Enchanted Heart (10 page)

Lance had not the first clue about dealing with these kids or their problems. He couldn't relate—and didn't necessarily care about learning how to.

“I think I've had enough guilt trips for one day.”

T.J. pushed him. “I wasn't putting a guilt trip on you. Just pointing out that you have something to offer. Something that these kids don't see or get enough of.”

“And that would be?”

“Positive black role models. We have the politicians, and they do some good. The churches are so-so, some better than others. But it's the one-on-one connections that are so vital.

“Come on, man. Help a brother out. You're down here at least once a week anyway.”

Their standing game of racquetball took place on the courts at the rec center. Though Lance made the drive down Jefferson Avenue to the East End, he'd never really given the place or its inhabitants much thought. He was in and out—sort of the way his grandmother described his relationships and his life.

“I'm not a shrink.”

“You don't have to be. Ms. Epps wasn't. She was a social worker.”

“I'm not a social worker either. What would I talk about with them?”

“Whatever comes up. Come on, man. I need your help. Whether they say it or not, these kids are going be scared and hurting when they get here. Just talk to them, okay?”

Twenty minutes later Lance was sitting in a classroom looking at five surly teenagers—two girls and three boys—glare at him. Two conference tables pushed together formed a square around which they sat. One girl with long braids rested her head on her arms on the table. For a minute Lance thought she was asleep. The other girl smacked gum loud enough to wake the dead. The boys all looked like they'd come straight out of a hip-hop video: cornrows, oversized shirts, baggy jeans and lots of attitude.

“You the new counselor? What happened to Ms. Epps?”

Lance took off his suit jacket. He deliberately ignored the pointed looks and whispering from the two girls. “Ms. Epps won't be coming back.”

One of the boys smirked. “Told you that white lady was scared to come down here. Probably thought she was gonna get shot, too.”

Was getting shot one day all that these kids had to look forward to? They seemed to be taking it all pretty much as a matter of course.

“It had nothing to do with last night's shooting,” Lance said.

“Bullshit.”

Lance slowly turned to face the girl who'd said that, the one with the braids. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“What's it to you?”

Lance shrugged. “Well, I've dated a lot of women. And one of the things that attracts a man to a woman is how she perceives herself.”

The teen arched a bushy eyebrow at him in a hurry-up-and-make-your-point gesture.

“It's not the outer package that makes a woman beautiful,” he said. “It's what's inside.”

The girl sat up a little straighter, but continued to eye him warily.

Lance had not a clue where he was going with this. But he instinctively knew he'd lose respect and credibility with this crew if he just said, “Don't cuss.” He had to hit it home using another tack.

“And?” the girl challenged.

“And profanity is just a reflection of how a person perceives himself or herself.” Said Lance the philosopher, he thought to himself. Why he'd let T.J. talk him into this he didn't know.

Just what the hell was he going to do with these kids for the next hour?

He'd grown up in a very literal lap of luxury, with private schools from kindergarten through high school, undergraduate and graduate opportunities at two of the country's most prestigious colleges. He had the clothes, the cars and the bank account to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted—Virginia's threats notwithstanding.

But what did these kids have? And what could he offer them?

Racking his brain, Lance stumbled onto a topic that might engage them.

“If you could live anywhere in the world,” he started, “and all your bills and needs were taken care of, where would you live?”

“Paris,” a girl answered quickly.

“What bills?” one of the boys said.

Lance frowned. “Oh yeah. Well, you didn't have to worry about money or food or a place to stay.” He smiled at the girl who'd had an immediate answer. “Why Paris?”

Suddenly conscious of the others, the girl shrugged.

“Go on, Shonda. Tell 'im.”

She smiled, and Lance realized that under the attitude, she was a pretty girl. And she probably liked one of the boys slouching at the table.

“I seened this show on BET.”

No grammarian himself, Lance winced at the language.

“It was about Josephine Baker,” the girl said. “She went to Paris and danced and sang.” She waved her arms as if performing before a legion of fans. “And they loved her over there.”

“So you'd like to be a singer, a dancer?”

She shrugged again.

“Shonda got the moves,” the other girl said. “My name's Chrysanthemum and I'm going to New York.”

“Have you ever been there before?” Lance asked.

The girl nodded. “'Bout three years ago. We was s'pozed to have a family reunion down here, over in Portsmouth, but my mama's sister got sick so we went up there for a coupla weeks. She died.”

“But you liked New York?”

“Yeah,” she said, a saucy smile at her mouth.

Lance folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. “What'd you like about it?”

Chrysanthemum shook her head then closed her eyes for a moment. “Everything,” she said, awe evident in her voice. “It was just off the hook. The food. Them tall buildings. I mean look, we got what? City hall? That ain't no tall building. Up in New York, man, it's just awesome.”

“A couple of 'em ain't so awesome anymore,” one of the boys said.

“Shut up,” Chrysanthemum told him.

Lance ignored the byplay. “So what do you want to do there?”

She shrugged. “Just be.”

“Being ain't no job,” the boy across from her said.

“Well, we're not necessarily talking about jobs here,” Lance said. “For now, just a place you'd like to go.”

“Well, I'm gonna get out to California one of these days,” the teen said.

“What's your name?”

“They call me Fly.”

“Yeah, 'cause he jet like he got wings,” Shonda said.

Lance surreptitiously glanced at the girl. Hmm, was Fly the object of her concealed affection? He turned to the boy. “So, what's waiting for you in California?”

“Babes, man. I'm gon' be on the beach. But I'm only gonna rescue the pretty ones.” He hopped up and did a slow-motion run
à la Baywatch
that had them all laughing.

“He watch too much fucking television,” Shonda said.

“Shut up,” Fly said on a grunt.

Lance held up a hand. “Respect. All around.”

For a moment, none of the teens said anything. Then, Fly nodded toward Shonda. It was the best apology he'd offer.

The girl beamed and slid a smile toward Chrysanthemum.

“What about you?” Lance asked the next boy, a tall and broad youth.

The boy shrugged.

“Does that mean you've never given it any thought or you don't have a place in mind?”

The big kid shrugged again.

“Blake don't talk too much,” Fly said. “He's whatchu call the strong, silent type.”

Blake took his hat off and hit Fly with it.

Lance smiled at the play.

“Blake don't have a lot of words 'cause he put all his energy in his music.”

“You're a musician?”

The boy's face lit up. He'd apparently never quite thought of himself that way.

“Yeah,” he finally said.

“Do you play or sing?”

He shrugged again.

Lance looked to the others.

“Blake play the piano and the trumpet. He good, too,” Shonda said.

“Cool,” Lance said. “We have some talented people here. So far an entertainer in Paris, a student of human nature maybe a writer or philosopher in New York, an actor or lifeguard in California and a musician. What about you?” he asked the last teenager. “Where would you want to live?”

“I don't know. I ain't never lived no place else but Newport News.”

“The world's a much bigger place than Newport News, Virginia.”

That seemed to bring them all down.

“But we stuck here,” Fly said.

That's when Lance figured out just how he could help these kids. He leaned forward, placed both palms on the tabletop. “Not necessarily,” he said.

“What? You gonna take us on a field trip to Paris and New York and California?”

That comment brought snickers all around.

“Maybe.”

That earned him five sets of raised eyebrows, but a couple of the kids sat up.

“Meet me here next week,” Lance told them. “Same time. And have in mind something you might like to do in that place where you'd like to live or at least visit.”

When the kids left, Lance made a couple of phone calls. It took no time at all to set up his plan. Next week, he'd take them on a field trip. With luck, not a one of them would want to return home.

Lance grinned. He wasn't sure if this was what T.J. had in mind. He'd come down to the rec center to whine about his grandmother messing up his life and ended up launching Lance's Charm School for Inner City Pre-Delinquents.

8

“T
hat boy just tries my patience.”

“Cut him some slack, Virginia. He can't help the circumstances of his birth.”

“It's not his birth that's bothering me. It's what he's done since then, mostly running around like a stallion in heat.”

Lily Renaldi paused in the middle of folding a white linen napkin to look at her agitated friend. “I don't think stallions go into heat. Aren't they the male horse?”

“Lily, please.”

The two old friends were setting up for an afternoon game of bid whist at Lily's home. If Virginia hadn't been rich, she and Lily probably would be living next door to each other.

Lily put the unfolded napkin down and took Virginia's arm, steering her toward the sofa in front of a large fireplace. The two women sat side-by-side, close, reminiscent of the way they huddled together as teens to spin the tales of the dark knights who'd whisk them away to love and houses all their own with families to love and care for.

The only problem with the fairy tale they'd adored so much was how it had ended.

Virginia got the rich man, the supposed prince who showered her with all the material possessions she ever could have wanted, but he'd kept his love for the many mistresses with whom he'd dallied during their marriage. Lily's life hadn't been gilded either. Her first husband beat her and her second couldn't give her the children she so desperately wanted. So they'd adopted two, one who'd died, the other who, like Cole, couldn't stand his mother.

So now, at age sixty-four, the two women found themselves still waiting for happiness, but not expecting it to arrive anytime soon—if ever.

Lily patted Virginia's hand. “I say this in love, Virginia. As your oldest and dearest friend.”

“What?”

“You, sister, need to get a life and stop trying to live Cole's and Lance's.”

Virginia snatched her hand away and stood. “Well, that's not very nice of you.”

“I'm not supposed to be nice,” Lily said. “I'm supposed to be your friend.”

Virginia's back stiffened. “You don't know the humiliation I've suffered.”

“Yes, Virginia,” Lily said quietly. “I do know.”

Slowly, Virginia turned to her friend. She moved back to the sofa and clasped Lily's hands in hers. “I don't want to fight.”

“Neither do I. But what I said
is
true. And you know it. Let those boys live their own lives, make their own mistakes and learn the lessons they need to learn. Just like we did.”

Virginia clearly wasn't buying it.

Lily leaned over and picked up a brochure from an end table. “Well, I have just the ticket for both of us.” She handed Virginia the brochure.

“What's this?”

“We, my dear, are going on a cruise.”

Virginia rolled her eyes. She flipped the brochure over, glancing at and then dismissing the printed pitch. “Spare me the shuffleboard and honeymooners.”

“It's not that kind of cruise,” Lily said, “though I suppose the decks have those shuffleboard grids painted right on. But I know for a fact there won't be any honeymooners and not a single snot-nosed little kid. This, my friend, is a singles cruise.”

 

 

Once again, Lance found himself on the interstate headed east, his plan to swing by Guilty Pleasures to see Viv. As the car ate up the miles, he sang along with the radio, scowling when they broke in with news and reached for a CD.

“Metro traffic report. If you're on I-64 East, a three-car accident with injuries is blocking all lanes near Norfolk's Ocean View Avenue exit. Alternate routes include the Monitor-Merrimac Memorial Bridge-Tunnel. Better take it, folks. This jam looks like it'll be a while.”

Lance swore.

Already trapped, there was nothing he could do except impatiently bide his time. As Norah Jones's smooth voice filled the car, he checked his messages. One waited from Rochelle, whom he called.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

“Lance,” she said, her voice soft and sweet. “I got your flowers this morning.”

He smiled. Like taking candy from a baby. “I hope they're as beautiful as you are.”

“Oh, Lance. They are.”

He shook his head, knowing she didn't even realize what she'd just said.

“What happened to you last night? I was worried.”

“Something came up,” he told her. Then a grin split his face at the pun, unintentional but right on target. “I hope you'll let me make it up to you.”

He waved a classic Mustang through, then inched up behind it before a hooptie with rusted-out wheel caps could claim a crawl space in the bumper-to-bumper mess. He'd give road props to cars made worth a damn.

“I'll think about it,” she said. “But you know I can't stay mad at you too long.”

With his mind on Viv, he didn't linger on the line with Rochelle. Despite her wrangling for an evening with him, he made a date for lunch and quickly got off the phone. Spying an opening on the shoulder, Lance darted over and followed a Lexus.

 

 

She saw the Jaguar pull into a spot at the front of the shop and quickly turned for her office.

“You can't run forever,” Dakota said, her voice flat and wry.

“I just . . .” Viv paused.

Dakota was right, there was no need in hiding from the man. She'd slept with him. Big deal. She'd slept with a lot of guys. And like Lance, they all thought that one roll in the hay gave them rights. She had to admit though that her time with Lance had been pretty spectacular. The man had skills. He was almost as good as she was.

Vivienne turned, winked at Dakota and stood at the pedestal counter waiting for him. She could play this role. She knew it well.

Part of her thrilled at seeing Lance Heart Smith again, but she couldn't claim to be entirely pleased to see him back in her store. The resolve she'd set for herself where he was concerned crumbled when faced with the powerful physique in front of her.

The phrase
tall, dark and handsome
had been coined just for this man.

He was again dressed in a fabulous suit, this one dark blue, the color of true sapphires. She loved the line of his brow, the strength of his jaw. And she knew what it felt like to have his whiskers brush the delicate skin of her inner thigh. Viv's breath caught. She reached a hand out to steady herself.

He smiled and tiny lines formed at his eyes.

“Hello, Vivienne.”

Resolve melted away completely when the whisper of her name crossed his lips. “Hello, Lance.”

Dakota cleared her throat and Viv straightened, adding some spine to her back. Life was more than a feel-good party. And she could beat this thing. She had to.

“Excuse me,” Dakota said. “I have some inventory to check in the back.”

Since they were the only two employees in the store, Viv knew the game Dakota played. Viv watched her lifeline disappear.

“How are you, Vivienne?”

When she faced him, Vivienne the woman had been replaced with Vivienne the entrepreneur. “I'm fine. I didn't expect to hear from you so soon. Did you have an opportunity to review the material I left for you? Did you have any questions ?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have one.”

Her smile was brightly solicitous, the type reserved especially for customers with free time and high credit limits who came into the store frequently. “What's that?”

“Why'd you run away from me?”

“It was a lapse in judgment.”

He cocked his head. “Sex with me was a lapse or leaving me was a lapse?”

Both, Viv thought. “I'd had a very tough day, Mr. Heart.”

“My last name is Smith.”

“Mr. Smith,” she corrected.

He grinned. “Call me Lance.”

She tried to ignore the teasing. To focus on business. “You caught me at a vulnerable moment.”

Lance considered that for a minute. “Are you feeling vulnerable now?”

“No.”

“Then I'd like to ask you out. On a date. We can go to dinner. Check out a gallery.”

Her mouth quirked. “Do you really like galleries or do you suffer through them in an attempt to be the Sir Gallant like your namesake?”

He laughed at that. Viv allowed herself to enjoy the hearty sound. It came from a deep place and was filled with the lust and abandon that surrounded him.

He leaned close. “Don't tell any of my friends, but I do enjoy art. Not so much the contemporary stuff, though there are some contemporary sculptors I like.”

Viv called him on it. “So did you see the Pablo Diego Munoz exhibit at the Chrysler?” Norfolk's Chrysler Museum had hosted the opening show for an up-and-coming local sculptor. His wife was a frequent shopper at Guilty Pleasures.

Lance nodded. “My favorite piece was
Venus Rising.”

Lance chuckled and Viv realized she'd said the thought aloud. “What about you?” he asked before the blush stole up her face. “What pieces did you like in that show?”

Viv thought about it for a moment. She hadn't liked any of them—with the exception of
Venus Rising.
They'd all seemed fractured, disjointed. The sort of art created and favored by people who didn't trust their true emotions. Every piece, with the exception of
Venus Rising,
struck her as an attempt to tame beauty.

“I prefer the furniture. But my favorite parts of the museum are the Renaissance Galleries,” she told him. “The vivid colors, the full-bodied people on the canvas. That's more my speed.”

“I'd have pegged you for a glass fan. Tiffany or Chihuly.”

Viv shook her head. “Very pretty, but too delicate. I like things that stand the test of time or at least look as if they could.”

Lance glanced around at the store. When his gaze fell on the chaise, he pointed toward it. “That being an example?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The chaise. It's contemporary, but one hundred years from now, it'll still be here, still a classical beauty.”

A smile curved her mouth and she reluctantly changed her assessment of him. That's exactly why she loved the piece so much. Though handcrafted today, the chaise could very easily have been around for two or three hundred years.

“Have dinner with me,” Lance said. “Afterward, we can go to the Chrysler and visit your furniture gallery and Renaissance paintings.”

She wanted to. She really wanted to. But was that because he'd shown a moment of sincerity or because she knew that any date with him would end up back in bed?

“I don't think that's a good idea.”

“It's a wonderful idea. We can get to know each other.”

Her mouth twisted for a brief moment. “Some would say we already
know
each other.”

“Well,” he said, “there is that.” His gaze dipped to her breasts.

Viv hated that they responded by perking up, and she was grateful for the layered duster that shielded the physical betrayal from his view.

His gaze meandered across her form. When he again connected with her face Viv fought a flash of disappointment that rushed her. On some level, she'd wanted him to be different. To be someone worthy of her consideration, a man who looked beyond her physical attributes. By hopping into bed with him, she'd ruined any chance that he might view her as anything except a little afternoon delight. Lance was like so many others she'd known—and dismissed.

All she could do now was attempt to salvage her business plan though she feared it might already be too late. If he truly wanted to make an investment in Guilty Pleasures, which she doubted, he'd cease the games and get down to business. Business, however, didn't seem to be at the forefront of his mind.

“But,” he added, “we can also discuss your plans for Guilty Pleasures while we're at it.”

Viv didn't fall for it. She'd grant him smooth. He saw the thread and chased it, but he got no points on the fine art of subtlety.

“A moment ago, you weren't interested in my store.”

“I never said that,” Lance told her. “I said my interest was conflicted. A beautiful woman. A beautiful proposal.”

“You're telling me you read my business plan?”

“No,” he said, not bothering to lie. “I wanted to hear the pitch from someone who is passionate about the project.”

“Passionate?”

He nodded. “Devoted. You have your time and energy invested in the proposal. So you can convey that energy and enthusiasm in ways no static words will ever be able to.”

She eyed him, unsure what to make of this.

“You know,” he said, “going out with me is a terrific idea.”

“Oh?”

“Um-hmm,” Lance said. “I'll even let you choose where we go.”

“That's big of you.”

Lance leaned forward, resting his elbow on the counter and propping his chin in his hand. “I detect a touch of sarcasm.”

“Just a touch, huh? I must be getting rusty.”

Lance's mouth curved, but the slow perusal of her body left little doubt as to his thoughts.

“See, that's why I'm not going out with you.”

“What?”

“You're a dog.”

He put on his best wounded puppy look, eyes and mouth drooping. He batted his eyelashes at her until Viv, laughing, held up her hands in surrender. “All right,” she told him. “I'll go out with you.”

He grinned. Triumphant.