“That’s fine. In fact, I need to get out of these jeans.”
She presses her lips together in a hopeful smile. “You’ve lost a few pounds since the last time I saw you. Is that for a special guy?”
“No guy. Sorry.”
She emits a deep, long, sympathetic sigh.
“Callia, you’re thirty…”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Ten years you’ve been in the Army and still no—”
“Air Force.”
She sighs. “I think I see what the trouble is. You’re too…disagreeable. And then there’s, well, maybe if you weren’t so, so…unfeminine.”
“Unfeminine? Mom, what about me is unfeminine?”
Mom gives me a blank stare and I realize I shouldn’t have asked. My messy ponytail, bare face, and military-style combat boots probably don’t scream marriage material.
“I raised you to be independent, Callia, but I think you misunderstood some of the finer points of my lessons. Not once in your adult life have you brought a young man home—”
She pauses and looks at me with wide brown eyes, a new realization dawning.
“Mom, let’s not go there.”
“I think we have to go there, sweetie.”
“Well, I’m not, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“That is exactly what I’m thinking. Are you sure? It wouldn’t be the end of the world, necessarily. Everyone has to get their kicks where they can find them. I’m very liberal. In fact, one of the romance books I read was about these two women, well three, actually—”
“Mom!” I swear I just felt a team of tarantulas crawl down my back. “I’m pretty sure I’d know if I were gay. I’ve done lots of testing and all the results point to my being straight.”
Mom has the nerve to twitch her lips upward, as though she suspects I’m lying. “You know who I’ve always liked?”
“I know. I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Why not? You haven’t seen the guy since high school. Just because he stood you up for prom—”
I stand and walk over to my luggage. “It’s more than that, Mom, and even if it wasn’t, that’s bad enough.”
“It’s old news. He’s such a nice guy, Callia. Just the other day—”
“I’m gonna head upstairs and unpack my things. Have my other boxes arrived?”
“They’re upstairs in your room.”
“Mom, those boxes are heavy. How did they get up there?”
Her head rolls on her neck like a sassy teen. “If I told you who put them up there then I suppose you’d have to shoot me.”
I spend the afternoon getting my room in order. Everything is just how I remembered it from my last visit. My twin bed is still pushed against the wall, allowing me room to dance to the Eight at Eight countdown on the radio. My walls still have posters hanging in plastic frames. The posters would look odd to any stranger peering into a teen’s room. B. Smith, the African-American model-turned-restaurateur and domestic doyenne, smiles down at me. I chose her because of her beauty and business acumen and her skills in the kitchen, which I have some of myself. Then there’s the movie poster for Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory, because it was one of my favorite movies as a kid. And then there’s the one of Michael Jackson, in the middle of executing one of his iconic dance moves because, well, because he’s Michael friggin’ Jackson, why else?
After unpacking, I relieve myself of my ill-fitting jeans and take a shower and put on a black sheath, size 8. Eat your heart out, Carmen. And just to prove to Mom that it really is possible for me to look like a girl, I straighten my hair with a flat iron, letting it fall over my shoulders, and add a touch of gloss to my lips.
“Look at you,” Mom says when I come into the room. “You’re going to be the finest-looking thing in the restaurant.”
The doorbell rings before I can thank her.
“She’s early,” Mom says. “I’ll get it.”
“Mom, you sit and relax,” I say, already heading to the door. I suck in my stomach and walk to the door like I’m Miss America walking the runway. Carmen is stingy with compliments but even she’ll have to acknowledge that I’ve probably hit my peak in the looks department. Even though I don’t have her baby-fine long locks, or her supple almond-complected skin, or her metabolism that scoffs in the face of empty calories, at least I’m better than I’ve ever been before. I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, plaster a smile on my face, and swing the door open.
But it isn’t Carmen at the door.
Even after ten long years, it is a face that I have never forgotten. The face that I’ve dreamt about, cried over—hell, even threw darts at.
His hazel eyes flicker with confusion. He makes a move, as though he’s about to turn around and run away, but then he turns to me again, and runs a hand through his curly hair.
“Callia.” My name floats from between his lips like an exhaled breath. His voice is deeper than I remember. His lips curl upward and he says in a voice so low it’s almost a whisper, “Welcome home, baby girl.”
Chapter 4
It was all I could do not to rush into his arms, or faint dead away from the shock.
“Grayson.” It was the first time his name touched my tongue in years. I hated how it felt there: sinful, yet indulgent, like the first taste of ice cream after weeks of dieting.
He was better-looking than I remembered, and believe me, I’d pretty much built him up to cult status in my head before banishing him from the kingdom of my mind completely.
He nods and says, “Lane.”
Did he really say that to me? Tell me his last name as though I had not scrawled Callia Lane, C. Lane, Mrs. Grayson Lane, Mrs. Callia Lynn Lane in big loopy letters in my notebook during chemistry class, when I should have been focused on figuring my way around the periodic table?
We stand like two awkward kids, appraising each other, trying to determine if we are friend or foe. Grayson stands so close to me I can see the dark brown outline surrounding his bright eyes. They were so light back in the day. That, in combination with his height, incited the kids to call him Big Bird. His father is German/Irish and his mother is Haitian. There were plenty of biracial kids in our school, but Grayson was never comfortable in that golden skin of his. He was always angry and distant. His father was known in our little town as the drunken plumber. Grayson was ashamed—also by the fact that his mother abandoned them when he was only a little boy. He’d told me how he never felt that he belonged; that he never felt worthy enough to belong. So the lanky kid who was smart but lazy and reclusive kept to himself. He confided in only one person: me. I search those eyes for a hint of that shame, but I see nothing but disbelief staring back at me.
“What are you doing here, Grayson?”
“I haven’t seen you in almost ten years and that’s the reception I get?”
I wait for him to crack a smile, but he doesn’t. He takes a step closer to me, leans his six-feet-two-inch frame down to me and gives me a peck on my cheek. Then, as if I weren’t already feeling faint from the clean scent of his soap, and the tender feel of his lips on my skin, he envelops me in his arms. It isn’t much of a hug, though. Grayson doesn’t pull me close so that I can feel my breasts push against his chest. Oh, to feel my breasts push against his chest. Instead, I get the type of hug that you’d give a beloved aunt…with leprosy.
When we part, I smooth the front of my dress, although he’s barely touched it. “It’s nice to see you’re still alive and well,” I say.
“Your Mom mentioned that I’m persona non grata with you.” Grayson slips his hands in the front pockets of his jeans.
“That’s not entirely true, but is that why you came by?” I ask. “To get under my skin?”
“Am I getting under your skin?”
I bite my bottom lip and shake my head.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here, Callia.”
This surprises me. I step onto the porch and lean my back against the
doorframe. Out of the corner of my eye I see the curtains close shut.
“What are you doing here?”
“I come by every now and then to check on Mother Cole. We had plans to go check out one of the retirement communities not far from here.”
“Retirement communities? Why?”
“She wants to move, sell the house. And considering the upkeep on this place, I don’t think it’s such a bad idea.”
“I see.” Suddenly, I feel like an intruder, a guest in my own home. I had no idea Mom was thinking about selling our house. “What does Carmen think?”
Grayson lifts his brows and his eyes search around as though I’ve asked him to tell me the exact distance from the earth to the moon.
“I have no idea. You’d have to ask Mother Cole about that.”
So they haven’t resumed the little romance they had behind my back in high school.
I nod and turn to go back in the house but Grayson calls my name and I freeze in place.
“Callia. You look really good.”
He lightly touches the back of my arm with his fingers, causing a wave of sensation down my body.
“We’re going to dinner,” I stammer and step into the house. I clear my throat of the substantial frog that’s lodged there. “At least, we were. Come on in.”
When I get back into the family room with Grayson on my heels, Mom is sitting on the sofa, television on mute, and her hands clasped in her lap like a contrite schoolgirl.
“Grayson!” she squeals and shuffles past me and moves in for a hug. “Oh, sweet child, can you ever forgive me?”
“What is it, Mother Cole?”
“I forgot that we were going out this evening. And I would’ve told you that Callia was coming back home soon but I didn’t want to upset either of you so I kept my mouth shut.”
It’s hard to be mad at a woman who’s all of four-feet-eleven, with a crooked wig and eyelashes so embarrassingly long that they’d make a Cher drag queen admit they’re a bit much.
“Mom, we don’t have to go. You and Grayson should do whatever it is you had planned.”
Grayson asks me, “How long are you visiting?”
“I’m not visiting. I’m here to stay.”
Slowly, his head bobs up and down in slow motion. I can’t tell if he likes or dislikes this revelation. He searches my face as though waiting for me to say more, but I don’t. I can’t. That damned frog is back and it brought a few butterflies with it.
“I have a wonderful idea,” Mom says as she clasps her hands together. “Why don’t we all go to dinner together?”
I stand there while they both look at me, Grayson slightly uncomfortable and my mother seemingly conflicted.
I say seemingly because I am very familiar with my mother’s acting chops. When I was about eight, my mother was pulled over for speeding. She turned to me and said, “No matter what I tell you while that cop is at my door, I want you to act antsy and say you have to pee. And don’t stop whining until he’s gone. Got it?”
I nodded, thrilled that I was given permission to lie. I couldn’t wait to tell Dad.
“Registration and license, please.” The officer had a thick blond mustache over unamused lips and sweat stains beneath his armpits. I thought for sure he’d arrest me for lying if he found out my ruse. But then again, my mother’s weird forms of punishment—like forcing me to read aloud from recipe books for an hour straight while she practiced painting a bowl of fruit—frightened me more. Considering what an awful cook my mother was, I never understood that at all.
“Did I do something wrong, officer?” Mom asked and opened the glove compartment. The officer probably didn’t even notice how she cut her eyes to me.
“I’ve gotta pee,” I groaned.
“Let me see, I think the registration is here somewhere.”
The officer leaned down in the car and looked directly at me. I felt as though he could see the truth in my face and I began to sweat a nice little puddle beneath my own armpits.
As she shifted through mail in the glove compartment, I felt her elbow knock my knee.
“I’ve gotta pee,” I said again. This time I wriggled my hips and began to bounce up and down.
“Ma’am, where are you headed in such a hurry?” the officer asked. He removed his shades and narrowed his eyes at me.
I was undeterred.
“Mom, Mom, Mom,” I whined. “I gotta pee.”
Mom found the registration card and handed it to him.
“Uh, to the pharmacy. My daughter needs some Pepto Bismol. I don’t think you want to know much more than that.”
The officer’s lip twitched. I kicked the air and wriggled some more.
“I have a daughter about her age myself,” he offered. “I think you’d better get her on to the restroom,” he said and handed Mom back her documents. “And slow down.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Mom said. “Thank you for understanding. Okay, baby. We’re headed to a restroom.”
Mom pulled away, smiling at her successful deception, and off we went to our original destination: the grand opening of a new ice cream shop.
“For that,” she said to me, “you’re getting a double scoop. Oh, and don’t tell Dad.”
Now, I swallow my suspicion and say to her, “You two had a date set. I’m fine staying here.”
“Nonsense,” Mom says. “Grayson, sweetheart, we can go look at apartments some other time. There’s no rush, this house isn’t going anywhere. And my goodness, you two have so much catching up to do. I’m gonna call your sister and see if she can meet us at the restaurant. You will come with us, won’t you, Grayson?”
“I don’t want to intrude,” he said and took a step back.
“Mom, I’m sure he doesn’t want to be stuck at dinner with three chatty women.”
“Grayson,” Mom looks at him and pouts her bottom lip. “We’re going to Red Lobster,” she sings, dangling this in front of him like it’s an irresistible strawberry dipped in melted chocolate.
Grayson chuckles and looks at me. I roll my eyes and shrug and try to pretend that I don’t feel my world spinning out of control at the mere sight of his smile. “Callia, why didn’t you say that before?”
“Oh, I’m so relieved this all worked out,” Mom says. “I’ll go call your sister and tell her to meet us there.”
“Carmen is going to be there?” Grayson asks.
I study his reaction as Mom assures him that Carmen’s promise is as firm as cottage cheese. His lips part and he looks around as though searching for an excuse.
“We’re going to have such a great time,” Mom says.
Grayson clamps his mouth shut. We stand like strangers in a stuck elevator while Mom goes into the kitchen, never mind the fact that there’s a phone in this room. Grayson looks down at himself as if noticing his gray T-shirt and jeans for the first time.
“I’m underdressed,” he says too brightly.
“You’re fine,” I reply.
Oh Lord, are you ever fine.
He looks so uncomfortable I take pity on him. “Lighten up, Grayson,” I say and punch him lightly on the arm. “One dinner and you and I will be done with each other. We can survive that, can’t we?”
“It isn’t you and I that concerns me.” He cocks his head to the side. “Is that the goal? One dinner and to be done with one another?”
“You look so uncomfortable,” I say.
“As do you.”
I purse my lips and clasp my hands behind my back. My eyes don’t know where to settle: the muted television, the dusty books, his inquisitive eyes?
“That’s, uh, sweet of you to check on Mom like you do.”
Grayson nodded. “Your dad meant a lot to me. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t think I’d be as successful as I am today, so looking after his wife is the least I can do.”
“Successful, huh?” For some reason I feel deflated by this. While I’ve never dreamt of the worst happening to Grayson, I never imagined he’d become
anything remotely related to successful. Twice divorced? Yes. Alcoholic? Naturally. Saddled with four kids who drained his fast food salary? Pure karma. But successful? Never imagined that one.
“Successful doing what?” I ask.
Mom comes back into the room. “We’re all set. Carmen will meet us at the restaurant. Are we ready to go?”
Grayson gives me a lingering look, then extends his hand toward the door. “After you.”
Chapter 5
Mom insists on letting Grayson drive us to the restaurant in his car. Then she scrambles into the back seat before I have a chance to snag it. Grayson doesn’t notice me hesitate before slipping into the front seat beside him because he is preoccupied with his own thoughts. This evening will be as uncomfortable for him as it will be for me, and I find some relief in that.
When Grayson pushes the button to start the ignition, I realize that I’m sitting in a beauty of a car that is all soft black leather, shiny silver gadgets, and futuristic screens that make me feel like a co-pilot on a luxury jetliner.
“It’s warm in here, isn’t it?” he asks and punches a few buttons.
I’d thought it was just me and my nerves. The cool air from the vents feels good against my skin. By the time he’s made it to the stop sign on my street, I notice the back of my legs begin to feel a chill.
“These seats…” I begin.
“Temperature-controlled,” he says, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “In winter I let them heat up. Pretty cool, huh?”
Grayson doesn’t sound like a man showing off his prized ride. He sounds like an unmotivated car salesman who knows there’s not a chance in hell of making his quota so he’d just as soon be out of the car as soon as possible rather than demonstrating the accoutrements.
I never would’ve guessed that I have the ability to cause him such unease. It’s enough to tick a girl off. I mean, he does remember that he was the bad guy in our love story, right?
Sweet Secrets Page 3