Enchanted Heart (24 page)

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Lance said. He tossed the ball to T.J. “Just take your shot, man.”

Later, if he was a little more intense, a little more focused with his juvies, they didn't comment on it. A stab of guilt—or maybe it was remorse—hit him when he realized that the kids who were starting to look up to him as a friend, and maybe even a confidante, had a better shot of making it in the world than his own son did. They at least had someone at home who made them go to the rec center in search of a better alternative. Even if the motivation did not come from within, at least it was there.

His son was one of those on the outside, not even bothering to look in, instead choosing to mock those who did seek a better way. Gayla didn't seem to have much going for her by way of mothering skills.

What had gone wrong in her life? What had Virginia said or done to make Gayla so bitter?

Lance's mood soured as the day progressed. By the time he got home, he was in a truly snarly temper and not of a mind to deal with Rochelle, who stood in the lobby of his building. He knew full well that lobby security recognized her as a regular; that was the only way she'd been allowed to wait. Thank God he hadn't given her a key. She'd insisted and he'd balked.

Had she had the access she wanted, she'd have let herself in, opened a bottle of wine and draped herself across his bed wearing nothing but a pair of sexy high-heeled shoes. He let slide this time the dawning realization that he had a thing for women in perilously high heels because something far more important was emerging in his consciousness: He had never, ever, not even once turned down a willing invitation from an agreeable and beautiful woman. But here, in the space of the few moments it took him to spot and recognize Rochelle, his mind—and, scarier his body—had already cataloged and rejected what she was offering.

In days gone by, Lance wouldn't have hesitated even a millisecond when Rochelle was on the prowl. Today, he wasn't in the mood for games or even casual sex.

He could admire her beauty, but he couldn't be her man. As a matter of fact, he wondered if he could ever be her man again. Not that they were in any way permanent. The agreement had always been good times and good sex.

In the few moments it took him to think this all through, Rochelle had approached.

“Hi, Lance.”

He took out his keys. “What are you doing here?”

She slid next to him, linking her arm in with his. “What kind of greeting is that? We haven't seen each other for weeks. I missed you.”

Lance grunted and tried to disengage his arm from hers. “I'm busy, Rochelle.”

She rubbed against him. “Too busy for this?”

She opened the top of her blouse to reveal a red lace push-up bra.

Lance wondered if Viv's store carried this product. Putting together a catalog was a terrific idea. “That's pretty. Did you get that at a store or from a catalog?”

Rochelle's mouth turned down. “That's not what I thought you'd say.”

He made a mental note to ask Uncle Jimmy about the cottage on Martinique. Vivienne could shoot the catalog images there.

“Lance?”

He glanced to his right. That fast he'd forgotten about Rochelle, who clung to him like a jellyfish at the oceanfront. Shaking free, he kissed her on the cheek then turned her toward the door. “Ro, this is a really bad time. I have some things going on.”

“Let me take your mind off your troubles,” she cooed.

Lance shook free of her embrace. “I'll call you.”

“But . . .”

Lance nodded toward the doorman who'd been watching the encounter. The man edged from his desk and headed toward Rochelle to see her out.

“Lance!”

He didn't even turn around. The elevator doors opened, and Lance was whisked to his floor. He didn't know quite what to do about the circumstances unfolding in his life, but he knew where he could make a start.

When he entered his apartment, he tried to look at his home through Tarique's eyes. What would the boy see?

Lance's three-bedroom unit was truly a bachelor's apartment. He used the second bedroom as his media and entertainment area. The third one was the guest room. The only guests who'd ever slept in there had been his mother a time or two, and occasionally Cole. All of his other overnight guests had been invited to dally with him in his room.

Lance didn't think Gayla would just hand the boy over, but he suspected she'd be reasonable about a liberal visitation schedule. The boy would need a place to stay when he came to visit. The guest room would be his son's room.

Without a thought as to whether Tarique might even want to visit with him, Lance went to the room, imagining what it would look like after being outfitted for a ten-year-old: basketball hoop over there in the corner; a sound and entertainment center would be best opposite the bed. A computer and desk as well as a bookcase with some books or something in it should be in there as well for homework.

Maybe a freshwater aquarium if the kid liked that sort of thing, a couple of chairs—not bean bag ones though—for if he had company. The closet would need to be retrofitted with some lower shelving for now. Tarique was a Heart and he'd eventually grow into the hereditary height.

Tarique's bedroom at Gayla's place featured posters of rappers and basketball stars including Allen Iverson and Shaq. Lance didn't know anybody in L.A., but he knew some people in Philly. He'd get a signed No. 7 jersey, have it framed and mounted on the wall.

With his plans for his son's room in place, Lance made the calls necessary to transform the bedroom. He'd get the other sports paraphernalia from Sports Authority or some such place.

Now all he had to do was convince Gayla to let him see his son.

 

 

“Viv, what's wrong?” Dakota whispered as she passed by Viv on her way to the fitting room.

Viv shook her head. “Nothing. I've just had some late nights and some bad mornings.”

“Here you go,” Dakota called to the customer. “Try this six. That eight is too big for you, girl.”

“Thank you. I have been working out a little bit.”

Dakota winked at Viv and the two women shared a smile. Dakota had sized the woman up just as soon as she'd come in the store and knew full well that the eight she'd pressed into her hands would be too large. The customer, feeling skinny, would likely buy more, and Dakota had all the right suggestions to up the sale—and thereby her own commission.

“Hold down the fort, will you,” Viv said. “I have a couple of errands to run.”

“Got it,” Dakota said.

A few minutes later, Viv was in a nearby drugstore, one she never went into. She had a pretty good idea what her problem was, but she'd refused to face it, in the vain and foolish hope that maybe she really was coming down with a summer cold. One that caused throwing up every morning.

She couldn't be pregnant. Hadn't the doctors said it would never happen? But she'd missed her period. And Viv was never, ever late.

Without making eye contact with the cash register clerk, she paid for the early pregnancy detection kit. She started to head to the shop, but instead drove home.

By the time she pulled into the driveway, she was already trying to figure out how it could be possible . . . and where she could best get an abortion.

20

F
ifteen minutes later, she sank onto the commode, the strip with the proof of it all dangling from her hand. Viv had no doubt regarding paternity. There was just one man she'd been careless with, one man she'd allowed to push past her defenses.

She closed her eyes and moaned. “This can't be happening to me.”

“Viv, honey. What's wrong?”

Lost in her own misery, she hadn't even heard Vicki approach. Viv looked at the braces that Vicki normally didn't use. Her twin must have been having as bad a day as she was.

“How's your leg?”

“It's been better. But what's wrong? Why are you home in the middle of the day? I didn't even hear you come in.”

Without a word, Viv handed Vicki the strip from the early pregnancy test. “The rabbit died.”

Vicki took it, looked at it, then winced. “Lance?”

Viv didn't hear or ignored the question. “How can I be pregnant? The doctors said we couldn't have any children.”

“You're going to have a baby?”

“I can't be pregnant. It's not possible.”

Vicki snatched up the box that the kit came in, staring at it. “There's nothing wrong with you. Why isn't it possible?”

“The doctors said . . .”

“They said it would be risky for me. Not for you. There's nothing wrong with you, Viv.”

Viv shook her head denying it all, including the note of resentment in her sister's voice. “I can't have this baby.” The words were so soft Vicki barely heard them.

Vicki put her arms around Viv. “It'll be all right. We'll worry about that later.”

Viv shook her head again. “You don't understand. I can't be a mother. I shouldn't have gotten pregnant. I've always been so careful, so very careful. A baby . . .” Tears started falling from her eyes. “A baby would ruin everything. Everything.”

Vicki held and rocked her sister. A part of her thought it was great that Viv was pregnant. Viv's attention span would wane like it always did, and then Vicki could be the mommy. Vicki would give anything to have Viv's so-called problem. But not only was being pregnant an impossibility, so was having a relationship that might lead to anything as normal as having a husband and family of her own.

Normalcy was something she'd never known. While Viv had floated through life on a cloud made of perfect dreams and goals, Vicki had watched from below, wondering what it might be like to be so blessed to have been simply normal. Average.

Viv had always taken her looks for granted. The perfect mouth and eyes and nose. The eyebrows that naturally arched. Full, firm breasts; a slim waist; wide hips and legs that went on forever. Viv took beauty for granted and never once wondered what it might be like to live in Vicki's skin.

The two sisters would have been identical—as a matter of fact, in profile, Vicki and Viv were. But Vicki, the unfortunate twin, had a scarred face and body that marred the physical beauty her sister had always taken for granted.

Vicki's birthright of beauty had been stolen the day they were born. The first baby eased out of the womb with the grace and aplomb that would follow her all of her life. The second baby though, had had complications. A breach handled by an incompetent doctor had resulted in trauma to the left side of Vicki's body. Her face, right arm and leg suffered the mangled consequences. No amount of physical therapy or surgery had been able to heal the damage of those first few moments of life.

Thirty-five minutes separated them. That half an hour at the very beginning had altered Vicki's entire existence. Forever.

One twin had grown into Barbie doll perfection, while the other played the role of troll.

Vicki had watched when Viv, at just ten, began to attract not just boys, but men. Vicki had watched when Viv left for the prom, and later for a glamorous career as, of all things, a model. Vicki had watched, and while her sister never excluded her and always, always encouraged her to live free and wild, Viv would never know—could never know—what it was like to be the other twin. The ugly one.

And now, once again, Viv got the thing that Vicki always wanted. A baby.

“Come on, Viv,” Vicki said. “It'll be all right. You'll see. It'll be all right.”

Even as she said the comforting words, Vicki knew they'd come true. Viv always landed on her feet. A baby would only take her off her stride for the few short months she had to carry it. Then it would be Vicki's turn to prove she had worth. She'd always been able to talk Viv into doing things—usually for Viv's best interests—but sometimes, Vicki guilted her sister into doing things Viv swore she'd never do. This baby would be one of those times. Even if Viv didn't, Vicki wanted this child, desperately.

For a moment, she even let herself fantasize about raising the baby with her cyber pal in the role of dad.

“I don't want you associating with that woman,” Virginia Heart said, not for the first time.

Virginia's two-piece outfit was gold with black accents. Lance knew for a fact the shoes cost more than six months' rent at Gayla's subsidized apartment. He'd been with Virginia in New York the day she'd gotten them from a boutique. In his vast closets was a tie that matched her suit. That shopping expedition had been back when they were on civil terms.

When he'd ignored the command request for an appearance at the compound, Lance got an unwelcome visitor at his front door. He couldn't very well pretend he wasn't home when she'd heard his voice with the doorman. So now, instead of heading to Gayla's like he'd intended, he was stuck listening to the latest harangue from his grandmother.

His head was pounding like a jackhammer working on the hull of an aircraft carrier.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Grandmother.”

“Don't play stupid with me, Lance. You know full well who I'm talking about. That Jackson-la Fontaine woman.”

Lance closed his eyes for a moment, praying to whatever gods might be tuning in from Olympus at the moment. Then he poured a double shot of vodka in his Bloody Mary and stirred it. After serving Virginia, he settled in a chair near the sofa where she was holding court.

“Why do you call her Jackson? Her last name is la Fontaine.”

Virginia shook her head. “Please, Lance. Don't be naive. That's the most made-up name I've ever heard. The woman could have at least found a decent . . .”

Lance cut across her. “What are you talking about?”

“There's a lot about that woman you don't know, Lance. I'm very concerned about the amount of money you're throwing away and into her so-called investment opportunity.”

A prickle of unease shifted down Lance's back. He settled in his seat, took a sip of his drink and didn't give any of his discomfort away. “Why don't you enlighten me.”

Virginia cut a glance at him. “Watch your tone, young man.”

Lance bit back a sigh. His headache grew exponentially each minute that ticked by as he tried to solve Virginia's riddles adding a circle of pain that the alcohol was not yet dulling. He had a wife who was probably turning tricks to support a drug habit, a son well on his way to an impressive criminal life and a semi-girlfriend who apparently had secrets his grandmother had unearthed.

The sooner he got to the bottom of this latest mystery, the sooner he could get back to dealing with his larger problems.

“I don't have a tone,” he told Virginia. “I'm just trying to find out what it is that you seem so reluctant to tell me. Then I have a few questions of my own for you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but didn't mention his disrespectful tone of voice again. “It's not a matter of reluctance,” she said. “It's concern.”

“Well, tell me what I need to be concerned about.”

Virginia made a production out of nibbling on the celery stick in her drink. Lance got up, went to the kitchen and pulled down a bottle of aspirin. He popped four and downed them with a big gulp of his Bloody Mary.

“She has a history.” Virginia's voice carried across the room.

Lance chuckled at that. “We all have histories, Grandmother. That's hardly front page news.”

Virginia joined him at the counter bar. “It's funny you should mention that. Her history was front page news.”

“Here? I don't re—”

“Not here. In Providence. Where you went to college.”

His brow furrowed. “I don't remember any news about Vivienne. I didn't even know her then.”

“Now that does come as a surprise. I'm disappointed in you, Lance.”

“What's new about that?” he muttered.

“I heard that, young man.”

He barely managed to refrain from rolling his eyes.

“Although,” Virginia continued, “with Cole as your so-called mentor, it's understandable that there were gaps in your education.”

He fought to keep the impatience out of his voice. “You were making a point about Vivienne.”

“You didn't do your homework on this Vivienne la Fontaine woman, Lance. Had you followed the first rule of business—know your opponent—you would have known that any partnership with her is asking for trouble. The kind that usually results in an indictment.”

Virginia finished off her drink then reached for her handbag. “My work is done here,” she said. “I'll leave you to fill in the gaps. And if you can't, I'd demand a refund on that MBA of yours. Have a good afternoon, Lance. I'll let myself out.”

“But I want to know what you . . .”

She waved. “I have an appointment that cannot wait.”

Muttering about women in general and his grandmother in particular, Lance dumped the rest of his drink in the sink. How was he supposed to figure out what she'd been talking about when she spoke in riddles? Vivienne could, he knew, shed some necessary light on the puzzle. Before he could get back to Norfolk though, he had some unfinished business in the East End of Newport News.

He made two stops then drove to Gayla's. He found her passed out on the sofa. Tarique was nowhere around. A soap opera blared from the big-screen TV and the bowl of milk, apparently left when Tarique finished his cereal, was still on the floor. Lance didn't bother trying to find the remote. He manually turned down the volume on the set, then took the bowl to the kitchen where he couldn't find an empty spot in the sink or on the counter to put it.

“This place is a pigsty. How can you live like this?”

Gayla didn't move.

Lance pulled out his cell phone and punched up the number for his cleaning service.

“This is Lance Smith. I have a job for you. A big one,” he told the manager.

 

 

Gayla woke up to the sound of the ocean roaring in her ear. It had been a long time since she'd walked along the beach. That was one of the things she enjoyed most about dating Lance. He was rich, but he enjoyed things that regular people did as well.

She wrapped her arms around his waist. “How much do you love me?”

“As deep as the sea,” he said. “More than the grains of sand on this beach.”

And then he kissed her.

She'd been kissed before, of course, but Lance's touch always enflamed her, made her feel like a total woman. Cherished. Adored. Beautiful. He pulled her closer to him and she felt the need of him pushing against her belly.

“I want you,” he murmured in her ear.

And Gayla knew that tonight she wouldn't say no. Not to this man she loved with all her heart and mind and soul. Tonight, her body would join with his in the sweet communion that only two people in love could share.

The waves pounded in the distance, louder as if a mighty swell would overtake them any moment. And Gayla thought her heart would swell with the love she . . .

“Gayla!”

She pushed away the hand that disturbed her.

“Gayla. Get up.”

“Go away. Dreaming.”

But the spell had been broken and the not-so-distant sound of the ocean subtly changed from a welcoming backdrop to an insistent, dull roar that she felt pounding inside her head.

“Go away.”

“Get up.”

“Lance? Come back,” she murmured, chasing the dream fragments that dissipated much like the mist from the ocean. “I love you, Lance.”

“Yeah, well. Okay.”

She opened one eye. “Lance?”

A moment later, reality hit her. She wasn't on a beach with Lance pledging he'd love her through thick and thin and all eternity. There wasn't a single thing romantic about the apartment where she lived.

Lance looked the same, but the expression on his face was far from the adoring one that had held her dreams intact all those years ago. This Lance looked uncomfortable. And he was tugging on her arm.