A Private Affair (9 page)

“Thanks, Q.” Maxine fidgeted with the lock for a minute, got it open, then turned to him. “See ya. You have my number. Give me a call one day next week. I'll let you know what's happening.”

Quinn nodded and looked at her hard. “You straight, Max?”

“Yeah. I'm fine. Nothing that a good night's sleep won't cure.” She opened the door. “Later.” She wanted to ask him about Nikita. She wanted to know if he was going to see her later—again—ever. She didn't.

“Yeah, later,” he mumbled. He waited until she was safely inside the building, then pulled out.

He shook his head, pushing thoughts of Maxine Sherman temporarily aside. He had his run to make and then home—where Nikita was waiting. He smiled. That sounded real good.

 

She wasn't stupid. Every grown woman with a grain of sense knew what to expect when she got invited to a man's apartment. Her hands shook as she tried to fit the key in the lock. The keys clanged to the concrete steps.

Oh, Lord, what in heaven's name was she doing? Was this what she really wanted? She stared at the keys. She looked around, up and down the quiet, tree-lined block. Maybe she could leave the keys where he could find them and just go home. That would certainly put a quick end to their short relationship.

When are you going to get some heart, girl?
she thought.
This is supposed to be all about change.
She bent down and picked up the keys. This time she got the key in the front door lock.

After her fumbling with the keys again and trying each one, the last one, of course, finally fit in the lock to the apartment door. Cautiously, she stepped inside. Feeling along the wall, she found the light switch. The large, airy front room was bathed in soft light from the track system up above.

Quietly closing the door behind her, she stepped into the room. Her eyes widened. The gleaming, high-gloss wood floors supported black leather furniture with smoked glass and wood coffee and end tables, a complicated-looking stereo system situated near the floor-to-ceiling windows, and a bookcase loaded with books. Books! He even had plants. Dead in the center of the room was a fireplace, with a piano holding a place of honor to the left. The smooth, cream-colored walls were beautifully adorned with examples of black art—she was familiar with some, and with others she wanted to be. On either side of the fireplace hung magnificent reproductions of John Biggers'
Harvest From the Sea
and
Crossing the Bridge,
a poignant depiction of rural black life.
Wow.
She approached the piano to get a closer look at the portrait of a jazz band that hung above it. A Doris Price original.

She looked around and noticed a pair of heavy sliding doors at the back of the room. She tiptoed across the floor and opened them. A full dining room with a rectangular smoked-glass dining table atop what appeared to be a polished tree trunk, surrounded by six chairs covered in African fabric, took up the center space. Beyond was a sunny yellow-and-white kitchen with every kind of gadget imaginable. Did he cook, too?

Uhmph, uhmph, uhmph—well, wonders never ceased. Quinn Parker lived well, seemed to have excellent taste in furnishings, art, literature. Yet, on the outside he presented himself as a crude, unworldly thug. Beyond closed doors he was an entirely different person. Why? It was almost as if he were two different people.

She shook her head in confusion. What in the world did he do for a living? She wondered if he shared this classy abode with a woman. It was just so neat for a man. But he couldn't be so arrogant as to give her a set of keys if his girlfriend could just walk in. Could he? She discarded that idea.

She jumped when the ringing phone pierced the silence. On the third ring the answering machine came on and seconds later she heard the voice of a sexy-sounding female who didn't seem to feel the need to identify herself.
“Hey, baby. Long time no hear from. Give me a call so we can get together. Soon.”
Click.

Well, whoever she was, at least she hadn't seen him in a while and she obviously didn't live there.

She retraced her steps and went back out into the front room. The bedroom must be upstairs. She thought about going up, just to see, but that would probably be the moment Quinn would arrive and find her in his bedroom. No thanks. No point in asking for trouble.

Crossing the room, she approached the stereo and pressed open the Plexiglas panels. Not wanting to take a chance on messing with anything, she opted for listening to the radio and was pleasantly surprised to find it programmed to 98.7, better known as KISS FM, which only played classic R&B. The throaty sounds of Anita Baker's “Been So Long” filled the room.
How appropriate,
she thought.

Letting the music soothe her, she took a seat on the couch and
leaned her head back, closing her eyes, thinking how comfortable she felt. Just as he'd said, she mused, a smile touching her lips. She hummed along with Luther's “A House is Not a Home,” true understanding of the lyrics finally taking hold.

Quinn understood it, too, standing in the doorway, watching her without her knowledge. Feeling what it felt like to come home to someone. Someone who mattered.

He took a short inhale. Nikita could really matter to him. If he let her. It was gonna take time. She wasn't one of the “around the way girls” that he could play on. He would have to be for real, up-front and correct with Nikita. But the life he led didn't allow for diversions. And she could sure become one. Having someone close always caused problems. They became your weak spot, a way for your enemies to get to you. That's why he'd stayed free of any heavy relationships. They weighed you down, slowed your step. But she looked real good sitting there, just like that's where she belonged. Maybe she did.

She sensed his presence. Instead of being startled at being caught unawares, she felt comforted, secure. Slowly she opened her eyes and turned her head toward the door. He was almost beautiful, like a black Messiah, framed in the doorway, haloed by the light from the hall.

“Hi,” she said softly, as if she'd always sat in that very spot waiting for him to come home.

That lazy smile slowly spread. “Hi, yourself. Lookin' mighty relaxed on my couch,” he teased, stepping in and closing the door.

“Per your instructions.” She sat up straighter as he languidly approached.

He leaned down, placed a hand on each side of her head. “Let's try this,” he said, leaning a bit closer, “and get it out of the way. Then we can spend the rest of the time gettin' to know each other.”

Ever so slowly he drew nearer until she just wanted to snatch him by his shirt and pull him to her, to stop the unbearable anticipation. When his lips touched down on hers, tiny sparks started popping in her head like a million flashbulbs. He pressed a little harder, letting the tip of his tongue brush across her lips,
asking for access. She heard her own sharp intake of breath when he penetrated her mouth and felt the rush of heat that followed, flooding her body.

Did he moan or did she? She couldn't be sure with so many new sensations and emotions tumbling around at once.

His hands caressed her face, his fingers tracing her jawline until they reached her chin and he gently withdrew.

Quinn pressed his head against hers, closing his eyes, letting the impact of that kiss subside. He hadn't expected to be taken like that, not over some kiss. Something happened. He couldn't explain it. Nikita was trouble. He didn't need trouble. But some part of him needed her.

“How much time you got?” he asked, looking hard into her eyes, because he knew this was going to take a while.

Taking Chances

“W
here's Nikita tonight?” Lawrence asked, stepping into the bedroom.

Cynthia, sitting in front of her vanity mirror, continued applying a heavy coat of cold cream to her smooth, red-tinted complexion in practiced strokes—up and out, just the way her masseuse and the beauty magazines advised.

“She said she was going out for a while. She didn't say where.” Gray-green eyes with just a hint of crow's feet at the corners stared back at her. At fifty, Cynthia Harrell was just as striking as she had been at twenty-five—her daughter's age. Her daughter, by some genetic twist of fate, had acquired a prior generation's dose of melanin, resulting in her warm, caramel tones. Cynthia pursed her thin lips at the thought.

“If she's going to continue living here indefinitely, she will not be traipsing in here at all hours.” He loosened his tie and removed his jacket, hanging it in perfect alignment with his others in the walk-in closet.

Cynthia watched his movements in her mirror. “Don't marry a man darker than you,” her mother had warned. “You'll wind
up with black babies with nappy hair.” Well, she hadn't. Lawrence Harrell was about as close to white as you could get without crossing the line. Lawrence was what was referred to in some circles as “high yella,” with jet-black wavy hair and gray eyes. And still, nature had fooled her.

“We have to have rules in this house,” he added without conviction.

She took a tissue from a lacquered box and began removing the cream. Nikita would never have to worry about sunburn and premature aging of her skin. Cynthia wiped some more. She'd have other things to worry about. Like being an obviously black woman in a white world. Having to work twice as hard to get half as much—to never truly be recognized for her accomplishments by whites and her own people, if not more so.

“How was your day, dear?” she asked, not in the mood to debate with her husband.

“The usual. Two major surgeries today. Both successful.” He sat on the edge of the bed and removed his shoes, covertly looking at his wife. When did the woman he'd married turn into the woman in front of him—distant and cold—he wondered. Somewhere during their thirty-year marriage they'd become so absorbed in their own careers and their accomplishments that they'd forgotten about each other.

He released a sigh. The only times he'd been truly happy were when Nikita was born, when she soared to new heights, accomplished new goals. Which was why he was so devastated when she dropped out of medical school. He wanted to talk with Cynthia, tell her how he truly felt. But they had stopped really talking a long time ago.

Cynthia studied her reflection. Nikita, Nikita, that's all he ever seemed to care about from the moment she was born. Cynthia wiped some more. She resented Nikita, so she pushed her, and punished Lawrence for sharing the love that she craved for herself alone. She envied the very harsh reality that at least Nikita, for all that she might or might not be, was accepted in a world that had turned its back on her mother.
“A credit to her race.”

Cynthia, on the other hand, had been rejected by her own.
Her fair skin might have won her easy entrée into the white world, but black doors were always shut in her face. “You think you white,” was the favorite taunt. “You think you too cute,” others would say. Then there were those who believed she'd steal their men, with her white-girl looks and long, sandy blond hair.

She brushed her hair, remembering how many times it had been pulled, twisted, even doused with food coloring—by ninth-grade girls. And how she'd cut it up to her ears in tenth grade, in the hope that maybe they'd like her then. They never did.

So Cynthia withdrew into a world of books, concentrating on her studies, excelling, besting all of those who had thought so little of her. She made friends with the white girls in college, and then at work. They became her contemporaries, her confidantes, her role models. And just when she thought she had pushed that dark, painful world behind her, there was Nikita, her little brown baby, there to remind her of all the women who'd always hated her. She'd never get away from the humiliation of who she was. Nikita would always be there to remind her.

So she demanded more than Nikita could ever give. More than she could hope to deliver. Whenever Nikita could not meet or exceed expectations, Cynthia felt vindicated. She proved that she was better than those “cullud” girls who had tormented her. Nikita's return home was her supreme triumph, and still Lawrence dwelled on Nikita, even in her failure.

Slowly, Lawrence pushed himself up from the bed, rising to his full six-foot height. “I'm going to take my shower,” he announced.

“I think I'll read for a while. I have a meeting with the department heads in the morning,” Cynthia replied, brushing her hair.

Lawrence walked toward the master bathroom, then stopped. He turned to his wife. “Why did you marry me, Cynthia?”

She swiveled around in her chair. “Larry, what a ridiculous question.” She turned back around and continued brushing her hair until it gleamed. “This isn't one of those mid-life crisis things, is it?” She chuckled.

“Yes, it is ridiculous, isn't it?” He stepped into the bathroom and shut the door.

Moments later Cynthia heard the rush of water.

Mechanically she returned the brush to the tabletop. “Why did you marry me, Larry?” she whispered to her reflection.

 

Quinn eased back, then took a seat in the space next to Nikita. He studied her, saw the eagerness and doubt drift and change places on her face. He lifted the lock that dangled with the tiny shell, and tucked it behind her ear. He felt her shiver.

“You didn't answer my question,” he said, stroking her ear.

Nikita swallowed. Did he really expect her to spend the night with him? “About how much time I have?”

“Yeah.” He grinned.

She didn't want him to think she was totally uncool and had to run home to Mommy and Daddy. But then again, she didn't want him to think she was easy, either. “Uh, I guess I have some time. Why?”

He shrugged that easy-does-it shrug. “I figured we could listen to some music. You could tell me 'bout yourself, and then take it from there.”

Nikita nodded, then smiled. “That sounds okay. But what about you telling me about yourself?”

Quinn stood up and chuckled. “You hungry?”

“A little.” He hadn't answered her question, but that was answer enough. If he thought she was going to be giving the 411 and he was just going to listen, he had another think coming. She smiled to herself. Maybe she could finally put her reporter skills into practice.

“How's your story comin' on your friend?” he asked, reading her mind again.

“I finally finished,” she said, standing and following him into the kitchen. She leaned against the counter while he rifled through the fridge.

“Burger and fries cool?”

“Sure. Can I help you with something?”

“Hey, I'm down for equal opportunity.” He grinned, and his dimples winked at her. “What's your pleasure, seasonin' the meat, or arrangin' the fries?”

Why's my heart doing a tap dance because of a simple question?
It wasn't so much what he said, just how he said it.
Season the meat, huh?
“I'll handle the fries.”

Quinn placed an unopened bag of frozen french fries on the counter. “Work your magic, babe. The oil is in the cabinet over your head.”

They worked together in a comfortable silence, the music from the stereo mixing with the cling and clang of pots, utensils and popping grease. Soon the kitchen was filled with the aromas of sizzling ground beef that Quinn had molded into two perfect patties, sauteed onions and steak sauce.

Nikita's stomach gave an embarrassing shout out, which she tried unsuccessfully to camouflage by shutting a cabinet.

Quinn smiled but figured he'd give her a play and not tease her.

“You have anything to make a salad?” Nikita asked, turning just in time to catch the tail end of his smile.

“Check the fridge,” he said, flipping a burger.

Nikita was pleased to find a fresh bag of spinach, mushrooms, cucumbers and cherry tomatoes. He kept surprising her.

 

“We can eat up front,” Quinn said, taking the plates into the living room. He placed them on the coffee table, then went to the bar. “Fix you a drink?” he asked, pouring a shot of Jack Daniels over two cubes.

“I saw some Pepsi in the fridge. That's fine with me.”

“Help yourself. There's a lemon in the vegetable bin.”

She angled her head over her shoulder as she walked to the kitchen. Their smiles met.

 

“How long you gonna be livin' with your people?” Quinn asked over a bite of the burger. Juice dripped out and he caught it with his tongue.

“Every day is too long,” she moaned. “But I'm trying to save. It's just taking a long time.”

“Make the most of it.”

Nikita frowned. “The most of what?”

“The time you have with your folks. Can't get it back, ya know?”

She watched his profile for a moment, trying to see beyond his words. She took a sip of soda. “Where's your family?”

She saw the slight flare of his nostrils as if he were struggling for air. His eyes drifted away. He seemed to be looking beyond the window that faced them. “Just me,” he said finally.

His voice sounded as vacant to her as an abandoned building.

Quinn got up from the couch, took their empty plates and put them in the dishwasher.

She watched him walk away, distracted, as if he were traveling to some other place. So family was off-limits. It was obviously something he didn't want to discuss. Maybe some other time.

Quinn returned and went straight to the stereo. Nikita silently prayed that he wouldn't turn on that rap music, but that's just what he did. She cringed when the first pulsing wave jumped through the air with a life all its own. Initially, she couldn't make out a word of what was being said, and didn't want to. If he was planning on their talking and getting to know each other, how in the world could they do that over all the noise?

Quinn seemed oblivious to her discomfort, his long, muscled body rocking to the beat as he sorted through his cache of CDs. The pounding of the drums vibrated through her, pulling her unwillingly along. She knew all they were talking about was how women were just “hos” and “bitches,” how they were going to kill cops and get high. Wasn't that what everyone said? She wanted to tell him to turn it off, that she didn't want to listen to the noise, but the lyrics began to make sense, pushing past the barriers she'd erected. The singer was talking about his mother and how hard she'd struggled to raise them in the projects. How much he respected and loved her, no matter what she did to bring the money in. It was sad, powerful and filled with a painful kind of love.

“Who's singing?”

Quinn turned. “Tupac.”

“Oh.” The name sounded vaguely familiar. “Is he the one who was killed in Las Vegas?”

“Yeah. Didn't think you kept up,” he teased.

“I don't, at least not with the music, but I do listen to the news.”

“Hmmm. The news…” His voice drifted away. “Believe
what's on the news and you'll keep a twisted picture of what's real.” Her body tensed at the sudden underlying anger that tinged his voice. “They tell you what they want you ta hear, how they want you ta hear it. Especially when it comes to black folks.”

“That's probably true, sometimes. But not always.”

He just looked at her, a half smile curving his lips. “Yeah,” he said without an ounce of belief.

“Why do you feel that way?” she asked, wanting to know, even if the question made her sound silly and naive.

He took a breath and changed to “Jook Joint” by Quincy Jones. His smooth, unlined features seemed to distort into a mask of hatred. “I been there,” he spat. “Seen it all the way live and then watched it get twisted in the papers and on the news.”

“I'm sure there are plenty of reporters who look for the truth and tell it.”

Quinn crossed the room in slow, easy strides. “Yeah, baby. You probably right. No doubt.” Sarcasm dripped from his lips, like the juice from the burger. “The reality is, the ones who report the news ain't large enough to be in charge. Everything is run by somebody with their own agenda.” He gave her a long look. “Same thing with you. Your boss got her own opinion about what she wants said in her magazine, what stories she wants told. Right or wrong?”

Nikita was thoughtful for a moment, taking in the enormity of what he said in his own unorthodox style. Regretfully, she had to admit that Quinn was right. It was a scary concept, that the entire world was manipulated by the thoughts and opinions of a handful of people. How long had she lived in this vacuum? And what happened in his life to make him so cynical and bitter? “I guess you're right.”