Vulnerable (40 page)

“I really don't do interviews.”

“Don't I know,” and her mouth shaped into a delicate frown. With her palms pressed against her cheeks, she continued. “But I
also know this has to be fate. I've tried to give you some time and I've tried to be compassionate and I tried to respect your wishes and…I really would like to do this interview. I'm a freelance journalist and it's really competitive, you know? Things are changing. With the World Wide Web…journalism is on an entirely different level. Even the canons of journalism—at least in my book—need to be revised. Where's the truth and accuracy and objectivity? The fairness, the integrity? The world, it's changing, and so fast.”

“Maybe you need to find another career.”

“Don't go there. Besides, I digressed. Look, I can do this really nice. I will do what you ask and not betray you…you can trust me. I really…”

“I really do not do interviews.”

“Okay, let me try it another way. I swear!” Siobhan held up her palm as if to be sworn in at a trial and to profess she would tell the truth and nothing but…“I will be fair and most assuredly accurate. Please, please, Rawn, hear me out.” The journalist could sense that he was losing his patience. “Hear me out, okay?” Siobhan assumed because Rawn did not protest he was giving her some wiggle room. “I was on Vashon Island for a wedding last weekend. I decided to go up to Vancouver to see an old friend. I drove back yesterday to make a red-eye but such is my luck the rental got a flat. I had to wait for nearly two hours for tow service and so I missed my flight. The next flight out was tonight, ten-thirty. Now I have to wait until who knows when to get back to New York. If I hadn't had a flat tire, I would have made my flight and I'd be back in my cozy Williamsburg walk-up and eating something unhealthy to feel better about myself. Since my flight wasn't leaving until tonight, and I had all day to search the Web and… Early this morning, when I got up and read through my e-mails, I got this clever idea to take a chance and get on the ferry and go to Crescent Island to meet you.
It's common knowledge that you stop in Café Neuf from time to time, so I went there. When I saw you—first, I didn't realize how tall you are, and…well, I-I felt like I should leave you alone and I did. Right? I did!

“So you see this whole thing that's happening right now…it's…the good spirit of the universe is at work. I don't believe in randomness. I don't think the world operates by chance. I could have been rude and pushy this morning at Café Neuf, but my colleagues have tried that, but you still haven't relented and that's highly unusual. Even Richard Jewel did an interview or two. Any-way, if I'd have approached you this morning, you would have been even more nonresponsive than you are right now. Before I even came over here and introduced myself, I attempted to talk myself down. I said, ‘Siobhan, let it go.' But then…”

“You don't believe in randomness?” He was purposely sarcastic.

“And neither do you. I know that you don't!”

“But I don't do…”

“…Interviews, fine!” The journalist took her past-the-shoulders brunette hair and clipped it with a barrette. “Okay, how about this? I go through Ezra Hirsch? We set some parameters and you—or he—can tell me what we can or can't talk about. For example, whether you were the father of D'Becca's baby. How's that? I know this story will be syndicated. Every magazine…the list—Rawn, oh, gee whiz, it's endless. Finally, I will be respected and…I've worked my ass off and look! Do you know I can wait for hours outside doors and through hallways to get a quote? Where is it written that that is fair?”

“But the answer is still no!” Rawn did a fine job of suppressing his amusement.

“Your protest—I can tell—it's not as strong, and I feel—you and me—we've bonded. I don't think you want to talk, I really trust
that. But you cared for D'Becca; everyone believes that, which is why you've stayed silent. And I know that you'd like to clear up some of the stories that are on the Web about your relationship and about her life. I know it! You have to give me some credit, Rawn. Come on!”

“Okay, look. Do you have a business card?”

“Yes!” Fast on her feet, the journalist reached in her designer backpack and produced a business card that listed a cellular number, a fax number, and an e-mail address.

Rawn looked over the information. “Okay,” he said.

“Are we at maybe yet?”

“We're at let-me-think-it-over-and-I'll-get-back-to-you-even-if-I-don't-do-it. How's that?”

The corners of her slender lips elevated. “I can live with that.”

“You have my word. I'll call.”

“I know you will. This bond, it's not superficial. I can feel it.”

He watched her walking away. She turned to wave, and Rawn stood.

He called Khalil but received his voicemail. Rawn left him a message that his flight was delayed. He failed to bring reading material and sensed it was going to be a long night. He decided to check out the bookstore on the other end of the gate. Instinctively, he looked for Siobhan, making sure she was out of sight; he did not want her following him. Apparently a lot of people had the same idea. Upon entering the bookstore, Rawn had to squeeze his way through. He made his way to hardbacks. He picked up a title, and before opening the book, he was urged by an invisible force to look to his right.
No f'in' way!

What about her had he not noticed over the years? It seemed every angle had been carefully scrutinized. He even knew her gentle feminine scent, which the air always welcomed. But in watching
her, he saw something was different. Not her hair or the clothes she wore—it was subtle, too indescribable.

Should he take the gamble? Was he even ready to take such a chance on something that was—as the callous complexity of D'Becca's fate taught him—so amazingly spontaneous? If he allowed himself to think it through—to analyze it—too much, he most certainly would turn on his heels, and because two moments were never identical, he might never—
never
—have this moment again. Typically, Rawn was not weak-willed, but he wanted to sense that internal quiet which would lead him to
know
for sure he would be fine. The decision to, or not to, was of significant magnitude in his mind. Before he could turn and get lost in the crowd of stranded travelers—they all were hoping to find something to blur time while being forced to wait—she turned to him and her soft mouth, concealed by a delicate rust-red hue that highlighted the kind shape of her lips, spread sweetly. At once, Rawn noticed her holding Pricilla Miles's much-talked-about new book.

Trying to pretend she was not off guard, she said, “Hello.” She managed a measured monotone.

“You're going, right?”

“Yeah, you too?”

“Yep. L.A.”

“Me, too. I thought I'd grab something to hold my attention since I might be here a while.” Their brown eyes traveled to the controversial best seller. “I needed something juicy.” No sooner than those words left her did she wish she could snatch each one of them back. “I mean, I wanted to read it because I understand her facts can't be disputed because her publisher's legal team went over it with a fine-tooth comb, or so I hear.”

Rawn was not sure what to say to her. He couldn't care less about Miles's book, even when he knew details about him were in it.
Not that he had read it, but Hirsch's paralegal team deciphered it cover-to-cover to verify the book's authenticity as far as Rawn was concerned, and if it was not completely factual, whether a libel suit could be filed on his behalf.

To make her feel at ease, Rawn said, “I've heard it's a page-turner.”

“But you haven't read it?”

He confirmed with a slight shake of his head.

Her eyes rested on the cover. Pricilla's name larger and bolder than the single title,
Vulnerable
, made her unconsciously back away from the idea of reading it. “I probably shouldn't, really. I mean…it's all so salacious and…D'Becca's not here to defend any of this, even if every word is true. And I know what that's like. My father had plenty of horrible things said about him over the years. Some were not true, but even when things were true, they were often taken out of context.”

Who is your father?
was at the tip of his tongue, but her contemplative “Yeah…” made Rawn lose his train of thought. She replaced the book on the shelf. No sooner than her hand left it, another customer retrieved the book like a seat at a hot slot machine in Vegas. “Whatever Tamara did, it's unfair that someone would take things she said in confidence and then betray her and use it to take their career to another level. It's so wrong.” She chuckled. “I'm so glad I ran into you. I was getting caught up like everyone else. Isn't that amazing how that happens? Like a car accident. My mother used to call people like that looky-loos. Suddenly one person stops, then another, then another. Why do people choose to be an eyewitness to the pain and suffering of others? It's so strange.”

All Rawn could think about was her mouth; how visually soft and luscious it appeared to him. It was like when he was a child and they sliced open the first watermelon of the summer. Rawn could not wait to take his first bite.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I-I'm…”

“Let me. To make up for this morning at Café Neuf.”

“What do you mean?” Imani said, tilting her head to one side.

“You know what I mean. I noticed a bar around the corner. It's probably crowded so we might not get to sit. Come on.”

“Okay, sure.” She was stunned at how eager she was, for she did not waver, not for one split-second.

The bar was packed and there were groups of loud and excited people trying to forget about how their precious time was being compromised. She watched Rawn graciously waiting at the crammed bar, and a few lingering glances came his way. It had been nearly six months since the charges against him had been dropped. Still, Rawn garnered such curiosity. Imani knew it was based upon multifaceted reasons, including his elusive nature and his good looks; but perhaps more so, his deafening silence. Just by the success of talk shows, these days everyone wanted to get on television and be a part of the popular narrative.

By his presence at Café Neuf that morning, she knew more than anything else he wanted to be ordinary. Strangely, ordinary was not something many people chose to be. The whole experience he suffered through had to be raw. Yet it was remarkable because it was the quintessence of a journey that required him to have hope, faith, and to forgive. A poignant life lesson required strength and courage. The contradiction of his circumstance—it was all so complicated, and she understood that more than she cared to. A friend, a lover, was killed. He had been accused of causing her death. Still, he had to move on; to live his own life. What motivated Imani to reach for Pricilla Miles's best seller was due almost entirely on the information that was printed on the bond pages. She, like so many, was curious about the details that sound bites could not fully convey, of course.

When she first saw Rawn, probably shortly after they both moved to Washington, the comparison she made of him to that of Blaine was swift. He had the same naturally good looks and polished manners. No doubt, it was why she could not dare be interested. The risk was simply too great for her to fall for the same type yet again. But gradually, when they had polite but small chats at Café Neuf, and on an occasion or two in public places like PCC and Street Two Books and Café, she knew it was unfair to compare him to her ex. Yet Imani did not trust her judgment. Once, she mentioned Rawn to Dante and she told him that Rawn was so elusive and unreachable and those traits were much too dangerous. Dante told Imani to stop using him as an example. It surprised her, because Imani never realized that she was using her father as an
example.

Unconsciously, she stood erect off the wall when a man, seem-ingly aggressive, approached Rawn at the bar. He had ordered but still had not gotten their drinks from one of the two overworked bartenders. The man who approached laughed, as did Rawn, and they shook hands. Before she could go and rescue him or under-stood what was happening, the man walked off and disappeared in the crowd by the bar. Did he know the man, or was he a stranger? Closely, curiously, she studied Rawn while he tried to seek her out amongst the many people stranded at the airport. With a generous, happy face, Imani waved. Rawn's handsome face lifted into an open, carefree look, and he waved back with a casual hunch of his shoulders and rolled his eyes about everything that was happening: delayed flight, crowded bar, fifteen minutes spent trying to get a drink, and the curious nature of
fate!
She made out that he was chuckling as he reached for his wallet in his jeans pocket. In that moment, he touched something inside her unexpectedly. Imani pantomimed, “I know!” And Imani mimicked him by facetiously hunching her shoulders and rolling her eyes.
Content, and so present time was elusive, she laughed back at him.
I like him, Dante. What do you think?

Her cellular broke the imaginary conversation she had with her father. She dug into her tote and felt for the cellular antenna. “Imani!” she answered. “Oh, Pearl.” She grinned. “You got my message? Yes, it looks like we'll be here a bit longer. I would guess we won't leave for at least another hour. The fog's lifted a bit. They announced that a runway is opened for flights to land, but nothing about when we can fly out. Yes, I'm excited too. Change my life; how so?” Imani, not aware of her action, looked over to Rawn at the bar. At last, he got their orders and was paying the bartender. “Yes, maybe.” Imani was glowing; her body even trembled. “I'll call you prior to us boarding so you can know when my flight leaves. A driver? No, please, Pearl. That's embarrassing. It's not necessary. I can rent a car.” With an unconscious blush, she gave in, “Okay, okay!” Happily, she laughed. “I promise. See you soon.”