Breaking the Ties That Bind

by Gwynne Forster

  Chapter Two

  Kendra rushed along rain-spattered Sixteenth Street, Northwest, and turned into Dupont Circle with one eye on traffic and the other on the threatening clouds. She dashed into La Belle Époque Restaurant seconds before a torrent of rain exploded from the sky, and entered the cloakroom out of breath.

  “I was hoping you’d get here a little early,” Natalie, the blonde who she was replacing, said, “but it doesn’t matter. I can’t go anywhere in this downpour.”

  “You want to borrow my umbrella?” Kendra asked her.

  “Thanks, but I don’t think an umbrella would do much good. Just look at that.”

  “I hope you’re not missing something important,” Kendra told her. She liked Natalie, for Natalie had befriended her on several occasions.

  “I have a doctor’s appointment. You’re such a terrific person, Kendra. Find a way to get out of this job. You’re too smart for it. I’m here because I can go to school mornings, work afternoons, and I live in Laurel, Maryland. I don’t get much sleep, but I’ll graduate in June, and then this torture will be a thing of the past.”

  “I’m working here to save enough money to go back to Howard and finish my undergraduate degree. Considering the tips, it’s the best job I’ve been able to find.”

  “I’m glad to know you have a plan, and I wish you the best.”

  “It’s stopped raining, so you may still be able to make your appointment on time.”

  “Thanks.” Natalie hooked her purse strap over her shoulder, started out of the cloakroom, and then turned and looked at Kendra. “If you pray, please pray for me. I think I may be pregnant.”

  “Oh, Lord no. If you are, what about the father?”

  “I thought we had a good thing going, but when I told him what I suspected, he told me he was married. I wanted to kill him. Even if I find I’m not pregnant, he’s history. How can a man pull such a rotten trick on a woman? We’ve been seeing each other for eleven months.”

  “If you are, are you going through with it?”

  “Considering how much I hate that man right now, I honestly don’t know. Well, thanks for listening. See you tomorrow.”

  Kendra adjusted her uniform, pinned her big “smile” button to the lapel, and then greeted her first customer. A man collected his raincoat and umbrella and gave her a one dollar bill. She thanked him warmly, for she knew that the next time he might leave her five dollars.

  “Have a good day, sir.”

  “Thank you, miss. The same to you.”

  She said a prayer for Natalie and she wrestled with the sadness she felt for the twenty-two-year-old girl, who’d had the misfortune to meet and fall in love with an unprincipled man. Maybe her own trials with Ginny weren’t the worst that could happen to her. The lunch hour wound down, and she could finally sit down for a few minutes.

  As she sat, barefoot, to rest her feet, she saw an iPhone on the cloakroom floor. She picked it up, made a note of its description as the restaurant rules required, and was about to take it to her boss, when she remembered that the last time she returned a “found” item to him, he put it in his pocket. The following day, the owner had come back for it, and Ray had told the man that none of his staff had seen it.

  She saw an address and phone number on the back of the iPhone, took a chance, and dialed the number.

  “Clifton Howell speaking.”

  “Mr. Howell, this is Kendra at La Belle Époque. I’m the coatcheck girl. I found your iPhone, sir. But please don’t tell my boss I called you. We’re supposed to give everything we find to him. But I wanted to be sure you got it.”

  “Thank you so much, Kendra. I was thinking that I dropped it when I got out of my car, and that I didn’t hear it drop because it was raining. Don’t worry. I won’t mention this call to your boss. I’m very grateful to you. I’ll be there in about an hour.”

  She wrapped the iPhone in a paper napkin, and when Clifton Howell—a man who appeared to be in his fifties—arrived, she handed it to him. “At least now I know your name,” she said to him; he was one of La Belle Époque’s regular patrons.

  “It’s really nice of you.” He opened his billfold to remove a bill, but she held up her hands, palms out.

  “No thank you, sir. I didn’t do this for you to give me something. I know it’s very expensive, and it probably contains very personal and important information. I wanted to be sure that you got it.”

  He looked at her for a full minute. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” A slight frown creased his brow. “Uh . . . How far did you go in school?”

  She wondered at the question, but he’d posed it in a matter-of-fact way, evidently without an ulterior motive, so she replied truthfully. “I’ve completed two years at Howard University. My major is communications, and I’m working to save enough to complete the remaining two years.”

  He rubbed the left side of his face absentmindedly. “Hmm. You carry yourself well.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to her. “If you’re ever looking for a job, give me a call.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Howell. I definitely will do that. Have a wonderful day.”

  A half-smile flashed briefly across his face. “The same to you. By the way, what is your last name?”

  “My full name is Kendra Richards.”

  He wrote it on the back of another of his business cards, and put it in his pocket. “Good-bye, Miss Richards.”

  The dinner hour proved hectic and crowded, and by eleven o’clock when she could at last leave, Kendra felt that she couldn’t stand for one more minute. She had learned that standing in that cloakroom was more tiresome than waiting tables.

  Kendra got home at midnight, and after a half an hour soak in a tub full of warm bubbles, she got ready for bed thinking that at least she had an offer of a job if she ever needed one.

  She crawled into bed, reached toward her night table to extinguish the light, and she accidentally turned on the radio and heard someone singing “. . . one chance is all I need.”

  She bolted upright. “Am I crazy?” she said aloud. “I can at least call Clifton Howell and find out what kind of job he can offer me. I don’t even know the kind of business he’s in. I’ll call him in the morning.”

  With that decision, an attack of anxiety set in and she tossed and wrestled with sleeplessness throughout the night. When her clock alarm went off in the morning, she jumped up and began planning what she’d say to Clifton Howell.

  Ginny stopped at a drugstore and bought the darkest pair of sunglasses available there. She’d never been so humiliated in her life. Imagine having to go to a doctor and ask for an STD or HIV test. And it would cost money that she’d rather not have to lay out. She’d chosen two gynecologists and two internists listed in the yellow pages, because she didn’t want to go to her regular doctor.

  She reached the gynecologist on Columbia Road first, took a deep, fortifying breath, and went in. By then, chills traveled through her repeatedly, and she had begun to break out in hives. Needing support, she sat down in the waiting room without stopping to speak with the receptionist.

  The woman walked over to her. “May I help you? If this is your first visit to Doctor Elms, you’ll have to fill out these forms.” Ginny filled out the three pages as quickly as her shaking fingers would allow, leaving blank the question of whether she had HIV/AIDS. Half an hour later, a nurse appeared.

  “Come with me, Ms. Hunter. Doctor Elms will see you now.”

  It didn’t help that she had to pull off every stitch of her clothing, including her stockings. The nurse gave her a gown, took her temperature, and weighed her. “The doctor will be with you in a minute.”

  Ginny’s jaw dropped when a tall, white, no-nonsense-looking woman walked into the examining room. “I’m Doctor Elms, Ms. Hunter. How are you feeling? What’s the problem?”

  A woman doctor was the last thing she wanted. “I think I ought to have some tests. I w
as with a guy who said he might have some kind of VD. Naturally, the bastard told me that after he’d done the damage.”

  “Let’s see what we have here. Next time, protect yourself. If you’re in the habit of doing things in a hurry, keep a condom in your pocketbook. The average single man keeps one in his wallet.”

  After examining Ginny, the doctor said, “I don’t see any signs, but we’ll get a smear and some blood. These pimples look like hives. Ever have them before?”

  “Never. They started coming out when I got to your door.”

  “Anxiety. Here’s a prescription. Take this if they persist.”

  “How soon will I know?”

  “I’ll have to send this to the lab. You should know in a couple of days. Meanwhile, avoid any sexual activity.” Sexual activity! She never wanted to hear the word sex again. And she never wanted to see J. H. Elms again, either. The woman had the personality of a flea.

  For the next two days, Ginny hardly ate and slept fitfully at night. She’d been so anxious to get that boy into her and enjoy sex with a strong, energetic man who was eager to learn, that she hadn’t used her common sense. Just because he looked clean didn’t mean he was.

  Janet Elms finally called her in the afternoon of the third day.

  “This is Dr. Elms. You’re clean right now, but come back for another HIV test in six weeks. And don’t forget to practice safe sex.”

  The bill from the diagnostic center arrived the next day. Eleven hundred dollars—for what? Well, they could wait till they got it. She called the owner of the beauty spa where she worked. “I’ll be in tomorrow and all of next week, so you can fill my card.”

  She hated to let him know she was broke. But he’d already guessed that she only worked when she was desperate for money and hadn’t been able to borrow any. Maybe if she worked full time for a couple of weeks.... She sucked her teeth in disgust. Hell no. I’m not standing on my feet pampering vain women eight hours a day, forty hours a week. No, indeed. Kendra would just have to loosen up and let her have some more money.

  Kendra’s life was about to change, and, along with it, so would her conception of herself. She got up that morning, and drank her usual two cups of coffee, but she drank them while walking from her kitchen to her balcony to her living room and back to the kitchen, over and over again. She put the coffee mug on the counter with a resounding thud.

  “Time’s up,” she said to herself. “No more procrastinating.” She glanced at her watch. A quarter to ten. Slowly, her fingers dialed the number on Clifton Howell’s business card.

  “Mr. Howell’s office.”

  “I’ll never get through that sister,” Kendra said to herself.

  “Good morning. This is Kendra Richards. May I please speak with Mr. Howell. He’s expecting my call.”

  “Oh. Let me check my list. There must be some mistake.” Kendra bristled at that. “There’s no mistake, Miss, at least not on my part. You only have to check with Mr. Howell to find that I’m right.”

  “Well, just a minute.” Kendra couldn’t help wondering why some people enjoyed exercising the power of the word no.

  “Hello, Miss Richards,” Howell said. “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Did you get fired, or did it occur to you that I might offer you a better job?” he asked with a tease in his voice.

  “I didn’t get fired, but I came home exhausted, and it occurred to me that you might give me something better to do.”

  “I definitely can. Can you get here by noon?”

  “Yes, sir. Please tell your secretary that you’re expecting me.”

  After she ended the call, Kendra inspected her closet and chose a Dior blue two-piece seersucker suit with short sleeves and a mandarin collar. She added the de rigueur white pearl earrings and beads. Couldn’t get less sexier or less threatening, she assured herself. Besides, her father liked blue, and he claimed that it was a ladylike color. Maybe all men liked that color. Medium-heel blue patent leather shoes and a matching bag completed her outfit.

  She remained in the building’s lobby until two minutes to twelve, took the elevator to the ninth floor, and rang the bell at noon. Someone buzzed her in, and she walked into the elegant suite of offices.

  Less nervous than she’d thought she’d be, she addressed the receptionist. “I’m Kendra Richards.” The woman raised an eyebrow. “Please tell Mr. Howell that I’m here.”

  Kendra let her gaze take in the area—the original paintings of Edward Hopper and other American painters, the enormous Tabriz carpet, brown-and-gold velvet seating arrangements, and live plants. What a lovely environment in which to work, she thought.

  “Mr. Howell will see you now.”

  A door opened, and Clifton Howell entered the lobby while putting on his suit jacket. “I didn’t want you to wait,” he said, extending his hand and ushering her into his private office. “You said you’re planning to get a degree in communications,” he began, making it clear that she was not there for small talk. “Do you like music?” From the way he scrutinized her, it was clear that he was not planning to judge her on her words alone.

  “Yes. I like classical music, easy listening pop, blues, and jazz. I liked the country music of the 1990s, but these days, most of it sounds like misguided rock. I like opera, but that sounds better on TV than on records.”

  “What about hip-hop?”

  “Well, I, uh . . . I hate it.”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry. Honesty is a good thing. What kind of hours can you work?” He strummed the fingers of his left hand on his desk for a few seconds. “For the hours nine to five, you get forty-five thousand yearly, but if you work from five to one, you get fifty. However, I don’t advise trying to work those night hours and going to school the next morning. That’s harrowing. If necessary, you could switch to part time. Which hours do you prefer?”

  “Either schedule works for me, since I’m not in school right now—though nine to five would be wonderful for a change.” She couldn’t hide her eagerness and sat forward. “Are you going to offer me something? Maybe when school opens and I get my class schedule, we can work something out.”

  “Would you work as a disc jockey? Not on open air, but playing the kind of music you hear in supermarkets, stores, and such places. I’m phasing it out and installing an automated system. But if you do well, I’ll put you in a spot on live radio.”

  Her eyes widened. “I’d love to do that. Who would choose the music?”

  “My program director. Incidentally, we don’t play rap and hip-hop.”

  She let out a deep breath. “Thank the Lord for that.”

  “All right. Will two weeks notice do for White?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Howell, but I’d like to give him at least that much. Now, we haven’t discussed benefits.”

  “You get two weeks’ sick leave, two weeks’ vacation, full health coverage, and you can have a 401K account. I’ll give you a two-year contract, but it will specify thirty days notice for any change you need to make or if you want to leave. I’d like you to start two weeks from Monday. I think this is a fair deal.”

  “I think so, too.” What she didn’t say was how impressed she was with a rich man who behaved with the utmost civility. Not even her own boss, a middle manager, seemed able to remain businesslike and completely impersonal with her.

  “Then we’ll give you a contract. Wait out in the reception room for a short while, please. Oh yes, and if there’s anything I hate, it’s to hear no sound coming from that mike. Got it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “This job ought to see you through college. So get moving.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you. I promise you won’t be sorry.”

  “I’m sure of that, Miss Richards. I’m a good judge of people.”

  Less than an hour later, she’d signed a contract that almost guaranteed she’d have an opportunity to complete her bachelor’s degree. She felt like splurging on something frivolous, thought better of it, and decided to treat her
self to lunch at a Chinese restaurant. She sat at a table near the front and was reading the menu when a familiar voice got her attention. A glance upward brought her mother’s friend Angela into her line of vision. The woman seated herself without waiting for an invitation.

  “Child, your mother took Violet and me to one spiffy lunch at the Willard a little while back. She said she was flush. I sure did enjoy that lobster. First I ever ate. Honey, when I have to eat out, and I’m paying, Chinese is my level. But not Ginny. Honey, your mother has style. She is some lady.”

  “Yes,” Kendra said, her appetite for food of any kind or price range suddenly gone. “If you don’t mind, I’d better run. This is my lunch hour.” She hadn’t lied. It would have been her lunch hour if Angela’s story hadn’t ruined it for her. The idea of her mother taking her money—money she’d saved for college—and blowing it on her friends! If she needed evidence that Ginny Hunter didn’t care about her, that alone would suffice. She hadn’t had her furniture reupholstered with the nearly four thousand dollars she’d borrowed, or used the twenty-seven hundred dollar loan to move to the apartment she said she had lined up. And she took the fifteen hundred dollars that she borrowed, ostensibly for a down payment on a Lexus, and treated her friends to an expensive meal at the Willard and to who knows what else.

  A ten-block walk took Kendra to her father’s shop. When he saw her walk in, he immediately washed his hands and removed his apron. “Now, this is a nice surprise. And you look so beautiful, too.” He took both of her hands. “Tell me how you are. I hope Ginny isn’t up to her tricks again.”

  She hugged him. “I haven’t heard from her in two weeks, but I’m sure that as soon as she wants something, she’ll call. Papa, I’ve got great news. I just got a new job.”

  “Really? Wait a minute and let me get us a cup of coffee.” He called to a man who was waiting on a customer. “Gates, I’m going back in the office with my daughter for a few minutes,” he called to Gates, his employee since he’d opened the store. He turned to Kendra. “Have you had lunch?”