It was Friday. The afternoon sunlight was soft, the air mild. It was the time of year when the sun confirmed the passing of summer, and the mornings and evenings were cool and comfortable, signs that fall was in full effect.
Gina made an appointment at her regular beauty salon for a day of beauty for MamaCee. The Dearborn Street salon was one of the city’s most popular. Therapy pampered its clients beyond belief and operated an exclusive dress shop adjacent to the salon that sold and rented expensive evening gowns. The chatter of clients warmed the salon, as both men and women got manicures, pedicures and, of course, their do’s done. The dress shop was always busy on weekends, especially during prom time.
Zurich was busy preparing to leave Saturday morning for an away game against Seattle, so Gina picked up MamaCee and took her to the salon. Once inside, Gina introduced her to Teresa, one of the co-owners, who welcomed Mrs. Cora Robinson as if she was her first and most important customer ever.
“Now, MamaCee, you are in good hands. I’ll make sure someone will call my office when you’re all done,” Gina said.
“Okay, baby. They got your number?”
“Yes, MamaCee, it’s all taken care of,” Gina assured her.
“Don’t worry, Gina, we’ll take good care of Mrs. Robinson,” Teresa said as she took MamaCee’s handbag and the small paper bag in which MamaCee had packed chicken salad and deviled eggs, just in case.
“My oh my, I’m tellin’ you, ain’t this a beautiful place you got here? You own all this?” MamaCee asked as she surveyed the stylish waiting area with its matching gray-and-black oversized chairs and black leather sofa.
“Yes, ma’am, I do,” Teresa said proudly. “Gina tells me you’re from down South. What part?”
“Mississippi. A li’l place called Warm Springs. We ain’t got no place like this back home,” MamaCee said as she looked around. The salon was divided into black-lacquer-and-glass workstations for each stylist, with a separate area for manicures and pedicures. A bank of hair dryers and shampoo sinks, together with a dressing room, lined the far wall. “I’ve been doin’ my own hair most of my life.”
“Well, we’re certainly glad you’re going to spend some time with us, Mrs. Robinson,” Teresa said.
“Oh, baby, call me MamaCee or Miss Cora, whichever one suits you,” MamaCee said.
“Okay, Miss Cora, let me introduce you to David, one of the co-owners and the young man who’s gonna take care of you.”
“I’m in your hands,” MamaCee said as she caught a glimpse of two young women in the adjacent dress shop modeling black-beaded gowns and checking their fit in a three-way mirror. A few minutes later, a tall, brown-skinned young man with a comb in his hands and a big smile on his face approached and greeted MamaCee.
“Miss Cora, I’m David. I’m going to be your stylist. What are we going to have done today?”
“I don’t know. You the expert. What do you think we ought to do?” MamaCee said as she pulled off the flower print flop hat she was wearing. Her thickly braided hair was rolled up and held in place by several bobby pins. David took her hat and began to run his fingers through MamaCee’s hair, releasing several pins and letting her shoulder-length locks free.
“Oh, you have a good grade of hair, Miss Cora. We can do some things with it. I think we should start with some coloring. Perk it up,” David said.
“Uh-oh. I don’t know ’bout that. What was your name again, baby?”
“David,” he said as he began to unbraid her hair.
“Now, David, I like my natural color. You know this gray hair shows my age, which I’m proud of. I don’t know ’bout no coloring.”
“I think maybe just a little black tint will do. We can try this new color called Silky Black. Now, Miss Cora, you’ve got to trust me. You’re such a beautiful lady. I’m just going to enhance that beauty. Will you trust me?”
MamaCee looked in David’s eyes and was silent for a moment. Suddenly she broke out in a smile and said, “I can trust you. Come on, give Mama the works.”
“Great,” David said. He called out to a young lady in the shampoo area to come over to meet MamaCee.
“Miss Cora,” he said, “this is Pam; she’s our colorist. She’s going to get you a smock so we can get you started. We don’t want to mess up this pretty dress you’re wearing. Can we get you something to drink?”
“Something to drink? What you got?” MamaCee asked as she thought about her lunch. She wasn’t hungry yet, but something for her dry mouth would be good.
“Pam, why don’t you take Miss Cora in the back and let her change into a smock. Let her know what we have to drink and treat her right,” he said.
“Fine, come with me, Miss Cora, is it?”
“Yes, baby. But why don’t you call me MamaCee.”
“Okay, MamaCee. Can I get you some wine, champagne, or maybe some fruit juice?”
MamaCee put her fingers to her chin and said, “Let me think. It’s the middle of the day, so I don’t think I need any wine or that champ stuff. How ’bout a strawberry soda pop?”
“Oh, I don’t think we have strawberry soda. We have fruit punch,” Pam said.
“How ’bout orange juice. You got that?”
“Yes, I think we do. Come on with me and let’s get changed. When you come out, I’ll have you a nice glass of juice.”
“Fine, baby. You people sho are nice,” she said as she entered the private changing areas.
It was Mia Miller’s first trip to Therapy, too, and she walked in with sunglasses and an attitude. For days rest and sleep had eluded Mia. When she did manage to sleep, she had nightmares. She still couldn’t recall the details of the night she was attacked. All she really remembered was a strong hand jerking her head back by her hair. Every time she woke up, Mia had nagging headaches, which she attributed to the wine she was drinking to help her sleep.
Dressed down in jeans and an oversized man’s white oxford shirt, Mia checked in with the receptionist and then took a seat in the waiting area. After thumbing impatiently through a few magazines, she returned to the desk and asked just how long she was expected to wait. The receptionist told her the stylist would be with her in a few minutes. When she asked Mia if she could offer her something to drink, Mia’s eyes perked up. “Yes, what do you have?”
“We have juice, wine, or champagne,” the receptionist offered.
“I’ll take the wine, if it’s white and cold,” Mia said with a quick toss of her hair and a smile without warmth. The cold smile was not for the receptionist, but in anticipation of the wine.
“No problem. I’ll get it for you right away.”
After Mia had finished her wine, and before she could request another glass, a tall, slender young man came to the waiting area and introduced himself. “Miss Miller, I’m Mark Young. You have an appointment with me. I think you told my booker that you wanted to get a wash and cut.”
“That’s right,” Mia said, twirling the empty wineglass in her left hand.
“You have beautiful hair, are you sure you want it cut?” Mark said as he ran his hands through her thick hair.
“Yes,” Mia said coldly.
“If you just want a new look, I can show you some styles that would look good on you, without cutting so much of your hair,” Mark said.
“I want my hair cut,” Mia said, emphasizing each word. She stood and placed one hand on her hip and asked, “Which part don’t you understand?” Mia was using her pre-hissy-fit voice.
“Fine, Ms. Miller. If you want it cut, then that’s what we’ll do. Would you mind taking off your sunglasses?”
“Are we going to have problems here?” Mia asked as she slowly removed the glasses and rolled her eyes at Mark.
“Oh no,” Mark said as he moved back with his hands clasped as if in prayer. “At Therapy the client is always right. Like I said, you want a short cut, then we will do it. Let me show you to the changing area.” Mia turned in the direction of his extended hand. Mark looked back at the receptionist, who mouthed bitch, and he smiled in agreement.
“You’re the sportscaster, aren’t you?” Mark asked.
Without looking back at him, Mia whispered, “Yes.” She’d been hoping no one would recognize her. But now that Mark had, Mia thought maybe she should try and be more pleasant. She was certain he would tell his other clients she was a bitch. She was feeling too vulnerable to deal with bad beauty shop gossip.
Mia walked into the dressing room as MamaCee walked out. MamaCee smiled at Mia and said in a loud voice, “I’m ready. What do I do now?”
“Come on over here, MamaCee,” Pam said as she wrapped a towel around MamaCee’s neck.
“That sure was a pretty girl that just walked in there. Is she some kinda movie star? I heard y’all have them up here,” MamaCee said.
“Naw, not really. She just thinks she is,” Pam whispered.
“Oh, she one of them, huh. Sounds like the white lady I worked for, BethAnn Thorsen, the original Miss Nobody-knows-the-trouble-I-seen,” MamaCee laughed. “She always thought she shoulda been a movie star. Use to read all them movie magazines and them Cosmo Something magazines or other. I can’t recall the exact name, you know, baby, the kind where they be talkin’ ’bout what folks ought to keep in their ‘whisperin’ rooms,’ ” MamaCee said.
Pam seated MamaCee at the shampoo bowl and tilted her head back against the cold sink as she applied color protector to MamaCee’s hair, then asked, “What’s a whisperin’ room?”
“Ah, you know, baby. Yo folks probably had one; it’s usually the bedroom. You know where folks who married go to talk ’bout stuff they don’t want other folks to know. You know, like nosy kids, nosy in-laws. Me and my late husband, God rest his soul, had two whisperin’ rooms. One was the dining room, where we would sit and talk ’bout stuff over a nice strong cup of coffee. Stuff like the white folks we worked for, our kids. Stuff just ‘tween he and me. And our other whisperin’ room was our bedroom, you know, where we took care of our marital business,” MamaCee laughed. “But you look a little too young to know ’bout that kinda stuff.”
Pam just smiled as she worked the protector into MamaCee’s hair. “Miss Cora, why don’t you just lay back and close your eyes and let the protector sit?” Pam said.
“Okay, baby, Mama ain’t goin’ nowhere,” MamaCee replied.
Pam allowed MamaCee’s hair to set for about ten minutes and then returned to shampoo and condition it. When she finished, Pam dabbed the water and traces of conditioner from MamaCee’s forehead with a towel. MamaCee looked over at Mark’s station, where he was cutting Mia’s hair.
“Why he doin’ that?” MamaCee asked.
“What?”
“Cuttin’ that gal’s hair like that. She got beautiful hair,” MamaCee said. “Looks like she got a good grade of hair. If I had hair like that, Lord knows you couldn’t pay me enough money to let somebody cut it.”
“I’m sure that’s what she wanted, MamaCee,” Pam said.
“Well, I’ll be. I hope what’s his name don’t think he gonna cut off Mama’s hair, ’cause if he is, then I might as well have brought my good wig with me, so I can put it on when I leave here,” she said.
“Don’t worry, you won’t need a wig when you leave here,” Pam chuckled.
Pam turned MamaCee over to David, who did clip off a few of her split ends. He rolled her wet hair tightly and then took MamaCee over to a row of five dryers. Three were already in use, so David put MamaCee in the last dryer, near the wall and the magazine table.
“Now how long you want me under here?” MamaCee asked.
“Not that long. I’m not going to forget about you. Do you want something else to drink?”
“Naw, I’ll be just fine. But maybe a li’l bit later I’ll have you fetch my handbag. I got some rock candy in there I might need to suck on,” MamaCee said. “Keep my throat from getting dry,” she said as she tapped her throat.
“Okay, just let me know. You want a magazine?”
“Naw, I’ll just talk to my neighbor,” MamaCee said as she looked at the empty seat next to her, but then spotted a lady in the next chair over who had smiled at her when she sat down.
MamaCee was trying to adjust the dryer’s plastic helmet when Mark brought Mia over to the dryers and sat her next to MamaCee. MamaCee smiled again at Mia, who didn’t smile back. Mia got up from the chair, went over to the magazine table, picked up a copy of Essence, and returned to her chair. Minutes later Mark brought over the plastic cup of wine that Mia had left at his workstation.
“I thought you might want this,” he said and did a fashion runway turn before Mia could thank him.
She measured the drink to make sure she had enough to last her through dryer time. Just as she was getting ready to lower the dryer back on her head, MamaCee lifted hers and said, “Baby, why you cutting all that pretty hair of yours?”
“Excuse me?” Mia said coldly. She had decided to extend her pleasantries only to Mark and not some old lady with a gold tooth who probably never ever even watched television sports. But MamaCee ignored the chill in Mia’s voice and the disdain in her eyes. She wanted to talk.
“Oh, you couldn’t hear me, these dryer things are kinda loud, ain’t they? I said, why you want to cut all that pretty hair of yours? I saw you when you came in here with all that hair. I asked one of the peoples working here if you were some kinda movie star on count you were so pretty and when I saw that man cuttin’ your hair, I wanted to come over there and tell him to stop. Don’t cut all that pretty hair,” MamaCee said.
Mia didn’t respond. She gave MamaCee a what-is-this-crazy-woman-talking-about look as she lowered the dryer and started reading her magazine. Maybe if she continued to ignore MamaCee, she would get the message that Mia was in no mood to talk.
MamaCee shrugged her shoulders and lowered her dryer, too.
But a few minutes later, the dryer started to bother MamaCee. She lifted it from her head and looked around the busy salon for David or Pam. When she didn’t see them, she pulled the dryer back down on her head and continued to look around the shop for her stylist. A minute later she balled up her fist and knocked on Mia’s dryer. This did not make Mia happy. She gave MamaCee an exasperated look and MamaCee’s voice, under the dryer, became unnaturally loud.
“Did you see the child that was fixin’ my hair?” MamaCee asked Mia.
“No,” Mia said.
“Oh, good, you can talk,” MamaCee observed. “You ain’t said much since you been in here, baby. I was wonderin’ if maybe you were hard of hearing or something,” she said.
Mia became silent again as she took one of the rollers out to see if her hair was dry. It was and she began to look around for Mark so he could take her away from this nosy old woman. Mia was about to get up from the chair to go find Mark when MamaCee launched into a story.
“Well, one thang ’bout you cuttin’ your hair off is that you can be forgiven for that. You know, a young girl like you, well, your hair will grow back in no time. But an old lady like me, well, I ’spect it would take a li’l longer. That’s why I told them not to cut a lot off, ’cause my hair ain’t so forgiving,” MamaCee said.
Mia moved forward in her chair and looked for Mark. The salon was so busy with activity that Mia assumed he was probably starting on another client. This is exactly what she hated about beauty shops on Friday evenings. You could be in there three or four hours while stylists juggled clients. Mia looked toward Mark’s station and saw another woman sitting in the chair messing with her hair but saw no sign of Mark.
“That’s the one thang ’bout growing old, you can’t make that many mistakes,” MamaCee continued, “ ’cause you don’t have much time left for forgiveness. But sometimes you can try to make up for mistakes, you know, by tryin’ to help out somebody else.” MamaCee paused and took a deep breath. It was strange, but thinking about Mia cutting her hair, and seeing other people getting their hair done, reminded her of when Zach and Zuri decided to shave their heads. At first, she didn’t like it. She thought it made them look too militant. But over the years, she had learned to love their shaved domes. MamaCee thought how she had prayed to see Zachary’s bald head, after Zurich shaved it for the last time. She felt tears forming in her eyes, so she did what she always did when sad memories showed up: MamaCee talked. “Take me, for instance, Lord knows I done made a million mistakes. Some of them hurt so bad that I just didn’t know if I could fix ’em. But you got to try, you got to forgive yourself,” MamaCee said as her voice started to change into a mournful tone. Mia noticed the change, how it had gone from annoying to sorrowful. She adjusted her body in the tight-fitting chair, and closed her magazine, using her index finger to keep her place, and started to listen. “You see, baby, that’s why I’m up here in Chicago, trying to right a wrong. I flew up here, my first plane ride, ’cause the good Lord and my legs told me my grandbaby needed me. The first time that happened I didn’t listen ’cause I was scared of flying in one of them big old planes, and the bus, you know the Greyhound, well, it would have taken too long. My grandbaby, Zach, he was living up in New York City all alone. You know, he had friends, but he didn’t have family up there when he got real sick, and he needed his family. He thought his family didn’t understand ’bout how he lived his life, but I would always tell Zach, ‘Baby, ain’t nuthin’ you can do to make your grandma shamed of you.’ But in the end his grandma did something that shamed herself,” MamaCee said as tears began to slowly roll down her face. “Sometimes it’s hard to accept the natural order of things, like life and death, but it’s even harder when they out of step, like a child going on before his parents and his grandparents.” MamaCee began making a sniffling sound as if she needed to blow her nose. Mia reached over and touched MamaCee’s hand. “I like to remember my baby Zach when he was bursting with life, twirling and flipping around the field behind my garden.”
“What happened to him?” Mia asked.
“Well, my Zach called me one morning and his voice was real frail, sick-like, and he said, ‘MamaCee,’ that’s what he called me, he said, ‘MamaCee, I need to see you one mo time, I need one of yo hugs and stories to let me know everything gonna be all right.’ I told him it would be all right and what did he want me to do? He said he wanted me to come up to New York City, but I had to catch one of them planes ’cause he didn’t think he could wait on the Greyhound. I wanted to git on that plane to come up there and hug my grandbaby, but I was just so scared, you know, thinkin’ that plane was going to fall out of the sky and I was gonna beat my grandbaby to glory. So I went down to the bus station to git me a ticket to New York,” MamaCee said as long, slow tears descended down her face, tears as long and slow as one of her stories.
Now completely engrossed, Mia asked softly, “Why were you scared?”
“I don’t know, baby. I don’t know. When I got back home from the bus station, I was packing my stuff and sanging to myself. I was sanging ‘I Will Trust in The Lord.’ You ever heard that song, baby?”
“No.” Mia had attended a white Catholic Church and she was unfamiliar with Negro spirituals.
“Oh, it’s a beautiful song. ‘I will trust in the Lord, I will trust in the Lord till I die,’ ” MamaCee sang softly. “When my legs git real stiff and ache a lot, I know that trouble is nearby and that trouble usually means my own children or my grandbabies.”
“But I don’t guess I did. Anyhow, ‘spite my legs and my grandbaby’s pleas, I got on that bus headed for New York. The first day it seem like that bus was moving so slow, I just knew I had made a terrible mistake. I just felt it. When we got to Ohio, I got off the bus and I called my Zach to tell him to hold on, that Grandma was on the way. But there was no answer at his apartment and my heart, oh, baby, it became so heavy ’cause I knew somethin’ was wrong,” MamaCee said as the tears continued.
Mia took MamaCee’s hands in her own and asked, “What happened?”
“Well, my Zach had gone on to glory, probably ’bout the time that bus pulled into Ohio and I didn’t git to give him that hug he needed before he went to meet the Lord,” MamaCee said, sobbing softly. Mia reached for a tissue from the little box on the magazine table.
“Oh, look at me. Here I am in here trying to look beautiful and this old lady is crying like a baby. Now they gonna have to put some of that makeup stuff on me,” MamaCee said as she tried to laugh.
“Are you going to be all right?” Mia asked.
“Yeah, baby, I gonna be all right ’cause I asked the Lord to forgive me. And then I told myself that I had to forgive me. You know, for the mistakes I made. The good Lord forgives you when you forgive yourself,” MamaCee said tenderly. “And isn’t it good to know that the good Lord is forgiving every second of the day?”
Tamela rang the doorbell of the penthouse suite at the Four Seasons hotel. Here she was, an overnight bag in tow, about to spend the night with a man she had never even kissed. Caliph opened the door, looking like a pinup for a police recruitment poster, and her knees became weak. In her head she told herself, Don’t end up with your panties on your forehead, Miss Thang.
“Tamela, welcome to my penthouse,” he said as he took her bag. Caliph took her hand and led her into the most beautiful hotel suite she had ever seen.
“Caliph, this is so nice.” She looked around the plush living area, furnished with an egg-shell-white couch and matching settee and armchair, marble tables, a fireplace, and a white baby grand piano. A wood and polished brass wet bar stood near sliding glass doors that opened onto a large terrace.
“True, true. Tom Joyner, Sybil, and the Four Seasons act like they know how to treat a brother,” Caliph said. He placed her bag near the bar, then seemed at a loss for words. “Can I get you something to drink?” Caliph asked quickly.
Good, she thought, he’s nervous, too. “Sure, maybe just some mineral water for now.”
“Come on, now. I’ve got a great bottle of wine already chilled. I know you’ve had a rough week. And we’re here to celebrate making it through another week.”
“Yes, it has been a rough week. All right, I will have the wine,” Tamela said as she walked toward the terrace and enjoyed the view of dusk covering a busy Michigan Avenue and Lake Michigan in the distance. “Oh, this is exquisite. I’m going to have to start calling that radio show myself.”
“If you win something like this, I hope you’ll include me,” Caliph said.
“That depends on how well you behave,” Tamela teased. This was different, she thought, a man encouraging her to think about future dates before they had even kissed.
“True … true,” Caliph said. “Come on over here and sit next to me; let’s just talk for a minute.”
Tamela joined Caliph on the sofa, where two glasses of white wine waited on the marble coffee table. Caliph handed Tamela her glass, then lifted his toward hers and said, “Here’s to a beautiful lady and an evening of equal beauty.” Tamela smiled back coyly and sipped the light sweetness of the wine.
“You look great in your uniform. I don’t remember it looking that good at the stadium,” Tamela said.
“This is my everyday work git-up. I have something else I’m going to change into later,” he said as he winked and took a sip of his wine. Tamela noticed the sensual look in his eyes and felt the warm glow of the wine spread throughout her body. She felt safe.
“So how was your day?” she asked.
“It was great. I talked to my daughter two times. She was kinda upset that I won’t see her this weekend, but I promised her we’d go and see The Lion King next weekend for the third time,” he said.
“You really love your daughter, don’t you?” Tamela said softly.
“True. She is my deepest joy,” Caliph said. “If I could, I’d have a dozen more,” he added. His words and the look in his eyes caused Tamela’s eyes to mist, and she quickly changed the subject.
“Boy, this is a really a fabulous hotel. That lobby is something else,” Tamela said as she looked around the room, avoiding Caliph’s eyes. She reached down to press her hand into the taupe plush carpet and said, “Amazing carpet.”
“True. But you can tell they don’t get a lot of us in here,” Caliph said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Just the way they looked at me when I walked in here. It was like I had spilled collard green juice in the lobby,” he laughed.
“You know that’s called pot liquor,” Tamela said.
“You call it pot liquor, I call it collard green juice,” Caliph laughed.
“You so crazy,” Tamela said as she joined him laughing.
“True … true. You know this must be a real high-class joint ’cause I didn’t see that many brothers working the door or carrying the bags,” Caliph joked.
“Yeah, it’s all right,” Tamela said as she looked toward an open set of French doors and saw the edge of a bed.
Caliph gave Tamela a tour of the two-bedroom suite, informing her she could have first choice on the bedroom selection, and when they walked back into the living area he asked, “What do you want to do first? They have a wonderful health club. I’ve already checked it out, and there is a jazz bar in the main lobby. And you know Rush Street is only a couple of blocks away. Oh … oh … I almost forgot. We’re going to have dinner served at eight. It came with the deal. It’s some kind of special meal the chef is preparing just for us,” Caliph said.
“I’m scared of you and the Four Seasons,” Tamela said as she took another sip of her wine.
“There is nothing to be frightened of,” Caliph smiled. He realized she was a little nervous and he wanted to concentrate on getting her to relax and enjoy herself and him. They finished their wine and went to separate bedrooms to prepare for dinner.
Later, Tamela emerged from the bedroom and was greeted by Caliph with an umph, umph, umph look on his face. Tamela wore black gauze harem pants and a black sheer pullover. She couldn’t stop smiling if she tried as she gazed approvingly at Caliph, dressed in navy blue silk pants and bone knit pullover. He took her by the hand and led her into the dining area, where an elegantly dressed waiter was preparing to serve them dinner on a candlelit linen-covered dining table, with custom-built chairs. The waiter started to seat Tamela, but Caliph stopped him. He pulled her chair out and whispered, “I hope they know how to burn here, but if they don’t I got backup.” He sat down facing her across the table with a immense smile. The waiter poured a little wine in his glass and after tasting it, Caliph nodded toward the waiter, who filled Tamela’s glass and then his. After a tasty pumpkin soup, a Caesar salad was served on beautiful beige-and-blue china. In the background, Sade’s greatest hits were playing and the waiter returned to fill the water and wine glasses. Tamela started to whisper to Caliph that the waiter had great taste in music but could hear her mother saying it was impolite to whisper.
When the main course, a lemon and béarnaise-covered salmon mousse, was served, they found themselves picking at it. As they sipped their wine, Caliph slowly placed a large, warm hand over Tamela’s and she smiled sweetly.
Finally, Caliph asked the waiter to remove the dinner plates and serve the coffee and brandy in the living area. Caliph gently pulled Tamela’s chair from the table. When she stood, he turned her to face him, their bodies inches apart. He held her briefly and they gazed into each other’s eyes. Caliph placed his hand at the soft center of Tamela’s back and guided her into the living area. They sat together on the long sofa, their thighs and shoulders barely touching.
Caliph ran his fingers lightly down Tamela’s arm, then back up to the softness of her neck above her top. He turned her chin toward him and, looking deep into her doe eyes, whispered, “Are you having a good time, baby?” Tamela felt a surge of heat flow from her head to her toes, as if Caliph’s voice were pulling steam from her body.
“I’m having a wonderful time,” she whispered back. He leaned closer and Tamela felt her heart begin to race as Caliph brushed his lips across her cheek.
“What’s your pleasure, Tamela?” Caliph whispered, his full lips now close to her ear. Tamela pulled away, easing back into the sofa cushions. She felt flushed and took a deep breath.
“What’s my pleasure?” she repeated.
Caliph’s smile spread slowly across his broad face. With an impish wink, he got up and walked over to the entertainment area and turned off the music. “Come on over here with me,” he said as he sat down at the baby grand and patted the bench next to him. Tamela walked over and eased down close to him. She loved being near him, and leaned her head against his shoulders, inhaling his masculine scent and brawny cologne.
Very slowly and delicately, Caliph began playing the piano. He moved smoothly into a jazz piece and Tamela was quietly pleased at how well Caliph played. His large fingers teased the keys softly, as though playing the piano was giving him a wonderful sensation. Tamela looked at him and asked, “How long have you been playing?” Without stopping, Caliph said, “Off and on since I was thirteen.”
“You play splendidly. This is just wonderful, Caliph,” Tamela said as she squeezed his right arm, then rested her hand on his thigh.
Caliph ended his concert with a jazzy rendition of Babyface’s “Tender Lover,” and Tamela began to melt like butter in a microwave. Caliph turned and looked into Tamela’s eyes and said, “You have the right to remain silent.” Taking her into his arms, he kissed her. It was a slow kiss. His full lips covered Tamela’s. She thought, This man could do this for a living. They kissed nonstop for over ten minutes. Tasting each other, discovering each other, hands, fingers caressing each other. When they came up for air, they both broke out giggling like little kids.
“Now that was nice,” Caliph said. “Who taught you how to kiss like that?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Tamela replied. Caliph gave her a quick peck on the lips and went over and put on a Marcus Roberts disc. They moved back to the sofa and as they sat down, Caliph’s stomach growled so loud it embarrassed him. “I knew that soup and salad wasn’t going to hold me for long. I’m a growing boy.”
“Yeah, I’m kinda hungry too. You want to go out and get something to eat?”
“Your wish is my command and you don’t have to move from that spot,” he said as he picked up the phone and called room service, asking if they could heat something up for him. They promised to send someone right up.
“What are you doing?” Tamela asked.
“It’s a surprise.” Tamela smiled because she loved surprises. Moments later, the rich tone of the penthouse doorbell sounded and Caliph rushed into the bedroom. He returned with a brown bag, opened the door and handed the bag to the young black room service attendant. “Make sure they heat this up right, brotherman.” The young man smiled and assured him he would “be back in a flash!”
“What did you give him?” Tamela asked.
Caliph placed his forefinger to his lips. “My lips are sealed. It won’t be a surprise if I tell,” he said. “Come over here and help me find some mood music.” Tamela walked over to the CD player and wrapped her arms around Caliph’s waist from behind. She felt his flat, hard stomach and nuzzled her face against his back. Caliph found a Toni Braxton CD and the soulful sounds of Toni’s voice filled the room. He turned in Tamela’s arms and kissed her just as the doorbell rang again. Tamela pulled herself from his embrace and said, “This time I’m gonna get it.” Caliph tried to grab her as she raced toward the door.
When she opened the door, the young black man was standing there smiling with a covered silver platter raised to shoulder height and resting on one hand.
“Good evening, Miss, shall I serve you at the dining room table?”
Before she could answer, Caliph stepped in front of her and said, “Naw, bro, I’ll take care of it.” He took the platter from the young man and pressed a five-dollar bill into his hands.
After Caliph closed the door, Tamela looked at him with a curious smile.
“What’cha looking at? You want some of what I got? Like this is some Harold’s fried chicken. Straight from the South Side. And guess what? I got some hot sauce in my bag, too,” Caliph boasted.
“You’re something else,” Tamela laughed. She loved the way he made her feel funny and sexy at the same time.
“Girl, come on, let’s get busy. We got some fried bird waiting,” he said as he playfully waved the dish of chicken under Tamela’s nose. They sat on the floor and enjoyed the fried chicken as if they were on a picnic. Caliph had a sneaky smile on his face.
“What’s that smile about?”
“I was just thinking that something is missing,” he said.
“What? Some collard green juice?” Tamela teased.
“Naw. I’m talking about something to drink. You know some jug wine. You know the kind that’s best served buck naked.”
“You know you’re some kinda fool,” Tamela laughed.
“But you kinda like it, don’t cha?” Tamela just looked at him, rolled her eyes, and smiled softly.
Tamela reminded Caliph of a pigtailed little girl, sitting crossed-leg on the floor, wiggling her toes in the deep carpet, oblivious to the smear of grease on the left side of her face as she put away her second chicken leg. Caliph lay on his side beside her and finished off his third piece of the spicy fried chicken. They kicked off their shoes and joked with each other about who was going to get the last wing. Tamela conceded to Caliph and began looking around for something to wipe her hands on. “Here,” Caliph said, and took both her hands in each of his. He meticulously licked each and every finger, smacking his lips and giving Tamela a mischievous grin each time he finished one of them. As her fingers rested inside Caliph’s warm mouth, Tamela was thinking, Don’t start something you can’t finish, Mister Policeman.
“Now what’s that face about?” Caliph teased as he stopped his cleansing.
“Oh no you don’t,” Tamela said and wiped her face on a corner of the tablecloth. She took Caliph’s face in her hand and carefully dabbed the corner of his mouth.
“Come closer,” Caliph said, “I think you missed a spot.” He closed his eyes and compressed his lips. Tamela leaned down and brushed her lips across Caliph’s upturned mouth, then gave him a quick peck on the nose.
“You know you ain’t even right,” Caliph said, pulling Tamela down on top of him in mock indignation. He felt so good beneath her and Tamela felt her face flush.
“Let’s go out on the terrace,” she said, hoping the night air would cool her off.
Caliph and Tamela took a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes and walked out onto the terrace. The sky was a clear, dark, and deep backdrop for a brilliant array of sparkling stars. So high above the city, Caliph and Tamela felt like the only two people in the world. Side by side, they leaned on the ornate railing that ran the length of the suite-long terrace. Caliph placed his arm around Tamela’s shoulders and they sipped champagne in silent awe of the wonders of the universe.
“It’s so beautiful out here,” Tamela said, enjoying their closeness.
Caliph spoke in a low, sweet-talking voice, the unmistakable tone of sex. “You know, those stars are beautiful,” he said, placing their glasses on a nearby patio table. “But tonight they are a distant second to you.” Just as Tamela was preparing her nigger plezze look, he took her into his strong arms and kissed her as she’d never been kissed before. He kissed her hard, his tongue exploring her mouth, then dancing with her own tongue. He kissed her softly and the tingle that played on her lips became a rhythmic throbbing where their bodies touched.
“You really don’t realize how beautiful you are, do you?” he asked in a serious tone.
“Show me,” Tamela said. Caliph slowly stroked her neck, then her back, letting his hand rest on her full hips. He pressed her closer to him and felt her body tremble ever so slightly. He slid his hand across her butt, then under her blouse and released her erect nipples from the confines of her black lacy bra. Caliph paused; he didn’t want to rush her. But the mere thought of his piano-playing fingers on her breasts quickened the throbbing in Tamela’s body and she slid her hand between them and returned the favor, releasing Caliph’s now erect sex from the confines of his silk pants. Caliph’s moan was a whisper as Tamela glided her hand over his form-fitting black boxers. When Caliph caressed both her breasts, she threw her head back as a sudden weakness overcame her.
Caliph lifted her off the terrace floor and swept her into his arms. He carried her through the doors, past the dimly lit living area and the remains of their midnight picnic. Toni Braxton softly sang “Breathe Again” as Caliph placed Tamela ever so gently against the large pillows on the feather-stuffed king-sized bed. Damn, baby, is that a nightstick you’re hiding?, Tamela thought. She stared at Caliph’s body as he dimmed the lights and proceeded to undress before her. Caliph was slender, with planes of muscles stretched across his body. His arms were hard as baseball bats, his shoulders broad and his stomach flat. Caliph let his trousers slide to the floor and Tamela held her breath as he slowly eased out of his boxers. A barely audible gasp escaped her lips and she said a silent thankful prayer at the sight of Caliph’s nightstick. He turned toward the teak dresser behind him and Tamela gazed at his muscular butt. When Caliph turned around, he was holding a perfect red rose from the vase on the dresser. He walked over to the bed, placing the rose next to her. “My turn,” he said, his eyes the very essence of anticipation. He slowly began to undress her without ever touching her skin. He lifted her pullover above her head, slipped her bra off her arms, slid her pants over her feet, and slowly removed her panties. Caliph’s appreciative smile broadened as each garment fell silently onto the thick carpeting. He kissed her penny-brown nipples and buried his face in the warmth and palmed her nice butt, soft and round.
She shivered as she felt him touch her moistness with his fingers. Caliph kissed Tamela’s forehead and then her nose and lingered at her lips. He kissed her neck, her breasts, and tongued her navel, causing Tamela to moan softly.
“I found the spot,” he smiled.
“Oh, that’s not it,” Tamela laughed.
“Is this it?” He said as he dropped to the floor and kissed her toes and tried to put her entire foot in his mouth.
“Not even close,” she sighed.
He moved his tongue up to her knees and quizzed, “Am I getting close?”
“Yes.”
Caliph moved up toward her inner thighs and his tongue played her body as his fingers had the piano keys, with strength and sensitivity. Tamela sensed such pleasure that she felt like a full glass of milk about to spill over the edge of the glass. Caliph planted a warm kiss where her soft hair met her legs and he kissed her along the opening of her sex as she placed her hands on his shoulders and raised her hips to meet his lips. Amid the warmth and softness, he found a hardness and he pushed his tongue up under it.
“Oh my … oh baby,” Tamela moaned as she massaged his shoulders and ran her fingers through his hair.
Caliph stopped for a moment and looked up at her and said, “You taste sweet.” He teased her with his tongue and prolonged her pleasure.
“Oh,” Tamela moaned.
“Just enjoy it, baby. I’m gonna love you right,” he declared as he buried his head in her lap and started to kiss her sex again. Caliph raised his head and started to kiss her breasts with an open mouth, then he took his fingers and slid them into Tamela’s center, and before she realized it, she had an orgasm with Caliph’s large fingers inside her. He laid his head on her breasts and pumped his own thick sex against her thigh. Sweat popped across his forehead as Tamela leaned down and placed her tongue in his ear. She sweetly kissed his chest and was rushing him toward a swift sexual sensation when he exploded like a geyser, sending creamy drops into the air and onto his chest.
For several minutes, they lay speechless in the center of the bed wrapped in each other’s arms. When Caliph finally spoke, he leaned over and kissed Tamela and said, “You’re sweeter than sugar.” A slow smile came over her face. She was thinking, You think that was something. Too bad you didn’t have a condom. Baby, I’m like a coconut, hard to crack, but wonderful once you really get inside.