Apple Brown Betty (17 page)

Cydney grabbed her bag of goodies from CVS. Then she commandeered the cordless phone and went into the bathroom. She sat the phone on the countertop and emptied the contents of the CVS bag into the sink. Slay would have blown a gasket if he'd picked this bag instead of the one holding her school supplies, she thought to herself. The candles, rose oil and bathwater colorant inside filled the curve of the porcelain basin. She'd purchased the items as a possible “love kit” for the future; she hadn't expected at the time that the love expressed through the items would be love for self, a means of pampering and revitalizing her own worn body, mind and soul. She'd expected the items to be for her and Desmond.

Cydney turned the spigot of the tub on, drew the water as hot as she could tolerate. She looked over the label for the bottle of rose oil. There wasn't much to it, so she uncapped the bottle and poured a generous amount of the sweet-smelling therapy into the rising water. Next, she tore the plastic covering off her three small candles and tossed the garbage in her small wastebasket. She opened the medicine cabinet, pulled out her Bic SureStart and set flame to the candles. She placed one candle on the lip of the tub, one on the counter, and the other on the wooden toilet seat. She stepped back to admire her placement, and made a motion with her hands for the candles to be easy, don't tumble over and ignite her bathroom in flames.

Cydney then picked up the bottle of bathwater colorant, looked over the label as she'd done with the rose oil.
Doesn't stain skin or tub surface,
the label claimed. Cydney smirked and then poured a modest amount of the colorant into her peaceful stew.

She slid off her silk robe and hung it over the plastic door hook. She grabbed the phone off the counter and put it on the wooden magazine stand with wheels she kept in the bathroom, rolled the stand next to the tub. She stopped and took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment. She opened her eyes and stuck a foot in the water. It was hotter than most people could stand but perfect for her. She settled under the water, turned off the spigot and lay back in the tub.

Cydney sat forward, grabbed the phone, dialed the number she'd committed to memory just yesterday.

“Desmond Rucker,” a voice said into her ear.

“Desmond, hi, it's Cydney.”

“Hey.” There was no warmth, no disdain, no excitement and no frustration in his voice. No emotion. Cydney didn't quite know how to proceed.

“You still at the restaurant?” she asked.

“Yeah, I'm in my office closing up shop for the day. I was just about to walk out the door. I had my cell ringer down low but I heard it anyway.”

“What you got planned for the rest of the evening?”

“Nothing much,” he said. “Probably head home and lick my wounds.” That was his manly way of broaching the subject of their earlier phone call.

“I'm sorry about before,” Cydney told him.

“Wasn't anything,” he said, still being manly.

“I was a bit short with you. I didn't mean to be.”

“Happens.”

“I was going through something at the time,” Cydney said. “You want to know about it?”

“If you want to tell me,” he replied. “If not, that's cool.”

“Do you, yes or no?”

Desmond sighed. Cydney could hear the springs of a chair taking on added weight. “Tell me,” he said as he settled into his chair.

“Remember the guy I was with the first time I came to your restaurant?”

“Your boss, yes?”

“Boss now,” Cydney said, starting slowly. “But at one time we were more.”

“I figured as much.”

“Was a bad situation,” Cydney confided. “He's married—unhappily—but married.”

“Really?” There was judgment in Desmond's tone.

“His wife has a nasty addiction to painkiller medicine. Stephon had been talking about leaving her since I first met him.”

“We need more men like that,” Desmond said tersely.

“You're perfect, I suppose?” Cydney said.

Desmond sighed. He thought about Nora, thought about Jacinta, the go-go dancer. “No, far from it. I'm being stupid, I guess. I know where this is headed.”

“I don't think you do.”

“You've still got feelings for him. He's probably left the wife now and wants to start over again with you. You're conflicted, or, maybe not conflicted. Either way you slice it, I can tell I'm out in the cold.”

Cydney was surprised to hear Desmond sounding like a defeated, wounded boy. “Would that bother you, Desmond?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Just want to know,” Cydney said. She could hear those chair springs again, this time one after another, in a rhythmic drone. Desmond hadn't answered her question. “You there?” she asked, to move him along.

“I'm here,” he said.

“Well, would it bother you to be left out in the cold?”

Desmond swallowed. “Yes…It would, very much so.”

Cydney smiled. Desmond didn't know it but his admission was a major breakthrough in their early relationship. “I like you very much, Desmond,” she said. “I have high hopes for you, for us. I like to think of myself as wholly independent, the anti-needy modern woman, but I know I need you in my life. I hope my saying this doesn't scare you off.”

“What about your boss?”

Cydney took in a deep breath, held it for an eternity before she released it. “Stephon swallowed a bunch of his wife's pills. He tried to kill himself.”

“What!”

“His assistant phoned me just before you called earlier. I was pretty much in a fog when you called.”

“Damn! Are you all right?”

“Feeling a bit guilty,” Cydney said. “You're right about one thing. He called me the other day telling me he'd filed for divorce and that he wanted to be with me. I told him I couldn't. I told him I had my eyes on a certain gentleman restaurateur. He didn't take it that well. He threatened not to run the piece on Cush.”

“Piece on Cush?”

“I do freelance writing work for
Urban Styles
magazine. Restaurant reviews, music reviews, that sort of thing. I came to Cush because we're doing a feature on your restaurant. At least we were supposed to be. Stephon wasn't too happy about what I wrote about your place. He said it was a love letter to you and not a restaurant review. That was the surprise I had for you.”

“You're blowing me away, Cydney.”

“This is a lot to process, I know. Look, I need some time to myself today, but tomorrow I'm hoping you can get together with me after I get off my other job at Macy's, so I can hold you and…” Her voice drifted away.

“And what?” Desmond asked.

“I don't know,” she said, “continue to grow with you. Build a foundation. All this sound corny?”

“Not at all,” Desmond said. “What time do you get off?”

“Around ten, closing, I hope that isn't too late for you. I know you're a hardworking brother.”

“I'm going to be tight and sore after a long day,” Desmond told her. “Probably need a massage or something. You know how to give massages?”

“I've got magic fingers, baby.”

“Ooh, say that again,” Desmond implored her. “The
baby
part.”

“Baby, I've got magic fingers.”

Desmond could feel his manhood coming to life.

“So, tomorrow we're on?” Cydney said.

“Yes, we are. You want me to come to the mall?”

“Yes, baby, and you can follow me home. I'll make up for all this craziness, I promise.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, Cydney Williams?”

“How am I doing?”

Desmond touched that stiff part of himself. “I'd say you're doing real well.”

Cydney laughed. Just a few hours ago she would have thought the possibility of her laughing didn't exist. “I know it's early in whatever this is we have, but I appreciate you so much already, Desmond.”

“Likewise,” Desmond said. His hand lingered down below.

Cydney clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Tomorrow then, okay?”

“I'm really sorry about your boss,” Desmond offered before ending the call.

“I know now that I can make it through this,” Cydney told him. She blew a kiss in the phone. “Good night.”

“Sweet dreams.”

 

Desmond had made a pact that he wouldn't go to Hot Tails go-go again. He left Cush, an unquenched thirst aching in his groin, with the full intent of heading straight home. He turned on his radio, settling on the cool jazz and R&B ruminations of WBLS. He hummed along to the songs, hummed to keep his mind from wandering, hummed and kept his eyes on the road and out of the rearview mirror.

It didn't work.

As he reached an intersection he looked over his shoulder and then turned his truck around, tires squealing, and headed back in the direction from whence he came.

He passed back by Cush, barreling his chest out with pride as he blurred by the awning and neon signage. He rode to the end of the stretch and made that turn that was becoming as second nature as breathing. He parked in his usual spot, directly across the street from the bar. Moving quickly, he was at the door before any second thoughts settled in.

He walked in the door, said, “Getting my first drink before I get a permanent seat,” to the bouncer. The bouncer nodded, seemingly pleased for the first time in Desmond's memory.

Desmond walked over to the bar. The pretty bartender from his first visit, Wendy, was back manning the drinks. Her chest was noticeably larger, stretching the material of her T-shirt. She wore a black short-sleeve with Free Iverson etched across the front in white letters.

“Mr. Screwdriver,” she said as she came to Desmond.

“What is it with me, I'm that memorable?”

She smiled. “Yes, you are.”

“I missed you the other day.”

Wendy the bartender cupped her breasts. “Went for my master's,” she said. “I'm looking to improve my job prospects in a down economy.”

“You're going to start dancing?”

She hesitated. “Yup. Soon as I heal. The implants have to drop first.”

“Looking forward to that,” Desmond told her.

She let a smile slip from her lips. “Thanks.”

Desmond moved to the opening for the performers' room. He just wanted to check and see by any chance if Jacinta was onstage. She wasn't. He moved back by the bar, took his drink, paid the tender and sat on the stool.

God certainly was on his side because it wasn't long before Jacinta walked in the front doorway, dressed in oversize sweat-pants and shirt, a large duffel bag draped over her shoulder. She jabbed at the bouncer when she walked in and he leaned over, pretending the punch had hurt his side. This was the first time Desmond saw the guy smile.

Jacinta was headed toward a door at the right of the room when she spotted Desmond. He nodded at her; she nodded back, stopped, and then started walking in his direction. He quickly finished his drink, wiped his mouth and sat up straight in his chair.

“Getting to be a regular,” Jacinta said as she approached him.

Desmond smirked. “I like the customer service here. How are you doing today, Ms. Jacinta?”

“I'm doing,” she said.

“I been meaning to ask you—”

“My daddy's black, mother is Cuban and Dominican,” she said.

“How did you know I was going to ask that?”

“That's the first thing most men want to know about me,” Jacinta confessed. “I knew you'd get around to it one day.”

“You are something,” Desmond said, shaking his head.

Jacinta sat on the stool next to him. “I've been thinking about you.”

Desmond crinkled his forehead. “Really?”

Jacinta mouthed something to the bartender before turning her attention back to Desmond. “Yeah. I've been wondering about your life outside this place, wondering what brings you here.”

Desmond scanned the rest of the room. “The same thing that brings all these other guys—beautiful women such as yourself.”

Jacinta shook her head. “No, I don't think so. Something different about you.”

“You have a lot of opinions, you know that?”

The bartender brought over a drink and placed it on a napkin in front of Jacinta. “Thanks, Wendy,” Jacinta said. She turned back to Desmond. “Opinionated. I've been told that before.”

“Justifiably so.”

“Remember what I said about everyone being a performer on a stage?”

Desmond made a face. “You kidding, I had it engraved on a plaque and hung in my office.”