The Darkness to Come (3 page)

A check of his email yielded two new business inquiries, both of them interesting. He filed them to be answered later in the day.

He did not, however, have a response from a popular Atlanta restaurant group to whom he had submitted a proposal last week. They had contacted him about creating a corporate identity package, and he had sent them what he was certain was a competitive bid.

But so far, no response.

They’d probably decided to hire someone else. Someone who did better work than he did, someone with a better portfolio and a better price.

But damn, that would have been a nice chunk of change. He had told Rachel about the proposal, gotten her excited about the possibilities, and she was sure to ask about it soon. He wished he hadn’t said anything to her.

As he was logging off his email, Rachel came downstairs, Coco trailing on her heels.

Rachel wore an oversized pink t-shirt, house slippers, and glasses with thin designer frames. Her short hair puffed out in a curly halo. Watching her stroll toward him, the t-shirt clinging to her body, Joshua felt a warm heaviness in his center that almost made him forget about last night’s terror. Almost.

“Morning, baby,” she said. “You’re up early.”

“I figured I’d get a head start on work, wrap up some things before the holidays,” he said, which was partly true. He turned to the cabinets. “Coffee?”

“Of course.”

He opened the cabinet and grabbed a coffee mug—and lost his grip on the cup. It clanged onto the Corian countertop, the impact chipping the mug’s rim.

“Sorry,” he said. “You know I’m a klutz sometimes.”

Because of his size—he was six-feet-five, weighed about two-fifty, and was built like a football lineman—he was accustomed to snide remarks whenever he showed his clumsy side.
Hey, Lurch, how’s the weather up there? You’re nothing but a big, dumb oaf, man. You move like the damn Frankenstein monster.

That he had little athletic talent only made the teasing worse. In high school, everyone pressured him to play basketball and football, but he was more interested in art class, and never bothered with sports. It guaranteed his status as the butt of countless cruel jokes.

“No problem, baby,” Rachel said. There was no harsh judgment in her eyes; there never was. “Happens to the best of us.”

“You’re just patient,” he said. He carefully took out another cup and poured coffee for her. She took it from him, and then set it aside and came into his arms.

The top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest. Standing on her tiptoes, she tilted her head backward to look up at him.

“I love you,” she said.

“Love you, too.”

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Ever.”

He smiled, a little taken aback by her affection. “Ditto.”

“All right, Patrick Swayze.”

She snuggled against him. Her body felt good against his, a perfect fit, as if this was exactly where both of them were supposed to be, enveloped in a gentle embrace.

At such moments, it was easy to believe in soul mates. In destiny. He was probably just a hopeless romantic, but sometimes he believed God had created Rachel just for him, and him for her.

The memory of last night was a thorn pricking his warm thoughts.

“How’d you sleep?” he asked.

He felt her body tense.

“Fine.” She moved out of his arms and picked up her coffee.

“Remember any bad dreams?”

She shook her head. She added cream and sugar to her coffee, stirred it with a spoon.

“Who were you fighting?”

The spoon slipped out of her fingers and clattered onto the countertop.

“What?” She picked up the spoon, frowning.

“You had a nightmare. You were kicking and swinging like you were fighting someone—you even started choking at one point. The whole time, you were screaming at a man. I know it was a man, because you called him a bastard.”

The crease in her brow deepened. “Seriously? I don’t remember that at all.”

“Not at all?”

She dropped her gaze, shook her head. “I have no idea who I could’ve been screaming at, either.”

“Whoever it was, you were terrified of him.”

She cupped the coffee mug in both hands, sipped, and shrugged.

“Dreams are just . . . well, dreams,” she said. “They don’t always hold a meaning—sometimes they do, I admit, but not always. How many times have you had a dream about something that was totally make-believe?”

“Pretty often. But you should’ve seen yourself, Rachel. I mean, you were really fighting.”

“Did I kick the guy’s ass?” She smiled mischievously.

“I don’t know. I woke you up. I was getting worried.”

“You should’ve let me sleep through it. I would’ve finished kicking this mystery guy’s ass and then our conversation this morning would be, ‘Baby, you were beating the hell out of somebody in your sleep last night. Hope it wasn’t me.’ “

She was trying to make him laugh, and it almost worked. Usually, it did. This time, however, her attempt at humor failed to dissolve the anxiety that burned like an ulcer in his gut.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Thinking about how you were acting . . . it wasn’t funny at all. Even Coco was upset.”

Sitting on the floor between them, Coco glanced from Joshua, to Rachel, as if corroborating his story.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else to tell you,” she said. “As far as I’m concerned, it was just a meaningless nightmare that I can’t remember. That happens to everyone sometimes.”

From her tone, he could tell that she didn’t want to discuss the subject further. Another man might have probed deeper, but Joshua didn’t like to push people. It would have turned this conversation into a disagreement, perhaps even an argument, and he disliked conflict, tried to avoid it whenever possible.

“Sure, okay,” he said.

Coco whined to be picked up. Rachel plucked the little dog off the floor and cradled her in her arms, cooed to her softly.

“I was wondering.” Rachel nodded at the laptop. “What’s going on with the proposal you sent to that restaurant group? Heard anything yet?”

“No. I don’t think I will. They’ve probably hired someone else.”

“Don’t give up yet. You gave them a competitive bid, and you’ve got a great portfolio—you know that.”

“That doesn’t guarantee I’ll get the work.”

“Have you called them to follow up?”

“I don’t want to be too aggressive and piss them off. Remember, they approached me in the first place. They should know how to get in touch with me if they want to move forward.”

“Please, call them,” she said. “Matter of fact, call them this morning. Between eleven and one would be a good time, I think. I have a good feeling about it.”

Joshua had known Rachel long enough to know not to question her “good feelings” about certain matters. She had an intuitive sense for some things that defied logic. It was why he sometimes referred to her as his “good luck charm. “

“Promise me you’ll call, okay?” she asked.

“All right, I promise.”

She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss. “I’ve got to go open the salon. Sistas are beating our doors down with Christmas coming up.”

He watched her return upstairs. The room was dull in her absence.

His thoughts doubled back to their conversation about her nightmare, and the dream man.

 Just as Rachel had good feelings about things, Joshua had a bad feeling about this.

He was convinced that she had lied to him.

Chapter 2

Rachel had lied to Joshua. Again.

As quickly as possible, she left home to go open her hair salon. The longer she stayed in Joshua’s presence, the worse she felt about what she’d done.

She backed her silver Acura TL out of the garage and drove away from the house, winding through the subdivision of spacious homes and large, winter-browned lawns. It was a quarter to seven, the December sun still in hiding. Although she loved the holiday season, she disliked the late sunrises at that time of year. A shower of golden sun rays as she drove to work might have lifted her spirits.

Or perhaps not. She was burdened with such heavy thoughts that morning that nothing would have improved her mood.

Why had she lied to Joshua? He was sweet, honest, and loyal, the kind of man she’d longed to meet and had doubted she would ever find. He deserved the best she could give him of herself. He deserved the truth.

But for so many reasons, she didn’t believe she could give it to him. Not yet.

Last night’s dream was fresh in her mind. After she’d awakened from the nightmare, Joshua believed she had fallen back to sleep, but when he shut off the lights she’d lain awake for much of the night, plagued by the macabre visions that scored her mind’s eye.

Was the dream a premonition? Yes, maybe. Hell, not maybe.
Probably.
She had a lifetime of experience with such things, and had learned to tell the difference between a dream that was a departure from reality—and a dream that
foretold
a possible reality.

She had to be careful, watchful.

In typical Atlanta fashion, traffic was already heavy on Camp Creek Parkway, the four-lane road that snaked past their neighborhood all the way to the marketplace where her salon was located. Cars poured onto Camp Creek from intersecting streets that supported an ever-increasing number of residential communities.

In her three years living in Atlanta, Rachel had watched the South side transformed from vast acres of silent fields and undisturbed forests of pine and elm into the metro area’s hottest slice of real estate. Some people complained about the rapid pace of growth, but Rachel welcomed it.

It was easier to stay hidden in a heavily populated area.

Stopping at a traffic light, Rachel flipped down the sun visor and examined her face in the mirror. She wasn’t looking for flaws, and she wasn’t planning to apply make-up—she had been blessed with a blemish-free complexion that required only a light touch of cosmetics.

She was inspecting her new look.

Before moving to Atlanta, she’d worn contact lenses, instead of the thin frame glasses she now sported. Auburn was her natural hair color, and her lush mane had previously hung to the middle of her back. Upon relocating, she’d dyed her hair black and trimmed it to a cute, curly ‘do.

If someone who’d known her before she came to Atlanta saw her today, they wouldn’t recognize her. She hoped.

She felt someone watching her, and she spun in her seat. An older man driving a Cadillac Escalade occupied the lane next to her. He winked and flashed a gold-toothed smile.

She ignored him and turned away. She was too damn jumpy and needed to calm down, get control of her day.

Ten minutes later, she parked in front of her salon, Belle Coiffure. The name was French for “beautiful hairstyle.” She and her business partner, Tanisha Banks, had opened the salon two years ago, and business had been booming from day one. Every time she arrived to work, she felt a rush of pride at how she’d achieved her dream.

Certain individuals from her past had doubted her abilities, had told her she’d never amount to anything on her own. As the saying went, living well was the best revenge.

The Open sign was already aglow, the interior track lights shining brightly. When Rachel pushed through the glass double-doors, she heard a gospel song by Mary, Mary rocking on the satellite radio, and saw Tanisha organizing magazines in the waiting area—copies of
Essence, Hype Hair
,
Gospel Music Today
,
Ebony,
and other glossy periodicals their clients read to pass the time.

“Morning,” Rachel said. “I didn’t expect you to be here already.”

“Hey, girl,” Tanisha said. “I’ve got a seven-fifteen. Otherwise, you know a sista wouldn’t be rollin’ in till eight.”

Tanisha was a tall, light-skinned sister in her mid-thirties, with a sprinkle of chocolate freckles across her cheeks and a hairdo that changed weekly. That week, her brown hair was styled in a twisted up-do with highlights that accentuated her hazel eyes. It looked fabulous, of course; Tanisha believed that each stylist’s own hair was their best means of advertising, and Rachel tended to agree with her.

Tanisha was the first friend Rachel had made when she’d moved to Atlanta. They had worked side-by-side at a shop in College Park. Both of them were driven, talented at their craft, and ambitious. It was only natural that they would decide to step out on faith and open their own salon.

Tanisha frowned at her. “You feelin’ okay? Your eyes are lookin’ kinda red.”

“I didn’t sleep well,” Rachel said, the understatement of the year. But she would never share anything about last night with Tanisha. Although Tanisha was a good friend, had been the maid of honor in her wedding, Rachel had drawn a firm line between what she would share with friends such as Tanisha—and what she would never share with anyone.

“When’s your first appointment?” Tanisha asked. “Maybe you can catch a catnap in the back.”

“I’ve got an eight-thirty, so I may just do that.”

Swinging her purse from over her shoulder, Rachel went down the center aisle of the salon, automatically surveying the sixteen stylist stations as she walked, to ensure that each would be ready for business when their stylists arrived. For most of the day, every chair would be occupied with a mix of walk-ins and appointments. If sistas believed in one thing, it was keeping their hair done—it was no surprise that Madame C.J. Walker, the inventor of the hot comb, had become America’s first black woman millionaire.

In the back, behind a door marked “Staff Only,” there was a supply closet, a staff lounge furnished with comfortable chairs, a sofa, a coffee table, and a TV, a restroom, and an enclosed office. The office contained a bank of filing cabinets and two desks, one for Rachel, the other for Tanisha.

Rachel plopped into the swivel chair in front of her desk. The sofa in the lounge did look inviting . . . but she was afraid to go to sleep, lest she have another nightmare about
him.

Besides, there was something much more important that she intended to do first.