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When she asked why they had sex if they didn’t enjoy it, one student asked, “How do you say no if you want to be popular?”
She replied. “It’s spelled, n-o. Why buy a cow if you can get free milk whenever you want it and when you can have fun checking out different cows?” She had planned to discuss the hazards of drug use, but time went quickly as the students bombarded her with questions about sex, sexuality, virginity and male attitudes. At the end of her talk, the students crowded around her, asking questions, and a man fought his way through the group and introduced himself as Edmond Lassiter.
“I’ve wanted to meet you, Ms. Parkton, and when I read in the Norfolk, Virginia New Journal & Guide that you’d be here today, I wasn’t about to miss you. You are a very impressive speaker.”
He could spread butter on her as much as he liked, but she was not going to publish his chauvinistic short story. “Oh, yes. I remember returning your story a couple of days ago, and for the second time, too.”
His smile was that of a man accustomed to getting a lot of mileage merely by changing the contours of his face. “Let’s not discuss anything so unpleasant just now. I came a long way to meet you.” He looked at his watch. “It’s a quarter after one, and I’m starving. Would you do me the honor of having lunch with me?” She began to gather her papers. “Please. I came a long way to see you.”
Suffolk, Virginia, where he lived, was practically across the street from Hampton, but she didn’t remind him of that. She pretended to focus on the papers in her hand, her casual attitude belying her appreciation for his masculine attributes. He was a good-looking man and very much aware of his appeal.
“All right, but only if you promise me I’ll never see that short story again.”
His right hand went to the left side of his chest and, as if he’d taken lessons from Morgan Freeman or Jack Nicholson, his smile radiated. “You wound me, but what can I do? I promise.”
As he ate, he chewed his food slowly, deliberately, causing her to imagine him savoring the delights of a woman he adored. He might have attracted her interest if he hadn’t kept inserting bits of propaganda for his short story into the conversation. She refused to respond.
“How do you manage to write that provocative column along with all the other things an editor has to do?”
She was tempted to tell him that he was too free with the compliments. What she said was, “I try not to waste time…like going over your manuscript twice.”
He put a serious expression on his face. “I know you said you didn’t like it, but I wanted to give you a chance to change your mind.”
“You did, and now it’s set in stone, Mr. Lassiter.” She looked straight at him, and when he quickly diverted his gaze, she realized that he was attracted to her and preferred not to be.
“Send me something equally well written that doesn’t focus on women’s body parts and I’ll consider publishing it.”
It amused her that he had the grace to blush. “I think it’s a good story, but…” He threw up his hands as if in resignation and then let his face dissolve into an engaging grin. Looking at his dazzling smile, her thoughts went back to Jeff Southwall, the man whose mesmerizing masculinity had trapped her into making the biggest mistake of her life.
Before she realized she would say them, the words, “You’re wasting your time,” slipped out of her mouth.
But as if he hadn’t heard her, he said, “Thanks for having lunch with me. When I asked you, I thought you’d refuse.” He walked with her to the car she’d rented and opened the driver’s door. “You haven’t seen or heard the last of me. I don’t give up easily.” He extended his hand for a shake and added, “Be seeing you at one place or another.”
“I told you not to waste your time, and I meant it.” However, she doubted he heard her for, without answering, he turned and walked off, whistling as he went.
She let the engine warm up for a few minutes before heading to the airport. The man’s hands were those of a working man, calloused and hard, but he had the manners and demeanor of an educated person. She couldn’t reconcile the two traits. There was something about Edmond Lassiter that didn’t add up—something besides his terrible story.
Then she thought of Warren Holcomb, a warm and tender, yet equally masculine man. Captivating. The man she wanted with mounting urgency each time she was in his presence. There was no comparison. Edmond Lassiter was not even in the running. Granted, she’d been taken aback by his earthiness and blatant sexuality but, even before they separated, she’d become used to him and his sly way of seduction. She released the brake and put Hampton University behind her.
A she drove, she envisaged a life with a strong, warm and gentle man, a man like Warren Holcomb. One who made her forget everything and everyone but him. “It isn’t going to happen,” she said aloud. “If he hasn’t made a move yet, he never will.”
Jacqueline went from LaGuardia Airport directly to Riverdale to see her father. “You look wonderful,” she told him as they embraced. Her father always made her feel as if she was the apple of his eye, although she knew he loved her sister, Vanna, as much as he loved her. “How are you feeling, Papa?”
“I feel a lot better, so you can move me out of this mansion. It must cost a fortune, and I know you can’t afford it.” She didn’t tell him that she had an evening job that enabled her to afford comfort for them both.
“I learned it from you, Papa. I’m only taking care of you the way you took care of Mama, except that I haven’t mortgaged my pension to do so. Stop worrying.”
“It’s time you gave me a grandchild,” he said when she rose to leave. “Find a good man” rang in her ears as she kissed him goodbye.
When she arrived at work the following evening, her first call for service was to Warren Holcomb, who sat alone in one of the private lounges.
“Good evening, sir. What may I get for you?”
His right eyebrow shot up, and she reminded herself to be cautious about her language. He had detected her proper use of the word “may” instead of “can,” which a less-educated person might have used.
“Coffee.”
“Uh…anything else?”
“No. Look, I don’t really want any coffee. I want to apologize to you for having knocked the wind out of you the other night. It was careless of me, and I’ve stewed over it ever since. Are you certain that I didn’t hurt you?”
She tried to smile in order to put him at ease, for she knew he didn’t really want to apologize again for that accident, that he was using it as an excuse to talk with her. Still, she appreciated his subtlety. “You didn’t hurt me, and you certainly would never—” she emphasized the word never “—do so intentionally.”
Leaning forward, he braced his hands on his knees and seemed to study her. “You’re right. I wouldn’t.” Although silent for a moment, he gazed steadily at her until her nerves scrambled themselves throughout her body and her blood began a headlong rush to her lower region. But she refused to blink. It was his move.
Finally, he sat back in his chair, and although his gaze softened, his eyes nevertheless gleamed. “I want to see more of you, and I think you know that. It’s against club rules for me to make a date with you, and that’s all that keeps me from trying.”
For heaven’s sake, there are other ways, she thought, but to him, she said, “I appreciate your being discrete, sir.”
“I don’t know how to take that,” he said, surprising her with his directness, “and please stop calling me sir. Are you saying you’re not interested?”
She stared into his eyes, darker now than usual and with a fire blazing in them that she had no trouble naming. “Is that the only interpretation you can give it?” she asked. She was determined to keep him guessing.
“I wasn’t trying to be subtle or discrete. I merely stated a fact. And I’d be a lot closer to you this minute if club rules didn’t forbid that as well.”
“You’re a lot bolder than I thought. I’d better get back to my station.”
“I’ll take that coffee strong.”
“How many?” she asked and hated herself for letting him know that he’d rattled her.
But he didn’t capitalize on her slipup. “I have no guests this evening. I didn’t sit in the main lounge, because I wanted to speak with you.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes with your coffee.” As she left the lounge, she threw him a look over her shoulder. Just because he knew she melted when he picked her up off the floor and held her was no reason for him to get a big head. More than one man would affirm that she was the queen of denial. If he was as smart as he seemed he would realize that she hadn’t said she wasn’t interested, but she’d merely avoided answering his question.
Carrying a silver tray that contained a pot of coffee and an elegant coffee service, Jackie paused as she approached the private lounge. The small, illuminated yellow bulb indicated that the lounge was occupied. Did Holcomb realize that, with that light blinking, only she, the waitress, would enter that lounge or even knock on the door? The lump in her throat seemed to grow by the second. She opened the door, put the tray on the service table nearby, poured a cup of coffee and took it to him.
He examined the porcelain cup with what seemed like relish. “Thank you. I like it with milk instead of cream, and no sugar,” he said as he reached for it.
“I know how you like it.”
Both of his eyebrows shot up. “Mind my asking if you know how each of the forty-seven members of this club likes his coffee?”
“I don’t mind at all.”
A smile lit up his face, and the twinkle that always mesmerized her began to dance in his eyes. “Well, do you?”
“Definitely not.”
He put the cup and saucer on the table beside him and leaned toward her. “Are you playing with me?” An expression of disbelief roamed over his face.
She didn’t try to suppress the mirth that welled up in her and grinned when she said, “No more than you’re playing with me. You knew the answer before you asked the question.”
His smile broadened, displaying a left dimple. “Well, I don’t know the answer to this. How can I manage to spend some time with you without violating club rules?”
She let her gaze sweep over him. “If you figured out how to achieve such success that Allegory invited you to join before you were forty, you can figure out how to see me without breaking the rules. Since I’m not a whiz kid, and I’d rather not get fired, don’t expect any help from me.”
He crossed his knees, appeared to get more comfortable, and sipped his coffee. “Just the way I like it. Do you want me to figure out a way?”
On the verge of becoming exasperated—he had the privacy he needed; why didn’t he use it—she put her right hand on her right hip and stared at him. “Mr. Holcomb, nothing in this life is certain but taxes and death. From the moment babies begin trying to walk, they learn that they have to take a chance.”
As if he’d missed the point, intentionally or not, he asked, “Have you had any experience with babies?”
A moron would know that a straight answer to that question would give him more information than he was entitled to, so if he wanted to know, he would have to ask a direct question. “Only during the first year of my life,” she retorted.
She watched, fascinated, as he closed his eyes, rested his head against the back of the overstuffed chair and let the laughter roll out of him. When he stopped laughing, he said, “I can’t wait to get you all to myself.”
She didn’t answer, but she hoped that managing that trick wouldn’t take him too long.
Chapter 2
I don’t know what possessed me to agree to speak to that sorority on this particular day, Jacqueline said to herself as she rolled out of bed at four-thirty in the morning. I’m beat. Lord, I should have spent the night in Charlotte.
But she hadn’t. She was in New York, and she’d better get moving if she wanted to get that seven o’clock flight.
By the time the propeller plane landed in Charlotte, she was certain that her insides had been rearranged. In the terminal, she bought a bottle of cold water and drank it to settle her stomach. Then, she picked up a rental car and headed for Johnson C. Smith University. Whenever Jacqueline visited a university—and she did that often—she invariably felt old, compared to the vibrant, youthful students around her.
Jacqueline had accomplished a lot in the ten years after getting her undergraduate degree in English. She’d earned a doctorate in criminology and had become the senior editor of a very prestigious magazine, but she was also lonely. Her life was devoid of the intimacy she craved, and she saw little likelihood of a change in her single status. What man would be willing to share the burden of her father’s expensive illness or to settle for a woman whose father’s well-being came before everything else? Would a successful, polished man like Warren Holcomb allow himself to care for a cocktail waitress? And would he still be interested if he discovered who she really was?
She turned into the university’s campus, asked for instructions to the library, drove there, found a parking space and walked a few paces to the James B. Duke Library. She had to banish her passion for Warren Holcomb—and there was nothing else to call it—for she was playing with fire.
“Welcome, Dr. Parkton,” a pretty girl of about eighteen said when Jacqueline stepped into the lecture hall, where about seventy-five students and, she surmised from their apparent ages, teachers as well, awaited her. “I’m your escort for the day. The students are all excited, and I’ve already collected lots of questions for you.”
And so it went on many of Jacqueline’s weekends. The money she made from her lectures went into a special account from which she would pay for her father’s surgery in the event that he agreed to have it. She didn’t allow herself to consider the consequences if he refused. Lunch with the class that sponsored her appearance there followed the lecture and questioning period. She enjoyed the exchange with the eager students, but she was glad to leave.
I’m old enough to be their mother, she said to herself of the freshmen as she drove to the airport, and I definitely did not enjoy being addressed as ma’am.
She walked into her apartment at eight-thirty that night, had a glass of milk and two pieces of toast for supper, stripped and fell into bed. She couldn’t wait for Monday. Monday evening, in fact. Surely, if Warren—she thought of him as Warren, not as Mr. Holcomb—put his mind to it, he ought to be able to figure out a way to spend time with her in forty-eight hours.
Warren spent most of his weekend thinking about Jackie Parks and pondering schemes to be alone with her outside the club without violating Allegory’s rules. Expulsion from the club would mortify him and practically assure that, for years to come, Allegory wouldn’t have another African American member. Membership in it had enabled him to obtain generous donations to Harlem Clubs, Inc., funds that he used for scholarships and for professional tutoring for the children who frequented the clubs.
He could get Jackie’s address and wait for her at her home one night after she left work, but that strategy involved asking the club accountant for information about Jackie. He couldn’t do that. He could follow her, but that was unseemly. And what if she lived with a man? From his one conversation with her, he didn’t think so, but who could tell?
I’ll ask her where she lives. That’s not the same as making a date. I’d call her at home, but she’s not in the phone directory. Damn, but this woman is in my blood!
He was never at a loss for something constructive to do, but Harlem Clubs didn’t open on Sunday. The only person in New York City who he wanted to see was unavailable to him and he was at loose ends. He put on his jogging suit and a pair of running shoes and went for a run down to the promenade, but instead of returning home at once, he sat on the bench overlooking the East River and lower Manhattan. A chilly, but otherwise perfect day, he thought, as the early afternoon sun warmed his face. All around him leaves floated lazily to earth and a tugboat hooted hoarsely for wider access with its burdensome tanker. The couples who strolled along the promenade holding hands, hugging and staring into each other’s eyes increased his sense of loneliness.
“I wonder what she’s doing and who she’s with?” he mused as visions of her long, silky legs and her large round eyes filled his mind’s eye. “Something about her doesn’t add up. Women who exploit their sexuality have never interested me, but with that skirt barely covering her…Oh, what the hell!” He got up and jogged on home and wondered if he could bear to wait until Monday evening.
After fighting the covers all night, he arose early Monday morning, not because he was invigorated—enervated was more like it—but because he wanted to hasten the beginning of the day. He didn’t wait until he got to the club to reserve a private lounge as he usually did. Instead he telephoned his reservation as soon as the club opened at noon.
She had to stop, Jacqueline thought to herself after she changed clothes for the third time that Monday afternoon. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for work, and that sleaze Duff Hornsby would have an excuse to get her alone under the pretext of reprimanding her. Green wasn’t her best color, and suppose she ran into Warren before she changed into her uniform. Oh what the heck! If I’m late, I’m late. She took off the green dress and put on a red woolen sheath, added a strand of pearls and a spritz of Opium perfume, put on her coat and headed to work.
She walked into Allegory at precisely six-thirty and let herself relax. She was on time and Hornsby, the club’s president, wouldn’t have an excuse to harass her. She changed into her uniform and the stiletto-heel sandals she was required to wear and went to the storage room to get some linen cocktail napkins.
“What on earth!” She gasped and backed out of the storage room, closing the door on the half-naked couple she’d just interrupted. Was that Carl Spaeder’s wife? And if it was, why didn’t they save their lovemaking for their bedroom at home? And why didn’t they close the door? Have I been missing something about this ritzy place? she asked herself. Is Warren Holcomb the only man here who obeys club rules?
The light flashed on her intercom, indicating a call to the Reagan Suite. Wondering who had summoned her, she opened the door, and when she saw Duff Hornsby, she didn’t move two feet from it.
“Yes, Mr. Hornsby. How may I help you?”
A smile crawled over his face. “For starters, you can move closer. Over here.”
“I can hear whatever you say standing right here. I have another call. What do you want?”
“I want you.”
“Mr. Hornsby, I’ve worked here for going on three years, and you’re the first member of this club to break club rules and harass me. I suppose you know that my contract provides for redress in such an event.”
“Oh, come now. You can’t prove a thing. Besides, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“That’s impossible. Not if you owned every ounce of gold in Fort Knox. And don’t be too sure that I can’t prove you got out of line.” She let the door slam behind her, aware that eventually Duff Hornsby’s shenanigans could force her to leave Allegory.
She went back to her station and saw the light flashing for the lounge that Warren frequently used. She got a glass of ice water, a pot of coffee and a coffee service, arranged them on a silver tray and entered the lounge.
“I’ve been ringing you for the past ten minutes,” he said. “I was afraid that you didn’t come to work today. How are you?”
Thank God for the serving table beside the door, for it seemed that her arms and legs turned to rubber and she quickly set the tray on the table. “I’m…fine. I hope you had a…an enjoyable weekend.”
“I had a lonely weekend, and it lasted forever.”
What was she to say to that? Her weekend hadn’t been a rousing celebration, either. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. I brought you some coffee.”
Even from the distance, she couldn’t miss the warmth of his gaze. “Thanks for your thoughtfulness. It’s just what I want. I’d ask for a vodka comet, but I don’t want it badly enough to drink it alone.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” She poured the coffee, put about two tablespoons of milk in it, placed it on the cocktail table in front of him. Shock reverberated through her system when his hand covered hers, and, unable to do otherwise, she stared into his eyes. Eyes bright with warmth, affection and, yes, riveting desire.
“Would you p-please g-give me b-back my h-hand?”
“Don’t ever call me ‘sir’ again, Jackie. My name is Warren, and that’s what I want you to call me.”
She looked down at him, and at his restive and agitated demeanor. If I don’t get out of here, we’re both going to explode.
“I’d better go. If you want something else, just ring.” She didn’t wait for his reply, but walked out as quickly as she could and closed the door.
She returned to her station, saw that Ben had called her and, instead of calling him, she went to the bar. “What is it, Ben?” she asked trying to sound normal.
“Hornsby’s in the main lounge, and he wants these drinks.”
“Ben, what am I going to do about that man? He keeps hitting on me, and I can’t stand him. He’s so sure that nobody will believe he’d harass a cocktail waitress. But Ben, he actually propositioned me.”
“I’d believe it. The guy’s gray suit on the outside and pure trash on the inside. Don’t let that jerk upset you. I’ll send Jack in with this.” She thanked him and, on her way back to her station, glanced toward the main lounge and saw Hornsby huddled with Mac. Birds of a feather, she said to herself as she got ready to deliver another order.
Warren Halcomb had been aware of Jackie’s reaction to his touch, and knowing that he made her tremble had excited him. But at that moment, he’d had more self-control than she, for if he had stood and put his arms around her, she wouldn’t have moved until his tongue was deep inside her mouth.
Long after Jackie had left, Warren sat alone in the private lounge, leaning against the back of the leather chair musing about her. She wanted him as badly as he wanted her, or at least he thought so, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe she had merely been frightened that he would take advantage of her. He’d certainly had the opportunity, for no one would enter a private suite other than a waiter or waitress called there to give service. But she was safe with him, she should know that by now.
What a mess!
He got up and went to the bar hoping for a glimpse of her. He found Ben squinting his eyes over a tattered copy of Tolstoy’s War and Peace. Ben looked up, saw Warren and lay the book, open and facedown, on the counter.
“Can I get you something?” he asked Warren.
He wasn’t going to pour out his intimate thoughts to any man, including Ben, whom he’d taken into his confidence on many occasions. “I was considering a vodka comet, but I think I’ll just head home.”
“We’re having stuffed crown of roast pork and drawn lobster for dinner tonight. You can’t get a better choice. Makes you wanna eat two dinners. If you don’t have an engagement…” Ben didn’t say more. They had a strange friendship, but Ben never allowed himself to get familiar with Warren. Too bad, Warren thought. In different circumstances, they could have been as close as brothers.
He rarely ate at the club more than the required four nights each month, and Ben knew it. “Thanks, buddy,” he said, ignoring Ben’s concession to rank. “Two of my favorites, but I can’t stay tonight. Thanks for letting me know.” Ben nodded, poured some vodka and aquavit over shaved ice, drained it into two glasses, added a few drops of lime juice and handed one glass to Warren.
“I know you don’t drink by yourself, so I’ll toss this one back with you if you like.”
Warren smiled. “I would indeed like it, Ben, and I appreciate the gesture. First time I decide to drink alone, it’ll be the last time I taste alcohol.”