My favorite food was Italian, while Eli preferred French - which was why, even though it was my birthday, we'd had dinner at Lumiere French Kitchen.
"You heard from him already?" Eli spoke into his cell phone.
I looked out of the back window of the Town Car as we sped down I-85.
"Well, I knew our meeting went well, just not this well. I planned on having coffee with Mr. Anderson tomorrow before I flew back, but...."
My eyes had glassed over hours ago, from Eli's conversation (or lack of) and the bottle of Dom Perignon that I'd finished off pretty much by myself, the benefit of dining at a French restaurant if you were willing to drink your dinner.
But now I wished that the champagne had done something to my ears, too, and blocked Eli's conversation with his father. No matter what, no matter where, no matter when, business still took precedent over me and my birthday.
Well, maybe not my birthday. I glanced at my watch, it was well after midnight. I could no longer claim any kind of special place in Eli's life now. That thought made my heart hurt and took my eyes back to the darkness of the city as the car carried us toward the hotel.
Why had it all changed? Where was the Eli Weinstein that I'd met on that weekend in August back in 2008, the man who'd been enamored with me from first sight.
August 8, 2008
I'd registered for all four of Eli Weinstein's classes because he was the reason why I'd even signed up for this workshop. This for me, was the cherry on top of my educational cake. The process had taken quite long, though. Years of planning, then mixing it up and finally, the baking. All of it slow, all of it a struggle.
First, I'd worked four years after high school so that I could go to college debt-free, since my education was completely on me. After working double shifts at two restaurants for four years, I enrolled in Brooklyn College, majoring in psychology because even though I wasn't quite sure of what I wanted to do, I knew I'd need to understand humans and their behavior to be successful.
It was in my Senior year, when Tyler Perry came to speak that I discovered the passion within me. His story of poverty was my story, his story of dreaming was mine, too. But I was determined to give myself advantages that he didn't have so after graduating from BC, I went to work, three solid years of regular and overtime hours at two more jobs. And then, I was accepted into the prestigious Tisch School of the Arts. My chest had been poked out big time three years later when I received my MFA from NYU.
But since then, I'd been working and saving, studying and saving, networking and saving, struggling and saving, and now, I was sitting at the feet of one of the partners from Weinstein and Ernst (the most prestigious accounting and financial planning firm on the East coast). My hope was to soak up as much as I could from these Master Classes in Money Management so that I could come out of the box with the success of a million dollar project.
I sat, I listened, I took notes, I asked questions. Eli was friendly and patient, giving me all of the information I needed and at the end of the last workshop, I stepped to the front of the room, ready to thank him for dropping so much knowledge.
But before I could tell him that, he said, "I'd love to give you my number."
I guess it was my raised eyebrows that made him speak faster.
"So that we can stay in touch and I can answer any questions you have. I can feel your passion and I'd love to help if I can."
That surprised me and thrilled me. And I have to admit, it amused me, too. It was the way Eli Weinstein, stood there in his three-piece suit (even in the dog-day August heat of New York) shifting from one foot to the other.
"I'd like that," I said, getting one of his business cards and writing my number on the back.
I took his number, thinking that maybe if we stayed connected, his firm might consider me for some kind of diversity project and my play could be even more successful.
Then true to what he'd told me, Eli called. Just two days later.
"I'd love to take you out to dinner this week, if your schedule permits."
I accepted his invitation, told him I'd be available tomorrow and then, I gave him a dare, though I didn't quite put it that way.
"Let's have dinner at Caribbean Breeze."
"Where's that?"
"Right here in Brooklyn," I said, leaving out the part that it was on Nostrand Avenue in the heart of Bed Sty.
"That's great. I'll find it. See you tomorrow."
For all the hours between that call and me standing in front of the restaurant where the smells of curry and coconut, jerk spices and garlic wafted outside, I'd wondered if Eli Weinstein would really show up.
But he did, at seven o'clock exactly, still in his three-piece suit with spit-shined shoes. And he sat down like he didn't notice he was the only pale-face in the place.
I was impressed.
It was a great connection for me. The weeks that followed were filled with Eli always on my calendar. Almost daily talks on the phone (always about me), dinners a couple of times a week (always about my plays) lots of in-office (his office) meetings (always about my business plan). And then, came the time when he wanted me to go with him to meet his parents.
"Really? Dinner? With your parents? Why?"
"Because they want to meet you."
"Why?" I repeated, truly not understanding why the Weinsteins would have any kind of interest in their son's African-American friend.
"They're as intrigued as I am and they can't wait to meet a young playwright." Then, he lowered his voice. "And secretly, I think my dad has always wanted to be a writer."
"Okay," I said, thinking that when I showed up to that Fifth Avenue penthouse, this would be the end to my friendship with Eli. He was a grown man -- in his early forties -- but still, when his parents saw me....
I showed up, wrapped in one of my West African print ankle-length skirts, with a matching headdress (though my locs still flowed from underneath) and a big billowy yellow blouse. Oh, and of course, my dozen wooden bangles that I never left home without.
But either his parents didn't notice or Eli always brought home African-American women who looked more African than American. The conversation all night was about me and how they wished me massive success.
From there, our friendship kept on and on, until we had a seismic shift. It was one of those nights when Eli insisted on driving me home rather than me taking my preferred mode of New York City get-around...the subway. We were sitting in his Jaguar, in front of the brownstone where I lived in the third floor apartment. From one of the first floor windows, I could see the curtains moving and I knew it was my landlord/kinda friend, Sheila monitoring my date. She wasn't a big Eli fan -- Have you noticed that he's white? -- she asked me more than once. But I ignored her every time, just like I ignored her now as Eli and I talked about how it was time for me to finally move forward. But then, Eli was the one to move. Forward. All the way forward until his lips were against mine.
"Whoa!"
At first, that was all I said as I sat there in a couple of frozen seconds of shock. But then, I didn't know what it was -- maybe it was because he cared so much and no one had ever cared about me -- I charged him and pushed my lips into his, not caring one bit if Sheila was watching.
That had been our first kiss, and now, as I looked out into the darkness, I realized that I remembered my first kiss with Eli eight years ago, but couldn't recall the last time that our lips had connected.
"What time does his plane leave?"
That made me turn my head back to Eli just as he turned up his watch. Just as the driver rounded the driveway of the hotel.
When the car stopped, Eli glanced at me, "Uh, Dad...hold on a second." He paused, but I didn't wait for him to give me whatever excuse he had for deserting me again. I pushed open my door before the driver could get to me.
"Gwen...."
I slammed the door on his words.
If I'd been in private, I would have burst into tears, but I was far from being alone. My steps slowed as I took in the ambulance and more than a couple of police cruisers that lined the hotel's driveway.
"What's going on?" I asked, though I wasn't speaking to anyone in particular in the crowd of dozens that had gathered outside of the hotel's revolving doors.
And then, a stretcher rolled outside, carrying a body, I could see that from the outline below the white sheet. But I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman since every bit of the form was covered.
"Oh, my God," I whispered, pressing my fingers to my lips. My mind began cranking, I couldn't stop it. And I imagined the scenarios that had brought this person to this end: a heart attack. No, she was having dinner with her husband and she choked on the tip of a hot wing.
"Gwen!"
It was Ted's voice that saved me from myself. Before I could say a word, he said, "It's Randy. I've been looking all over for you."
I blinked and frowned and tried to make sense of the first two words Ted had just spoken. "What's Randy?"
As if he had no more words, he pointed to the stretcher that was halfway inside the ambulance. My eyes stretched wide. "That's Randy?" I gasped. "Oh, my God. What happened? Is he...."
Ted nodded without me even saying the word and I cried out.
"What happened?"
He grabbed my hand and pulled me inside, which was a good thing since I wasn't sure if I'd ever be able to walk on my own again. Inside, the lobby was filled with just as many people, more really, even though the midnight hour had long passed.
As we moved through the crowd toward the steps, Ted talked. "I don't know everything, but it seems Tamara killed him."
I stopped moving again and it took a tug from Ted for me to put one foot in front of the other again.
He led me to the stairwell as he explained that the elevators weren't opening on the sixth floor. "But they haven't blocked the staircase," he said.
I followed as he continued, "Randy was in her room and somehow he ended up dead. I don't know if she invited there or what."
It was hard for me to keep breathing because I knew from what Ted said that he didn't know. I knew that Randy had not been invited in by Tamara. This was just like the last time.
Oh God! Why had I hired Randy back?
I was still asking myself that question when we reached the sixth floor. At any other time, I would have been huffing and puffing, but it was either adrenaline or fear that had given me what I needed to make it to the top floor of this hotel, like climbing six flights of stairs was my regular exercise.
When we opened the stairwell door, there were even more people, packing the space and I wasn't able to move. I stood on my toes and through the heads and shoulders, I saw Tamara on the floor, sitting next to Camille, and Donovan just feet away from them talking to a sandy-haired white guy in a sports jacket and jeans.
I tried to press through, but even when I got past the three or four who blocked my path, a security officer stopped me from going further.
For a moment, I wanted to explain to the officer who I was, but then, I backed up. I needed to find out all that I could first because there was a chance I could be implicated in this situation somehow, since he was my band director and she was my star.
Oh, my God!
Backing up, I bumped into someone. "Excuse me," I said out of my instinct to always be polite.
"No problem."
His voice made me whip around and my eyes narrowed. Still, I backed away from as many people as I could because I didn't know what would come out of this boy's mouth.
We were steps away from everyone when Justin said, "So how did you do it?"
"What? You think I did this?"
"No." He chuckled like he'd heard a joke and like he wasn't standing feet away from a crime scene. "I'm talking about your husband. How did you keep him away from me today? I wanted to have coffee with him, but he never called."
I couldn't believe that this was what he wanted to talk about. "I don't know what happened," I lied. Of course, I'd made sure that Eli wasn't going to get anywhere near Justin. My plan had been to make love to my husband. But that hadn't happened. Instead, when he'd gone into the shower and his cell phone rang, I took his phone to him. When I saw it was his father calling, I knew they would talk until at least noon.
And that's just about what he did. So when he asked about Justin, I told Eli that it was too late - that Justin was working with the merchandising and there would be no chance for the two to meet.
"Well, I hope I get the chance to hook up with him. Where is he?" He looked around the crowded hallway as if he expected to see my husband as one of the gawkers.
"He's not here."
"Well then," Justin stepped closer, all into my personal space and with both hands, I pushed him away.
"Have you lost your mind?" I hissed. Then, I stomped toward the staircase. Not that I wanted to be alone or anywhere near this guy, I didn't even want him in my zip code. But I couldn't take the chance of anyone overhearing his nonsense.
He followed me into the stairwell, and closed the door behind us. "This is better," he said, leaning into me and I shoved him away from my space once again.
"What's with you?" he asked, holding up both hands. "I just figured you were probably a little stressed from all of this and I wanted to help you out."
"I'm fine. You need to stay away from me."
He shrugged. "All right. Fine with me." This his smile dropped and the concern in his tone did, too. "You got my money?"
I shook my head. With all that was going on now? "Look-"
"Ah, ah, ah." He wiggled his finger in my face. "You know, it's not too late for me to find Mr. Weinstein."
"He left already," I said, not even sure if I was telling the truth. For all I knew, whatever Eli had to do had been planned and his bag was already in the back of the Town Car. Or maybe he didn't have his bag and he'd just ask me to ship it back to him. I didn't know anything about my husband, but what I knew was that this fool wasn't going to be anywhere near him.
"Awww, too bad," Justin said like he was really disappointed. "I really wanted to get to know him. I figured he and I could compare notes on how you are in bed."
I raised my hand but he caught my wrist before my fist made contact with his face. "The price just went up."
"You bastard."
"Do you want to keep going? Because if I can't get to your husband, I won't have any problems getting to the media. All the tabloids have been hanging around, reaching out to us, trying to get more dirt on the cast. They all know there are more stories there."
My eyes narrowed, but I was as upset with myself as I was with Justin. I was the one who had opened the door, letting the tabloids in. Just like I'd let this devil in.
He said, "My story will replace all the news about Tamara and Donovan, especially by the time I finish telling it. By the time I finish, the world will believe that you had me as some kind of unwilling sex slave."
"No one will believe that."
He shrugged. "Let me tell it and we'll see."
I inhaled, then exhaled all of the air.
"That's better," he said, letting me go. "Now, I want twenty-thousand."
I tried my best not to move any muscles in my body. Didn't want this blockhead to redo the math. He'd said the price had gone up, but I guess it hadn't.
He said, "And, I want you to give me Donovan's spot in the play."
I was pissed, but that was funny. So I couldn't help my laugh. "Really?"
He didn't bat an eye.
"You think you can handle that part?" I didn't wait for him to answer. "First of all, nobody knows who the hell you are so why do think you'd get the starring role in my play? Secondly, you suck. And thirdly, do you see what's going on right now? I don't even know if this play is going to continue."
He nodded. "You have a point and I'm not unreasonable." He paused. "If there is a show, I want Donovan's role."
I glared at this boy who had clearly been born without a mother. He thought he was in control, but I'd shut the show down before I let him blackmail me into giving him the lead. Hell, with his talent or lack thereof, the show would close the second night he was on stage anyway.
"But either way," he interrupted my thoughts, "I want twenty-five grand tomorrow."
I blinked. "What? You just said-"
"I know. I just wanted to see if you were going to be honest and remind me of the price." He laughed as he brushed away lint that wasn't on his jacket. "I guess you should've paid me when you had the chance."
"Go to hell," I spat.
He chuckled. "Only if you come with me. We can have a good ole time down there, 'cause for an old lady, you sure know how to...." He leaned forward, his lips aimed for mine and this time, I didn't move. Because when he got close enough, I was going to bite his lips right off of him.
But he didn't touch me, at least not in that way. He only squeezed my chin, then trotted down the stairs. I stood there until I didn't hear his footsteps anymore.
And then, I breathed, thankful to God that He'd made Justin leave when he did. Because with all the police here, it would have been really easy to find me after I choked him to death.
Because right about now, not only did murder feel like a good idea, if felt like my only option.