Authors: Cas Sigers
Chocolate Dove (22 page)
“You're wrong. I was just ... I was ashamed.”
“The best way to deal with that shame is to face it. Then it's not shame anymore. You have to go back.”
“We'll see. Tell me what's going on with you.”
The old friends talked and walked the beach until sundown.
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Grayson stayed in his studio for two straight days. All he did was paint and check his voice mail. Grayson drank a few bottles of water but didn't bother leaving the studio to eat. He had work for clients but didn't feel like doing anything with restrictions. He just put brush to canvas and just let the strokes tell the story of his heartbreak. In his depression, he missed an appointment with a potential client; one Lawson had referred. Therefore, during day two of his anguish, Lawson paid him a visit. He knocked on the glass gallery door. Grayson mozied from the back and opened the door.
“What's going on? I thought you wanted this.”
“What are you talking about, Lawson?”
“You missed your meeting with the Millstone.”
“Oh shit, was that today?” Grayson said, walking back to his studio. Lawson followed.
“Hell yes, that was today. What's wrong with you?”
“I'm just not in the mood,” Grayson responded.
“I was hoping you wouldn't turn into one of those emotional artists whose whims and moods determined whether or not he could work. Where's Basra?”
“She's gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Gone back home.”
“To Somalia?”
“Yeah, she left me,” Grayson answered.
Grayson flopped down in front of his canvas and stared into the long red streak he'd place down the middle of his work.
“Is that why you missed your meeting? Women come and go and I know you loved her and all, but trust me, there will be others. You have talent but you must strike while you're hot. You can't wait until you feel better to start painting again.”
“I'm painting now. Look.” Lawson glanced at the collections of wide brush strokes frenzied across the canvas. “This large red line symbolizes fateâ”
“Well what do those others symbolize, bullshit? Get it together, man. I've got a lot invested in you.”
“We're squared up.”
“I mean my reputation. That's much more than my money. That's how I make my money. So here's what you need to do. Take all of the pain and frustration and put it into your work. Create a new series, something great. And take a bath. I'm setting up another meeting. I'll call you, and you better have your ass there.”
Lawson walked out of Grayson's studio and immediately called Basra. “Darling, I don't know what you have put on that boy, but you need to get your hind parts back here 'cause we've got work to do.”
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Basra hadn't been able to connect to the Internet since she'd been home and she didn't have international codes for her cell phone. She'd had no connection to the United States in five days and it was a welcomed break. She was sure that Adam had spilled the beans by now and she didn't want to see what kind of e-mails she had been missing. Baahilo was right. She was scared to face the truth about who she'd become. She knew once the truth was divulged, she would have hard questions to answer. Why did she lose control? Why didn't she just get a normal job? Was she looking for a shortcut to hard work? Is this who she'd been her entire life? Basra sat at the community center computer, took several deep breaths, and clicked online. She scrolled through the junk mail and spotted several e-mails from Grayson. She clicked on the first one, and read: Basra, I don't understand any of this. Why wouldn't you talk to me? You can always talk to me. Call me as soon as possible. She continued to click on several more that all held similar content.
“Maybe he doesn't know yet,” whispered Basra.
She saw a few e-mails from her agent and two from her professors. She clicked on the last one from the agency: Basra, this is our second attempt to reach you. The designers at Lauren's Closet have chosen you as a 2012â2013 Kitten. You have a fitting next week. If you do not contact us before then, we will have to replace you.
“Oh my God!” Basra screamed. “They want me. They want me.” Basra rushed from the center and ran home. She spoke with Baahilo and told her the news. She was nervous, anxious, and almost in disbelief. This was such a coveted modeling job, she couldn't help but wonder if she was good enough. Baahilo squashed all of those negative thoughts.
“You beat out thousands of girls. Of course you are good enough. Stop thinking that way. Plus, this is Allah giving you a second chance to make things right with your husband.”
“I don't know.”
“Even if he never forgives you, it will allow you to forgive yourself. You can't run from this.”
“Well, you are right about that.”
“Although your dad is not going to be too happy about you prancing around in your underwear.”
“He's not. Maybe he'll never see it.”
“You're not ten, Basra.”
“I know. But he's my daddy.”
“And he'll be proud that you have grown up to make your own decisions.”
“I left the center and didn't e-mail back, I was so happy. I forgot I couldn't e-mail at the house. Can you please send a response for me?”
“Of course I will. I'm also booking your ticket. So I need your e-mail information and credit card.”
“Okay,” Basra mumbled fretfully.
“Face your demons. Peace is costly but it's worth the expense. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
By day five Grayson was coming back around. He was not his normal self but he was at least showering and communicating with others. His emotions bandied among shock, anger, and despair, but he knew Lawson was right and that he couldn't throw away the opportunity in front of him because of Basra's decision. Besides Lawson, Grayson didn't share the information with anyone. Many of his friends had given him warning about the hurried courtship and he didn't want his family judging her just in case she decided to come back. Grayson made up his mind to give her another week. He still wanted to be married and thought he understood his wife's psyche enough to know that if she came back it would be for good.
Grayson rose early that Tuesday, went to Pearl Art Supplies, and gathered up a few new brushes, cleaner, and oils. Afterward, he hung out in Chinatown, grabbed a sandwich, and visited an old friend. To keep his mind from wandering, Grayson needed to keep every minute of his day busy. On his way back to the studio, he received a call from his father, who wanted to visit the studio. Grayson was surprised. Basra had mentioned that he was going to call, but since she didn't give a reason, he assumed she was just being optimistic. Grayson still held mixed emotions for Ray. He was glad that they were speaking but he hadn't forgiven him for not supporting his career for years. Still, Grayson agreed to meet him at the studio that afternoon. Therefore, he came in, put his supplies down, and cleaned up his space. After taking care of some outstanding business matters, Grayson placed a new canvas on his easel and visualized a new piece.
Within that hour, Ray paid his first visit to his son's gallery. Proudly, he stood in the center and looked around at the large pieces hanging on the white walls, but his pigheadedness covered the smile that should have been stretched across his face.
“Hey, Pops, how long have you been in here?” Grayson said, coming from the back. “Why didn't you ring the doorbell?”
“I'm just looking around at your work.”
“Yeah, this is my latest installment. I just sold those two pieces right there,” Grayson said, showing his dad the two. “It's going well.”
“I see,” Ray said, continuing to look around the room. “You hungry?”
“Nah, I just ate. What's up?”
Ray took a seat on the bench sitting in the center of the gallery. “Well, what's up is I'd like to do some business with you.”
Grayson folded his arms and leaned against the counter.
“Now, just hear me out,” said Ray, taking notice of his defensive stance.
“Go ahead,” said Grayson.
“You have managed to enter into circles that most people never are allowed in. This is a great accomplishment for an African American.”
“It's a great accomplishment for anyone. I hate when you separate African Americans from the rest of society,” said Grayson.
“You're right, for anyone. I would love for us to collaborate on this. I have a proposal for Arthur Cossington for a new hotel design and I would like for you to include some of your artwork in that proposal.”
“Okay, just let me know what you want.”
“Then ...” Ray took a longer pause. “Then, I would need you to give that proposal to him,” he said while clearing his throat.
“You want me to pitch your proposal?”
“Yes, son. That is what I'm asking.”
Grayson chuckled, and this soon grew to thunderous amusement as he added several stomps and claps. “I can't believe you are asking me to do you a favor. You, who said I'd be a bum on the street.”
“I never said with certainty that you'd be a bum. I said if you weren't careful you could become a bum.”
“You have never supported my choices.”
“Only this choice. But I'm glad you went ahead and pursued your dreams in spite of my self-interest.”
“It wasn't a choice. It's who I am.”
“Now you sound like your sister. No matter who you are, you have choices. Whether we like those choices is another story,” his father said, slightly raising his voice. “Yes, I wanted you to take over the company. What father wouldn't want his son to follow in his footsteps?”
“A father who cares about his child's desires.”
“I care about your well-being. Your mother cares about wants and desires. My job is to provide and make sure that my family and kids are well. My job is to make sure that when I die they will be okay. The only thing I know about painters is that most of them die penniless. That is not the life I wanted for you, especially after I worked so hard. You may not understand now, but one day when you have a child you will.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Ray rose and moved toward the front door. “Maybe I made a mistake coming here. I'm glad you have done well for yourself. At least now I don't have to worry about your future.”
“I always knew I'd be fine. I didn't want you worrying about me.”
“Well, there are some times when there is no choice in the matter. Again, when you are a parent you'll understand. Tell Basra I said hello.” Ray looked at the artwork once more and then walked out.
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Basra boarded the plane Tuesday evening and expected to arrive in New York the next morning. Other than sleep, she wanted to use the time to really get a new game plan together. She was done with Choice and now that she'd just landed the contract with Lauren's Closet, she would use that opportunity to launch bigger modeling opportunities. She hated to put school on hold again, but the new gig would require extensive travel, and would yield her enough money so that she wouldn't have to get another job. Next, there was Grayson. Basra hadn't spoken to him since she left and wasn't sure if he knew anything about her past. He hadn't left any more e-mails or messages. However, if he didn't know about Choice, she was prepared to tell him. She didn't want to come back to New York and start over without him, but she knew that might be an option. She loved him, and most importantly, she had to be honest. Though she was only gone a week, Grayson didn't leave her mind the entire time, and Baahilo was right: it was time she stopped running. As the plane took off Basra closed her eyes and drifted to sleep. She prayed that the fifteen hours would give her the courage to do what was necessary when she landed in New York.
Grayson closed up shop early that afternoon, as he'd made plans to hang out in the city with Thomas. However, around 5:00
P.M.
, as he was locking up the gallery, Lucia was approaching.
P.M.
, as he was locking up the gallery, Lucia was approaching.
“Hi, Grayson, remember me? Lucia.”
“Of course I remember you.”
“I've been trying to get here since lunch that day but my schedule is always crazy. I want to see your stuff. You're closing?”
Grayson unlocked the door and ushered Lucia in. She placed her enormous designer bag on the counter, went to the center of the room, and spun around in circles. “I love it!” she screamed as though she had something to do with its creation. “So, tell me what's for sale.”
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