“What’s wrong, baby-gurl,”Jethro teased, as he reached out to pinch her upper arm, knowing full well that he was not supposed to touch Charmayne with that level of familiarity. As much as he enjoyed being a white boy, Jethro hadn’t played college football and a few years with the pros for naught. He’d learned a lot from the “bros” during that time. One lesson being that very complicated maze of unspoken rules and regulations on touching that black people adhered to like it was part of the U.S. Constitution.
According to the “Black Code Handbook,” only your man, or a man you wanted to be your man, was supposed to touch that tender part of the arm in a public setting. Anybody else was subject to “getting told” or worse, “slapped.” But Jethro had never seen a black woman implement what he considered to be a true slap.
A slap in his book was pulling your hand back slightly, and rapidly hitting the cheek with a flat open palm that was meant to stun and sting. When a black woman “slapped” you, however, she pulled her arm all the way behind her. Then, with the support of her body weight, swung her arm forward, and let any and every part of her hand connect with your head, thus knocking the living daylights out of you with one “slap.” Whenever he had the distinct privilege of seeing a “slap” like that, he could swear he heard the word “WHAM” roar through the air.
“What?” he asked, holding up both hands out to the side. “You skeared one of yo’ homies gone see this white boy trying to get himself a li’l taste of that brown sugar the bruthas been hoarding all these years?”
Charmayne hated it when Jethro tried to be cool and use black lingo to hit on her. She said, “When will you get it through your head that you ain’t got it like that with me?”
“Oh,” Jethro said and sat down. “So, you think that I haven’t ever crossed over that particular color line before? You think you’re the only black woman I’ve tried to sleep with, Charmayne?”
She didn’t open her mouth.
Jethro started laughing and said, “Sugar-darling, I’m a multimillionaire. I’m handsome and I’m packing more than you think.”
He reached under the table and grabbed himself to press his point.
“And, there are some ‘sistahs’ who really think that green is the color of choice.”
“So, what do you want with me, if you have a stable of brown fillies at your disposal?”
Jethro leaned toward her and whispered in the most seductive voice he had in him, “I like a challenge, baby. I like a good fight. And I’ve always wanted a black woman who has never wanted to sleep with a white man. Just the thought makes me hot.”
Charmayne blushed. Jethro’s eyes had so much lust and heat in them she felt the need to reach for another piece of ice. She’d never heard a white man talk like that.
“You sound like you got a lot of freak in you. That’s what I think,” she finally managed to say with a great deal of attitude.
Jethro stroked the back of her hand with one finger. Charmayne moved her hand fast. She didn’t want to be touched like that again. She could feel that light touch all over her body.
Jethro laughed. He was having a ball. He would not have thought that the big, bad, bold Charmayne Robinson would blush or get shy with a man. He liked that—modesty in a woman, even a woman who’d been around the block a few times. Maybe that is what was missing from Patty Harmon—shame and modesty. And right now, watching Charmayne practically choke on a piece of ice because she honestly didn’t know what to do with him, only made his unadulterated lust for her get stronger.
Charmayne had to put this white boy in his place and fast. He was far too slick and seductive for his own good. She went straight for the kill, hoping and praying that it wouldn’t hurt their business alliance.
“Jethro, I will give you credit where credit is due. There are women, and especially white women, in Durham who would mow your wife down with their cars if they thought they had a chance to get with you. I’ve heard a few whispering about you and your package. And I will give you some ‘dap’ that you have been rocking a few worlds in this little Southern city.
“But let the record show that I have seen you dance at one or two Christmas parties. And I have concluded that you can’t do a doggone thang fo’ me. See, it takes a whole lot of rhythm to rock my world, DAWG.”
Jethro sat back and snapped his fingers.
A tiny redhead with the cutest bob hairstyle scurried over to him, pen and pad in hand.
“You need anything?” she asked, obviously impressed with this extremely well-dressed gentleman, whose face she remembered from a newspaper article that didn’t seem all that interesting at first glance. She wished she had taken the time to read it—could have used the knowledge to increase her tip.
“I snapped my fingers didn’t I, sugar?” Jethro asked, voice full of his good-ole-rich-boy drawl that had so many of Durham’s aging debutantes practically throwing their underwear at him. He took in her short navy skirt, white oxford blouse with the white lace bra peeking out, navy lace stockings, and black low-heeled shoes.
“Yes, sir,” she said with a blush, “you did.”
“How long you’ve been working at this bar, sugar?”
“Six weeks.”
“I see. Well, I come in here a lot and I want you to remember what I drink, and make sure that each time you see me come up in here, to fix it and bring it to my table as soon as you lay eyes on me. Comprende?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now go over to the bar and get me a glass of Southern Comfort with a twist of lemon, a squirt of lime, a dab of brown sugar, and no ice.”
“The name of the drink, sir?”
“Jethro Winters.”
“Excuse me, sir. I just need the name of the drink.”
“Jethro Winters.”
“But—”
“Look, baby girl,” Charmayne interjected impatiently. “The drink is called Jethro Winters, after him. Now go and get it ’cause you are getting on my last nerve.”
A tight smile crossed the girl’s lips. She took in the information but refused to acknowledge Charmayne.
“I’ll get the drink ASAP, sir.”
“Jethro Winters.”
“Sir?”
“That’s his name, heifer,” Charmayne snapped. She had enough of watching this little skeezer dissin’ her, while she tried to keep the charm turned on for Jethro.
“I’ll get your drink, sir,” the waitress said once more and walked off. She returned in a few minutes with Jethro’s drink, laid a napkin on the table, and placed the drink on the napkin. She turned to walk off without Charmayne’s empty glass but was stopped short.
“He’s married and not a bit more interested in leaving his wife than he is in making me the CEO of his corporation.”
“How would you know?” the waitress inquired icily.
“Because I work for him and he told me,” Charmayne stated and put her empty glass in the girl’s hand.
When the waitress turned toward Jethro as if he needed to do something, all he did was laugh, drain his whiskey, and put his glass on her tray.
“Bring us another round. Charmayne, you want some Jethro Winters?”
This time Charmayne couldn’t get mad. She started laughing.
“Naw, I don’t want none of that tired mess. If you are buying me a drink, get something I can relate to.”
“A Jethro Winters and some Crown.”
“Now you talking,” Charmayne said.
“You know something, girl,” he said with one of the nicest, cleanest, and most honest smiles Charmayne had ever seen on his face. “You’re not bad company, for an old mean, won’t-give-anybody-any, black girl. You’re a basketball fan, right?”
“Boy, pleaz,” she answered. “What good Nawth Carolinian worth his or her salt ain’t a b-ball fan?”
“You want some tickets to the ACC—center court?”
“What do I have to do to get those tickets?”
“Nothing, Charmayne,” he said sincerely. “Look
, I’ll be honest. If you ever give me an inkling that you’re going to give me some of that good-looking stuff you’re toting around, I’m jumping on that quick. But you have my word that I’ll work real hard to behave myself. I like your style, baby. You’ve got class and some good ‘balls’ for a girl. I just thought that you’d be fun at an ACC game.”
“I would be,” Charmayne answered him, just as serious. “But while I can take you and your mess, I’d have to cut one of those other white boys trying to hit on me. So, tell you what. Why don’t you give me a box at the CIAA? It’s a whole lot of fun and some doggone good basketball, too.”
“Can I come and hang out with you and your folks?”
“Yeah.”
“Will there be any fine sisters there interested in giving a little taste to a white boy like me?”
Charmayne just shook her head. Jethro really was something else. And even though she’d rather have her freshly done weave snatched out track by track before she admitted this—he was a handsome man. A big, rich, and well-dressed handsome man.
“Yeah. There will be some serious gold diggers dipped in hot chocolate in that box, who’ll pretend to be I Dream of Jeannie and hop out of a magic lantern if you ask them to. You do have some deep pockets, and you’re quite capable of setting somebody like that up in style. Plus, you can be fun, too, when you’re not concentrating on being ruthless over making more money than you need.”
The little redheaded waitress sauntered up to their table. She put Charmayne’s glass down any kind of way, heedless of the spill on the table. Then, she took great care with Jethro’s drink, even placing a Duke blue linen napkin in his lap.
“Speaking of gold diggers,” Charmayne mumbled.
The waitress swung around, face almost as red as her hair.
“I beg your pardon,” she said in a very cold and nasty voice. She was sick of this black woman giving her a hard time.
“You heard the lady,” Jethro said in a voice that was so hard, she could feel his words pressing up against her cheek like cold steel.
“Sir?”
"I said—you heard the lady. She called you a gold digger. And that is absolutely true. You are a gold digger and you are a slut, too. Because when you went back over to the bar and found out exactly who I was, you were all prepared to do whatever you needed to do for a big tip if an invitation came your way.”
“Sir, I don’t know you from Adam,” she exclaimed, indignant and puffing up with crocodile tears.
“Oh, you definitely know me from Adam, missy,” he argued. “Because Adam is over there . . .”
Jethro raised up his drink and waved it at Adam the bartender, who nodded back grinning.
The waitress turned around to glare at her co-worker. She couldn’t believe that Adam played her for a fool like that.
“The tips that I send his way to keep greedy little redheads off me are worth much more than him being concerned about you and your phony tears. Here,” he added as he drained a second drink and set it on her tray. “Go and get me another . . .”
She spun around to storm off, when his voice cut right through her.
“. . . another waitress before I have you fired.”
“Well, I guess you got her told, now didn’t you?”
“Seems like I did,” he said to Charmayne grinning. “You know, as much as I like a good rump in the sack with a good-looking woman, I’ve never cared much for a woman who thinks she can use that rump to control me. You either want me or you don’t—it’s just that simple.”
“So, how do you explain Patty Harmon? Because she is a gold digger if I ever saw one.”
“I want Patty’s vote. And she does this littl—”
“TMI . . . ” Charmayne said, putting her hands over her ears. “TMI!”
“What is TMI?”
“TOO MUCH INFORMATION,” she answered in a loud whisper. “Honestly, Jethro, if you weren’t always trying to hit on me, I’d wonder if you’ve mistaken me for one of the boys, with all of the ‘guy stuff’ you tell me.”
He smiled. Not a grin, or a smirk, or even a suggestive thought tugging at the corner of his mouth before he opened it to speak—a smile. His dark eyes sparkled and his cheeks flushed a soft, warm pink.
“Hmmm,” Charmayne thought, enjoying the genuine warmth of his smile. “So that’s why you have so many women and Bailey hasn’t cut you with one of those extra-sharp, overpriced gourmet knives that I just know she has lying around in the kitchen.”
“Penny for your thoughts, Charmayne,” he said softly, wondering why this black woman from the projects reminded him so much of his wife, an old-money, crème de la crème, white Durham debutante. She was about the only woman, other than Bailey, whom he respected, and whose company he enjoyed as much.
She held out her hand and started laughing when he dug around in his pockets and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, a platinum money clip with diamond chips formed into a J, and his Harris Teeter grocery store card, then shrugged when he couldn’t find that much desired penny.
“Well, I guess you won’t be getting any thoughts from me today, huh?”
“That’s okay. We’ll have other times to talk.”
She reached under the table and pulled her briefcase up on the table.
“I like that,” he said, admiring the soft blue leather satchel with Cs embossed all over it in metallic navy, gray, and brown. “Where’d you get it and would you mind if I got one for Bailey?”
“My friend, Chablis Jackson, had it special-ordered from Miss Thang’s Holy Ghost Corner and Church Woman’s Boutique.”
“That black lady churchy store all of the black women in Durham always running to?”
“One and the same.”
“Hmmm, never knew it carried merchandise that classy.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about black people, Jethro,” Charmayne stated calmly and honestly, without any intention to offend.
He frowned and she quickly moved away from that subject.
“If you’d like, I’d be happy to call Chablis and have her get you one. Any particular color?”
“Orchid is my wife’s favorite color. Orchid with purple and gray Bs on it.”
“Done,” she said, then added. “You’re crazy about Bailey, aren’t you?”
“Umm, hmm. And so few women have figured that out.”
“Then why not let them go before Bailey gets tired of your extensive whoremongering?”
“Let me see what you have for me,” he stated, face hard and closed.
Charmayne regretted that “Jethro Winters” was back. The man who had been sitting across from her over the past hour was so much more likable than “Jethro.” She pulled out the new workup on the neighborhood bordering the Cashmere. She’d lost her notes to the original proposal—which was very uncharacteristic of Charmayne—and had to go back and do some research all over again. Although this was a good report, it would have been so much better if she didn’t have to spend so much time in research at the last minute.
“Figures look good, even if the text is dry,” Jethro mumbled. “Your proposals are usually quite interesting, if not entertaining reading at times.”
He kept reading, reaching inside of his breast pocket for a pen to jot down some notes.
“My only question is,” he said, putting his reading glasses on, “do you have any other properties in mind to offer to the residents once this neighborhood has been bought out? And you realize that it will have to be somewhere with relatively new homes. Because about the only bargaining chip we have, is the prospect of buying a younger and newer home.”
"Aren’t you building some middle-income developments in Chatham County?”
“Yeah, but I hadn’t planned on making the developments all-black,” he answered.
“And what if they are all-black? There are plenty of all-black neighborhoods in Durham that are good places to live.”
“True, but I am not in the business of housing black people. I build houses t
o make money—and lots of it.”
Charmayne bit her lip. She had to remember that Jethro was still a rich white man with little compassion for hardworking black people like her and members of her family. Sometimes the price tag on success and money was almost too high for her taste.
She said, “So what you’re telling me is that we are going to offer this money and nothing more?”
“Well you can always call a black Realtor and put back into your so-called community.”
Charmayne got up and gathered her things.
“What time do we meet with the DUDC tomorrow?”
“The official meeting is at nine. But Patty got me some time with them at eight. Be there.”
“Aren’t I always where I’m supposed to be?”
“Yeah, and you never arrive on CP time. I like that in you, girl.”
Charmayne walked off. Jethro took a moment to watch that fat butt swing on out of the bar and then went back to the proposal.
Craig Utley rarely went into the This Ain’t Your Carolina Blue Sports Bar and Grill. He worked with what Lamont called “ole-skool dookies” all day long in banking, and had to have a break from them during his off hours. In fact, Craig, who truly loved the Lord and was a powerful man of God, rarely set foot in a bar. But when one of his clients insisted that they meet here for convenience sake, something in his heart urged him to say yes.
His pastor had once told them during Bible study that there were times when the Lord would lead you to go someplace that didn’t make a lick of sense at the moment. But if you just trusted Him, you’d understand it by and by. And lo and behold, if he didn’t get the absolute fulfillment of understanding when Charmayne Robinson zipped by him, lips tight and obviously mad at Jethro Winters.
He grabbed a seat in an unobtrusive spot, or “the cut” as Lamont would have called it, and studied Jethro. He was deep in thought as he plowed through a stack of papers, chewing on a pen, and glancing up every now and then to look for a waitress. Patty Harmon had insisted that they give Jethro some private time tomorrow morning, which most of the knuckleheads on that committee had agreed to.
Jethro stopped reading and frowned, then pulled a calculator out of his briefcase and punched in some numbers. He looked very worried and pulled out his cell phone and started frantically punching numbers.
Holy Ghost Corner Page 24