Читать книгу Love Me or Leave Me - Gwynne Forster - Страница 8

Drake Harrington loped down the broad and winding stairs of Harrington House, his ancestral home, and made his way to the back garden, his favorite place to sit and think or to swim on early summer mornings. He stopped and glanced around him, the familiarity of all he saw striking him forcibly. He surmised that he’d looked at that same evergreen shrub every day—when he was at home—for as long as he’d known himself. He sat down on the stone bench beside the swimming pool, spread his long legs and rested his elbows on his thighs. He had slept in the same room for thirty-one years, from his days in a bassinet to the king-size sleigh bed he now used. Wasn’t it time for a change?

His long, tapered fingers brushed across his forehead, their tips tangling themselves in the silky wisps of hair that fell near his long-lashed eyes, giving him a devil-may-care look. He liked to measure carefully the effect of a move before he made it, but he wasn’t certain as to the source of his sudden discontent, so he was at a loss as to what to do about it. He loved his brothers and enjoyed their company, and he liked the women they had chosen for their mates, but he recognized a need to make headway in his own life, and that might mean leaving his family. A smile drifted across his features, features that even his brothers conceded were exceptionally handsome. He couldn’t imagine living away from Tara, his stepniece, or Henry, the family cook who—with the help of his oldest brother, Telford—had raised him after the death of his father when he was twelve years old.

As he mused about his life as he saw it and as he wanted it to be, he began to realize that because his older brothers had found happiness with the women of their choice, he was pressuring himself to decide what to do about Pamela Langford. He dated several women casually, including Pamela, but she was the one he cared for, though he hadn’t broadcast that fact, not even to her—and he often sensed in her nearly as much reluctance as he recognized in himself. He had been careful not to mislead her, for although he more than liked her, he was thirty-one years old and a long way from realizing his goal of becoming a nationally recognized and respected architectural engineer, and he was not ready to settle down. When he did, it would be with a woman who—unlike his late mother—he could count on, and he had reservations that a television personality such as Pamela fit that mold. He’d better break it off.

Hunger pangs reminded Drake that he hadn’t eaten breakfast. As he entered the breakfast room, the loving voices of Telford and his wife, Alexis; Tara, their daughter; his older brother, Russ; and Henry welcomed him. He took his plate, went into the kitchen, helped himself to grapefruit juice, grits, scrambled eggs, sausage and buttermilk biscuits, and went back to join his family.

“I said grace for you, Uncle Drake,” Tara said, “and that’s four times, so you’ll have to take me to see Harry Potter.”

He turned to Russ, who had spent the weekend with them at the family home in Eagle Park, Maryland. “We’re looking at a six-year-old con artist, brother. She decides who’s to say grace, and she decides there should be a penalty if that person doesn’t say it. She also metes out the punishment.”

“Yeah,” Russ said. “That’s why I get down here before she does.”

“You notice she never dumps it on the cook?” Henry said, obviously enjoying his health-conscious breakfast of fruit, cereal, whole-wheat toast and coffee.

“That’s ’cause I don’t want to eat cabbage stew,” Tara replied. “I’m ready, Dad,” she said to Telford. “Can I call Grant and tell him to meet us, or are we going to his house to get him?”

Telford drank the last of his coffee, wiped his mouth, kissed his wife and took Tara’s hand. “We’re going to Grant’s house. His dad can take you and Grant fishing. I have some urgent work to do.”

Drake relished every moment he spent with his family, but was a stickler for punctuality, hated to wait on others and rarely caused anyone to wait for him. He excused himself, dashed up the stairs and phoned Pamela. He didn’t believe in procrastinating. He wouldn’t enjoy what he had to do, but he couldn’t see the sense in postponing it and stressing over it.

“Hello.” Her refined, airy voice always jump-started his libido, but that was too bad.

“Hi. This is Drake. Any chance we can meet for dinner this evening? I’ll be working in Frederick today, and I can be at The Watershed at six-thirty. You know where it is—right off Reistertown Road at the Milford exit.”

“Dinner sounds wonderful. See you at six-thirty.”

Pamela finished her third cup of green tea for that morning—she had substituted green tea for the five or more cups of black coffee she used to drink every day, thankful that she’d never taken up smoking. Being the only newswoman at a television station that had eight male reporters—half of whom considered themselves studs—was more pressure than she could enjoy, but she held her own as a newscaster, and her boss’s mail verified that. She didn’t prefer dates so soon after work—especially not with Drake, and not when she couldn’t go home and dress for the occasion.

If Drake Harrington knew how she felt about him, he would probably head for the North Pole, as skittish as he was about committing himself. After a calamitous affair when she was a college sophomore—the boy seduced her not because he cared, but for bragging rights among his buddies—she had sworn never again to get involved with a man who had a pretty face. And Drake wasn’t only as handsome as a man could get—all six feet and four inches of him—he was also very wealthy.

“He came up on my blind side” was how she explained to herself the way Drake mesmerized her when she met him. Fortunately, she’d had the presence of mind not to show it.

“How’s about a hug for the nicest guy at WRLR?”

At the sound of Lawrence Parker’s voice, Pamela spun around in her swivel chair. “Would you please knock before you open my door, and would you try being more professional? Your kid stuff gets on my nerves.”

“Aw, come on, babe. Give a guy a break. I know a real sexy movie, and then we can go to my place and—”

She glared at him. “Lawrence, you’re making me ill. I’m not going out with you, now or ever. Besides, I have a dinner date. Beat it so I can finish the copy for my five-o’clock newscast.”

“What’s he got that I don’t have?” He raised his hands, palms out, and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “All right. All right. Don’t tell me. I know.”

She heard her office door close and hoped he’d left, but she didn’t risk looking up for fear that he might be leaning over her, as he’d done a few times.

Pamela was much like Drake in that she believed in making the best of every opportunity. She decided that before she slept that night, she and Drake would have achieved a level of intimacy they hadn’t previously shared. Oh, he’d kissed her a few times, though he hadn’t put his soul into it, but this time she was going for the jugular. If she had to seduce him she knew how, and she would. She had coasted along in the relationship doing things his way, but beginning tonight, they would be using her road map.

She raced home on her lunch hour and changed into a red sleeveless silk dress that had a flouncy skirt and a matching long-sleeved jacket, and put her pearl jewelry in her pocketbook and her makeup and perfume in her briefcase. Within an hour and fifteen minutes, she was back at the station.

Her news report that evening included an account of one homicide, an attempted rape, Southwest crops ravaged by drought and a local practicing physician who was exposed as an eighth-grade dropout and possessed no formal medical knowledge. She exhaled a deep and happy breath when she got to her last story, which described the return of a missing baby to its parents. At the end, she folded her papers, shoved them into her drawer, locked it, grabbed her briefcase and pocketbook, and started for the elevator.

“Where’re you rushing off to, babe? It’s early yet. What about a drink next door at Mitch’s Place?” The elevator arrived, saving her the necessity of answering Lawrence.

She stopped at the service station about a mile before the Milford exit, bought gas and got an oil change. She liked that station because the attendants still serviced cars, and she didn’t care to pump gas or measure the air in her tires while wearing her best cocktail suit. The attendant came back into the station, made out her bill and handed it to her.

“She’ll run like new, Miss Langford. In the future, don’t let your oil get so dirty. It’s not good for your car. I checked your tires. You’re good to go.”

She paid the bill and added a tip. “Thanks. I’ll bring it in for a thorough checkup one day next week.” She looked at her watch. Five after six. She had plenty of time and didn’t have to speed, for which she had reason to be grateful five minutes later when her car swerved dangerously as she was crossing an old bridge that had only wooden railings. She eased the car to the elbow of the little two-lane highway, stopped and got out. With the sun still high, she had no difficulty finding the problem. Both of her front tires were flat.

Hadn’t that service-station attendant just told her that he’d checked her tires and they were fine? She searched her pocketbook for her cell phone, but couldn’t find it. She dumped everything in her purse and in her briefcase on the front passenger’s seat. Then she remembered having taken the phone out and placed it on her desk to charge it.

“Now what?” she said aloud. She opened the trunk of her car, got the sneakers she kept there for the times she played tennis, locked her car and started walking. Several cars slowed down and two drivers stopped to offer her a ride, but she wouldn’t risk it. She walked the two miles back to the service station, all the time wishing she wasn’t wearing that brilliant-red outfit.

“You told me my tires were fine,” she said to the attendant, “but as soon as I turned into the ramp going to Milford Road, both of my front tires blew.”

He stared at her. “That’s impossible, Miss Langford. Those are new tires in perfect condition. Did you drive over glass, or maybe some pieces of metal?”

She shook her head. “Neither one, and this is messing up what may be the most important day of my life.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m truly sorry. I’ll call a patrolman and alert him to the location of your car. Then I guess you need a tow truck, ’cause you only have one spare, and there’s nobody on duty tonight but me, so I can’t leave here.”

She waited for what seemed like hours until she could get in her car and drive on to the restaurant. She prayed that Drake would still be there, but she wouldn’t blame him if he left. She rushed into the restaurant so eager to know if she would see Drake that she walked past the maître d’.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said with his nose just a little higher than she imagined it usually was.

“A gentleman was waiting here for me. I suppose he left.”

The man gave her a dismissive look. “He did, indeed, and I can imagine that he was greatly embarrassed to wait an hour and a half with an untouched glass of wine in front of him.”

She spun around and went to the pay phone near the women’s room. “Oh, my Lord. I could have called him when I was in the service station, but all I thought about was that I didn’t have my cell phone.” When he didn’t answer his cell phone, she called Harrington House.

“He ain’t here.” It was Henry, the cook, who answered. “He said he was having dinner out. Who should I tell him called?”

“His… Tell him that Pamela called. Thank you.” She hung up and began the long drive home. No one had to tell her that wherever Drake was, he was furious, for he hated to wait for anyone and didn’t make anyone wait for him. She trudged into her house, locked the door and checked her answering service. He had not called. A ham sandwich and a glass of milk sufficed for dinner, which she ate pacing her kitchen floor. What had caused those tires to blow out?

She phoned the station attendant. “Did you check those old tires to find out what caused them to blow?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did. Somebody slashed them.”

“What? When could anybody have done that?”

“Beats me. The slashes were so long and so deep that you couldn’t have driven out here from East Baltimore on those tires. It— Say, a big yellow Caddy drove in here right behind you. It was here while you were inside the station paying the bill, and it took off without getting anything. I wonder… Well, anything can happen these days.”

She thanked him, finished her sandwich and went to bed. She’d left a message telling Drake that she called. Now it was up to him.

Drake let himself into Russ’s apartment, dropped his suitcase on the floor and went to the kitchen to find something to eat. He knew that Russ wouldn’t be home until much later, and he hoped that by that time, he would have rid himself of his anger and frustration. He wouldn’t have expected Pamela to leave him sitting in a restaurant without phoning him to say she couldn’t make it. It was out of character. Bowing to his protective instincts, he phoned a policeman, a long-standing friend, to know whether an accident had been reported on Reisterstown Road or Milford after five o’clock that afternoon. There hadn’t been. He wanted to telephone her, but she had his cell-phone number and hadn’t used it. He took the phone from his briefcase, saw that he’d forgotten to turn it on and checked the voice mail for messages. There were none. His emotions warred with each other, anger battling frustration, hurt struggling with anger.

He defrosted some frozen shrimp, sliced some stale bread and toasted it, found some mayonnaise and bottled lemonade, and ingested it. However, the ache inside of him didn’t respond to food. Russ got home around ten-thirty and found Drake sitting in the living room in the dark with his shoes off and his feet on the coffee table.

“What’s going on?” Russ asked.

“Sorting out my thoughts.”

“Yeah? Can’t you sort ’em out with the lights on?”

“Very funny. Will you have time to drive me to the airport tomorrow morning? If not, I can call a cab.”

“Of course I’ll take you. Leave your flight schedule, and I’ll meet you when you come back. Say, man, what happened to you tonight? You’re in the dumps. Wouldn’t be that you’re strung out because you’ll soon be the only single man you know, would it?”

“You’re the one to talk. You practically barricaded yourself against the idea of marriage, when all of us knew you loved that woman so much that you didn’t have a hope in hell of staying single.”

“Let that be a lesson to you. When it grabs you, don’t waste energy trying to resist. Who’s Sackefyio marrying?”

“Ladd? He’s marrying Doris Adenola. He went with Hannah Lamont the whole time he was at Howard, and a couple of days before graduation, he told her he had to marry someone of his tribe. Hannah was so far down, I thought she’d commit suicide. A lot of African guys do that. When it comes to marriage, they do as their elders tell them. Hannah was a good-looking gal. I can’t wait to see what Miss Adenola looks like.”

“It must work for them, but it certainly wouldn’t work for me,” Russ said.

“Me neither. When are you going back to Barbados? Splitting myself between there, Frederick and Baltimore is tiring. I think we ought to consider getting another engineer.”

Russ sat down in his favorite chair—a big, overstuffed leather one—stretched out his long legs and relaxed his feet on the footrest that matched the chair. “Hiring an engineer would relieve you, but Telford wants this to remain a family business. It would help if we chose jobs more carefully. When do you expect to finish in Barbados?”

“A couple of months more, if all goes well.”

Russ sat forward. “What could go wrong? We’ve got a great gang of workers. Drake, it isn’t like you to be negative. If you can’t talk to me about whatever it is, talk to Telford, or Henry, or Alexis.”

“Thanks. I’m all right. It’s just… You know I never go into anything without nursing the idea before—”

“Yeah, I know, but you’re nursing it to death. Is it Pamela? I sure as hell hope you’re not considering anything serious with Louise.”

His head shot up. “That butterbrain? What do you take me for? I dated her twice as a favor to her brother. He had some fish to fry and wanted his sister out of the way.”

“You sure must think a lot of her brother. The angel Gabriel couldn’t have gotten me to go out with that dame a second time.”

“Tell me about it. I think I’ll turn in, Russ. I have to catch a nine-o’clock flight, and that means leaving here at six-thirty. Sure you want to take me to the airport?”

“No problem. You make the coffee.”

Drake hung up his tuxedo, took a shower and crawled into bed. He didn’t remember ever having thrashed in the bedcovers trying to sleep. But he couldn’t get Pamela out of his thoughts. He reached over to his night table and turned on the light. Twice he dialed most of her number and hung up before completing the call. After an hour of turning and twisting, he sat up. Why should he care that she hadn’t kept their dinner date? Hadn’t he planned to tell her it was best they not see each other? He slapped his palms on his knees and let out an expletive. Did he want to stop seeing her, or didn’t he?

At the airport the next morning, he checked in, passed security, bought a sandwich for later and went to the seating area at the departure gate. How would you feel if she left the country without saying a word to you? his conscience demanded. At five minutes before boarding time, he capitulated to his conscience and his feelings and telephoned her, and a hole opened up inside of him when she didn’t answer at home, at her office or on her cell phone. He took his seat in first class, thanked God that his seatmate was a woman with good hygiene habits, fastened his seat belt and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to talk with anybody except Pamela Langford. Please, God, I hope she’s not in any trouble. When did I get to the place where I don’t know my own mind?

Pamela was no less disturbed than Drake about the course of their relationship. Surely Henry gave Drake her message, but Drake hadn’t paid her the courtesy of an answer. She dragged herself out of bed, went through the motions of her morning ablutions, made a pot of coffee and decided she had no appetite for breakfast. After moseying around her apartment for nearly an hour, she threw up her hands in disgust. She couldn’t call Henry and ask him whether he gave Drake her message.

“Guess I’m the one eating dirt this time,” she said to herself, put on a yellow linen suit with a white-bordered yellow tank, got into her car and headed for work. “The sun will revolve around the earth before I cry over a man,” she said to herself, sniffing to hold it back. “Not even if the man is Drake Harrington, I won’t.”

At the station, she breezed past the newsroom, went into her office and closed the door, wishing, not for the first time, that their offices had locks. If Lawrence Parker walked into her office, she wouldn’t be responsible for the words that passed through her lips. As if he had extrasensory perception, he knocked once and walked in.

“How’s my little yellow bird today?”

She turned and faced him. “Lawrence, do you know the definition of the word nuisance? If not, look in a mirror. I am not interested in your company. I’ve got a man in my life, and I don’t need another one.”

“Be careful, babe,” he said in what amounted to a snarl. “I may get a promotion, and then you’ll wish you’d been nice to me.”

She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Your getting a promotion in this place is the least of my worries. Please close the door when you leave.” She turned her back to him and began going through her in basket. After some time, she heard the door close. She figured that he’d find a way to get revenge, because he was a man whose ego needed constant stroking, and she’d just knocked him down a peg.

“I didn’t have breakfast, so I’m taking an early lunch,” she said to Rhoda, her assistant. “Want to join me?”

“Sure thing, Pamela, as long as you don’t want fast food.”

Fast food wouldn’t nurse her wounds. “Not a chance. I want some good catfish.”

They walked to Frank’s, an eatery frequented by politicians, as well as newspaper, radio and television people, but she went there for the soul food.

“I’m having fried catfish,” Pamela told the waitress.

“With or without?”

“Definitely with. I haven’t had anything to eat today,” she said, savoring the thought of catfish with corn bread and stewed collards.

“I’ll have the same,” Rhoda said, “but hold those hot peppers.”

“Not to worry. We only give you those if you ask for ’em.”

“What’s Lawrence up to these days, Pam? If I turn my back, he’s in your office. Is there… I mean…do you want to see him?”

“Me? Want to see Lawrence? That man affects me exactly the way a swarm of mosquitoes would, and he’s got the hide of a rhinoceros.”

“I wouldn’t like to be the object of his affection. He’s too devious. I’d better tell you he’s boasting that you and he are an item.”

She nearly spilled her ice water. “In his dreams. Put a note on every bulletin board in this building to the effect that Lawrence Parker is lying, that he’s never been anywhere with me outside of the building and that I want him to stay out of my office.”

Rhoda struggled without success to keep the grin off her round brown face. “That will give me more pleasure than this catfish. And girl, I do love me some catfish.”

“Sure would quicken my steps, but I guess we’d better not do that. I’ll find another way to make him grow up.”

She had treated the matter lightly, but the man worried her. A normal man over thirty-five years of age—she was certain of that much—didn’t behave as Lawrence Parker did.

“I sure hope I’m around when you blow him over. Say, how was your date Friday night?”

“My date? Oh, you mean… Disaster, girl. I had not one flat tire, but two, and by the time I got to the restaurant, almost two hours late, he’d left.”

“You didn’t call him? I mean, doesn’t he have a cell phone?”

“He does, but mine was at the station on my desk.” She stopped eating, lost in thoughts of what might have been.

Rhoda rested her knife and fork and leaned back in the chair. “But you patched it up later, right?”

Pamela lifted her right shoulder in a quick shrug. “I phoned his house and left a message. But if he got it, he didn’t return my call.”

“I see. You sound crestfallen. What’s this guy like?”

“A tan-colored Adonis. Mesmerizing good looks. A grin that will make you cross your knees, and sweet as sugar. He’s too good to be true.”

“If what you say is right, he sure is. I’d be scared as hell of him.”

Pamela ate the remainder of the catfish and pushed her plate aside. “He knows he’s great-looking, but when women fawn over him, it gets on his nerves.”

“You’re kidding. You mean, he’s not a stud?”

“Good Lord, no. If he was, I wouldn’t have gone out the door to meet him.”

Rhoda looked into the distance, her expression suggesting a sense of wonder. “I wish you luck, but I’d stay away from that brother.”

It was much too late for that advice, but she didn’t tell Rhoda that. Lecturing herself about Drake Harrington had gotten her nowhere. She knew him well enough to be certain that he was far more than what he looked like—six feet and four inches of male perfection—that he was a serious-minded, hardworking and caring person who loved his family and was generous with his friends.

“I’m no slouch,” she said to herself, “but what makes me think Drake Harrington is going to settle for me when he can have just about any woman he wants?”

“I don’t give advice,” Rhoda said, “and especially not to you, since you’ve done far more with your life than I have with mine. Still—”

“Out with it,” Pamela said. “Who knows? It might be just what I need to hear.”

Rhoda savored the last morsel of catfish, placed her knife and fork across her clean plate, and leaned back in her chair. “I was going to retract what I said a minute ago. If he’s all that nice, and he’s interested, go for it and enjoy it for as long as it lasts, but don’t fall too deeply in love.”

Pamela leaned forward as if to be certain Rhoda heard her. “I’d like to see the woman who could bask in that man’s attention and, when his interest cooled, walk away unscathed as if she’d merely said ‘hi’ to him.”

Rhoda’s eyebrows shot up. “That bad, huh?”

They barely spoke as they walked down Linden Avenue to Monument Street, each in her own mental realm. “I’ll tell you one thing,” Rhoda said as they entered the building that housed the TV station, “I’d watch my back. Half the women you know will be trying to get close to you, hoping to catch his eye.”

“Not me. My dad says that if a man wants to go, buy him a ticket. The sooner he’s gone, the better, because eventually, he will leave. You won’t catch me clinging to anyone, male or female. My friends have the freedom to do as they please.” She waved at the desk officer, who checked entrance badges.

“You two are looking great there,” he said. “Nothing like a couple of fine-looking sisters to brighten a man’s day.” They smiled and kept walking. Ben enjoyed complimenting them.

Back in her office, Pamela checked her desk phone and her cell phone, saw that she didn’t have any messages, pulled off her jacket and went to work. Twice that morning, she’d changed her lead story for the local evening news, and now this. A woman was shopping in the supermarket, turned her back to select a head of lettuce, and when she looked around her three-year-old daughter had disappeared and had not been seen since. She got busy trying to piece together the bits of information floating in and, once more, rearranged the order of her news item. By five o’clock, she had what she considered a first-class report, but Lawrence cracked the door and handed her a sheet of paper.

“Sorry, pal. Your producer gave me this a little while ago, but I swear I forgot it. No hard feelings?” She didn’t answer him. His smile, brilliant and false, nearly sickened her. He had deliberately withheld one of the most important items of the day: Station WRLR had just joined the NBC family of stations. She pushed the button on her intercom and got the producer.

“Jack, when did you tell Lawrence to give me this merger notice?”

“Around eleven this morning. Why?”

“Because he gave it to me less than a minute before I paged you, and he knows I’m going on the air in ten minutes.”

“Okay. Read it straight. I’ll take care of Parker.”

On her way home, she stopped at a garden center and bought a rubber garden snake. The next morning, she got to work early and glued the serpent to Lawrence’s door. Even if he took it off, the perfect outline of a snake would be there until the door was painted. She dusted her hand as if she were getting rid of something unwanted, went to her office and left it to Lawrence to discover the identity of the donor. She understood now that Lawrence would be even more of a problem as she continued to reject him.

“I’ve fought worse battles,” she said aloud. She gathered her notebook and headed for the station’s library, wondering why Drake didn’t call her.

As the big British Airways plane neared Kotoka International Airport in Accra, Ghana, Drake began to wonder what he would find. He disliked such tropical pests as mosquitoes, flies, sandflies and especially snakes. And he didn’t know whether he was going to a thatched roof in a rural area or a skyscraper in Accra. He knew that Ladd belonged to the Fanti tribe—historically the elite of Ghana, not that it mattered what status his friend had—and that meant he’d be somewhere near the coast. The plane landed, and in his befuddled state of mind, he thought that his trip would have been more enjoyable if Pamela had been with him. Try as he may, he could not remember why he wanted to end their relationship. He hadn’t ventured too far with her, not even when he kissed her. More than once, she’d indicated a desire for a little more passion. He dragged his fingers through his hair. He’d known other girls, so why was he focusing on Pamela?

He disembarked, walked into the terminal and saw Ladd waiting, his face shining with a brilliant smile.

“Welcome. Man, am I glad to see you! I need a calming influence. Never get married. Women think the purpose of marriage is to spend money and reinvent the world in the process. Man, I’m worn out just watching them.”

Had he forgotten Ladd’s ability to talk nonstop for hours? He could almost feel the man’s happiness. “Don’t watch them,” Drake said. “Besides, I didn’t know Ghanaian women did that. I thought that was peculiarly American.”

“Oh, no. Something tells me it’s worldwide. How was your flight?” He motioned to the man standing beside him to take Drake’s bags.

“Smooth as silk. I slept most of the way between London and Accra.” They stepped out into the heat. “Whew! I’d better remove my coat. Say, I’m anxious to meet your bride.”

“She’s nice, man. Really nice.”

“Way to go, buddy.” A question had plagued him ever since he got the invitation and the note saying Ladd wanted him to be his best man. Well, he was paying his own fare, so he could ask if he wanted to know. “What kind of service are you having? Are there a lot of things I have to learn?”

Ladd stared at him. “What kind of— Oh, we’re Protestants. Everything will be familiar. All you have to do is stand there and keep me from passing out. How long can you stay?”

“Keep you from passing out?” Laughter rippled out of him, partly at the idea of Ladd fainting, but mainly because he knew what was expected of him. “Sorry. I didn’t think I’d need smelling salts. I’m leaving day after tomorrow. We’ve got buildings going up in two different states and in Barbados, and I’m strapped for time.”

“Too bad you won’t get to see much of the country. I told our interior minister that you might give him some ideas about the new shopping mall he wants built. Think you can spend about an hour with him?”

“No problem. Remember that I’m an architectural engineer, not an architect.”

“Yeah. I told him that. He wants to meet you. I had white trousers, an agbada, a dashiki and a kufi made for you. I’m sure they’ll fit, except maybe the kufi, but you’d better try them on.”

Drake paused momentarily when he remembered that a few steps away stood an air-conditioned car in which he would get relief from what seemed like taking a sauna while wearing a woolen sweater and an overcoat.

“I know the agbada is a long gown and the dashiki is a shirt, but what the devil is a kufi?”

“It’s a matching…you know…cap. We’re having a modern Christian wedding, but to satisfy my grandfather, you and I are wearing traditional dress.”

“What about the bride?”

He shrugged. “I’m not supposed to know, but she told me it’s a white dress.”

The following afternoon, around three o’clock, Drake dressed in the traditional clothing worn by a groom and his party and looked at himself in the mirror. “Hmm.” Adjusting the kufi, he wondered if any of his ancestors had worn one, shrugged and rang for the car that would take him to Ladd’s home. As he stepped out of the M Plaza Hotel—palatial by any measure—and into the Ghanaian heat, he wished he’d been going for a swim, but the air-conditioning in the Mercedes limousine immediately arrested his wayward thoughts. Ladd was ready when he arrived, and Drake had only a few minutes in which to observe his friend’s elegant living style.

At five o’clock, still struggling with the effects of jet lag, Drake stood with Ladd Sackefyio and his bride—who was dressed in a white, short-sleeved wedding gown decorated with white embroidery that was inset with brilliant crystals, and wearing a matching white crown—took their vows before an Anglican minister at the foot of the altar. Deeply touched by the simplicity of the ceremony and the smiles that never moved from the couple’s faces, he wondered if Russ had been right, that he’d begun to feel the loneliness of bachelorhood. He shrugged it off and went through the rituals of his duties at the reception, which included a toast and standing with the couple in case it seemed that they would topple the five-tier cake while trying to cut it.

Now, what am I supposed to do with this dame? he thought as he looked at the bridesmaid who made it clear to him and everyone at the reception that she wanted more from him than a smile. He had to be gracious. But he’d have preferred to paddle her for her lack of discretion. To worsen matters, she was an American, and the locals probably thought her behavior de rigueur for African-American women.

“Look,” he said to her when her cloying behavior annoyed him to the point of exasperation. “Cut me some slack here. I’d like to get to know some of the Ghanaian people.”

When she put her hands on her hips in a feigned pout, he walked away and a Ghanaian man immediately detained him. “I’m John Euwusi. We want to build a modern shopping mall here, and Ladd tells me you’re the man to talk to.”

Drake extended his hand. “He told me about you. I have to leave tomorrow afternoon, but we could speak in the morning, if you like.”

“Good. I’ll send my driver for you.”

At the end of their conversation the following morning, Drake agreed to discuss the matter with his brothers, for he didn’t work alone, but as a part of the Harrington, Inc. team. He hoped they could make a deal, because he wanted to get back to Ghana and see the country, including the old forts and castles associated with the slave trade.

As the Boeing 737 roared away from Kotoka International Airport, Drake glanced at the aisle seat across from his and nearly spilled the rum punch on his trousers. There sat Selicia Dennis, the bridesmaid who had attempted to hook her long pink-and-green talons into him. He liked assertive women, but the kind of aggression she displayed irritated him. He decided to behave as if he didn’t know she was there. And she wasn’t there by accident, he knew. In that circle, getting information about his departure and seat number was a simple matter. With the right influence, you got whatever you wanted.

He decided to focus on his seatmate, a man who bore the trappings of a gentleman, and introduced himself. “I’m Drake Harrington. Are you traveling all the way to the States?”

The man extended his hand. “Straight from London to San Antonio. I’m Magnus Cooper.”

They spoke at length, and Drake learned that the man was a Texas rancher, as well as a builder.

“How’s that?” he asked, when Magnus told him that he’d be in Baltimore at an undecided date to tape a program for his cousin’s TV news show. “People don’t seem to know that ranchers come in colors,” he added. “In Texas, you’ll find a number of hyphenated American ranchers—Spanish, Italian, black, Scottish, you name it.”

Drake mulled that over for a second before laughter rippled out of him. “I’m in Baltimore frequently. Who’s your cousin?”

“Pamela Langford. Her mother and my father are sister and brother. You know her?”

“I sure do.” He let it go at that and didn’t budge, not even when both of Magnus’s eyebrows went up and stayed there.

They spoke amiably until the plane landed at London’s Heathrow Airport. They exchanged contact information and agreed to talk soon. Drake was transferring to Delta and headed for his flight’s gate, but to his chagrin, when he arrived, Selicia Dennis stood to greet him. Having no acceptable choice, he took a seat and wished for something to read other than the International Herald Tribune that he carried in his briefcase.

“I live in Washington, D.C.,” she began. “How far are you from there?”

He told her he didn’t know, and she asked what state he lived in.

He folded the paper, put it back in his briefcase and faced her. “Miss Dennis, I don’t see the point in this. I don’t want to be rude, but you and I have absolutely no basis for a friendship of any kind, so let’s stop with the small talk. It’s a waste of breath.” He folded his arms, closed his eyes and managed to give the impression of someone asleep. He heard the call of a flight to Washington, and immediately she gathered her things and left. He walked a few paces down the corridor, bought a bag of fish-and-chips and a bottle of lemonade, went back to his seat and relaxed. Beautiful, sure of it and shallow. The kind of woman he avoided.

Maybe he didn’t sufficiently appreciate Pamela. Not once had he been bored in her company. He could talk with her for hours and not know how much time had passed. If she would only accept his need to grow a little more. If she’d wait until he reached his goals… He stared at the bag of soggy chips for a second before throwing them into the refuse bin. And what if she wouldn’t wait, but found another guy? A woman who looked like her could have just about any man she wanted, and with her charm, gentle manners and…well, intelligence and competence, she was choice. And sexy. He’d never known another woman who got next to him as she did.

He ran his fingers through his silky hair. So where the hell was she when she was supposed to be having dinner with me?

“Flight 803 to Baltimore now boarding first-class passengers and passengers with small children or who need assistance.” He heard the announcement, got up, went through security a third time and took his seat in the first-class section. He had six hours to think about what he wanted for himself and Pamela…provided she wanted anything from him at all.

Six hours and twelve minutes later, he walked into the Baltimore/Washington International Airport terminal, looked around and saw Russ walking toward him. As usual, after any of the brothers returned from a trip, they embraced each other. “That sun must really be something,” Russ said. “You were there less than three days, and you look as if you stuck your face in an inkwell. I saw Pamela in the market this morning.”

Drake stopped walking, a habit that annoyed Russ, but so what. “Did you speak with her?”

“Yeah. She asked me about Velma, but that’s all. She was as beautiful as ever, but downcast. I didn’t see any of that easy charm that I associate with her.”

He tried to hide his response to that kick in his gut, but he wasn’t sure he managed it, for Russ asked in his usually candid manner, “Something gone wrong with you two?”

“Let’s just say we’re not in touch right now.”

“Her choice or yours?”

“I’m not sure.”

Russ raised an eyebrow. “If it was her choice, she made it because you weren’t behaving the way she wanted you to. She was not a happy woman this morning.”

His heartbeat accelerated, and he had to breathe through his mouth. He didn’t want her to be unhappy; at least, he didn’t think so. But for what other reason was he experiencing such relief, almost a sense of glee? He threw his bag into the trunk of Russ’s Mercedes and got into the car beside his brother.

“When did you realize you loved Velma enough to marry her?”

Russ was in the process of starting the car and suddenly stripped the gears. “What? Oh. A long time before I admitted it to anybody, including Velma. Something happens, and suddenly you know. You just know it’s right.” He moved the car into the traffic. “Is that what you’re going through?”

“I don’t know. I was planning to tell her we shouldn’t see each other for a while, but while I was in Accra, I couldn’t for the life of me remember why I felt that way.”

Laughter rumbled in Russ’s throat. “Seems to me I’ve heard that song before. Don’t do anything you’ll be sorry for. Women hurt easily.”

“Yeah, and they’re not the only ones.”