Authors: Gwynne Forster
He wiped the grin off his face and grasped both of her shoulders. “Do you think I’m sweet? Do you?”
She’d never seen him as open and vulnerable as he appeared at that moment, and she told herself to be careful. His eyes and the huskiness of his voice revealed a need for…yes, for affection and understanding.
She stroked the side of his face. “Yes, I think you’re sweet, and if we were somewhere else, I’d hug you real tight.”
He closed his eyes and brought her close to his body. “I want to kiss you, but I don’t dare. Let’s go inside.”
What he needed from her went far beyond a kiss. He needed
her
in the fullest sense of the word. He’d chosen the Sonata Restaurant because its rounded, boothlike banquettes gave diners a good measure of privacy.
“Right this way, Mr. Whitley,” the maitre d’ said. “Your table is ready.”
“Do you have any more secrets?” Tyra asked him. “I love this one. Thanks for choosing it.”
“You make doing things to please you a delight. What would you like to eat? I confess I’m not very hungry.”
She put her menu on the table, placed her hands in her lap and seemed to study him. “You said you wanted us to talk. Is what you have to say going to make me unhappy?”
“I don’t know. It shouldn’t.”
“I see.” She picked up the menu, glanced over it and said,
“I’ll have cold cucumber soup, broiled lamb chops with wild rice and asparagus tips and raspberry sorbet for dessert.”
“I’ll have the same plus a good burgundy wine,” he told the waiter.
“What will madam drink?” the waiter asked.
“The same,” she said, ignoring Byron’s raised eyebrow.
When she had eaten half of the raspberry sorbet, she pushed the remainder aside. “This is killing me, Byron. You haven’t told me anything that you couldn’t have said over the phone.”
He knew that, but he hadn’t wanted to upset her while she ate. And if he were honest with himself, he’d admit to procrastinating. “Tell me exactly how you felt about having to raise Clark and Darlene?” Her deep frown didn’t surprise him. They had touched on that before.
She leaned back and looked straight at him. “I loved them so much, and the responsibility for taking care of them was merely an extension of what I’d been doing when our parents weren’t at home. If you’re asking if I resented it, no I didn’t. And Maggie helped me.”
“I’ve observed your relationship with Maggie. She isn’t motherly toward you. She treats you as if you’re head of the house. Do you want to have a family of your own, or have you had your fill of raising children?”
“I long to have children, Byron. That is if I get the chance at all, but I still want to try. What about you? Do you want to have a family?”
She seemed to be holding her breath in anticipation of his answer. When he reached across the table and took her hand, he realized how desperately he needed her to understand. “Tyra, I probably should have told you this earlier, but our relationship didn’t warrant it.”
“You’re not married!” she gasped.
“No. My wife died two weeks after she gave birth to our son, Andy. He’s four and a half.”
Her face clouded up in a frown that he couldn’t decipher. After a few seconds, she said, “Oh, lord, Byron. I’m so sorry. Who takes care of him while you work?”
“I didn’t want him to be raised by a succession of nannies and babysitters. My aunt had recently been widowed and lived alone, and I invited her to live with me. She’s been a godsend, but I’m the one who’s responsible for Andy’s up-bringing. I bathe him, put him to bed at night, read to him—or did before he learned to read—and hear his prayers. I’m his father.”
“Are you going to let me meet him?”
“Eventually. Yes. What I want to know is whether my having a child changes your attitude toward me.”
She seemed taken aback. “Why should it? If I discovered that you didn’t take care of your son, that you didn’t love him and do everything for him that you could or that you neglected him in any way, my attitude and my feelings for you would definitely change. But I don’t believe you’re guilty of any of that.” She leaned forward. “Tell me about him. What is he like?”
“I am certainly biased, but I think he’s a wonderful kid. He’s very smart, reads well for his age, counts and is trying to learn arithmetic, although that’s his idea, not mine. He’s becoming a good storyteller, and his day school teacher often gives him that role at school. Andy’s affectionate, but he’s very impatient and definitely exacting. He can tell time, and if I tell him I’ll be home at six, he wants to see me there at six, traffic notwithstanding. I don’t complain about that, because I’ve taught him that he can depend on me. He loves music, and he’ll sit quietly without saying a word for half an hour while I play the piano, no matter what I’m playing. He and I have a wonderful relationship.”
“Is he obedient?”
“Yes he is. I let him argue his case for a few minutes, and then I tell him what’s final. He accepts it.”
“Does he look like you?”
“If you put his picture and mine at that age side by side, a stranger would think it’s the same child. Yes. He looks as much like me as I look like my father. Oh, he’s just begun learning to play the piano, and he loves it.”
She massaged her forehead with the tips of her fingers, and watching her do it, her face creased in a worried frown. He couldn’t help being anxious. She hadn’t even hinted at answering his question whether knowing about Andy made a difference in her attitude toward him.
“You know my family. Tell me about your parents and siblings. Are you close to them?”
She had a right to ask that. If you didn’t know a person’s family, you were missing vital information about that person. “After my parents divorced, my father raised my sister and me. My mother married someone else and moved with him to Eugene, Oregon. I was seven, and from that time on, she wasn’t a part of my life. Not my choice or my father’s choice, but she didn’t make it possible for my sister and me to visit her and she didn’t visit us.
“My sister, Nannette, lives in Florence, Italy, with her Italian husband, who’s a surgeon. My father’s a doctor, so we grew up well off. He’s seventy-two, but still busy with a full practice. I’m close to my father and to my sister, and I talk with her at least once a week. I’ve been thinking that my dad would love you, because you and he share similar outlooks on a lot of things. I’m proud that my father raised my sister and me alone, though I now realize that I must have missed something not having a mother.”
Now that he’d told her, he couldn’t bear not knowing what she thought or how she felt. If she had to think about it, or if her acceptance was contingent upon anything, he didn’t want to know. She could forget it. He had a strange, dull feeling.
“Tyra, I asked you a while ago whether knowing that I have
a son changes your attitude toward me. Your answer was ‘Why should it?’”
She seemed flustered, as if she didn’t understand him. “Honey, I told you that I’d walk away only if you weren’t a good father. Don’t you remember?” Her right eye arrowed slightly, as she looked at him in an intense gaze. “If you’re asking whether I’ll love your child, of course I will if he’ll give me a chance,” she said.
He inhaled deeply. It was what he needed to hear, not some sugar-coated answer about loving Andy because he was his child, but an honest and sensible response. He knew Andy would learn to love her. But as long as he hadn’t committed to Tyra, he couldn’t bring up that subject.
“I’ve never introduced Andy to anyone I was seeing, because I don’t want him to get attached to someone who proves to be a temporary relationship. Oh, you know what I mean. But there’s nothing temporary about my feelings for you, and I want you to know everything about me. I want you to care for the man I am, not what I appear to be.” He had to know one more thing. He was in too deep, and he wanted to be sure where he stood with her. “Do you resent my not telling you about Andy on our first date?”
“No, I don’t. But after what we shared last night, I needed to know where you and I are headed. With your telling me about your son and your family, I’m satisfied that you’re sincere.” She paused for a moment. “The funny thing is that I never doubted your sincerity. But I feel that I know you better now.”
Maybe if he did it casually rather than taking her home with him to meet Andy, it would work out better. “Do you like to fish?” he asked her.
“I did when I was little. I used to fish with my dad in the Monacacy River. Why?”
“My dad loves to fish. Perhaps you can join us sometime.”
“I’d love that, Byron, even if I don’t get a single bite.”
“Then, I’ll arrange it.”
Tyra wanted to ask Byron if Andy would join them when they went fishing. But she had already decided that if he seemed inclined, she would encourage him to let her meet his son, but she wouldn’t push it. She knew the implications, and she didn’t doubt that she would meet his father before she met Andy.
“Would you like something else?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “Thanks. It was a delightful meal. If you’re not in a hurry, could we walk a little?”
“Of course. But if walking is a way to prolong the evening, I have some other suggestions. We could go to the carriage company, hire a hansom and take a ride, or we could go to the Frederick Hotel’s supper club, have coffee, a liqueur and dance. In either case, I could have you in my arms. What would you like?”
“If I choose the hansom ride, will you take me dancing another time?”
“Of course I will. Ready to go? I need to hold you, and I don’t want to do it standing in your foyer.”
“What’s wrong with my foyer?” she asked in an attempt to bring a little levity into their conversation. The seriousness of their after-dinner conversation had nearly exhausted her. The subject had obviously weighed heavily on him, and she didn’t understand why. Surely he should have understood that she would find a way to show love to a four-year-old, motherless child, no matter who his father was. But she wasn’t going to worry about it. Andy was extremely dear to him, and he’d just served notice that any woman who couldn’t love and care for his child would have no part in his life. On that score, she agreed with him.
“Nothing’s wrong with your foyer except that every minute I’m standing there with you, I’m distracted. I feel as if I should look over my shoulder for Darlene or Maggie.”
“Distracted? I wonder what you’d be like if I had your undivided attention?”
“I’m going to do my best to make sure you find out.”
“Do you have any pictures of Andy?”
She knew at once that she’d said the right thing, for his face beamed with pride. “You bet.” He opened his wallet, removed two pictures and handed them to her.
She studied them. “Byron, he’s a beautiful child. And you’re right, he looks just like you.” She handed the pictures to him. “You’re blessed to have a healthy, happy and intelligent son.”
“I know, and I’m grateful for it. I could have been left with no one.”
She reached up and stroked his face. “Are you over your wife’s death? I know it’s hard.”
“Yes, I’m over it.”
As they left the restaurant holding hands, she asked him, “How far is it to the hansom carriage? I thought it was right around the corner.”
“It’s right around the next corner. Would you like to walk, or shall we drive there?”
“It’s a balmy night, let’s walk.”
She looked up at the full July moon, at the sky as clear as crystal and squeezed his fingers. “What is it?” he asked.
“The moon. The sky. The night. It’s so idyllic. I wish it could last forever.” A brisk wind brushed the hair away from her face, as tiny bit of debris whirled around her feet. Lights twinkled in every building that they passed. It seemed to Tyra that neither residents nor merchants were willing to sacrifice the beautiful night.
“I also noticed how perfect the night was. I’m so busy all
the time, that I rarely notice things—such as this night—that give me so much pleasure. When I’m with you, though, my senses work overtime.”
“Where do you want to ride, mister?” the driver of the hansom asked Byron. “For twenty-five extra, we can take a drive through Gambrill.”
“Want to?” he asked her.
“He’s a romantic, so maybe he knows something. I’d like it if you have time.”
He helped her into the carriage and tucked her close to him. “The night is young, and you’re so beautiful,” he sang. To the driver, he said, “Gambrill sounds fine.”
With his arms around her and her head on his shoulder, she was as one with him. “For tonight, at least, I have you,” he said. She wanted to know what he meant and asked him. “I know what I want and what I need,” he said. “But I know that not even the next piece of bread is guaranteed. So I’m treating this evening as the precious experience that it is.”
She pondered that, but didn’t respond. Byron could relax. She was not going to let him down.
W
hen Tyra walked into her office the following Monday morning, she was more besotted with Byron Whitley than ever and in no mood to tolerate advances from any other man. So when Christopher Fuller walked up behind her as she opened the door of her office and patted her on her bottom, she swung around and, without thinking, let him have the weight of her briefcase across his face.
“What the hell is wrong with you, woman?” he growled. “Who do you think you are?” He stood inches away from her.
She didn’t back away. “If you ever put your hands on me again, this briefcase isn’t all I’ll hit you with. I should sue you for sexual harassment.”
“Who’d believe you?”
“Everybody. You’d be surprised what your colleagues think of you. If you’re charged with sexual harassment, what do you think it will do to your career. Now please let me get into my office.”
“You haven’t heard the last from me,” he said.
“You’d better hope you’ve heard the last from me,” Tyra replied and stormed off to her office.
She sat down at her desk, made a note of the incident, dated it and filed it under the heading, C. Fuller. If she left her job, he’d probably be the reason.
The incident didn’t occupy her thoughts for long. Memories of the previous evening with Byron crowded her mind. She had never seen a brighter, clearer moon or felt a softer breeze than when she sat snug in his arms in a red-bordered hansom carriage. The only sounds were the rustling of the trees and the clickety-clack of the horse’s hooves.
She could still hear his voice. “I need to kiss you.” And she had raised her head from his shoulder and parted her lips for the thrust of his kiss. She hadn’t known that a man could find so many ways to cherish a woman, yet he’d promised her much more than he gave. And she knew he was a man who delivered what he promised. The telephone rang interrupting her thoughts.
“Tyra Cunningham speaking. What’s the problem, Jonathan? Your girlfriend’s father has forbidden you to come to see his daughter?”
“He says he’ll have me thrown into juvenile detention. If he does that, I won’t be able to finish high school with my class, and I’ll have a record. All I’m asking is for an opportunity to look after her. I’ve been giving her a part of my allowance. Now, I don’t know how I’ll get that to her.”
“Has she been to social services?”
“He wouldn’t let her to do that, and she’s scared of him.”
“You wouldn’t expect him to approve of his sixteen-year-old daughter having sex, would you?”
“No, ma’am. But if we hadn’t had to sneak around to see each other, we’d probably have been more careful.”
“You’re not going to juvenile detention, so don’t worry
about it. Get a post office box, and give her one of the keys to it. That way, you two can communicate, and you can contact her through the mail. I would advise you not to go against his wishes.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll ask my dad to do it today. He’s fed up with Mr. Tate.”
She hung up and looked through her messages, hoping there was one from Byron, although she knew that he normally didn’t call her at the office. She saw one from Lyle, her supervisor, and called him.
“Can you see Ms. Saunders today, preferably this morning?” he asked her. “She’ll fall apart if she doesn’t get to see a counselor.”
“Okay, but I’d rather it be my last appointment.”
“Fine. She’ll be satisfied as long as she gets to see someone today.”
Tyra prepped herself for what she expected would be a trying experience with Erica Saunders. A few minutes before her appointment, she went to the coffee room for a bagel and a fortifying cup of coffee and encountered Matt Cowan there.
Matt poured a cup of coffee for her. “How’s it going, Tyra? Any more problems with Fuller?”
“He hasn’t learned to keep his hands to himself, but I corrected him. If he needs further instructions as to where his hands belong, I’ll let the legal system educate him.”
“Something’s wrong with that guy. He’s the last person who should be working in a place like this. I imagine he’s been fired from more than one job. He’s capable of nastiness, so be careful, Tyra, and watch your back.”
“Thanks, Matt. I’ll try to. See you later. I have a three forty-five appointment.”
Minutes after she sat down, Erica Saunders walked into her office. “You Miss Cunningham?”
Tyra stood. “Yes. Have a seat. How may I help you?”
Erica Saunders gazed around, taking in everything before she sat on the edge of the chair. “I never heard of anybody black being named Cunningham. Where you from?”
“We have half an hour, Ms. Saunders. Why do you need to see a counselor so urgently?”
“If you gon’ be my counselor, you gon’ have to be patient, ’cause nobody rushes me, and nobody bullies me. You got a file on me big as from here to New York, so you know what my problem is.”
“Ms. Saunders, I was given your case because no one else is prepared to take it. You have a reputation for being uncooperative. If I can help you right now, tell me what the problem is. Otherwise, don’t come here and waste my time.” She looked at her watch. “You’re the one with the problem. Not me.”
“That’s why I always like men for counselors,” Erica said under her breath. “My husband closed his checking accounts, so I can’t get any money, and I’m broke.”
“Then the best thing for you to do is agree to reasonable divorce terms. You’ll have some money then. Why don’t you find a job?”
“You’re supposed to be helping me, not him.”
Tyra leaned back in her chair and glared at the woman. “In the twenty years of your marriage, you didn’t work one day. You had an elegant home and a housekeeper. You and your husband have no children. According to these files—” she tapped the thick manila folder with her finger “—you have access to your husband’s checkbook. Am I right?”
“I did have, but I just told you he closed the checking account, and I’m flat broke.”
“I’m giving you a voucher to take to this agency—” Tyra handed her a card “—where you can get food and shelter. This is all I can do for you.”
The woman stared at her. “You sending me to beg for food and a place to stay? My husband’s rich.”
“And so were you until you got caught sleeping with other men. You made your choice, Ms. Saunders. I’m closing your file. Good day.” She hadn’t expected Erica Saunders to give in so easily, but after two years and five months it was time to drop her case.
After Erica Saunders left, Tyra phoned Lyle. “Lyle, this is Tyra. I’ve closed the Saunders file.”
“Good! I’ve thought that for some time, but I just couldn’t make myself do it.”
“I’m leaving now. See you tomorrow.”
Matt Cowan walked out of the building along with Tyra. As they stepped through the door, he removed his jacket. “This heat’s not for me. Say, Tyra, did I see you in Gambrill at the concert with Byron Whitley last Friday night?”
She couldn’t have been more surprised by his question. But why should she have been? They were both lawyers. “Yes. You know him?”
“Only professionally, but I gather he’s a helluva lawyer. Way to go,” he said, giving her the thumbs-up sign. “See you Wednesday.” She hailed a taxi, sank into its air-conditioned comfort and headed home. She would have been happier if Byron had been waiting for her.
Byron was speaking by cell phone with his father. “…then arrange something. Invite me to dinner or something.”
“You don’t need a special invitation to have dinner at my house. You can come any time you please.”
“Come on, Dad. I know that, but I want you to ask Jewel to prepare one of her special dinners, and I want to bring a friend.”
“Humph. Why didn’t you say so? Who is she? That’s strange. Andy hasn’t mentioned anyone to me.”
“Andy hasn’t met her. I don’t introduce my women friends to Andy, because I don’t want him to get the wrong impression. If I settle on one for sure, he’ll meet her.”
“There’s some logic to that, but his reaction to her should help you make up your mind about her. Kids are very perceptive.”
“So they say, Dad. But not yet. I’ve met her family, and she should meet you, since I can’t take her to Florence, Italy, to meet Nannette. What do you say?”
“If you took her to Italy I imagine your sister would greet her with open loving arms. What’s your girl’s name?”
“Tyra. Tyra Cunningham. I like her a lot, Dad.”
“I’m sure you do. Lois was the last woman you brought home. Are you over her yet?”
“Yeah, I am. I don’t dream of her any more, and I don’t have that feeling of guilt that if she hadn’t gotten pregnant, she’d still be alive.”
“And you wouldn’t have Andy. Don’t think such thoughts. You can’t alter the divine plan. Come over Friday night and bring her with you. I’ll see if I can find a date.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’m in your debt.”
“No such thing. You’re my son, and it’s to my advantage to check out a prospective daughter-in-law.”
“Hey, wait a minute. I haven’t gotten that far.”
“I stand my by statement. See you Friday at seven.”
“Yes, sir.”
Byron hung up and leaned back in his desk chair thinking about what he’d just done. It hadn’t been an impulsive act. He did nothing on impulse. He trusted his own judgment, so any uncertainty about Tyra wasn’t the reason he wanted his father to meet her. He packed his briefcase, locked his desk and took the elevator to the basement of the building that housed the Whitley, Chambers and Jones lawfirm. He shed his jacket, laid it on the back seat, got in his car and headed home.
When he stopped for a red light, he was soon in another world. He imagined he held Tyra in his arms. She was always so soft and sweet, so giving. How could a woman be all the
things that she was, feminine, sweet, sexy, smart, competent, knowledgeable and fun? He hated being away from her. His dad would like her. He was sure of that. She was… The sound of other motorist’s horns brought him thoughts back to his surroundings as he saw that the light had turned green. He realized that he’d wanted to show her off to his dad and that the dinner at his father’s home was a ruse enabling him to do that without making a grand gesture. He expected that he’d have a hard time waiting for Friday.
At home, he listened while Andy read a story. Pride suffused him when the child finished reading the book, looked up at him and said, “Daddy, do I make you proud? My teacher said I must make you proud.”
“Yes, I’m proud of you.” He battled the lump in his throat and held his son tightly in his arms. His love for the boy overwhelmed him and his eyes filled with tears. Thank God, he no longer counted the cost.
“Something in your eyes, Dad? Want me to get you a tissue?”
“Thanks, but my handkerchief will do the trick. What do you want me to play?”
Andy clapped his hand. “Oh, goody. I thought you forgot. Play ‘Barcarolle’. No. Play ‘Take Five.’”
He frowned. “You didn’t give it much thought. They are as different as two pieces of music can be.”
“I know, but I heard ‘Take Five’ on the radio this afternoon, and I want to hear it again. You can play ‘Barcarolle’ tomorrow.”
He sat down at the Steinway grand, gave his fingers a practice run over the keys and launched into “Take Five,” Paul Desmond’s great jazz composition. He could hardly believe that the child tapped his knee in perfect timing with one of the most difficult jazz pieces. He wanted to teach his son to play the piano, but he hadn’t found a teacher he trusted.
It was 8:45 p.m. when he finally phoned Tyra. “Hi, sweetheart. I hope you had a good day.”
“I made some progress with my cases, and that was good. What about you?”
“Not particularly eventful. We’re wrapping up a suit that’s been dragging along for months. Today, I said, ‘Enough! We’re going to trial.’ Neither side wants that, so we’ll have a settlement sometime this week. That’s a relief.
“Tyra, my dad has invited us to his home for dinner Friday. Can you make it?”
“Your…your father? Well, sure. Of course I can make it. What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at six-fifteen? Is that all right?”
“Uh…sure. Look, Byron. This is such a surprise. Are your father and I going to get along? I mean, is he going to like me?”
He couldn’t help laughing. “Sweetheart, how’s he not going to like you?”
“I don’t know, Byron, Besides, what’ll I wear? What does your father do away from his job? I mean what does he do when he’s not in his office or in the hospital?”
“He’s in surgery three mornings a week and has office hours from eleven to five Monday through Friday. At other times, he fishes and plays the piano. He’s seventy-two and still good looking.”
“I’ll bet he is if you look just like him.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I’m sure he is.”
“Chicken! You didn’t have the guts to repeat it.”
“Lack of guts has on occasion stood me in good stead.”
“For instance?”
“Like when I was mad enough with one of my coworkers to take his ears off, but didn’t have the guts to do it.”
“That’s not lack of guts. That’s using common sense. He probably wasn’t worth it. I’d go to the wall for you, sweetheart, but I stop at going to jail.”
“Thanks for letting me know that your affection has its limits.”
“Doesn’t yours?”
She didn’t want that kind of teasing to evolve into a serious conversation, so she said, “I’m still having conversations with myself about that.”
“You mean about
me,
don’t you?”
“Talking to myself about you would be a waste of time, Byron.”
“I don’t know how to take that. Look, I just heard a thump. Andy may have rolled out of bed. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Call me back if he’s hurt. Kisses.”
“Kisses.”
Tyra went into the family room where she knew she’d find Maggie watching television and sat beside her on the sofa. Maggie turned off the television and looked at Tyra.
“What’s the matter, hon? Anything wrong?”
Tyra remembered the times when she’d gone to Maggie with her problems, and the woman, always welcoming and kind, would ask, “What’s the matter, hon?” She put an arm around Maggie’s shoulder. “I wonder what I’d do without you?”
“You’d do just fine. Is it Byron?”