A Private Affair (31 page)

The small church was packed. Neighbors and friends stood shoulder to shoulder, whispering among themselves how tragic it all was. Marcus stood alone—from the world and with his grief. He couldn't count how many times he'd asked himself: Why his sister?

Parts of him felt as if they'd break into a million pieces. Other parts of him were infused with an anger that was barely contained. The pain was so deep, so pervasive, that it stooped his proud shoulders.

He tried to pay attention to what the minister was saying. It was all a haze. The trip to Tracy's final resting place was a dream scene. Words of condolence were met with his vacant stare and empty smiles. The sultry, steamy days that followed blended together into a nothingness.

Marcus forced himself to go out every day, to the street that was his home. He seemed driven by forces that he could not control. He pushed himself with a vengeance. Maybe if he had worked harder, faster, none of this would have happened. He and Tracy would have been out of the clutches of the drive-bys, the drugs, the gangs. It was his fault. And he felt so alone—until he met her.

He'd been sitting in the local jazz club, nursing a glass of Jack Daniels, when she'd walked into the club. He felt his heart pick up just a notch, and the hair on the back of his neck began to tingle with awareness. Even the music seemed to pulse with a little more intensity, like a scene in a movie building toward the climax.

He tossed down the last of his drink and watched her move—in what seemed like slow motion—across the crowded room. She wore a white spaghetti-strap T-shirt that molded to the curves of her breasts from the dampness that clung to her body like a satisfied lover.

She was a bit on the short side, Marcus noted, but she was packaged well. The pale-colored shorts cupped her round bottom in a most appealing way. Her curved legs were a glistening bare brown, the color of honey, her tiny feet encased in white deck shoes.

Marcus swallowed hard, and swore that the air-conditioning must have burst a circuit, because it was suddenly damned hot.

She signaled for the waiter and ordered a Pepsi with lemon.

He slid slowly around on the bar stool until he had a view diagonally across from where she sat, apparently very content with her surroundings. She wasn't meeting anyone.

He didn't know how he knew it. He just did.

She seemed to sense his approach. Slowly, she raised her eyes. They didn't register alarm, Marcus realized, but acceptance. He watched her swallow the last of her drink, and followed the path of the cool liquid down the line of her slender throat. She smiled when he stopped and stood above her.

“I've been watching you for a while,” Marcus said. He'd memorized the perfect slope of her brown eyes, the arch of her chiseled cheekbones, the curve of her full lips, but up close they were even more intense. The sensation had him reeling.

He took a quick breath and slid into the seat next to her. “I'm glad you're alone.” He looked casually around the darkened room. “You aren't waiting for anyone,” he stated more than asked.

“What makes you think that?”

Her voice was low and throaty, inviting, just like he'd imagined it would be.

“Because we've been waiting to meet each other for a long time. The time is now.” He gave her a slow, lazy smile. “My name is Marcus Collins, and yours…” He reached across the table and took her hand. He felt her tremble, and instantly knew that she wasn't as full of all the bravado she'd displayed. That tiny realization inched open the doorway to emotions that he'd nailed shut.

And he was suddenly afraid. Afraid of what feeling again would do to him.

 

Through a veil of tears, she wiped her eyes and continued to read, reliving their life together, page after page, the loving, the laughter, the fighting, and his secret pain.

 

He wasn't sure anymore where he began and she ended. The more he gave, the more she wanted, never seeing that all he wanted, all he needed in his life, was for her to love him, just to be loved for who he was: a simple man. Maybe not the perfect man, but one who was willing to try, who was doing all that he could, in his own way, to make her happy. Even, it seemed, to give up a part of himself in the process.

That Christmas, at her parents' house, was the beginning of the end. He didn't realize it then, but it was.

 

In vivid, anguished clarity the eloquent prose painted a portrait of a man emasculated, humiliated, in front of the woman who claimed to love him. Why, the writer asked, would she have put
him in that position when she said she cared? So he'd put on his front, his don't-give-a-damn attitude, hidden behind his facade of indifference, and she hadn't seemed to notice.

 

But it wasn't her fault. He couldn't blame her. Never would. It was all she knew. She came from a world where everything went according to plan. There was no struggle, no hard-core reality check. She stayed so busy planning the future, she couldn't see the now. But still he tried, until he couldn't try anymore.

And how could he tell her what was going on inside? He'd never really learned to share emotions. That was for women, he believed. She saw him as a tower of strength. No weakness. This vision of invincibility. He couldn't show any other face to her. Not now. Not after all this time. The only way he knew how to show her that he cared was by giving her what she needed. And giving her his body. It was the only time he could let go, bridge the gap that separated them. There was no other plateau on which he could reach her expectations. It was only there that he filled her.

And finally, even for him, it was no longer enough.

 

She didn't want to read any more. Didn't want to feel those feelings again. She'd never known. Never understood how deep his feelings went. How empty he felt without his sister, how guilty he felt about his mother's abandonment, the loss of the women in his life, his fear that it would only happen again. She'd tried to fill it by making him do, do more, do better.

And then it hit her like a surprise left hook. She'd done to Quinn exactly what her parents had done to her. And just as it had pushed her away, it pushed him away, too. He had to find his own way.

And he had.

“Oh, God, Quinn, I'm so sorry. So sorry.”

She covered her face with her hands and wept.

 

On the ride to the club she tried to keep up a cheerful front, to smile in all the right places, say the right thing. But it took all she had not to come apart.

Grant looked at her after another bout of silence. “You want to tell me what's wrong, Nikita?”

She forced another smile. “Nothing. Just tired, I guess, and anxious to see Parris again.”

“You sure? You seem totally preoccupied—”

“I'm fine, Grant, really. Just…please…leave it alone.”

“I would if I knew what it was I was leaving alone.” He focused all of his attention on driving, hoping that she'd finally tell him about whatever was bothering her.

 

The club was packed by the time she and Grant arrived. Michelle, still the hostess, wiggled around the patrons and showed them to their tables. Jewel and her soul mate Taj were already seated.

Taj stood and kissed her cheek. “Hey, lady. Long time.”

“Listen to you, Mr. World Traveler.” She turned toward Grant and introduced him to Taj.

They ordered drinks. Nikita stuck to her usual, but within the next few minutes she wished she'd gotten something stronger.

“Good evening, everyone,” Nick said, stepping up to the mike. “Tonight we have a special treat for you. Not only will my lovely wife, the incomparable Parris McKay, be singing for you, but we have a special guest—a former member of the band who will play some selections from his soon-to-be-released CD…Mr. Quinten Parker. Give it up!”

Her heart slammed in her chest, arresting her breathing. Her head pounded.

The audience roared its approval.

Quinn rose from a seat at a table on the far side of the room, moving toward the stage in the slow, easy gait that she'd memorized, taking his place behind the black and whites, in the single spotlight that captured him.

She froze. Seeing him again…here, now, in the place where it really all began, pushed away all the time that was lost, the hurt that was experienced. And time suddenly stood still as he took them on a musical odyssey, his fingers caressing the keys the way they'd once played along her spine.

Grant had his arm around her shoulder and felt her stiffen, then begin to tremble, ever so slightly.

He whispered in her ear, “We can leave if you want.”

She looked at him, really looked at him, and realized that he understood. Probably always had, without her ever saying a word. And he'd been by her side…anyway. The way Maxine had always been for Quinn.

She smiled and squeezed his hand. “No. I need to stay.”

He nodded, kissed her temple and turned his gaze back to the stage.

 

The club had emptied out. The strains of music from the jukebox filtered through the spaces. Everyone was gone and, to her surprise, it was Grant who'd insisted that she stay behind and “work it out.” He'd given her a soft look of understanding and perhaps regret. “I'll be home if you need me,” he'd said.

Nikita picked up her glass and then put it back down, looking across at Parris. “When did you know he was coming?”

“About an hour before I went on.” She looked at her friend. “Are you okay?”

“I will be. Finally, I think I will be.” She took in a long breath and let it go. “I know everything now, Parris. Everything that went wrong and what went right,” she said in a faraway voice.

“What do you mean, hon?”

She looked into Parris's green eyes. “He wrote a novel. Yes. Quinten Parker wrote a novel.” She turned away for a moment. “About us. Our life together.” She slowly shook her head. “I saw myself through his eyes, Parris. I was never able to see that before. Maybe I didn't want to.”

“And?”

“He did the best he could. Loved me in his own way. We didn't give each other a real chance.” Her throat tightened. She looked up and saw him walking across the floor, toward their table.

Parris got up, touched his arm as she walked past him, and disappeared into the back room.

His smile was soft, hesitant, but those damned dimples were still there, and she smiled.

“Still drinking that lemon Pepsi.”

That old familiar voice surrounded her, worked its way down to her bones.

He reached out his hand to take hers, as the jukebox pumped out Chaka Khan's “Your Love is All I Know.”

She stepped into his embrace, as if she'd never left. And they moved easily to the music, finding their own special rhythm, the poignant words touching them in their own way.

“I had to come back. To see you, Niki. Tell you I was sorry,” he said in a ragged voice, hugging the familiar body close to his.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know.” She took a breath, stepped back and looked up into his eyes. “I read the book, Quinn. Most of it—”

“I needed you to…I found a way, Niki…just like you always said I would. I…tried to use what I'd always had, to say what I've never said to you…. It wasn't your fault, baby. Never was. And I can't keep runnin' away anymore. Runnin' to the familiar, takin' the easy way out, where it's safe. You never gave me no easy way, Niki, and it scared me.”

She struggled for air.

“I'm not scared anymore.”

“Where do I go…after all that we've been through…”
Chaka cried.

Nikita swallowed back the lump in her throat, her eyes sparkling with the tears she'd sworn she'd never shed again.

And then he said the words he'd never uttered to another soul. “I love you, Nikita, from the depths of my soul…I know that now…maybe I always did.”

Her world seemed to spin and she barely breathed. How long had she waited to hear him say he loved her? Those precious words. She inhaled deeply, and stepped out of his embrace. She reached up and stroked his cheek, pushing aside a stray lock of his hair.

She stood on tiptoes, touched her mouth to his, to those all too familiar lips, lingering a moment, just…long enough.

“You know how to find me, when you're ready.”