“I’ve never been to New Orleans, so I can’t wait to taste the food!” she exclaimed. “What do you suggest?”
“Let’s start with my favorite oyster bar,” I told her. “Cooter Brown’s.”
I was no stranger to New Orleans, having visited there on many occasions with my family as a child. And I’d been to Mardi Gras and plenty of festivals with my college buddies. It was nothing for us to catch a flight to the Crescent City on a Friday afternoon and make it back just in time for Monday morning classes. Hungover and exhausted, we were satisfied that we’d had the best time of our lives.
“Raw oysters?” She frowned.
“On a half shell,” I said as if that made them more appealing. “You’ll love them.”
“I can’t imagine that I will.”
“Girl, you eat pigeon peas and rice. What could be worse than that?”
“At least it’s cooked.”
“Where’s your audacity?” I asked her the same question she’d recently asked me.
“You can’t use my words,” she said. “Get your own!”
I dismissed her grumblings, grabbed her hand and led the way to Cooter Brown’s, a favorite of the locals, where they served some of the largest oysters in town. It was a casual spot with big-screen televisions and a pool table. The most coveted spot in the house was at the bar, and we were lucky enough to snag a couple of seats. We ordered a dozen oysters and I quickly downed one as I handed Jasmine one. She frowned and held it between her thumb and index finger, her pinkie finger sticking out as if she was sipping tea in England.
“You gotta get dirty with it, baby. You can’t hold it like that...all prim and proper.” I squeezed lime juice onto her oyster and sprinkled it with a bit of hot sauce. “Now toss it into your mouth.”
She slurped the oyster from its shell and chewed. Her frown slowly changed. “It’s not so bad.”
“That’s right!” I yelled over the loud conversations. “What you drinking?”
“You order for me!” she yelled.
“A couple of Coronas,” I ordered and then told the shucker, “Give us another dozen!”
We ate raw oysters on the half shell, drank beers and laughed together. I had fun with Jasmine. She was like no other woman I’d ever been with, and she was slowly conquering my heart. We finished our beers and the second dozen oysters and then stepped out into the star-filled night, where we strolled down the street toward our hotel in the French Quarter. A good night’s sleep was in the plans because tomorrow would be a big day.
“Are you nervous about meeting him?” Jasmine asked.
“Yeah, a little.” It was a lie. I wasn’t a little nervous, but a lot.
I grabbed her hand as we walked through the lobby of our hotel and took the elevator up to the twenty-seventh floor. As we walked into our suite, I tossed the room key onto the coffee table and flipped on the television set.
“I’m going to slip into something more comfortable,” said Jasmine.
As she disappeared into the bedroom, and then into the shower, I stretched my long legs across the sofa in the living area, tuned the television to ESPN and caught highlights of the game on SportsCenter. Sensual, fragrant smells slid from beneath the cracks in the door and swept across my nostrils. I heard the shower cut off. I watched as Jasmine pranced across the floor of the bedroom in a sheer, sexy nightie. I s
hut off the television and went into the bedroom.
“Very nice.” I smiled.
“Thank you,” she said and modeled her lingerie. “Just a little something I picked up at the mall earlier today.”
“Were you and I at the same mall? Because I don’t remember that little nightie.”
“I purchased it when you slipped away to the jewelry store.”
“Oh, you mean the jewelry store where I picked this up.” I pulled a blue velvet box out of one of the pockets of my sweats, opened it and pulled out the diamond necklace I’d chosen for Jasmine earlier in the day.
I saw so many things that I wanted for her, but I needed to keep things light and unclouded. I wanted Jasmine to love me for me, not for the things that I could provide for her. She had been in relationships before where she used men as a tool to get what she wanted or needed. I wouldn’t be that guy. I would give her the world, but only after I knew that she loved me without consequence.
I placed the necklace around her neck.
“Jackson, it’s beautiful.”
“I know,” I teased her, “and there’s more where that came from, but you have to work for it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah.” I smiled. “What did you think this was?”
I grabbed her small waist and pulled her close. She gently caressed my face with her soft hands. I kissed her forehead and her nose, nibbled on her neck and then gently kissed her lips.
“I’m going to hop in the shower,” I told her and pulled myself away to rush into the bathroom.
I stood beneath the water and thought about the morning ahead of me. Though just a few miles away, the drive from New Orleans to the city where my biological father served as mayor would be the longest drive of my life. I’d pieced together my speech and rehearsed my lines a thousand times. He was up for reelection, so the news might cause some concern for him. But I was confident that a man of his stature could handle most anything.
According to my research, Patrick H. Wells had been married to the same woman, Marjorie, for almost forty years. There were two children from their union. Patrick Jr. was a graduate of Louisiana State University and was interning as an assistant at his father’s office. His daughter, Leslie, was currently attending Xavier. Mayor Wells served as Head Deacon of his conservative Methodist church in New Orleans. He lived in a prominent community and was well connected. And according to a magazine article I’d read, his family was compared to the television family the Cosbys: educated, professional, successful—not one blemish. They were a perfect family in the eyes of society.
I didn’t need his prominence or his connections. I wasn’t seeking to be included in his will or to be compensated in any way. I simply needed to fill this void that suddenly lingered in my life. I needed to satisfy my curiosity about the man who was my father. I wanted to be accepted by him and his children—my siblings—and possibly build a relationship with them. I wanted to know what he would’ve done had he known that I existed. Would he have been a part of my life? Would I have spent summers and holidays in Louisiana with him and his family? Would his marriage have ended because of my mother or because of me? I had so many questions, and I fully intended to have them answered very soon.
I stepped out of the shower, wrapped the plush towel around my waist. When I glanced at my face in the mirror, it was the same face I’d seen on the internet—Patrick H. Wells’s face. The resemblance was remarkable. He wouldn’t be able to deny the truth. But would he accept it? I hoped he didn’t suffer from hypertension, because I knew the moment I walked into his City Hall office in the morning, my presence might send his blood pressure to new heights.
I walked into the bedroom, anxious to get back to the beautiful woman lying in my bed. She was curled up on the bed, a sheet covering her hips and light snores escaping from her lips. It seemed I’d spent too much time in the shower.
I watched her for a moment, stared at her beauty. She had suddenly appeared in my life and had begun to rearrange my feelings. I wanted to hear her voice and see her face daily. And when we were apart, I missed her as if she’d been in my life for a significant amount of time. And I counted the moments until I’d see her again.
I pulled the sheet up to her chest, gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek and turned off the bedside light. Then I went into the other room and found SportsCenter again.
* * *
Jasmine and I took the elevator to the seventh floor. City Hall was busy as any governmental office would be on a Monday morning. I’d chosen my best suit, the navy one, complete with cuff links and my perfectly shined wing-tip oxfords. Jasmine’s professional look intrigued me. I was convinced that she would be gorgeous in whatever she decided to wear, and she was. Carrying my portfolio in my arms, we strode through the glass doors of the mayor’s office. I had scheduled the appointment, pretending that I wanted to discuss plans for a new development project that the mayor had been passionate about. He was more than anxious to speak with me about it.
“Good morning, Mr. Conner. Mayor Wells will be with you momentarily,” said his personal secretary. “You look oddly familiar.”
“You think so?” I asked.
She stood there for a moment, trying to place where she knew me. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee or water?”
“No, ma’am. I’m fine, thank you.”
Jasmine declined anything as well, and we both took a seat on the brown leather sofa in the waiting area. My leg bounced up and down from nervousness. I looked at Jasmine and she offered me a calming smile. She’d already given me a pep talk on the way over in our rented vehicle. She’d held my hand and vowed to support me every step of the way. I believed her.
“The mayor will see you now, Mr. Conner,” the secretary said and ushered us into the mayor’s office.
I was taken aback by the view from his office. It was breathtaking, with an enormous window that overlooked the city. The office was huge, with a mahogany desk and a sitting area with plush leather furniture. His back to us, he faced the window while he finished a phone call. When he spun around in his chair to face us, he looked as if he’d seen a ghost, and I felt as if I’d seen one, too. The face was very similar to the one I’d seen in the mirror.
I wondered if Patrick H. Wells was as excited to see me as I was him. All night I’d stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, contemplating this meeting. I had rehearsed my lines carefully—pondered what I wanted to say to my father when I met him for the first time. I was prepared, I thought. Hell, I’d been through worse things. However, I hadn’t anticipated the anxiety that I would feel once I laid eyes on him. Nothing could’ve prepared me for that. My heart pounded a mile a minute, and my palms began to sweat.
“Yes. Yes, Dan. I’ll have Gloria draw up the memo the moment I hang up,” he said to the person on the other end of the phone. “You can count on it. Yep. All right. Goodbye.”
He stood and came around from behind his desk. Jasmine and I both stood, and he gave us each a strong handshake before we sat back down.
“Mr. Conner. Good to meet you.”
“Good to meet you, too, Mayor.”
“I’m anxious to hear about your plans for the city’s recovery project. It’s one of my priorities. The city hasn’t fully recovered from Katrina, but we’re on an upward stride,” he stated.
“Yes, we are, sir. I’m familiar with some of your initiatives for rebuilding the city. However, I have to be honest with you. I’m not here to discuss the city’s recovery project.”
“You’re not?”
“No, sir.” I took a deep breath. “I’m here on a more personal matter.”
“And what matter would that be?”
“My mother is Sarah Conner.”
“Sarah Conner?” He pretended not to recall who my mother was.
“Sarah Conner that you wor
ked with on the Democratic campaign in the eighties. The beautiful woman that you had an affair with.” I had to state it that way because he was still giving me a look of confusion.
“Ah, Sarah.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled a little at the remembrance.
“Did you know that when you and she parted ways, she was pregnant?”
“No, I didn’t. But what does that have to do with me?”
“She was pregnant with me, and I’m your son.”
Patrick H. Wells stood, paced the floor. He was in shock. He took a deep breath. “Who told you that?”
“My mother told me that.”
I could see that he was uncomfortable and his mind raced to process the information. “What is this, some sort of joke?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Sarah sent you here?” he asked. “What is it that she wants from me? Is it money?”
“I’m sure she doesn’t want anything from you.”
“Then why would you come here after all these years and bring this up?”
“In my warped and twisted mind, I thought somehow...you might be happy to see me.”
“If I were to believe for one second that you were my son,” Patrick H. Wells said, “I would have to ask what it is that you want from me.”
“I don’t want anything from you. I simply wanted to know who you were, so that I could have peace in my own life.”
“Did my opponent dig you and your mother up from under a rock to jeopardize my campaign? Everyone knows that I’m up for reelection, and only a few people knew about my dealings with Sarah.”
An Island Affair Page 12