by Donna Hill
Zoie rapidly blinked away the tears that threatened to overflow.
Jackson ushered her down the hall and away from prying eyes and ears.
“You don’t understand, Jackson.” Her voice wobbled with an emotion that she couldn’t identify.
“Then explain it to me, baby. What do you hope to accomplish?”
She pressed her lips tightly together. “The truth. It’s as simple as that. The truth.”
A flurry of activity at the ballroom entrance drew their attention. Kimberly Graham and her family had arrived.
When she turned to smile and greet a constituent who had come up to her, Zoie caught her first real look at Kimberly, and the effect was surreal. The eyes, the shape of her face, the dimple in her chin. She was the image of her mother—her real mother, except that her skin was the color of vanilla bean, instead of cinnamon. Zoie’s hands shook.
Jackson caught the look of shock that had frozen Zoie’s expression. He glanced over his shoulder. All he caught was Kimberly’s back. Her husband, flanked by their children, escorted her inside.
“That’s . . . her,” Zoie whispered. “She looks like a young version of Mama,” she said in awe.
“Zoie . . .”
She brushed past him and went inside.
Jackson slid his hands into the pocket of his tuxedo slacks, waited a moment, and followed Zoie.
* * *
Kimberly was immediately surrounded by the mélange that vied for her attention. Zoie stood off to the side and watched the way she moved and smiled, the way her eyes crinkled in the corner, the way her neck arched when she laughed.
She moved seamlessly among the guests, offering a word or two to everyone she met. Zoie noted that she included her husband and daughters in each introduction, and she almost smiled as she watched the twins charm the guests. They looked more like their father, Zoie thought.
“Hey, where did you go? I thought you were going to talk to that anchor woman,” Miranda said, sidling up next to her.
“Jackson’s here,” she said, without taking her eyes off of Kimberly.
“Say what? Your Jackson?”
“He’s not my Jackson.”
“If you say so. But what is he doing here?”
“To try to talk me out of confronting Kimberly Graham with what I know about who she really is.”
“Hmm, I don’t know Jackson, but you know where I stand on this.”
Zoie cut her a look. “Thanks.”
“So where is he?”
“I left him in the hall—”
Jackson walked up to Kimberly, and they shook hands. She went through her introductions, and Zoie could see, even at this distance, that Jackson was doing that thing he does when he meets anyone—mesmerizing them with his heartbreaking smile and the smooth, southern timber of his voice. He didn’t stand out simply because he was one of less than a handful of black men among hundreds of his white counterparts. He was breathtaking to look at. Period.
“Who. Is. That? The hunk talking to her?” Miranda asked, practically salivating.
“Jackson.”
“Oh, damn, girl. And you couldn’t find a way to work that out? I forgive him for whatever it was you claimed he did to you years ago—’cause we both know how you are. Humph, humph, humph.”
Zoie threw her a withering stare. “Would you stop! And for your information, it takes more than good looks and sex appeal.”
“It does?”
“Whose side are you on anyway?”
Miranda made a face and took a sip of her drink. “So now what?”
“I’m going to do what I came here to do: introduce myself and interview Kimberly Graham.”
Miranda placed a warning hand on Zoie’s arm. “Let that be all, Z. This is not the place for a full confession. Please.”
“I’ll behave. Promise.”
* * *
Kimberly finally moved away from the group that had corralled her and walked with her family to her table at the front and center of the ballroom. But Zoie’s focus was on Jackson. No matter how hard she tried to dismiss what she still felt every time she saw him, she couldn’t. He still made her heart race, still made her skin tingle, still made her want him. But she could not let her complicated feelings about Jackson deter her from what she needed to do.
No one seemed to understand why this was so important to her, why she was compelled to get to the seed of every story. There were many nights, sleeping alone, that she had asked herself the same question. It all came back to her, all the holes that she felt in her life. Her insecurities in her own family, that disconnect. She filled all those spaces by finding answers in the lives of others to supplement her own. For a while, it would help; it would salve her wounded spirit. And then the fire in her belly would get lit again, burning off the salve, opening the hole.
She drew in a breath of resolve. “I’ll meet you back at the table.” Before Miranda could protest, Zoie crossed the room and headed in the direction of Kimberly’s table, being sure to steer clear of a last-minute block by Jackson.
Miranda saw Jackson move in Zoie’s direction. She had no idea what would happen but didn’t think it would be good. She made a beeline toward him and was able to halt his progress midway.
“Hi,” she said, placing a hand on his arm.
He turned his head and looked at Miranda. The intensity of his eyes, the up-close smooth chocolate of his skin and his sexy scent made her catch her breath. A slow, curious smile moved across his mouth. His dark eyes crinkled in the corners.
“Do I know you?”
“Not exactly.”
He tipped his head to the side in a silent question.
Miranda stuck out her hand. “Miranda. Zoie’s best friend.”
His thick brows rose a fraction as he shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Miranda. Did Zoie send you?” he asked with a spark of humor in his voice.
“No, she didn’t.” She smiled.
“Hmm. Can I get you a refill of your drink?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
He placed a light hand at the small of her back and guided her toward the open bar.
* * *
By the time Zoie reached Kimberly’s table, the children were seated, her husband had stepped away, and Kimberly was in conversation with a woman whom Zoie concluded was the nanny.
She waited a moment, then walked over.
“Good evening,” she stuck out her hand. “I’m Zoie Crawford.”
Kimberly turned her fixed sunshine smile on Zoie, and for a split second her eyes widened and her smile faltered. She shook Zoie’s hand. “I feel like I know you already, Ms. Crawford. I’m happy you could make it. How was your flight from New Orleans?”
“Fine. I got in last night. I know this isn’t the best time to talk, but I wanted to introduce myself.”
“I can make some time tonight, and then we can pick things up at my office on Monday,” she graciously offered.
Zoie felt the volcano rumbling in her gut, and she felt the hot lava rise against her will. It spewed out before she could stop it.
“Do you remember Claudia Bennett?”
Kimberly’s smile faltered for a moment. A slight line drew her brows together. “Claudia Bennett?”
“Yes. Do you remember her?”
“If it’s the same person, she was our housekeeper when I was a little girl. Why?”
“She was my grandmother.”
“Oh my, what a coincidence.” She pressed her hand to her chest and laughed lightly.
“You have her eyes.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You have her eyes, my grandmother’s eyes . . . my mother’s eyes.”
Kimberly’s cheeks flushed crimson. “I don’t know what you’re getting at—”
“She was your grandmother. Her daughter, Rose, is your real mother—my mother.”
Rowan appeared at her side and put his arm around her waist, then looked from one to the other. “Something wrong, sweetheart?” H
e turned his focus on Zoie.
Kimberly’s throat worked for a moment before words finally came out. “Um, this is the reporter, Ms. Crawford.”
“Oh, pleasure to meet you, Ms. Crawford.” He smiled broadly and extended his hand, which Zoie shook.
“You as well,” Zoie said.
“My wife has been telling me you will be doing some reporting on her and her campaign.”
“Yes, that’s the assignment.”
He hugged his wife close and kissed her lightly on the temple. “Well, you couldn’t have picked anyone more deserving, and I’m not saying that because I’m prejudiced,” he said with a smile of pure love and pride.
“I think so too, Mr. Graham.” She pushed out a breath. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your family, and I’ll see you on Monday at your office, Mrs. Graham.” She smiled and nodded her goodbyes.
As she walked back to her table, her heart beat so fast she thought she might faint. What had she done? Once the words were out, she couldn’t stop herself even as she saw the look of horror and disbelief wash over Kimberly’s face. You can’t put the genie back in the bottle.
She made it to her table only to find it filled with everyone except Miranda. She scanned the room and caught a glimpse of Miranda—talking with Jackson near the bar. She needed to get out of there. She drew in a breath to calm her vibrating body and walked over to where Jackson and Miranda stood, chatting like old friends.
* * *
“I see you two have met,” Zoie said, sounding more relaxed than she felt.
“Jackson was telling me about the work he’s doing in New Orleans. Pretty impressive stuff.”
Her gaze slid over to Jackson, who stared back from above the rim of his tumbler of bourbon. “Yes. Very.” She turned back to Miranda. “I’m ready to go,” she said softly, avoiding Jackson’s pointed gaze.
“But the evening hasn’t even started. Don’t you want to hear the guest speaker?”
“I already have.”
Miranda hesitated a second. “Well . . . okay. I was really looking forward to the stringy chicken that they always serve at these things,” she said, the words laced with sarcasm. “Really nice to meet you—finally,” she said to Jackson.
“You, too.” He looked at Zoie. “Good to see you, Zoie,” he said softly.
Zoie swallowed. “You too. Good night, Jackson.” She spun away and headed toward the exit, with Miranda a step behind.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Miranda spat from between her teeth. “What did you say to her, and you really better explain what Jackson did that was so horrible ’cause he sure isn’t the man you made him out to be.”
Zoie stopped short and whirled around. “You know what, you stay. I can get a cab.”
“Now you’re just being bitchy. What is wrong with you? Talk to me.”
Zoie blinked rapidly to stave off the burn of tears. “Can we just go?” she pleaded. Her voice cracked.
Miranda stared at her friend in alarm, then linked her arm through Zoie’s. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”
CHAPTER 23
Zoie had an apartment in Lower Manhattan on the East Side, a solid half-hour drive from the venue. She was stoically quiet for the entire ride, spending the time staring out of the window.
“Z,” Miranda said as they approached the turn onto Zoie’s street, “no matter what, I’m your friend. Whatever it is, you can tell me. So what if I judge you and don’t agree with half the shit you do? That’s what real friends are for.”
Zoie rolled her eyes and twisted her lips to keep from smiling. If nothing else, she could always rely on Randi for a bitter spoonful of truth.
Miranda pulled the car to a stop in front of Zoie’s building and turned off the engine.
“It’s still early, and I’m starved. I know you were feining for that gala chicken, but we can order pizza or Chinese or something,” she said by way of apology.
“Only if I get to choose.”
“Fine.”
* * *
“You feel like talking now?” Miranda asked once the food had arrived.
They sat in Zoie’s small kitchen with six white containers in front of them.
Zoie opened the lo mein, then the shrimp fried rice, and piled both on her plate. “She looks like my mother,” she said softly. “It was like looking at my mother if she was white.”
“What did you say to her?”
“After pleasantries . . .” She swirled lo mein around on her plate. “I asked her if she knew Claudia Bennett?”
“You did what? Z, you promised.”
“I promised that I wouldn’t cause a scene, and I didn’t . . . not exactly.”
Miranda shook her head. “So then what?”
“It took her a minute . . . and then I let it slip that Claudia was her grandmother, and that her daughter Rose was my mother and hers. I told her she had her grandmother’s and her mother’s eyes.”
“You didn’t! So what did she say? How did she look?”
“She looked like she thought I was crazy and that she might faint. Her husband showed up like on cue, and the conversation was cut short.”
“Damnit, Z.” Miranda shook her head.
“I’m sure she doesn’t believe me.”
Miranda had no words.
Zoie glanced across the table and registered the look of disappointment in her friend’s expression. “No comment?”
“What do you want me to say, Z? You want me to give you a rah-rah, go-girl high five?”
“Say what’s on your mind. You always do.”
Miranda put down her fork and linked her fingers together. She looked Zoie straight in the eyes. “What you did, Zoie, was wrong on so many levels. Kimberly Graham isn’t the root of the problem. She’s a much a victim as anyone. She didn’t do any of this. It was done to her as well. She has a life and a family, for Christ’s sake.”
“And what about my family?” she lamely shot back. “Don’t they count? What about what was done to them? Huh?”
Miranda snorted a laugh. “Funny how your family is so important to you now. This time last month you couldn’t stand them and dreaded the idea of having to spend any time with them.”
Zoie pushed back from the table. “You have no idea what my life has been like. Not really,” she said, her tone softening. “For the better part of my life, my aunts and my mother made me feel unwelcomed, unnecessary, and it was all because of what the Maitlands did. My aunts blamed my mother for having a better life and resented her, and in turn, they resented me. Whatever love my mother may have had for me dried up when my father walked out. The only one who seemed to give a damn about me was my grandmother.”
“And who you’re really pissed off at is your grandmother. You can’t reconcile the fact that she deceived you. But this is bigger than just you, Zoie. The ones you should be going after are Lou Ellen and Franklin Maitland. They seemed to have orchestrated everything.”
“Untouchable. If nothing else, Kimberly deserves to know the truth.”
“Does she?”
Zoie glanced away. “Yes.”
Miranda shook her head. “You can’t go through life acting out on your hurt, Z. Do you know that Jackson is still in love with you?”
She jerked her head toward Miranda. Her nostrils flared, and she bit down on her bottom lip.
Miranda continued: “He is, always has been. He told me what happened—his version—and he admits that he should have been there for you when you were dealing with the nonsense from your family, but you never made it easy. You ran him away. I think that underneath this hardened exterior, you’re terrified of being loved ’cause you’re scared as hell. You spent the better part of your life behind your make-believe wall and hoped that no one would get to the other side . . . You figure if you hurt them first, they can’t hurt you.”
Zoie sniffed. “Even if you’re right, it’s too late now,” she said glumly. “The proverbial cat is out of the bag. And I still have a job to do. A
job that’s still important to me.”
Miranda spread her fingers on the table. She exhaled a long breath. “At least don’t treat her like the enemy. She doesn’t deserve that, and I think you know it.”
Zoie sighed heavily and twisted her lips. “What else did Jackson say?” she asked softly.
“We talked about the work he’s doing, the stuff I already told you and . . . he admitted his feelings for you, and that he wished he could do some things over, but he is accepting the idea that it’s finally over between you two.” She paused. “Is it?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Right now, I don’t know much of anything.”
CHAPTER 24
Jackson slid the card key into the slot of his hotel room door and stepped into the semi-darkness. He pulled off his tuxedo jacket and tossed it on a chair, tugged off his tie and tossed that as well.
The evening hadn’t gone the way he’d hoped. His sole purpose in getting Lou Ellen to arrange for him to be there was to try to talk some sense into Zoie. True, he had his own selfish reasons for trying to talk her out of digging up more dirt—and, more important, printing it, which would have a domino effect that Zoie wasn’t even thinking about.
But one look at Kimberly’s demeanor after Zoie left, and he knew she’d dropped one of her bombshells.
That relentless, obsessive tunnel vision that drove Zoie was the wedge that had pulled them apart. In her work, those traits were admirable, needed, but in a relationship they were lethal, and Zoie had never been able to separate the two. She was her work. The work was her. It was as if what she did validated her as a person.
He walked over to the bar and picked out a hotel-sized bottle of bourbon and filled the tumbler.
He’d planned to stay for the weekend in the silly hope that maybe things could work out with Zoie and they could spend some time together before he had to get back to work. But it was past time for him to move on. Rationally, he understood that; it was his gut that said otherwise. Hopefully, the airline wouldn’t want one of his kidneys when he changed his flight.
After he made his flight change without too much of a hassle, he realized that he wasn’t in the least bit tired. It was barely ten.
He got up from the side chair and dug in his suitcase for a change of clothes. Maybe a walk in the night air would do him some good.