Enchanted Heart (23 page)

Viv and Dakota shared a meaningful glance.

“Is this friend someone who'd maybe put in a bid for a project for the store?”

Lucia shrugged. “I don't see why not.” She reached into her backpack purse and rooted around for a bit. “I have his card in here somewhere.”

Dakota gave Viv the thumbs-up sign.

After showing them the jewelry she was offering on consignment, and leaving out the pieces that would be on display and for sale in the store, Lucia picked up the gaily wrapped package. “This is for the pajama party,” she said. “You can do what you want with it. Door prize or raffle or whatever. It's a donation from me. The retail value is taped to a card at the bottom for you. And for whoever gets it, there's a card in the box, of course.”

“We'll use it as a door prize,” Viv said, accepting the package. “That's so sweet. You didn't have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” Lucia said. “You guys have been really good to me.” She then handed one of the remaining wrapped boxes to Dakota and the other to Viv. “These are for you guys. Just a little something from me to you for your support when I was getting started.”

Hugs went all around.

“Go ahead. Open them,” Lucia encouraged.

Dakota wasted no time ripping the paper off hers. Then she squealed. “Oh my God!” The earrings flashed with amber, onyx and gold, colors Dakota wore frequently and very well. “These are fabulous! I can't take these, Lucia.”

“You can and you will. They're one of a kind. Made just for you. No one else could wear them with the style you can.”

“You are something else.” Dakota and Lucia hugged again while Viv carefully unwrapped her package. When she pulled the protective padding away, an “Oh” escaped her lips.

“Oh, Lucia.” The wide-band beaded bracelet was nothing less than a work of art.

“Two one-of-a-kind pieces for two terrific women.”

After Lucia left, Viv and Dakota were still admiring their gifts. Dakota reached for the box Lucia had designated as a donation for the pajama party. She lifted it up and pulled the business card from the bottom. Taking a look at the designated retail value, she whistled.

“That much?”

“Four hundred fifty dollars.”

A heartbeat passed. Viv and Dakota stared at each other. “Raffle,” they said at the same time.

 

 

Lance didn't know what kind of reception he'd get at Gayla's apartment, so he prepared himself for the worst. The worst she could do, he figured, was demand that he leave. But all his mental preparation was for naught. No one answered the door when he knocked.

“She ain't home,” a woman said.

Lance looked left toward the voice. A brown-skinned woman in her early twenties was sticking a key into the lock of the unit next door. A child of about two was propped on her hip with a thumb in its mouth.

Lance smiled at the baby. “Are you sure?”

“It's Tuesday. On Tuesday, she has to check in.”

He watched the woman watch him. Her gaze was thorough, as if she might be memorizing every detail to tell the cops.

“Do you know what time she'll get back?”

“Hard to say. Sometimes she don't come home.”

“What about . . . her son, Tarique?”

The woman laughed. “That boy know how to take care of himself good enough. You want me to tell Gay somebody stopped by?”

Lance shook his head. “Just a friend. An old friend.”

The woman sized him up again. She shifted the child on her hip and smiled at him. “I can be your new friend.”

Wisely, Lance kept his own counsel on the offer. He waved as he headed up the walk and back toward his car. He was already making a list. Heading it was a decent apartment for Gayla and his son. He'd gotten a pretty good look at the rest of her place when he'd gone back to Tarique's bedroom. Gayla might have a preference on where she wanted to live, so he'd wait before putting a deposit on a place. Furniture. The boy was squinting, in the dim light of his bedroom, so maybe he needed glasses . . . just like his old man, though Lance rarely wore his reading glasses, preferring contacts instead.

He had a son!

How could Gayla have kept something like this from him?

He reached his car and had pressed the remote lock when he saw her stumble off a bus at the corner. Gayla caught herself before she hit the ground, but her steps weren't at all sure. He pressed the lock and alarm and went to her.

With an arm around her waist, he helped her up and then started toward her apartment.

“What're you doing here?” Her words were slurred but decipherable.

“I came to see you. We need to talk.”

“Got nothing to say,” she said. She pulled away from him a bit and scowled when he didn't let go.

“I'll see you home.”

“This ain't the school dance, Lance.”

He added decent clothes, a good haircut, a manicure and a pedicure to the list of things he'd arrange for her. She didn't look like she got many massages these days, something she used to love and pampered herself with at least twice a month. A day at The Spa at Kingsmill would rejuvenate her. Maybe if she looked more like her old self, she'd start acting like the woman he remembered, the woman he'd love and married.

With Lance still offering his support, they walked to her apartment. Gayla stuck the key in the lock and hollered for Tarique. Silence greeted her.

“That boy don't know how to stay home.”

“You let him run the streets by himself? He's just what, ten?”

She dropped her bag on the floor and looked over her shoulder. “What are you now, his guardian?”

“No. I'm his father. Something you neglected to tell me.”

“Maybe he's not yours. You're not the only man I've been with.”

He came around so he stood in front of her. “No, but I was your first. And that boy is the spitting image of me, so don't try to deny it.”

A shadow crossed her face. “I don't need you, Lance. You weren't there for me then, so don't act like you want to be here now.”

He shut the front door. “You're the one who left. I searched high and low for you. You cleaned out your apartment. Your roommate said you'd left with me. I tried your folks' house. I had the police looking for you.”

Gayla sat in a chair and looked up at him. She wondered if he still cared. He'd been so in love with her then. She didn't have to look in a mirror though to know she in no way resembled the person she'd been then. Time and poverty and a hard way to go had beat her down for so long that there was no place else to fall.

Seeing Lance had been a shock to her, a shock that needed immediate numbing. She'd found the forgetfulness she needed though. The effects were wearing off, and she knew she'd need another high soon—before the resentment took over again.

She resented the way she'd been treated, regretted the choices she'd made, and wished she'd been strong enough to confront her nemesis.

She cast dull brown eyes up at him. “Why'd you come here?”

Lance held out his hands. “To help you.”

She snorted. “Help?”

“Yes.” He glanced at a chair, but decided not to sit. He crouched down in front of her. “I can help with whatever you and Tarique need. Where would you like to live? I can get something set up in a day or two. Midtown? Denbigh? Would you like to go back to Hampton? Do you want a house or an apartment?”

She laughed in his face. “Some things definitely don't change.”

She pushed past him and lurched to the kitchen. She pulled a glass from the sink, inspected the bottom of it, then rinsed it out and ran some tap water into it. She rinsed out her mouth and spit the water back into the sink.

Lance winced.

Gayla laughed. “I don't need your handouts anymore, Lance.”

He pulled out his wallet. “It's not a handout,” he said. “It's what should have been going on all these years. If you'd just told me I would have made everything all right.”

She looked at him and shook his head. Then she looked at the money he put on the dinette table. “What is that?”

“It's money. Just a couple hundred dollars. It's all I have with me.”

“I don't want your fucking money, Lance.”

“It's not for you,” he said. “It's for my son. Things are gonna change around here, Gayla. You've had him for ten years. It's my turn now.”

19

L
ance wasn't sure what made him say that, or what he actually meant by the threat, but Gayla's stricken expression told him the shit had really hit the fan.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Not at all,” he said. “I just think some people will find it interesting that you kidnapped my son.”

“I didn't kidnap him. He wasn't even born when I left you.”

“Then you admit it.”

At a stalemate, she stared at him for a long time. “You are not taking my boy.”

“I don't want to take him, Gayla. I want to be his father.”

“And what do you or any Heart know about being a father? You didn't want him then, I don't see what the big deal is now.”

“I didn't even know he existed! And my family has nothing to do with this.”

She snorted. “Your precious family has everything to do with it,” she said. “You want to know why I left, ask your grandmother. She made it pretty clear just what she thought of me, and of us together. And she was also pretty damn clear on what would happen to me if I ever tried to see you.”

“My grandmother? What does she have to do with us?”

Gayla shook her head. “You are so without a clue, Lance.” She came over and waved her hands around his body. She lifted his arm and waved a hand under there.

“What are you doing?”

“You're a big puppet, I'm looking for the strings.”

Lance had never hit a woman in his life, he'd never even thought about it. Until now. It was all he could do not to snatch Gayla up by her skinny arms and shake her until she came to her senses.

“Stop talking in riddles.”

She laughed in his face. “The only riddle, Lance, is how you're gonna explain finding me to your grandmama.”

She reeled away and collapsed on the couch. Whatever energy she had had been used up. Now her eyes were heavy. Giving in to the demand for sleep, she closed her eyes.

“Don't you pass out on me. We're not done here.”

“We were through a long time ago, Lance.”

“Gayla.”

He did shake her then, but Gayla was either out cold or dead to the world asleep. He lifted her eyelid to look at her eyes. Was she high? Drunk?

“Dammit to hell.”

“What're you doing to my mom?”

Lance whirled around at Tarique's voice.

“Hi.”

The boy came over, pushed Lance out of the way and inspected his mother. Her breathing was deep and steady. He glanced up at Lance, then pulled a faded afghan from under a cushion. He stretched his mother's legs out and got her in what looked to be a comfortable position. He spread the afghan over her waist and legs, then walked around Lance and to the kitchen.

“You want some cereal?”

“Where have you been?”

The boy raised an eyebrow and Lance felt as if he'd taken a sucker punch straight in the gut. He'd seen that look, that very eyebrow arch a thousand times before. He'd seen it on Cole, and he'd seen it in his own mirror.

Would Tarique, this man-child who was his son, also see the resemblance?

The boy dumped a heap of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in a big bowl then sloshed some milk on top. He left both the cereal box and milk open on the counter. Lance watched as he came around, turned the television on and settled right in front of it, ignoring Lance.

“How long will she be like that?”

The boy shrugged. “Depends.”

“How old are you?”

“What are you, five-oh?”

For a moment Lance looked confused, then he remembered the street slang for police, from an ancient television program. “No, I'm not the police.”

“You a social worker?”

Lance smiled at that. “Hardly.”

“You her new man?”

The smile left his face at that question. He wanted to tell this child the truth, that he was so much more than that. But this didn't seem the moment. And he didn't know how to say the words. He glanced back at Gayla. Telling Tarique should be something they did together. The old Gayla would have wanted it done that way. Would this Gayla even care?

“When's your birthday?” Lance asked the boy.

“You got a lot of questions for somebody with no status around here.”

Lance stuck his hands in his pockets. “I was just making conversation.”

“I'm watching something. Make conversation someplace else.”

“That's quite rude of you.”

The boy cast a scathing, sarcastic glance over his shoulder.

“I want to be your friend,” Lance said. As soon as the words were out he realized how pathetic he sounded. Pathetic and maybe a bit pathological.

“I got friends. That your money up there?”

He wondered if the boy had noticed the cash. “It's for you.”

“For me?”

The cereal bowl went to the floor, milk sloshing from the sides as the boy scrambled up to get the money. “Thanks. Groceries first, now the Benjamins. So you're like Santa Claus or something?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Lance well knew that at seventeen, he'd have made a piss-poor father. Hell, he wasn't even sure he was up to the task at twenty-eight. How had Gayla managed all these years? Being a single parent was tough. He only had to look at his mother to know that. But unlike Gayla, his mother had had an incredible support system behind her. And that was in addition to the considerable wealth and influence of the Hearts. Lance's own childhood was testament to the privilege he'd known . . . and taken for granted.

He'd never wondered where his next meal was coming from or if there would be lots of presents on his birthday or at Christmas. He grew up knowing that there would always be enough, more than enough to provide for not only his needs, but any whim that came along as well. He'd been spoiled by his grandfather, indulged by his grandmother and unconditionally loved by his mother.

His son couldn't say the same things, at least regarding the early part of his life. But was it too late to make a difference in Tarique's life? In the few short weeks he'd been working with T.J. at the rec center he'd seen evidence of changes made in the lives of some kids. Maybe it wasn't too late to make a difference in his son's life.

“Yeah,” Lance said again. “I'm like Santa Claus. Or something.”

 

 

“Mr. Grant,” Virginia said into the telephone receiver, “I wasn't expecting your call.” There were benefits to being listed in the telephone directory, she decided.

Penelope was just bringing a tray of Bloody Marys to the patio where Virginia would take lunch. She waved the housekeeper away.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you,” he said.

“Not at all. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise,” he said. “Mrs. Heart . . . may I call you Virginia?”

“Only if you'll allow me to call you Malcolm.”

“Then we're agreed,” he said. “I was calling this afternoon to see if you'd have lunch with me.”

Virginia smiled. “I was just about to have the noon meal.”

“Then I have disturbed you. I apologize.”

“Not at all,” she murmured. “As a matter of fact, I have a splendid idea. Why don't you join me?”

He readily accepted. The date set, Virginia gave him directions to her home then she went to seek out Penelope. She found the housekeeper in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on a tray of tea sandwiches.

“Stop that,” she ordered. “Call Pierre at Pierre's Catering. Tell him there's a significant personal bonus in it for him if he can get lunch for two over here in twenty minutes. Make sure there's lobster.”

“But Mrs. Heart, I just made these sandwiches. You told me to make . . .”

“Well, I'm telling you different now. Throw that stuff away. And hurry up and get Pierre on the line. I'll be in my bath preparing for a luncheon with a friend. He'll be here in half an hour.” After dictating the way the patio table should be set and which wines to bring up, Virginia swept off.

Penelope looked at the food that would go to waste. She pushed the platter aside and called the restaurateur and caterer, who was on speed dial. After getting Virginia's order placed, she called a local church and asked a volunteer to come get the food that would otherwise get thrown out. At least someone who wanted to eat would get a meal.

Over an exquisite lunch at a table set with her best china and crystal, Virginia got to know more about Malcolm Grant. When Penelope brought the phone in saying there was an urgent call, Virginia told her to take a message.

“Shouldn't you take that?” Malcolm asked.

She shook her head. “It's probably Lily discovering she needs shoes for the cruise.”

Malcolm smiled. “I must say, I'm looking forward to this cruise.”

Virginia leaned forward. “So am I.”

 

 

Julian Gerard nursed his wounded pride and wondered how he could get back at Viv. He'd given her his heart and she'd sauteed both it and him. A man could take only so much bullshit from a woman before he had to put his foot down.

He wanted to hurt her as much as she'd hurt him. And he'd have no regrets about it. Not a single one.

As a publicist for several local newscasters, athletes and minor celebrities, it was his job to make the connections that would assist his clients' public profile. Julian was very good at what he did. Cultivating those prospects—he hated the word
networking
—took time, energy and a lot of cash.

He created a file with Vivienne's name on it. He'd have to give this some thought. But for now, there was real work to be done. He had the portfolios of two new prospective clients to review and a black-tie reception after hours. His tux hung neatly in the closet off his office. He'd kill the remaining hour by reading the two queries for his services. One was from another former pro football player, this one turned evangelist—that part didn't appeal to him at all. The other was from a financier by the name of Dean Khan. He reached for the Kahn file and settled in for the read.

 

 

When Lance showed up for his one-on-one with T.J. at the rec center his mind was still on Tarique and Gayla. He looked around at the facilities T.J. had turned into a viable place for teens to hang out rather than the street corners. This time Lance tried to see it from the perspective of someone like his newfound son.

Would Tarique come to a place like this? Or would the “clients” he maintained in his protection service seek refuge
from
him here?

The boy had obviously inherited the Heart gene that guided finance. He was already operating what appeared to be a lucrative shakedown business. If that raw talent could be harnessed and used for good . . .

Lance laughed.

“What's so funny?” T.J. asked.

Lance just shook his head. In his own mind he was starting to sound like an announcer for a superhero. With the help of his long-lost father, he was able to leap tall buildings and deflect nuclear rays. But Lance knew he wasn't a superhero, and neither was Tarique.

What in the world possessed Gayla to give the boy a name like that? What, if anything, did it mean?

“Yoo-hoo, Earth to Lance.” T.J. waved a basketball in front of Lance.

Blinking away the thoughts that ran in circles through his head, Lance focused on his friend. “Huh?”

T.J. sent the ball to Lance. “You wanna talk about it?”

“What?”

“Whatever has you a hundred miles away from here.”

Lance did want to talk about the big It in his life. But his conversation with Cole served as a reminder—an unpleasant one at that—that it was past time he did some growing up. He could handle his problems on his own and didn't need to run to any relatives or friends to show him the way.

He fervently wished though that he had someone he could unload all of this on. Someone who would objectively listen and then offer up some potential solutions. That's what CEOs and executives did. They had people who put together worst—and best—case scenarios. They didn't spend all their time sweating the little details.

But it was way past time that Lance sweated details other than dinner arrangements. And he worried about what would happen when he told his mother—and God help him his grandmother—about Tarique and Gayla.

Before he could get to the part about his mom playing the G-ma role, he had to get a few things taken care of. Like their living conditions and overall quality of life.

He turned to T.J. “A lot of kids come through here. Have you run into a kid named Tarique?”

T.J. rolled his eyes. “Please don't even mention that name up in here.”

Lance stopped dribbling the ball. “What?”

“If you've had the misfortune of meeting that one, I pity you. He's a piece of work. The kid's a thief and a cheat.”

“Are you sure? How do you know?”

T.J. described the boy. “And he rides around on stolen bikes. Then he fences them.”

Lance rubbed his eyes. “I'm talking about a little kid. Maybe ten, eleven.”

“I know who you're talking about. Tarique Stewart. I tell you, man. That kid is nothing but trouble. You know I believe in reaching out, trying to offer alternatives, solutions. I don't often, if ever, say anybody is already lost, particularly somebody that young. But I tell you man, that boy is trouble with a capital T. Did he steal something from you? The rims on the Jag?”

Lance shook his head. “No. His mother did,” he mumbled under his breath.