Taken aback by yet another reminder that her life had changed, she said, “Thank you, but I still think of myself as an ordinary citizen who obeys the law. I don’t recognize that man.”
“If you think that fracas threatened your safety, will you be willing to give us a deposition?”
“Of course, but could we do that day after tomorrow? I have an appointment at one o’clock today, and I hope I have one tomorrow at about this time.”
“Sure,” he said. “Whenever it’s convenient for you. We’ll be in touch.”
She rushed back to her apartment, changed into a red woolen dress that had its own jacket, found some black accessories, and tried to slow down her heartbeat while she applied a small amount of makeup.
The doorman rang her buzzer at exactly one o’clock and, without giving thought to inviting Brock to come to her apartment, she put on her gloves and coat, walked out of her apartment, and locked the door. He waited for her at the elevator and, when she stepped out, he opened his arms and she walked into them.
He chose a small restaurant that served good food and sat beside her rather than facing her. “How about going to Washington with me weekend after next?” he asked her as they ate lunch.
Her spoon clattered against the dish that held her lemon parfait. “You want me to go with you to see Mrs. Stanton? You’re kidding. I’m her aide, her servant. I can’t do that.”
He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I told her I intended to bring you, and she let me know that her prayers were being answered. Besides, she told me last summer that she loved you as if you were her daughter. She’s always regarded you as a friend, never as a servant, and you know it.” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you want to go with me?”
She knew that her frown didn’t send him the right message, but a bewildered person didn’t smile, and she preferred not to mislead him. “If I do, what’s she going to think?”
As if he had no misgivings, a smile brightened his face. “She said, ‘Hallelujah.’”
Clarissa leaned away and stared at him. “About what? What did you tell her?”
“She asked how we were getting along, and I said you kissed me, and I kissed you back.”
“You what? I didn’t kiss you first—I just gave you a peck on the cheek.”
The expression on his face bore no mirth as he gazed steadily at her. “Call it whatever you like. To me, it was a kiss, and I would have climbed a fifty-foot tower in order to cement it.”
“If I insist, I’ll lose. Right?”
His wink unsettled her. “Stick with me, and you’ll never lose.”
She thought of the struggle she’d had for so long, and told him of her plan to find her sisters. “You’ll find them,” he assured her. “They’re probably looking for you, too, and the release of your CD ought to help them locate you.”
She had never told anyone about her humble beginnings. Not even Lydia Stanton knew she had no idea as to the identity of her father. But she told Brock and felt his protective loyalty when he squeezed her fingers.
“You are a remarkable woman,” he said. “Few people have traveled as far as you have with so little support.” Holding both of her hands firmly in his, he said, in barely a whisper, “Do you want to go home with me?”
Chastened, her eyelids slipped down over her eyes. “Yes. I want to go.”
He stroked her hands. “Get used to thinking of you and me as a couple, because that’s what I want us to be from now on. I’ll be back here Saturday, and I want us to be together that evening. Is that okay with you?”
She could hardly wait, her eagerness boldly obvious to him, and she imagined that her eyes sparkled with the joy boiling inside of her. “Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes.”
The following morning, sooner than promised, she gave the officer the deposition he had requested and hoped to hear nothing more of the incident. I don’t have ill feelings for anyone in that crowd, not even the man apprehended with the guns and grenade. If the incident hadn’t occurred, I still might not know Brock.
“We appreciate your cooperation, ma’am,” the officer told her, “and I hope we won’t have to trouble you further.”
The doorman announced Brock at one o’clock that afternoon, and she didn’t hesitate. “Ask him to come up, please.”
She wanted to know what he’d do with her if they had complete privacy, how he would behave if he had her to himself. When the doorbell rang, she opened the door at once. He walked in and, without uttering a word, locked her body to his own and possessed her. When he released her, she grabbed his arms to steady herself.
“Let’s go,” she said, uttering the first words that passed between them.
He didn’t smile. “Good idea.”
But immediately, the doorbell rang again. She didn’t miss the sharp upward movement of both of Brock’s eyebrows just before his eyes narrowed. He stepped aside in a wordless suggestion that she open the door.
“Wh . . . what on earth are you doing here?”
Josh grinned, a slow, lazy and triumphant half-smile. She had almost forgotten how ugly he looked when his eyes gleamed with evil intent.
“Well, Clarissa Mae, you knew I’d find you. When you planning to come back home?” As if he’d just seen the man, he pointed to Brock. “Who’s he?”
Her breath came in spurts. “You have no right to come here. Home? I am home, and who he is is none of your business. I am no longer your wife.”
Josh walked farther into the apartment, glanced around, found a chair, and sat down. Clarissa forced herself to look at Brock, who leaned against the front doorjamb with his arms folded, his legs wide apart and his eyes in narrow slits. Breathing through his mouth.
My Lord! I’ll lose him before I ever know him, she said to herself as she stared at Brock, his anger palpable.
Suddenly, she whirled around, raced to her bedroom, opened her top dresser drawer and flung its contents in every direction until she found the paper. Then, she sped back to the living room past Josh and straight to Brock.
“Here. Look at this,” she said to Brock. “It’s legal and it’s final.”
He opened it and read aloud the divorce decree. “Ask him to leave.”
She turned to her ex-husband. “I want you to leave this minute, Josh, and I never want to lay eyes on you again.”
“I ain’t got no reason to leave here. You making all this money. The radio’s playing you all the time. We married for better or for worse, and what God has joined, let no man put asunder.’”
She stared at him. “Shit. The Bible also says, ‘Thou shall not commit adultery.’ Get out, Josh,” she said, but he didn’t move.
Perspiration dampened her blouse when she looked at Brock, a man dangling on a precipice of violence. She lifted the intercom that connected her apartment to the doorman. “What do you mean by letting this man come up here when you knew I had a male guest?”
“Well . . . uh . . . he said he was your husband.”
“Which means you’re an idiot. Did you ask for identification? Did you check with me? He is not my husband. Send the police up here before somebody gets hurt.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“You could have gotten me killed. Get me a policeman, and hurry.” Fearing a confrontation, she rushed back to the living room. “I’m telling you for the last time, Josh. Leave! You wanted Vanessa—you got her. Get out.”
“Who’s going to make me?”
Shivers raced through her as Brock moved away from the wall. The doorbell rang, and she raced to it and opened the door to two house detectives. After relating the problem, she showed them her divorce papers.
“You’re under arrest for trespassing, buddy,” one of the detectives said to Josh.
“You can’t—”
The officer ignored Josh and handcuffed him while the other detective called the city police.
“This brother’s missing a few screws,” one said to Clarissa. “You’d better get a restraining order against
him. Then, if he comes within a hundred yards of you, phones, or writes you, he’ll go to jail.”
Josh’s top lip curled into a snarl. “You’d better make sure you never come back to Low Point,” he said to her as he sauntered out between the two detectives with his hands cuffed in front of him.
They were alone, and in the awkwardness of the quiet that engulfed them, she prayed silently while she waited for Brock to speak. The blood ran icy-cold in her veins while he gazed at her, speechless and not moving a muscle. He must have detected her shivers, for he moved to her and gripped her shoulders, although with gentle hands.
“If that man interests you in any way, I want to know it this minute.”
“He’s nothing to me. Couldn’t you see that?”
He held her so tightly that she could feel the beat of his heart. “When I get back here Saturday evening, we’ll get together?”
She didn’t act coyly or equivocate, because she knew that, given the chance, she would be with him. “Yes. Oh, yes.”
It was not the warm, getting-to-know-each-other luncheon that they’d enjoyed the previous day. Their conversation—if it could be called that—was stilted, formal, and impersonal. “I’ll be glad when the weather warms up,” she said with her gaze locked on the lobster bisque that she prepared to sip.
“Me, too. It’s been an unusually hard winter so far.”
“I like this restaurant,” she said. “I haven’t been here before.”
“I eat here once in a while. The food is good, and I like the atmosphere.”
Meaningless small talk. Neither of us is eating this food, she said to herself. Clarissa didn’t waste food or anything else; years of deprivation had instilled in her appreciation for the efficacy of conserving what she had.
“Would you be embarrassed if I asked for a doggie bag? I’m too full to eat, and I can’t waste food. I’ll eat it later.”
He sat back in the booth and studied her. “If that’s what you want, I’ll ask the waiter. To be honest, I’m not hungry, either.” He leaned toward her. “Are you worried about what your ex might do?” She shook her head. “I see. Are you thinking about Saturday evening?” He had a way of getting into her head and toying with her mind. Of course she was thinking about Saturday. She let a half-smile suffice for an answer.
As if he divined her thoughts, he said, “I figured that if anticipating our evening together had me tied into knots, you might be experiencing something similar.”
God bless him. An honest man was hard to find. She let herself relax and smile. “Looks like we’re together in this.”
“Do you want to be with me?” Again, he didn’t smile or try in any other way to influence her answer.
If she had any sense, she’d tell him she didn’t know the answer to that because she didn’t really know him, but deep down inside of her where she lived, he’d staked a place for himself, and she knew he would always be there. So what she said was, “Yes.”
He walked with her back to her apartment building. “I’m going to leave you here at the elevator because I have to catch a train that leaves in one hour and twenty-seven minutes. If I so much as step into this elevator with you, I won’t leave you until I’ve sated us both.” He left without kissing her and with the heat of her libido singeing her loins.
Chapter 13
Once inside her apartment, she telephoned Lydia Stanton, hoping that a conversation with her friend would serve to ground her, that Lydia would be a stabilizing force. “Brock asked me to go home with him weekend after next,” she said as soon as they had greeted each other.
“Well, aren’t you coming?”
She heard the expectancy and, yes, the hope in the woman’s voice.
“Uh . . . I uh . . . feel awkward about this.”
“Nonsense. Why, for heaven’s sake? Brock’s besotted with you. When he was here at Christmas, he hardly uttered a sentence that didn’t have your name in it. And mind you, he’s almost forty, and he has never brought a woman to this house. Never!”
“We’ll see.”
“Now, you listen to me, Clarissa. I’m talking as your friend, not as Brock’s mother. You’ve had a hard life, but you’ve made some mistakes, and marrying Josh Medford was one of them. You don’t marry a man just to get relief from an intolerable situation, because you’re only guaranteeing misery for yourself. You also don’t walk away from a man you care for and who cares for you just because you’ve already made one mistake. You’re a lot older now, and you ought to be that much wiser. Look at Brock for what he is; don’t decide that he’s a man, and therefore you have to run from him.”
I can’t let her think I’m foolish. I don’t doubt that Brock is a decent man, miles ahead of Josh, and I believe he cares for me. He’s not the problem; she is, and I have to tell her the truth.
“Don’t misunderstand, Mrs. Stanton. I trust Brock, and I care for him, but I work for you, and you’re his mother. It doesn’t seem right.”
“Hogwash.” She imagined Lydia scowling and rapping the arm of her wheelchair. “You don’t work for me, and even if you did, I’ve never treated you as less than a guest in my house, a friend. I’ve treated you as if you were my child. You ought to know that nothing would make me happier than to have you for my daughter.”
Tears pooled in Clarissa’s eyes and, as she groped for words, they spilled down her cheeks until she tasted brine at the corner of her mouth. “I . . . only my foster mother, Eunice Jenkins, gave me the feeling of a mother’s love, the feeling I have right now. I guess you know that there isn’t anything you would ask of me that I wouldn’t do.”
“I know you care deeply for me, Clarissa, but don’t let our ties interfere with your relationship with Brock. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s . . . he’s important to me, Mrs. Stanton. What I’m feeling scares the beejeebers out of me.”
“It shouldn’t. No man is better than you are. You can admire a man without looking up to him. Never do that. You got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. I’ll see you weekend after next.”
Clarissa dressed slowly for her performance that night. She didn’t feel like singing. Her life was moving too fast, plowing along like a locomotive out of control. She was about to commit to a man she hardly knew, and the upshot of it was that she loved him and knew that what was happening between them was good and right But it went against everything that her hard and pain-filled life had taught her.
With her balled fists locked to her hips, she looked upward. Josh Medford and four cruel or indifferent foster mothers are in the past. I’ve had so many blessings that I don’t care about Josh and those women. Look where they are and look where I am now.
She lectured to herself for a few minutes longer, but didn’t succeed fully to lift her mood. Fifteen minutes before she was to leave for work, she took off the simple green evening gown and replaced it with a gold-lamé backless sheath. “If I don’t sing well, maybe some sex appeal will take their minds off it.” Realizing that she couldn’t wear a bra with the dress, she tossed her head in defiance of custom. Not many women her age could boast of size 36-C breasts that stood as straight as those of a teenaged virgin.
“Coming. Coming,” she sang out when the telephone rang.
“Is Mr. X with you?” Raymond asked without preliminaries.
“No. He’s in St. Louis by now. Why?”
“Then I’ll run over and get you. We don’t want you to travel alone by taxi, and especially not at night. Never can tell what kind of ruse these weirdos will try to pull. It isn’t safe.”
She stared at the phone after Raymond hung up. She had achieved a good measure of success and fame, but in the process, she’d lost her freedom.
“You low-keyed tonight, girl,” he told her when he met her in the lobby of the building in which she lived. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing much. My mind’s not on singing.”
“What’s that guy’s name? You sure you can trus
t him?”
“Brock Stanton. His mother is . . . someone very dear to me. Until the night of that fiasco, I didn’t know that, and I was taking a chance. He wasn’t, though.”
Raymond pulled away from the curb at his usual high rate of speed, unsettling her as he always did. But he didn’t notice her case of jitters; he never noticed it. “A woman is always at more of a disadvantage,” he said in response to her observation about herself and Brock Stanton. “That’s the way nature set it up. Say, I thought our next gig was in St. Louis.”
“That’s three or four weeks from now, I think . . . or maybe four.”
“You’d better perk up before you go on, Clarissa. They love you, but you’re only as good as your last song. If they thought they weren’t getting their money’s worth, they’d jeer the angel Gabriel. You know what I’m saying?”
She did indeed. “I know. Chase wants us to tour Europe.”
Raymond drove into the club’s underground garage and parked. “Yeah? For a white boy, he sure knows the black circuit here in the States. I hope he’s onto what’s happening in Europe.”
She glanced at the man who was becoming more than an employee and was gradually playing the role of a father or big brother. “I don’t pay Chase to be ignorant, Raymond. He’s our agent. Where in Europe do you want to go other than England, France, and Belgium?”
He got out of the car and walked around it to help her out. “I don’t see how you got into this thing. You look like you’re poured into it,” he said of her evening gown. “Take me to Scan-de-nay-vi-uh. I want the same treatment that they laid on Pops.”
She laughed. “Your teeth aren’t as white as Louis Armstrong’s.”
“No, but I’m taller and better-looking. I don’t blow a trumpet, but my guitar makes the angels sing.”
She knew he was trying to cheer her up, and she wanted him to succeed. Nevertheless, when the band assembled, she told Oscar, “I want to change the program and open with ‘Lover Man.’ It fits my mood.”
When the lights dimmed, she took a deep breath and gripped the microphone. As she sang the haunting song of unrequited love, she ripped the words out of her gut and flung her raw fears and anxiety at the patrons who sat like fossilized creatures, stunned at the power of her delivery. She hardly heard the applause, stomping, and cheering as she ran to her dressing room, fighting tears.
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