Friends: A Love Story (28 page)

“Okay, Hank, I'll call.”

I called. She answered.

“Did you get in okay, Ang?”

“Yeah, I got in.”

“Okay, I just wanted to make sure.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay, I'll talk to you a little later.”

“Okay…”

In the morning I dragged myself up to walk Mama Bear's dogs. When I got back, Henry kept pushing.

“Courtney, you know you need to call her.”

He was unrelenting. “You've got to call her for a date. She's so sweet, Court.”

“Hank, I had a rough time the last time we went on a date. I just don't think it's gonna work. She's busy, she's got all these people around her, I don't want to bother her. I'm just doing my thing.”

“Court, just give her a call.”

To this day I don't know what Henry saw that caused him to hound me so hard. Eventually I relented. I had planned to go to the driving range that afternoon anyway. I wasn't trying to do a real date, so I figured I'd put them together. Golf. Date. Golf date. I called her.

“Angela, whatcha doin'?”

“Nothin'.”

“Let's go hit some golf balls.”

“I ain't never hit no golf ball.”

“No? So let's go do it.”

“Okay…”

“I'll pick you up.”

At the driving range, since we had something to distract us, things between us were a lot freer than they'd been on our dinner date. “Okay, here's your pail,” I told her as I set her balls alongside her. I demonstrated. “Now put the ball on the tee.”

“Like this?”

“Yeah. Now hold the club like this.”

“Okay…”

“Now swing it gently.”

And she'd swing and the ball would dribble off to the side somewhere or go off on some crazy angle and we'd laugh.

“No, like this.” I'd demonstrate again.

“Like this?” She'd swing and the ball would dribble off again. And we'd laugh. She couldn't get the ball to go anywhere.

“No, Angela, let me show you.” So I stood behind her and put my arms around her, positioned her hands on the club and
showed her the swing motion. I wasn't tryin' to do nothin' fresh, but all of a sudden the whole idea of being up behind her all close was like, “Whoa boy!”

Now that we weren't having to look at each other and think, This is really weird. I hope she don't like me, we ended up having a blast—an incredible time acting silly and laughing. When we finished at the driving range we got something to eat. Then we talked for so long we closed the restaurant down. We compared notes about Yale. Reminisced about the good times in August Wilson. Talked about what it was like to be black actors. Shared about how it was going—our successes and failures. The challenges we were having with our managers and agents. Everything flowed gentle and easy.

The next day I invited Angela to get something to eat. We talked about our families, our careers, relationships. By the end of the night we were laughin' too loud, babblin' and finishin' each other's sentences. Everyone was looking at us like we were crazy. We closed that restaurant down, too. The next night we went out and did the same thing. I noticed her beautiful hands. The gleam in her eyes. I let my mind go there: She had the softest-looking lips…. The night after that we went to Manny's, my favorite health-food restaurant, and closed it down. Then we stood outside talkin' and standin' in the street.

“Whatchu want to do?” she asked me about my life. “How many kids you want to have? When you gonna retire?”

Angela was as loud and just as country as you wanna be.

“Shh…Angie, keep it down. People are sleeping.”

“Oh, okay.” She lowered her voice for about two seconds before the volume crept back up again. “Yeah, but anyway…”

I was laughing inside, saying, “Oh, Lord, she's country!
Ooh,
she's
country!
” She kept saying, “I'm fittin' to do this,” and “I'm fittin' to do that,” pronouncing fixing like “fittin'.” Now, Angela can lay her Yale on you—she can talk proper when she wants to. But she had gotten all comfortable and the Yale came down
and she let the St. Pete's come out. It was so endearing. I thought, “Lord have mercy, what have we here? I had no
idea!
”

I was feeling very attracted to her though we hadn't touched or kissed. Nothing romantic had been said. But we had been doing so much sharing. Our conversations were so intimate. She had such a kind heart. Suddenly it dawned on me—THIS IS WHO I WANT TO MARRY!

I tossed and turned in my bed all night. Sensing that Angela was “the one” gave me so much joy. But the thought of letting her know frightened me. I wondered if I was the only one catching feelings, or if she knew, too.

Angie's my friend, I'd think. It may not even be what I think it is. It may just be that we have fun and like to talk. I was too shy to come right out and ask her if she felt the same way.

I couldn't even begin to think about Ahren. We hadn't talked about or promised anything relationshipwise and we weren't even seeing each other often, but it was clear we had been exploring the possibility of getting back together. The stakes were very high. The thought of hurting her again made my heart feel heavy. I had to know how Angela felt about me. After obsessing about how to do it, I decided to send her some flowers with a note. It took me three days to write it. Trying to fit everything I wanted to say into a space the size of a Post-it note stressed me out. I must have torn up a hundred and fifty of them.

I knew what I said had to characterize my feelings and would get her to give me an answer. What I finally came up with went something like this: “We're both shy. We're both like family. I like you. Do you like me? Check one…” Then I drew two boxes: “Yes” and “No.” I took the note to Rita's Flora on the corner of LaBrea and Sixth, where I ordered a bouquet of flowers.

“This note has to go with them,” I told the cashier.

“Okay.”

“No, you don't understand. This note
has
to be with my flowers.”

“Okay, sir.”

“No, you don't understand. This note HAS to be with those flowers. These flowers cannot go to Angela without this note.”

“Okay, sir.” She smiled. “I get what you're saying.” Then I went home and sat down and waited for the phone to ring….

 

I have never sweated so much before or since as I did waiting for Angela to call me. When the phone finally rang, my heart was pounding out of my chest like you see in cartoons.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Court!” I noticed that her voice was all high and scratchy.

“Oh, Angela. How are you doin'?” I tried to play it off but my voice was about six octaves too high.

“Hey…”

“What's up? Whatcha doin'?” Sweat was pouring off of me—the phone was about to slip out of my hands.

“I got your flowers…”

“Oh, the flowers. Oh, yeah. Do you like them?”

“Yeah…”

“Did you get the note?”

“Yeah, I did. I got the note—and, oh, boy, was that a ‘note'!”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“That's a good thing…”

“Thank you, Jesus!” After all those dark years, after all the work I had done on myself, after having faith that God would bring me someone special, I knew I was about to park my heart.

I also knew that I had to dial back with Ahren and tell her what was going on. I didn't have Dr. Kornfeld to help me on this one. I would be on my own. Over the past several years I had developed the ability to be honest and have difficult conversations. I knew that talking to Ahren would try those skills; it felt like it was the biggest test the “new and improved” Courtney could possibly face. I had to step up, be a man and navigate whatever emotions came up by myself.

Ahren and I met in a park near my house and took what turned out to be a three-hour walk through my neighborhood. I told her everything that had happened, beginning with the night of the play. Honestly, she was stunned. One part of her was excited for Angela and me; she knew us both and felt very strongly about us. She was also thankful that I was being so open and honest. Although Ahren would never allow her feelings to cloud my joy, I suspected that another part of her was extremely disappointed. Fortunately, because I had been so forthright with her, although she was disappointed, she didn't feel betrayed. By now I knew Ahren well enough to leave her alone and allow her the space to heal. I hoped that in her own time she would reach out to me and want to be in touch again.

We didn't talk for a long time. Six years passed but then Ahren called me to tell me her mother had died. She wanted me to come to the funeral. Angela agreed that I should definitely go. Ahren's mom had been like my mom for over eleven years—her family had been my family. And since her father had already passed away, this marked an important transition in her life. As I watched Ahren at the service, I marveled at what a wonderful and amazing woman she'd become. Yes, God had a different plan for me in terms of who I was to marry; yet I value and cherish the fact that over time we've been able to navigate our way back to friendship. Ahren and I have reconnected and remain friends to this day.

 

A couple of days later I asked Angela if she would help me pick out a gift for my mom's retirement party. We would both be leaving L.A. at the same time. She was going to Italy for a fashion show, and I was going home to Detroit. When we walked into the jewelry store everybody gathered around us—not physically, but with their eyes; a collection of eyes followed Angela. As I looked at bracelets, I'd ask her opinion. We narrowed
down the selection together. I was going to choose from those. While I was considering my options, Angela moseyed around the store. I noticed that people kept looking at her, then looking at me and smiling. After a while I noticed she was examining some piece of jewelry and talking to a salesperson, so I wandered over to see what she was looking at.

“What do you think about this, Court?” she asked. She held out her hand. She was wearing a diamond ring on it with three different stones in it.

“That's nice!” I answered and didn't think anything of it. But the man behind the counter said, “I think something's happening here. I think something just went down!”

“Whoa!” I told him. “It's nothing like that.” Then I dragged Angela out of the ring section. “Help me finish with these bracelets.” But I knew she had just dropped a monster hint. I bought my mama's bracelet and got on out of there.

That night I stopped by her house to say goodbye to her before she left in the morning. We talked for a little while and I gave her a tape of a sermon I thought she'd appreciate. I hadn't planned to kiss her good-night; I had learned to be a gentleman and let the woman dictate the pace. I would have been fine with a hug now that I knew that she liked me. But as we stood next to her front porch on a secret path behind the hedges that run around the house, I don't know if she went to kiss me or I went to kiss her; the next thing I knew we were kissing. And let me just say that Angela Bassett's lips feel just as soft as they look! I'll leave it at that. We kissed for a good long time then we kissed a little more. And then kissed a little more. It went on for quite a while. As a matter of fact, I was surprised by how long it went on. That kiss was amazing! I was giddy. I think I floated home. I just remember calling my mom and telling her, “When I get home I have something important to tell you!”

O
ne day I was minding my business at home when the messenger from Rita's Flora arrived at the front door. There are times in your life when you get flowers and you know exactly who they're from. But once you reach a certain level as an actor you're always getting flowers. You never know who they're from until you read the card. Someone might have sent them for some little good deed you did or an appearance you made somewhere or anything. My manager at the time would send me flowers for the least little thing. He was a sweet flower sender. The messenger handed me a big bouquet of wildflowers—purple and green and yellow. Little-bitty buds—almost like weeds. Really cute.

“I wonder who these are from?”

There was a big card attached to them—not the little 2x2-inch card that all the flower shops have where the clerk writes in this nondescript handwriting whatever the customer dictates. But a bigger card—a 3x4-or 4x5-inch stationery note card. I opened up the envelope and there were two note cards in it with a name across the top: Courtney B. Vance. The cards were hand printed. His handwriting, obviously, because it was somewhat illegible—letters leaning to the left, to the right,
straight up, close together, letter on top of a letter—that kind of stuff. Still, I could see that he had taken his time with it. I read what he had written.

 

I like you. Do you like me? Check one—yes, or no.

 

“Ahh…”

It was really sweet. He was just layin' it out there. “I really like you and would like to spend time with you but I'm not in a rush. We don't need to rush this thing. In your time…” I remember feeling all excited and getting butterflies, then getting really quiet. I knew this was monumental. This was a moment—a really big moment. I remember lying down on the couch. I thought about it.

Well, we had been having a good time together. Maybe we could move from a friendship to “well, let's try it this time.” I thought about the first time we went out, when it was, “Oh, Lord, I hope he don't like me in that way, in a romantic way. Let's be friends. Let's just continue it how it is—as friends. There's nothing wrong with it. It's not broken so let's not fix it—fix it and break it.”

Now here were these flowers and this letter where he was clearly professing his desire to be with me—to be my boyfriend, to develop another kind of relationship. It was sweet; it was chivalrous. I had just experienced a number of relationships that were not right—back to back to back in rapid succession. Not the right person, not the right circumstances. Just wrong! I felt a little beat up emotionally. A part of me was thinking, Do I really want to go back in that ring again? Do I really want to roll the dice? Do I want to try my hand again? Is it just going to end up like all the others? Or could it possibly be different?

But by now I'd known Courtney for many, many years. I knew he and Ahren had broken up and had stayed broken up. I had admired his committment to her for the many years
they'd been together. When people go together for that long and they break up, you just know they're going to get back together. But it seemed like they hadn't been together in a long time. I knew he had dated other women; I'd heard mention of it through the grapevine. I also knew he was secure in himself. Here was someone who could care about the essence of me. Who could care for who I am now
and
who I can be.

I had to take to bed and lie down and compose myself. I knew I had to make a decision. They say love is an action—a choice. I had to make one quickly. Being raised right, I knew I had to respond and let him know I'd received the card and flowers and say thank-you. Then I'd have to make some kind of response to his overture, either that I was interested or I wasn't. I probably needed to figure that out and do that in my next conversation. I didn't know that I wanted to put him off, though he was being really kind and patient. (He's been rushing me ever since!)

I thought about how at another time he probably would have been that guy where I would have said, “He's just so nice—too nice.” You always want that passionate guy, the bad boy. But that type of man is not all he's cracked up to be. I had an appreciation of the “nice guy” at this point. I was interested and hungry and ready for that. I thought I deserved that, at least, as a given. I deserved someone who is kind and gracious and supportive and encouraging. That should be a certain thing—the first thing—not the last thing or a thing you're hoping for. That's what I deserved; that's what we all deserve.

I reflected on my girlfriends talking about different men and telling me, “He's so nice, he washed my car!”

“That ain't
nice,
” I would tell them. “That shouldn't be a big deal! Men are supposed to wash cars.”

Or “He opened the door for me.” Please! That ain't nothin' special! People are supposed to be nice and not take you for granted—call when they say they're gonna call, show up when they said they will.

So after thinking about it, I called him.

“Hey…”

“What's up?”

“I got your flowers. They're beautiful!”

For years I could remember the rest of the conversation. Funny, I can't anymore. I just know the relationship started there. Gently, sweetly, concretely.

At the end of that incredible whirlwind week, Courtney had to go home to Detroit to attend his mom's retirement party, and I had to leave for Milan, where I had been invited, all expenses paid, by designer Giorgio Armani to attend one of his fashion shows. The night before I left, Courtney came by my house under the guise of dropping off a tape. I think it was a tape on vocal technique, vocal warm-up or something like that. It might as well have been blank, as far as I was concerned. It was his excuse to come say goodbye. Before he left we were standing on my front steps. The big moon was out—a big ol' fat moon and a clear sky. Then he kissed me. I felt like I was a teenager. It was truly reminiscent of my first puppy-love kisses. I got pinpricks and chills up the back of my thighs and across my butt, up my neck, across my scalp—everywhere! There were these electrical impulses just coursing through me. So we just stood out there and kissed for a moment. Now, everyone can't kiss good. Kissing is an art! To some it seems to come easier than others. Courtney was a good kisser. He had good “pillow” lips.

 

Milan is one of the most wonderful cities in the world. Home of Teatro alla Scala, the world-famous opera house; and Duomo, an amazing cathedral that seats forty thousand people and one of the most famous buildings in Europe. Milan is well known as the location of the some of the most renowned fashion houses in the world—Armani, Dolce & Gabbana, Prada, Gianni Versace—as well as some incredible shopping. I was visiting the city for the first time. Mr. Armani was wonder
ful and generous. He doesn't speak English and I don't speak Italian. Our interactions were short.

“Ciao, bella. Bellissima!”

“Grazie! Grazie! Spaghetti!”

After his fashion show I had dinner with Eric Clapton back at Armani's
palazzo,
while sitting with Sophia Loren. That was pretty cool!

Under any other conditions I would have been enthralled by Mr. Armani and his amazing fashions, the city's arts and culture, the beautiful fashions and fabrics and accessories, by being in another country. Yet on this trip I hardly paid attention to any of it. I couldn't concentrate; I missed Courtney. The three days I was gone seemed like forever. I don't think I ever went to sleep; I didn't even rest well. I don't know if it was the time-zone difference, the newness of love, talking on the phone with him at all hours or the combination of all three. What I did do was talk my girlfriend Jean Mori's ear off for the entire plane ride—over and back. I processed and reprocessed, thought about and rethought everything about this amazing man who had just shown up in my life, though in some ways he had been right there all along. I must have dissected every tonality, phrase and look he had given me. Thankfully, Jean was very patient with me. How true a real girlfriend can be! I was already dreaming that I would be married to him and we would have children together. My heart bubbled over with passion, desire, excitement—it just brimmed over.

When it was time to leave Milan, Courtney offered to pick us up from the airport.

“Tell Mr. Armani to cancel the car, I'll come get you.”

“You sure?” I thought that was so considerate.

“I'll be there.”

When we landed at LAX, I could hardly wait to see him, but Jean got stopped in Customs for trying to sneak back some Italian sausage. While I was waiting for her, I thought I would die.

“Come on, girl. Come on! Come on!”

When we finally got through he was waiting for us with a big smile on his face and two dozen roses—a box of yellow roses for Jean and a box of red roses for me. It was very sweet. It was very kind. Jean was so impressed.

“If you fuck this up…” she whispered to me.

“
Jean!
You never use curse words!”

“You just make sure you don't mess up!”