Love in a Carry-On Bag (8 page)

Chapter Twelve

The Waiting Game

O
nce two nights passed
without a call from Warren, Erica started to fret over their last conversation. Perhaps she was pushing him too hard. The fight had been one of the bigger ones and the broken lamp a first. This space they were in made her antsy and she had a good mind to call out the next day and head to D.C. They needed to straighten things out, especially since she had to work that weekend. But with so much preparation needed for Atlanta, she didn’t have the gall to ask Claire for a day off. This was corporate America, where a certain protocol was demanded. Work came before everything: sickness, death, vacation, maternity leave and most certainly a long distance love affair. The job was always number one. She decided a call would have to be enough to fix things. But after four rings she got his voice mail, and didn’t leave a message.

On Tuesday morning, she
sat at her computer trying to distract herself with a manuscript from one of her favorite mystery authors. The sales team wanted to reposition the author with the hopes of driving up sales. Erica’s job was to comb through the manuscript for clues on how to angle the new novel to picky media outlets that wouldn’t otherwise budge.

Her assistant buzzed. “Warren’s on line two.”

Relief and anxiety fought for space as she answered the call.

“Hey.” His voice sounded normal.

“How come you haven’t called?”

“I had lunch with my dad Sunday and last night was the jam session.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

“Don’t cut me off,” he said a little too sharply. “This conversation that we keep having is moot. Instead of us arguing over me working another year, let’s figure out how to get more time in to make things better.”

It wasn’t what she had expected. Her emotional strings had been pulled. “You’re right,” her voice was faltering.

“Are you crying?”

“No.”

“I want to be with you, girl, but this is not a ten-city publicity tour. Things aren’t always going to fall according to your plan.”

“Okay, Honey.” Erica’s line blinked. “Hang on, Warren.” She blew her nose and then flipped over. “Yes, Prudence?”

“Lillian’s on line three. There’s a major snowstorm in Denver and she’s worried about her signing tonight at the Tattered Cover.”

Erica went back to Warren. “I have to take this call.”

“Okay, but before I forget, can you leave work early on Friday? My dad is being honored for his 35 years of military service.”

“What? How come you haven’t mentioned this before?”

“I forgot,” he offered, but since they had just made up she tried not to get upset, even though whenever she had a function she gave Warren plenty of notice.

“Claire asked me to go to a conference with her in Atlanta this weekend.”

“Now you’re working weekends?”

“I was going to see if you could meet me. I’m staying at the Ritz.”

Another one of her phone lines flashed and she really needed to go. “Babe, we have to finish this tonight. I’ll ring you as soon as I get home.”

It was almost nine
o’clock when Erica got in from work. When she reached her floor, she could smell something buttery. Tess, her sister-girl from across the hall, was home, which meant that something was on the stove. Erica knocked.

“Sha-low,” Tess greeted from the doorway. She was tall and thick, wearing her surplus like none of it was extra. A maroon mushroom wig covered her head and her eyelash extensions were at least a full inch long. She was a lounge singer so Erica was accustomed to seeing her in costume.

“You sound like my sister. What smells so good?” asked Erica, pushing past Tess into the apartment. Diana Ross’
Greatest Hits
was playing. Tess was Diana’s biggest fan.

“Little something.”

“Nice wig.”

“You like? Thinking about wearing it to my tribute. Does it look like the one Diana wore in
Mahogany
?”

Erica nodded her head in agreement while removing her coat.

Their apartments shared the same floor plan, except Tess’ faced the back of the house. Since she didn’t get as much natural light as Erica did, she had amassed a quirky collection of lamps, stacking them in every other corner. Without asking if she was hungry, Tess dished up two plates heaping with rosemary mashed potatoes, French cut beans and oversized turkey wings smothered in gravy. Erica sat across from her at the dinette covered in a printed kente cloth and told Tess about the conflict with this
weekend.

“You know I’m a hopeless romantic, but are you kidding me? This is totally the break you’ve been waiting for,” Tess fanned her large breasts.

“And I bought a new suit last week that would be perfect. It’s just…”

“Warren will be fine, and two weeks ain’t the end of the world.”

“You’re right.” Erica pushed her plate aside. Tess was a true southern girl, and her comfort cooking reflected all of the heavy ingredients.

“Sugar, Tess Rodgers is always right.” She reached for her pack of cigarettes and lit one. “Glad you’re saving room. I baked a pineapple upside down cake.”

“You spoil me,” Erica reached for the lit cigarette and took a long drag. She only smoked with Tess, who fired up another.

“We can eat dessert and watch a Diana movie?”

Erica flicked the ashes. “I’d love to, but I need to go home and deal with Warren. Can I get the cake to go?”

Tess pouted.

“I promise to stay next time, Sweetie. I’ll even watch
The Wiz
and you know how I feel about that long ass movie.”

“It’s Diana at her best,” proclaimed Tess, and the two hugged the way true girlfriends did.

Across the hall, Erica
dialed Warren’s number. Her living room seemed to be collecting dirty laundry, papers and book galleys by the hour. While the phone rang, she removed her work clothes, unclipped her too-tight bra and slipped into one of his sweatshirts.

“Hello,” Warren answered.

Her eyes were closed and she pictured him with his arms wrapped around her.

“Babe?”

“Just picturing you here,” she said.

“Yeah, I’m missing that fat booty, too.”

“That all you miss?” She took a fork and stuck it into the cake.

“What’re you eating?”

“Tess baked.” Breathing. “You cool with this weekend?”

“Not really.”

Erica put down her fork. “I can’t get out of it. Edie’s too pregnant and Claire said I’m next in line.”

“That’s nice.”

“So you understand?”

“Yeah, it’s cool. I know you’ve been waiting for this.”

“I’ll send your father flowers first thing.”

“Okay.” Warren told her about the applications program he was working on but had to put her on hold. When he came back to the phone, Erica was skipping down memory lane.

“Do you remember the first time you told me you loved me? I was in the kitchen, washing the dishes and when you said it, I dropped the plate.”

“That’s because you didn’t love me.”

“I was in love with you by the second week,” she confessed, “doodling your name on my work pad, putting little hearts around us.”

“So you’ve always been corny?”

“Just soft on you.”

“Well, I remember the first time you took the train to D.C. to see me. The weather was still warm, you showed up in a pair of cut-off’s, flip flops and your hair wild. I thought I hit the jackpot when I saw you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, man. So beautiful.”

Erica twirled the edge of her sweatshirt. “Do you remember the first time we made love?”

“In your apartment.”

“You were nervous and fucking the shit out of me.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“Don’t get all bigheaded. I was just a little sore.”

“I don’t hurt you now,” his voice mellowed an octave.

“You didn’t Saturday,” she whispered.

“Take your clothes off.”

“Huh?” And when he didn’t respond, Erica put the telephone down and stretched out of her layers. “Are you naked too?” She could hear him fumbling around.

“Yeah.”

Erica walked to her bed and propped the phone on the pillow next to her. On nights like these, Warren always found slumber before her and for the next hour she let the sound of his breathing lull her into sweet dreams.

Chapter Thirteen

Absence Makes the Heart...

I
t had snowed two
inches in D.C. overnight. Warren’s leather boots crackled against the gritty salt scattered around the employee parking lot. Although the temperature had dropped below thirty degrees, Warren didn’t hurry away from the cold and the chilling air felt good in his lungs. He breathed in as much as he could stand before walking into the office building.

When Warren got to his desk, he thought about calling Erica. All of the sudden he was nervous about attending the dinner alone, and if there was ever a moment for her to take one for the team tonight was the night. His father was receiving the highest military honor for thirty-five years of service and it would have made Warren’s world to walk in with his woman on his arm. Since he was trying hard to be understanding, he wouldn’t beg. So he put the phone back into its cradle and turned his attention to an unfinished computer program.

“Going to lunch, cowboy
?” Blanche popped her head over the cubicle wall.

“Yeah,” said Warren, saving his work on a disk and slipping it into his pocket. Since that night when his computer inexplicably froze on him, he didn’t trust leaving any valuable work around.

“I’m starving, I don’t know why I keep skipping breakfast.” She rounded the wall between them with her red wallet in her hand.

“It’s the most important meal of the day,” Warren replied.

“But a girl needs to hang onto her girlish figure,” she winked. Blanche followed Warren down the hall and they caught the elevator to the cafeteria. The lunchroom was crowded as usual, but the food stations helped with the flow of traffic. Warren walked to the sandwich section for a turkey wrap while Blanche went in the opposite direction, grabbing a pre-made salad. Warren paid for both, following Blanche to a seat by the window overlooking the ice pond.

“Thanks for lunch.” Blanche tossed her hair over her shoulder.

“You going to the ‘Man of Honor’ dinner tonight?” he asked, making conversation. Stan, with his military background, went to the dinner every year and as a thank you for his support, Warren’s father bought extra seats for some of the company’s key employees.

“I wouldn’t miss it.” She took a bite of her salad. “Is Erica coming?”

“No, she’s working in Atlanta this weekend,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the look in Blanche’s eye told him that she didn’t buy it.

“So, you don’t have a date?”

He shook his head.

“Well that just won’t do. You and I will go together,” she finished.

“Blanche, I’m fine. You don’t have to go through any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. My date cancelled this morning, so it’s a win-win.”

He hesitated.

“Your father is being honored for all of his years of service. We can’t have his son walking in alone.”

At least she got it.

“So, I’ll meet you in the lobby of the hotel at seven.”

That evening Warren arrived
at the Fairmont Hotel on time and as planned Blanche was there waiting for him. She was dressed in a black beaded halter dress, with her blonde streaks pinned into a loose twist.

“Hey you,” said Warren, extending his arm out to her, but she threw him off by kissing his cheek.

“I took a cab over. Do you think you could give me a lift home?”

Warren nodded.

Dinners, charity events and award ceremonies had been a fixture in Warren’s life for so long that he wore his black tuxedo like a comfortable uniform. His hair had been cut hours before. The shoulder pads in his jacket gave his arms and chest an added layer of bulk, not that Warren needed it. Blanche’s heels echoed on the black-and-white marble floor as they walked through the airy lobby to the reception hall.

Inside there was a six-piece band playing a ballroom tune that Warren could play with his eyes closed. It was one of the first pieces that he had learned in the band at Howard and he hoped the musicians would kick it up a notch before the night was over. The reception hall had high ceilings with thick crown moldings and oversized chandeliers. White-gloved staff members swept through the room balancing silver trays filled with half-full wine glasses. Guests dressed in their formal best made polite conversation to colleagues,
whom they would later dish dirt about that night over their bedroom pillows.

Warren’s table was situated opposite the band. His father was already seated, with his secretary, Shar, by his side. Although Shar had worked for his father for more than ten years, Warren hadn’t expected her to be there and certainly not as his father’s guest. Her skin was the color of oak wood and she wore her hair in a short relaxed style popular for ladies in her late-forties group. She was a pretty woman. A different pretty from my mother, he thought to himself. Warren pecked Shar’s cheek and shook his father’s hand.

“This is my coworker, Blanche.”

Shar looked quizzical.

“Erica’s away on business,” he finished.

His dad gave Blanche a once over. Warren knew his father’s facial expressions well enough to know that he thought Blanche was hot. The room was filled with friends and acquaintances of the family and once Blanche was seated, Warren excused himself to offer hellos. When he returned dinner was being served.

“How’s the salmon?” Blanche leaned in. Warren told her it was fine, dutifully asking about her chicken.

“Perfect. Marinated in a lemon crème sauce,” she said, while placing a piece on his plate without asking. The gesture made him think of Erica, who loved to share.

Once the dinner dishes were cleared, the band took a break, allowing the DJ to play a soft waltz. The dessert buffet was set up with dishes so eye-pleasing and elaborate that it was difficult for people to choose. Warren and Blanche continued to exchange pleasantries regarding the food over a fig marmalade tart. Then the master of ceremony took his place at the podium.

The MC wore a navy blue dress uniform, adorned with three medals and four ribbons. He was such a short man that he needed a wooden stepstool to reach the microphone. A mole the size of a grape hung from the edge of his chin. Two long hairs curled downward toward his collarbone. But when he cleared his throat and spoke, the peculiarities of appearance were immediately excused.
The booming power in his voice made it obvious that public speaking was his calling.

“The ‘Man of Honor’ dinner is a celebration of the military’s finest and most distinguished men. As the Army’s Chief of Staff, Maynard Warren Prince has served our country for more than 35 years,” he said, spending the next ten minutes listing the honoree’s accomplishments. When he concluded, Warren was the first on his feet leading the room in a fierce applause. His father raised his hand in thanks as he walked to the podium with a smooth stroll that came with confidence, experience and age. Standing close to six feet, his body was lean with just a trace of mush around the middle. His hair was brushed back in a fit of tight curls.

“Thank you,” he said, raising his large hand again, but as the applause continued, more people got to their feet. Soon the entire room was standing and he waited for the excitement to die down. After dabbing his handkerchief across his forehead, he began offering his acceptance speech—a healthy mix of wit and charm. The audience responded by laughing in all the right places.

When he returned to his seat, Shar was the first to greet him. Warren was next. “I’m proud of you, Sir,” he said, pulling his father into a hug.

“I have something else to announce tonight and I hope you’ll be equally as thrilled,” he said with a wink, but before Warren could ask, his father had lifted his champagne flute and tapped it with his fork.

“May I have your attention?” he said, just loud enough for only their table to hear. “I’ve been waiting all night to do this.” His father blushed, and the red in his cheeks caught Warren off guard. He couldn’t remember seeing his father so open, especially not in public.

“Last night, I asked Shar to be my wife. And I’m happy to
announce... she said yes.” He reached for Shar’s hand and the three-carat solitaire glowed like he had handpicked a star. It was Shar’s turn to redden.

“The wedding is in a month and you’re all invited,” he said, giving Shar a full kiss on the mouth.

Another first for Warren, he couldn’t recall his father ever showing his mother any public affection and the shock of it all stampeded through him like a stable of spooked horses. His mother had only died six months ago after a quick battle with cancer. How could his father have moved on so soon without breathing a word of it to him? Blanche touched his bicep.

“I need to get out of here,” he whispered to her, and after mumbling something that resembled congratulations to his dad, he headed for the door.