He sat up. “You want to do dinner?”
“I’d love to have dinner with you, Andrew.”
Yes, yes, yes
. He felt as if he had aced a college exam.
“When are you free?” he asked.
“I’m available tonight. Are you?”
Was he available? He would have canceled a pitch meeting with Steven Spielberg to see her tonight.
“Does seven work for you?” he said.
“Seven works. Do you like Houston’s, on Peachtree?”
“Definitely. That’s one of my favorite restaurants.”
“Is that so? Then it’s settled. I’ll be there at seven o’clock. Please don’t be late.”
“Never,” he said.
In fact, he planned to get there early.
Chapter 9
O
nce a week, Andrew visited his mother’s house to cut the grass. His mom lived in East Point, a suburb southwest of Atlanta, in a peaceful, hilly neighborhood of ranch-style houses, leafy trees, and sloping lawns.
His mother was an elementary schoolteacher. School had recently ended for the summer; it was no surprise that when Andrew pulled into the driveway shortly past three o’clock in the afternoon, he found her outdoors pursuing her favorite hobby: gardening.
“Hey, Drew.” She rose from the bed of flowers near the house, set down the shears and opened her arms for a hug.
“Hey, Mom. Your lawn boy is here.”
In her early fifties, Lynn Wilson was petite and short, standing about five feet tall. But in Andrew’s eyes, she was a giant. She had taught him everything worth knowing about being a good man. Unlike some of his childhood friends who were babied by their moms and had grown into man-children unable to sustain themselves, she’d cut him no slack. “I’m not letting a child of mine go out into the world, shuckin’ and jivin’ and half-steppin’,” she’d always say to him. “I’m going to teach you how to be a responsible black man, whether you like it or not. You’ll appreciate it later.”
Growing up, he sure hadn’t appreciated it at all. He was her eldest child and only son, and it seemed that she was so much harder on him than she was on his younger sister. His list of household chores was endless; homework had to be completed to her satisfaction before he watched TV; she restricted him from hanging out with the cool neighborhood kids who she’d determined were “bad seeds”; and on it went, ad nauseum. He was convinced that she was the strictest woman on earth and had been appointed as his mom for the sole purpose of making his life miserable.
But as he grew older, he began to appreciate the lessons she’d taught him, just like she’d said he would. Many of his friends from the neighborhood—those “cool” kids she’d limited his involvement with—were either dead, in prison, or passing their days on street corners, doing nothing productive.
It frightened him to think of where he might have wound up, if he hadn’t had her.
“You didn’t have to come over to do the grass,” she said. “I know you’re busy. I can get someone else to do it.”
She said the same thing to him every week. He always gave her the same response.
“I don’t mind, Mom. It’s my responsibility.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do with you, boy.” She smiled.
He truly believed that the yard work was his job. Although his mother had never married his father, she had been married years ago to his sister’s dad, a decent guy—but after only two years of marriage, he died in a car wreck. Widowed, Mom had never remarried, though she dated from time to time. In his early teens, Andrew had assumed the “man work” of the household—keeping the yard in shape, fixing things around the house, and so on—and had been doing it ever since. During periods when promotional touring for his books kept him out of town for weeks on end, he paid a lawn service to maintain the yard. The last thing he wanted to see was his mom trimming grass. It was unthinkable.
He walked into the garage, where the Toro mower and gas can stood in the corner.
“I enjoyed the cookout yesterday,” Mom said. “Hadn’t seen your father in ages. He didn’t look too good.”
“I don’t know what’s been going on with him. Yesterday was the first time I’d talked to him in a couple weeks.”
“He’s back to his old tricks, sounds like. A leopard can’t change its spots.”
He shrugged. He picked up the can of gasoline and rolled the mower outside, onto the driveway.
No one knew the sad story of Andrew and his father better than his mother. She’d been there for all of the broken promises, missed birthdays, unreturned phone calls, and unexplained absences that sometimes had stretched on for years. When Andrew had told her about this so-called “fresh start” with his father, Mom had reacted, as expected, with doubt. She’d warned him to be careful with his heart.
“The ball’s in his court,” he said. “He said he wants to play golf sometime this week. He promised to call me.”
“Promised, did he? That sounds familiar. Don’t be surprised if you don’t hear from him until next year.”
“It doesn’t matter. Life’ll go on, with or without him.”
She made a disgusted sound in her throat. “Without him might be best for you. As far as I’m concerned, baby, he doesn’t deserve your time.”
“People can change, Mom.”
“Hmph. It’d take a miracle.”
“Yeah.” He wanted to change the subject. Bending to unscrew the gas tank cap on the mower, he said, “I’ve got a date tonight. With a new girl.”
“You do? Where’d you meet her?”
“At Starbucks.”
“Really?” Folding her arms, Mom gazed at the pine trees near the back of her property. “Does Carmen know about this date?”
“Carmen has a boyfriend, Mom. You know that. She doesn’t care about who I date.”
Mom smiled faintly. “I had a dream about you two last night.”
“Oh, no. Not one of your psychic visions.”
“It was very vivid, like those dreams usually are,” she said.
For as long as he could remember, Mom had claimed to receive omens in her dreams. He was a dyed-in-the-wool skeptic, believed in rational explanations and scientific conclusions. There was a sensible answer for most things that happened; you needed only to search for it. Dreams, however, were so vague that you could twist any interpretation that you desired out of them.
But he played along, as usual, with her clairvoyant meanderings. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
“Okay,” he said. “What happened in this dream of yours?”
“You and Carmen were together, in love—and not hiding it from each other.” Mom smirked.
“Yeah, yeah. Is that all?”
Mom’s smile faded. “You guys were in a house somewhere, not your place or hers. It was a cabin or somewhere like that. There was a snake in there.”
“I hate snakes.” His lips curled. “What kind was it?”
“Something huge and mean. Like a python. It was chasing you guys, you especially. It really wanted you.”
In spite of his doubts, his imagination had painted his mother’s dream scene in lucid color. His stomach roiled.
“Did it get me?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I woke up before that happened. It scared me so badly I didn’t get back to sleep for a while.”
“It was only a dream, Mom.” He spread his arms. “I’m here, see? No python is wrapped around my throat.”
She didn’t laugh. “It was a vision of the future, Andrew. The snake is a symbol.”
“A symbol of what?”
“It could be a difficult challenge coming up for you, or a person who’s going to cause trouble.” She frowned. “I’m not sure.”
“Miss Cleo would give me a better answer than that.”
Mom swatted his arm. “Don’t joke about this.”
“Fine. What do you want me to do?”
Her gaze drilled into him.
“I want you to be careful,” she said.
“I’m always careful.”
“Then be
extra
careful. Watch out for new people, new situations. Especially people. I have a feeling that someone you know or will know soon is going to be revealed as that snake, and you need to be on guard.”
“All right, Mom. I’ll be on the lookout for someone with scales and a forked tongue.”
She sighed, exasperated. “Go ahead, crack your jokes, but promise me that you’ll be careful. Okay?”
“I’ll be careful, Mom. Promise.”
She nodded, satisfied. She resumed working on her flowers.
Watching her, he smiled. Although she could be a little loony with her supposedly prophetic dreams, he loved her all the same.
He began to cut the grass, thinking not about snakes, but about Mika, and how seven o’clock couldn’t get there fast enough.
Chapter 10
A
t six-thirty, Andrew finished preparing for his dinner with Mika.
He wore a taupe, silk twill shirt jacket with matching slacks, tan silk crew shirt, and polished Cole Haan loafers. He’d daubed on Dolce & Gabbana cologne and used a trimmer to sharpen his hairline. He wore one piece of jewelry: an Omega watch that he sported only on rare occasions.
He’d been on dozens of first dates, but none of them felt as important as this one. Mika was special. He was determined to make a positive impression.
After checking his profile for perhaps the tenth time in his full-length bedroom mirror, he went to the garage.
The Mercedes sparkled like a demo car in a showroom. He’d gotten the deluxe package at a local car wash.
As he drove away from the house, he noted that the annoying cats were gone. Permanently, he hoped.
He stopped at a local florist and picked up a fresh bouquet of bright, summer flowers. Then he hit I-85 north, which would take him to downtown Atlanta, and into Buckhead.
Driving with the convertible top down, he grooved to the old school jams playing on 102.5 FM, the classic soul station. Sang along with Stevie and Luther and Teddy. Cool wind bathed his face, and twilight fell over the world like a great velvet sheet. It was a cliché, but he thought it was a night made for romance.
If Buckhead was Atlanta’s hot spot, then Peachtree Street was its nucleus, a strip renowned for its nightclubs, trendy restaurants, eclectic stores, high-end shopping malls, expensive digs, and stylish, moneyed residents. On Friday nights and weekends, traffic could slow to a crawl as partygoers filled the avenue, wanting to see and be seen; but on a Tuesday night, the area was thinly populated with people running errands, jogging, and lounging at sidewalk cafés.
He pulled into the parking lot of Houston’s at five minutes to seven. He double-checked his face in the mirror and applied a fresh coat of lotion to his hands. Sweat slicked his palms.
It’s only a date, man,
he assured himself.
Calm down.
But he hoped—so much that it frightened him—that she was the One. She certainly looked as if she could be Ms. Right. But would they have that crucial yet elusive chemistry? Would she feel as excited about him as he felt about her?
He both loved and hated first dates. They were exhilarating and scary plunges into the unknown. Anything could happen. And usually did.
He heard heels clicking on pavement, somewhere close. He turned in his seat.
Mika strolled alongside the car.
The sight of her raised his body temperature a few degrees.
Behind her, a shiny black Rolls Royce pulled away. He knew cars well; he identified it as a Silver Shadow model, manufactured in 1972 or ’73. Classic, regal styling. Impeccably maintained.
The sedan had smoked windows, concealing the driver, but he was sure that she had arrived in the vehicle. It fit her style.
Grinning, he got out of his car. “Hello, there.”
“Good evening, Mr. Wilson. You’re on time.”
“Of course. You look lovely.”
She wore an elegant, strapless black dress, and pumps. A platinum necklace with a sparkling diamond solitaire in the center. Subtle, diamond earrings. Light makeup, burgundy lipstick.
Her luminous hazel eyes were hypnotic.
“You’re handsome, too.” She fingered the lapel of his jacket. He caught an intoxicating whiff of her perfume; jasmine, it seemed to be.
He reached inside the car and picked up the bouquet. “This is for you.”
She broke into a huge smile.
“Thank you so much, Andrew!” She inhaled the flowers’ fragrance.
He nodded at the restaurant ahead of them, and offered her his arm.
“Shall we?” he said.
Clasping the flowers to her bosom, she put her arm in his, and they walked to the restaurant together.
His worries had drained away. He had a great evening ahead of him. He could feel it.