Love in a Carry-On Bag (9 page)

Chapter Fourteen

One Night Stand

W
arren drove quickly to Blanche’s townhouse in Georgetown, dipping into potholes and bends in the road like a staggering drunk. They had been silent for most of the ride.

“Glad Alan didn’t show,” Blanche said, attempting to break the silence in the car.

“Yeah, he would have been annoying.” Warren chewed the inside of his jaw as he made a left onto her block.

“It’s the third house on the right,” she pointed. The street was narrow with cars crammed on both sides. Warren double parked in front of her house. He was so caught up in his thoughts about the night that he didn’t hear Blanche until she repeated herself for the third time.

“Earth to Warren.”

“Sorry.”

Turning in her seat, her dress opened around her thigh. “I said would you like to come up for a drink. You look like you could use a friend.”

A friend was what he had in mind but Blanche wasn’t it. A Ford pick-up honked a horn behind him.

“Look, I’m blocking traffic. Maybe another time,” he said, looking through his rearview mirror. “I better go. Thanks again for coming.”

Blanche pushed the heavy car door open, but as she moved to get out of the car she dropped her purse. The clasp came undone and the contents spilled all over the seat and floor.

“Sorry,” she mumbled with her head in the floor. The Ford honked again.

When Blanche finally closed
her front door, Warren peeled off down her street. It had been almost a year since he stopped smoking marijuana, but after his father’s news, sitting in his living room in a foggy, purple haze was all he wanted to do. Driving faster than he should have, he cranked up the volume of his sound system. The grimy rap lyrics from a New Orleans artist spilled from his mouth as he rhymed along. The clean sidewalks and thriving businesses of Northwest turned into dilapidated housing projects as he headed for Southeast D.C. He knew that his partner James would have a stash. He always did.

When Warren reached the front of James’ building, he dialed his buddy’s number. James didn’t have a working front bell. Once they connected, Warren got out and made his way up. James was the drummer in Warren’s band. The two had been close since college.

“What’s up, Prince? You look good, son. What’s the occasion?” James leaned into Warren for a half hug, half handshake and snapped his fingers.

“Nothing, just a dinner for my Dad. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by for a sec.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. Come on in. I was just listening to some old Dizzy. You know how I do.” James closed the front door. The white T-shirt he wore had “Free Mumia” typed across the chest and his long dreadlocks were tied behind his head. Warren removed his shoes as was the custom. James was bent on keeping
his coconut-colored carpets clean.

The apartment had an artsy feel to it. The walls were decorated with paintings that James had splashed together himself. None of the stuffed furniture matched as a set, but somehow it all meshed well. Warren unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket and plopped down on the plaid sofa that doubled as James’ pull-out bed.

“Dog, I can’t stay long. I just stopped by to see if you had some bud.”

James flicked his tongue against his teeth. “Thought you quit.”

“Just relapsing.”

Smiling, he disappeared behind a red and gold shoji screen. “Don’t they test your piss at work?”

“Yeah, but it’s cool,” said Warren, drumming his fingertips on his thigh. He wanted to dump his problems on James but felt too anxious to talk. His horn would suit him better.

James wrapped the grassy bundle in Saran Wrap, covering it with aluminum foil. “This good?”

“Plenty. Thanks, man,” and the two slapped and pounded, the black man’s universal sign of brotherhood.

A
s soon as he
walked into his apartment, Warren took the phone off the hook. He didn’t feel like being bothered by anyone, not even Erica. He rolled the weed, puffed, and when he started to float, he reached for his horn. Just the weight of his trumpet on his lips made the pressure in his throat subside. It was like he could breathe again. The first few slow notes cried over the loss of his mother, because he still woke up some mornings forgetting that she was gone. His tempo picked up and in marched Erica and their complications. His father’s news was next and the resulting sound was so incredible that
he had to stop playing to write it all down.

Chapter Fifteen

More Like Claire

“S
tay close to Reverend
Black during his signing. Fanatics show up at these events,” Claire said to Erica as the chauffer-driven car pulled into the circular driveway of the W Hotel.

Erica nodded while Claire rattled off last-minute instructions: the correct color of Sharpie pen, how to flap the books, and the Reverend’s preference for Dr. Pepper with plenty of ice. The prep continued into the entranceway of the hotel where a stout woman in a yellow hat waved for their attention.

“That’s Alana, Black’s personal publicist,” Claire led.

“Praise the Lord, Claire. It’s so good to see you.” Alana wrapped her blubbery arms around Claire’s petite neck and once Erica was introduced, she was hugged too.

“I’m so glad y’all made it safely. God is sure enough good.” Alana clapped her wiggly hands and as she led the way to the Reverend, Erica couldn’t help watching her large hips shake like a bowl of Jell-O.

When they arrived in the private holding room, the Reverend was seated behind a large table with his bulky bodyguards flanked on each side. All three men were dressed in fashionable suits and the Reverend looked just as he did on television and in pictures. A fair-skinned man, easily categorized as a pretty boy with features best described as fine. Deep natural waves swept through his auburn hair, and his eyes shifted between shades of hazelnut and gray. Erica had always found him attractive but didn’t understand the fuss until he took her hand and shined his signature smile.

The Reverend’s teeth were like a bracelet of freshwater pearls with each tooth filed in perfect succession, partially hidden by lush lips that spilled from his mouth like poetry. As his smile began to fade, Erica glimpsed a gold-faced crown that hinted at a less-than-Christian past. Yes, she could see why folks were smitten.

The book signing was
held in a large reception room with a line that twisted itself anxiously in knots and clusters with people who had traveled both near and far to meet their beloved Reverend. They brought with them children who needed anointing, marriages desperate for prayer, illnesses to be healed, and sinners whose souls needed saving. When the Reverend entered the room, you would have thought that Jesus Christ had arrived. Women began fanning themselves like they were in a breezeless church packed with sweating bodies, and men waved hands shouting hallelujah.

The Reverend was gracious, signing every book placed in front of him, including the Holy Bible. Pictures were snapped, hands shaken, foreheads kissed, bodies blessed until the last customer was satisfied. When the signing was over, Claire sent Erica back to the hotel to confirm the media portion of the itinerary for the next day. It was late and she didn’t expect anyone to answer, but it was important to leave messages with her telephone number should something arise. When working a publicity campaign everything had to move like clockwork, there was no room for a mistake.

For the evening dinner,
Erica changed into a simple black scoop neck dress that was fitted at the waist and stopped an inch above the knee. It was one of her favorite work dresses and
went well with a pair of black and white zebra-striped heels. She gathered her red hair up into an elegant twist, which left Grandma Queeny’s earrings dangling from her lobes. After sweeping a light blush across her cheeks, she grabbed a white patent purse and made her way to the elevator.

The Atlanta Grill, a sumptuous steakhouse located in the center of the Ritz-Carlton hotel, was where Erica had arranged the private dinner. Before the other guests arrived, she wanted to be sure that everything in the room was appointed as she had requested. Indeed it was. Erica checked the place cards against her seating chart to make sure everything was right, and talked to the head waiter with last minute instructions on how to cater to the Reverend’s whims. When she felt confident that everything was right, she slipped her phone from her purse and called Warren. After two rings, his voice mail picked up.

“Hey, it’s me. I hope things are going well. Atlanta is lonely. Call me.”

Moments later, Claire swept in with the Reverend and his six-member entourage which included his publicist Alana, the two macho body-guards, a deacon from the church, his head consultant and a personal assistant. His wife was not present. Claire looked radiant in a short gold suit with big jeweled buttons. Onyx dripped from her neck and wrist. Everyone found their assigned seats with ease. Claire sat next to Reverend Black and Erica across from her.

The Reverend held the floor through most of the dinner, telling funny stories about his early experiences preaching at the age of twenty.

“The town was so tiny it’s not even on the map,” he smirked. “I got the calling early, but I had a hard time getting folks to follow me.”

“Well, God is sure enough good because now we have over fifty thousand members at our Church in Pensacola coming from as far as Mobile, Alabama every Sunday,” Alana chimed.

“Amen,” was heard all around the table. One waiter refreshed drinks as another served raspberry sorbet and lemon meringue pie, as was the Reverend’s request for dessert.

“Thank you,” he dipped his fork. “One thing I can’t ever get use to being on the road is those citied fancy desserts. I’d take a pie baked by Mother Meadows every night of the week.”

More mumbles of amen.

Between bites, the Reverend leaned into a private conversation with Claire and then turned his attention back to the table.

“Miss Erica, I want to thank you so much for all of your help today. Claire tells me that you were hand-picked to work on my campaign, and that you are a star.”

“Claire is the star. I’m just fortunate enough to be able to reflect a little of her light,” Erica replied graciously.

“Well isn’t that sweet. Bless your heart, darling. Reverend, I’m going to excuse myself,” said Alana, pushing back from the table. “I sure don’t need any dessert. Claire and Erica, you have done a lovely job and I can’t wait to see you at the seminar tomorrow.”

“Indeed.” Claire waved.

When the others started saying good night to the Reverend, Claire leaned across to Erica. “Let me get him to his car, and I’ll meet you in the lobby lounge to wrap things up.”

Erica was seated on a
Queen Anne sofa with a paisley print by the fireplace when Claire bustled in looking flushed. The room was warm and lazy with only a handful of patrons scattered around the bar.

“Did I miss something?” asked Erica.

“Nothing. Black is just too much,” she chuckled softly. The bartender took their order and Claire poked her hand in her handbag, coming up with a cigarette.

“Mind if I smoke?” she brought the lighter to her lips without waiting for a response. “It’s a nasty habit. My husband thinks I’ve quit, so this will be our little secret.” Claire fanned a bit of smoke. “Only Edie knows. God, I’m going to miss that woman.”

“She is something,” Erica replied neutrally, but the truth was that Edie couldn’t leave fast enough.

The bartender returned with a glass of chardonnay for Erica and brandy for Claire.

“With Edie leaving, I’m going to expect big things from you.” Claire sipped, leaving a faint cinnamon kiss around the rim. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”

Erica didn’t hesitate. “My goal is to grow with the company. I love what I do at B&B and I envision myself climbing the ladder while mentoring the junior publicists on our team.”

“I can see that in your eyes. The sky isn’t even the limit for you. You’ve got real talent, kid.”

“Thanks, but really it’s because I’ve worked with such an awesome team.” Erica tried to keep her head from swelling with the pressure of so many compliments as Claire studied her. “What about your boyfriend? Is he still in D.C.?”

“Yes, we see each other every weekend.” Her wine tasted like citrus and pears. “This is the first weekend we’ve missed.”

“He must be so disappointed.”

Erica didn’t mean to confide in her boss, but Claire had such an easy way. “It’s tough.”

“Is he the one?” Claire continued, and the intimacy made Erica giddy. Of course Warren was the one, she had known the moment he followed her out of the Iridium jazz club in New York,
insisting that he could hail her a taxi cab.

“He is,” smiling at the memory.

Claire flicked her cigarette ash in the tray, as she watched the flames from the fireplace prey on unassuming logs. When she spoke again her voice was husky and low.

“Don’t make that man wait too long. You’ll look up and twenty years will have passed, and you’ll have no idea where all the time went. It’s easy for work to become your everything—-spouse, children, free time.” Claire finished her drink in one gulp, “just be mindful of the time.”

They had gone somewhere new and Erica didn’t know how to respond. A silence lingered between them before Claire spoke again.

“Why don’t you catch a late flight out to D.C. tomorrow? I can do Sunday church without you,” she offered.

Stunned, Erica stuttered, “Ar-re you sure? I’m more than willing to stick it out.”

“I know you are. That’s why I’m telling you to go.” Claire lit another cigarette, then said in a voice that was barely audible, “my husband’s used to it.”