“Want to go get some lunch or something? I want to bounce an idea off you.”
They were in the Reston Town Center, a shopping area in a bedroom community about thirty minutes outside DC, and far from where either of them lived. But it was the only place where the theater was showing the film early enough so that neither of them needed to sacrifice their entire Saturday. And early enough, Spencer guessed, that it wouldn’t look or feel anything like a date. Though he was sure it wasn’t that, he didn’t know yet why Ryann had invited him, or what her agenda was.
She was wearing denim capris and a grey spring sweater that was long, with a cowl-neck that exposed one smooth, caramel shoulder. Though her hair was short, Spencer never stopped marveling at the different and creative things she found to do with it. Today, the front was teased upward in a cowlick and the sides and back smooth.
When he first arrived, he leaned in to kiss her cheek in greeting, and inhaled her just behind the ear, where she smelled like summertime. For a moment, Spencer thought the contact might have affected her just as much as it did him, but then she was hurrying him into the theater reminding him that they only had a few minutes before the opening credits rolled.
“Yeah, lunch sounds good. How about that place over there?” He nodded in the direction of a chain restaurant designed to look like a one-of-a-kind pub.
Their order would come quickly, and he could eat and be done with this strangely uncomfortable meeting. When he first mentioned taking her to see the movie, it was personal; this felt professional, and he resented it. A pregnancy scare wasn’t the end of the world; but neither was it something you experienced with a person and then pretended you hadn’t.
They were seated in Houston’s with less than a five-minute wait. Spencer immediately ordered a beer, and perused the menu, quickly identifying some standard fare—spinach and artichoke dip something-or-other and a plate of wings from the appetizer menu. Ryann ordered a salad and then handed the menu back to their server. In his limited experience of sharing meals with her, he knew that her first instinct wasn’t to go for a mere salad.
Maybe she was eager to get out of there quickly as well, Spencer thought bitterly. Which meant that for once they were on the same page.
Leaning forward, she folded her arms and rested them on the table. Spencer reached over to slide the sunglasses up and into her hair.
“Oh,” she said, sounding a little nonplussed. “Sorry.”
Sorry? He never knew Ryann to use that word. And in fact, now that he could see her eyes, he almost believed she looked uncertain of herself. A little nervous even.
“So, what’s up?” he asked. “I know you didn’t ask me out here to watch the movie for the pleasure of my company.”
Ryann blinked. “I do … get pleasure from your company. Believe it or not.”
The server returned with their drinks, and Spencer took the first sip of his, waiting, and fighting not to ask her why—if she took pleasure in his company—she hadn’t returned any of his calls.
“I wanted you to see the movie because remember what you said about Tone, and me doing due diligence before I recommended a place for him to do a charitable contribution?”
Spencer nodded, determined not to make things easy for her.
“I saw the movie myself for the first time last week,” she said.
He smirked. No surprise there. She’d gone without him, even though he made an offer to take her.
“And while I watched it, it came to me. Tone doesn’t just want to give his money away, he wants to do something mission-focused. Something that’s relevant to his current work, and relevant to current conversations. I think he should donate the money to the Coalition of One Hundred,” she concluded.
At that, Spencer leaned forward. “What?”
“It makes sense. His movie is about these young men caught up in a lifestyle in the streets that leads most of them to prison. Some of them for long periods of time. And your organization helps young men like that reintegrate when they come out, and are no longer young, and need help getting on their feet. The tie-in to the Coalition is so obvious, it …”
“You’re on the board of the Coalition. You don’t think that’s a conflict of interest? To steer him our way?”
“Not really. That’s one of the roles of a board member—to find resources. And I’ll disclose all that, of course. He came to me asking where he should put his money. It’ll hardly be a surprise if I tell him I think the organization that I’m on the board of is deserving of …”
“Let’s just cut the bullshit, Ryann. Why’re you doin’ this?”
She looked stunned for a moment, then confused. “What do you mean?”
“Is this some kind of … apology or somethin’?”
“Apology?” Her voice was loud. Louder than she’d intended clearly, because she looked around then leaned closer, lowering her voice to an angry whisper. “What the hell do you imagine I have to apologize to you about, Spencer?”
He gave a short laugh and shook his head.
“For almost getting knocked up?” she continued. “I’m pretty sure you were aware when it happened, that I had no protection. So, we’re both culpable on that one. For not calling you back a few weeks ago? As far as I was concerned, you were off the hook, so there was nothing more to discuss. And if it’s because …”
“Stop,” he said, holding up a hand. “You made your point. You have nothin’ to apologize for. You’re right. As always. I didn’t drive out here to spend my Saturday in some pointless discuss about some shit that …” He let his voice trail off and looked around impatiently for their server.
Ryann exhaled and shut her eyes for a few moments as if trying to collect herself. “Okay,” she said finally. “I didn’t have to kick you out that night the way I did. But it was a lot to process. Thinking I was … and then …” She broke off, leaned back in her chair, and shook her head again.
“You could’ve processed that with me. How d’you think I felt?”
“Relieved.” She answered without missing a beat. She stared at him with hard eyes, but when he stared back, she blinked and looked away.
It hurt her, he realized. Not being pregnant had hurt her. However unplanned it might have been, she wanted it. What she told him that evening, that “it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world” had been an understatement. He could see in her eyes now, just how much.
Shit. That wasn’t something he could tackle right now. That was something to think about when he was alone, and not staring right at her. Suddenly, the need to “process” alone made sense.
“Okay, so you think the Coalition is the right charity to get this money?” he asked, his tone gentler now.
The change of subject set her back a bit, but then Ryann was nodding. “Yeah,” she said. “I really do. One of the things he told me was that he didn’t want to contribute as a one-shot deal. He wants to donate to some cause that would become his thing; something that he’ll feel moved to keep working on over time. I think this issue might be it.”
“So, what do you need me to do?” Spencer asked.
“I want to bring him over to meet you and Greg, see the work that happens at the Coalition, get to talk to some of the men. I could write him up a nice report, recommend one or two non-profits he could support, give him a whole menu of options. But I don’t want to do that. I want to go for broke. Recommend this, and only this. But before I do that, he needs to see something, to … fall in love with the work.”
Spencer nodded. This was why she was so good at what she did. “The whole dog-and-pony show, huh?”
“Yeah. Maybe even arrange for him to tour the jail, to see what these guys are coming back from.”
He nodded. “I could do that.”
For the first time since he’d seen her that day, Ryann smiled. “I know you can. You’ve always been a silver-tongued bast…”
Spencer looked at her chidingly. “Now, now,” he said.
Another smile. “Yo
u know what I mean. You can be charming when you want to be, is all.”
“Doesn’t seem to work too well on you, though.”
Ryann nodded. “Actually, it does.”
For almost a minute they stared at each other, the undercurrent of their attraction rising once again to the surface. Spencer wanted to reach across the table and touch her cheek, or her hand. He shoved the feeling back down. Maybe it was too soon, because she was still … processing.
He had some of that to do himself.
“Will I see you in church tomorrow?”
Spencer lowered himself into the lounge chair next to his mother’s, which was facing his sister May’s backyard. May’s house was where his mother liked to go on Saturdays, because May was the only one among her three children who had children of her own. Watching them play was Spencer’s mother’s favorite way to spend her free time.
As the two girls chased each other and squealed, she looked on, smiling, or laughing with them, and occasionally yelling out a caution: ‘Meadow, be careful you don’t push your sister into the rose bush!’ or ‘Savannah, come away from that fence!’ May’s girls were twins, cute as buttons at only three-years old. They called him ‘Unca Pencer’ with the slightest of lisps, which only made them cuter.
“Church? Probably not,” Spencer admitted.
“Are you ever going to come back?” his mother pressed.
“Probably not,” he said again.
“Well, that’s between you and God, I suppose,” she responded. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun and leaned forward peering out into the yard until she caught sight of the twins, both of them crouching to study something in the grass.
“How you been feelin’ lately?” Spencer asked.
“Oh, not so good these days. Those treatments take a lot out of me.”
His mother was a breast cancer survivor, and still had intermittent prophylactic chemotherapy to prevent a recurrence. The cancer had robbed her of about twenty-five pounds in body-weight, a full head of hair, and most of the vitality she had had all Spencer’s life. Now, her hair was in a short salt-and-pepper natural, her frame much frailer and her spirit quieter.
Reaching out, Spencer touched her hand briefly and she offered him a wan smile.
“Does me good whenever I see those girls though.” She inclined her head in the direction of the lawn where Meadow and Savannah were now engaged in the futile pursuit of trying to catch a butterfly with their bare hands. Then, seeming to think of something she looked at him. “Heard from your sister lately?”
Joyce, Spencer’s other sister, and his mother were estranged over Joyce’s “alternative lifestyle.” She lived in New York with her partner, now wife, who was not just a woman, but a White woman, something that seemed to only add to the effrontery, though their mother had all their lives claimed to have no issue with folks of other races.
Joyce was a lawyer, and had all the trappings of a successful life that should have made any parent proud. Except that she was a lesbian; and about that, their mother said she could never be proud. Since she refused to recognize Joyce’s relationship, Joyce refused to recognize their mother. There had been a brief reconciliation after the initial cancer diagnosis, but once both women were satisfied that no one was about to die, they had retreated to their respective corners, and the ceasefire was at an end.
“Not lately. Why?”
“Just wondered how she is, that’s all.”
“Fine, I guess,” Spencer said shrugging.
He tried to ignore the sliver of fear he felt. People who felt their time might be coming were apt to want to heal old wounds, repair fissures in their relationships with family. Hopefully, that was not what was happening with his mother right now. He made a mental note to check in with Joyce, just so he could tell their mother that all was well with her eldest child.
Glancing at her out of the corner of his eye he took a breath. “Y’know what?” he said. “Maybe I will come to church this Sunday. How ‘bout I come pick you up and we go together? And maybe after that, head to that soul food place on Georgia Avenue you like.”
His mother gave a soft laugh. “I’m not planning on dying anytime soon, son. So, come to church when you’re moved to come. Not just to please me.”
“I can’t just do somethin’ ‘cause I want to be a good son?” Spencer asked, teasing her.
“Yes. You can. And you’re already a very good son. I’ve never said any different.”
Blinking rapidly and then swallowing, Spencer nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Just then, his nieces noticed him sitting there next to their Nonna and came running toward them with screams of “Unca Pencer! Unca Pencer!”
Standing as they approached, Spencer scooped them both up at the same time, and allowed himself to be bathed in kisses, and the sweet smell of little girl perspiration.
He was there, parked in the driveway just as his mother stepped out of her house, dressed in her Sunday’s best, but wearing tennis shoes. As was her habit, she was leaving at six forty-five a.m. to get to the church to help prepare the sanctuary for the early service, setting out fresh flowers, and to help place hymnals and bibles in the pews. Just before service began, she would bring out her hat, and change into her low-heeled pumps, and assume her place in the front pew, directly in the line of sight of the new pastor.
It was no longer her church, but it was the church she helped build. The one that she had been presiding over for the past decade after moving from southern Virginia to be closer to at least two of her children—Spencer, and May.
Seeing him sitting there in the SUV, engine idling, Spencer’s mother gave the barest of smiles. Wordlessly, Spencer opened his door and went to help her with the shopping bags she was carrying—one with her hat and shoes, the other with what looked like a coconut cream cake.
“My favorite,” Spencer said, upon seeing it.
“I must’ve known you were coming,” his mother returned, with only a little irony in her tone.
“I didn’t know I was comin’,” Spencer said.
“Well. I’m glad you did. Glad not to have to drive, too.”
She allowed him to help her into the SUV, and cautioned him about setting the bag with the cake on the floor in the back, rather than on the seat. And then they were on their way.
At the church, when he walked in behind his mother, Spencer saw the eyes of the other women, who also arrived early to help, light up with pleasure and approval. His mother even sounded proud as she introduced him around to those whom he hadn’t met previously, one hand on his arm, urging him forward like a reluctant teenager.
Now that he was here with her, Spencer realized that he would likely have to sit through both the eight a.m. and eleven a.m. services, which would feel interminable. But seeing the look of restrained pride on his mother’s face was well worth the tedium that awaited.
When the pastor, his wife and three small children arrived, Spencer was introduced to them as well, and issued an invitation to dinner, should he have a mind to stop by.
“My son and I have plans right after the early service,” his mother interjected. “But maybe another time.”
Spencer smiled and said he would be happy to accept their invitation, the next time he came to church. He and his mother exchanged a look, and she winked at him, signaling that she knew as well as he that “the next time” might be a very long time coming.
The service was not as tedious as he expected, probably because he knew that he wouldn’t have to be there long.
Afterward, it took only about twenty-five minutes for his mother to say her ‘goodbyes.’ As she buckled herself into her seat, just before they joined the caravan of cars pulling out of the church parking lot, she reached over, and placed her hand on his, patting it twice before pulling it away.
~8~
“Ryann Walker is here to see you,” Greg said, leaning into Spencer’s office, lifting his eyebrows inquisitively. “What’s up with that?”
“Some business she wanted to talk about,” Spencer said, keeping his expression neutral, and pushing back from his desk. No point getting Greg’s hopes up for a large donation if it might be a non-starter.
He kept an office at the Coalition of One Hundred, but didn’t work there every day. Greg, his partner, was the executive director of the non-profit, and Spencer’s day job was real estate.
Around the DC, Maryland and Northern Virginia area were dozens of properties he had bought for a song, remodeled (and sometimes demolished) only to sell them for much more than he had paid. His specialty was properties in transitioning neighborhoods, places that most investors steered clear of, for fear of having to wait too long for a solid return-on-investment.
Most people in the flipping business had the same intel he had—they knew, just as he did, when a neighborhood was changing, but in the new fast-paced market, most were unwilling to wait a year or two to get a buyer. He didn’t mind the wait. Once, he had waited three years to flip a house. But his patience always paid off.
Flipping properties, commercial and residential was his way of earning a handsome living, as well as giving back. Most of his employees were ex-cons, men who had returned home from sometimes long stints in jail and prison; men that few people were willing to gamble on.
But while Spencer was just as unlikely as most to want to take that gamble, he didn’t have to bet on long odds. His employees were almost all connected—or had been—to the Coalition of One Hundred; men who had demonstrated their commitment to changing their lives by participating in programs, classes and even counseling that helped keep them away from the lives that had gotten them incarcerated in the first place.
Twice a week, Spencer showed up at the Coalition and had meetings, with Greg, board members or potential donors. But he had never met one-on-one with Ryann in the office. She generally showed up for the monthly board meetings, after which he and Greg would fantasize aloud about how much they’d like to get next to her. Greg had no idea that Spencer had accomplished the task.
The Lover Page 7