“Fine, one Dubonnet and one Campari,” the waiter said as he handed the two of us menus.
“So when are you giving Jelly’s your two-week notice?” Pierce asked.
“Well, I haven’t decided. I don’t have a contract for the new show yet and I haven’t seen a completed script. Giving my resignation might be a bit premature,” I responded as I scrutinized the menu.
“Well, I’m certain everything is going to work out. There is even talk of BeBe Winans doing the music,” Pierce said.
“You mean they don’t have the music yet? That’s odd.”
“I think they have some of the music. They’re still waiting on the final word from BeBe’s agent.”
“Oh, I hadn’t heard that or much of anything else yet,” I said with excitement. “That would be great!”
“Yes, I think everything is going to be just fine,” Pierce said crisply, as he sipped his drink.
When our entrées arrived I settled back to enjoy the evening. As I began to relax I felt a lot of the eyes in the restaurant were on Pierce and myself. This was something that despite our racial difference rarely happened, especially in places like Jezebel’s. I mean everyone from the wine steward to the bus boys was either staring or just overly attentive. The last time I had gotten this much attention was at the opening-night party of my last Broadway show.
Pierce and I discussed the pros and cons of my taking the new show. He assured me that he was not about to invest money in another bomb. The producers were going after the top in every field from lighting design to costumes. I thought about Kyle and the possibility of his putting in a bid to do some of the costumes for the show. It would be a great boost for his business and nice to have him around for moral support.
As our dinner came close to completion, Pierce became very nervous. I had never seen him like this. He was gazing around the restaurant as though he was expecting someone.
“Is everything all right, Pierce? You seem a bit preoccupied,” I said.
“I’m fine but I have something very important I need to discuss with you,” Pierce said.
“Sure, what?” I asked.
“Let’s order dessert and brandy first,” Pierce suggested.
“Just coffee for me. I’ll have some of your dessert,” I said.
Pierce motioned for the waiter once again and ordered dessert, coffee, and brandy. He gave the waiter such a strange look I was beginning to believe that Pierce’s surprise was close by. But what was it?
Minutes later another waiter showed up and served us coffee, Pierce’s brandy, and deep-dish peach cobbler. The waiter looked awfully familiar. I was certain that I knew him but I couldn’t recall from where. His knowing smile led me to believe that he recognized me too.
“Nicole, how long have we been going out?” Pierce asked as he swirled the gold-colored brandy around the bottom of the snifter.
“Oh, what has it been—almost two years?” I replied as I sipped the warm coffee and dipped into the cobbler resting in front of Pierce.
“Well, I guess it’s no secret how much I love you and how I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Pierce said, his voice unsteady and his eyes centered directly on mine.
“Pierce, that’s so sweet of you to say,” I said.
“Well—” Pierce paused as his eyes motioned to something or someone behind me.
I turned around and there was the familiar-looking waiter now accompanied by two more men, one with a violin and the other with a flute; a fourth man was standing next to them holding a silver platter with a glass top protecting a small black box.
“Pierce, what—” I stammered, but before I could complete my sentence or thought, the waiter started to sing, “When I First Saw You,” from Dreamgirls. That’s where I knew him from, he had taken over the role of Curtis right before Dreamgirls closed.
By now every eye in the restaurant was on Pierce and myself as the waiter sang beautifully one of my favorite songs. His rich tenor voice caused my naked arms to feel chilled and his voice filled every space in the restaurant. It was like a scene out of a movie, only this wasn’t a movie. As he came to the last note, the man holding the platter walked over to Pierce and lifted the glass cover. Pierce reached for the black box, stood up and moved closer to me, and then gently lowered himself to his knees.
I could feel my stomach turning and my eyes filling with tears. But were these tears of joy or embarrassment as the large restaurant was now deadly silent.
“Nicole Marie Springer,” Pierce said with a loud and clear voice, “will you marry me?” Four words I thought I’d never hear, especially in front of a room full of strangers. What could I do, what could I say? I felt my emotions ricocheting all over the packed restaurant. I looked into Pierce’s face as he opened the small black box revealing a stunning diamond. I couldn’t ever recall being so close to a diamond that big.
“Well, are you going to make me wait all night?” Pierce whispered.
I had to say yes. I couldn’t embarrass him.
“Yes,” I stammered. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
The room broke out into thunderous applause. Pierce lifted himself from the floor after gently slipping the large ring on my finger and kissing me softly on the lips. “She said yes!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Champagne for everyone,” he added.
Waiters and busboys alike began to scurry around the room placing champagne flutes in the patrons’ hands. I was in a semi-daze, make that haze, my eyes fixed on the exquisite ring. I couldn’t move. I sat motionless as a statue. I was scared and delighted. But my fear battled the excitement. This had caught me completely off guard and I had said yes. Had I done the right thing? I did care a great deal for Pierce, might even love him, but marriage … and was what I felt romantic love? What had I gotten myself into?
The rush of strangers and well-wishers to our table brought me out of my self-induced trance. Men and women both came over to our table and offered congratulations. I felt like I was in a beauty pageant again, but I’d won a title I hadn’t expected to win.
Nine
A substantial traffic jam led me to believe I was going to a concert or sporting event instead of a church. Gilliam had called me early Sunday morning with directions and the suggestion that I leave early to avoid traffic.
Several uniformed policemen directed cars into a large parking lot that showed no signs of the First Birth Baptist Church in suburban Decatur. I followed nattily attired churchgoers as they parked their cars and then hopped on a bus that took us to a structure that resembled a mini-version of the Georgia Dome. I had never seen a church as large as First Birth, nor had I ever seen so many black people—or white people for that matter—gathered together to worship something other than a sports team or popular entertainer. I entered the sanctuary and was greeted by everyone that I made eye contact with. I mean these people seemed happy to be here. How was I ever going to find Gilliam? After a few minutes of looking around the circular lobby of the massive church I suddenly heard Gilliam call my name.
“Ray, you made it,” Gilliam said as she turned her neatly made up cheek to my lips. Gilliam was dressed in a beautiful peach silk dress very different from the tailored suits she wore to the office.
“Gilliam, this is a big church,” I said.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Gilliam said proudly. “Let’s get inside before we have to sit in the choir stands.”
“Okay, let’s do that. I don’t want to turn this church out with my wonderful singing,” I teased.
The interior of the sanctuary was even more beautiful than the exterior. It brought to mind the kinds of churches you see on television, which had, unfortunately, been the extent of my worship experience since moving to Atlanta.
Gilliam and I found seats close to the back since the church was already filled almost to capacity. I could feel the warmth in the church as I took my seat in the crowded pew. Everyone smiled and had an air of inner peace about them.
Soon after we sat do
wn, a large youth choir marched in singing at the top of their lungs. Worshipers in the church jumped to their feet, clapping and swaying to the voices of the choir and the musicians. The feeling was more like a pep rally than like any church service I had ever attended. The sound of all of the clapping hands and shouts was as thunderous as any football crowd I’d been a part of.
I thought some of the people seated close to me were going to take off at any moment and fly out of the church into the heavens and that included Gilliam.
As I watched Gilliam immerse herself in the service, I thought of Nicole and how she used to take me to church with her in Harlem. I thought Gilliam and Nicole would probably really like each other if they ever had the opportunity to meet.
After about fifteen minutes of loud clapping, stomping, and cries throughout the church we finally were instructed to take our seats. A well-dressed young lady with great diction invited visitors to stand and be properly greeted. Gilliam gave me a sweet smile when I remained in my seat. Somehow I didn’t feel like a visitor. I felt at home. Like I was back in the church I’d grown up in, in Birmingham. The youth choir sang wonderfully. Not only did they sing well but they moved with choreographed movements like a precision high school drill team. At times I got a bit nervous watching them, because it looked like instead of singing praise they were going to start a soul train line and break out into the latest dances. But at least these young people were doing their moves in church and not at a local nightspot and they appeared to be having the time of their lives. It made me feel good to see so many young black men in the choir singing as if their lives depended on it.
An undeniable excitement permeated every inch of the church, from the ushers to the youthful minister. His sermon was more like teaching a lesson rather than the fire and brimstone tone I was used to hearing from black preachers, especially Southern black preachers. Yes, there was something splendid and unconventional about First Birth, but at the same time there was something basic and down to earth about it.
Enjoying the service, I began to look around the packed sanctuary, making eye contact with several men and an occasional woman. There seemed to be a large contingent of gay men attending this church, but wasn’t that always the case?
I brought a halt to my scanning to enjoy a young man with an exceptional voice singing a solo. His voice soared from deep baritone to falsetto. Every time he hit one of his glass-breaking high notes the church would erupt with shouts, applause, and worshipers leaping to their feet. I wondered why it was the high notes that caused such demonstrations and if the many gay men in the choir stands were open about their sexuality.
My speculation allowed a mischievous thought to cross my mind: I tried to imagine the church minus its gay men and women. I was certain more than the soloist and musicians would disappear, not only in this church but in black churches all across the country. How many choir members, ushers, deacons, and ministers would no longer take their appointed positions on this day of absence? Would there ever be a day when gay people would be accepted with open arms in a place that advertised miracles, love, and forgiveness?
After church, I felt exhilarated. The time had passed at a pace as rapid as a thoroughbred horse race. Gilliam’s face was blanketed with a broad smile as we walked toward the outside of the church and the bus stand to return me to the remote parking lot and my car.
Once we got outside, Gilliam suggested that she give me a ride to my car and that I follow her to her home for a light brunch. Since I didn’t have big plans for this beautiful Sunday afternoon I quickly agreed.
After she dropped me at my car I followed Gilliam’s silver Jaguar X26 down a narrow two-lane street behind the large church. A few minutes later we pulled into a fashionable housing subdivision with a sign advertising homes beginning in the low three hundred thousands. Gilliam’s street was a treeless cluster of new homes that resembled mini-castles. Her salmon and gray two-story home sat at the apex of a cul-de-sac, demanding attention and respect, like its owner. Inside, the house was beautiful and tastefully decorated in a way that would make HG magazine proud. Gilliam steered me to a big glass-enclosed deck off the dining room that faced a large golf course.
As I watched golfers study the tiny golf balls, I remembered Jared and how he loved to golf just as much as he loved to bowl. As my thoughts were going toward Jared and my impending problem, Gilliam appeared in a beautiful black silk pantsuit carrying two piping hot mugs of coffee.
“You drink your coffee black, don’t you, Ray?” Gilliam inquired.
“Yes, thank you,” I said as I took the mug from Gilliam.
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Gilliam exclaimed.
“Yes, it is. Gilliam, your home is beautiful and this view is superb.”
“Thank you. It’s home,” she said.
“Do you golf?”
“Yes, I do. What about you?” Gilliam asked.
“I’ve been out a couple of times with Jared,” I said.
“How is Jared? I haven’t talked with him in a while.”
“Oh, he’s fine—busy trying to get Congressman Thomas reelected,” I shared.
“Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem. Provided he can keep his libido in check,” Gilliam said confidently.
“Is that a problem for the congressman?”
“It used to be but I haven’t heard any rumors lately. It should be an easy race for him.”
“I think you’re right.”
Just as I was about to comment on how much I’d enjoyed church, a middle-aged black man came out with dishes of food that smelled appetizing.
“Ray, this is Mr. Nevels. He takes good care of me,” Gilliam boasted.
“How are you doing, Mr. Nevels? Something sure smells good,” I said.
“I’m fine, young man. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Mr. Nevels said. “I hope you like chicken and waffles.”
“I’m from Birmingham, Mr. Nevels, so you know I do,” I joked. “I hope you have some grits too.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Mr. Nevels said.
Gilliam and I sat at the black lacquered table and enjoyed a feast of pecan waffles, fried chicken, link sausage, and cheese grits that Mr. Nevels prepared. The food was some of the best I had eaten since moving to Atlanta. We traded our coffee for mimosas and appreciated a day that was made for relaxing and sipping champagne. We talked about upcoming prospects for business at the firm and then went on to more personal issues. Gilliam shared with me the fact that she was dating someone who was very powerful in local politics and was also dating a younger attorney who practiced in Philadelphia. She laughed loudly as she explained that, “The gentleman in Atlanta was good for her future and the younger attorney was good for fulfillment.” I was pleased and surprised how open and comfortable I felt with Gilliam. Maybe it was because I now realized that she was not remotely interested in me sexually and she was just regular folk.
I shared with her my past relationships with Sela and Nicole and explained that I was taking a break from relationships. I did not mention Kelvin and Quinn. I pondered how Gilliam felt about gay people and if she had even been held suspect because of her powerful demeanor.
“Maybe that’s best,” Gilliam said. “We women can be God-awful distractions.”
As Mr. Nevels cleared the plates from the table Gilliam and I strolled out toward the golf course. She explained to me that she’d invited me to church and her home because she wanted to tell me about how pleased she was with my work and that she was strongly considering expanding the firm with more attorneys and perhaps a senior partner. Just when she was about to elaborate further, Mr. Nevels called out from the house that she had an important phone call. Gilliam excused herself and I planted myself in the hammock I had been eyeing since my arrival. I lay back and watched the sun peek through the clouds and find its place against the silver blue sky. My body swayed the fishnet hammock side to side and my nose inhaled the sweet-smelling air. It was hard to believe that a bustling urban city
was only a few miles away. I became very comfortable and a wave of sleepiness crept through my body like the warm syrup that covered the waffles Mr. Nevels had prepared. I smiled at the stereotype that most black folks go to sleep after stuffing themselves. The sleep and stereotype won out as I fell deep into dreamland. In the dream I was just about to tell Jared my secret when I was awakened by Gilliam’s voice.
“Well, I guess that’s what I get for passing out my cards,” Gilliam said.
“What …?” I asked as I wiped embarrassing wet dribble from my face.
“Looks like we have another client. Or should I say you have a new one,” Gilliam said.
“Huh?” I slurred, not fully understanding her.
Gilliam explained that her lawyer friend in Philadelphia had a pro-football-player client who had been arrested in a popular Atlanta nightclub for punching out a patron for an unwanted stare. “I’ve arranged to have him released on his own recognizance,” Gilliam said. “He’ll be in our office first thing in the morning.”
“Is this going to be a criminal action?”
“It is now, but I’m sure we’re talking civil lawsuit when the victim finds out his assailant is a pro-football player who has a sizable income but sounds like a flaming asshole.”
“Well, I guess I better head home to get myself ready. Thanks for a wonderful afternoon, Gilliam,” I said, hoisting myself from the hammock and looking for my suit jacket.
“Mr. Nevels put your jacket in the hall closet. Let me walk you to your car,” Gilliam offered.
“Does this guy play for the Atlanta Falcons?” I asked Gilliam.
“I don’t think so. The attorney who asked us to help out is from Philadelphia so it’s probably an East Coast team.”
“What’s he doing in Atlanta?”
“I didn’t get all that information. That’s why I’m so glad I have a talented attorney like yourself to deal with these jokers,” Gilliam declared.
“Yeah, flattery will get you everywhere,” I laughed.
“I’ll call Mico and have him come in early to take his statement,” Gilliam said.
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