After the Loving (19 page)

“Next time, Iris, pick an easier target.”

Her smile weakened, and she bent down to the carriage to adjust something, but she didn’t respond to his taunt. He wondered what that misadventure would cost him as he watched Velma concentrate her attention on Iris Parker.

How do you feel?” Velma asked Russ as they walked down the courthouse steps. “If I were you, I’d be furious.”

She didn’t see how a woman would have the gall to accuse a man of paternity knowing that it wasn’t true. Her perusal of the child and of Iris made her wonder about the woman’s motive, especially since it was obvious that the child’s only resemblance to Russ was in its humanity.
Iris wanted Russ and, evidently, would do whatever it took to get him.

“Naturally, I’m annoyed,” he said, frowning. “There’s the inconvenience as well as the stigma—the accusation itself and my name on a court docket. If I’m furious with anybody, it’s with myself. I thought I’d picked an intelligent, modern woman who had as much to lose as I did, a woman who took care of her needs with no strings attached, as she claimed. What a laugh!”

She squeezed his arm. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. You did the responsible thing and protected her. After you get the test results, this incident will be history.”

He stopped walking and looked into the distance. “True. But I can’t help feeling for that poor child. No father, and a mother whose responsibleness I seriously question. My brothers and I suffered the effects of a flaky mother. But our father did all he could to make up for it.”

Velma was getting used to his shrugs and gestures that could mislead anyone to believe that his words had only been verbal musings, of no import. Knowing that, his shrug did nothing to lessen her concern that he might feel more
for Iris Parker—a tall, beautiful and elegant woman—than he realized.

His hand rested gently on her shoulder. “After I take you home, I’m going to the housing commissioner’s office to sign the papers for that property on Reese Street. Tomorrow, we start work on the renovations.”

If only she could be that fortunate and get permission to acquire the warehouse she wanted so badly. “I’m happy for you,” she told him, and she meant it. “Have you finished your design for the interior?”

“They’re row houses with identical structures, built by the same builder, so I only had to develop one design and I’ve finished that.”

“So you’re ready to begin.”

“Right. By the time we rip out the interior, Drake will be back and we can begin rebuilding. Velma, I’m more excited about this project than about anything I’ve done in a long time.”

“I suppose you are. Fourteen families that are now homeless will have a decent place to live.”

“Twenty-eight. Two families per house, but they’ll have separate entrances. It’s…well, I’ve never done anything that gives me so much pleasure.” He parked in front of her house. “I won’t forget what you did this morning.”

At a loss for words, she merely leaned toward him, kissed him on the mouth and got out of the car as quickly as she could. She needed privacy to deal with her conflicting emotions.

She sat down on her living room sofa with a glass of ginger ale and an almond biscotti, kicked off her shoes and ruminated over the morning’s events.

Russ, a big man with a big heart. A child who had his sympathy. And a beautiful woman who had possessed him, if only once. Could a man with Russ’s willpower, honor and
strength avoid the quagmire that this scenario represented? She went to the bathroom, washed the makeup off her face and marveled that Russ Harrington had rejected Iris Parker but chose her.

She finished the sketch of a furnished dining room, complete with decorative items and china, crystal, silverware and table linen suggestions. It was the second such job she’d done for an architect, and she couldn’t wait to show it to Russ. Delighted with her accomplishment, she got the urge to celebrate with a new hairdo and something smart to wear and telephoned her hairdresser for an appointment.

“What you having today?” Bea Hobson asked her as she walked into the shop.

“Something different. And very modern. Anything as long as it’s new and I’ll look good.”

“What about braids?” She showed her an intricate design. “If you don’t like it, I can always take them out.”

She chose the braids. On the way home, after trying on several suits that were either too small or the skirt was too long, she bought an elegant rust-colored suede one. Not because she needed it, but because it looked good on her and she felt like treating herself.

Her next stop was Lydia’s office, less for checking up on her weight than to gauge her friend’s reaction to the braids. “How do I look?” she asked of the new hairstyle.

Lydia appraised her at length, twisted her mouth slightly to one side and then lifted her right shoulder in a gesture of disregard. “Next, I guess you’ll have your stomach taped and your ears pinned back.”

“Aw, Lydia. I thought I’d do something different. You don’t like my braids?”

“If I liked ’em, I’d wear ’em. They look great on a lot of African-American women. But, honey, if you want my
opinion, you’re not one of ’em.” As if it were a hopeless subject, she threw up her hands. “But if that’s what mills your wheat… Let’s see how the weight’s coming along. Hmm. Three pounds down. Not bad.”

“You mean I lost three pounds?”

“Yep. Stay on that diet and take your medicine. If you exercise properly and regularly, you ought to see substantial results.”

Velma let out a long sigh. “Thanks a lot,” she said to herself. “In other words, keep on starving myself.”

To Lydia, she said, “Whatever you say.” She’d wasted her time stopping to see Lydia, and she didn’t dare think of Russ’s reaction.

Lydia got up from her desk, walked over to Velma and put an arm around her shoulder. “Listen, friend. You and I have been buddies since we were college freshmen. When we were roommates, you were always bingeing, eating this month and starving yourself the next. But you didn’t seem to worry about your weight.”

She went over to the window and looked out, giving notice that what she was about to say next would neither be easy for her nor pleasant for Velma. “I used to wonder how you could be so irresolute about your weight and so doggedly persistent about everything else. Another thing, I’ve never heard you say a kind word about either of your parents. As students of psychology, that tells both you and me that you have some deep-seated problems, and it’s time you got to the core of them.”

“Look, I know you mean well, Lydia, but—”

“But, honey, when we’re dealing with your weight, we’re only treating the symptom, not the cause.”

“But it’s a medical condition.”

“Velma, not every person with a hypothyroid has the problem you have controlling your weight. Talk to Alexis
and figure out what happened in your youth that didn’t happen in hers.”

Those words stayed with Velma long after she left Lydia’s office. She didn’t have to discuss it with Alexis, because she knew the answer. As the older of the two, she had been the shield between her sister and the turbulence and selfishness that she herself witnessed in their parents. Toward late evening, she managed to concentrate on the banquet she had agreed to plan for a teachers’ conference. She was able to do that because she had made up her mind to follow Lydia’s advice.

The next morning, she went to her safe-deposit box and took out the bundle of papers marked “Family Affairs.” Sitting in the little room that the bank provided for its box holders, she sifted through papers she hadn’t looked at in thirteen years, not since she was eighteen and became head of her household and caretaker of sixteen-year-old Alexis.

High school diplomas, their mother’s death certificate, old property deeds, bills of sale for their house and her father’s automobile, the marriage certificates of her parents and grandparents, all brought back memories—mostly bitter ones—and tears to her eyes. At last she found what she sought: her father’s letter to her telling her he was leaving, leaving her with responsibility for her mother’s funeral and for the education of herself and Alexis. The note said he was going to Canada, which was as good as telling her nothing, since Canada was one large, vast land area. She was on her own.

Two days later, Russ called Velma and suggested that they go ice-skating for an hour that evening. Although they had talked, she hadn’t seen him since the morning she went with him to the courthouse.

“Before dinner or after?” she asked.

“Before. Then I’ll fix supper for you. What do you say?”

“Sounds good to me. What will you cook?”

Was she implying that he might not be able to turn out a decent meal? “Playing it safe, eh? Well, I don’t ask you that when you’re the cook, do I? I’ll be at your place around six. Okay?”

“What on earth?”
He gaped at her as she stood in the door wearing an expression of expectancy. Yes, expectancy. What else could he call it?

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi. What happened to your hair?”

A frown slid across her face and then settled there. “Come on in. That’s about the worst thing a man could say to a woman. Well, one of the worst. I had it braided, as you can see.”

“But why, for Pete’s sake? I thought it looked nice the way you wore it.”

“You don’t like it?”

He gazed down at her, thinking that he’d just blown his chance to get that welcoming kiss. Heck. He wasn’t going to lie. “Did you expect me to?”

“Sorry,” she said, her shrug of indifference belying her real feelings. “I felt like something different.”

“And you definitely got it. Do I rate a kiss?”

She stroked his cheek, stepped close and took him into her warm, sweet mouth.

“Let’s go, before you start an explosion. Woman, you’re dynamite.”

“This is the one thing I like about winter,” she said as they glided over the ice.

“Don’t you like Christmas?”

She slowed down. “I was about to give you a glib answer—
Of course I like Christmas. Doesn’t everybody?
”
The phrase was on the tip of my tongue,
she thought,
because the truth was so painful.

“Christmas in our home was never the glorious time for me that it seemed to be for everyone else. I grew up praying that it would pass without a blowout. The only wonderful Christmas I ever knew was the one I spent last year in your home. That’s when I knew what Christmas could be.”

He had a powerful urge to hold her, to protect her from the demon that he realized still haunted her. With her hand in his, he skated to the edge of the rink and sat with her on a bench.

“You tell me things like that when we’re among a bunch of strangers, and I can’t hold you the way I want to.”

“I didn’t plan to say it. And I didn’t know the thoughts were so near the surface of my mind.”

“You had to handle too much at too early an age, and you’ve buried your feelings about your parents and your childhood.” He was dealing with an unfamiliar sense of helplessness, and he felt crippled. “Trust me to be here for you no matter what your problem is and whenever you need an ear.” He dared not say more, for whenever he probed, she closed up.

She patted his hand.

“I’m dealing with it, Russ. It won’t beat me down.”

“Were you dealing with it when you got your hair braided?” It was a tough question, but it came out of him honestly and required as much of her.

“I’m not sure. I finished a terrific design for a furnished dining room complete with appointments, and I was so happy with it that I treated myself to something different.”

She may have believed that explanation, but he didn’t. Most women would buy a new dress or a new pair of shoes.
He changed the subject. “I didn’t know you designed interiors. Will you show it to me?”

Her face bloomed with delight. “I want you to see it. It’s my second assignment for an architect, and I think I did a good job. I’d like your opinion. Could we stop by my house?”

He swung his arms across her shoulder and urged her closer to him. “Tell you what. I’ll wait in the car while you go inside and get it.”

Her eyes widened, a frown settled on her face and she poked her right index finger in his chest. “Chicken. Nothing will happen to you in my house that you don’t want to happen.”

Laughter bubbled up in his throat and then spilled out. He threw back his head and gave it full rein. “Velma, that’s a man’s line.”

“I know,” she said, “and I used it because I figured you’d understand it.”

When he finally stopped laughing, he said, “In the future, if I say that to you, I’ll know you’ll get the full import of my meaning.” He realized that his left eye narrowed. “You can dish out a lot of sass, babe.”

The grin that settled around her mouth and the sparkles that lit her eyes heated his blood, and he had to force himself not to pull her into his arms.

“You call it sass? I call it telling it like it is.”

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Let’s go. I’ve had enough ice.”

He would have expected anything but that long, slow wink she gave him. “You didn’t get any ice from me,” she said, in a tone suited to her wink. “I’m a warm blanket on a freezing night.”

He had a feeling that she was toying with him and enjoying it, not that he minded. He could give as good as he
got. “You don’t have to remind me,” he said. “My memory is as good as the next person’s. And trust me, no blanket, however warm, can generate half as much heat as you can.” He ignored her narrowed right eye and gaping mouth, stood and held out his hand to her. “It’s getting late, and we have to stop by your place.”

Chicken or not, he waited in the car while she went inside her house to get the design. If her work was credible, it meant that they had one more important thing in common. He opened the passenger door, and she climbed in, obviously out of breath.

“You didn’t have to run. I’d wait for you indefinitely. No. Cancel that.”

“You mean you wouldn’t wait for me indefinitely?”

He pulled away from the curb and glanced at her. “You think you have to ask that?”