Anyway, this morning, I awoke as if a lifetime in a coma had me feeling like Sleeping Beauty. As I rolled over and looked up into clear blue lakes that are Victor's eyes, I asked how many children Victor wanted in the future.
Now we're in this car, barely making leeway in traffic, yet having not one word to say to each other. Victor reaches over and takes my hand. My fingers are so little within the calloused hand of Victor's as he sits next to me. This all makes me want a child even more. Just the thought of a baby's tiny, velvety hands within the folds of my own, makes me untwine my fingers from his grasp.
I WANT VICTOR'S BABIES!
"Luxury," Victor says in this sexy throaty voice of his. All the while I can recall him saying, "Yes, two sons," a few hours ago. He wants two sons in his future. That is, if he was telling me the truth!
"Don't, Victor." I move to my own corner of the posh car.
Vic rubs his face.
It seems seconds later and I'm looking up at the art store right below our loft. Victor starts to undo his seatbelt, noticing my worry, just as Dad is coming out of the side-bared gates.
"Don't. I'm just a fuck, Vic. Don't waste your time on chivalry," I get out quickly and slam the door. Holding my breath, I walk across the crowded street, and stop for a messenger bicyclist zipping past. I don't even have to turn around to know that the Mercedes has continued on.
My pint up breath escapes.
Mom had this saying about a man that will fight for you. God, the words evade me even now as tears sting my eye ducts.
"Luxury, where have you – !" Dad pauses his ranting to peer into the ultra-dark tinted windows as the S550 passes. "Where have you been? Who have you been with?"
"Dad … " I look around as we catch the eye of window shoppers and people passing by in puffer coats. I place my chilled fingers inside of the new peacoat Victor bought on the way out of the hotel.
"No! Detective Caruso called me last night," Dad's light brown eyes are nearly wet with tears. "I haven't had a wink of sleep, worrying about you! Hell, I even went down to the precinct and almost got myself tossed in jail late last night, tryna figure out what happened to you when Caruso called me yesterday evening. I even threatened to sue. Saying how they could lose you after letting you go!"
"Sorry my phone died yesterday evening. Please, let's go inside and talk." I try to reach past him and grab the wrought iron handle of the door, but he shakes his head, and does it instead. Holding the gate open for me to enter through first.
The rickety elevator ride seems even longer that the ride from Bulgari to home this morning. Instead of kicking off my shoes at the door, and pulling out of my coat to yesterday's pair of jeans and shirt, I start for the kitchen with Dad on my heels.
The brick and stainless steel kitchen beckons me to make myself a pot of tea. So I grab the shiny red teapot from one of the six burners and take it to the refrigerator door to slowly pour water into it.
"Luxury, if you don't speak, I will pull out my belt and – "
"Daddy, I'm not a little girl!" I damn near slam the teapot back onto the fury red burner.
He looks at me sideways. The sunlight streaming through all the windows sets his reddish hair to flames as Dad glares me up and down. "The hell is wrong with you? Luxury, your store was robbed yesterday and you don't have the decency to call or come home!"
I speak as he tries to catch his breath. "Dad, I'm okay."
"Child, I can't with you right now." He puts his hands up as if at a loss. "I've tried so many times, told you we could move anywhere under the sun and here is where you want to live! Child think!" Dad's index finger goes to his forehead; his chest is puffing so hard that he might blow a gasket.
"I am thinking, Daddy. Thinking about taking a shower and putting yesterday behind me, so I don't want to give a recount of yesterday, okay?" My tone falls flat, "Can we talk about something else, after I change?"
"Sure, that's okay." Dad puts his hands on the dining table in a defensive stance as he looks across at me. "Caruso told me exactly what happened. Now who was that in the car?"
"Dr. Finch."
He slowly takes a seat. The talk about my flower shop and how I've been managing these days will have to wait.
"So, Finch is something special then? For you to … " Daddy can hardly imply or even utter the words about me sleeping with Victor. His heart is torn that I've gone to another man for comfort. So I speak for him.
"Yes, Victor means more to me than I even want to realize." At the soft whistling of the teakettle, I pick it up from the burner before it can give an alarming screech.
"Okay, Lux," Dad shakes his head and gets up. "When you're ready to talk about you let me know, baby. I love you."
With my back to Dad, I don't even utter the words in reply. If Victor can withhold them from me, then I can withhold them from Dad. I've made it so easy for Dad in the past. Made getting over Mom's death, such a manageable thing, that I've neglected me …
Victor
My iPhone twists in my hand as I consider calling Luxury. I've never chased after a lady in all of my life. With her the rules have changed, but there are certain lines that shouldn't be crossed.
Yet for this tiny, sweet, gorgeous young lady, the sky must be the limit. Luxury deserves the type of man that is able to be attuned to her every need. Not to say that I don't have that covered while under the sheets. But she deserves the entire package, with a red ribbon on top.
Instead of calling her, I meet Doctor Whitson at his suggestion at Berto's Bar and Grill. This hole in the wall, surrounding by artistic gems in the center of Harlem boasts that it was established in 1972 on the sign. Berto's Bar is simply downtrodden on the outside, but as I neared a place that a "Duke" wouldn't be caught entering, fresh flavors entice my nostrils. As a man of my word, I grabbed the sticky door and opened it, with the notion that I would hear out the good doctor.
The place is dimly lit, but packed to capacity with patrons filling the booth areas, and I weave around the table and chairs in the center for the bar toward the back. The music is a Spanish lover's promise, and I wish I didn't know Spanish not wanting to listen to words that weave together how Luxury feels about me.
"Cranberry juice, and water, half and half," Whitson's telling the bartender as I pull out a tall stool.
"Scotch, no rocks," I say, taking a seat.
Whitson looks over at me, and is no longer the man who admired my knowledge of his intellectual discoveries. He pulls out a silver lighter with his initials – didn't even peg him for a smoker. Whitson clicks it a few times, and then puts it back.
"Used to smoke one pack a day, and chased it all back down with too many swigs of gin. Now it's just cranberry juice and water," Whitson says to no one in particular while grabbing a chip and scooping it into salsa. "Never thought I'd break the habit. Lord knows Gina tried. The day we found out she was pregnant with Lux, I stopped just like that," he snaps a finger. "Cold turkey. No going back, no regrets."
"Congrats, couldn't have been easy." I try to see where this conversation is going. In a manner of seconds, I've taken in each and every patron in this establishment, mannerisms, no potential threats, but the old Doctor baffles me. The discussion should have begun with him threatening me not to see his daughter again.
"No. Actually, that's where you're wrong, Doctor Finch. Stopping with the drinking and cigarettes was so very easy," Whitson says. He finally looks at me. "Love makes you do strange things. It makes you strong and daring, it makes you put another person's wellbeing over your own. Victor, can I call you Victor?"
"Sure." I grab my drink and toss it back, grit my teeth to the burn then nod for another round.
"Fell free to call me, Jonah," Whitson says.
"Sure thing, Jonah."
"How old are you, if you don't mind, Victor?"
"35." I reply watching his eyes instantly turn upward and avert to the left as he calculates the difference of age between myself, and his only daughter.
"28. That's the estimated age of brain maturity – when someone can make moral decisions, with a fully developed mind. Thinking with this," Whitson points to his afro covered cranium, "and not this," he points to his heart. "This muscle is protected by a chest cavity and all kinds of sinew, ligaments, and other organs. Yet it makes us more unruly. It's the reason that some of us need anger management and others of us choose the wrong mate."
I nod my head in understanding. Now I gather where we are headed.
"Good thing you're 35," Whitson says. "Yes, that's a good thing. It means you know exactly what you want, exactly when to make a life-changing decision."