Читать книгу A Private Affair - Donna Hill, Donna Hill - Страница 11

The professor’s nasal voice continued its monotonous droning. The words blurred as if water had dripped on a penned page. The room was thick with the scent of sterility, body heat and morning breath.

Amidst it all, Nikita struggled to concentrate. She couldn’t. The drone dissolved into a dull buzz. She wanted to giggle as she pictured the rotund Professor Cronin as a huge bee—buzzing, buzzing, flitting from one student to pollinate another, dripping words of “constructive criticism” all along the way. The room grew smaller. The buzz grew louder, closer. She had to get away. Bzzz, bzzz.

She heard him demanding in his astonished nasal voice that she return to her seat, calling repeatedly to her retreating back. It was the first time she’d heard any animation in the buzz since the start of the spring session.

No one ever walked out of Professor Cronin’s anatomy class, under threat of expulsion. So at any moment she expected a firing squad to let off a round. She hurried. She wanted to run. But of course running through the sanctified hallways of Cornell University Medical School was against the Eleventh Commandment: “Thou shall not digress from proper decorum.” Or was that her parents’ commandment?

She pushed through the glass doors, greedily gulping the clean, fresh air, inhaling the pungent aroma of freshly cut grass and blossoming buds. Faster. She headed for her dorm, not quite sure what she’d do when she arrived, only knowing that she had to get there. She’d figure it out. Rebellion felt exhilarating. She smiled.

The buzz grew fainter.

Six and a half hours later, soothed by the sound of Kenny G on CD, Nikita pulled into the endless driveway of her parents’ imposing Long Island estate. For the first time since she’d signed off the Cornell campus she questioned the veracity of her hasty actions.

Several moments passed—Kenny’d G’d, Al’d Jarreau’d and Grover’d worked his magic—before she took the key out of the ignition. She released a sigh. “It’s now or never.” Never, a little voice whispered back.

Nikita slid from behind the wheel of her silver-and-black Mercedes convertible—a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday four years earlier—easing the door shut. Her honey brown eyes settled on the house.

Set on sixty acres of land, in Lattington—which was situated in the “Gold Coast” of above upper-crust suburbia—the Harrell home was the envy of many. It was an architect’s delight, of Southern, turn-of-the-century charm coupled with modern accoutrements such as tennis court, swimming pool and gazebo. Their home had been the focus of many Home and Garden, House Beautiful and Architectural Digest issues. What seemed to impress everyone most, was that the Harrells were both black and affluent. Dr. Lawrence Harrell was one of the most renowned vascular surgeons in the United States, and Professor Cynthia Lewis-Harrell was the first black woman to head the mathematics department at Princeton University. Then there was Nikita.

Absently she ran her professionally manicured hands along the length of her ten-months-in-development dreads. They’d finally reached below her ears, and she couldn’t wait until they were long enough for her to vary their style. Her parents, on the other hand…

She looked up. Second-floor lights twinkled against the impending nightfall, a sure sign that she’d missed dinner and that her folks were settling down for the evening. Tradition.

Determinedly she proceeded down the cobblestone walk, careful because of her heels. The smooth stones could tell many a tale of her skinned knees and bruised elbows.

She pressed the bell and listened for the familiar beeps of the alarm being disengaged. The door swung inward.

“Niki! What on earth? Your parents didn’t say anything about you coming home,” Amy rushed on, hugging Niki to her slender frame. She had been with her family for as long as she could remember. Amy was the real power behind the well-oiled Harrell machine.

Amy released Niki and set her away. Her sharp brown eyes narrowed. “What’s going on? I’ve never known you to just come home without letting anybody know.” She peered around Nikita, looking for something that would explain the unannounced arrival. “Come in here and let me look at you.” She hustled Nikita into the house. “Are you sick?”

“No.”

“In trouble?”

“No, no. Nothing like that, Amy,” Nikita assured. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, that’s all.” She forced a smile.

“Humph. That doesn’t sound like you. Not like you at all. Your folks are upstairs and you already missed dinner,” she scolded, walking with Nikita down the Italian tile foyer.

“Amy! Who was at the door?”

Nikita’s heart knocked at the sound of her mother’s strident voice.

“It’s Nikita. She wanted to surprise us.” Amy threw Nikita a sharp look of disbelief.

Her mother, caressed by a pale peach satin lounging outfit and a cloud of Donna Karan’s Chaos cologne, floated to the top of the oak staircase. “Nikita! Larry, Larry. Nikita’s home.”

“I’ve dropped out of medical school.”

The silver teaspoon that her mother held clattered against a tiny demitasse cup. Cynthia’s gray-green eyes rounded in disbelief.

Nikita’s gaze darted across the table toward her father, who appeared to have not heard a word. The only indication that he had was the telltale flare of his nostrils.

Cynthia turned toward her husband. “Larry, for God sake, did you hear what she just said?”

“Of course I heard her. I’m not deaf. She’s obviously joking,” he continued without inflection. “Because no one for whom I’ve paid more than seventy-five thousand to finance their education would walk in here, sit at my table and tell me they’re throwing all that in my face.” His voice suddenly exploded. “She’s obviously joking!” His fist slammed down on the table, causing everyone and everything within range to jump.

Nikita swallowed hard, and for a split second she contemplated telling them yes, it was a joke. But if she did do that, the joke would ultimately be on her.

Her tone was soft, but decisive. “It’s not a joke. I’ve left medical school. I’m not going back.” There, she’d said it, and the earth hadn’t quaked and lightning hadn’t struck.

“Oh yes, you are going back,” her father spat out, rising to his feet. “And you’re going to finish at the top of your class, as you always have.” His hazel eyes blazed with barely contained fury. “After all we’ve done for you—”

Those words rolled around in her head like a beach ball out of control, and something as sharp as the sound of dry wood inside of her snapped.

Nikita sprang from her seat, leaning forward, pressing her palms against the linen-covered, hand-carved table. “What about all I’ve done for you!” She pinned her father with a defiant stare, then turned on her mother. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve done everything you’ve directed me to do. Joined all the right clubs, had the right friends—and the right color, of course. Excelled in every subject, attended the schools you wanted me to attend. Majored in a subject I hate. I was valedictorian for you. Summa Cum Laude for you, Mother, Father. What about me?” Tears of frustration burned her eyes and spilled. Her body trembled. “I can’t do it anymore. I won’t. Not…any…more.” She sat down hard in her seat and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.

“I should have seen this coming,” her father said. He pointed a finger of accusation. “Ever since you started growing those weeds in your head—”

“They’re not weeds, dammit. They’re dreadlocks, a symbol of our heritage.”

“Nikita! I will not have you use that language in this house,” said her mother.

“The only thing you just heard me say was damn? Maybe I should say it more often, so someone around here would pay me some attention.”

Her mother opened her mouth, then shut it when her husband continued his tirade.

“Weeds,” he spat, caught up in his own rhetoric, ignoring the sparring between mother and daughter. “The first step toward your demise. No upstanding young woman would be seen in public like that. I don’t know what heritage you’re speaking of,” he continued in his pompous tone. “It certainly isn’t mine, or anyone’s I know. All you need is a Jemima rag on your head to complete the look. We’ve come too far for this. We’ve worked too hard—”

“Why won’t you listen? For once. I’m twenty-five years old, and I don’t have a clue as to who I am, where I’m going, or even what I’ll do for myself when the two of you are…I need to have my own life. Make some decisions for myself. And that means not being a doctor.”

“So what do you intend to do?” her mother asked, perplexed.

Nikita took a long breath. “I want to be a writer.”

“A writer!” Condescending laughter filled the room. “Have you completely lost your mind?” he sputtered. “Writing isn’t a profession, it’s a hobby. How do you intend to support yourself? Or are you going to be another starving artist, for art’s sake?”

Nikita stood. “I knew I shouldn’t come here. But I thought it was the right thing to do.” With a pained expression she turned to her father. “I’ll find a way to repay you.” She snatched up her purse, turned and stalked away.

“Nikita.” Cynthia hurried after her. “Where are you going?”

She kept her back to her mother. Her voice shook. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll stay with Parris and Nick in the city.”

“Of course you won’t.” Her tone softened as she turned her daughter to face her. “This is your home. You stay here as long as you want. It’s obvious that you’re terribly distraught. I won’t have you driving around town half hysterical. Maybe some time off from school is just what you need. Now come along. Take a long soak. I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning.”

Nikita looked at her picture-perfect mother with sad eyes. Cynthia Harrell didn’t have a clue.

That was nearly three months ago, Nikita reflected. Her twenty-sixth birthday was dogging her heels, and she still had no job. Her savings were almost depleted and she refused to ask her parents for a dime. It was bad enough having to see her father’s “I told you so” look every time they passed each other. The reality was, she had no experience or educational background to break into journalism. All she had was determination and a dream—one that she’d pushed to the back of her mind in pursuit of her parents’ dream. God, she didn’t want her parents to be right.

Maybe this interview would pan out. The woman said she was willing to train her as long as she didn’t mind playing Girl Friday in the process.

She ascended the stairs from beneath the subterranean world of New York City, finally free from the press of damp flesh. She felt like taking a shower. Looking around to get her bearings, she fished in her pocketbook for the address: 803 Eighth Avenue, corner of Twenty-first Street. At least a ten-block walk.

She looked down at her low-heeled shoes, thankful. “All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes,” she muttered.

Turning off Fourteenth Street she walked along Sixth Avenue, peeking in the antique shop windows, outdoor cafés, absorbing the laid-back atmosphere. She inhaled deeply and smiled. She was growing accustomed to exhaust fumes and the intangible aroma of leftover garbage. She turned down Eighteenth Street, intrigued by the tree-lined block and stately brownstones. Sparkling plate-glass windows gave sneak previews of crystal chandeliers or high-tech track lighting, oversize living rooms, mahogany fixtures and hardwood floors. Couples in all shades and combinations sat on stoops, or strolled down the avenues. This is a neighborhood, she thought. Not the sterile, pristine, patrolled area in which she existed. She could like it here.

A moving truck was up ahead and she wondered if they were coming or going. She walked a bit faster, her thoughts outrunning her pace. If they were moving out, she’d ask about the vacancy. If she got the job, she’d be able to pay her rent. In the meantime, she could sell her Benz…. She slowed, nearing the truck.

The double-glass and wood door at the top of the stoop was propped wide open, like a woman awaiting her lover. She looked around and didn’t see anyone. Taking a breath, she turned into the yard and was about to go up the steps.

“Lookin’ for somebody?”

She looked up into dark, haunting eyes. Her heart pounded a bit too hard. “Uh, not really. I mean, I was just wondering if there’s an apartment available.” He’s gorgeous. She cleared her throat and backed up as the lean, thoroughly masculine figure gave her a long, slow look that made her feel like he’d just undressed her, then bounded down the stairs.

“Not that I know of.” Damn, she’s fine. He towered over her—catching a whiff of sea breeze and baby powder—on his way to the van. A pulse pounded low in his groin, unsettling him with its suddenness. He turned back in her direction, his long black locks swinging across his bronze shoulders. Dark eyes held her in place for a brief moment before dancing away. “Sorry.”

She shrugged, wanting to appear as cool and unaffected as he did. “No problem.”

He leaned against the truck, his arms folded across his chest as he watched her walk away. “Good luck.” He wanted to say more, talk to her and make her stay a minute. He didn’t.

Nikita stopped and turned. Her insides seesawed when she saw him grin. It made his eyes kind of crinkle. She smiled, and his stomach clenched. “Thanks.” She continued on, with just the slightest tremor in her legs, wondering what she could have said to a man like that to lengthen the moment. Nothing.

“Nice.” Quinn hummed in appreciation as he watched her departure until she reached the corner and turned. For a moment he saw the light again.

Nikita looked up from the menu just as Parris stepped through the doors of B. Smith’s. Every head turned and murmured whispers of recognition and speculation. Parris McKay had made her debut in the music world three years earlier, taking listeners and producers by storm. She and Nikita had met even earlier, while Nikita was an exchange student in France and Parris was in search of her mother.

To those who did not know her, Parris was an elusive beauty with the voice of Ella, Mahalia, Sarah and Whitney all rolled into one. But to Nikita, Parris was just her girlfriend, the one who told her like it was, borrowed her clothes, was light enough to be accepted by her parents and brazen enough not to care. Fame hadn’t changed her one bit.

Nikita stood and they hugged, long and hard. “It’s good to see you, girl,” Nikita said into Parris’s tumble of midnight hair.

“You, too. It’s been too long, sis.”

They both stepped back assessing each other with knowing up-and-down looks.

“That’s my dress. I’ve been missing it since the last time you rolled into town,” Nikita spouted, one hand on her hip and the other pointing at the red sleeveless linen dress.

“Just wore it so you wouldn’t forget what it looks like,” Parris taunted in a quick comeback. “You’ve finally grown into those dreads. Lookin’ good, too.”

“Yeah, they’d probably look real good with that dress.”

“We’ll never know, now will we?”

“We’d better!”

They bug-eyed each other and broke into sidesplitting laughter, collapsing into their seats.

“Whew. You still have that fast mouth, Parris.”

“You just bring out the best in me. What can I tell you? Did you order?” She picked up the menu.

“No. I was waiting for you. As usual.”

“Don’t want to go changing on you. You’d be disappointed.”

“I doubt it.”

“It was that bad, huh?” Parris asked later over a mouthful of blackened salmon.

Nikita nodded her head slowly. “Worse. It wasn’t so much the scene. It was the things that were said. I’ve never seen my father that furious.”

“You’ve never had the nerve to go against him before. He was probably as stunned as you were.”

“Yeah, well the shock should be over. That was almost four months ago. Even though I started working he still barely speaks. I can’t wait to get out of there. I feel like I’m sitting on a time bomb.”

“You’re always welcome to stay with me and Nick. We’re hardly ever there, anyway.”

“Thanks, but no. I need my own space.”

“I can understand that. Just remember the offer is always open.” She shoved more food in her mouth. “Tell me about the job. I always knew you had a flair for the written word. I never could see you in the doctor getup. And your bedside manner is lousy.”

Nikita laughed. “Yeah, how about that? But the job is great. My boss, Ms. Ingram, is a real character. A throwback to the sixties, and she must be about seventy-five. But she’s determined to get her magazine out to the masses. I’m learning the business from the bottom up. Distribution, printing, layout, sales. She’s even letting me edit some stories that have come in.”

“Sounds great. How much does it pay?”

“Not enough, unfortunately. I get subsidized with hands-on training.”

Parris eyed her speculatively. She leaned across the table. “Tell me. Is this really what you want, or are you just doing this to be a pain in the ass to your folks? I was only kidding about the bedside-manner thing. You’d be great at whatever you did. But you know how you have your moments—breaking up with Grant, then not going away to school, having musicians as friends…”

“The truth?”

Parris nodded.

“For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to write. You know that. When I was little I saw myself standing in front of this massive desk with a huge floor-to-ceiling window behind me. And I knew I was a publisher, and that was my office. But you also know I was never encouraged in that direction. I was always pushed to fill my father’s unfillable shoes.” She paused, then looked at Parris. “I’m taking some writing courses at New York University, and I’m learning the business. I can feel it Parris, this is for me.”

“Then go for it, hon. Give it everything you’ve given to all the other challenges in your life. This time put your heart in it.”

Nikita keyed in the last page of a women’s health article on the need for mammograms just as Ms. Ingram bustled through the door.

“Niki, you’re still here? I thought you’d be long gone by now,” she said, hanging her sweater on the brass hook behind the door. The scent of lavender wafted around her, cooling the room.

“I’m almost finished. I have a class tonight, anyway. Six forty-five, remember?”

“Oh, yes. How is it going, by the way?” She crossed the small room, her footsteps muffled by the Aubusson area rug. She went to her cluttered desk, which was scarred by years of use, and sifted through the stack of mail.

“So far, so good. I love my instructor.”

“Glad to hear it.” She wagged a brown finger at Nikita. “We’ll make a journalist out of you yet.”

Nikita pushed back from the desk and stretched her arms above her head. “Ms. Lillian?”

“Hmmm.”

“I was thinking—what about adding an entertainment section to the magazine? I mean, I know the magazine is issue-and-health oriented, but I can’t imagine that your subscribers wouldn’t like to read about places in the city to go, interviews with entertainers who are in town.”

Lillian stopped her perusing of the mail and settled her hazy brown gaze on Nikita’s face. “Sounds like a wonderful idea, but who’s going to write and edit that section?”

“Well…I’d like to, if you’d be willing to give me a try. As a matter of fact, Parris McKay is my closest friend. I could easily get an interview with her, and pictures.”

“Parris McKay is a friend of yours?”

Nikita beamed. “She sure is. And she wears my clothes every chance she gets.”

Lillian laughed her weatherbeaten laugh. “Niki, if you can get an interview with Parris McKay, I’ll let you run the entertainment section anyway you want.”

Nikita popped up from her seat, darted around the desk, and closed Lillian’s lean frame in a bear hug. “Thank you. Thank you. It’s going to be great. You’ll see.”

The weather had been unusually warm for late June. The temperature had spiraled into the nineties and remained there for more than a week. For the first time since she’d returned home she was grateful for the extravagance that her parents poured into the house. The entire structure was equipped with central heating and air. All of the major rooms had their individual thermostats. She had hers on frosty.

“You must have Parris out before she goes on tour again,” Cynthia said, stepping into Nikita’s dressing room.

Nikita sat in front of the oval mirror circled by professional makeup lights and looked at her mother’s reflection. The entire top of the white-and-gold-lacquered tabletop was covered with a huge assortment of nail polishes, lipsticks, beautifying creams and ointments. She sprayed her locks with oil sheen and held back a chuckle when she saw her mother demurely turn up her nose.

“I’ll ask her. But you know how busy she is.” In actuality she didn’t want to be subjected to her parents’ monologues about how wonderful Parris’s life was, what a wonderful husband she had, all compared to Niki’s apparent non-accomplishments. Although in private they abhorred the “loose, debasing” life of singers and musicians, Parris was “different.” Sure.

“Do try. It would be so good to see her again. And tell her I said good luck with her performance tonight.” Cynthia turned and floated away. Nikita just shook her head and finished with her makeup.

Parris had said dress would be extremely casual at the club. Nick had been having problems off and on with the air-conditioning unit. Some nights it was the Antarctic, some nights the Sahara. Nikita opted for a spaghetti strap, cotton knit T-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. She grabbed the matching jacket and folded it over her arm, just in case.

She checked her purse: lipstick, notepad, tape recorder, two pens and a pencil. Grinning, she felt like a real journalist. Parris had promised to give Nikita the interview for the magazine after her set. Although Nikita couldn’t imagine what Parris could tell her that she didn’t already know, she wanted to do this the right way. “And anyway, I don’t want you sneaking in any lies about me borrowing your clothes,” Parris had warned.

Taking one last look in the mirror, she flipped off the lights, grabbed her bag and was on her way.

Nick stepped out of his office, drawn by the way-down soul that cried out from the black and whites. Clear, sharp, precise and so packed with emotion it gave him pause. He stood in the shadows of the archway, mesmerized.

When the music came to its stirring conclusion, Nick applauded. Not the kind of frenzied, hurried applause of concertgoers, but the slow, rhythmic beat of hands that comes from those who have been transported.

Quinn snapped his head in the direction of the clapping and quickly pushed away from the piano. Nick approached.

“Sorry, man. I didn’t see anybody around, so I just kicked it for a minute.” He held up his palms. “I’m out.” He started to back away.

“Hold on. Hold on. I liked what you just did,” Nick said to Quinn. “Where’d you study?”

“I didn’t.” Quinn raised a brow, uncomfortable being asked about his background.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, just what I said. I taught myself. Listened to what I dug and copied it, that’s all.”

“Self-made man.” Nick grinned, cautious, seeing the feral look of one caged and ready to pounce. “I like that.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Nick Hunter. I own the place. Me and you have a lot in common.”

Quinn eased his guard down, relaxing his stance as he shook Nick’s hand. He cocked his head to the side. “How’s that?”

“Come on in my office. Let’s talk.”

“Naw, man. I got things to do.” He turned to leave.

“If you can play like that I might have a spot for you here some nights.” He waited a beat. “Interested?”

Quinn looked at him from over his shoulders, letting his eyes and his senses take in the man in front of him. Nick Hunter had the look of a man who had it all together. Money, clothes, his own business. What could he possibly have in common with him? It was only happenstance that he’d even wandered in. The heat on the street was unbelievable, and he’d ducked in to get a quick drink. Then it was as if something pulled him in the direction of the baby grand. He’d never played on a first-class piano before, and when he heard what it could do he couldn’t seem to stop himself from drowning in the music.

It’s okay, Q.

Quinn shrugged his broad shoulders and followed Nick into his office.

An hour later Quinn walked out of Nick’s office with a job, one night a week, playing piano with Nick’s band.

“Why don’t you hang out a while and get a feel for the place?” Nick offered. “It usually gets pretty packed in here by ten. Besides, my lady is singing tonight. I’ll introduce you.”

Quinn nodded. “Sounds good.”

“All right then, so I’ll see you later.”

“Bet.”

Sitting at the bar, sipping a glass of his usual, Quinn tried to make sense out of the past few hours. Out of nowhere he was now employed as a musician, no less. The idea scared him. He had a mind to just tell Nick to forget it. He didn’t have the time. But the reality was, he wasn’t sure if he could cut it. He’d never played for a soul in his life, other than Lacy. Suppose he froze up like a punk when he was up there on the stage? What if his homeys ever found out he was some nightclub piano player? What would that do to his rep uptown?

But something greater than the fear of discovery pushed against him. The need for change, the need to be recognized for something other than a hustler. Maybe there was something to what Lacy had been saying all those years. Maybe he did have talent. Nick seemed to think so.

He looked around. This was no B.J.’s. The mirrored walls reflected shiny black tables, a dance-all-night floor, bathrooms that smelled as if they were cleaned on the hour. Even the smoke from the cigarettes didn’t seem to hang on him and clog his lungs. The people who began to filter in wore suits, classy designer clothes, casual jeans with starched shirts, and jewelry that didn’t blind him from a mile away. The women looked as if they’d just stepped off the cover of Essence, not Player. The bartender’s shirt was pristine white, not a grimy Fruit of the Loom T-shirt splotched with grease and the underarm stains from failed deodorant. The music that filtered from car windows was classic R&B, not the booming sounds of hip-hop and underground rap.

He looked at his Nike sneakers, the large gold pinkie ring, and his customary oversize jogging suit. He didn’t belong here. And he was a fool for thinking that he did. Even for a minute. To have a semblance of this kind of life and living behind the privacy of his own doors was one thing. To try to live it in the open was another.

He tossed the last of his drink down his throat, paid his tab and turned on the bar stool, ready to leave—then in she walked.