Love in a Carry-On Bag (3 page)

“He’ll understand. Will take you ten minutes then I’ll be outta your hair.”

Erica tapped her foot against the floor.

“Come on Slim, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it. I tried all of my friends but everyone I know is broke til Tues-dee.”

It took effort for Erica to control her tone. “I don’t know why you think I’m an ATM. I had to spend an extra seventy-five dollars to get here because I missed my train.”

“Warren don’t pay your way?”

“Ma, that’s not the point.”

“You right. Well just do it for me one more time. I’ll help you with a little extra to get you through next week,” she hiccupped again. “Thanks baby.”

Warren sat in the
leather recliner, working a soft cloth in and out of the front valve of his trumpet. A piano soloed in the background and a single tea light burned on the coffee table.

“Everything all right?” he looked up from his horn.

“Yeah,” Erica said, fumbling with the buttons on her shearling coat. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where you going?”

“To the bank. Keep practicing, I’ll be right back.” She closed the door behind her with more force then she intended. Anger was percolating inside of her like a strong pot of coffee. Her mother was a damn leech and once again Erica had found herself trapped in her bloodsucking clutches.

Warren was still coddling
his horn when she got back to the apartment. Her mother had completely killed her buzz, and since she had a headache she was debating between ibuprofen and water or a glass of chardonnay. Then she opened the refrigerator and saw the frosty bottle. The chardonnay won.

“What do you want to eat?” she called out.

“I know you love Tex-Mex, so I just ordered. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” she mumbled, uncorking the wine. Everything inside of her was tense and after a few sips she was still restless and decided to do a word search puzzle, a habit carried over from adolescence that she found soothed her nerves. She reached for the top left kitchen drawer where she stored her book, but it would not open. She gave it a yank but the drawer only slid an inch forward, which surprised her because nothing was out of order in Warren’s apartment.

He was Mr. Fix-it and organized almost to a compulsion. Vintage records were coordinated alphabetically, toiletries stowed in labeled baskets, shoes stuffed with shoe trees and stored in the
original boxes, and take-out menus arranged by the specialty of cuisine. With the flat of her palm she reached inside and after a brief tug-of-war pried the culprit loose. It was a thick envelope that bore Warren’s company seal and Erica knew what it was without opening it.

Warren was a software engineer by day and a jazz musician by night. They had only been dating a month when his father scored him the very lucrative position in D.C. When he left New York, he promised that it would only be temporary. But when the first six month contract ended, another one popped up.

Just then, Warren entered the kitchen whistling a tune. “Pour me some water, babe?”

The package had gained weight in Erica’s hand and she didn’t move. When Warren’s eyes adjusted to the situation, he rushed to explain.

“I was going to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” she stood.

“Brett just offered it to me on Thursday. I haven’t really worked it out yet.”

Erica opened the envelope and read over the conditions for the new contract. “Another whole year?” she tossed the papers on the counter.

“They want me to head the project, and the money is sick.”

Erica had never cared about money and she reminded him of that. It was him that she wanted.

“But then you wouldn’t have to work so hard. You know, with your mother and sister. Let me do this for us.”

“Don’t throw them in my face,” she chided. “It’s already been a year, now you want to make it two?”

“Move down here. You could start your own PR firm,” he said.

“Why do you keep saying that? You know what I’m trying
to do.”

“Because it’s logical.”

The food arrived just in time.

Warren made small talk with the delivery guy and then returned to the kitchen with two bags in hand. “You want to eat in the kitchen or the living room?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten anything all day. Let’s enjoy our meal and talk it over.”

“What is there to talk about? When you left New York a year ago, you said it wouldn’t come to this. Now I’m wondering how committed you are to this relationship.”

“Like you can talk? You can’t even make it a whole weekend without working. Selfish.”

“I’m selfish?” Erica tightened the clip in her hair. “I’m just reminding you of what you said.”

“Yeah, well things change.”

“Oh, now you have the nerve to be pissed?”

Warren laid the tin container on the counter and removed the plastic lid, ignoring her.

Erica stepped in front, blocking his path. “If you aren’t committed to being together then why are we even doing this?”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t say that.”

“Actions speak louder than words,” Erica shouted.

“You are being ridiculous.”

“Whatever.” Erica couldn’t think straight, so she walked off into his bedroom, closing the door behind her. On top of the headache, now her stomach was twisting in knots.

With all of the men walking the streets of New York, why did she have to fall in love with a man who lived and worked four hundred miles away? And loving Warren was an understatement;
Erica revered him. There were times when they were together that she couldn’t stop touching him—her hand on his forearm, a toe rubbing his calf, or a finger resting in his belt loop. So many nights at home alone she wondered what it would be like to just dissolve into him, breathing his air, and feeling his heart tick.

And there was no way possible that she could move. Erica had worked hard for B&B publishing for five years, starting as a publicity assistant, then becoming a full fledged publicist, publicity manager and now associate director of publicity. Her director was preparing for maternity leave, and Erica wanted to be named her successor. The promotion would make her one of the youngest ranked African-American women in the company.
Publishers Weekly
, the industry trade magazine, would do a story on her, maybe even
Essence
. She couldn’t stop now and Warren knew that.

The bedside clock marked each second until Erica grew tired of listening to it. She opened the bedroom door and headed back to the living room. Warren was chewing on a bite of his steak taco. It amazed Erica how his appetite never failed him, not even in the midst of a major fight. She sat on the sofa with him, leaving lots of space between them, focusing on the potted plant in the corner next to the double paned window.

Warren had a green thumb and his houseplants were thriving. There was a devil’s ivy with leaves hanging from the windowsill, two types of ferns full and luscious, and a pretty African violet with big velvety leaves and lavender flowering. His whole apartment reminded her of something off of HGTV. It contained all the usual bachelor pad elements—the mega flat screen television, booming sound system and lazy boy recliner—but everything was high end with uncluttered lines.

When she looked down at the table, Warren had her quesadilla
unwrapped and had scooped a bit of sour cream on top.

“Thanks,” she said, cutting into the tortilla and taking a bite. They ate with their eyes glued on the television. Warren poured her a glass of wine and popped open a beer for himself.

When she finished the quesadilla, he pushed the remote towards her. “Want to watch a movie?”

“Sure.”

Erica carried the empty containers into the kitchen. The contract was still on the counter. Disappointment washed over her, but before it felt consuming, Warren was there wrapping his arms around her and pulling.

“There’s nothing in the world I want more than you. We’ll get through this.”

“But I’m tired of just getting through it,” she said and her resistance made him hold her tighter, pressing his pelvis and chest against her until she retreated.

Warren unclipped her hair and ran his fingers over the curve of her neck, “You’re my first round draft pick. Just trust me to run the team.”

He was such a man. After spending most of her life without her father, and having an incompetent mother, Warren was just the rock that she needed, and that knowledge was sometimes as scary to deal with as the distance.

Chapter Three

Publicity 101

O
n Monday morning Erica
dressed happy, in a taffy colored pantsuit and patent-leather peep-toe-heels. She brushed her eyelids with Glad Ginger, rouged her cheekbones in Bitter Bisque, and slid Pouting Plum over her lips. On the subway ride to work, she watched two lovers bump against each other with each shift of the train, enjoying each other as if no one was watching. A block from her office, a teenaged couple cuddled over a Styrofoam cup of cocoa, kissing and keeping warm. At the corner, a stooped man held the door to a diner open for his wife, waiting as she hobbled through. Every scene reminded her of Warren and how it seemed they would never have Monday mornings together.

But when she pushed the revolving door of B&B Publishing’s building Number 416, those feelings were checked at the curb. Erica morphed from a red-nosed girlfriend into a powerhouse publicist who lunched with top television producers, influenced booksellers, and persuaded the opinions of erudite editors with the same fervor as a storefront preacher.

“’Morning, Iris,” she waved to the receptionist who buzzed her in.

B&B Publishing had started as a family business before being sold to a British media company a year after Erica was hired. It was now first in producing the most
New York Times
bestselling fiction titles, and as Erica stepped over a box of books into the publicity department, she knew she had a lot to do with their success.

Erica had always loved books. Every Saturday morning, she would slip into a pleated skirt and soft leather shoes, and walk the three short blocks and two avenues to the Newark, New Jersey, branch of the library where all the librarians knew her by name. She’d check out five new titles, reading them whenever she could. During class, she had a library book tucked between the pages of a textbook. In the schoolyard she read while the other girls jumped Double-Dutch, chased boys, and played hand games. At night she wouldn’t put the book down until she finished the last page, even if it meant reading by flashlight.

Ntozake Shange’s
For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf
affirmed her black-girl struggle. Maya Angelou’s
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
made her salivate for poetry. Then Terry McMillan wrote
Mama
, and it was the first time Erica had ever read a book twice. Her voracious appetite for reading was what drew her to publishing, and her passion for words is what made her successful.

Erica P. Shaw, Associate Director of Publicity, was stenciled in gold script in a black plaque fastened in the center of her door. Erica ran her manicured finger across it like she did every morning for luck. Inside of her closet-like office books were shelved in every possible corner and since there was no window, she hung a black-and-white framed photo of a pebble being tossed in a calm lake. It served as her daily reminder that the director’s office with the view was within reach.

“’Morning,” a watery voice called from behind her. Erica’s shoulders tensed when she turned and saw Goldie Gardner, newly appointed senior editor of B&B’s literary imprint, standing in her doorway. Work did not officially begin for another full hour and only Goldie would think this impromptu drop-in was appropriate. Erica hadn’t removed her coat, checked her voice messages, or pressed play on her get-the-morning-started CD. Hell, she hadn’t even poured a cup of coffee. But there stood Goldie with her limp hair, clutching a file folder to her chest, asking, “Do you have a review list ready for
Arranged Proposals
?”

She was referring to a debut memoir by Bollywood actress Chitra Jotwani. Karrington Press had published a similar memoir last year and the media hadn’t been interested in the runner-up, but Erica couldn’t say that to Goldie even though she longed to.

“I need to do another round of calls. I can have an update to you by the end of the day,” Erica answered, opening her spiral notebook and writing it down.

“Well, if you’re swamped, I can have my assistant make the calls,” Goldie flicked her bangs out of her narrow face, and as she did Erica caught a whiff of her grassy shampoo, making her sneeze.

Goldie had only been with the company a few months, and after working on two other titles together, she was on Erica’s “avoid-this-editor list.” Publisher Genève Meyers-Sheppard had wooed Goldie from a competing house with a reportedly large salary. The deal had been “hot news” in all of the trade magazines and, as Grandma Queeny used to say, “The child is smelling her piss.” Goldie knew damn well that Erica wouldn’t let her editorial assistant make publicity calls, just as Goldie wouldn’t let Erica’s edit one of her books.

“We’ll handle it,” she smiled tartly.

“We really don’t mind.” Goldie leaned into the door frame. “This book is really important to me.”

Every book was important to the editor who acquired it, and Erica’s job as the publicist was to sell it to the media as the next best thing, whether it was or not. The telephone rang.

“I’ll have the list sent down to you later,” Erica replied. But when Goldie still didn’t move, Erica answered the call on speaker, in a final dismissive gesture.

“Erica Shaw.”

“HELLO, YOU HAVE A COLLECT CALL FROM ESSEX COUNTY FACILITY JAIL…” Erica clamored for the receiver.

“Is that an author?” Goldie’s thin fingers hugged the floating heart necklace around her neck.

“I’ll see you later,” Erica stared schoolyard style until Goldie backpedaled out of her office.

“PRESS ONE TO ACCEPT THIS CALL.”

The line clicked several times before she heard her mother’s voice crack. “Er-ri-ca. It’s Mom-ee.”

“Where’re you?” she whispered, though it was painstakingly obvious.

“The county. They ’rested us for shoplifting, but I ain’t do nothing.”

A numbing sensation brushed over Erica. Experience told her that the “us” was her mother and her longtime friend Bonnie, and that they had absolutely been stealing. Bonnie had been the canker sore in their lives ever since Erica could remember and was always leading her mother into a pile of manure.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked crossly.

“Bail me out,” her mother cried, calling out a telephone number. “God as my witness, I’ma pay you back.”

Her mother’s fingers were as sticky as a wad of chewing gum. Most of the time what she took was worthless: trinkets such as crossword puzzles, pot holders and key chains from the Dollar store. Sometimes, she’d tuck greeting cards, spatulas and hair magazines between the pages of the supermarket circular. When she had the nerve to lift from department stores, it was earrings, pantyhose and sunglasses wrapped in her neck scarf and then pressed into the folds of her rubbery arms. Erica had warned her mother that these sins would catch up with her and now jail was her penance. Molten lava had spread through Erica’s stomach and was bubbling up flesh.

Just a year ago, she had played the concerned daughter when her mother and Bonnie ventured on a casino bus trip to Atlantic City. The two of them had consumed too much of everything and like most drunks started fighting. Fed up, Bonnie took the bus home and Erica’s mother staggered around the boardwalk looking for her, stoned and confused. The police finally picked her up, and dropped her off at the psychiatric ward of the General Hospital.

Erica received the humiliating call then and although she hadn’t known Warren long, he rented a car and insisted on driving her to Atlantic City. When they got there, Erica had to sit next to her new boyfriend in a conference room filled with white-lab coats telling her that her mother had a substance and alcohol problem. She thought that Warren would bolt after that, but somehow the situation brought them closer.

She dialed Warren’s number, but when his voicemail picked up, she remembered that he was in meetings. She called the bondsman.

“Bail bonds.”

“I need to get someone out of jail,” her voice thinned as she recounted the arrest story. The bondsman asked for her mother’s date of birth, location and charges, and put Erica on hold.

“Her bail is set at ten grand,” he came back to the line, “I’ll need one thousand to get her out tonight, plus a thirty dollar filing fee.”

As much as she loved her job, publishing wasn’t Wall Street and she didn’t sit on savings. Most of her expendable cash was spent on rent and general living. A small portion went into her 401k and an even tinier portion was stashed in an IRA that she wasn’t risking for her mother.

“Thanks, I’ll have to check my funds and give you a call back.”

Erica moved robotically down the hall towards the ladies’ room, her mind too warped to speak to the few early birds in their cubicles. But as soon as she rounded the bend, she ran into Edie Butnick, her very pregnant Director, wearing a screaming pink paisley headband. The morning couldn’t get any better.

“Erica, just the girl I wanted to see.”

“’Morning, Edie,” she forced a smile.

“How did it go with Brandon this weekend? I’m not feeling plugged in.”

“There were a few hiccups, but I took notes and we should be able to iron them out before he starts the tour.”

“Can you email me his schedule, budget, and a quick recap before the eleven a.m.?” Edie’s hand drifted over her protruding belly.

Erica said that she would, and then continued quickly to the ladies’ room before her boss could add to the list. She rushed past the double vanity and into the last stall, where in a matter of seconds her entire morning came loose.