I'm Your Girl (24 page)

H
e’s nervous.

Me? I’m just glad to get out of that car. It was creepy being in his dead wife’s car. They were in a car accident, right? But there was nothing wrong with that car except for the seat. That seat wasn’t made for my booty. His wife must have had no-ass-at-all. So, maybe they wrecked in a different car. And from the way Jack was driving,
he
might have been driving. I can only imagine that kind of guilt.

And why are those two in this elevator gritting on us? We could just be coworkers out for lunch, or two perfect strangers who just happened to get on the elevator at the same time.

Perfect strangers. I guess that’s how all relationships start out. We’re all just perfect strangers…who can’t think of a single thing to say to each other!

The elevator opens, and we walk out through the bottom level to the street, and like the weatherman said, it’s raining “cold and hard.” I open my umbrella and hand it to Jack. “You’re taller than me.”

Now
anyone seeing Jack and me will know we’re together, but I don’t care. I spent far too long this morning getting my hair just right to have it sopping wet and ruined, and I don’t want to be sitting next to or across from a soaking wet Jack.

Bandini’s is already pretty crowded by the time we get there, so we have to wait a few minutes behind several other groups. When it’s our turn, the hostess asks, “Two?”

“Yes,” Jack says.

I was wondering if he could speak. He hadn’t spoken since we got on the elevator.

And why is this place so crowded? I don’t mean the number of people. I mean, why are the tables so densely packed together? I have to walk sideways to a little table off in the corner, and I know my booty brushed quite a few backs.

The hostess places two menus on the table. “Enjoy.”

Jack pulls my chair out—how nice—but I need to take off my coat first. He gets the hint and takes my coat from me and drapes it over the back of my chair. I pose in all my burgundy glory for Jack, he smiles and nods (as he should), I sit, and he scoots the chair in as far as it can go. I pick up the menu and actually feel the heat from the back of the man sitting directly behind me.

I feel like a suede sardine!

Jack removes his jacket and sits. “Is it always this crowded?” he asks.

“This is my first time.”

In oh, so many ways!

“Mine, too.”

I look at the menu and check out the lunch specials. Prices and selection are decent, and “15-minute service on lunch entrees or your meal is free” makes me feel less rushed. I look side to side, you know, to see who’s here (as if I’d know anyone) and to see who else might be gritting on us.

No one is.

They’re all grubbing—as they should be.

“What are you going to have?” I ask.

“The lasagna,” he says, putting down his menu. “What about you?”

I’m torn between the fettuccine Alfredo and an antipasto salad. “I haven’t decided.” I look up at him. “If your lasagna is good, will you share it with me?”

He smiles. “Sure.”

“Do you like fettuccine?”

He nods.

“Good. I’m having fettuccine.”

We don’t have to wait long to place our drink orders—we both get sweetened iced teas—and then…we stare at the table.

Awkwardly.

“Um, I got my first reviews today,” he says, after three solid minutes of silence.

I look up. “From whom?”

“Booklist and Kirkus,” he says.

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Were they…favorable?”

He looks up at the ceiling. What’s up there? I don’t look, though. “They were okay.”

“Just…okay?”

He looks directly at me. “They didn’t tell the truth.”

“They were bad?”

He shakes his head. “They were great. They say my book is ‘quirky,’ ‘innovative,’ and ‘entertaining.’ But they’re all lies. I’ll bet my publisher paid for them.”

“Why do you say that?”

He sighs. “It’s really not that good of a book, Diane, and I’m sure once real readers get hold of it, they’ll be trashing me on-line.”

I need to change the subject, but before I can, a huge hairy man wearing an apron comes over to us. “Hello,” he says, in a sexy Italian accent. “I am Paolo Bandini. Is this your first time?”

We both nod.

“Then let me welcome you to my restaurant.” He looks around. “We are a little shorthanded today, so I will personally take your order.”

Italian men are
hot!
Hairy, but hot. We give him our orders, he does this little nod thing, and we watch him go back to the kitchen.

“The owner himself,” Jack says.

Did Jack plan this? “Do you know him?”

“No, but I know his girlfriend.”

Say what?

“I mean, I know
of
her. He’s dating Marissa Thomas.”

Is this supposed to mean something to me?

“You know, Marissa Thomas, the black woman running for mayor.”

Oh,
her.
Pushy thing, and a truly
black
black woman. Not bad-looking for a woman pushing forty. And she dates an Italian man? Hmm. Maybe Jack and I aren’t being trendsetters at all. But how does Jack know…“How do you know Marissa Thomas?”

“She spoke to the kids at Monterey last year on career day. She’s a dynamic speaker, let me tell you, but what do you expect from a lawyer? She had those kids in the palms of her hands.”

I need to change
this
subject, too. “Jack, how old are you?”

He smiles. “How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. Thirty-five?”

He blinks. “I’m thirty-two.”

“Sorry.” Oops. Tragedy ages people. “I’m twenty-five, in case you want to know.”

More opposites. When Jack graduated from high school, I was in the fifth grade. When he graduated from college, I was just starting to get my caboose. He’s been married. I’ve never married. He’s as white as a ghost. I’m suede. He’s had a son. I’ve never even had sex, and—

I’ve never even had sex.

I had a few close calls, but nothing so close that I couldn’t escape. I traded hands in high school with boys who, um, burst before I knew what was happening. My prom date only gave me a good-night kiss, which was fine with me. He had an overbite.

And I had two consecutive men in college (forever nameless to me now) who broke up with me because “I got needs, and you ain’t givin’ me what I need.” Oh, the second man was more eloquent than the first. “I am a man,” he had said. “I have the needs of a man, and you aren’t making me feel like a man.”

He was an English major.

Then…nothing. It’s not that I don’t have the desire—I do. I have wicked desire and a battery bill. It’s not that I’m afraid of the act itself. I know what I want to do. It’s the after part, the part that either becomes “happily ever after” or “see you after a while.”

I look up to see Jack staring at me.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You seemed lost in thought.”

“Sorry.” Just reliving my sex life. What did that take? Sixty seconds? I need a life!

“Here we are!” It’s the owner again with our order to save me from explaining. “Enjoy!”

And then…we enjoy. The table is small enough that we can put the plates side by side and eat easily off both. I’m afraid I’m eating too much at times, but it is delicious! And other than sharing food on our first date—I’m sure Gran Anderson and Emily Post are turning over in their graves—we don’t act as if we’re on our first date. We smile, laugh, and…hardly talk at all. Hmm.

Yeah, we’re on our first date, and the food is taking the place of conversation.

“Where are we going for our New Year’s date?” I ask once we’ve polished off all our food and a basketful of breadsticks.

“It’s going to be a surprise,” Jack says, wiping his lips with a napkin. “I will pick you up in front of the library at nine.”

And leave my car downtown? “What about my car?”

“Oh, yeah, um, I guess I could pick you up at your apartment.”

Do I look like an apartment dweller? “I own my own home, Jack.”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Over in Northeast behind Breckinridge Middle School.”

He smiles. “I know where that is. Noël and I looked over there when we were house hunting.”

He said her name. It’s a pretty name, but it’s…distressing for me to hear it, for some reason.

“We were going to get a ranch on…some street back there, I think, but I’m no handyman. It had a great big backyard, though.”

“I’m over on Fleming,” I say. I write the address on a napkin. “And you can pick me up around nine-thirty.” Wait a minute. He said nine. He must have a reason. “Unless you’ve made reservations for earlier?”

He smiles. “Nine-thirty will be fine.”

Hmm. A later dinner date. This could be interesting.

Mr. Bandini brings the check. “How was everything?”

“Marvelous,” I say.

“Delicious,” Jack says.

Mr. Bandini leans down. “Since this is your first time and your order took so long to get to you,” he whispers, “I would like to offer this meal on the house, provided you return for dinner sometime soon.”

I blink at Jack, and Jack blinks at me. We have a blinking moment.

“Is that okay?” Mr. Bandini asks.

“Uh, thank you,” Jack says.

Mr. Bandini straightens. “It is good to see you two here. You must come back often.”

Then he leaves.

“That was weird,” I say.

“Maybe he, uh, likes the fact that we’re…you know?”

That almost made sense, but I know what he’s saying without saying it. “You think he gave us a freebie because you’re white and I’m black?”

“Don’t you?”

I decide to be cynical, though I kind of agree. “He just wants us to come back at night when we’ll have to pay higher prices and drink lots of wine.”

Jack smiles. “Is that so bad?”

“No.”

“I like this place,” he says. “Maybe we could come back here on New Year’s.”

What? “I thought you already made reservations.”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t been able to, Diane. Nothing was open when I called around this morning.”

Then you
should
have called last night! I don’t want to come into this…claustrophobic place on New Year’s Eve! It will be wall-to-wall people. We’d be packed in here…tightly.

Wait a sec. That might work out.

“I guess it would be all right,” I say. “But what if it’s crowded?”

Jack shrugs. “Then we’ll just…go for a walk or something.”

“Okay.”

Either way, I’m going to be with Jack. Either I’ll be pressed up against his body with a wineglass in my hand, or I’ll be out walking with him hopefully with his hand in mine.

I check my watch. “I have to be getting back.”

It’s a different kind of ride back to the library. Not only does Jack seem more relaxed, but the seat also seems more comfortable, for some reason. And he drives more slowly, more smoothly than before.

I just had a nice date with a nice man. And it took less than an hour.

The rain has stopped by the time we park. Jack gets out, comes to my door, opens it, takes my hand, and helps me out of the car. He just…takes my hand as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

“Thank you,” I say.

“May I walk you to the door?”

I giggle. This is all so old-fashioned! “Sure.” It’s so…high school.

But it’s wonderful.

We don’t walk fast, we don’t walk slowly—we just…meander to the door, not speaking, not humming, barely making any sounds. He holds the door to the foyer, and I walk in.

“May I call you later this evening?” he asks.

Music to my ears. “Sure.”

He steps a little closer. “Um, Diane?”

Here? Just inside the foyer? People can see us! “Yes, Jack?” I don’t look up into his eyes. I don’t want him to see my fear.

“May I…give you a hug?”

Whew. At least it’s not a kiss. And if anyone says anything, I can play it off as a friendly hug, nothing serious about it at all. “I could use one, Jack.”

He steps closer and puts his hands around me, drawing me gently to him, my cheek brushing his neck. He’s bony, all right, but it’s a nice hug, not too long, not too short. He steps back. “Thank you. I needed that.”

Whoo! So did I. But I can’t tell him that yet. I even want to say something wild like, “Come in for change anytime, Mr. Browning, and I’ll touch your palm a certain way,” but I can’t. I’m sure I could eventually say something like that at the rate we’re going. Instead, I say, “See you tomorrow at nine-thirty, Jack.”

“I can’t wait, Diane,” he says.

I watch him go. “I can’t wait either, Jack Browning,” I whisper.

A
h, you got a hug.

Yeah.

Why didn’t you kiss her cheek? It was right there waiting to be kissed.

I was too busy smelling her hair.

Researching your book during a hug?

No. Just…smelling her hair.

You were so stiff.

I wasn’t trying to be.

You put your hands flat on her back. You could have gone lower.

I still might. Tomorrow night.

Now you’re talking
.

The skin on her cheek…so soft.

The firmness of her flesh…so curvy
.

I feel…happy.

It’s about time.

Now, what do I do for the rest of the day?

More nothing?

I think…I’ll clean the house.

And that’s exactly what I do. I spend two solid hours in the kitchen and go through seven Brillo pads getting the sink and the counters to shine again. I even sweep and mop the floor and remove all the unknown food products from the refrigerator that have been shoved into every nook and cranny.

You should call some high school kid to use this stuff for a science project.

Yeah, on “Biological Agents Found in Refrigerators.”

Was that a former taco?

I think it was a Danish.

Eww. You had better not open the microwave, then. Something died in there.

Right.

Um, what about the minibar you’ve accumulated?

I look at six bottles of Kris Kringle Eggnog, fifteen cans of Miller Lite, and several bottles of Boone’s Farm wine, the only alcohol Noël liked to drink.

I might need them.

And then again, you might not.

True. I’ll keep them, just in case.

Right. What about the tree?

I’ll leave it up for a while. We didn’t usually take it down until New Year’s Day.

You might want to water it
.

Oh yeah.

There isn’t much to straighten in Stevie’s room—

You mean your room.

No, I mean Stevie’s room. I’m going to sleep in the master bedroom from now on. I am, after all, the master of this house.

What about her things?

There’s room in the laundry room for her vanity.

Taking big steps today.

Just hitting my stride, that’s all.

After taking Noël’s vanity and all its contents to an empty corner of the laundry room, I fold clothes for the next hour or so and put them into Noël’s empty dresser. Then I eat two Lunchables for dinner. I want to have more flesh for Diane to feel.

You dog, you!

I just mean I need to start eating right and more often.

Then I sit in front of my laptop, going on-line to Amazon.com, just to see if—

I have a one-star book.

We have a one-star book. Why do we have a one-star book?

A Mid-Atlantic Book Reviewer named “Nisi”—

What kind of name is that?

Short for Denise? I don’t know. Anyway, she has given
Wishful Thinking
one whole star.

The review pulls no punches…and even inflicts quite a few:

Wishful Thinking
is an insult to anyone with intelligence. It is a travesty that the publisher found this book fit to print. The two main characters, Dan, a white man who thinks with his glands, and Ty, a black woman who doesn’t use her intelligence, are preposterous. The plot, which belongs in a funeral plot, is a series of laughable, illogical, and ultimately meaningless coincidences. This novel is a farce, a lame attempt by a writer who obviously does not know the first thing about African American women. It is demeaning, belittling, and cruel to
any
woman, regardless of race. It was
Wishful Thinking
indeed for the publisher to think that anyone with half a brain would ever call this book literature.

She must have used a thesaurus.

Yeah.

She’s just one reviewer, Jack
.

And the only honest one so far.

She sounds shrill
.

And angry.

Well, don’t dwell on it
.

It’s hard not to. My book has insulted somebody.

Why not think about your next one?

About Arthur and Di?

Does she have to be “Di”?

How about Delilah?

Too biblical.

Della?

Too musical. And why does her name have to begin with
D?

I have Diane on the brain, I guess.

Why not call her…Nisi?

Definitely ethnic.

And you could get some payback that way….

But Nisi, whoever she is, was right! She nailed a book ripe for nailing. I have more respect for her than for anyone at Booklist or Kirkus. She was fair. Perhaps a little harsh on a first novel, but she was still fair.

Okay, how about…Deborah?

That’s biblical, too. I need a normal name for a normal person.

And “Di” is a normal name?

Diana, then.

Fine. Go.

Arthur and Diana meet at the library. Exactly
how
do they meet at the library?

At the reference desk, just as you met Diane.

Okay. What is he researching?

His family tree.

She’d have to work in the genealogy department.

Maybe she floats from department to department.

I’ll have to ask Diane if that happens. So, she helps him research his family tree, and he finds…

A black person in his ancestry?

I’m not writing a white
Roots.

It could happen.

But how will that bring Diana and Arthur closer to each other?

They’ll find out they’re related.

How V. C. Andrews of you to think that. No, there has to be another way.

Okay. It’s closing time, and Arthur walks up to Diana and says, “What are you doing after work?”

She’d dial 9–1-1 and spray Arthur with mace.

Our Diane/Diana?

Yeah, that might be a little ridiculous. I don’t know what to do. This is going nowhere.

Okay, why not write about what’s really happened between you and Diane, all the way from that first touch until now?

That’s so…autobiographical.

It has
really
happened, and no one named “Nisi” could call it “preposterous.”

I’ll bet she could, because there are still quite a few coincidences.

So? Love stories are full of them. Your relationship with Noël began with a happy coincidence, didn’t it?

She lived in the apartment upstairs in the Cube.

But you helped her move in that day.

I was being nice, and I had nothing better to do. It was so hot that day, and there was no way she was getting that dresser up there by herself.

What if it weren’t your summer break from teaching? Would you have been there? And that apartment-warming gift of that Ma Plub plant didn’t hurt, did it?

I was just being neighborly.

Are you saying that being nice and being neighborly are coincidental events?

No.

You made a
choice
to be nice, though helping Noël in all her “babe-ness” wasn’t that hard of a choice.

Her T-shirt was so tight.

And the shorts.

Yeah.

You made a choice to help her, Jack. Choices can’t be coincidences. You chose to help Noël, and she responded. Was that a coincidence?

No. She made a choice to respond to me.

All I’m saying is this: once you have created two people in a book, they have to make choices, right?

Right.

Coincidences might help them meet, but the choices they make bring them closer together. That “Nisi” person focused only on the coincidences, not the choices. Maybe “Nisi” doesn’t know what can happen in a love story or in real life, for that matter.

Wishful Thinking
was more of a “lust” story, though.

True. But there have to be coincidences in any story. That’s what makes life—and novels—interesting.

But I had them bump into each other, and fifty pages later, they were in bed!

Diane’s fingers brushed your hand, and five
days
later, you went out on a date. And, if you’re lucky tonight—

The phone rings, and I run upstairs to answer it. “Hello?”

“Jackie, how are you?” It’s Nina.

Now, is this a coincidence or a choice made by Nina to call you?

Shh.

“Fine, uh, Nina. I was just thinking that—”

“Great, great.”

Sometimes I don’t think Nina listens to me.

“Listen,” she says, “the publisher says you haven’t sent the first three chapters of the new book.”

“It’s not due until the end of January.”

“Oh, I know that, Jackie. It’s just that you sent everything for
Wishful Thinking
early, and some recent developments have changed the timetable. You see, Jackie, the reviews have been much better than the publisher expected, so now they want to put your picture on the book.”

I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not. “Nina, why would they want to do that?”

“Jackie, dear, they’re taking a novel approach on your novel.” She laughs. “You have a novel novel!”

She’s a lovely woman
.

Shh. She might be about to ruin my life.

“Jackie, you’re a white man who writes multicultural women’s fiction, for God’s sake. You’re a rarity, and they want to make you rich!”

“I’m a rarity?”

“Yes. You’re writing out of your race and sex, and that’s, well, odd. You’re a novelty; a novel rarity.”

I knew there was something I liked about you.

Shh.

“What about that Mid-Atlantic Book Review review?”

How redundant of you to say so
.

“Oh, I saw that, Jackie. Wasn’t that awful? I’m working with the publisher to have it removed from Amazon. It was a personal attack by that bitch Nisi, and Amazon shouldn’t have allowed it to be posted. She rarely posts nice reviews for anyone.”

So, you’re in good company
.

“It was the most accurate review, though.”

“Listen at you! Such a kidder. Look, we have great reviews from Kirkus and Booklist, and that’s all that matters. So, Jackie, how do you feel about a book tour?”

This is happening too fast. “I don’t.”

“You will, and it’s a great honor. Not every first author gets this kind of special treatment.”

“But how am I supposed to write the second book if—”

“Look, Jackie,” she interrupts, “if the first one takes off, and I think it will, they’ll understand. I’m sure they’ll extend the deadline.”

I’m beginning to understand. If I travel, they’ll give me more time, but if I don’t…

“Just play the game, Jackie, and it’s only for a week. And in the meantime, get some professional pictures taken, head shots in black and white and in color.”

I hate this game already. “Nina, I’ve lost lots of weight. I look…gaunt.”

“Oh, just ask for a little make-up and soft lighting. They can make anyone handsome with a little pancake and lighting.”

I hear a beep. “I have another call, Nina. Can you hold?”

“Sure thing, Jackie.”

I click over. “Hello?”

“Have you decided yet?”

It’s Jenny.

She’s so eager!

“No, not yet. Uh, can you hold a minute, Jenny? I’m on the other line.”

“Oh, sure.”

I click back to Nina. “How long is this tour going to last?”

“Only a week, Jackie. You’ll be in New York when the book drops on April fifteenth; then you’ll be on to Boston, Philadelphia, DC, Richmond, Charlotte, and Atlanta.”

Seven cities in seven days. “Um, I have a question.”

“Go ahead.”

This has just popped into my head. “If I were to work with someone else on this second book—”

“Is this person cowriting it?” Nina interrupts.

“Well, no. Uh, she’ll be doing some editing.” I hope Diane will be up to it. I’m going to need her, or reviewers like Nisi will nail me again.

“Just thank her in the acknowledgments section, Jackie. Listen, it was good talking to you. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

Like more time to digest all this.

“I will. Bye.”

I click back to Jenny, and the doorbell rings.

Sometimes life happens all at once.

Tell me about it.

“Uh, Jenny?”

“I’m still here.”

“There’s someone at the door. Can I call you back?”

“No, it’s all right. I can wait.”

So patient!

Or desperate.

I set the phone down on the top step, run downstairs, open the door, and see an older black couple dressed in their Sunday finest. Cold wind howls around me, so I invite them into the landing area, closing the door behind them.

“Thank you,” the man says. “It’s mighty chilly out today.”

“We’re from Emmanuel Baptist Church,” the woman says.

Be nice. You’re a Baptist, too.

I’ll try to be nice.

“Yes,” the man says, “and we’d like to invite you to Sunday service.”

I smile. “I’m already a member at First Baptist downtown, but thanks for the offer.”

The woman squints at me through some glasses. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so.”

She snaps her fingers. “You’re Mr. Browning.”

I nod.

“You taught my granddaughter, Jasmine.” Her smile fades. “We were so sorry to hear about your wife and your son.”

“Yeah.”

“How are you holding up?” he asks.

“I’m, uh, holding.”

And so is Jenny. Finish this up
.

“The Lord moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to behold,” the man says.