Putting her head just over his heart, she closed her eyes and listened to its steady, reliable rhythm.
~16~
Donovan Simmons was one of the premier Black attorneys in Washington DC. His stature on the East Coast was what Johnnie Cochran’s had been out West, all those years ago. His high-dollar practice was made on clients who were high-profile and of dubious character, but like Cochran, he had another practice; that one championing the causes of people who were ‘fighting City Hall’ suing police departments, and bringing civil rights cases against states’ attorneys and the like.
A man whose meetings were made in half-hour increments, Donovan Simmons could have no conceivable reason to need a fundraiser and political consultant that Ryann could think of unless he was planning a run for office. And if he was, she wanted in on that. So, when his assistant had called seeking a lunch meeting with her (which meant an hour, possibly more!) of course Ryann had accepted.
They were in the Capital Grille, where the food was decent, and the wait wouldn’t drive you to want to yank your hair out at the roots. Washington DC power brokers lunched there when they didn’t mind, or wanted to be seen by other power brokers, so Ryann dressed in her most conservative dark-blue pantsuit, and a ruffled cream-colored blouse. Her hair, she kept smooth and sleek, and her makeup was understated. If one of his colleagues happened to notice Donovan Simmons, she wanted them to be curious about her, and ask him about her later. Whether the meeting with him bore fruit or not, she intended to milk this public appearance for possible dividends with prospective clients later.
“Ryann, I’m eating light today,” Donovan Simmons said, still looking down at the menu. “Probably just the salmon Caesar salad. But you should feel free to get whatever you want. My wife has me on this stupid diet.”
He patted his already trim midsection and winked at her. Donovan Simmons, like many men of his influence, had a penchant for marrying beneath him. Not in the social class sense, but in the personal accomplishment sense. His present, and third wife, was a former Miss Washington DC, a pretty girl with all the rumored-intelligence of a very dim lightbulb. To keep herself busy, she taught a yoga class at a Washington Sports Club outlet.
“Well, Donovan,” Ryann smiled back at him. “I am definitely not on a diet, so I think I’ll have the Chilean sea bass with a green salad on the side. And the French onion soup to start.”
He looked up at her smiling, apparently appreciative of her brazen appetite. Ryann was happy he’d used her first name because being able to leave this lunch on a first-name basis with him would, by itself complete her day’s work.
“Now if we can only get this server to pay us some attention …” He looked around and tried to catch someone’s eye. And he did. But not their server. No fewer than three other diners at other tables nodded their acknowledgement. Donovan did the same then turned to face Ryann again.
“I guess she’ll show up sooner or later,” he said. “Anyway …” He made a steeple with his fingers. “I may as well get down to it, and let you know why I asked for this meeting. I’m sure you’re a busy woman.”
Ryann smiled at his graciousness. Between them, there was no question who the really busy one was.
“Word on the street is that you’ve taken on a project to help a young Hollywood mogul develop a foundation to help support work for the formerly-incarcerated.”
“Well the word on the street is a little exaggerated,” Ryann said. “It’s true I helped secure funding for an organization I’m on the board of …”
“Coalition of One Hundred. Yes, I’m familiar with them.”
“Yes. And it’s true that the funding came from someone in the movie industry. But beyond that, nothing else is set in stone.”
Donovan Simmons shrugged. “In my world, even the things set in stone are never set in stone. But is it true you might be helping him establish a foundation?”
“I’m not a non-profit attorney, so no. But if this client were to ask for my help, I would connect him with attorneys I know and have them handle that. On the strategic side, however, I’d certainly want to be part of his thinking about how to craft a mission, and …”
“Great.” Donovan clapped his hands together. “That’s what I was hoping to hear. So here’s the deal. If he does go down that path, I’d be happy to connect him with some of the best in the business. My firm doesn’t do that kind of law, but I know some great people.”
“I appreciate it. But …”
“Why would I do this?” He anticipated her question and smiled, nodding.
Just then, their server arrived, with effusive apologies for the wait, and took their orders. Ryann gave hers and was listening to Donovan explain precisely how he wanted his salmon cooked when she felt a very familiar, but unwelcome sensation.
“Okay, so here’s the thing,” Donovan leaned in when they were alone again. “The strategic, visioning part is where we need help.”
“I’m sorry,” Ryann said shaking her head, trying not to sound distracted. “Who is the ‘we’ we’re talking about?”
“My wife and I,” Donovan said. “She wants to get more into the charity scene here, but she’s had a few … challenges.”
Her “challenges” had been well-documented, on a silly limited-run reality series the stupid girl had participated in. After that hot mess, no one of any real note in Washington DC society was willing to offer her a leg up as she tried to make her name as a charity doyenne.
“I’ve been trying to explain to her that she’s not making any headway because she’s been … dabbling. And that she needs to find a cause. One cause. And commit to it, and show a little focus.” Donovan reached for his water and took a long sip, as though realizing too late that his exasperation was evident. “Anyway, I don’t need to tell you. I’m preaching to the choir here, I’m sure.”
Ryann smiled politely. “Yes. But if you don’t mind my asking, why is your wife not with us at this lunch if this is about her charity involvement?”
Donovan laughed, showing his almost blindingly white, too-straight teeth. He was well-tended, rather than handsome. He had the complexion of a man who got facials, neatly-trimmed nails that screamed ‘weekly manicure’ and perfectly-shaped hair and beard that could only have been achieved by a master barber. For someone who was basically average-looking, he had succeeded in making himself stand out.
“Good question,” he said. “Well, Chrissy had a class to teach, so I’m playing her errand boy on this one.”
There was an edge to his tone that made Ryann suddenly very sure that this third marriage of Donovan Simmons’ would not last.
“Fair enough,” Ryann said. “I’m happy to talk through a few ideas with you, but ultimately, I think this is something I would have to discuss with your wife, directly.”
“Of course.”
“And … if you’ll excuse me a moment, I’d like to go wash my hands before our lunch gets here.”
Donovan stood as she left the table.
Trying not to trot to the Ladies Room, Ryann muttered under her breath as she skirted between the tables: shit, shit, shit!
Once in a stall, she unzipped then yanked down her pants, then her pantyhose and underwear. And just as she’d suspected and feared, there was a bright red stain, the size of a quarter, in the middle of the crotch. Exhaling, she put the back of a hand to her forehead and then reached for her purse, hanging by the hook on the stall door. Digging inside, she found a lonely, withered panty-liner and a mini-tampon.
For the first day of her periods, mini-tampons would not do. She needed the industrial-sized ones that could plug a gushing garden-hose. But since she had nothing of the sort on hand, this would have to do, along with a sizeable wad of toilet paper until she could get to the CVS near her office, or make her way home. Because along with copious amounts of blood, her periods brought cramps. Excruciating, debilitating, cramps.
Feeling her eyes begin to sting, with disappointment and frustration, Ryann set about
getting herself in order. She wiped herself clean, inserted the ridiculously inadequate tampon, dabbed her underwear of any excess blood, applied the panty-liner and then fashioned a makeshift maxi-pad out of toilet paper. Once she’d done all that and righted her clothes again, she went out to wash her hands, apply a fresh coat of lipstick and compose herself.
Of all the things she felt like doing, going back out to face Donovan Simmons and help him on his quest to make his wife a more consequential human being was not among them. What she wanted was … Spencer.
The thought took her off guard.
At times like this, she generally wanted to talk to Ivy. And of course, Spencer would only be disappointed as well, which would only make her feel worse. That made the urge to see him even more perplexing.
Taking one last, deep breath, Ryann applied lotion to her hands, and stared at her reflection in the mirror to make sure she looked completely unflappable. Then she went out to finish her lunch meeting.
“Got-damn! Who is this?”
Spencer looked up, just as two of his men leaned out of the second-floor window of the six-unit apartment building they were remodeling. Today they were gutting the last of the apartments, tossing refuse and rotten wood out of the third-floor windows and down into the dumpster below.
Most days, Spencer wouldn’t be doing this work, but when he got tired of pushing paper and sitting in an office, he liked to get out to his primary site and get his hands dirty. This morning, after his workout, he had eschewed the office altogether and put on some old jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, grabbed his gloves and hard-hat and made his way to the site. It was an old building, near the Convention Center in one of hold-out neighborhoods that was on the fringes of, but never quite participating in, the DC real estate boom.
Traffic on the street was slow and sparse, and foot-traffic even more so. Spencer, out of boredom rather than real curiosity, went to see who they were talking about and squinted when he did. Ryann?
“Wait. I think she comin’ this way,” Jerrell, the foreman said. “Look at the …”
“Shut up,” Spencer said, beginning to peel off his gloves. “Watch your mouth, too, when she gets here.”
Jerrell and the other kid, Porter, clammed up immediately, and Spencer turned, grabbing a hard-hat and took the stairs two at a time to get outside before she breached the chain-link fence and made it onto the property. He got there just as she was fidgeting with the latch, and opened it for her.
“Hey,” she said, her voice flat.
“What’s up? How’d you find me?” Spencer leaned in and kissed her briefly on her jaw. She smelled like lemons and sunshine.
“The girl in your office told me,” she said sourly.
“You look nice.” He looked her over in the dark-blue tailored suit that hugged her curves, the jacket a cropped number that flared at her waist and accentuated the shapely behind that he’d just warned Jerrell against commenting on. “What’s up?”
“You already asked me that,” Ryann snapped. “Why? I can’t just come see you?”
Spencer recognized this tone. This was her ‘I-want-to-start-some-shit’ tone. And since she had come all the way here to start it, he had a feeling nothing he said, no number of compliments of her outfit, or anything else was going to be able to stave it off.
“Want to come in and see what we’re workin’ on?” he asked, ignoring the question that hadn’t even been a question.
She shrugged, and Spencer fitted the hard-hat on her head.
“Spencer! What the …” She lifted it off immediately and shoved it back at him. “It’ll mess up my hair! And I don’t know whose sweaty-ass head’s been in there!”
Taking a deep breath, he looked up at the sky, chewing on the corner of his lower lip.
“You can’t come on the site if you don’t wear it,” he said.
“Then I won’t come on the site.”
Ryann turned on her heel, beginning to stalk back toward her Mercedes, parked across the street. Spencer was tempted to let her go, but knew full well that the entire purpose of her trip had been to show him she was unhappy about something, and now, it would be his job to try to pry out of her exactly what that was.
Trotting to catch up with her, he managed to grab her by the waist just as she had her hand on the door handle of the car, poised to open it.
“Hey, hey!” he said. “C’mon now. Why you bein’ so salty?”
“Who’s being salty?” she said. “I just don’t feel like …”
“Ryann,” he said firmly, raising his voice. “Stop.”
And to his surprise, she stopped.
“I get it,” he said. Leaning in, he pulled her against him, resting his chin atop her head. “Something messed your day up. But that doesn’t mean you get to come here just to mess up mine. Now what happened?”
Ryann stood still for a moment, and then—surprise on top of surprise—Spencer felt her arms come up and around his waist. “You smell like mold,” she murmured.
“Because I’m out here doin’ real manly-type work,” he said, grinning. “You’d smell like crap too. You don’t even want to know some of the stuff folks leave behind when they …”
“I got my period,” Ryann said in a rush.
Spencer froze and then pried himself loose, holding her a little bit away from him.
“Okay? So …”
“Spencer, we’re trying to get pregnant. A period is not good news. Why are you taking this so well? Unless you don’t really want …”
“Stop, Ryann,” he said again. “Calm down.”
She took a breath and looked off to the side, away from him, out into the middle distance.
“So what if it doesn’t happen right away? We’re having fun tryin’ aren’t we?”
A small smile crossed her lips. He kissed her on the temple.
“I was in the middle of a business lunch,” she said. “An important one. And then I felt it, and after that, I couldn’t even concentrate. I just … I’m done for the day.”
“Go home, then.”
“I don’t want to go home. I want to … wallow. And I want you to do it with me.”
Fishing in his back pocket, Spencer pulled out his keys and separated one from the bunch. “Here,” he said. “Then go to my place. It’s closer. Chill out till you feel better and then go back to work, go home, do whatever you want. But no, I don’t plan to wallow with you.”
Ryann looked up at him. “You’d let me loose in your house while you’re not there?”
“I’m an open book, baby. Ain’t nothin’ you gon’ find that I wouldn’t tell you about.”
Ryann gave him the side-eye. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
“I might,” she said after a moment. “Just to take a nap or something. I need to stop at CVS anyway and get some …” She broke off and shook her head. “I thought I was going to be done with all that.”
“Yeah, well we have been gettin’ it in,” Spencer said smirking at her.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” Ryann said. “Looks like all the action stops when you’re not there.”
Spencer glanced over his shoulder and saw that Jerrell and Porter were still at the window, their gazes fixed on what probably looked like a very interesting exchange.
“I’ll probably be there when you get home,” Ryann said tiredly. She unlocked the car and got in. Spencer watched her pull away, and waited until she was out of sight before he went back in.
Upstairs, Jerrell and Porter had begun working again.
“Damn, boss,” Jerrell said. “I ain’ gon’ lie …”
“Yeah, yeah. Just shut up,” Spencer said again. But this time he was smiling.
Dropping the takeout bags on the kitchen counter, Spencer listened for sound coming from any other part of the house, but heard nothing. Ryann’s shoes were near the front door, and her pocketbook was on the kitchen counter. It gave him a strange feeling seeing them there. Almost like déjà vu.
&nb
sp; Heading up to the bedroom, he picked up her suit jacket from where she’d draped it over the knob at the corner newel post. Her pantyhose and pants were on the floor at the threshold of the bedroom, like a trail of breadcrumbs. And next to them, closer to the bed was a bag from CVS, which contained various and sundry items including a pair of white cotton panties.
And at the center of his bed, still unmade from this morning, was Ryann, sleeping. Curled up on her side in only her blouse and underwear, she had her knees pulled almost up to her chest. At the crotch of the underwear was a copper-colored stain, and the unmistakable outline of a very bulky maxi-pad.
Sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, Spencer folded her pants and jacket and lay them next to him. When you had a woman lying in your bed, not naked and waiting for some action, but wearing a feminine hygiene product and some stained drawers, shit was beginning to get real. It was official now. His life was lightyears away from what it used to be.
“Damn,” he muttered quietly.
But he hadn’t been quiet enough, because Ryann moaned and turned over onto her back. Through bleary eyes she looked at him, and then moaned again.
“Hi,” she murmured. “What time is it?”
“After six.”
“Are you serious?” She pushed herself to a sitting position. “I slept for four hours?”
“Looks like it.” Spencer touched and then held one of her bare feet, absently massaging the sole. “How d’you feel?”
“The way I always feel on my first day. Like someone is trying to bleed me to death. Like all my energy’s been drained, someone’s stomping on my stomach and wringing me into a ball from the inside out. And my back hurts like hell, too.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah. Worse.” Ryann fell onto her side once again, and when Spencer pulled his hand away, she lifted her head. “No. Don’t stop. That feels good.”
So, he took her foot once again, this time massaging it with both hands.
The Lover Page 16