Chances Are (12 page)

But here she was and it wasn't bad. It wasn't scary. She was beginning to enjoy the closeness, the mellow music from the radio that wrapped around them. She even enjoyed Garrett's off-key humming to a Luther Vandross melody.

They talked intermittently about the neighborhoods they passed, the oncoming winter. She shared some anecdotes about the girls at the house and the infants who came just months ago and were now toddling around, the progress of many of them who had finally returned to school, those who had moved out after their one-year stay and had gone on to college or work.

He told her about his second passion—music and his wide-ranging tastes. They both agreed that underground rap was detrimental, that Billie Holiday was their favorite jazz singer, and that Diana Ross should have won an Oscar for her portrayal of Lady Day.

“Have any favorite movies?” he asked as he made the turn onto the circle of Prospect Park and then down Prospect Park West.

“Hmm. I liked
Face Off, Soul Food, Love Jones, The Fugitive, Titanic
and
Wuthering Heights.
She turned to him and grinned.

“That's variety.” He paused a minute. “Do you—go out a lot?”

Her heart thumped. “With work and all—”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“I'm just on the next block, between First and Second.”

Any minute now he'd be pulling up in front of her door. She'd get out and that would be that. But he didn't want the day to end at her door. Away from their jobs, what they did, they were relaxed. They laughed and even enjoyed the same music.

“Third building from the corner,” she said cutting into his thoughts.

He pulled up in front of a fire hydrant, the only available space on the entire block. He hopped out and opened her door, then untied her bike from the trunk of his car.

“I can handle it from here. Thanks.” She balanced the bike, then focused on Garrett. “I really appreciate the lift.”

He shoved his hands into the front panel of his sweatshirt. “No problem. I enjoyed it.”

Her gaze faltered. “Well, I'd better get upstairs.” She began to push the bike.

“Dee.” She stopped. “I was just thinking—maybe if you weren't doing anything special—later, you'd like to see a movie.”

She felt hot all over and her stomach was doing that swirling thing again. “Movie?”

“Yeah.”

She sort of shrugged, looked down at the ground, up the block then back at him. Her heart was racing. “Have anything in mind?”

He almost shouted hallelujah. “You pick. And I'll pick the place for dinner.”

“All right. What time?”

“Call me when you're ready. Maybe we could catch an early show.”

“You'll have to give me your number. I have it at work.”

“Sure.” He went to the car and opened the glove compartment, fumbled around inside, pulled out a seen-better-days business card and scribbled his home number on it. For a moment she had a crazy thought and wondered if he always kept things around for a long time. Clothes…papers…people?

He grinned. “It's in pretty sorry shape,” he said, handing her the card. “But the numbers are good. My home number is on the back.”

“Thanks. So I'll see you later.”

“Definitely.” He headed for the car and jogged around to the driver's side then stopped before he opened the door and leaned across the hood.

“Dee.”

She turned.

“
This
is a date.” He got in the car before she had a chance to respond.

W
alking up the stairs to her second-floor apartment, she wasn't sure if the thudding she was hearing was her footsteps against the stairs or the pounding of her pulse in her ears.

A date.

With Garrett.

An excited smile tugged at her mouth as she fumbled to get her key in the lock. She wasn't sure why she agreed. But—

There really wasn't time to think about it—and she really didn't want to. That would just give her a chance to change her mind. Instead she focused on running a hot bath to ease the tightness in her muscles and figuring out what to wear.

 

Steam rose in waves like the sun bouncing off the hot pavement at the height of a summer afternoon. Dione eased into the water, inch by inch, her skin rebelling, her muscles echoing a joint
ahh.

Scented peach bubbles sat atop the water like playful clouds, tickling her chin, dancing across her knees, between her thighs. She leaned back against the plastic neck cushion and closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep down into her bones.

This was really no big deal, she mused, this date thing with Garrett. They'd been out together before, they just didn't give what they were doing a name.

But now that they had, it took whatever was going on between them to another level. What did he really want? What was he looking for?

She sighed. It had always been so hard for her to express feelings, share herself with a man. All through her childhood, she'd struggled to earn her father's love, to have him look at her with warmth and adoration in his eyes.

Being at the top of her classes wasn't good enough—being pretty, athletic, having nice friends, excellent manners. Nothing was ever quite good enough to suit Richard Williams.

So she finally found what she was looking for in Michael's arms. The comfort, the embracing, the being told how wonderful she was. At least that's what all her studying in psychology told her. It's what the professors outlined in the textbooks.

Yet, even with all the knowledge, the understanding of her emotional gaps, it didn't make things easier. It didn't make it easier for her to love a man for the right reasons.

So she stayed away from commitment, of opening up, of giving. It was safer that way because every time she found herself drawing close to a man, she'd see her father's face, that leather strap slashing across her, her father's face contorted in rage, as he demanded to know “Who is it?” over and over. And she would feel so worthless and dirty.

Dione slowly opened her eyes. “One day I'll get over it,” she whispered. “One day.”

 

More than an hour later she sat on the side of her bed, staring at the phone. She held the battered card with Garrett's phone number, took a breath and punched in the numbers.

He answered before the phone rang twice.

“It's Dione. You said to call when I was ready.”

“Then I take it you're ready and if you can hold on for about twenty minutes, I'll be there.”

“Fine.”

“See you in a few.”

Slowly she hung up the phone and felt the excitement popping in her body like dozens of bottles of uncorked Dom Perignon.

Getting up she went to the bedroom mirror to check her hair and the barely there makeup. She brushed her hair until it fanned out around her shoulders and then she teased her layered front with her fingers.

She looked at her outfit and thought about changing it. Maybe the wool and crepe pantsuit was too conservative. She searched through her accessories' drawer and pulled out a printed, rayon scarf to drape across her shoulder.

She blew out a breath and pulled the scarf off, just as the phone rang. Her first thought was that it was Garrett changing his mind.

“Hey, girl.”

“Terri, hi.” She breathed in relief.

“So—tell, tell.”

Dione grinned. “Tell what?”

“Don't get cute. You know what I mean. You and dark and lovely.”

“Oh, him,” she said trying to sound casual. “Well as we speak he's on his way to take me to a movie and dinner.”

“Now that's more like it. This I assume is
not
a business dinner.”

“He said it's a date.”

“And you say—”

She paused. “It's a date.”

“Well, just enjoy yourself. He seems nice, Dee, and we all know no one's perfect. So give the brother a chance.”

“I will. I think.”

“Don't think. That's always been your problem. You think and worry too much, usually about everyone else, unfortunately. Just go with it.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Fine. Be sarcastic. Just have a good time. And do call me and give me the details, girl.”

“I'm sure there won't be anything to tell.”

“I hope not!” Terri laughed. “Talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

Dione smiled and shook her head, just as the doorbell rang. Her heart knocked hard against her chest, then went off on a mad gallop.

She dashed across the room and peered into the mirror, grabbed the discarded scarf and draped it back across her shoulder.

The bell rang again.

She took a breath, brushed the invisible wrinkles out of her jacket and went down to open the door.

 

Garrett bounced from one foot to the other.

Waiting.

He was so nervous he felt as if he was ready to pledge his intentions to an unbending father for the hand of his daughter.

During the time he'd waited for her call, and then during the drive over, all he could think about was making a good impression, hoping that the evening went along without a hitch. He didn't want tonight to be a flash in the pan, a one night event. He wanted it to be the start of something. And the reality scared him.

He'd never wanted to be with a woman in the hope of wanting to give of himself. When he married Gayle, he married because he was needy. He was young, struggling and carrying around the heavy load of his youth.

Gayle Stanley was cute, not too smart but she seemed to genuinely care about him. And that's all he needed, even though there was only so much he could give in return.

Although his marriage was definitely not made in heaven, realizing that Gayle only married him because of what she thought he was destined to become was more hurtful than accepting that she'd never loved him at all.

But Dione—her compassion and passion for everyone who came under her care—awakened all the emotions that had been dormant. He wanted to take the chance that maybe, just maybe, Dione would take him under her care and care about him, too.

The door was pulled open and his hopes escalated.

 

They drove to the Lincoln Center area in Manhattan. The upper-crust neighborhood was braced by hi-rise, high-priced co-ops, the Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts, theaters and an array of dressed-up and dressed-down strollers.

The fountain at the center of Lincoln Square sprouted rivulets of water that resembled a moving rainbow as the water reflected the twinkling lights and colors of the city.

After parking Garrett's car in the Lincoln Center garage, they had dinner at an intimate Italian restaurant on Sixty-Seventh Street.

Garrett was every bit the gentleman, and Dione felt like a Nubian queen from his attentiveness to her every need.

So this is what I've been missing,
she thought as Garrett held her chair and helped her on with her coat.

They walked several blocks to the theater, jostled periodically by rushing theater and dinner goers who didn't give a second thought to cutting right between them as they walked.

“We can put a stop to this,” Garrett announced, after being separated from Dione once again. He took her hand and tucked it into the curve of his arm. “Now,” he grinned, “let's see if they can get through this.”

Dione looked across and up at him, his eyes dark and serious even though his tone was light. A rush flowed through her, warming her, even as the chilly evening air moved around them trying to find a dark haven beneath their coats.

He smiled softly. “This okay with you?” He looked toward their joined bodies.

“Umm-hmm,” she mumbled not daring to trust the strength of her voice.

Garrett pulled her just a bit closer.

 

Sitting in the darkened theater, their knees touching and fingers brushing as they dipped into the box of extra-buttered popcorn, was an exercise in subtle seduction.

Every touch, breath, movement was an aphrodisiac. Garrett felt as if his veins had become live wires, charged by Dione.

She struggled to focus on the movie. But she knew if there was a pop quiz afterward, she'd fail miserably, especially when the heat from Garrett's nearness, the intoxicating scent of his cologne scrambled her thoughts. She hoped he didn't want to discuss the movie.

 

“Are you in a hurry to get back home?” Garrett asked when they'd emerged from the darkness of the theater.

“Not really. Why?”

“I thought we could go for a drive before I took you home.”

She thought about it for a moment…she should go home. “Okay.”

 

“So, tell me something about yourself that's not in your bio,” Garrett said as he got onto the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge.

“It's not that interesting. I grew up in Brooklyn, went to New York University.”

“NYU. Hmm. Big time.”

She laughed. “Scholarship. One of my closest friends is Terri,” she continued with a smile thinking of her tell-it-like-it-is friend. “I love jazz, lazy Sunday afternoons. I take my job very seriously and think I'm good at what I do. And last but not least, I have a beautiful, almost eighteen-year-old daughter attending Howard University.”

A daughter.
So she'd been married, too.
Wonder where he is, and what man in his right mind would leave her?
Chances are, it was her job, he thought, no pun intended.

“What's your daughter's name?”

“Niyah.”

He smiled. “Pretty.”

“What about you? Besides being an electronics freak. Any kids?”

“No. None. Got an ex-wife, though.”

“Hmm.” She stole a glance at him and saw that his features had hardened. A tight line was drawn between his eyes. This was another touchy topic, she noted, which was just as well. Family wasn't the easiest thing for her to talk about, either.

“How did you get involved with Chances Are?”

“Sounds like a question for the documentary,” she said stalling.

“Maybe, but I'd like to understand for myself.”

He made the turn onto the Brooklyn Queens Expressway.

They only have to know what you tell them,
a voice whispered. “I did my social work thesis on teen pregnancy.” That much was true. “As part of my paper I toured several of the shelters and ‘homes' for teen mothers. For the most part, it was depressing. There were no programs or services in place to make life better for them. They were just places for them to stay until they were transferred someplace else, or taken in by a family member.” She blew out a breath remembering those days. “I just felt if I could, I had to do something.

“As it happened one of my part-time jobs during college was working in a real estate office. I learned the business inside out, kept my eyes on the market. The building that became Chances Are was in foreclosure. I took it over after months of negotiations with the community boards and the block association. I had to convince them that the property values wouldn't be lost,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Finally pulled it off. The rest—is what you see.”

“Wow. That's some story.” He glanced briefly at her and suddenly saw her in an entirely different light. “So your degree is in social work?”

“Yes. And adolescent psychology. I just received my certification two months ago in social work,” she added. “Now I can go into private practice if I want. What about you?”

“Nothing quite as interesting as your alleged uninteresting story. Lived and went to school in Brooklyn. I spent about six years in Queens. That's where I met my ex-wife—Gayle. Got married when I turned twenty-one. I was a free man by twenty-two. Bounced around from job to job, like I told you at the studio, until I went into production.”

“How did you get the studio?”

“Not quite as difficult as how you got yours. Saw an ad in the paper one day for a space to rent. Me and Jason had been doing a bunch of freelance stuff at the time, renting equipment and what not, so we pitched in, took a lease with the option to buy and the property became officially ours last year.”