He gave her a pair of basketball shorts and a T-shirt to sleep in. She cleaned her teeth as best she could with her finger and toothpaste before climbing into bed beside him.
Tucked beneath the heavy comforter, Campbell lay on her back, wide awake, staring at the shadows on the ceiling and listening to the hum of the electric clock on the nightstand by her head, waiting for him to touch her.
Donovan was on his stomach, his arms hidden beneath the pillow his head rested on, his breathing slow and even.
Is he asleep?! her mind screamed.
The comforter settled in the space between them, a space large enough to fit another human body. Was it possible to feel lonely in a bed with another person? She supposed it was.
Frustrated, she turned onto her side and stared into the darkness until she fell asleep.
Donovan got cold feet as soon as he suggested she stay.
It was a possibility—a small one, but a possibility just the same—that he wouldn’t be able to perform. It had happened in the past. His body would be willing, but his mind wouldn’t be there. His mind would retreat into the basement, and then soon after, his body would follow.
It was embarrassing, and he couldn’t stand the look that would spread across a woman’s face when it happened. The pity, most times anger.
He would have to be content with just having her there, he thought to himself before sleep took him over. Maybe next time.
By the time four o’clock rolled around, Campbell was in a deep sleep and Donovan was climbing out of one.
He shifted positions and his arm ended up on Campbell’s waist. It startled him, and he had to concentrate for a moment before the evening’s events floated back to him.
He lay there that way, arm resting on her, his eyes gliding over her locks, which were spread out like a fan on the pillow. He listened to her breathing and felt the bed vibrate when she rubbed her feet together.
He moved his hand from her waist and reached out to her locks. They were soft, and he pulled them to his nose and inhaled the sweet oil she’d rubbed on them earlier that day.
He moved closer to her. His hand found her waist again, and he squeezed the soft flesh there. He was against her, one leg thrown over her thigh, penis pressing against her behind.
Campbell stirred and placed her hand on top of his. Their fingers entwined.
They stayed that way for a while, his heart beating against her back, before she turned to face him and ran her fingers over his lips. Her eyes remained closed, but her lips found his eyelids, the bridge of his nose.
His hands fell on her breasts and began caressing them.
They moaned together.
His breath became labored as he pulled the shirt over her head and kissed her neck and the wide space between her breasts. He wanted to suckle her, but she would have to deal with the rhythmic rubbing of his rough palms for now. He was exploring the places behind her ears, her hairline, her cheeks and chin.
Campbell pulled at his waist.
Finally, her nipples lay against his tongue and the roof of his mouth.
She was on fire.
“Donovan.” She called his name when his hands slipped down between her legs.
The shorts were off and down around her ankles before she could utter another word. Donovan climbed on top of her and showered her face with kisses.
Campbell was drowning, drowning in the sea of Donovan and loving the sweetness of it.
It was her turn to undress him. She pulled his T-shirt over his head and kissed his baby-smooth chest. She gently pushed him off her and climbed on top, grabbing the waist of his sweatpants and easing it down off his lean hips.
She bent and kissed the space below his navel, and his body quivered and he whimpered. She could tell it had been awhile for him too, and she let experience and lust guide her over his body.
Donovan held on like a man dangling from a ledge. His fingers gripped Campbell’s shoulders as her tongue touched every inch of him. When he finally eased inside her, he felt his eyes fill with water. Was it supposed to feel so right, so perfect?
Campbell pulled him deeper and deeper. She wanted him to touch that part of herself that hadn’t been touched in years. She wanted to consume him and keep him with her forever.
He slid in and out of her like a slow bow over the tight strings of a cello, and they made music together when their bodies shuddered and exploded.
Lying there, breathless, warm, and full, both Campbell and Donovan were certain—completely confident, in fact—that this was indeed how it began.
* * *
Campbell jumped when the clock went off and was up and searching for her panties through the tangle of sheets and comforter by the time he stirred.
“Hey?” a groggy Donovan whispered, his hands stretching out toward her. “What are you doing?”
Campbell slipped on her panties. “Well, getting dressed. You have to get to work, right?”
Donovan sighed. “Well, damn, a brother would like to cuddle,” he said, and pulled the covers around him.
Campbell stood watching him for a bit. She was being adult about the whole thing. They’d both wanted something and had gotten it. It was just sex, right? Sometimes it was just sex.
She’d needed that, but what she wanted was something else. She couldn’t be the only one wanting something—she’d been that woman in the past.
They were both adults, and as adults she should be able to be up front with him.
“Look, Donovan,” she began.
“Hey, I know. You’ve been hurt, right? Well, so have I. Was this all about sex? No, no, it wasn’t,” he said, and pulled the comforter back and patted the sheet. “Come on. Just for a little bit.”
Campbell sighed and climbed back in beside him.
“I’m not into casual sex, Campbell,” he said as he pulled her to him. “I passed that stage a long time ago.”
They lay there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in their separate thoughts.
“Donovan,” she eventually said, pulling away from him and sitting up, “you need to know something about me.”
His heart skipped a beat. Her face was so serious, he felt his body tense.
Campbell took a deep breath. “You need to know that words mean everything to me.”
Donovan raised himself up on one elbow; with his free hand he reached out and touched her forearm. “I mean what I say, Campbell. I’m not going to hurt you, ever.”
She believed him, believed him with everything she had in her, and she stepped off that cliff of safety she’d been balancing at the edge of for so many years and fell headfirst in love.
MARCH
For Campbell, being in love was like being thrown into some type of sweet madness. Donovan on her mind at night before she fell asleep and there again when she opened her eyes.
Donovan slipping between her thoughts when she tried to work, read, or put on her clothes—she’d find herself standing before the mirror, pants, skirt, or shirt in hand, a whimsical grin across her face and no mind at all to guide her in dressing.
Campbell spending time replaying the words that passed between them, the easy silences when only his breath could be heard. Campbell thinking now that maybe she could write songs. Scribbling down words to the music that belonged to her and Donovan alone, music that her heart thumped out inside her whenever they were together.
She’s started a collage for them, adding a picture at the end of each week. There are hearts and wineglasses. Snow and moonlight. Clefs and more hearts. Two aged smiling faces, foreheads pressed together. The center is stark white, the words that need to be there have not found her yet.
Maybe it will be, will you marry me? She giggles at the thought and realizes quite suddenly that Donovan is religion to her. She folds her hands and bows her head.
She’d asked for him.
Had asked the Lord to send her someone she could love, someone who would love her back. But that prayer, that selfish request, had bee
n at the bottom of her God, please could you? list.
Before Donovan, she’d convinced herself that she’d had her happiness. When she’d had it, she didn’t know, but weren’t we so often wrapped up in what was wrong in our lives that we were blind to all the good?
Shoot, she had her eyesight, both feet, and two hands.
Wasn’t that enough?
She supposed it should have been, but wouldn’t life be even more delicious if she could use her sight to gaze on one she loved, her feet to get to him, her hands to hold his?
Yes, it would have been nice. But she put that prayer behind health, food, and shelter, and when the loneliness became overwhelming and that biting desire bit down a little too hard for her to bear, she showered.
There, closed away behind the plastic curtain of daffodils and sunflowers, beneath the rush of water, no one could hear her weep, and so nobody could hear her pain.
She’d asked Donovan once, right out of the blue, why it was he decided to come with Elaine to meet her.
He’d looked off somewhere behind her before bending down and pressing his forehead against hers; their lips had brushed lightly, and then he said, “The angels heard your prayer for a soul mate.”
His answer had pleased her.
Things were coming together quite nicely. She had an intelligent, healthy, and beautiful daughter, a successful career, a wonderful man, and two weeks ago when she stepped behind the double glass-and-mahogany doors of a three-story Victorian on Cranberry Street in Brooklyn Heights, she experienced the same feeling of contentment that came over her when she sat down to create, held Donovan’s hand, or looked into her daughter’s eyes.
This was the way things were supposed to be.
* * *
Donovan hadn’t really gone searching for it. Campbell had given him the address. He hadn’t even written it down, but for some reason his memory had held on to the name of the street.
Cranberry.
It was in Brooklyn Heights, a corner Victorian enclosed by a wrought-iron gate.
Just across the East River was Manhattan; those homes, he knew for sure, those homes went for a million or more.
He hadn’t realized that Campbell was making that type of money; it was easy to forget—she still lived at home with her mother, cut coupons, and did her own hair and nails, didn’t even have her own telephone line or own a car.
She just didn’t fit the profile, and so when she’d announced that she’d found a home and Donovan had asked where and she had told him, he laughed at her, saying that he thought she was mistaken. She had to have the wrong street name.
Campbell had twisted her lips up. Was it really Cranberry Street?
She pulled the sheet of paper from her pocketbook. The name and telephone number of the realtor were written beneath the the address of the house.
“I’m right, it’s Cranberry Street.”
He’d come upon it quite by accident and had screeched to a halt when he saw the gate and the green-and-white door she said was the only part of the house she didn’t like.
It was wide, with floor-to-ceiling windows. The stone steps leading up to the entranceway were grand, to say the least, broad and sweeping, and there were columns at the top of the staircase. Columns!
He parked his car and climbed out to get a better view. The house was just as long as it was wide, taking up more than a quarter acre and still leaving ample yard space.
Donovan grabbed hold of the gate and pressed his head against the cold metal. Were those fruit trees and a brick grill large enough to roast a whole pig?
He felt something in his stomach flip.
Jealous?
No, no, of course not, he told himself.
Aren’t you happy for Campbell—her success and what it is affording her?
Yes, yes, he cautioned himself as he climbed back into the car and shoved the key into the ignition.
Well, then, what’s that feeling stirring in your gut, nudging at your ribs, tapping at your . . . manhood?
Nothing.
Inadequacy!
The word made him jump, and he pressed down too hard on the clutch, and the car stalled.
That’s just stupid.
Is it? What the hell could you possibly give a woman who makes six times more than you do? You’ve just seen the outside of that house. Do you know what it looks like on the inside?
She told you, didn’t she?
Hardwood floors, fifteen-foot ceilings, fireplaces—all working. Three—count them—three bathrooms.
Shut up.
What could you contribute if you moved in with her? If you married her?
Donovan looked back at the house and then drove home and climbed into bed. When Campbell called that night, he let the phone ring until the answering machine clicked on.
“Hey, babe. Where are you? Well, I’ll try your cell phone. I miss you.”
He pulled the blanket over his head and closed his eyes against the chiming sound of his cell phone. He needed some time, he thought to himself. He needed to think.
APRIL
Earlier weeks had been damp and fraught with the stench of standing garbage. Sanitation went on strike on April Fools’ Day. But now, two weeks in, the dispute had been settled and the skies were clear and the harsh March winds that had found their way into April had dissolved into gentle breezes that carried the scent of blossomed things through open windows.
She’d started packing.
Winter clothing, the china set that had been given to her as a gift when she returned a forgotten wallet to a passenger. Sheets and towels that she’d purchased over the years at department store white sales.
There were boxes everywhere—underneath her bed, lined up along the walls of her bedroom, and stacked hill high in Macon’s room.
Campbell had been so wrapped up in everything else and Donovan that she hadn’t had time for her friends, so when Anita called and requested her presence, she’d agreed.
“Do you think you could give a sister a little attention?” Anita’s voice came crystal clear through the receiver.
Campbell let out a small guilty laugh.
“You’re a big-time artist now and can’t seem to find any damn time for your friends, huh?”
That stung a bit, even though Campbell knew Anita was being sarcastic.
“Danube, brunch tomorrow at three, okay?”
Campbell agreed and hung up.
It’s too cool to sit outside. The warmest part of the day is between eleven and two; after that a chill starts to creep in, so they take a table near the large pane window.
They sit there, three smiling faces with painted lips and shadowed eyelids, watching Campbell as she walks toward them, smiling, floating. They greet her with kisses that leave streaks of lipstick on her cheeks, and they sip on their water until she’s settled herself and reaches for the cloth napkin.
They’re patient for those short moments it takes for her to decide on a drink and appetizer. They’re patient because they have her for an entire meal and possibly dessert. They won’t mention the spread in her hips or the way her skirt hugs her backside, the fullness of her bosom or the plumpness of her face.
They know the weight gain is due to the tranquility that comes along with fresh love, those languid hours a new couple shares when they’re getting to know each other. Evenings spent consuming rich meals, nights on barstools laughing and touching each other in between sips of their drinks and comments to the bartender. And then the nights, long nights of pleasing one another, discovering what makes the other quiver and cry out.
When Campbell finally rests her elbows on the table and folds her hands beneath her chin, they know without even asking that she is in that warm pink place they equate with love and happiness.
Her skin is glowing and her eyes sparkle, and have they ever seen her makeup applied so perfectly, her hair just right?? Is that a French manicure, and is she tweezing her eyebrows now?
Anita is the first to speak. And it i
s expected of her. “I bet you’re even shaving your legs.” She is the most outspoken of the group. Tall and stocky with dark skin, wide eyes, and a quick tongue.
“And probably someplace else,” Laverna interjects slyly with her Mickey Mouse voice.
Porsche laughs. “Girl, I don’t think we’ve ever seen you like this.”
“Oh, please,” Campbell says, and blushes a bit.
“Oh, please, my foot!” Anita shrieks. “Now it’s one thing not seeing you. That’s fine—shit, we’re all busy. But damnit, girl, we can’t even get you on the phone—”
“Yeah, I called the other night and she was on the phone with him,” Porsche cuts Anita off.
“I—” Campbell starts, but they’re not done with her yet.
“Ain’t you ’bout ready to close on the house?” Porsche asks.
“Yes,” Campbell says.
“Well, that’s going to be a waste of money and space because you ain’t never going to be there. As it stands now, you’re always over at that man’s house.”
“I am not always—”
“Well, maybe he’s going to move in with her,” Laverna says, and they all look at each other and then at Campbell and wait.
Campbell nibbles on her bottom lip. She had thought about them being together in that house. Tearing away the awful wallpaper, picking out new tiles for the bathroom, new light fixtures for the hallways, a throw rug for the parlor.
Hadn’t she imagined them curled up in front of the fireplace, her cooking breakfast for him, sending him off to work in the morning and welcoming him home again at night?
She’d imagined all of it.
“No, we’re not going to live together,” Campbell finally says, and just the words, hearing them out loud, make her heart sink a bit.
The women sigh.
“Well,” Anita says as she messes with the napkin in her lap, “I think it would be too soon, anyway.”
She was the oldest of the four. Danube was her restaurant. She’d had it for eight years. She was married to her business. It’s the only thing in her life that she could depend on, she said. All the women knew that it was the only thing in her life that she could control completely.
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