Driving Heat (13 page)

The following weekend, Cynthia and Byron headed to an art show in Santa Monica. Earlier that week, she’d performed the rare act of RSVPing to one of many invitations that as a member of the Arts as Healing Foundation she received. Tonight the founders, Dr. and Mrs. Gregory Morgan, were conducting a fund-raiser for a project he spearheaded, one in which the use of art as an intrinsic component in healing brain and other organ injuries played a major role. All of the proceeds would go toward this continued research. The cause in itself was worthy enough. That his wife, Anise, was the featured artist, and that Cynthia had been wanting original pieces for her dining room and bedroom made the affair all the more special.

Given what she’d seen last weekend, Cynthia had vacillated in asking Byron to be her escort. He wasn’t upper echelon or from a slice of society where there were rules and standards, where people were routinely judged and either accepted or dismissed by what they wore or how they spoke, where they worked or went to school. As far as she knew, she’d been accepted by his family, their neighbors and friends. Byron wouldn’t have it so easy. Her girls, except Lisa, were constantly giving her flak, turning their last two Sunday chats into “save Cynthia” sessions. A readily apparent good mood had aroused her mother’s suspicion and Jayden had returned from New York with the news that “Uncle Jeffrey has a girlfriend. She’s really pretty, is an attorney like he is, and lives in a cool house with a pool on the roof!”

“How nice for Uncle Jeffrey,” Cynthia had replied with a smile, successfully removing all traces of sarcasm from her voice. She dearly loved her brother, who couldn’t help that he was the golden child. He had always been his parents’ favorite and, after the error that sullied her mother’s social standing and the Hall reputation, was the only perfect one as well.

All of this, and Cynthia continued her time with Byron. It was the most irrational, defiant thing she’d ever done, yet she’d never before felt so special and free. She’d decided to limit the discussion of those against him and deal with any fallout if and when the time came.

A valet service had been hired for the evening. Cynthia and Byron exited her car. He came around the car to shield her from oncoming traffic and placed a light hand at the small of her back as they walked the short distance to the Samuel Morgan Trauma Research and Health Center entrance. Near the door, Cynthia stopped abruptly. She looked down the street, and across it.

“What is it, babe?”

“Did you hear someone call my name?”

“No, did you?”

“I thought so.” She gave another quick scan of the area. There was no one she recognized, no one looking in her direction. Shrugging her shoulders, they went inside.

The medical and research offices had been transformed to resemble a chic art gallery. Office equipment sat hidden beneath skillfully constructed boxes covered in faux marble, wood, and satiny skirting where sculptures and smaller pieces of Anise’s art sat in easel picture frames. Billowy folds of navy voile drapery sheer hung from the ceiling, adding warmth and intimacy, as well as a fitting backdrop for LED fair lights that twinkled like stars. Faint strands of classical music wafted over the heads of the patrons, enveloping them effortlessly like a warm breeze.

Cynthia recognized the composer at once.
George Frideric Handel.
Her mom’s favorite. Accepting a flute of champagne from the passing waiter, she casually eyed the designer-clad women and well-dressed men. The two days it had taken her to talk Byron into wearing a rented tuxedo (he refused to even think about buying one) had been worth her while, as had her suggestion before his trip to the barber to lose the mini-afro, and gentle teasing that he trade in ashy knuckles and hang nails for a buffed manicure. As a sip of vintage bubbly danced on her tongue she breathed in the familiarity of cultured refinement, now keenly aware of a lifestyle she’d not known that she missed.

“Let’s work the room,” she murmured softly, turning just as Byron gave his bowtie a nonsub-tle tug.

“Honey, careful! It took us forever to get that tied.”

“Yeah, and it’ll take about a second to untie it, which is exactly what I’m about to do.”

“Why?”

“It’s uncomfortable! I haven’t felt anything this tight around my neck since Douglas tried to choke me ’cause I broke his Nintendo!”

“Well, suffer in silence. You look the part of a man who belongs here.”

She started down the hall next to a wall boasting large, unframed paintings.

Byron snorted. Cynthia gave him a look. “Baby, I belong wherever I am.”

She patted his arm. “Of course, dear.”

She stopped in front of a large, abstract drawing loosely resembling clouds, the ocean, or a combination of both, with errant streaks of bold, primary colors. Words—divine healing, perfect flow, body beautiful, peace, love, joy, and gratitude—were printed and repeated enough to frame the entire picture in stark, block letters.

Cynthia sighed happily as she imagined this in her room. “Isn’t it stunning?” Byron didn’t answer. “What does it look like to you?”

“Like something Tyra could have painted at the age of two.”

“Then Tyra must have been a talented toddler indeed.”

It took thirty years of discipline for Cynthia not to flinch and whip her head around to confirm the speaker of these words. She recovered her poise within seconds, and with a smile slowly turned while thinking,
Please, don’t let it be her.

It was.

“Pay him no mind. The painting is breathtaking.”

“Not half as much as this bowtie,” Byron mumbled, giving the offending piece of cloth another tug.

“Cynthia Hall!” In trying to cover his gripe, she spoke louder than intended, and cringed inside.

“Anise Morgan,” the woman said, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she held out her hand to Cynthia but focused on Byron. “Painter of these childish doodles and co-host of this event.” She turned to the handsome man beside her. “And my husband, Dr. Morgan.”

Cynthia held out her hand to him. “It is my pleasure to meet you both, and to not only support this worthy cause but to place a stunning piece of artwork on one of my very bare walls.”

“We appreciate that,” Dr. Morgan said. “What do you do?”

“I’m a manager at the H.E.L.P. Agency.”

The doctor nodded. “I’m familiar with that agency, and have heard good things about it.”

The artist turned to Byron. “And what about you?”

“He’s a director for the Los Angeles Department of Transportation,” Cynthia interjected.

Byron’s eyes narrowed as he met Cynthia’s gaze. “Yeah, right.” His attention shifted to Anise. “I direct a big bus down Central Avenue, the number 53, using a steering wheel, gas pedal, and brake. Some people call that a bus driver.”

The doctor chuckled. Anise’s smile widened.

As did Cynthia’s eyes as she spoke lowly through gritted teeth. “Byron!”

“What? You thought I was going to go along with that director bullshit? Carters keep it real all day, every day. I’m not ashamed of my occupation. It pays the bills and transports clients who probably can’t afford the supplies it took to draw one of these paintings, let alone buy the finished work.”

Cynthia hung her head, shoulders heaving. Whether from embarrassment, anger, shame, or all of the above, Byron couldn’t tell which. Nor did he care.

“I hear ya, man.” The doctor surprised both Byron and Cynthia by easily switching from the proper tone of an esteemed expert in the medical field to a homeboy. “Long Beach right here, brothah. Grew up in the thick. North Side, podna, ya heard?”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.” Byron’s smile widened and eyes gleamed with newfound respect as he clasped the doctor’s hand in a soul shake. “The Wood, dog, Seventy-Seventh.”

“Aw, yeah? One of my brother’s best friends-turned-business partner grew up in Inglewood. Where you from?”

“Man, I’m from the Carter crew led by gangstas Willie and Liz. Mama didn’t allow no bangin’.”

“Does she know a gangsta named Jackie?”

The two men laughed as they gave each other dap.

Anise crossed over to Cynthia, and whispered, “While they’re in the throes of male bonding, why don’t you show me which pieces you like.”

A steady flow of small talk, networking, and art shopping kept an underlying tension at bay, but once sitting on the plush leather of Cynthia’s car, the huge elephant’s presence could not be denied.

“What was tonight about?” Byron turned from looking out the window to see Cynthia’s face.

“It was about supporting a worthy cause,” Cynthia replied after a brief pause. “And purchasing some very nice art pieces. I think I’ll give one of the pieces to my friend Gayle, in Chicago. She’s a connoisseur and will appreciate Anise’s aesthetic.”

“Is that another word for artwork?”

A soft sigh and then, “Basically.”

“Look, if you’re ashamed of me or consider being with me as dating down, just let me know and I’ll be out your way. But what I won’t do is be with anybody who thinks I’m less than they are, because I can assure you that I am not.”

“I never said you were.”

“Words, whether or not I know their meaning, are not our only form of communication. I’ve been getting this message ever since you got on my bus.”

“What message is that?”

“That you’re better than or higher than because of what you do and where you came from, or where you live or how much you’ve been educated. But at the end of the day it don’t matter that your panties are silk and came from Victoria’s Secret. They basically do the same job as the ones on a homeless woman, even though hers are cotton and from the dollar store.”

Several long seconds passed and not even the “Happy” song could lighten the somber mood.

Cynthia reached over and turned off the stereo. “It’s not that I feel better than you or anyone else.”

“Then what is it?”

“I was taught that there is a time and place for most things, not everything, and that there is a way to behave in certain social settings and among a particular group of people. One should observe and adapt.”

“Oh, like you adapted the other day at the block party? I don’t recall seeing you accept Ava’s invitation to a game of spades, or chugging back a cooler out the bottle. I would understand if it had been chitterlings, because they’re an acquired taste, but you’re the first black person I’ve ever met who didn’t like greens or black-eyed peas. And who in the hell, besides you and I guess your mama nem, takes meat off a rib using a knife and fork?”

“I was taught that one should not eat with their hands.” Cynthia talked, but heard her mother’s voice in her ears. She couldn’t help it and, in this instance, didn’t want to. This was who she was and how she lived. “If you believe it’s okay for you to be Willie and Liz’s gangster son, part of the Carter crew, then it should be acceptable for me to be who I am.”

“It is, except for when who you are feels the need to lie about who I am.”

His words gave her pause and erased all quippy comebacks. How could she defend actions that happened almost subconsciously against his truthful statement?

“Why did you do it?”

“Honestly, I just asked myself the very same thing.”

Once again silence descended. Cynthia switched back on the radio. An appropriately melancholy Sade song surrounded them like a low, dense fog, wrapping them both in the reality of what may very well be an impossible situation.

When they reached Cynthia’s condo, Byron asked to be let out next to his SUV.

Her surprise was obvious. “I thought you were going to spend the night?”

He opened the door and for several seconds sat in silence, staring straight ahead. Finally, he turned to her, and said, “So did I.”

“I think we should talk about it!” she threw at his back.

“Maybe later,” he responded, without turning around.

Entering her home, Cynthia tried to figure out how an evening filled with such promise had turned into a total mess.
You know why.
Anna Marie, in her ear once again. Ever since meeting his family, Cynthia had been plagued with the likely reactions if Byron met hers. Total nonacceptance from her mother, and that would be even before his atrocious—again, Anna’s voice—social manners were unveiled. Her father would be more forgiving but afterward, in his study that smelled of aged brandy and expensive cigars, she’d be gently persuaded to widen her pool of eligible candidates, preferably with the son/cousin/brother/friend of a valuable business associate. Jeffrey would jokingly tell her she’d gone slumming, but would then get serious and tell her to go for love. They’d both lived in a household without it, and had vowed a different type of marriage for themselves. And the girls? Lisa would back her. Eventually Dynah would come around. Gayle would be the holdout. But for love, losing one best friend out of three wasn’t bad.
Love?
No. It was too early to use this word to describe what she felt for Byron. Wasn’t it? Given that it hadn’t been too early for him to risk his life to save hers . . . maybe not. She’d called it lust when describing her feelings in the Sunday phone chat, but after spending the day with his family and her continued deepening feelings, she knew whatever was happening between them went beyond that. Her lust for Byron Carter had turned into something much deeper—a feeling that had her questioning every rule she’d ever created or followed.

Cynthia showered, checked on Jayden at his buddy Bobby’s house, scanned her e-mails, and climbed into bed. Sade’s music still looped in her conscience, the question she asked swirling with others that spun in her head. Was it too late for Byron to know that she loved him? Was it possible that he felt the same? What was it that caused her to define Byron as a transportation director rather than a bus driver? What made her wary of telling her parents about him, let alone arranging a meeting? What made her hesitant to admit that she loved him? Was it her own beliefs that he didn’t measure up? Was it her upbringing? Was it her pride? And if so, was love really stronger?