Driving Heat (17 page)

Since giving Tyra a good night kiss an hour ago, Byron had sat in a darkened, quiet living room watching the face light up on his silenced cell phone: Tanya, Barry, Douglas, Tanya (for the umpteenth time), Ava, Mama, Nelson, and just now Barry again. If it weren’t for the fact that he hadn’t heard from his dad or Marvin, he’d have sworn that Liz had sent out a Code 3C—Carter Call Circle—a tag team–styled communication system his mother had implemented and kept in place since childhood. There needn’t be an emergency to have this plan implemented. In fact, at times the Carter Circle had been summoned for something as trivial as the answer to a Daily Double on
Jeopardy.
Liz had encouraged—translated, demanded—a transparent, close-knit family unit. It wasn’t unusual to speak with one or all of his siblings on any given day. Never more than a week passed without some type of communication. There were no secrets between them. “On some days all we’ll have is each other,” she’d tell them. “And on those days each other will be all we need.”

He’d been preoccupied yesterday, other more poignant thoughts blocking out the phone call that had upended his world. The family had gathered at their parents’ house in Inglewood to celebrate the tragically short life of Lance Montell Thompson. Once home Byron had made a final call to check on Ava to see how she was really holding up. A good thing, too. In the privacy of her bedroom, she wasn’t holding up all that well. She talked, he listened, until 3 a.m.

But tonight, there was nothing to obscure the stark reality that the woman of his dreams had come and gone from his life.
Was it only six weeks ago that I met her?
A series of failed relationships had made him a skeptic when it came to true love like his parents had existing anymore. And most definitely would have balked at anyone claiming to have fallen in love this quickly. He thought that crap only happened in movies. Now he knew it could happen for real. It had happened to him.

The doorbell rang, jolting Byron out of his pondering. He begrudgingly got up and walked to the door.
I know this fool Barry didn’t come over here to . . .

Halfway to the door another thought stopped him in his tracks.
What if it’s not Barry? What if it’s . . .
He stepped close to the window that faced the street, then leaned over slightly to peek outside without being seen.

The doorbell rang again. He hurried to open it.

“Ava. What are you doing here?”

“From that look on your face you were obviously expecting someone else.” She stepped inside. “Is that why the lights are off? To set the mood?”

They shared a hug and then walked into the living room. He turned on a lamp. Both sat on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other. “Did Mama send you over here?”

Ava shook her head. “I haven’t talked to her tonight. Douglas called, though, said him and Barry had called and both gotten voice mail.” Ava had brought in a bottle of juice, which she set on the coffee table. “That’s not why I came by, though. I could tell last night that something was wrong. What’s up?”

He shrugged. “Same old, same old.”

Ava cocked her head and gave him a look. “You are so not telling the truth right now! You’ve always been a bad liar. I don’t know why you keep trying.”

“It’ll be all right.”

“Though dealing with my own pain yesterday, I noticed you were hurting as well. At first I assumed that, like everyone else, it was about Lance.”

“It was, partly.”

“But not totally. What’s going on, Byron?”

“Aw, man. I guess I should talk about it with somebody; about to drive myself crazy with this one-sided conversation going on in my head.”

“Let me guess. The beautiful and refined counselor got tired of the hood and decided to go back and play in her own yard?”

Byron shot her a hard gaze. “If you came over for ‘I told you so,’ I’m not in the mood. I don’t need help feeling bad.”

“No.” Ava softened her tone. “I came over to support you like you did me last night.” No response. “So, what happened?”

Byron shifted his position and began idly moving around the junk on the table. “According to her it’s a conflict of interest; that she is prohibited from having personal relationships with the family of her clients.”

“I thought you met her before you even knew she worked with Leah. Plus, if she knew this, why’d she go out with you in the first place? Wait, does she know that I’m your play sister, that we’re not actually related?”

“Ava, you’re as much my sister as if Liz Carter had carried you in her womb.”

“But she didn’t carry me.”

“You’re still family.”

“You know I feel the same about all of you. Being an only child, having your mother basically adopt me after y’all moved next door is one of the best things that’s happened in my life. But if she knew we weren’t blood-related, that might change things. That’s if Leah being her client was the only reason.”

“What other reason could there be?”

“Who knows? But it sounds like you should have asked more questions.”

“It was a rather one-sided conversation. Before I could ask her too much of anything, she’d hung up.”

“Hung up! You mean she cut you loose over the phone, didn’t even give you the common courtesy to say good-bye in person?”

“That probably was a good thing.”

“If you say so.” Ava reached for the bottled juice, watching as Byron mindlessly took a pair of Chinese meditation balls out of a small satin box and began slowly rolling them around in his right hand. As he maneuvered them around and around with his fingers, soft ringing chimes and metal clinking against metal disrupted the silence.

“I can’t believe how hard I fell for that girl.” His voice was low. He looked at the balls instead of his sister. Rotating clockwise . . . three, four, five times, and then clumsily and with effort turning them the opposite way.

“I didn’t even know you were into her like that. It definitely didn’t show at the block party. But then again given what you said she told you, I guess y’all were keeping it on the low.”

“I wasn’t trying to. I mean, none of this was planned.”

Ava’s look contained a healthy dose of skepticism.

“Okay, I did go after her a little bit . . .”

“I know you did! She’s cute and you’re a Carter!”

“So are you, basically.”

“Hey, I have no problem owning mine. Just sayin’ . . .”

“Cynthia had no plans beyond meeting for coffee.”

“And then you poured on the Carter charm.”

“Every time we’d get together everything would just flow, it was natural. It didn’t feel like there was this big difference between us, like she was on one level and I was on another.”

“You were raised to believe that nobody is better than you.”

“You felt that way, couldn’t believe we went out more than once.”

“That wasn’t a reflection of how I feel about you, Byron, but how I felt about her. Don’t get me wrong. As a counselor, I think she’s very qualified. Leah likes her and I am seeing progress. Woman-to-woman, she seems friendly and genuine. But regarding the two of you on a relationship level, I just didn’t see it.”

“Well, we did. It was the first time I could imagine actually spending my life with the same woman.”

“Dang, bro! You felt that way after what, a month?”

“Yes.” He switched the meditation balls to his other hand, but after a couple turns placed them in the box.

“What was it, gold dust on her kitty?”

“Girl, you’re crazy.”

“Could it clap on cue or dispense money like an ATM?”

“Ha!” Byron cracked up, and realized it had been a minute since he’d enjoyed a hearty laugh.

“I’m glad to see you smiling.” She reached for the juice bottle, took a drink, and recapped the bottle. “And not to wipe it off so quickly, but when was the last time you heard from Tanya?”

“She’s called four times just today.”

“Why?”

“Because I told her I wanted to have a paternity test done on little Ricky.”

“And she didn’t run right over to retrieve an old toothbrush or some of your hair? That’s not your child, Byron.”

“That’s basically my thought. But I want to know for sure.”

“I don’t blame you.” Ava stood. “We’ve both got to get up early, so I’m going to go.”

Byron stood as well. “Yeah, and I’m pulling a double tomorrow.”

“Why do you work so much? And you never take your vacation days. You probably have two months’ worth by now.”

“At least.” They hugged. “I’m glad you came over, sis.”

Byron took a shower and then climbed into bed, phone in hand, scrolling through missed phone calls, notifications, and . . .
wait a minute.
He scrolled back. What he thought he’d seen was confirmed. While talking with Ava, Cynthia had called.

He settled his head against the pillow and activated voice mail.

“Byron, I’m calling to thank you for the dinner and massage. That was very thoughtful and, obviously, totally unexpected.”

A long pause, during which Byron wondered,
Is she crying? Changing her mind? Trying to find the right words to put their world back together?

“You are a good person, Byron, and I . . . like being around you. I didn’t expect that either. I’m not sorry for the time we spent together, but all things considered, this was probably the only possible outcome.”

Byron’s thumb hovered over the phone face. Save or delete? He tapped a button, deciding to do the same thing with the message that Cynthia had done to their friendship.

Delete.

He called Douglas.

“What do you want, dog?” is how his brother Douglas answered the phone.

“Ten million dollars and a getaway car.”

“See, listen to you. Why do you assume the money would be illegal?”

“Because I know your mama don’t roll like that.”

“Ha! Daddy either.” The brothers laughed, enjoying the easy camaraderie they’d shared for years. Unlike Barry, who Byron wanted to knock upside the head every other time they were together, Douglas was a lot like their father—steady, pragmatic, an upstanding man. “What’s up, Byron?”

“I was calling to get the number of that attorney you told me about awhile back.”

“Tony Jackson?”

“I guess so. I don’t remember his name.”

“Is this about Tanya?”

“Yeah, going through the courts to get a paternity test.”

“For that, Tony is definitely the man to either do it or knows who does. I’ll get it for you right now.”

“I appreciate that, man.”

Byron ended the call and after going to bed scrolled to where Cynthia’s smiling face looked back at him, daring him to call her. He’d deleted her message but wasn’t quite ready to delete her number. With a sigh, he placed the phone on the nightstand, turned off the light, and rolled over.

She hadn’t expected pain. Three days after what she’d hoped was a quick, clean break, the inevitable outcome of an imprudent decision, Cynthia felt loss, guilt, sadness, and an unrelenting feeling that she’d really screwed up. It wasn’t just the dinner and spa treatment. It was the late-night phone calls she hadn’t planned to miss, a memory of something silly he said, the nights of tender loving. It was the fact that the only person who could possibly make her feel better was the one she’d had to let go.

In deep thought, she barely looked at the clothes being thrown in the carry-on, used autopilot to add shoes and jewelry.

She walked into the en suite bath and pulled her travel bag of toiletries from a drawer.
Whatever the reason, what’s done is done.

She went back into her walk-in closet, threw the toiletries into the case, and slammed down the lid. “Stop it, Cynthia.” She angrily zipped the luggage and snatched it from the stand. “Enough is enough!”

“Mom! Can you come help me? I don’t know what to wear.”

Grateful for the distraction, Cynthia hurried from the room that seemed filled with the essence of her and Byron’s last encounter. A short time later she and Jayden were in her car, headed for the airport. During the meandering journey from LAX’s security area to the gate, she was determined to place her focus where it would be productive—her career, and her son, which meant coming to grips with her past so that Jayden could hopefully have a relationship with his father.

“The father’s identity is part of your son’s identity, and is something he needs to know.” There it was again, Byron’s voice, seeping into her consciousness. She willed her emotions to settle, her resolve to strengthen. This wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to leave someone she cared for. There was enough of Anna Marie Hall in her to cut off unproductive feelings with a snip of reality and a clip of bourgeoisie.

The plane took off. Cynthia vowed that while she couldn’t control thoughts about Byron, she would leave all feeling for him in Los Angeles. By the time they touched down in the City of Lakes, she felt she’d done just that.

“Grand-mère!”
Jayden’s excited shout seemed to reverberate in a house that was as quiet as a tomb.

Cynthia’s first thought was of walking into Byron’s house to the sounds of a loud television, playing children, and his lively mother. She observed the thought as a magician would a rabbit before making it disappear.

“Hello, Jayden.” Anna Marie knelt and gave her grandson a warm hug.

“Hello, Mom.”

“Hello, dear.” Another hug, but this one short and not quite as cozy. “Jayden, let’s place your luggage in the guest room. And remember, while in the home of
Grand-mère,
please remember to use your inside voice.”

Cynthia rolled her eyes as she also rolled her luggage down her mother’s prized acacia walnut floors, part of a $40,000 renovation two years ago, and over a Persian rug runner that she felt compelled to explain had been hand-woven in a one-of-a-kind design. She tried to shake the aloofness of her mother’s greeting along with the demand that she be called
Grand-mère
, not Grandma, a distinction still irksome after eight years. “Ma is the language of commoners,” she’d explained, as if her ancestors arrived on Ellis Island and not Jamestown.

“
Grand-mère
is proud of you,
lumineux petit garçon,
” Cynthia heard Anna Marie say while passing the smaller guest room for the larger one she’d use.

“Excuse me,
Grand-mère
?”

“
Petit garçon
means ‘little boy.’ You’ve forgotten?”

One of Anna Marie’s proudest achievements was the ability to speak conversational French, an ability aided by annual jaunts to this favorite country and the help of a personal tutor.

That spattering of words is about the only thing French here,
Cynthia mused as she emptied her carry-on and hung its contents in the closet.
Other than a loaf of bread on occasion. You don’t even like fries!

She turned from the closet to see her mother standing in the doorway. “Cynthia, I do hope you’ve brought something appropriate for the country club. I’m not sure I told you, but that’s where the party will be held.”

“Where is Dad? And Jeff?”

“Jeff is with his gorgeous, corporate attorney girlfriend—Fortune 500, mind you—showing her the town. I assured them that with seventy-five hundred square feet there was adequate room to house them, but they’ve opted for a suite at Four Seasons. It’s obvious she comes from wealth and impeccable breeding.” Anna Marie’s eyes fairly sparkled. “I’d welcome her to our family with open arms.”

Her face a mask of peaceful repose, Cynthia’s answer was as bright, fake, and rote as a Stepford wife. “I look forward to meeting her.”

In truth, she already envied the girl who in one visit received the one thing Cynthia had never gotten from Anna Marie: admiration.

“Carlton is on the golf course with Fred,” Anna went on, “where he is some afternoons and most evenings.”

“Always working on his golf game.”

“Or so he says.”

Cynthia ignored the comment. For as long as Cynthia could remember, her mother had insinuated her dad was unfaithful. Neither she nor her brother knew whether or not it was true, but after years of seeing him being browbeaten for the possibility, she no longer cared.

Less than ten minutes, and she’d already spent too much time with Mrs. Hall.

“Mom, may I borrow one of the cars? I brought something for the party, but something new would be nice. Plus, it would give you quality time with Jayden.”

“That’s fine, dear, though I wish you’d planned ahead. You’re running the risk of being duplicated.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Once in her mom’s sedan, Cynthia felt she could breathe. She’d known what to expect from her mother and was angry for allowing the behavior to get to her. A subtle, gnawing tension, bubbling like molten lava, had existed between them for the past nine years. Unacknowledged anger. Unspoken words. Cynthia had a feeling that one day that volcano may explode.

Taking in the town’s scenery along with blue skies and abundant greenery, Cynthia decided to heed her mother’s advice and drive to Minneapolis to shop. It was late, but she knew just the place to go, a boutique where she could always find something simple and elegant. Just then, she reached the exit for the country club. “Maybe Dad’s there,” she murmured, deciding to run by there on a whim. While his personality was that of a quiet, introverted man, they’d always enjoyed a warm relationship, another reason for her mother’s iciness, Cynthia believed. When she became pregnant, her father, though disappointed, never demeaned her but rather pragmatically helped her chart the best course of action. A hug from Carlton Hall was just what she needed.

She parked her car, walked up the familiar pathway to the country club, and went inside. No one was at the receptionist desk, so she continued down the hall to the restaurant. Her dad and his friends sometimes stayed there for hours, drinking, networking, or shooting the breeze. Halfway to her destination, a voice stopped her.

“Cynthia?”

No. Way.
She slowly turned around and looked into the eyes of Jayden’s father.

 

 

On the other side of the country, at this exact time, Byron turned off the bus to take his break. He pulled out his cell phone and called Cynthia. He thought about her all morning and while he’d told himself he wouldn’t, he decided to give her a call.

Voice mail. “That’s no surprise.” He pushed the pound key to bypass her message.

“Hey, Cynthia. Got your message. On my break and thought I’d call you back. I’m glad you enjoyed the chef and spa and whatnot. Had I known it was going to be my last supper so to speak, I might have just sent over a pizza, five dollars with everything on it, know what I’m sayin’? On a serious tip, though, it’s kind of cold how you called me and ended everything, like—bam—just like that. It’s like what I was feeling or thinking wasn’t important at all. That was just wrong, straight out.

“It’s all good, though. You did what you had to, and now I’ll do my thing. But if this . . . what did you call it?—transportation director—could offer a word of advice, it would be to look at everybody the same, treat everybody the way you want to be treated. I know you’re a career woman and everything, but don’t go so hard. Be gentle, like you were at around two, three o’clock the other morning. That’s all. I wish you the best, baby.”

As Byron ended the call, the phone vibrated. “Yeah, Tanya, what’s up?”

“A little birdie told me you brought somebody to the block party.”

He started the bus and opened the door for the waiting passengers. “You know what they say. Never trust a little birdie.”

“I know I’ve been riding you hard for money, Byron, and I was wrong for that. But you know I’ve always been down with you. No matter what.”

“Okay, that’s good, but what is this call about? Do you need me to keep Tyra this weekend so you and Ricky can have some quality time?”

“I kicked him out, told him to come back when his act was together. I was hoping Mama Liz could keep her and you and I could go hang out somewhere.”

“Have you sent the paternity results to my lawyer?”

“Forget you, Byron.”

“It’s a court order, Tanya. Get it done.”

In a few short months, he’d found out a boy might be his, met the woman of his dreams, filed a paternity suit, had his first work-related accident in ten years, lost the woman of his dreams, and now had the baby mama of one and swearing it’s two call to “hang out.” Sometimes, life could be a trip.