Читать книгу Pieces of Dreams - Donna Hill - Страница 8

I chased sleep all last night, doing my own version of the dead man’s float on land. Not moving, stifling my sobs, I dared not toss or turn though my heart raced and my brain churned.

Taylor, my man, my lover’s, gentle, enflaming touch unnerved me instead of igniting my heart. He wanted to make love to me—inside out. I knew what he needed, what he wanted, but something inside me shut down. And I was scared. Scared of what it meant.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Baby. Talk to me,” he’d said when I mumbled some incoherent excuse about not feeling up to it. Never in our three year relationship could we keep our hands off each other, right from the very beginning. Did he know I was lying?

Even as still as I remained, as hard as I worked at keeping my treacherous thoughts sealed shut, commanding my heart to stop that thudding noise, Taylor still worried about me. “Max? What’s wrong, Baby?” He stroked my hair. “Want me to get you something?” He began to massage my neck, my back, releasing the knots of tension. That’s the way he was—sensitive and in tune with my needs, my feelings. He always listened to me, really listened, and that made all the difference in the world. Taylor was always more than my man. He was my friend.

From the day we met, it was as if we’d known each other all our lives. There was an easiness about Taylor that just made it to simple to open up to him and not to be afraid of what he might see. From the beginning it drew me to him like a magnet—the need to be cared about totally and completely without having to fight for it.

I wanted to turn into his arms last night, pour out my heart and my darkest fears, bury them in the strength and security of his embrace, but for the first time in the three glorious years that we’d been together I couldn’t. So I did the first thing that came to my mind, did something I’d sworn I’d never do. I lied. I lied to keep from hurting him with the truth.

“Mmm. Nothin’, Babe, really. Just thinking about some things at work. Sorry if I’m keepin’ you up.” I eased out of the bed, nude as usual—Taylor liked that—and slipped on the short, peach silk robe that I kept at the foot of the four-poster bed. “Maybe some warm milk would help.” I leaned down and kissed his temple, there on that salt and pepper spot that I sometimes teased him about but secretly thought only added to his ruggedly handsome looks.

“I’ll sit with you,” he mumbled, his voice a cross between Isaac Hayes’s seductive timbre and tires running over gravel. That made me smile.

“Don’t even think about it, Ty. Go back to sleep, Babe.”

Still emotionally rattled, I tiptoed out of the room, walked down the short hallway, and peeked in at the partially open bedroom door. Something inside of me filled, just as it always did whenever I looked at my son, hunched up like a lump of sugar beneath his Spider-Man sheets. My blessing.

I stood for a moment in the doorway, watching Jamel breathe in and out and the battlefield of action heroes spread out across the sheets, some having fallen onto the navy blue-carpeted floor.

My throat clenched. Three years ago, with one simple phone call, one sentence, this all could be so different—this life I had worked to build—but that was then.

Inhaling my reality, I let it settle in the unlit place inside myself and headed downstairs to think.

That was nearly four hours and three cups of coffee ago. Everything was still out of focus. The only thing that was a bit clear was the view of the Golden Gate Bridge that was slowly materializing beyond my little window on the world.

The beacons of sun streaming into the kitchen window were warm as always for eight a.m., even if they were filtered by the everpresent fog that hung over San Francisco like gauze drapes used to keep mosquitoes out. Music, coming from the little clock radio on the sink, slow and bluesy—the kind that slips through your pores and seeps into your soul—floated around the squared-off yellow room, bringing its own brand of “just sit back and relax.” But I couldn’t.

Above me, from upstairs, I heard the rush of the shower pounding against the ecru-colored tiles, and knew that Taylor was up. Any minute, like clockwork, Jamel would come bounding down the stairs, sleep still stuck in his inky black eyes, eyes just like his father’s, wanting his bowl of Frosted Flakes with no milk.

For all intents and purposes it was a day just like any other, except for the boulder of truth that sat on my chest. There was no way I could put off telling Taylor much longer.

How many times in the past twenty-four hours had I wished that my old homegirl Val hadn’t called from New York—that she hadn’t mentioned Quinten Parker’s name again, hadn’t made me remember what I’d struggled these past years to forget?

For a fleeting moment, when she told me that Nikita was dead, there was that dark, ugly instant when I was almost relieved, vindicated somehow. From the day Quinn met Nikita Harrell, our relationship shifted. I’d known Quinten Parker nearly my entire life. His twin sister, Lacy, was my best friend, before she was killed. There was a bond between Quinn and me, one that I’d fantasized about and thought could never be broken.

We came from the same roots, talked the same language. I took the unspoken relationship between us as an inevitable given. Then Nikita walked into his life—the girl from the right side of the tracks, the last person I, or anyone, ever imagined Quinten Parker falling for—and my dreams of a lifetime with Quinn fell to pieces. Nikita Harrell rudely awakened me.

But then, as Val and I hung up, being human stepped in, and that unexplainable love harbored in my heart for Quinn since I was six years old suddenly roared to life, like dry wood stacked too close to the flame. And all that other stuff didn’t matter. I hurt for him, felt his pain as surely as if it were my own—just as I’d always done. When—when—would he finally find his peace, some happiness? Everything—everyone—he’d ever loved was taken from him, one by one. And I was no better than the fates that dealt Quinn an unwinable hand. I wrapped both of mine around my mug.

The coffee was cold now, but I drank it anyway, rewinding last night in my head. I should have made love with Taylor. I should have let him into my soul to push away the images of Quinn that were resurrected, wash away the doubts that began to form around the edges of my heart.

Quinn. Q. His face loomed in front of me. Those long, silky dreads that must be almost to his waist by now. Those mesmerizing eyes, the wicked, dimpled smile, and thrill—your fingers that could stroke the blacks and whites of a keyboard and steal your soul. Oh, yeah, I remembered. I remembered the dreams we shared, the laughter, the pain, the bed—

“You never came back upstairs last night,” Taylor said, standing in the archway of the kitchen, catching me completely off guard. When did the shower go off?

I looked up at him and tried to smile. Momentarily he paused, his long body held in that just to the side angle that gave the impression he didn’t have a care in the world. One of the things that had attracted me to Taylor Collins was his total air of casualness.

“I know. I, uh, didn’t want to keep you up, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep.”

He eased into the kitchen and pulled out a chair from beneath the table and straddled it, bracing his arms across the rounded top. He rested his chin on his forearms and caressed my cheek with a stroke of his finger. “You wanna tell me what’s really bothering you, Max? Or are you going to keep running the line about the job?”

“It’s not a line. It’s—”

“Don’t lie to me, Baby. I know you, remember? Something’s bothering you, and has been from the moment you walked in the door last night. And I know good and damned well it’s not the job. You could run that travel agency of yours with your eyes closed.” He looked at me for a long moment, his warm brown eyes waiting, probing.

“Mommy, I’m hungry,” Jamel announced the instant his toes crossed the threshold of the kitchen. I was sure Taylor heard my sigh of relief.

“Mornin’, Sweetie,” I cooed, giving him a sweeping hug.

“Hey, Shortstop,” Taylor said, rubbing his big hands across Jamel’s head, much to his delight.

“Hi, Daddy.” He giggled.

I got up from my perch and took the box of Frosted Flakes from the cabinet and filled a bowl for Jamel.

“We’ll talk tonight, Max,” Taylor said, making sure I didn’t miss the no-nonsense tone in his voice. He stood, slid his arm around my waist, and pulled me close. “Whatever it is, we’ll work it out. We always do.”

He dipped his head and took a long, lazy kiss, then eased back, his eyes smoky with desire. I knew that look.

“Okay?”

All I could do was nod my head as he turned toward Jamel.

“See ya later, Slugger.” He snatched Jamel up and gave him a tight squeeze. “Love you, buddy.”

“Love you, too.”

Taylor put him down and walked out.

The self-imposed noose of avoidance by silence grew taut around my neck. And I knew the longer I dodged the inevitable the tighter it would become.

After the usual ritual of getting Jamel ready for day care, doing a quick straightening up of our two-story town house, I found myself alone with my thoughts and my decision—one that I couldn’t put off much longer. “Nikita’s funeral is in two days, Max,” Val had said. “I know it’s hard, and probably asking too much, but you should be there. You and Quinn…well…there’s history between you two. I think he needs you, Girl, but he’d never say that.”

She was right. Quinn never would say he needed anyone. He was used to doing everything on his own, from the time he was sixteen, a man since he was a boy. His self-assurance and confident swagger only camouflaged the tenderness that rested in his spirit, but it was the lure of inaccessibility that always intrigued me, drawing me to him like a moth to a flame—the desire that was a part of me, to reach him, heal him. Oh, yes. I knew him.

But no matter what my decision, there was still my business to run and Jamel to raise. Slipping on my suit jacket, I headed for the door.

As usual, the morning rush hour traffic was a monster. Front ends kissed rear ends for miles, at least as far as you could see through the haze. After a while, though, you get used to it. So, rather than give myself a headache by chiming in with the other horn blowers, I turned up the volume on the radio, eased back a little in the seat, and listened to some cool jazz. My girl Phyllis Hyman was working one of her songs, and I sang right along with her. In some other life I just knew I was a singer.

Peeking across the lane to my left, one of those suit and tie-wearing brothers was having a heated argument on his cell phone. I immediately felt sorry for the poor soul on the other end. Even from my vantage point I could see the veins popping out on his forehead. To my right, a woman with four kids in her backseat appeared to be trying desperately to keep them from jumping out of the windows.

I wasn’t sure which was worse, creeping along to work at a snail’s pace or being trapped underground on a New York subway, engulfed by the pungent odors of the city and the cloying scents of every designer perfume under the sun. Even so, there were days when I actually missed that.

Picking up stakes from New York and moving to San Francisco was a hard decision. My entire life, everything and everyone that was familiar, I left behind. But five years ago, it was the only choice to be made. The need to start over, to break away from the ties that bound, were more powerful than the desire to stay. The only problem was that the cord wasn’t broken.

Not too long after my arrival, just when I was getting my head together and my business off the ground, letting my spirit mend, Quinn arrived. At the time, I thought it was for good, that the day I’d longed for finally arrived. We spent two years together, moving from the tentative stages of friends to lovers. Foolishly, I believed that away from New York, away from the pain and the relationships of the past, he and I could really build a life together. I was wrong.

Quinn had ties, too, ties more potent than anything I could bind him with. Somewhere, buried deep inside, there was a part of me that knew he’d go back. Back to New York. Back to Nikita. I just didn’t want to believe it.

Humph. Quinn and Nikita. Ms. Uptown Girl. But hey, got to give her credit, she loved him. I suppose. The problem was, so did I at the time. It took letting go and letting Taylor into my life to finally find my piece of the happiness pie. Now, with one phone call, it felt as if my whole world were being turned upside down again. No dessert for you.

My eyes began to burn, and it had nothing to do with the smog. How was I going to explain to Taylor that I needed to go back to New York to be with Quinn? Better yet, how was I going to face Quinn for the first time in three years and not tell him about his son?

“Didn’t think I’d ever make it,” I said, breezing into the office on a gust of hot air an hour later. I tossed my purse on top of my always overloaded desk and flopped down in the cushioned chair.

Marva, my business partner and dear friend, glanced up from her computer screen and grinned as if everything was just lovely.

“Max, you say that at least once a week.” She kept clicking the keys. “You know you don’t have to be here every day. It’s a trek for you. I can handle things.”

I looked at her bowed brunette head for a moment, and knew she was right. But the fact of the matter was, as much as I might fuss and cuss about the distance, the traffic, and the smog, I loved it all, and I loved my business. This was mine—my dream—and I guess I just needed to see it every day to make sure it wasn’t a dream.

“Did you talk with Taylor yet?” she asked over her rapid-fire typing.

I could hear the note of hesitancy, the slight hitch in her voice. She stared right at me yesterday when Val called, when that bottom-dropped-out-of-my-world look came across my face. At first she thought something happened to Jamel or Taylor, and she almost freaked out until I finally got myself together enough to explain about Val’s call.

Marva was there for me with a hug and a smile when Quinn arrived in Frisco. She let me use her shoulder when he left and went back to Nikita. And no one was happier for me than Marva when Taylor came into my life. “You deserve to be happy, Girl,” she’d said. “Go for it.”

I pressed the power button on my computer and tried to act as if I didn’t hear—“Did you talk with Taylor?”—the million dollar question.

“Don’t act like you didn’t hear me, Maxine Sherman.” She spun her chair until we were eyeball to eyeball, crossed her arms beneath her ample breasts, and waited. I could almost see her counting off the seconds in her head. “Well?” she snapped, and I jumped.

“No. I didn’t talk to Taylor last night.” I tried to sound defiant. She wasn’t impressed.

Her thick brows bunched together. “Max, when are you planning on talking to him—at the airport? Girl, I don’t believe you.”

“I’m glad you think it’s so damned easy, Marva. News flash—it’s not.” I rolled my eyes as hard as I could, hoping she’d get the message that I was really ticked off with her.

“I know it’s not easy. Life isn’t easy. But it’s not going to get better by putting it off. Unless you’ve changed your mind and decided not to go.”

Her dark blue eyes zeroed in on my face and stayed there. I was the first to look away.

Blowing out a long breath of frustration, I got up and began to pace. Pacing always seemed to help. Or at least it used to.

“Marva, I swear I’ve been up half the night trying to find a way to tell Taylor that I need to go to New York. I couldn’t.”

“Why? Taylor is one of the most understanding men I’ve ever met—”

“Being understanding is one thing, Marva. Accepting that—one—you’re raising the son of the man your woman was in love with as your own, and—two—she’s making plans to be by his side in his time of need, is a lot for any man to handle. I don’t care how understanding he is,” I shot back, needing to sound annoyed to justify my own lack of assertiveness.

“You know better than that, Max. Taylor loves you, and he loves Jamel. He knew the deal when he met you, and it didn’t stop him. Have a little trust in him.”

Trust. I swallowed hard, tossing the ominous word around in my head. I raised my gaze to meet hers. “It’s not Taylor I don’t trust. It’s me.” Well, you could have heard a pin drop on the carpet.

Marva gave me “the look”—you know, the one your mother would flash when you were out of order, and you snapped to attention? I almost felt like bowing my head and shuffling my feet in contrition.

“I know you’re going to explain.” Her head angled to an even forty-five degrees.

I tried to dodge what I knew was coming next by pacing faster.

“Max…please don’t tell me—”

Fancy footwork be damned. I came to a full, screeching stop. “Tell you what? That I think I still have unresolved feelings for Quinn? That I see his face every time I look at our son?” I picked up my pace again. “That when I got the phone call from Val, the first thing I felt was glad that Nikita was out of his life? That when I got in bed last night with the man who has always loved me from the bottom of his soul I didn’t want him to touch me because I remembered Quinn’s hands on my body? Is that what you don’t want me to tell you?”

I was fuming now, ready for a fight, and Marva was the most likely opponent, if for no other reason than because she was there. I was pissed, angry, confused—with myself—and I had to take it out on somebody. I knew I sounded as if I’d just gone around the bend. My voice had reached a borderline pitch that makes the hair on your arms begin to tingle. I couldn’t help it, not with my heart racing as if I’d been running a marathon.

All of a sudden I felt Marva’s arm around my shoulder, pulling me close, halting my steps, and muttering all those comforting things you say to someone whose edges are frayed.

“Come on, Hon. Sit down and catch your breath.”

She ushered me to my chair, helping me into it like she thought I might fall, or something. I loved her for what she was doing, but in a momentary state of clarity I felt like an idiot.

Marva crossed the office, which wasn’t much larger than your average classroom, locked the door, and hung the Closed sign in the window. She rolled her chair across the floor until our knees bumped. She took my hands and kneaded them between her long, soft fingers.

I sniffed and looked down at our entwined hands, hers so pale with pink undertones, and mine the color of Hershey chocolate. What a pair we made. But you couldn’t tell us we weren’t sisters. Marva Torino had soul to the bone. A true sistah in the wrong body. In the years Marva and I worked together at the agency we’d become solid friends. I shared things with Marva that I never shared with anyone—not with Val, not Lacy, not even Taylor. I never imagined I could be friends with a white girl—especially one like Marva, who came from money and privilege, me being raised in the heart of struggle and hopelessness—but something between us clicked from the beginning, and the color thing didn’t matter. She was my friend. One who didn’t pull any punches and would stand toe-to-toe with me no matter how far back into the neighborhood I went, and give it right back to me.

Marva was privy to my intense but abbreviated romance with Quinn, the pain I felt when he left me. She was the first person I told about the baby I was carrying. I confided in her about my doubts about getting involved with Taylor, especially under the circumstances. I trusted her and her judgment. And our sharing was never one-sided. Marva always found a way to weave in a life lesson for me from snippets of her decade-old romance and marriage to Brent.

“If I had left it up to my parents and my friends, my relationship with Brent would have been doomed,” she once told me. “I came from a world of private schools, lawns that needed a team of mowers, high society, and old British money. Brent’s parents were “common,” “beneath me,” “an embarrassment,” “laborers.” My parents threatened to disown me if I married him.

“But you know what, Maxine? I didn’t give a damn. Still don’t.” She chuckled wickedly. “Brent made my heart and my body sing. He opened up the real world to me, and he loved me with every ounce of his being. I’d never had that before, and I can only hope that everyone has a glimmer of what he and I share. So I went against them—my parents, my friends, tradition. And I never looked back or regretted one minute. Sometimes in life, Maxine, we have to make hard choices, choices that can hurt. But we also have to be willing to deal with the consequences of our choices. If we can do that, then it’s half the battle.”

That conversation and countless others like it had sustained me on many a troubled night, and I sure needed her uncanny wisdom right about now.

“Tell me what’s going on in your head, Max,” she said, cutting into my thoughts.

I let out a breath, laden with doubt. “I…don’t know what to do, Marva. I want to see Quinn. Maybe too much. And it’s scaring me. It scares me to think about what may happen when I get to New York.”

“What do you think will happen, Max? What are you afraid of?”

I bit down on my lip for a moment, knowing that once I said the words out loud, the words that danced around in my head they’d become real, and I couldn’t take them back. I paused, stood up, and sat back down.

“I’m…afraid I’ll realize I never stopped loving Quinn, and screw up everything I have with Taylor,” I said in a torrent of words and raw emotion. “Afraid that what I’ve built with Taylor is all a carefully constructed illusion. That it isn’t real, only a substitute for what I think I lost.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I see. And what about Jamel? Can you face Quinn and not tell him about his son? And when you do, what then?”

The noose around my neck tightened a bit more. I struggled for air. “Three years, Marva. Three years since he left and went back to New York.” I swallowed and looked over her head, focusing on the rack of travel brochures on the other side of the room. “And most days I hardly think what might have been. But then there are those days when I think how cruel it is to deprive Quinn of the knowledge of his son. Yet, Taylor is the only father Jamel has ever known. How right is that?”

“Why didn’t you ever tell Quinn? It’s not as if you didn’t have the opportunity.”

“When I found out I was pregnant, Quinn had been back in New York and with Nikita for almost three months—shortly before you started working here. They were a week away from getting married. I didn’t want him coming back to me just because I was pregnant. That’s the oldest trick in the book. I wanted him back only if he loved me, and I didn’t believe he did. Not really. Not the kind of love I needed. And then Taylor walked through that door right over there, into my life and my heart, and made all the hurt go away. He made me believe in myself again.”

“But how do you feel about Taylor, Maxine, really feel? Right now—today.”

I looked at her then, right in her midnight-blue eyes. “I love him.”

“And Quinn?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you need to go to New York. For your sake, Taylor’s, and Jamel’s. You’re never going to have peace until you finally face Quinn and either put closure to these feelings you have—”

“Or see if what I already have with Taylor is all I need.”

“Yes. My sentiments exactly.”

We didn’t talk about my “situation” any more for the balance of the morning. That’s just the way Marva was. Once she’d said what was on her mind, that was it.

Unfortunately, that didn’t mean it was off mine. Whenever there was a lull in the day’s activity, after I’d finished booking the trip of a lifetime for yet another customer, my “situation” would tiptoe up behind me and tap me on the shoulder. Hey, don’t forget me, it would whisper in my ear. I wanted to slap it away like an annoying fly, but I couldn’t. It just settled back down and waited for the next opportunity to sneak up on me again.

“I’m going to take a break for lunch,” Marva announced. “I have some errands to run. You want to come?”

“No. Go ahead.”

“Want me to bring you anything?”

“No. I’ll probably go out when you get back.”

“Okay. See you in about an hour.”

I tried to concentrate on surfing the Internet to see what kind of sales some of the other travel agencies were offering when the bell chimed over the door. I looked up and a thirtyish, good-looking man walked in. He was tall, about Taylor’s height, maybe six-two or so. He was dressed casually in one of those nylon designer jogging suits, looking ready to hang out for a minute. His dark brown skin glistened with a slight sheen of perspiration. He was pleasant enough to look at—more than once—which I did, and I caught a glint of light bouncing off the third finger of his left hand.

“Hi. How can I help you?”

He walked farther into the office, cautious, and looked around as if trying to determine if we were alone. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his electric blue windbreaker. My antennae went up, and I instantly wished I’d taken Marva up on her offer to go to lunch. I stood—ready for anything, bumping the back of my knees against the chair, my hand near the phone.

He cleared his throat. “I hope so.” He gave me a shy smile. “I, uh, wanted to book a flight to Chicago.”

Chicago. I almost said it out loud in relief. My pulse slowed down just a notch. “Of course. Why don’t you have a seat and tell me your plans?” I indicated the chair next to my desk.

He eased into the chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

“When were you planning to leave?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Short notice.” I started to give him my standard speech about the advantages of booking well in advance, but something told me that this trip was a last minute decision, that stopping in was on impulse. His next comment confirmed my conclusion.

“I’ve debated about going for almost a month.”

“A month? Why did you wait so long?”

He shrugged slightly. “Wasn’t sure if it was the best thing to do.”

“Book early, or take the trip?” I teased, which got a chuckle out of him. I kept typing.

“Take the trip.”

My right eyebrow arched in question. “Oh. So, what made you finally decide to go ahead with it?”

“Funny thing is, I’m still not sure.”

At that point I didn’t know whether to be curious or annoyed. I hoped he didn’t think he was going to get a refund if he changed his mind.

“Is there a problem?”

He didn’t answer.

“You are aware that this ticket is nonrefundable?”

“Yes. I know.” He stood up, walked across the room to the rack of brochures, and picked up one detailing the wonders of Hawaii. “Went here on my honeymoon,” he said, almost to himself.

I watched him for a moment threading along the crossroads of decision, and then I saw something in his eyes, a momentary flicker as if he’d seen something pleasant, and he smiled again. Just a little.

“I hear it’s beautiful.”

“More like heaven on earth,” he said.

His body seemed to relax and let go, then, as if the strain of carrying a burden had finally been removed, the tension flowed from him on a tide of expelled air, leaving him open and receptive. All of a sudden I realized he wasn’t out to give me a hard time but was really battling with his decision about the trip.

“Will your wife need a ticket as well?”

His head snapped in my direction, as if realizing he wasn’t alone.

“No. She doesn’t like to fly.”

“Is it business or pleasure?”

He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding, then blew out a long breath. “It’s a college reunion.”

I smiled, wondering what that was like. I’d never gone any further than business school, to get my agency certificate. Couldn’t see any college reunions in my future.

“That sounds like fun. How many years has it been?”

“Ten.” He turned toward me.

“I’d think you’d want to go. A lot happens to people in ten years. You can joke about folks who’ve gone bald, gotten pot bellies, and wound up with the wrong wives.” I laughed lightly at the images.

His dark eyes suddenly locked with mine, and my heart knocked. What had I said?

“That’s part of the problem,” he said out of nowhere.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Neither do I.”

He was quiet for a while as he absently fingered the brochures, looking around the office, but not really seeing. I thought that would be all he’d reveal. But then, like a young thief eager to make a confession, he let the words pour out of him.

“I just know that going back may resurrect some things that are best left buried.”

My “situation” tapped me on the shoulder again. “Then…why go?”

“That’s what I’ve asked myself these past weeks. But if I don’t go, too many questions will be left unanswered. I’ll never really know if I made the right decision.”

“Made the right decision—you mean about your job, where you decided to live…?”

Slowly he shook his head. “No. About the woman I chose to marry.”

“Oh,” was all I could summon in response. His confession surprised me in its bold honesty and its reflection of my life, and something inside of me needed to know if there was a solution to my own quandary. Maybe he had it, this stranger.

I looked at him for a moment. His face was gone. In its place was my own, staring back at me, waiting. In the blink of an eye what began as a benign conversation suddenly took a serious twist. What could I say to him, to this man who felt the need to share a part of himself with a total stranger, to one who wouldn’t be judgmental? Perhaps that’s what made it easy.

“I think I understand,” slipped across my lips.

“You do?” He sounded mystified, and absently sat down opposite me.

I nodded, thoughtful. “I’m sort of at a crossroads myself. And have probably asked the same questions as you.” I leaned forward on the desk and clasped my hands, staring at them for a moment. I looked at him, and our gazes connected in that inexplicable split second when you realize that a chance meeting has the potential to change you future.

He fingered his wedding band.

“How long?” I asked, pointing to the ring.

“Three years.”

“Any kids?”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “A little girl.”

“That’s nice. Kids make things worthwhile.”

“Yeah. But sometimes they’re good camouflage for what you don’t want to see or deal with.”

Was Jamel camouflage for me? Was I using my son as a shield, to keep from dealing with the truth? Was I using him to convince myself that as long as he was happy, cared for, and loved, everything was as it seemed—the picture of a perfect nuclear family—that Jamel didn’t represent my tie to the past with Quinn and my road to the future with Taylor? I shook off the notion.

“What about you? Any kids?”

I nodded. “A little boy, Jamel.”

“Hmm.” He looked away, seemingly lost in thought.

“Is this—person—you think you should have married going to be at the reunion?”

“Yes. She’s the one who sent me the invitation. Humph. I didn’t know she’d kept up with me,” he added in a faraway voice.

“Oh.” Did Quinn know that I’d kept up with him over the years through Val? That I knew about the success of the foundation he’d started in his sister Lacy’s memory, or that I listened to his CD in the privacy of my car? That I knew he was working on another book, and he and Nikita had often visited Shug’s Fish Fry in Harlem on Friday nights? Yeah, I knew. It was as though by catching snippets of his life I could vicariously remain a part of it. Although the tidbits of news were often few and far between, they filled some of the spaces. Sometimes.

“Do you think the trip to Chicago is going to change things between you and your wife?” I knew what I was really asking. I was asking him about me, my life, and I needed to hear the answer from someone who stood to lose everything. As I did.

“I’m sure it will. One way or the other. I think that’s what scares me—the fact that my marriage will be tested, my vows held up for inspection.” He stood. “But if I don’t go, I’ll never have the answers.” He looked directly into my eyes. “Will I?”

I felt as if I held the future of this stranger’s life in my hand. With one word I could decide his fate—and more importantly, my own as well.

“No. You won’t. You never will. And until you do, you’ll always ask yourself what if? Nothing will ever be whole.” Then all at once everything crystallized for me. I knew I must take the chance. Go against the odds, and deal with the consequences. It would never be fair to Taylor for me to be unsure, be with him as a second choice. I needed to clear the path behind me, so that I could move forward with Ty—no obstacles, no looking back.

He smiled, almost in thanks, I thought.

“Then I guess I’d better book that ticket. Round trip.”

As I keyed in the last of the reservation information, I suddenly realized that he sounded so sure, so certain that what he had at home would be waiting for him when he returned. I prayed the same would be true for me. I had to believe that it would.