Playing for Keeps (4 page)

The band struck up a slow ballad and couples began filling the small dance floor. Quentin realized that a slow dance was a prime opportunity to make his move and put all the Davis charm on Ms. Roberts.

“Would you like to dance?” Quentin asked. He chugged the rest of his beer and placed the empty bottle on the bar.

Avery shook her head. “I really don't dance. I'm terrible at it. I have absolutely no rhythm.”

Quentin chuckled. “You can't be that bad.” He took the martini glass out of her hand and pulled Avery to her feet.

“No,” Avery resisted. “I'm really that bad. Why don't you take Jenna?” Avery glanced in her friend's direction, but Jenna shook her head.

“He didn't ask me,” Jenna said. “And I'm not finished with my drink anyway.” She held up her full martini glass.

“There, it's settled.” Quentin placed his hand on the small of Avery's back and led her to the dance floor, much to her dismay.

“I warn you, I'm very bad,” Avery said.

“Don't worry, I'll lead.” Quentin encircled her waist with his arm and pulled her toward him. Thanks to the crowded dance floor, they were thigh-to-thigh and cheek-to-cheek. When Avery squirmed and tried to put some distance between them, Quentin pulled her even closer until her small pert breasts were resting firmly against his chest. Slowly and deliberately, he moved her slender body with his to the rhythm of the music.

Being so close to Avery allowed Quentin an opportunity to see what he'd really gotten himself into with this bet. She smelled fantastic. Soft, light and airy—fresh and ripe for the picking. His second thought was that she was much prettier than he'd originally thought, especially if she did a little bit more with her hair rather than having it pinned up all the time. Quentin wished he could take out every pin and run his fingers through her long hair and make it unruly. Avery Roberts needed to be cut loose from her restraints.

As Quentin glided her across the dance floor, with one big strong hand clasped firmly in hers, Avery wasn't surprised to find that he was a skillful dancer. He looked like the sort who knew how to move a woman's body. She tried not to peer into his arresting dark eyes for fear she'd get lost in them and step on his feet. She needn't have worried; Quentin kept her on the floor through several slow tunes and didn't release his hold on her until the tempo changed.

“See, you're not as bad as you think,” Quentin whispered in her ear once the dance was over.

“That's because you were guiding me,” Avery said. “Anyway, thanks for the dance.”

“You're welcome. Maybe we can do it again sometime?”

“Maybe.”

Quentin joined her back at the bar but not before glancing at his friends, who were giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Quentin smiled. His friends knew him well enough to know that Avery would be putty in his hands in no time. Quentin wasn't arrogant about his prowess. He had a way with women and he had an oversize black book to prove it, with names from across the Atlantic.

“Aren't you going to rejoin your friends?” Avery asked. “You don't have to stay and keep us company.”

“Perhaps I find your company more appealing,” Quentin said silkily.

“I, uh…” Avery couldn't think of a proper comeback. Why did he have to say things like that? Was he trying to throw her off-kilter?

“Well, I'm exhausted.” Jenna faked a yawn and stretched her arms. “I think I'm going to head out.” She stood up, reached for her clutch purse and plopped her credit card on the bar. “Since you've had a rough week, drinks are on me tonight.”

“Jenna.” Avery turned and pleaded with her eyes for her best friend to stay, but Jenna ignored her and settled the bill with the bartender. When she was done, she leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Relax and enjoy.” She gave Quentin a wave before exiting.

“What did Jenna mean you had a rough week?” Quentin inquired.

“I had a disagreement with my mother.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Quentin said, taking the stool vacated by Jenna. “Perhaps I can remedy that.”

“Not so fast, Mr. Quentin Davis.” Avery placed a hand on his chest to stop him. And when she did, she wished she hadn't. Quentin's chest was broad and rock hard. “Just because we shared a dance does not mean anything is going to happen here.”

“Must you always be so combative?” Quentin asked, sitting down. “A drink and a few laughs amongst friends might cure your bad mood.”

“So we're suddenly bosom buddies now? You don't even like me very much.”

“I thought we were off to a brand-new start, but if I was wrong…” He rose to his feet.

When he did, Avery realized she didn't want him to go. “No, no, you weren't wrong. Sit back down.”

That was when Quentin knew he had her.

“I'm sorry,” Avery apologized and shook her head. “Listen. It's not you. It's me. I'm going through a rough patch right now and although I appreciate the drink, I'm really tired and going to head home.”

“Sure I can't tempt you to have another drink?” Quentin asked. He'd seen the anguish in her eyes.

“Not tonight.” Avery stood up, turned on her heel and walked out the door, leaving a frustrated Quentin in her wake.

His charm usually worked on most women, but apparently not on Avery Roberts. It had only worked as much as she'd allowed it to work. For a moment he'd been sure he'd gotten to her, but just as quickly the moment had passed. He was going to have to work a lot harder to break the ice around Avery.

He returned to the table where his friends sat with gigantic smirks on their faces. “What's wrong, playa? Did she shut you down?” Malik joked.

“Seems someone has bitten off more than he could chew,” Dante chuckled.

“Oh, leave him be,” Sage said.

Trust his little sis to always defend him, Quentin thought.

“Forget them.” Sage turned to Quentin. “You said she was a cold fish.”

Quentin shook his head. “It wasn't that. There was something else.”

“An aversion to playas,” Malik suggested.

Quentin laughed from deep within his belly. “No. Something was troubling her. I could see it in her eyes.”

“Then, you're just in time to help a damsel in distress,” Dante said. “It's Quentin to the rescue.”

“If I didn't love you so much, I'd have to hurt you.” Quentin laughed.

“So, what's next?” Sage asked.

“I don't know.” He rubbed his goatee. “I'm going to think about it. Because, trust me, the next time I meet Avery Roberts, she will not walk away.”

“Those are some big words, my man,” Malik said. “Now let's see if you can back them up.”

“Oh, he can back them up,” Sage continued.

“You better believe I can,” Quentin boasted.

T
he following Monday, Quentin stopped by the old neighborhood in Harlem to visit the community center that he, Malik, Dante and Sage had frequented as children. The center had been an oasis for them after having been seen as a bunch of misfits at the orphanage: the troublemaker, the angry boy, the nerd and the sickly girl. Since he had so much free time now that he was on vacation, he could finally make a difference and volunteer. Perhaps he could be a positive influence in a child's life.

After exiting the blue train, Quentin was surprised at how much the area had stayed the same. Sure, there were some pockets that even he wouldn't be caught dead in in the middle of the night, but all in all, not much had changed. It was sure a far cry from his current digs in SoHo. Quentin smiled to himself as he opened the center's tattered front door. He'd come a long way, although the same could not be said for the door.

He gave his name to the receptionist at the front counter and signed in on the guest list. She wasn't Vivienne Falconer, the old battle-ax who used to give him, Malik and Dante a hard time, but she sure looked as if she could check a young brother if needed and scare him into acting right. She waved for him to come back.

Malik came rushing out a side office just as Quentin came through the door separating the lobby from the offices. “Wow, I'm surprised you came.”

Quentin tried not to take offense at his best friend's comment. “You did ask me to come by and take some photographs, or did I miss a beat somewhere?”

“No, of course not,” Malik replied. “I'm sorry, Quentin. It's been a trying morning. Come on in.” He brought him into his small office.

As Quentin looked around, he saw that it too was in need of a paint job. He determined right then and there to give a generous donation to fix up the community center, that was if he had the opportunity to do so and the corporation Malik had mentioned didn't take over the neighborhood.

“It's all right,” Quentin laughed and settled back into a chair across from Malik's desk. “If I didn't love you like a brother, I might be offended. But since I do, I'll let it slide.”

“I am really grateful you came, Q,” Malik said. “The King Corporation has been targeting several store owners on this block and offering them big checks to sign over their property, and now the community center has been approached.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Children's Aid Network sponsors the center and as the director, I have no intention of selling to the King Corporation so that fat cats like Richard King can get richer and richer while the poor in this community are displaced.”

“What can I do to help?”

“I need you to use all your connections and put a big spotlight on this, so that the community and beyond are aware of what's happening.” Malik stood up as he gave his impassioned speech. “The people in this community are looking to the center and C.A.N. to help, to stop this travesty from happening. They don't want to sell. Many of these store owners have owned their property for years, before the King Corporation had any interest in
redeveloping
it.”

“I know a lot of big names that would eat a story like this up,” Quentin said. He could see it spread across the
New York Times
or
Post
: Big Corporation Versus Low-Income Community. “I'll call up a few contacts. Otherwise, I am at your disposal.”

“It's been a while since you've been back,” Malik said. “Why don't you walk around, get a feel for the place and take some of those candid photographs that capture a nation. In the meantime, I have some paperwork to finish up here.”

“Sure thing.” Quentin stood up and threw his camera bag over his shoulder. He didn't need Malik to give him a tour of the community center because it had been his second home in his youth.

The center housed computer and game rooms, a basketball court, dance room, swimming pool and not to mention a clinic. The neighborhood relied on the free health care and dentistry the center provided along with the Head Start and after-school programs. He stopped by each in hopes of using his camera as a tool to show the unseen or the forgotten. He got some great shots of the dancers with their graceful movements, but his favorite was of the toddlers because it captured the wide-eyed innocence of youth. As he strolled down the halls, Quentin realized just how much responsibility Malik had on his shoulders.

His final stop was the gymnasium where several male teenagers were shooting hoops. Quentin quietly came in and stood along the sidelines. As he snapped photos, one of the young men looked over at him and then nudged his friends. “Hey! What you doing with that camera?”

“Just taking a few pictures,” Quentin replied, looking up from the lens. “I hope you don't mind.”

“That depends on what you're going to do with them.” His friends snickered behind him.

“Well…” Quentin rubbed his goatee. “They might end up in a newspaper or magazine or perhaps on television.”

“Why? Are you famous?” the young man inquired. “'Cause I sure don't know you.”

“In a way, yes—I'm a photojournalist.”

“What's that?” another boy asked.

Quentin shook his head. It was a shame that these young men had no idea of what he did for a living because they were not exposed to anything outside their daily lives. Quentin resolved to do all he could to stop this corporate giant from railroading another low-income community.

“I take pictures and sell them to magazines and television stations and they publish them or put them on the air.”

“Wow, that's kinda cool,” the first young man said. “How's the Benjamins on something like that?”

A laugh echoed from deep within Quentin's belly. “The Benjamins are quite good. But you have to work hard and learn your craft before you really start to get paid. Have any of you guys ever taken a photography class here at the center?”

“Photography?” The young man's voice rose. “Naw, man, we 'bout playing ball.”

“Life isn't all about basketball and having fun. You should try something new sometime and if you're interested,” Quentin continued, “I might be persuaded to come and teach you the basics of photography.”

“You would?” The boys sounded shocked that he would go out of his way to help them.

“Yes, I would,” Quentin replied honestly, just as Mr. Webster had helped him and showed him how to work a camera.

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” a masculine voice said from behind him. Quentin turned around and found Malik grinning from ear to ear. “You boys are in severe need of a hobby.”

Malik walked toward them. “That's a really generous offer, Quentin.” He took Quentin aside. “And I understand if you didn't mean it. I know how busy you are. If you want to just take the pictures, that's fine with me.”

Quentin shook his head and patted Malik's shoulder. “It's no imposition. I could stand to give back a whole lot more.”

Malik chuckled. “See?” He pointed a knowing finger at Quentin. “You have to work. You can't just relax.”

“I've been doing nothing but taking it easy for a week now. And if I can open up some young men's eyes to the joy of photography, then all the better.” He turned back around to the young men. “I'll be back the week after next, after I get a few supplies and we can get started. And you,” he said to Malik, “I'll see later.”

Malik mouthed the words
thank you
as Quentin headed out the swinging doors.

 

“Daddy, it's so good to hear from you,” Avery said when he telephoned her later that week. “What's going on?”

“I was hoping you would make up with your mother,” Clayton Roberts said from the other end of the line. “She's been walking around sullen all week and still wants your help cleaning out the attic.”

“Daddy…”

“You know how your mother can get,” her father said.

“You mean critical and controlling?” Avery asked bitterly.

“No, I mean overprotective. You know she only wants what's best for you.”

Why did her father always take her mother's side?

“She has a funny way of showing it.” Avery huffed. If she didn't have anything nice to say, then maybe she shouldn't say anything at all—but Avery didn't dare say that to her father.

“Have you ever thought that maybe you're being overly sensitive?”

Avery paused. Perhaps he had a point. Her mother did have a way of getting to her, and Avery let her. “All right, I will make amends, but only for you.” She was a daddy's girl after all. He always seemed to understand her more than her mother. He never criticized. Instead, whenever she had a problem, he offered a shoulder or an ear and just listened. Unlike her mother, he never tried to control the outcome.

“Good, sweetheart. I'll see you on Saturday then?”

“Sure, Daddy.”

Avery arrived on Saturday as promised and found the attic in complete disarray. Her mother had already gotten started and there were tons of boxes, trunks, paintings and various sculptures and artifacts from her mother and father's travels during the years, and from the looks of it, her parents hadn't gone through anything since she was a child, which made it over thirty years' worth of junk.

“I'm glad to see you could make it,” her mother said coolly as Avery rolled up her sleeves and donned a scarf to protect her hair from the dust and spiders.

Avery ignored the dig. She was sure her mother thought she had completely overreacted last week. “Why don't we tag everything you do want,” Avery suggested, “and we'll throw away what you don't want.”

“Sounds good to me,” her mother said.

Two hours later, they had made progress and had managed to clear a path out to the hallway, but only because Louisa had assisted after finishing her chores.

“I don't know about you guys, but I'm ready for lunch,” Louisa spoke up.

“Lunch would be great, Louisa. Can you whip us up some sandwiches?” her mother asked.

“Already done. I premade the sandwiches, and the soup just needs to be heated up,” Louisa replied. “I'll go warm it up now.”

While they waited, Avery and her mother continued cleaning until Avery stumbled upon a chest that had been hidden by some old carpeting. That was when all hell broke loose.

“I wonder what's inside,” Avery said.

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than her mother yelled, “Don't open that trunk!”

“Why? It's just an old trunk,” Avery replied. She was opening the lid when her mother nearly leaped across the room and shut it. And to make matters worse, she sat on the lid.

“Mother! What's gotten into you?” Avery looked up questioningly at her mother, who looked as white as a ghost. She didn't understand what the big deal was. “Is there something in that chest I'm not supposed to see?”

“Of course not,” her mother laughed nervously.

“Then why won't you move?” Avery asked.

“If you must know,” her mother said, “there are some old love letters from your father in that trunk and I'd like them to remain private.”

“Is that all?” Avery smiled. “Why didn't you just say so?” She rose to her feet.

Her mother didn't have time to answer because Louisa called up to them that Clayton had returned from racquetball.

“C'mon, let's go eat.” Her mother headed down the stairs, but Avery held back.

Her mother's reaction to that trunk disturbed her. The knowledge that she could be hiding something caused her to rush over to it. Should she open Pandora's box? Maybe what was inside was best left hidden.

Despite her reservations, Avery opened the lid. Inside were some newborn baby clothes and a swaddling blanket. Was this what she'd been brought home in? Avery's eyes misted with tears. Why hadn't her mother ever shown her these before? She continued her fact-finding mission and dug through the trunk until she found a leather portfolio.

Curious, Avery popped open the lock and looked inside. The contents appeared to be important legal documents. Avery was quickly scanning them for a clue of what her mother could be hiding when she saw the word
Adoption
in big letters across the front page of one of the papers. Avery was in shock as she continued to read the document that stated in plain English, that Mr. and Mrs. Clayton Roberts had adopted an infant baby girl born on November 3, 1974.

“Ohmigod!” Avery fell back in horror and tears streamed down her face. “No, no, this can't be. This can't be.” She shook her head. She was adopted! Her parents weren't really her parents?

A million questions went through Avery's mind as understanding dawned on her. Holding the paper in her hand, she realized that this was why her mother didn't want her to open that trunk. She didn't want the truth to come out, which was that they'd been lying to her from the day she was born. What Avery didn't understand was why hadn't they told her? It wasn't as if she wasn't old enough to learn the truth. Why had they kept this from her? And if she wasn't Avery Roberts, who was she? Who were her real parents?