Read All Who Dream (Letting Go) Online
Authors: Nicole Deese
All Who Dream (Letting Go) (10 page)
Cody and
Peter were laughing when we reached their table near a window. I had a million
questions running through my mind about Jackson, but none seemed appropriate to
ask in public. Given my most recent lack of restraint, I decided it was best to
do as Rosie did—Google him. I was already planning a date with my laptop as
soon as I got back to my apartment.
Pippy
joined us about thirty minutes later and filled us in
on the adoption interview. Sue had almost passed out from nerves, but Brian had
coached her through it. As soon as
Pippy
said Brian’s
name, Jackson looked at me, as if waiting for me to announce an engagement.
I did not
oblige him. I picked at my salad, instead.
“Mom, Peter said he would practice some soccer
with me in Central Park.”
“Oh, that’s sounds great. You could use some
good exercise other than the sports games you play on that iPad—speaking of, I
never thanked you for that basket—”
Jackson
looked at his plate. “No need.”
“Well…it was a very nice thing to do for Cody.”
He nodded
and picked up his hamburger.
Discussion apparently over.
Pippy
beamed at me, her eyes sparking like the noonday sun. The girl was positively
giddy just to be alive.
I took in
the three of them now: Peter,
Pippy
and Jackson.
Their family resemblance was remarkable. Again, I found myself wanting to ask
more questions in regard to my recent discovery but chickened out. The lines
were all blurred now. I didn’t know my place—or my level of access to such
personal information.
Was the
family relationship supposed to be a secret? Or were they just trying to
maintain professionalism within the workplace and not discuss it with
outsiders? I suspected the latter. If only I had picked up on that
tid
-bit-o-information say… last week.
Hindsight
always mocked me.
Just as I
stood up to dump our trash from our lunch, a woman with long, dark hair, dark
skin, and legs that seemed endless, approached our table. I plopped down with a
thud. It was
her
—the woman who had so
openly kissed Jackson on the cheek at the dinner last weekend and pulled him to
her table.
“Hello,
Jackson.” Her voice sounded like a recording from one of those risqué perfume
commercials where every model spoke French and wore an eight-inch piece of lace.
I almost laughed at the less-than-subtle nature of her voice, but I was far too
busy staring at the red silk blouse plunged to the middle of her chest,
unbuttoned. I diverted Cody’s eyes, handing him my phone to text an update to
his Uncle Briggs.
“Hello,
Divina
.” Jackson turned toward the woman. “What brings you
here, today?”
I stared
at Jackson’s face, trying to pick his closed expression like a lock.
Nada
.
The bolts
were impenetrable.
“Oh, you
know.” She laughed breathily.
“A little of this, a little of
that.
Always working to get on top.”
She winked
at him and smiled. Her long black lashes teased as they opened and closed
slowly, her lips forming a permanent pout.
I decided
I’d rather be elbows deep in a trash can then stay for this brazen attempt at seduction.
I stood and gathered our plates, catching Jackson’s eye in the process.
He
cleared his throat. “
Divina
, have you met our newest
addition to the family tour?”
Her gaze
swept over me as if she could identify each cheap thread used to make my
second-hand clothing.
She
extended her perfectly manicured hand toward me—bright, red polish on her
nails. I put the plates down, and shook the slender cold fingers, not missing
the way she positioned her hand in mine: as if she was the Queen of Sheba, and
I the lowly servant.
“It’s
nice to meet you,
Divina
.” I forced my tone to sound
kind, but saccharine never could pass for the real thing.
“Yes. I
have heard so little about you, but it looks like that will change soon enough.
I will be interviewing you in two weeks.” Her tone took on an irritated edge as
her narrowed eyes traveled from me to Jackson and back again.
“Oh, are
you in radio?” I asked.
She threw
her head back as if I had just slapped her flawless face.
“No,” she
spat. “I’m an anchor on The Eastman Morning show.”
My face
flamed at the look she gave me, one that screamed disdain for my ignorance like
a siren.
“Oh…I’m
sorry. I’m not from around here.”
“Yes, obviously.
It’s quite alright.”
Divina
looked me up and down again, smirking.
Working
to steady my quivering insides, I cleared the table. Cleaning was a good excuse
to leave that woman’s company—
Divina
: exotic goddess
of television.
“It
really is in your DNA code, isn’t it?”
“I’m
sorry—what is?” I asked Jackson. He stood over me as I dipped a napkin into a
water glass and began wiping the crumbs off the tabletop where we had sat—once
a mom, always a mom.
Peter and
Pippy
were getting a drink refill with Cody.
He
laughed. “You don’t even realize how often you say it, do you?”
My face
reddened, I
had
said it to
Divina
.
Dang
.
“Okay…so I have manners when I speak to people.” I let
my tone suggest that he didn’t. He laughed again.
“No, you
have a
compulsion
when you speak to
people.” His eyes twinkled at me like stars in a desert.
I glared
at him. “There are worse things than saying
sorry
,
Mr. Ross.”
“I disagree. The travesty is not in the words,
Angela, but in the mindset behind them.”
A cold,
chill washed down my arms as I heard my name spoken from his lips, goose bumps
left in its wake.
“And what mindset is that?”
He shook
his head. “That’s a question you must ask yourself.”
I sighed
as he strode away toward Cody and the twins at the drink machine. Meanwhile, I was
still bent over the café table starring into my own version of
Cinderella: The Mom Edition
.
I threw
the wet napkin away and followed behind the family-tour-parade, pondering his
question.
Rosie does this all the time; it’s not
wrong.
And then
I stopped, hovering over an article link with my cursor.
Click.
Jackson
Ross—prodigal son—steps into CEO position at Pinkerton Press.
After four generations of Ross
men filling the seat of CEO at Pinkerton Press, the baton has been passed yet
again. This time to Jackson Ross: the younger of two sons in the Ross family
legacy. He is described as a prodigy in his own right, with a quiet, yet
defiant nature. However, at twenty-eight, his past remains almost as much a
mystery as his claim to bachelorhood.
Ross is said to be well-traveled
and well-versed in the publishing world. After his father, William Ross passed
away nearly eight years ago, the position of CEO fell to the eldest Ross
brother—Jacob Ross. It is rumored that the elder brother has stepped down due
to a serious illness. There are no updates on his current condition.
“Transition should be motivating.
If it doesn’t create an atmosphere of unity—one that pulls people together—then
the issue is not in the company’s change of command, it’s in the morale,”
Jackson Ross said at the press conference last Friday, May 6
th
,
2011. He says he is determined to take the company onward and upward and follow
in the footsteps of the “wise men that have gone before him.”
“Wow…” I
said aloud.
So
Jackson Ross became a CEO two years ago at the age of twenty-eight, graduated
with honors from NYU, and was now a smart, sexy, successful bachelor. I could
think of a thousand worse resumes than that one. I gulped, closing my laptop
lid and laughed out loud. Mine was at the top of that list.
Here I
was: a single-mom at 29. No college degree to my name, no shining career to
claim. My only note-worthy accolade was a blog.
I called
Rosie. And though I tried at first to divert the conversation away from
Jackson, it went there anyway, talking at length about our recent conversations
along with my own Google “research” findings. The girl had a one-track mind,
and apparently so did
I
. As soon as we ended the call,
I grabbed my black journal and wrote an entry.
My hands shook as I made my way onto the
stage at the Anthem church in Philadelphia. I’d been invited as a guest speaker
to join a small panel of mothers discussing parenting questions and concerns.
Pippy
stayed back at the apartment with Cody to watch
movies and eat Pizza, while Walt drove me to the church in the town car.
I sat on a
stool,
a
microphone wired to my blouse, as Mrs. Dyson, the Pastor’s wife, spoke to the
large gathering of women, introducing the panel while I looked around the
spacious room, wishing Rosie’s face would suddenly appear in the crowd. I could
use a friend right now.
“And this is Angela Flores. She’s a single
mother of an eight-year-old son, and currently on a family tour with Pinkerton
Press. Her blog,
A Lone Joy
, has just
been picked up for publication, releasing this fall. Let’s give her a warm
welcome.
Thank you for coming tonight, Miss Flores.”
“It’s my privilege. Thank you for having
me,” I replied.
The audience applauded as Mrs. Dyson went
down the line, introducing each of the four panelists on stage.
Question after question was asked from the
note cards provided to each attendee as they entered the church, and so far, my
responses were similar to the ones I’d given during radio interviews.
“This question’s for you again, Miss
Flores.” Mrs. Dyson read the notecard. “I’m a divorcee with two school-age
children. I’ve recently started dating a bit and I’m wondering what your advice
would be on talking to my kids? Do you tell your son about every date you go
on, and if so, have you prepared him about the possibility of marriage in the
future?”
My heart beat wildly in my chest as the
panelists and host turned to me for an answer. Was it just me, or had the
temperature risen to about a thousand degrees in the last thirty seconds?
I cleared my throat and took a sip from my
water bottle. Plastering a smile on my face, I peered out into the crowd.
“Although I’m an advocate of open communication with children, this is one
category I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of experience in. I haven’t dated since
I’ve been a single mom, but that’s not to say I have a stand against it, I
don’t. It simply hasn’t felt like the right timing for me, personally.” I
glanced around the room, straining to see the faces in the audience as the
lights blinded me from above. “However, I think if there’s ever a time when a
man comes into my life
who
changes that…” I nearly
gasped when I saw a figure I recognized leaning against the sidewall. Though I couldn’t
make out his expression, I
knew
him.
A second or two passed before I was able to continue, recovering the best I
could. “My advice…would be to give a new relationship a bit of time before
talking about possible future scenarios with your children, but it might be
wise overall to share your desire for remarriage—to open the lines of
communication.”
Mrs.
Dyson nodded and then opened the question up to the other panelists. My gaze
shifted once again to the man who made my pulse race and my cheeks burn. A man
who had singlehandedly reminded me that I was a woman with desires, wants, and
maybe even needs.
Jackson
was here.
The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur
as I remained hyper-aware of his presence. I answered questions on a variety of
topics, most having to do with discipline, school activities, and schedules,
but Jackson was never far from my thoughts.
As the audience clapped, signifying the
close of the evening, I followed the three panelists off the stage. A small
group of women found me immediately afterward, hugging me and asking for
pictures and autographs. The group soon swelled into a mass of faces, and I
feared I’d lost Jackson in my attempt to be polite to each woman who handed me
a notecard to sign.
But then Jackson was there, at my side.
I glanced at him, the voices muffling around
me when our gazes locked. There was something new in his eyes as he watched me.
And though heat sparked in my core, his gaze seemed to calm my anxiety
instantly. As his hand pressed my lower back, he whispered in my ear, “When
you’re ready to leave just give me a nod. I’ll stay right here beside you.”
“I’ll
stay right here beside you.”
His words flitted in and out of my head as I
worked my way through the crowd. And when I finally did give the nod, Jackson’s
warm hand found my lower back again, his touch sending flurries of delight up
my spine.
Ducking into the town car, Jackson slid in
beside me. Walt closed the door after him.
