His First Wife (22 page)

“Stop,” he said, cutting me off. “You don't need to explain your life path to me. I'm just some dude you used to date. No need to explain.”

We both stood there laughing for a minute.

“But I can tell you're coming from somewhere.” He looked me over again.

“Well, if you must know,” I said, “I just got an internship with the Department of Social Services. I start helping them next month.” I was so proud to hear those words coming from my mouth. Now I'd have something to say when people asked me what I was doing. I wouldn't have to appear “made busy” by things around me—not Jamison, not the house. I had a job.

“Wow, that's cool,” he said. “Sounds like you're on your way to my side of the game. Service!” He held up his hand and I gave him a high five. “That was weak! You just got a job. You better slap this hand again.” He put his hand up again and I jumped up to slap it like I'd just made a winning touchdown. “That's right, woman!”

“Yeah,” I said playfully.

“Now, the only thing you need to do next to make the celebration complete is to meet me for dinner.”

“Dinner?” I asked. I hadn't had dinner with any man but my husband since . . . since . . . ever.

“Yes, a meal to celebrate your new job. I insist,” he said. “Now, I know you're married. But this is strictly me trying to catch up with an old college acquaintance and make up for grabbing your crotch.”

“You're crazy,” I said.

“But I'm serious.” The smile left his face. “I'm not that man anymore. I'm a new person. I want to show you and do a little bit of celebrating. Strictly platonic. Nothing to tell your husband.”

“You promise?” I asked before realizing that I was accepting. Was I accepting? Hell, I needed to get out for one night. Without Marcy around I needed someone to talk to. I was tired of cleaning up vomit and changing diapers. I wanted to feel like a real adult for just an hour or so. I was still young and sexy and if Preston could see it, so be it. I had no intentions of sleeping with him or even seeing him again after that evening.

“I promise,” he said. “Look, I'll be waiting at the Four Season in midtown at 7
PM
. If you come, you come. If not,” he reached into his pocket, “you have my card, and you can call me if you ever need anything. Sound fair?”

“Yes,” I said, taking the card.

“Great.” He took my left hand and kissed it softly. “See you later,” he said.

I
t was an hour before I was supposed to meet Preston at the Four Seasons for dinner. I hadn't even decided if I was going. In fact, I was leaning against it, but then I got the e-mail from Jamison and with my blood steadily boiling, I decided that I had to get away. I couldn't believe he thought some sad e-mail was going to bring me home.

I didn't know what I was doing by going out with Preston, but I knew I had to get away from Jamison's mess to avoid getting any more angry at the world. The only problem was that Tyrian wouldn't take his eyes off me. He wasn't even two months yet, but that boy had the eye coordination of a tennis player. From his baby swing, his eyes followed me around the room as I got dressed. Most parents would've been excited that their child was showing such strong motor skills at an early age, but the circumstances and the fact that he was beginning to look more and more like Jamison every day was making me feel a little guilty. But guilty about what? Yes, Preston was fine. Yes, Preston was rich and smart and clearly a changed man. But we were just going out for dinner. I didn't owe him anything; he didn't owe me anything. But . . . Why was I so nervous? Why was I getting so dressed up? Why had I lied to Aunt Luchie and told her I was going out for drinks with Marcy? Why wouldn't Tyrian stop watching me?

“Mama is coming back,” I said, trying to calm him before he started crying.

He looked at me and I swear that baby narrowed his eyes and then rolled them in disgust.

“You're looking mighty fancy,” Aunt Luchie said from the bedroom door. “I guess you girls need some excitement. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Yeah, we're just eating though, so there will be no excitement.”

“I'm sure,” she said with a hint of speculation in her voice. After staying with her for two weeks, I came to the realization that Aunt Luchie was so much like my mother in her constant desire to investigate the lives of others. The only difference was that my mother had a problem holding her tongue when it came to her inquisitions. She ruled with cutting questions and biting advice. Well, Aunt Luchie's style was much more subtle. She chose the question-without-a-question route. It was all about polite suggestions and silence. Even in the politeness and silence, she was working her magic. But I was on to her now and determined not to crack under the pressure. She wanted me to break down and come clean about where I was going. But there would be no breaking down here. The last thing I wanted or needed was more advice.

“Great,” I said, kissing her on the cheek before slipping on my coat. “There's plenty of milk downstairs and after his next bottle he'll be out like a light for the rest of the night.”

“I know how to care for this boy,” she said. “I know when he eats and sleeps, don't I?” She looked over at Tyrian for an answer and that little boy nodded his still-soft-on-the-top head.

“Wonderful,” I said. “One big happy family. I'll be back no later than eleven.”

 

 

When you're married and have children, you forget just how busy the rest of the world is outside of your circle. Other than dinner with Marcy and Damien, annual parties, must-be-seen-at events, and business functions, Jamison and I seldom got out of the house. But driving to the Four Seasons, I realized that apparently, everyone else was. Peachtree was packed with cars carrying people here and there, smiling faces peeking out of car windows, excited about what was waiting for them inside the growing city. No matter that it was a weeknight; no matter that it was an unusually frigid night. They were out for a night on the town. Every day, the small city where a single name was once able to open many closed doors was seeming bigger and bigger. It was considered progress to many people, but to my people, it felt more like an invasion. No one knew who anyone else was anymore. The old special names were fading fast as more money and more lineage came in from other cities. “It started with that Coretta,” I heard a woman say once at one of my mother's book parties. They'd sit and talk for hours, gossiping about who wanted in and who would never be in. Coretta Scott was one of their favorite topics. As nice and sweet as she was, these women, who were her age, seemed hell-bent on keeping her at an arm's distance just because she wasn't a true Atlantan. “She came here thinking she'd already be inside because she was married to Daddy King's son,” she added. “Ha!”

Driving through the traffic, and thinking about this old practice, I thought of just how ridiculous it was. The city was growing and changing and while I was taught to disdain the growth, it seemed unreasonable to believe that we could keep the secrets of Atlanta to ourselves. Yes, after Coretta, more blacks from outside of Atlanta did come into the city, but why not? Why shouldn't the city grow and change? There were some bad things about the city, but there were also some wonderful things. Maybe the old way wasn't the only way. What were we protecting anyway? Access? This was the kind of thinking that had troubled Jamison and added to the stress in our marriage for so long. Even with my name attached, it kept him out of certain contracts. Constantly made him feel like he wasn't enough. And while I tried my best to chalk it up to “the way things were,” that way was wrong. I could admit that now.

 

 

“I was about to leave,” Preston said when the hostess led me to the table where he was waiting. He stood up immediately to pull out my chair and I could see that he was dressed handsomely in a navy blue suit and white shirt. I also noticed that he'd gotten a haircut and was freshly shaven. He looked like he'd just walked off a movie set, and I had to admit that he made me look rather undressed. I'd decided to wear a pair of black slacks and a fitted, red sweater. My hair was curled loose and pushed back behind my ears. It was attractive, yet not overdone. I didn't want to send the wrong message.

“I am not that late,” I replied. It was just ten or so after seven.

“Well, I guess I'll have to forgive you anyway. You look lovely,” he kissed me on the cheek and went back to his seat.

“That's an overstatement,” I said, laughing.

“Why do you always do that?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Not take compliments,” he said. “You did that this morning when I said you looked nice.”

“You know, I don't know,” I said, trying to remember if I'd actually been doing that. The baby did have me feeling a bit less attractive, but I'd never thought about it.

“You're a beautiful and desirable woman, Kerry. And your husband is a lucky man for it.”

“Thank you,” I said. “So what's good on the menu this season?” I picked up the menu to avoid talking about Jamison.

“I asked the chef if he would make us a little something special,” he said grinning.

“What?” I asked. He looked like he was planning something.

“Well, I do recall one beautiful black woman tearing through a meal on a date I'd taken her on. She even broke her rule of etiquette, eating the last bite and saying it was the best quail she'd ever had.”

“I did not,” I lied. I could feel myself smiling. I didn't even remember that until he brought it up. The moment had been eclipsed by the infamous crotch grab.

“Well, we'll put that in the history books, but we both know how it went down that night,” he said jokingly.

“So you ordered the quail?” I asked, half-excited he remembered what I ordered that night and a bit peeved that he'd ordered for me. That was a bit presumptuous. Was this how folks dated nowadays? No, no, no! I wasn't on a date.

“Now, I know that might seem a bit forward and old school of me to order food for you, but I have a reason,” he said, looking into my eyes. “Right now in my life, I'm all about moving forward and letting go of the past.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And I know I was a complete jerk when we went out . . . what was it, ten years ago?”

“Longer.”

“Well, I'm asking you for a friendly do-over. So, call me superstitious, but I thought having the same meal might get me some luck in becoming your friend again.”

“That's very kind of you,” I said, but what I was thinking was that it was downright charming.

“And it's not just any quail that I had to call the chef personally to convince him to make—because it's not on the menu. It's roasted quail flambéed in—”

“Cognac,” I said, with my mouth watering.

“Glad you remembered,” he said.

“I honestly hadn't known I did.”

The quail was better than I'd remembered and Preston was an even better dining partner. His work with HIV/AIDS had taken him all over Africa and he seemed so committed, so fervent about what he did that it was inspiring. I could listen to him talk all day about the people he'd met, the things he'd seen, and even though it was sad and enough to make anyone cry, it was also heartwarming and I could see how it had changed him. I'd traveled throughout most of Europe and even took a cruise with my mother once that stopped in South Africa, but we never went away from the tours or resorts. This place, this Africa that Preston was talking about, was beautiful and exotic and unforgiving in a way that made me feel more alive just for hearing about it.

“There's no way I could have done anything to save her,” Preston said, looking just as lost in the story he was telling me as I felt. “The outdated drugs we'd given her to treat the virus were not as effective as they could have been. People have been speculating for years that the drugs that companies send to Africa as charity when they are out of date are less active and perhaps poisonous. But it was all we had. We could either watch her die fast without the drugs or give her the stuff we weren't even sure was working.”

“Awful,” I said.

“Yeah . . .” He paused and took one of perhaps three remaining bites on his plate. My food was looking low as well. It was just too good to leave sitting on the plate. “But I don't mean to bore you. I know I can get carried away about this stuff.”

“No, it's fine,” I said. “It's great to know you've experienced so much.”

“Try telling that to the women who refuse to date me,” he said.

I couldn't imagine anyone turning him down for anything. I hadn't had one drink and I couldn't help but wonder what he looked like with no clothes on.

“Really?”

“Please, me and love don't get along,” he said. “Once women realize how committed I am to my work and that most of my money goes into the clinic and not a fancy car and big house, they run for the border.”

“So, you haven't had any luck? No marriages? No kids?”

“None . . . Well, I was about to get engaged once, but it didn't pan out.”

“What happened?”

“A few years back, I was dating this model I'd met when I was doing research in France. She's a Ralph Lauren model from Alabama, of all places. We just hit it off. I guess it was the whole Southern thing.”

“You mean Chan?” I asked. Chan was one of the prettiest black models in the business. I didn't follow the industry, but you couldn't see a Lauren ad without noticing the delicate almond sister and how she commanded the camera's attention with her dark brown eyes. She was graceful and soft, yet she also seemed to have an air of sophistication.

“Yes,” he said, but a smile didn't appear on his face in the way I'd expected from a man who'd dated her. “We dated for a while. Even did a little long distance thing between Europe and the States when I had to come home. I was a good boy. This was when I was like thirty-one and she was just twenty, so it wasn't easy.”

“Twenty?” I plucked his hand playfully.

“Please, you try finding a working model over twenty-five and I'll buy you an airplane.”

“Very funny,” I said.

“Things were amazing. I think maybe because she was so young and had less limitations, it was just fun. And with what I do, things can get very frustrating, so I just need a little outlet sometimes. I fell for her quickly. And I went out and bought this rock to put on her hand that could have fed a village in Kenya for eight months.”

“You're crazy,” I said laughing.

“No, really,” he said without laughing. “I had the ring and she came here to visit for a weekend. I was so nervous that the entire weekend went by without me saying anything. I missed every opportunity. And then I decided that I'd just ask her when we got to the airport. I'd walk inside with her and ask the question right there in front of all of those people. She was young, so she liked stuff like that. The time came, and we were sitting in the lobby of the airport, talking before she was supposed to walk through security. I had the ring in my pocket and I was about to pull it out and get down on one knee.”