War (41 page)

              Thank God for Rena.

NAT

              “Are you cold?” I ask her.

              “No, I’m perfect.” She nuzzles up to me tighter and wraps her arms around me. I close my eyes in the dark and feel her heart beat against my chest. I pull the covers up around her so that her shoulders are covered. Damn, I love this woman.

              “Dena.”

              “Yeah, babe.”

              “I love you.”

              “I love you, too.” She kisses my chest.

              Thank God for Dena.

DANIELLE

              Imagine this:             

A 6’2” lawyer who’s a Yale and Princeton grad. Imagine him knowing that your favorite drink is Scotch and Coke, your favorite color is grey, your favorite midnight snack is avocado egg rolls. Imagine living in prime real estate within one of America’s most historic cities. Imagine you’re sipping Scotch on a balcony tonight. Imagine your feet in your lawyer’s lap. Imagine him leaning back, relaxing, sipping Scotch, running his eyes over you. You can hear the night sounds below you: the horns, the valet whistles, Sinatra playing at the jazz bar across the street. Imagine him singing the words of that song to you:
my sunny one, so true. I love you
. You smile at him and shake your head. He winks at you. That’s your song. You can smell his cologne. You can smell
his
scent. Oriental. Deep. Musk.
Just like the Three Wise Men
, you tell him. He laughs. You’ve been saying that to him since you were sixteen years old. Imagine his shoulders, his hands on your legs, and knowing that you’ve given this man something no other woman has given him. You’ve given him his heirs. And so he worships you. You are his shrine. Two heirs.
Three
, he says to you,
a bonus. My first favorite
, he says while winking,
a tough act to follow.

              Imagine how you’d feel with this man.

              This man who knows your favorite things. Sings your favorite song. Calls all of your children his favorites. He asks you what’s next on the agenda:
What’s next for us, baby?
Will you have more children? Will you move to a bigger condo? Will you buy a house? Just for the weekends and holidays…what do you think? Will you invest in your own place in Hilton Head now? How about a sushi bar? We should start one up? Blair Bar…has a ring to it, don’t you think? Good investment in a town off the harbor, right? You ever think about writing books? You’ve got enough stories to have a bestseller. But, please change the names and locations, okay?  Ever think about getting more partners in Blair and Associates? What about adding Nat’s name?
Blair, March & Blair
? Nice. When do you and Jacob plan on telling him? Teaching a course at Harvard would be nice, wouldn’t it? We should try those French recipes that Jasmine created. The kids, you, me. You want a feminist rally this summer? Yeah, I’ll sponsor it. How much do you need? Yeah, I can get some big names in there. How big do you plan on it being? That big, huh? Rossi…yeah, I can get him. You want to open up a bookstore? How about Blair Book Shoppe? What’s wrong with that? You’re a Blair!

              Imagine talking to this man, dreaming with him. Imagine knowing those dreams are within your power to come true. You have the capacity, within your very own hands, to make your thoughts reality. You’re building imaginations. You’re building empires. You’re supporting each other’s hopes.

              You love this man.

              “I love you,” you tell him, unashamed, not a hint of embarrassment. You know he loves you back.

              And so, at night when half the city is asleep, you’re with this man. In your bed. And you feel him…his chest, his tongue, his hands. You close your eyes and feel the breeze from the open window. You hear the jazz sounds from the bar. You hear the laughing voices coming from the all-night café. You smell bourbon and sugar in the air. Coffee and Scotch. Fried dough and cigars.

             
God, you love this town.

God, you love this man.

              “What’s next?” you whisper in his ear as he buries himself inside you, links your fingers with his and hides his face in your neck.

              “Whatever you want,” he says to you, his five o’clock shadow tinkling your neck. He looks up at you. “What do you want?”

              Your lips are almost touching each other. Your eyes are locked on each other. He’s willing to give you anything.

              You smile. He smells so good. He feels so good. He makes
you
feel so good.

              “For things to never change.”

He smiles back at you. He knows what you mean.

              He knows that you will argue. Lovers always argue. He knows that you will get more degrees, open a business, write books, find new music to love and new places to travel. He knows that you’ll find a new food that you’ll love, other can those avocado egg rolls. And though you love Starbuck’s Anniversary Blend, their Ethiopia Blend will likely become your new favorite coffee. He knows that you’ll stop wearing pink nail polish because you’re really digging the red look. He knows that you’ll get tired of the red polish and wonder why you stopped wearing pink. He knows that things change.

So, when he hears you say that you never want things to change, what he really hears is:

Let’s keep this going. This good thing we have. This crazy ride we’re on. These babies and court cases and book deals and in-laws. Let’s keep it all going. Let’s never change.

              And you wrap your arms around his neck and he wraps his arms around your waist and right now, you’re both grateful.

              Finally, he found you. Finally, you can love him.

I was waiting for this man. I never knew it, but I was waiting for him.

Finally, Malcolm Blair is
mine
.

MALCOLM

              Jake and I have already been up and out this morning. At six, we had to go to the chief’s office, wake up Jacob’s sister and personally see them to their husband’s vehicles, according to the chief’s order. And, as is typical for people who have been arrested, my cousins swore to their innocence and to the judicial system being subpar. Jake and I agreed with small nods, the judicial system is fucked up. The two of us should know. By the time we arrived back at our condo building, it seemed like everyone was outside with their children, waiting for their town cars or limos to take them to the airport. I had already warned Jake that Jasmine may be around with Marlon and the kids. Red told me that she stayed with Rena last night.

              “I couldn’t care less,” was his only response as he gazed out of the passenger window of my truck. He did admit, this morning, that he was on meds: “I figured Cadence told you anyway.”

              “He did.”

              Cadence had already called me last night, concerned about Jake, telling me to keep an eye out for him. Jake is his younger cousin, and though Jake and I are the same age (Pammy did that on purpose, my mother says) he’s a month younger than me. “I told Cadence I wouldn’t let our baby cousin hurt himself.”

              “Shut the hell up,” he said to me. End of discussion.

              Right now, as I pull up to valet, I can see Jasmine across the street. She’s strolling through her Android as Dena whispers to her. Jasmine lets off the occasional nod. Tiffany and Pearl, Jasmine’s daughters, are nearby with their nanny, Gertrude, playing patty cake as Gertrude twists one of Pearl’s ponytails. Marlon is walking up to Jasmine and Dena, a smile on his face, a Starbucks tray in his hands holding four coffees. Dena stops whispering to Jasmine and gives Marlon a big ‘thank you’ before taking a cup. Jasmine reaches for a cup without even looking, still scrolling through her phone. Marlon doesn’t seem to mind her dismissal, he’s probably happy she’s back in Boston. He heads over to Gertrude to offer her a cup of coffee. It’ll be a long struggle for him and Jasmine, but something in me can’t see them divorcing. Established figures in Boston’s black community seldom, if ever, divorce. Red is probably the only exception.

              Speaking of Red, right now she’s talking to Lola and Winnie. Lola’s rubbing her stomach, likely talking about the pains of carrying a child. Winnie and Red nod along, between the two of them they have seven kids. They know all about the pains of bearing kids.

Wait a minute…

              “Winnie?” I say, as I pull the truck up to the curb. I come to a complete stop and then turn to smile at Jake.

              “I didn’t wanna jinx it,” he says as he gives a small smile.

              “When did you talk to her?”

              “Last night.”

              “Yeah, you two will be okay.” I open the door for valet.

              “Hope so.”

              Jake and I leave the truck and as I step up on the curb, I notice my mother and Aunt Pammy standing off to the side, cups of Starbucks in their hands. My mother is also holding Sunday, who has a hat on. Aunt Pammy and my mother are whispering while staring straight at Jasmine. I’m a lawyer, I can read lips.

              “I won’t rest until I destroy her,” Pammy says.

              “If I don’t get to her first,” my mother adds.

              There’s a Rena and Red in every generation. My mother and Pammy can fight to the death, but when it comes to one of their sons, their rivalry gets laid aside. They’re hell-bent on ending Jasmine’s life now. I’ll say something to my mother so that she knows I can see she’s up to no good.

              “Hi, ma.”

              “What’s that supposed to mean?” she says, highly offended. I walk over to her and Aunt Pammy and give Sunny a kiss on the lips. “She’s sleeping,” my mother shoos me away. “And we’re talking. Goodbye.” She and Aunt Pammy give me warning looks. I walk away.

              Standing a few feet away from them are my father and Uncle Preston, both smoking cigars at eight-fifteen in the morning. Both laughing and slapping each other on the shoulders. Jake and I head over to them.

              “Dad,” Jake says. “What’s Mom doing here?” Uncle Preston looks up and gives Jacob a ‘like you don’t know’ look.

              “Like your mother was about to let you and me take the kids and leave her all alone with those daughters of hers for a week.”

              “Should’ve known.”

              “Plus, when you called me last night and said that Winnie might be coming, she decided that you and Winnie should get a separate suite in the Grand Floridian.”

              “Disney’s pretty romantic,” my father says. “That harbor town they’ve got with its boat rides. Downtown Disney with the bars. Epcot Center, with the little Parisian town inside of it.”

              “Oh, you don’t have to tell me. Pammy and I…” Uncle Preston looks at Jake. “Tell you later.” He and my father bend over in laughter. “I don’t have four kids for nothing!” Jake and I move along. As we head over to Red, Winnie and Lola, Jon and Marla walk out of the condo building together. Jon’s walking behind Marla who’s talking on her cell.

              “That’s so true! I know! I’m telling you, Bryan, I am just so… I know! I know! Me too! Oh, you and I are so much alike.” Glad to know that Marla’s doing well at her new job. She gives Jake and I a big wave and a silent ‘hey!’ Jon pretends not to see us.

              Cadence walks out of the building at that moment, nearly running to Lola with a hand-sized bottle of ginger ale. If there was any man who was made for being the husband of a pregnant woman, it’s Cadence Blair.