Vulnerable (34 page)

When he walked over to her, he yanked the coat from Janelle, somewhat facetiously. “Does your husband know you're here?”

“Of course! We—well,
I
don't have secrets. Men, you guys are hoarders when it comes to information.” She helped him with his coat. “You always did have style, Rawn. I like this cut. You wear it well. Still have that bomber jacket you wore all during grad school? It could be ten below and you'd be walking across campus with that bomber jacket. It became your trademark, did you know that?”

With a wink, he said, “You know I still have it.”

“Should have known.”

When their eyes locked, with affection, he took her curvy body into his arms. Rawn embraced her long and hard. “I love you,” he said into her ear, and then rested his chin against her shoulder.

With her eyes pressed shut, Janelle knew that he loved her and waited three years to say those words without the burden of commitment. She was completely unaware of when it happened, but she forgave him some time ago. In a sincere voice, she whispered in his ear, “I know.”

I
mani was standing on line at Grand Central post office when, in her head, she talked herself into getting a cellular. With a grin on her face, she reflected on what Kenya said to her the day after they went to the bail hearing for the seventeen-year-old boy who, allegedly, shot their father in cold blood and another man who would spend the rest of his life paralyzed from the waist down: “Would you please, you stubborn cow, get a mobile!” When she slid the key into the lock of Dante's loft, she could hear the telephone ringing. Imani rushed inside and to the nearest landline, reaching eagerly for the receiver before the ringing abated. She did not know Dante's code to his answering machine, which currently held the maximum messages—fifty. Imani had no way of retrieving them.

“Hello!” Imani walked back to the loft door and closed it. “This is she. I'm sorry, your name again?” She listened momentarily. “Sure, okay. Now's a good time. And where?”

An hour later, Imani stepped inside Le Bateau Ivre on East Fifty-first. She did not spot a mature woman sitting alone which meant she arrived before Pearl St. John, a friend of Dante's, whom she agreed to meet at the café. When a woman who worked at Le Bateau Ivre approached her, Imani said, “I'm waiting for someone.” The café worker gave her a not-so-friendly look and without saying a word, walked away.

Imani looked around when she heard a soft voice: “Are you…”

When their eyes met, the woman's face rang no bells. Imani never
met this woman in her life. A long mahogany fur draped over the petite woman.
You'd better hope that no one remotely connected to PETA is in this café or its adjacent hotel!

The stranger practically stared into Imani's wide eyes. “Oh, yes. You are definitely Dante Godreau's daughter.”

“You said you were a friend of Dante's and that you needed to meet me in person?”

“Yes. Yes, we were dear friends. Your father and me. Can we take a table?”

“Oh, sure.”

They sat at a table by the window. “We met years ago in Montréal. Before Kenya's mother, and before your mother.”

They ordered when the not-so-friendly café worker came to their table.

Imani said, “I can't tell you how many cards and letters and notes my sister and I have gone through. I've started answering them. Did you write us?”

“Yes, in fact I did. And I left several messages…”

“What exactly…I mean, what is your connection to Dante?”

“I loved your father. He was a gentle man.”

I know.

Their glasses of Beaujolais were brought to their table. The not-so-friendly waitress left not having uttered a single word.

Their conversation swiftly became informal, and Imani liked Pearl. She guessed her to be a tad bit younger than her father because Dante always dated younger women. Imani's mother was shy of twenty when she met Dante, and he was in his mid-thirties. With a soothing mien, Pearl grew up in Southern California during a turbulent time in American history, and as a result of the Watts Riots in 1965, she became quite political. The straight and long blond hair—with subtle strands of gray and a permanent part in
the middle—was archetypal Southern California. She starred on a soap opera for six years, but when she met and married a real estate investor, she did not renew her contract and the soap opera decision-makers killed her off. When her husband died four years ago, Pearl St. John was set for life. Although she did not say, Imani guessed she was one of Dante's numerous flings. “See, while I was a bit of a scoundrel,” Dante had once told Imani, “back in those days there was no AIDS, no HIV.”

“I wanted to meet with you because in my note to you and your sister, I asked that you contact me before you left New York. I kept calling Dante's home number, leaving messages. But got no response. I last saw Dante about six years ago. He was very proud of you and Kenya. She a CPA, and you a professional dancer.”

“Why exactly did you want us—me—to contact you?”

“I own a production company in Santa Monica.”

“How fascinating!”

“I know that your career as a dancer ended after a skiing accident four years ago.”

“Actually, I was on a Vespa and it crashed into a brick wall. Five years ago. I broke my leg and arm. But how did you know I danced?” And before she let Pearl answer, Imani said, “Dante!”

They laughed, and it was clear to them both a friendship was inevitable.

“The last time I spoke with Dante…it was about two years ago. He said you'd traveled all over the world.” Although Pearl came across kind, and there was a hint that she was pleased with her life, there was a look of sorrow in her eyes nonetheless. “But!” She took a small sip of her Beaujolais. “I read that you own a Pilates studio in Seattle.”

“Actually, on Crescent Island. And it's a Pilates studio and smoothies bar.”

“Clever! You know, I've been to Crescent Island. Once. An old college friend lives there. It's lovely. It's doing well, your studio. I checked.”

“Oh, really! How?”

“The World Wide Web is a game-changer. But I was hoping to interest you in doing a series of Pilates DVDs.”

“DVDs?” Imani frowned. She was not certain what she expected Pearl to say, but making DVDs was nowhere close to her line of thinking.

“My production company produces exercise tapes, among other things. But you are very beautiful, one. You are fit and lithe, two, which would be very marketable. And three: Pilates is becoming quite the new way to stay in shape. Obviously you're savvy. Your studio is the only one on the island, and while I haven't done the research, I'd be surprised if there were even three in the state of Washington. Even in L.A., there aren't more than a handful. Probably in the entire state of California! It's always good to get ahead of the demand. And Imani, your DVDs would sell out! I can make you the Jane Fonda of the 2000s. I know it because I've been doing this for years, and I've been quite successful. Your videos and DVDs would be best sellers. Oh, yes. We could make a killing.”

“But how would that all work?”

“We'd make, let's say, three videos and DVDs, and get them on the market
tout de suite
and test your marketability. We'll see how they sell and take it from there. Would you be interested?” Pearl's penciled-in eyebrow lifted.

For a short time Imani was hesitant, but the idea itself was compelling. She was not one to
think
. Every choice—the good and the bad ones—was based on her feelings. Rarely had her inkling led her astray. Even Blaine was a good feeling. That feeling, while it cost her, taught her some things—about men; about herself.

“Can I think it over?
I can say here at the table, it sounds…different. And I'm like Dante in that way. I love to do everything I can that isn't already tried and true. At least not in the typically commercial way.”

From across the table, Pearl studied Imani. Her dark hair cut in the fashionable style her age was wearing at the moment; her softly made up face—gentle browns and creams—was oval shaped; her stunning skin color—she was radiant!
I was a lot like her in my day. I know exactly why she's single and has yet to marry.

“Let's toast!” Pearl said, raising her flute.

•  •  •

When she walked into Dante's loft, Imani felt woozy.
Off two glasses of Beaujolais?
She flopped in the sofa and rested against it. “Wow! Is the room spinning?” Moments later, she lifted herself up from the sofa and reached for the remote. Kenya told her that she was addicted to CNN, but it was more like a strange guilty pleasure. Since Rawn's arrest, Imani listened for updates at least once a day. Since
TalkBack Live
was on, she headed for the telephone. Blaine's voicemail greeted her and Imani giggled. “Hi, it's me. When you come to New York this weekend, I need you to help me get a cell phone. And I have something wonderful to tell you. I want to hear your opinion. It's exciting…”

•  •  •

Rawn walked into his apartment frustrated, yanking the dark blue tie from his neck. When he entered the kitchen, he caught sight of the bright red light blinking on his answering machine. It indicated he had eight unheard messages, and this aggravated him even more. On a weekly basis he received several calls from producers of television talk shows, or a journalist from a newspaper
or magazine. Hirsch informed him the day before that a publisher had offered him a publishing contract; he was very interested in Rawn's story. Whether Rawn entertained the idea or not, in all likelihood, he could be challenged from profiting from the crime he was being accused of committing. It was difficult to evaluate his days. He was not working and the isolation was taking its toll.

Rawn left his father a message: “Hey, Daddy. A date's been set.”

While leftovers heated up in the microwave, Rawn listened to a Godreau album released in the early 1980s. He could not say how long he stared into dusk. The sky was dreary, and an odd thing occurred: a slice of sun, which had been absent all day, began to fade into the horizon. Rawn was startled when the telephone rang. He and his father talked roughly thirty minutes, and after they said their goodbye, Rawn ate his meal at the kitchen table. Not once, since moving into the apartment less than three years ago, had he ever sat at the table, not even to have a meal. While he was cleaning the dishes, the telephone rang. The urge to answer sat with him, but he did not want to get into some kind of tête-à-tête with a journalist who was not really interested in him or the case, but in the fictitious portrayal of the relationship he had with D'Becca which the media exploited. He—they had become a voyeuristic frisson and Rawn resented it. When he saw Troy, D'Becca's trainer and friend, on one of the evening entertainment news shows, he was aghast and infuriated. He had made a startling comment: “D'Becca spent her life fighting for every breath.” Eventually, he came to understand why Troy might have made that choice, since no one else was speaking positively on her behalf, but for unemployed models who claimed to have worked with D'Becca at some point or other. Of course they likewise had an opportunity to be in the spotlight and claim their fifteen minutes.

Rawn thought it better to let the answering machine pick up.
But then it occurred to him it could be Sicily. At least that was his hope. “Hello.”

“Poussaint, hey man, it's Chap.”

“Chap, what's going on?” Some part of Rawn was relieved. Grateful that not only was it not a journalist, but that it was not Sicily after all. Rawn was torn, because he deeply wanted to talk to her, and yet he was not sure what to say. Besides, she had not returned any of his calls.

“How'd it go today?” his musician friend asked.

“I have a trial date.” Janelle had suggested to Hirsch that he request a change of venue, which he had considered himself. The judge granted that request, which the prosecutor vehemently opposed. Rawn said, “The trial will be tried in Seattle.”

“That's good. Not that in Seattle this thing isn't water cooler talk, what my dad used to always say about Watergate. Everything about this, man…it's freakin' insane!”

With his head down, Rawn sat against the back of his sofa. “Yeah,” he agreed solemnly.

“I mean, how did this thing get so sideways? I thought it was all some mix-up. That millionaire, Sebastian Michaels, the one that found D'Becca; he said he saw you leave when he arrived, and she was still alive. When he went into her place…nothing was wrong with her.”

“The truth will prevail.”

“Damn. You're a better brother than me. I'd be on Tavis Smiley making it clear that I was an innocent black man. In-no-cent, you dig?”

Rawn chuckled to himself. “You would, too!”

“You up to coming to the Alley?”

“I don't think that's such a good idea.”

“Trust me…”

Crossing his arms, Rawn used his shoulder to hold the receiver. “Really, it would be such….”

“Everyone at the Alley knows you. They know this is all B.S. 'Sides, everyone's always asking about you. We're like family. Re-think this, Poussaint.”

•  •  •

Marvin Gaye's “Wholly Holy” was ending when Rawn sat at the bar. He and his musician friends played a set before a full room. Weeknights at Jazz Alley were slow; every now and then, and out of the blue, a crowd showed up. It was not something that could be predicted since it was so random. All the musicians, including Rawn, played their souls out.

While sitting at the bar daydreaming into his drink, two women at one end kept giggling, whispering to each other, and looking his way. Rawn had become accustomed to being looked at. Often when he entered a room or walked through the aisles of QFC, people would do double-takes or speak in undertones. However, he had not gotten—and nor would ever get—used to
why.