Easier Said Than Done (12 page)

She nodded and showed me into the sitting room off the hallway. “Have a seat, Ma'am.

The doctor will be right with you.” I started to correct her again, but didn't. Ma'am didn't sit well on me, it was kind of like playing dress up in your mother's clothes. But pushing the issue would make her more uncomfortable.

The oak paneling continued throughout the house, the décor too warm to be a doctor's office. I sank down onto the over-stuffed maroon paisley settee, almost dropping the bag of mangoes that Queenie had shoved in my hands. The couch, catty-corner to me, was upholstered in an understated brown corduroy textured fabric, providing the perfect contrast. Even the bright yellow throw pillows seemed to blend right in. Large potted plants surrounded the other side of the couch; magazines covered the coffee table. I shifted, glancing at the pictures and artwork covering the wall. Some of the pieces seemed to have been chosen for artistic appeal, some sentimental. It only added to the homey atmosphere. The largest picture was of Damon's grandfather, framed with a small light shining above it. He was young, but still looked distinguished and stern as was the typical pose of that era. He had his white doctor's coat on with a stethoscope around his neck and Damon's strong chin.

Tiny hustled back into the sitting room—her navy and white flowered dress swishing against her bare legs. On a platter, she balanced a tall iced glass of tea. The heat already causing drops of water to run in rivulets down the sides and a sprig of mint was pinched on the rim of the glass. Butter cookies were arranged on a plate with a linen napkin folded into a small triangle.

“The doctor says him soon come.”

“Thanks, Tiny.” I accepted the glass. “How did you know I was thirsty?” I smiled and took a long sip. The mint tickled my throat. “Hmmmm. Delicious.”

“Yes, Ma'am.” Tiny ducked her plaited head and rewarded me with a shy smile. “Let me know if you need anything else.” She left the room, head held high.

I picked up an old issue of
Essence Magazine
and flipped through it. An article caught my eye: “How to Rekindle an Old Flame.” I put that magazine down and picked up the
Ebony
. On the cover, “Finding Love After 30.” Not even. I tried
Jet
next. It automatically opened to the Society Wedding page. I was not interested in where Hope and Lance had spent their glorious honeymoon, so I gave up and started reading
The Wall Street Journal
. Prices were on the rise in China. I was halfway through the second article, learning more than I ever wanted to know about child labor when my whole world flipped upside down.

“Kingston.” The voice was deep with timbre, so resonant it sent waves of remembered pleasure rippling throughout my body—an explosion that started at the very core of my being.

Time stopped. The beat of my heart was the only sound I heard.

I hesitated before looking up, as if once I laid eyes on him, nothing would ever be the same. But then, nothing had been the same since Damon entered my life more than two decades ago. I thought about standing, but didn't know how my legs would hold up so I stayed right where I was, just raising my eyes to meet his.

Age had only made his already intense, dark eyes more determined and they held mine now with steady self-assurance. His locks had grown and were pulled back off his face. The sparse gray coming at his temples served only to make him more distinguished. Why was it men had it like that? He had maintained his body that had been so superbly fine-tuned from many
years of playing football—American soccer. I imagined my fingers trailing across his chest, broad and strong underneath his form-fitting black shirt. Ten years had only made him more dangerous. I hoped now that I was capable of protecting myself.

I was glad my pride didn't get the best of me, glad that I took so much time with my appearance. I wanted him to kick himself all up and down Front Street for being stupid enough to let me go.

“Damon,” I said, my heart pumping a mile a minute and my hands already moist. Then, my mind became my body's partner in the crime of betrayal. He used to tell me endlessly how beautiful he thought I was. What did he think about me now? Did he still find me attractive? Did I still turn him on? Did he anticipate my visit as much as I had dreaded it? Then, I kicked myself. It was too early in the game for this.

“It's been a long time,” he said.

“Yes. Yes, it has.” I shifted again in the chair, wondering if Damon was half as uncomfortable as I was, because quite frankly I wanted to be swallowed by the floor. Thoughts raced through my head—thoughts that I would never voice, wanting the past to remain where it was. Finally I stood up, feeling really stupid sitting there like a fifth grader.

But then standing presented a whole new problem. I didn't know whether to shake his hand or hug him.

Damon solved that, reaching out and enfolding me in his arms. My stomach jolted as a flood of memories rushed in as I inhaled his woodsy scent. Damon was never into commercial fragrances, preferring to walk up First Avenue in Washington D.C. to the Muslim store and select a variety of oils. He never just used one, tailoring a mixture of two or three depending on his mood—usually musk and jasmine.

After a brief hesitation, I wrapped my arms loosely around him. We had always fit perfectly together. At close to 6'3”, he still towered over me when I wore heels, making me feel safe and secure. The hug lasted a few seconds longer than what was proper for casual acquaintances, even if they hadn't seen each other in awhile. But that's because that wasn't what we were or had ever been. Nothing had ever been casual about our relationship. Having his body against mine felt too good, too right; and for just one more fleeting moment, I stood there and enjoyed it before I worked to disentangle my limbs from his.

“It's been too long,” Damon drawled slowly as he, too, pulled away. He looked at my hands clutching the bag of mangoes and avocadoes before turning those puppy dog eyes on me.

“Yes, these are for you. Queenie sent them. She also said to let you know that she'll be making some coconut tarts later and to come by and get some.”

“If that lady didn't have a huge boyfriend, I would be her love slave just for her tarts. She knows how to make a man feel good.”

Was he trying to tell me something? One of his biggest complaints when we were together was the amount of time I didn't spend in the kitchen.

After another second of uncomfortable silence, Damon took my hand and led me to the back of the house where he had converted one of the larger bedrooms into an office. Cumbersome pieces of oak furniture were lined up against the walls that had been painted in warm orange blossom. A multicolor area rug stretched across the middle of the floor and more flowery plants sat in all four corners.

“Have a seat.” Damon gestured to a chair leaning against an overflowing file cabinet. He grabbed a standard office chair that was pushed under the desk, and rolled it right next to me.

“Thanks.” I sat down demurely, crossing my legs so that Damon was shown a nice length of leg.

“So,” he said slowly.

“So?”

“How have you been?” he asked.

“I'm good. What about you?”

“Really good,” he replied, then paused. “I'm very sorry about your grandmother.”

“Thanks.” Relieved that we had gotten right to the point, I jumped into my rehearsed speech. “Actually, that's why I'm here. To thank you on behalf of the family.”

“And here I thought you wanted to see me.” Don't flatter yourself, I wanted to tell him.

But I didn't. I was here to be nice. So instead, I gave a nervous chuckle and moved on. “As I was saying, I wanted to thank you for taking care of Mama Grace. It really means a lot to me because I'm not sure what it would have been like for her had you not been there.”

He shrugged. “I was just doing my job.”

“No, Damon. You were doing a lot more than your job. A lot more and I wanted you to know that I appreciate it. She didn't let on to us how sick she was.”

Damon was now the one shifting uncomfortably. He had never been able to take compliments well and now, just nodded.

“So.” That one word hung between us like the great divide.

“Yes, Kingston?” My name rolled of his tongue like a caress and I knew he was messing with me. I stood, fussily preparing to leave. Damon stood as well and gently placed a hand on my elbow. “Sit down. Please,” he added. “We're not strangers. I want to know what you've been up to. It's been ten years.”

I took my seat again and then became annoyed with myself for following his command so quickly. “I've been living my life, Damon.” I added, a definite edge to my voice and he feigned offense at my comment.

“And what exactly does life consist of for you?”

I shook my head with annoyance. How was I supposed to fit ten years' worth of living into a couple of sentences? He must have seen the confusion on my face and began firing questions at me.

“What are you doing? Did you end up going into journalism? Where are you living? Are you married? Kids? Dog? Fish? Are you happy?”

“Whoa!” I said, waving in protest. “Are we conducting an interview? I feel like I'm on
60 Minutes
.” He relaxed in his chair and gestured as if saying, “Okay, Ms. Thang, you handle it then.”

I took a deep breath and my hands started doing their thing. My college acting coach called it, “overcompensation.” Damon used to call it King-language, his silly spin on my name and the art of sign language. For a moment our eyes locked and I knew he was thinking the same thing.

“Well, I'm in the entertainment field. I was a sales and marketing executive at a radio station, but there wasn't much room for growth so last year I decided to get into the record-label business. I convinced a major label to start an urban division in Chicago and let me head it up and I love it.”

“Wow!” he said, raising his thick eyebrows. “That's quite an accomplishment. Your mother must be very proud.”

“My mother is dead.” The shock seeped from Damon like air from a punctured balloon—his eyes closed momentarily and his lips parted. He looked at me again before sinking back in his chair and dropping his head in his hands.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Kingston. I know how close you were. I'm surprised Mama Grace never mentioned that to me.” He searched for some words of solace, but didn't come up with much of anything.

“Mama Grace probably didn't mention it because she never really got over my mother's death. It haunted her until she died.”

“When?” It was a standard question, one I should have been used to by now; but the pain still hit me square in my gut at the slightest mention. “Two thousand and two, the eleventh of March.”

A frown wrinkled Damon's forehead and I knew he was doing a quick mental calculation.

“That was three months after I left D.C.”

“Yes, and three months after you left me.” The words left my mouth singed with bitterness and I was immediately sorry. I hadn't come here to do this.

“Why didn't you call me?” Damon asked, his voice strangely small.

My eyes turned into wide circles of disbelief. I opened my mouth, then closed it. Finally I managed, “Why didn't I call you?” He couldn't be serious. “Why didn't I call you?”

Damon nodded. He was serious.

“I did call you. I called you and I wrote you, Damon. You were never available to take my phone calls and you didn't respond to my letters. I left so many messages I lost count. When I found out my mother died, the first person I called was you. You were studying and I left an urgent message with the university for you to call me back, but I didn't say why. You don't leave something like that in a message. When you didn't call back that day, or the next day or the next, I gave up. I was tired of trying to keep our relationship together. And when I got back from the funeral, it took all the energy I had just to finish out the semester. Why didn't I call?” The tension hung between us like a thick cloud. I exhaled loudly and looked away; disgusted with the way the conversation had turned.

“I didn't know.” Damon reached for my hand, lifting the back to his lips and tenderly kissing it.

A spark of electricity shot up my arm and I moved before the warmth could spread to other parts of my body. “It's history, Damon. Life goes on. It was hard, but I survived. And I'm happy.”

Damon tapped his well-manicured index finger slowly against his pursed lips. I blinked, then looked away, focusing on a potted plant, as my thoughts took a sharp detour. A few more moments of unnerving silence passed before Damon spoke again.

“Married?”

“No,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Boyfriend?”

“Not anymore.” My eyes dared him to ask for an explanation. But I had never been able to intimidate him and he wasn't about to let me start now.

“Oh?” he continued, his eyes sparkling again. “Not anymore as of when?”

“Actually, as of about one day ago.”

Damon nodded, leaned back in his chair and crossed one long leg over the other, like a psychiatrist studying his patient.

My eyes zoned in on the definition of his thigh beneath his summer slacks. “I've been focusing on my career.” I could have kicked myself. I couldn't come up with a better explanation than that? “I'm not even sure I want to get married now.”
Jesus, Kingston, could you sound more cliché?

“What?” Damon's mouth fell open and he sat up straight, one arm flexed on the armrest of his chair.
kids.”

“There's no need to be dramatic,” I replied, my eyes now trained on his biceps.

“But you, not married? I can't believe it. Ms. Holly Homemaker with three-point-five

“Things change. You, of all people, know that.” As soon as the words tumbled out of my mouth, I wanted to shove them back in. No matter what went down with us in the past, I immediately felt guilty for repaying his kindness with rudeness.