Finding Mr. Right (18 page)

She opened the back car door, put the boy in his car seat, hooked the seat belt and went back around the car to where Byron stood. On an impulse, she noted the license plate of the stretched-out limousine, turned her back and wrote it in the palm of her left hand. Then, she moved closer to Byron in order to be sure that she heard what she thought she heard.

“You’re lying,” Byron said to the man, flexing his fists. “I’ve never had any dealings with you or any other escort agency. What’s the meaning of this? Did Murphy Tate put you up to this?”

“Who is Murphy Tate? You’re the one who’s lying, Attorney Whitley,” the man said. “I can produce records of calls from three of your phone numbers, including your cell phone.” He told Byron the numbers, as well as his home and office addresses. “I wouldn’t embarrass you in the presence of your friend if you’d pay your bills.”

Byron stepped closer to the man. “I don’t know who you are or what your game is, but you’ll pay for this and dearly.” He walked to the front of the limousine and wrote down the license plate information.

Tyra thought she had never seen such anger on anyone’s face as on Byron’s as he knocked his right fist against his open left palm., rhythmically and furiously, clearly itching to
throttle the man. However, seeing the danger to himself, the man turned toward his stretched-out limousine, then looked back at Byron and said, “You’ll hear from me, and wait till the boys get hold of you.”

Byron’s hand on her arm unsettled her. How could such a man as Byron patronize an escort service, and why would he need to? Did he have a dark side that he hadn’t exposed to her? Angry and humiliated, she jerked away from him, got into the car and buckled her seat belt. She realized the magnitude of her error when Byron got into the car, started the motor and said, “Thanks for your support. You can’t imagine how much I appreciate it. I’ll take you home.”

Alarmed that she hadn’t given Byron an opportunity to defend himself and that she had accepted the circumstantial evidence from someone she didn’t know as proof of a character flaw in the man she knew and loved, she slumped in her seat. “I’m sure there’s a mistake, Byron. That man did seem unsavory and, besides, what he accused you of isn’t your style.”

“Too late. I don’t need a woman who doesn’t believe in me and who needs evidence before she can trust me. I’m glad the guy showed up. He did me a colossal favor.”

He parked in front of her house, glanced to the back seat and saw that Andy was asleep. “Good night, Tyra. See you around.”

Tyra sat still, unable to move. He’d practically told her to get out, and he wasn’t going to walk to the door with her. She was wrong, and she knew it, but that didn’t mean she would accept rudeness from him. “Thank you for a most informative evening,” she said, digging a deeper hole for herself and in a tone iced with bitterness, opened the door, got out and didn’t look back.

She heard his car drive off before she reached her door, and as she fumbled for her key, she tasted the brine of her tears. In the foyer, she slumped against the wall and let the tears
come. She heard the key turn in the front door lock, but she had no will to move, and didn’t try.

“What the… What’s this?” Clark grabbed her. “Sis, what happened? I just saw Byron at the stop light. Did you two have a fight?”

His questions exacerbated her pain, and sobs poured out of her stronger than before. He put his arms around her and walked with her to the living room where he sat with her on the sofa.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, and she struggled to calm herself. He returned with a cup of instant coffee, and put it to her lips. “Sip this.” She did and slowly returned to normal.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Between whimpers and sniffles, she related the charges that the man in a chauffeur’s uniform lodged against Byron and described her reaction.

Clark bounced up and faced her. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing. You mean to tell me you accused Byron of that on the basis of some jerk’s word, a guy you knew nothing about. Sis, you can take one look at Byron Whitley and see that he does not need to pay for sexual favors, and I mean no matter what his tastes are, a guy who looks like him can get what he wants for free.

“And another thing, didn’t it occur to you that when sex is for sale, the guy pays in advance. Nobody gives credit for that, and if it’s not satisfactory, you don’t get your money back. Honey, you laid an ostrich egg. He’ll never forgive you.”

“I know. He as much as said so. What am I going to do?”

“I wish I could say something encouraging, Sis, but it beats me. I know how I’d feel in his place. If you’re in an intimate relationship with him, I don’t see how you could have slipped up like that.”

“I came to my sense right away, and I told him it wasn’t true, but he said that was too late. Clark, he didn’t even walk to the door with me. I’ve never been so humiliated.”

“Think how humiliated he was when you believed he used an escort service, and frequently at that. If you want him, you’re going to have to crawl.”

“I know, and I’m not going to crawl. Period.”

“Don’t say what you’re not going to do. You love him. You don’t know what you’ll do. Take it from one who’s been there.”

She couldn’t focus right then on Clark’s reference to himself, her heart was so filled with agony. “I don’t know what I’ll do, Clark.”

“I’ve never known anything to beat you down, and this won’t either. Whatever you do, don’t use his physical attraction to you as a means to bring him to heel, because he’ll give in, and then he’ll despise you.”

She wouldn’t have dreamed that Clark’s personal experiences had made him so wise. “I wouldn’t stoop to that, Clark. I may be miserable, but I will always respect myself.”

He went to the pantry, poured two glasses of Chardonnay and gave one to her. “Dad used to say that when Jack Kennedy was assassinated, he thought the world had come to an end, but the next day, the sun rose and set as usual. You will survive.”

“I know. I just don’t care for the idea of surviving without him. Please don’t mention this to Darlene.”

“Of course not. She’d probably call him and chew him out. Say, I saw her Sunday with a guy named Edward Hathaway at the Great Blacks in Wax Museum in Baltimore. She said he’s an airline pilot.”

“That’s right. I met him this afternoon at court. He testified for my and Darlene’s client in our case against Byron’s client.” She told him about the judge’s ruling. “Hathaway’s a great looking guy, and he speaks extremely well.”

“Yeah,” Clark said. “He impressed me, too. Let’s hope this signals the end of Darlene and those guys who never put anything on their feet but Reeboks. I’ll say good night now. Chin up.”

“Good night, Clark. Don’t worry. It definitely won’t kill
me.” She could say that, but the way she felt gave the lie to it. She plodded up stairs, undressed and went to bed without turning on a light. When dawn broke, she was wide awake.

Byron drove home at an unusually slow speed. He had his child in the back seat, and he could not afford to have an accident. Still, for most of the trip home, he was unaware that he drove. His world had just been shattered. Blown to smithereens. He’d never been so glad to get home as when he finally parked in front of his house, rested his head on the stirring wheel and gave thanks that he’d gotten there without having an accident.

He took Andy from the back seat, locked the car and, with his precious child asleep in his arms, made his way up the steps to his front door. A man wasn’t supposed to seek solace in his child, but right then, he needed love, and the only love he could count on was the love of his son. He put Andy to bed and told himself not to let his mind dwell on the day’s events. But how could he not do it? Less than an hour after he’d made up his mind to ask her to marry him she let him down and all that she had become to him crashed around him, into pieces, unrecoverable like shivers of broken glass.

“I’ll get over it,” he told himself, but he hardly believed it. Somewhere between furious and disconsolate, he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. “Fool,” he muttered and stopped himself just before his fist rammed the mirror. He slept fitfully, arose early and went into Andy’s room where the boy, who usually slept as long as he was allowed to do so, sat up in bed playing with Nassau, the monkey that Tyra gave him.

“Daddy, why didn’t we take Miss Tyra home last night?”

“We did, but you were asleep.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up? I wanted to tell her good night.”

He did not want to begin the day with a discussion of Tyra.
“Get up, son. Get dressed and be downstairs in fifteen minutes, and brush your teeth thoroughly.” Andy didn’t see the value in day school, because he was farther advanced than most of the other children. “Can I take Nassau to school with me?

“Leave Nassau on the bed and step to it. I put your clothes in the chair.”

“Yes, sir.”

He should be happy that his four-year-old could dress himself perfectly and tie his shoes, and that he often was able to tie his tie, though he was more likely to need help with it. The boy loved his school uniform and wore it proudly. He drove Andy to school and escorted him to the door. Some parents let their children out of the car, sat there and watched until they were safely inside, but he walked the boy to the front door and waited until he passed the guard. His father always counseled that an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure, and he also believed that.

He got to his office earlier than usual, opened his computer and began a search for the license plate number that he recorded during his confrontation with the man who falsely accused him the night before. When he could find nothing for that number, he made a note to call the stated office responsible for license plates. Chances were that he knew someone there. A call from a client took his mind off the escort service, and he was soon busy revising his brief for his morning court appearance.

Tyra had less success at diverting her attention from the events of the previous night and, at eleven o’clock when she had nothing to show for the two-and-a-half hours she’d sat at her desk, she got up and went to the coffee room hoping that a shot of caffeine would help. She didn’t feel like talking, and when she saw Matt leaning against the door jamb and holding a paper cup to his lips, she turned to go back to her office.

“Hi,” he said. “Haven’t seen you since last week. What’s up?”

She walked back to him. “Nothing special.”

Matt stared at her. “What’s come over you? Say, are you all right, Tyra?” He put his drink down, poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her. “What’s the matter, friend? Can I help?”

“Thanks, Matt, but I’ll be fine. Things are a little rough right now, but as you know, ‘This, too, shall pass away.’”

He patted her shoulder. “If I can help, you know how to reach me.” She nodded listlessly, sipping coffee without tasting it, unaware that he’d gone and she was alone.

One week of detachment from all around her invited the constant solicitousness of Maggie and her siblings, and she had begun to tire of it and to spend increasingly longer hours at her office.

On a Thursday morning, one week and two days after she last saw Byron, she got to work at seven-thirty, made the coffee, got a cup for herself, sat down at her desk and opened her computer. To her surprise, the door opened, and Christopher Fuller stood before her with a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Thanks for the coffee. I was wondering who got here so early. What’s the matter? Can’t sleep?”

“What do you want, Fuller?” She didn’t bother to keep the sneer out of her voice.

A smirk sufficed for the smile around his lips, but his eyes flashed hatred. “How are things going with you and the big shot?”

A frown altered her face. Where was this going? “Who’re you talking about?”

“Whitley. Is your thing with him still hot?”

Her antenna shot up. “What do you know about my relationship with Byron?”

The “gotcha” expression on his face reminded her of a teacher who’d caught a student cheating. “I make it my business to know how my competition is faring,” he said, closed the door and left.

“What competition?” she thought. She’d never given Christopher Fuller an iota of encouragement. In fact, she’d let him know that she disdained his advances. Deciding to top off her coffee, she headed back to the coffee room and stopped mid-way there. How did Fuller know about her and Byron? Wait a minute. He was just the type to use an escort service. With bells ringing in her head, she went on to the coffee room and got there simultaneously with Matt.

“You’re looking a lot brighter,” he said. “How are you?”

“I may be better by the minute.” When he raised both eyebrows, she said, “Would you say Fuller is the type of man to use an escort service?”

“Probably. Why?” Asking for his confidence, she told him of Byron’s encounter with the unidentified chauffer and related her suspicion because of her conversation with Christopher minutes earlier.

“You gotta be kidding. Of course. I hope you didn’t believe that. It’s as thin as onion skin. Prostitutes take the money in advance, and there are no refunds. I hope Whitley gets at the bottom of this. Fuller has hit on every woman who works here. He’s just the type to do something like that.”

“Please don’t mention it.”

“I won’t, but you dig into this and report it. If you need any help, let me know. I imagine this cooled things off between you and Whitley. Sure. That would put any woman in the dumps. Get busy on it.”

She thanked him, and went back to her office, her heart lighter than it had been in weeks. She called the taxi commissioner’s office, reported the limousine’s number, said she wanted to file a suit against the driver, whose name, she learned, was Rodney Fuller. The man was said to drive a private limousine for parties of individuals on such special occasions as weddings, funerals, graduations, but when she dialed the phone number given her, the operator replied, “Pamela speaking. What service is this?”

“Well, well,” she said aloud. “Somebody is going to catch hell.” She told herself not to do anything in a hurry, and a niggling impulse wanted her to call Byron and tell him. But she wanted Christopher Fuller to pay heavily, and she didn’t know whether Byron would see to that. She decided to think about it until after lunch.