Читать книгу In His Arms - Yasmin Sullivan - Страница 11

Chapter 3

Michelle pulled her satchel from under her chair and starting dropping in her supplies.

“I’m glad to see that you made it here all right,” Rashad said from the seat next to her.

“Yes, I did. Thank you very much. Hey,” Michelle said to Rashad. They were both packing up after their second class at the Art League.

“Yep?”

“Is it okay if we exchange numbers? Only in case we ever have to miss a class or need a ride or something like that. I wouldn’t pester you.”

“You could never pester me,” Rashad said. He wrote his numbers on Michelle’s page of notes. “That one’s my cell phone. This is my landline. Call me for anything. And this is my email. I check it all the time. Put yours here—if you’re sure it’s okay.” He held out his notes.

“Yes, it’s fine. I trust you not to go crazy with my number, but if I catch you putting it on a restroom wall, we’ll fight.”

He chuckled. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Rashad turned back to his portfolio and opened to a page. “Look at this. With all the design classes I’ve taken, I’ve never learned this trick.”

Michelle looked at the abstract of an apple running.

“That’s wonderful. You’re already an artist.”

“Not yet, love. Let’s just say I’m working in my field. Let’s see one of yours.”

Michelle was hesitant but opened her portfolio to one of their assignments. It was a cubist form of a female nude against a brick wall.

“Wow. You’re already an artist, too.”

“Not yet, but I’m trying. I think this one will look good with color. I’m going to paint it over the weekend and see if I can link it to a women’s organization or something. Maybe they’ll want it, and that way I might be able to put it in my portfolio.”

“I’m sure they will want it. It’s beautiful, and I can already see it with color.”

“I want to use various shades on the body—like a representation of multicultural women uniting or something like that. And— Never mind. I’m just yammering on.”

“No, don’t stop. I like it when you’re excited about something,” Rashad said. “I want to hear more, but everyone’s leaving. Hey, do you have half an hour? We can stow supplies in my car and walk along the waterfront so that we can talk a little more. If not, I understand. Your son’s waiting.”

“No, I can stay for a while. Let me just check on the little one and update them that I’ll be running late. I’ll be back here in two minutes.”

Michelle headed to the restroom to make her phone call and found that she was as excited about the prospect of walking along the waterfront with Rashad as she was about finishing her piece and, she hoped, getting it accepted somewhere.

“Hey, honey. It’s Mommy....I know. I’ll be on my way soon....You let Mrs. Miller put you to sleep now, and I’ll carry you home when I get there. And brush your teeth well, young man....Let me talk to Mrs. Miller.”

Mrs. Miller was fine keeping Andre for an extra half hour, so the night was set. Michelle found herself checking her hair in the mirror and applying more lipstick. Yes, she was excited about being out somewhere—and out with him. But that wouldn’t do, would it? He hadn’t actually shown any interest, at least not that kind of interest. She took a breath and went back to the classroom to collect her things.

“Do you know whether we have to turn in our portfolios at any point?” Rashad asked.

“Yes, we do. Three times. That’s why we’re supposed to number the assignments.”

“You’re right. I remember that now from last week. That didn’t make it into my notes. How’s the little one? Do you have time now, or do you need to get home?”

Rashad’s voice dropped on the last question, as though he’d be disappointed if she had to leave. It was just a hint, but it made Michelle smile.

“I have time,” she said, gathering her things. They started toward the elevators. “I bought an extra half hour, which is actually an extra hour, as I already gave myself half an hour of leeway—just in case.”

“Excellent. My car is in the lot across the street again, and you can follow me to Greenbelt instead of using a street map, so you’ll get home quickly.”

Rashad chuckled after he said it, and so did Michelle, but she also rapped his arm with the back of her hand.

“No teasing the directionally challenged art student.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. But I can lead you home.”

“You don’t have to, but it would be nice of you. My car’s in this lot, too. I’m the used Ford Fiesta over there. I’ll be right back.”

While Rashad went over to his Kompressor, a Mercedes-Benz, Michelle headed to her Fiesta. It reminded her of the differences between them. Their ages were close, but he was finished with school and obviously doing well. She had gotten off track and was just starting over. He was where she wanted to be. No, he was where she would be one day—her and her son.

After storing their supplies, they recrossed the street and joined the groups sauntering along the Potomac. Michelle looked down at herself. She had on her usual bargain casual clothes—this time it was a green chiffon tank top with a green sweater, jeans and her usual flats. If she’d known they were going to hang out, she’d have dressed up a bit.

It was late September and a bit cool, so Rashad had put on his blazer when he’d dropped things off at his car. His tie was probably still in the car, but even without it, she could tell from the cut of his suit that he wore good quality to work. His black wing tip dress shoes gleamed. Again—the differences between them.

“What are you thinking?”

Rashad stirred her from thoughts she didn’t want to express, but she didn’t know what else to say.

She took a breath. “I was thinking that you’ve made it, and I haven’t as yet—as yet being the operative words. I wanted to be finished with school by now, to be in my career. I guess I’m a little jealous.”

“Don’t be. You’ll get there soon. And you have something to show for your time that I don’t. A son, a family.”

“That’s true. And that’s part of the reason I’m not finished as yet. But I’ll get there. I have to.”

It was just after ten and had gotten dark. The lights from the promenade were reflected on the water, and boats moored along the harbor bobbed slightly in the flow of the Potomac. There were fewer families out now and more couples. Michelle and Rashad walked close together in the quiet that had sprung up between them.

Rashad broke their silent interlude. “What were you saying before about the piece that you’re going to paint this weekend?”

“I was thinking that I’d check with a few women’s shelters and places like that—Women’s Space, Agatha’s House, that kind of thing.”

“I think it would fit perfectly. It will be in your real portfolio sooner than you know.”

“Thank you for the confidence.”

“Don’t forget I’ve seen it. Hey, I can help with the graphics if you need it.”

“No.” Michelle chuckled. “I wouldn’t be able to add it to my portfolio then, could I?”

“I see your point. Do you know how to import photographs and stuff like that?”

“Enough to do a project, and I have some classmates to call when I need help with directions for things like that.”

“Count me in, as well.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

They had passed several boats anchored along the waterfront and had now gotten to the Chart House, which was still open, at least for the next twenty minutes, so they decided to get a seat on the upper terrace overlooking the Potomac and have virgin daiquiris, as both were driving.

“How old is your son?”

The thought of her son made Michelle smile. “Andre is four. He’s my whole heart.”

“Aw. But four? You seem too young to have a four-year-old son.”

“I’ve just gone back to school, but I’m twenty-five.”

“I thought women weren’t supposed to tell their ages and that men weren’t supposed to ask.”

“I know, but I never understood why. How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-seven,” Rashad answered. “So this is your second time in school?”

“Yes, I started, but then came Andre, and there was just too much going on in my life.”

“Andre’s father?”

Michelle felt herself tense up, but she forced her shoulders to relax.

“I married right out of high school. Andre came a few years later.”

“Wow. Right out of high school? I don’t think I was mature enough to even think about marriage then.”

“Well, I might not have been, either, but I did. I was a little wild in my younger days.”

“Were you? I couldn’t tell that from knowing you now.”

“Hmm.” Michelle thought briefly about her marriage and the toll it had taken on her. Maybe she had lost a bit of her spark, but she had spent the past two years trying to get some of it back. “I was. I partied. I went for the bad boy. I did whatever my parents said not to do. But I don’t like to talk about the past. I want to focus on the future.”

“And you guys have been in D.C. for two years?”

“Don’t start with me now.”

“I wasn’t starting. I was just asking.”

“Yes, we’ve been here for two years. I manage a coffeehouse downtown—Dupont Circle. I started out as a regular employee just after I came here. It’s actually worked out. They let me do early morning and weekend hours, so that I can work full-time, go to school and be with my son in the evenings.”

“So you’re working your way through school and raising a son. That’s a lot.”

“I have good support. My cousin Nigel lives here, and his wife is a godsend.”

“Where are you all from originally?”

“Charleston, South Carolina.”

“Aha. I thought I caught a slight Southern drawl here and there.”

Michelle swatted at Rashad playfully, but he caught her hand before it hit and held it for a moment—a long moment.

When he released her hand, Michelle had to shake her head to clear the questions in her mind and release the flutter from her stomach.

“We Charlestonians are proud of our Southern heritage. I do still have the accent, but I can turn it on and off now that I’ve been in D.C. for so long. You should hear me when I go home.” Michelle then checked her watch. “Actually, we need to finish our drinks. They’ll be closing soon.”

“Oh, you’re right,” Rashad said, glancing around. “I think they’ve closed the doors already. They’re just waiting for us stragglers. Hey, if you can stay a little late next week, we should walk along King Street. They stay open later, and they have bunches of shops and galleries—art, jewelry—”

“I know. My cousin’s wife—her name is Regina—she co-owns a mosaic and beadwork studio and gallery not far up King Street.” Michelle stood as Rashad paid their tab. “That’s how I first found out about the Torpedo Factory. What about you? Are you from D.C. originally?”

“No, but my family is from Baltimore, and we’d come down every so often.” Rashad also rose, and they headed back to the promenade. “Then I came to D.C. to go to Howard, and then I stayed here to work. I’ve been here awhile. I don’t know where everything is, but I know most stuff.”

“Between work and home, I don’t get out a lot.”

“Now I know why you haven’t seen much of the D.C. area. I’d like to show some of it to you if you’ll let me.” His tone was soft, but then he straightened, and in a matter-of-fact voice, he added, “If that’s all right.”

“Maybe after the semester is over. I can do more over the winter break and over the summer.”

They were retracing their steps along the waterfront, taking their time back to their cars.

“Tell me about being a graphic designer. What attracted you to that?”

“I love art, and I love working on the computer.”

“Ugh. That’s where we differ. I like paper and pencil or paint. I don’t know what I’ll do when we can’t read books, actual books, anymore.”

“I like that, too, but I like the computer, as well. And mind you, the day is not far off when everything you read will be on a computer tablet of some kind.”

“No, no. I don’t want to hear it.” Michelle covered her ears with her hands. “La, la, la—” She interrupted herself laughing, and Rashad started laughing, as well.

“Okay. I’m past my rage against the future. You may go on.”

“I’m not sure I should. I work for a web design firm, so everything we do is for the computer. But there are graphic designers in a variety of fields. I took to web design because I had to learn how to do one for a project, and I got hooked. It’s great bringing an organization to life on the screen. I guess I like what I do.”

“You’re very lucky.”

“And you?” Rashad asked. “Why advertising?”

“I love the artistic side of it,” Michelle said. “I don’t know much about the business side of it as yet. I don’t like the idea of fooling people or luring people with false promises. I want to produce art, and advertising is what I want to do because it’s art that everybody sees. It’s art without the hundred-dollar ticket price for the orchestra seat.”

“So you’re a Marxist revolutionary about art—art for the masses!”

“In a way. And don’t knock Marxism. From what I’ve read, Marx was quite brilliant. That’s my way of saying he’s dense as hell.”

Both laughed.

“He was damn near incomprehensible sometimes,” Rashad agreed. “I’ve dabbled, as well.”

“Kudos to us for trying,” Michelle said. “High five.”

Michelle raised her hand, and Rashad met it.

“Are you sure you’re not a sports fan?”

“Absolutely sure.”

They were at Michelle’s car now and had paused. Rashad seemed as reluctant as she was about the end of the evening. It had felt like being on vacation to Michelle. Adult conversation with a handsome man, an hour in which she didn’t have to be anywhere, talking with someone who seemed to be genuinely interested in what she was saying, what she was thinking. It was like paradise.

Michelle unlocked her door, and Rashad leaned toward her and reached around her to open the door. But they still stood there.

Rashad leaned toward her in the dim light of the garage, and, for a moment, Michelle thought that he was going to kiss her. She held her breath and felt her heart begin to pound in her chest.

But just as quickly as it happened, the moment was over. Rashad straightened, and Michelle wondered if she had misread his body movements. She felt her face flush with embarrassment, wondering if he could tell that she’d thought he was about to—

“Follow behind me. I won’t run any yellow lights or anything like that. But honk if you start to fall behind.”

Rashad had turned and had taken several steps toward his car, but he turned back.

“How long have you been married?”

“Married?”

“Your husband is a lucky man. And you were married right out of high school, so that’s about...six years?”

“I’m not married anymore.”

“Huh? I thought...”

Michelle saw the confusion in Rashad’s crinkled brow.

“I was divorced a little while before I moved to D.C. That was one of the reasons I moved—to leave that past behind, so to speak.”

“But before I asked how long you guys had been here.”

“I thought you meant me and my son. We’ve been here two years. I didn’t know that you thought—”

“Wow. I guess I just assumed that you were married—still married.”

“I guess I wasn’t clear.”

There was a pause in which each seemed to be recalculating—tracing their conversations to detect the flaw that had led to the misunderstanding and reassessing what had just happened in light of the clarification.

Still, Michelle wasn’t sure what to think, and it was she who broke the silence.

“I had better get going. I have to get my son from the sitter.”

Her words seemed to awaken Rashad from a reverie, and he refocused his eyes on her. He stared at her a moment before he spoke. “Okay. Yes. Just follow behind me.”

He took a couple of steps toward his car and then turned back again.

“Next Wednesday let’s have dinner in Old Town Alexandria after class and window-shop along King Street—if you can get home late again.”

“Okay,” Michelle answered. “I’ll check and email you if the sitter doesn’t mind.”

“Don’t forget.”

“I won’t.”

Michelle followed Rashad as far as Beltway Plaza on Greenbelt Road, wondering all the while what had just happened.

When he turned off Beltway Road to the street leading to her apartment complex, Rashad stopped and waved her past him.

There was no traffic, so she pulled up alongside him.

“Can you get home from here?” he teased.

“Don’t you play with me when I can’t reach you to strangle you. The real question,” she said, “is whether or not I can find my way from class again.”

“Can you?”

“No.”

They cracked up.

Michelle waved, passed him and continued on as he made a U-turn and headed back to Beltway Road.

She picked up a sleeping little Andre from two doors down and carried him home to put him in his own bed. Once that was done, she started to change. She had to get to bed right away because she had to be at the coffeehouse early the next morning. She would get Andre ready and drop him off with Mrs. Miller, who would walk him to school.

She cherished Mrs. Miller. It mattered more than anything having people around whom she could trust, especially with her child. She paid Mrs. Miller, of course, but what Mrs. Miller did for her couldn’t be counted in money. She took Mrs. Miller grocery shopping and had her over for Sunday supper sometimes and did whatever else she could, but it didn’t seem like enough. Mrs. Miller and her cousin Nigel and his wife, Regina, and her boss at the coffeehouse allowed her to do the things she hoped would get her life back on track after that fiasco of a marriage.

She had even spent a night out after her art class with almost no notice. And that was what was really on Michelle’s mind, keeping her awake.

She kept replaying the moment when it had seemed that Rashad wanted to kiss her, and she kept wondering about his reaction when she’d told him that she wasn’t married. It was clearly news to him, but he hadn’t come back to kiss her. Perhaps he didn’t want her if she was actually within reach. Or maybe he hadn’t been about to kiss her and was just being polite to let her get over her embarrassment. But then he had asked her out the next week, or was that only to continue their friendship from class?

Deep down, she wanted him to be interested, and that’s what scared her.

It was funny to think that after being divorced for two and a half years, the prospect of a date would perplex her, but it did. Was next week a date?

Michelle fell asleep wondering what the following Wednesday would bring but determined to let it be whatever it turned out to be. In her mind, life was looking up. She could at least imagine having a date, and she was finally getting her life in order after the merry-go-round marriage she’d had.

Don’t forget to check with Mrs. Miller and email Rashad. That was her last coherent thought before she nodded off, and her dreams were tinged with possibility.