by Donna Hill
It had been a few years since he’d been to New York. The last time was maybe three years earlier for a business meeting. He’d hoped to “accidentally” run into Zoie then, but that never happened. He probably could have orchestrated it better if he’d had an idea of where she lived. But he didn’t.
He put on his jacket over his cotton pullover and jeans, grabbed his phone and room card key, and walked out.
The Manhattan streets were in transition from winter to spring, a time of year when you could expect snow as easily as see flowers budding and trees beginning to bloom.
There was a slight chill in the air, but the vibrancy that he remembered was still present. Yellow cabs still hurled themselves through the streets, pedestrians walked against the lights, illumination twinkled from windows and late-night cafes. Yet there was a pallor that dulled the colors. The voices were muted and the harried pedestrians walked with a new pace, one tempered with apprehension.
He found himself drawn to the place that forever altered America’s view of itself and the world. As he came closer to where the center of commerce once stood, he was overcome by the incomprehensible destruction that spread before him.
Giant craters were filled with debris, and huge cranes, like prehistoric beasts, were silhouetted against the night. Local businesses that had not been destroyed were umbrellaed by rows of scaffolding. Armed military patrolled the grounds, which were roped off with miles of yellow tape juxtaposed against row after row after row of handmade memorials of flowers, letters, cards, balloons, and photos of the lost.
The emotion that flooded him was a visceral pain, an emptiness so profound that it weakened his knees and stung his eyes. There were others like him who’d come out of curiosity or to pay homage.
The reverent silence was palpable, punctuated only by soft sobs and softer voices.
It was in that moment that he fully understood Zoie’s need to know, to understand, to tell. As he stood there, his anger, his sadness demanded answers for this atrocity because what lay in waste before him defied explanation.
Even months later, the air here was different. The scent of incineration, dust, ash, flesh, chemical fumes, buried cries, and dying hope hung like a specter above them. It was one thing to watch from hundreds of miles away behind the safety of the television screen or to see the images in the newspaper and magazines and imagine what the people directly impacted felt. But to stand here made it real in ways that the media could not.
He spent a few more minutes, then slowly turned and headed back toward his hotel, even though the last thing he wanted to be was alone at the moment. He passed a bar, stopped, turned back, and went inside.
The bar was dark, noisy, and bustling with business—just what he needed. A basketball game was being shown on two large-screen televisions, and it appeared that the room was evenly split on their favorites. He found an empty seat at the far end of the bar.
It took a while for the bartender to get to him over the din and the waiting customers.
“Sorry about the wait,” she shouted over a burst of cheers. She wiped down the space in front of him with a damp white cloth, then placed a bowl of trail mix in front of him. “Short-handed tonight. What can I get you?”
“Bourbon on the rocks. And, uh, do you have a menu?”
“Sure do.” She pulled one out from beneath the bar and placed it in front of him. “Burgers are the house specialty, but I prefer the buffalo wings.” She smiled, and her dimples deepened.
“I’ll take your suggestion. Make it a double order with fries. I just realized how hungry I am.”
“I’ll put a rush on it.” She smiled again and hurried away.
Jackson followed her with his eyes and then got distracted by the roar that shook the room.
“Lively crowd,” he said to her when she returned with his drink.
“The regulars. There’s always some game or the other on. Guess it helps everybody feel . . . normal. Ya know?”
“Yeah,” he murmured.
She angled her head to the side. “Don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.”
“You wouldn’t have. From out of town.”
She rested her elbows on the counter. “Hmm, let me guess, somewhere south of New York,” she teased.
Jackson chuckled. “You’re very good.”
“What part?”
“Nawlins.”
“Shoulda known. Next drink is on the house.” She winked and walked down the length of the bar.
Jackson took his time with his meal, and in between he got his refill and a stop-and-go conversation with the bartender, whose name was Lindsay. She was a last-year psychology major. She said working at the bar gave her great case-study material.
“I guess you must see all kinds of people come through here.” He picked up a steak fry and chewed slowly.
Pretty much. “So what do you do in the Big Easy?”
“Land development. Housing mostly.”
“Your business, or you work for a corporation?”
“Mine—well, mine and my business partner, Lennox. Started it about eight years ago with rehab, then selling properties, and eventually we secured a bid to put up a row of town houses.” He reached for his drink and finished it off.
“Impressive. Is that what’re you working on now?”
He pushed out a breath. “Yeah. Don’t know for how much longer.”
“Oh, why is that?”
“It’s complicated. Financing mostly.”
“Sorry. So, um, if you don’t mind me asking; if your project is having problems, what are you doing all the way up here?”
“My intention was to meet a friend and work out some . . . things.”
She grinned. “Oh, that kind of friend. How’d it go?”
“Not the way I planned.”
“Sorry.” She leaned on the bar. “It’s gotta be hard, you living in New Orleans and she’s up here.”
“It’s complicated. She’s a reporter. Went to journalism school at Columbia and stayed.”
“That’s why you guys . . . had your problems?”
“Started before she left,” he admitted, finding it easy to talk to Lindsay, a stranger.
“Long distance can be hard under the best of circumstances, and if there are issues.” She gave a conciliatory shrug. “You said she was a reporter, right? My brother is a reporter. How crazy is that?”
“Wow. Yeah, she was working on an extensive series on the Twin Towers. Maybe you read it.”
“Probably. What paper?”
“Hmm.” He frowned, tried to remember. “Recorder, I think.”
“The National Recorder?”
His expression brightened. “Yeah, yeah, that’s it.”
“Get out! That’s where Brian works—my brother.” She shook her head. “He told me the other night that he was working on the World Trade Center series, change in direction from his boss. Crazy.” She blinked slowly. “A reporter named Zoie Crawford had started the series of articles.”
Jackson frowned. “You know Zoie?”
“Not exactly. I know of her.”
“From her work, coming in the bar?”
“No, she used to date Brian. Small world, huh?”
“Yeah,” he dragged out the word, blown away by what she’d said.
“She must be something,” Lindsay said with a bit of sarcasm to her voice.
“Meaning.”
“Meaning that whatever number she did on Brian, it took months to peel it away.”
He wrapped his hands around his empty glass. “Zoie can be intense.”
“That’s not the word that Brian used, but I get it. From what he told me, their biggest problem was you.” She looked him in the eye.
“Me?”
“Yeah, not much of anything Brian ever did could compare to you. But you and my brother seem so different. Brian is intense, and you—you seem so laid back, low maintenance.”
He chuckled at the description. “Relationships are complicated.
People need different things in their lives at different times. I’m getting to accept that now.”
“That should have been my line,” Lindsay quipped. “You’re sounding like the psychologist.”
“Not hardly.”
“Want a refill? I’m about to make last call. We close at one.”
“That late already?”
“Yep.”
“Naw, I’m good.”
“Cool.” She pushed away and went along the bar collecting glasses, giving last refills, and tallying up receipts.
Jackson thought over the unbelievable revelation about Brian. Of all the places, all the bars in Manhattan, he chose the one where Zoie’s ex’s sister worked. He didn’t believe in coincidence. Tossing things off to coincidence was too easy, a way to disregard why roads crossed.
Lindsay finished what she could for the time being and returned with Jackson’s tab.
He pulled out his wallet and gave her his credit card.
“Be right back.” She took the card and the bill to the register and returned with his receipt. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” He put the card back in his wallet. “Guess I better get going.”
“Enjoy the rest of your time in the city.”
“Heading out in the morning. But thanks.”
Lindsay bobbed her head. “Hope you work out your business troubles.”
“Yeah, me too.” He stood.
“She didn’t get over you, ya know.”
“Huh?”
“Zoie, your ex. She never got over you. That was the real problem with her and my brother.” The corner of her mouth lifted in a half smile.
“Thanks. And thanks for the conversation.”
“Next time you’re in the Big Apple, be sure to stop by. I’m usually here Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights.”
He tapped the top of the bar with his palm. “I will. Take care, Lindsay.”
“You too, Jackson.”
He buttoned up his jacket, stepped out into the late-night chill and continued his walk back to the hotel.
CHAPTER 25
Kimberly sat at her makeup table, removed the diamond studs from her ears and put them in her jewelry box, then took off the matching bracelet.
“You looked beautiful tonight,” Rowan said as he came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
They regarded each other in the mirror.
“You always know what to say.”
“It’s true.” He leaned down and kissed the back of her neck. “But all the beauty in the world can’t hide the fact that something is wrong. You want to tell me what it is?”
“Just the stress of the whole evening. It was a little more overwhelming than I thought it would be. The people, the questions, the countless photos.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “That’s all, really.”
Rowan studied her for a moment. “Well, you are going to have to get used to it. This is only the beginning.”
“I know.” She clasped his hand. “If . . . I don’t get the nomination, you won’t be too disappointed, will you?”
He sputtered a laugh. “Of course you’re going to get the nomination. You’re the best choice. Richardson doesn’t stand a chance. People hate him. Thomas has a questionable financial past at best. Stevens, well, he might be the toughest adversary, but you have him on legal experience. The fact that you have a great track record in the city, you’ve championed powder-keg causes your entire career, and you’re the only woman in the race—all that counts in your favor.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Ro, what if you found out something about someone you really cared about and what you found out changed the entire picture that you had of them.”
He frowned. “I suppose it would depend on what I found out and if it hurt other people in the process.” He stared at her reflection. “Why? Kim, what’s going on with you?”
She pulled in a breath and turned her stool around. She took Rowan’s hands in her own. “Political jitters.” She forced herself to smile.
Rowan leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I hope that’s all it is. You know you can talk to me about anything.”
“Of course.”
He studied her a moment more. “I’m going to take a quick shower. Have an early racquetball game with Martin at the club. I’ll try not to wake you on my way out.”
Kimberly offered a tight-lipped smile as he walked away. She stared at her reflection, leaned closer looking for some sign that what that Crawford woman said was true.
Claudia Bennett. She hadn’t thought of her in years, yet she was the woman who had pretty much raised her. There had been times when she’d overheard comments about how the help, Claudia Bennett, had those same strange-colored eyes as Kimberly, and how odd, yet amusing, that was.
Ms. Claudia would sometimes sit on her bedside at night and tease her about how they were “secret kin.” It was their private joke.
What if it wasn’t? What if it wasn’t a joke? Her entire body heated, and her temples began to pound. She couldn’t wrap her mind around what it all meant—the ramifications, the fallout for herself, her family.
She covered her face with her hands, then looked up and faced her reflection, looking for any sign that she’d never seen before.
Ridiculous. Too many people depended on her. This was some attempt to tarnish her reputation, her record. It’s what the media did. Zoie Crawford was no different. This nonsense about Claudia being her grandmother and Rose being her mother was a lie. Obviously, this woman had some other agenda. And if she continued to toss these false stories at her, she would first have her removed from the press pool and then go after her personally.
She picked up her brush and roughly pulled it through her strawberry-blond hair. They would settle this once and for all on Monday, and if she didn’t like what she heard, Zoie Crawford would wish that she’d picked another profession.
* * *
Jackson zipped up his suitcase and prepared to head out to the airport, checking the room for anything left behind, when his cell phone rang. He pulled the phone from his back pocket and was surprised to see Zoie’s name on the screen.
“Zoie. Didn’t expect to hear from you.”
“I didn’t think I’d be calling.”
He crossed the room and sat down. “Okay. Now that you have, what’s up? I’m on my way to the airport.”
“Oh. So soon?”
“No reason for me to stay.”
She cleared her throat. “Listen, Jax, I want to apologize for last night.”
“Not necessary, Z. Look, I get it. Really I do. I don’t have to agree, but I understand.”
“Do you?” She sounded as if she really wanted to know.
“Yeah. For real. So, you do what you think you need to do.”
“Thank you. I needed to hear that.”
“You’ve never needed my approval for the choices you’ve made.”
She was quiet.
He cut through the silence. “Good luck, Zoie.”
“Maybe we can get together or something when you get back—when I get back.”
“We’ll see. Gotta run, or I’ll miss my flight.”
“Oh, okay. Didn’t mean to keep you. Travel safe.”
“Thanks.”
“Bye, Jackson.”
Jackson looked at the phone for a moment. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, but now wasn’t the time. The conversation they needed to have must be face-to-face. In the meantime, he needed to get with Lennox and work on how they were going to keep the project afloat, because if he knew nothing else, Zoie was going forward with her piece, and when she did, all hell was going to break loose.
* * *
“I’ve been investigating some financing options while you were trying to put out the fire,” Lennox said.
Jackson turned the steaks on the grill. His sit-down with Lennox could have waited until Monday, but Lennox agreed that the sooner they had a plan, the better.
�
��How strong are our chances?”
“Hmm, seventy/thirty. We got thirty, in case you were wondering.”
Jackson grumbled deep in his throat.
“This quest that Zoie is on . . . man, maybe if you would have told her what was at stake.” He took a long swallow of his beer.
Jackson flopped down in the chair beside him. “I know. Before my trip to New York, I was totally against what she was doing. I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t let it go, especially with so much on the line. I won’t go to Zoie with hat in hand, begging her to do something to save me.”
“Man, this is bigger than you.”
“I know that. But I wasn’t going to use our relationship as the bargaining chip.”
“Sometimes, bro, you gotta use what you got.”
Jackson took a swig from his beer bottle. “I saw it, man.”
Lennox turned his head to look at him. “What?”
“What happened in New York. I visited the site.” He went on to tell his friend about the life-changing experience and how it helped him to finally understand what drove Zoie. He left out the part about his meeting with Lindsay and what she told him about Zoie. Lennox would chalk it up to his thinking with his little head. He’d save that story for later, when they had dug themselves out of this mess.
“I suppose I get it, but I can’t get with it,” Lennox said. “I still think you should have told her about Lou Ellen’s tie to the financing.”
“I’m not going to guilt her into changing her mind.”
Lennox threw up his hands. “Then let’s go over this list.”
* * *
Zoie gathered her notes, one of her grandmother’s journals, and her phone, and wrapped herself in determination. She had no idea how Kimberly would react once she laid everything out, but she was going to try make it as easy on her as possible. She hadn’t told anyone—not Jackson, not even her mother—what her aunt Sage told her about how and why her grandmother was brought to the states by the Maitlands. Kimberly would be the first.
Before she met with Kimberly, she needed to stop by her office and bring Mark up to speed on where she was with the story.
When she arrived at her office, she realized with a jolt how much she missed everything and everyone. The hum of activity was electric and reinforced her determination.