Vulnerable (27 page)

She rushed to her feet and covered her face. She had turned to Troy and said in a distressed voice, “What do I
do?”

“Ask yourself: What choice do you have?”

The cellular chimed, and it broke D'Becca's musing over a past she could not change, and her nomadic thoughts. She looked at the number flashing. Reluctantly, she answered, “Hello, Sebastian.”

K
halil was on a Virgin Atlantic Airways flight to London when he called Rawn, and in particular to finalize the plans for Vail. “I got my father's timeshare and I need to know what to do about lift tickets,” he said. “So is D'Becca coming or what?” He tried to juggle the in-flight phone while he simultaneously perused
Black Enterprise
and talked to Rawn.

“Do you want to know what's gone down in the past two days or should this wait until we hook up in Vail?”

He was about to down the remainder of a gin and tonic from the plastic cup, but replaced the beverage on the airplane table. “If you tell me you told Sicily, man, I swear!”

“This thing—it's sideways. I can't even figure out
how.”

“Hold up! How can it be sideways? The only way this thing can go completely wrong is if you run your mouth off to Sicily.” As an afterthought, Khalil asked, “You didn't?”

Rawn sighed and sat on the edge of the bed in the semi-dark. “Tamara came by here.”

“Came…How'd she find out where?…” Khalil lowered his voice—“Bitch is stalking.” His mouth turned upside down.

“I can't keep this charade up. How do you do it time after time, and like it's nothing?”

Khalil bypassed the remark because the surface of things was never exactly what was beneath its façade. He preferred to let his best boy go out believing he was always on top of his game. “Don't tell Sicily. Let it go,” he urged.

“She's my…I report to her. Yesterday we had lunch and man she couldn't stop talking about Tamara. Her head…it's—she's got a serious jones for this woman.”

Khalil poured the last droplet of liquor in the cup. He had his own issues, but would not put those before Rawn's pressing circumstance. It was not the time to be selfish. But it was flying that always freaked Khalil out. Without stopping, he gulped the gin and tonic down with the hopes of unwinding. “If you haven't made reservations, make them, but don't even tell Sicily. It could all be innocent and everything, but she might drop your itinerary—and it may not be intentional—on Tamara. I sho' nuff don't want her showing up uninvited. There's no love lost between us, man. Tamara freaks me out.”

“I haven't seen or talked to D'Becca in days.”

“What's up with that?”

“Clueless. Don't know.”

“Have you gotten what you wanted out of this or what? No, even better: Has the Tamara episode made you rethink D'Becca?”

Exhausted, frustrated, Rawn said, “Hell if I know.”

“Listen, come to Vail. Getting off CI can help you gain some perspective. Moon thinks I'm making you up. She wants to meet this Rawn dude for herself.”

“Yeah,” Rawn said in a subdued voice. “Sure.”

Rawn purchased a roundtrip ticket to Denver on Priceline.com. When he was under the sheets with the hopes of shutting his mind completely off, his telephone rang. Blindly, he reached for the receiver. “Hello.”

“Hi, Rawn. It's me.”

“D'Becca? Where are you?”

•  •  •

Once Sicily finally managed to straighten out ongoing complex issues with a student and her single parent—an owner of a small but lucrative personnel agency—and they agreed to meet again in two weeks, she flopped in her chair and took a deep breath. She opened her calendar to check and see what kind of time she had before her next meeting, but within seconds, began to reflect on how much she loved her position as the first headmistress and the first African American to head Gumble-Wesley. One wall in her office signified that pride; her accomplishments were framed proudly, along with her degrees. Sicily had hoped her time would be better managed. Strategically, she scheduled every meeting in fifteen-minute intervals, and yet it never quite worked out, so her executive assistant suggested she not do parent/student conferences back-to-back. She had to meet with faculty in ten minutes; that gave her enough time to drop by the ladies and detour to the pantry and grab a bottle of mineral water.

She reached for the receiver and dialed Tamara's home number—digits she learned by heart the evening they met. While they had sat in the Alexis Hotel's Library Bistro having drinks while Pricilla Miles finished up an interview, they had exchanged numbers. Tamara leaned over and said, “We need to get together.” Beforehand, Sicily wrestled with what approach would be appropriate; Tamara had a rather nebulous nature and it was hard to read exactly what her sexual orientation was.

“Hey! I'm worried about you. Did you go out of town and forget to tell me? I thought you were coming by last night. Listen, remember my professor from Seattle U? You know, the one I told you used to hit on me?” In good spirits, Sicily laughed into the receiver. “Well,” she blushed, “he's having this dinner party tomorrow night at his home in Leschi and I thought we could go. It'll be a good time to schmooze. I'll go ahead and RSVP, but let
me know your schedule, okay? I miss you. It's been a couple of days. Call me. 'Bye-bye.
Call me!”

Sicily stared at the receiver in the carriage momentarily before looking up, startled by her assistant standing in the doorway. She wondered how long had she been standing there. “Hi.”

The two women were friendly and shared one thing in common: they enjoyed gossiping about celebrities and would set their VCRs so not to miss an episode of
The West Wing,
which they liked talking about. And for that reason, their relationship was relaxed and not so formal from day-one.

“Did I spook you?” the assistant asked, her lips shaped into a wide and toothpaste-commercial smile.

“Daydreaming.” She pretended to be adjusting her earring. “What's up?”

“Mrs. Bishop…”

“Tell me no! Not again.”

With laughter, the assistant said, “Do you want me to handle it?”

“Would you?”

“Absolutely! Oh, and John Davies called about the events committee meeting for next week. He needs to talk to you before end of school…”

“Yes, I know what he wants to talk about. I've gotten a few e-mails. There's brouhaha on who actually invented e-mail, but whoever the real inventor is deserves a Pulitzer.”

“I hear you. Sometimes…it's good to
not
have to deal with some people in person or by phone. Click send, and hello! I'll take care of Mrs. Bishop.”

Sicily pulled her laptop closer toward her. She checked Rawn's calendar. She sent an e-mail checking to see if they could hook up around six o'clock.

•  •  •

The bell chimed. Tamara looked toward the door. D'Becca entered Threads. She nearly gasped, but managed to suppress the sound.
What is she doing here?

“Hi,” D'Becca said, walking toward Tamara, taking a fleeting glance at dresses hanging chicly from satin hangers, and the smoke-gray and topaz-colored hangers hung strategically from wire.
I love the colors she works with. An olive-green and tomato-red pencil skirt. Bold.

“Hi,” Tamara replied. “What a surprise.”

An Everything Dayna shopping bag dangling from D'Becca's fingers. Tamara flinched at the very idea of Everything Dayna. The chic boutique was her competitor. On any given day in downtown Seattle, one was bound to see at least one Everything Dayna shopping bag draped on the wrist of a young woman who spent her lunch-hour browsing and hard-pressed to walk out without a purchase. At least a trinket.

“I was passing by and thought I'd drop in. I know you are by appointment only, but…”

“I wouldn't dare turn a customer away. And certainly not a friend of a friend. You're welcome to drop by anytime.” Tamara looked at her wristwatch. “Although I do have a client coming in in a few. Did you want to look around or?…”

“No,” D'Becca said. “Dropping by. Wanted to say
ciao.”

She doesn't know. She can't possibly know. Not that I give a damn.

“Well…” Tamara spread her long arms, and a striking bracelet that suspended from her wrist caught D'Becca's eye. “Looking for anything in particular?”

D'Becca was about to take a step when she felt the room spiraling. With the back of her hand, she touched her forehead. She grabbed at air like she expected it to suspend her.

“D'Becca?” Tamara took a step and D'Becca gripped her wrist
in order to hang on to her equilibrium. “D'Becca? Are…do you need some water? Are you all right?”

Swiftly, D'Becca pulled herself together. “Wow!”

“Have you eaten? You look a little…You're not binging again, are you?”

“No, no. I was working in New York. I ate very little. Spent two days on the supermodel diet, save for the cigarettes. Gave those up a few years ago. I guess I should eat something…”

“I have World Wrapps. It's chicken. Haven't even had a chance to take a bite yet.”

The charming bell sounded, alerting D'Becca and Tamara that someone had entered the boutique. In unison, each turned to find Ingrid Michaels standing in the doorway, her cellular to her ear and stylish sunglasses masking her green eyes.

“I should go. Your client's here.”

“Are you okay? You can go in the back and rest for a bit if you'd like.”

“No, really. I'll grab some soup. I'll be okay.”

“Hello!” Ingrid said.

“Finishing with a client. Ingrid, D'Becca; D'Becca, Ingrid.”

“You look familiar,” D'Becca said. “Have we met?”

“I cannot tell you how often I hear that,” Ingrid said, in a strangely good mood. “We probably have met…somewhere. You look…We've met, yes?” She removed the large-framed sunglasses from her face.

“It takes five minutes to circle downtown Seattle, so we've probably crossed paths in Starbucks. You can always find a Starbucks in this town,” she said facetiously. “Anyway, Tamara. I'll make an appointment.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. And Ingrid. Pleasure.”

When she left the boutique, Ingrid, unconsciously intrigued, walked deliberately to the front of the store and watched D'Becca cross Second. When she could no longer see her, Ingrid walked back to greet Tamara who was bringing material out to show Ingrid, which was the reason her client made the trip downtown to begin with. When Tamara phoned her to tell her about the fabric, Ingrid was leaving Bellevue. “I can stop by on the way home. Thanks so much, Tamara.” Even then, Tamara sensed Ingrid was in one of her better moods.

“When I saw this fabric, I knew… What's wrong?” Tamara asked.

“I think that's her.”

“What do you mean?”

“That's the woman my husband has made it perfectly clear he is willing to toss twenty-seven years of marriage to be with. She doesn't come across as the slutty type. She's not only prettier in person, she's prettier than the last one. I think I'd like her if she weren't screwing my husband!”

Very few things took Tamara by surprise anymore, but she was nearly floored. “Are you sure?” Her face was shaped into a curious frown.

“That's her. I found a photograph of her in Sebastian's briefcase. She's a model, isn't she?”

“D'Becca models, yes.”

Ingrid crossed her narrow arms. “You didn't tell me you knew the woman Sebastian was involved with…that she was a client.”

“I didn't realize it was D'Becca. You mentioned she modeled, but she wasn't in your children's generation. That could be plenty of women, Ingrid.”

“I want to know everything you know, Tamara. Everything!”

“Go on Yahoo! There's probably enough of her business on the Web.”

“Where does she live?”

“You can probably find that out on the Web, too.”

“Sebastian; he'd have her tucked away somewhere neat and tidy. Some back-street paramour cottage. Something rustic. Bainbridge? One of the islands. He's so bloody quixotic.”

“Like I told you weeks ago, break down and hire a private investigator. Really, Ingrid.”

“You know something. I can feel it.”

Tamara sighed. Other than the fact that she was sleeping with Rawn—and Ingrid knew her husband's lover was sleeping with another man because Sebastian Michaels so much as admitted it to his wife that she was in love with another man—there was nothing to tell. Fluffing out the fabric, it struck Tamara at that moment. The fainting spell, the askance look D'Becca gave her when she offered her her World Wrapps.
Well
, thought Tamara.
Could D'Becca be pregnant?

Surely that knowledge—provided it's accurate—would earn me a few good karma points!

I
t did not feel like the first weeks of their relationship, back when they could barely peel themselves away from each other; yet it was clear that Rawn and D'Becca had a connection. Rawn was not necessarily back on track, but his mind was less on Sicily and Tamara and more on skiing in Vail. He was present enough to relax and take pleasure in fleeting moments with D'Becca. When last did he think everyday thoughts? He reached over and touched her tenderly; he began to rub her lean tummy with his hand. While Rawn made small kisses against her abdomen, D'Becca's mind drifted from moments long past to moments not yet lived. Finally, she was getting a real taste of conventional love and yet she felt quite melancholy, lost inside a deep loneliness.
God, how can I tell him about this baby? How can I explain Sebastian? How would he react? What, oh my, will he think of me?