Ivan picked up a piece of chalk and began drawing and labeling columns on the chalkboard. “Today we’re going to talk about culturally mediated belief and practices as they pertain to different racial and ethnic groups. We’re going to cover five ethnic groups—Russian, Native American, Mexican, Asian and African-Americans. Each group, although American, relates differently to birth and dying, religion, role differences and communication.”
Turning, he stared at the students staring back at him. The course was open only to juniors and seniors, and was a favorite of Ivan’s; the dozen students came to class with the intent to challenge him at every turn.
A male student who’d bleached his jet-black hair a shocking flaxen color raised his hand. “Dr. Campbell?”
Ivan turned, noticing that the young man had applied black polish to his nails. “Yes, Mr. Hernandez?”
“You have Mexicans, but you didn’t include Puerto Ricans.”
“We’ll discuss them separately. With more than four hundred ethno-cultural groups it is virtually impossible to cover every group in North America. As therapists it is incumbent on you to familiarize yourself with the customs and characteristics of most of the groups you’ll work with. Sensitivity to any customs that aren’t your own will determine how effective you’ll be with your patients. I always require an ethno-cultural assessment during the intake process.”
“What are some of the questions on the form?” asked a female student who always came to class with her head and body covered.
“Don’t be afraid to ask the patient their ethnic origin, the primary language spoken at home or if they require an interpreter. Religious beliefs, restrictions and practices are important for understanding and perception of mental-health therapy.”
“I am Muslim, so how does dying differ from someone who is African-American and Christian?”
Ivan moved over and sat on the edge of the desk. He never liked the traditional classroom seating, so he had his students rearrange their chairs in a U formation.
“Muslims believe death is God’s will,” Ivan replied. “They always turn a patient’s bed to face the East, or Mecca, and read from the Koran. There are no cremations or autopsies. The only exception would be for forensics and organ donations.
“African-Americans are reluctant to donate their organs, and family members will usually make the decision when it comes to the deceased. Their response to death is varied, so you may get a lot of different ones. Funerals and burials may take as long as five days to a week after death. It is very important to ascertain the patient’s religious affiliation during the interview process and know the importance of religion or church in his or her life.”
Ivan made certain not to make eye contact with his Muslim student. He’d learned that some females avoided eye contact with males and strangers. He wasn’t a stranger, but he was male. “Islam instructs you to pray five times each day, fast during Ramadan and take a pilgrimage to Mecca at least once during your lifetime.”
He gave the students an overview of the ethno-cultural differences before giving each a handout of the assessment tool. This was Ivan’s first year teaching a humanistic view of a course that covered selected psychological literature on non-white Americans, and most of the data was derived from his published doctoral dissertation.
A lively discussion ensued until Ivan glanced at his watch, noting he’d gone ten minutes beyond the time for dismissal. “For those of you who have another class, you’d better hustle or you’re going to be late. Have a good weekend, and I’ll see you Monday.”
He gathered the extra handouts, slipping them into a leather case, then checked his cell phone. Someone had sent him a voice-mail message. Punching in his PIN, he listened to the soft, feminine voice coming through the earpiece.
It was Nayo, and this was the first time he detected an inflection in her speech pattern that was different from those living in New York City. Pressing a button, he replayed her message: Ivan, this is Nayo. Please call me when you get this message. She left the numbers for her cell, home and work.
Ivan wrote down the numbers, then dialed the one for her cell. “This is Ivan,” he said after hearing her soft greeting.
“Oh, Ivan, I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel Friday. I just remembered that a friend is hosting a pre-Halloween party and I promised her I would attend.”
“What costume are you wearing?”
“Costumes are optional. Is it possible for us to meet tonight?”
“I can’t give you an answer until I check with my office. Hang up and I’ll call you back.”
Ivan had purposely kept busy so he wouldn’t have to think about Nayo Goddard, but just hearing her voice again conjured up the image of her doll-like, wide-eyed gaze. He didn’t know why, but he remembered every curve of her petite body as if she were standing in front of him. He dialed his office, counting off the rings until his secretary answered the call. It rang six times, followed by a distinctive click that indicated the call had been transferred to the reception desk.
“Counseling Center, Demetria speaking. How may I direct your call?”
“Demetria, this is Ivan. Can you check my calendar and tell me who’s scheduled to come in this afternoon?”
He, Duncan and Kyle had set up a synchronized computer program where the building’s reception desk knew all their schedules at a glance. His offices took up the top floor in the renovated brownstone, Kyle’s law practice the second floor and Duncan’s tax-and-financial services the first floor. The street-level space was converted to include a kitchen, dining room, games room and gym for the building’s employees. He shared equally in the salaries for the receptionists and cleaning staff.
“You had Ahmed Daniels for five, but he called to say he had to meet with his probation officer.”
“Did he reschedule?”
“No, Dr. Campbell.”
“Leave a message for Chantal to call Ahmed and reschedule ASAP.”
“Chantal didn’t come in today. She called to say she had a fight with her baby’s daddy last night, and he wouldn’t take care of Kassim, so she had to try to find another babysitter.”
Chantal came with excellent office skills, but it was her personal life that was in disarray. Her on-again, off-again relationship with her son’s father was beginning to affect her job performance. Her punctuality and attendance had received a less than favorable rating on her last evaluation.
“Don’t schedule anyone else for today, and if there is an emergency, refer them either to Dr. Kelly or the hospital. What does Thursday look like?”
“You have a full calendar. Your first appointment is at ten and your last is scheduled for eight.”
Originally Ivan had set aside Tuesday for his late night, but then switched to Thursdays because patients tended not to keep their Friday appointments, which prompted him to work late and take Fridays off.
“If Chantal calls, please tell her that I must talk to her before I go into session tomorrow morning.”
“Okay, Dr. Campbell.”
Ivan hung up, then called Nayo back. “I’m free for tonight.”
“What time do you want to get together?”
“I’m still at the college. It should take me about half an hour to get home.”
“Why don’t I plan to see you in, say, an hour and a half?”
“That works fine,” he agreed.
“Ivan?”
“Yes, Nayo.”
“You don’t have to cook.”
He affected a Cheshire-cat grin. “What if I order in?”
“That’ll work. I’ll see you ninety minutes.”
Ivan pressed a button, ending the call. He would get to see Nayo sooner than planned, but there was still the problem with his secretary he had to resolve. Chantal’s salary was comparable to someone working for a major downtown corporation, because she was the sole support for herself and her son. The young woman complained that her son’s father was unemployed, so he wasn’t able to contribute to the child’s support. The man supposedly made up for his lack of funds by babysitting the child when his mother was at work. Now that that arrangement had soured, Ivan knew it was time for Chantal to see about enrolling two-year-old Kassim in day care. Either she followed through with his recommendation, or he would be forced to terminate her employment.
Unlike Duncan and Kyle, he ran a bare-bones practice. An intern enrolled in the psychology program at City University New York’s Graduate Center came in twice a week to do intakes and assessments. Chantal was responsible for scheduling, inputting case notes and following up with patients mandated by schools and the court-and-criminal-justice system.
Kyle and his law partner, Jordan Wainwright, had expanded their thriving practice, adding a law clerk to a staff that included an office manager and full-and part-time paralegals.
Duncan Gilmore, his part-time accounting student and full-time executive assistant had established a reputation in the Harlem community based on good faith and honesty.
Ivan teased Duncan that he never had to worry about an IRS audit or losing his investments to fraudulent trading, because he had him monitoring his resources. Projected income from his private counseling practice was far below what Kyle and Duncan derived from their firms, but his year-end revenue was comparable because of the income from renting the apartments, his position as an adjunct professor and his speaking engagements.
He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Kyle would marry Ava in February, and Duncan his doctor-girlfriend in June. They would become husbands and fathers, leaving him to take on the role as godfather to their children.
Despite having dated a lot of women, Ivan could honestly say that he hadn’t slept with a lot of them. For him a physical entanglement was tantamount to an emotional commitment. And for those he did sleep with he was forthcoming when he told them that he wasn’t the marrying kind. Some accepted it, and many didn’t. Most women he knew wanted to marry and have children. He’d found himself drawn to those who professed they didn’t want marriage and motherhood.
Ivan knew that his reluctance to form a permanent bond with a woman came from his losing his twin. Not only had he and Jared been identical in appearance, they’d had an uncanny ability to read each other’s mind. They’d played jokes on family members and teachers when they switched identities. The only one they couldn’t fool was their mother, Winnifred Campbell. Winnie, as she was affectionately called, had decided from the moment she was told she’d given birth to identical twin boys that she wouldn’t give them names that sounded alike or even began with the same letter, and that she would never dress them alike. When he asked his mother how she could tell them apart when their own father couldn’t, Winnie said it was a mother thing.
It wasn’t until after they’d buried Jared that Winnie told Ivan that she saw something in Jared that was missing in him—trust. Jared had always been quick to smile or tell a joke. He’d been more outgoing and willing to befriend someone, while Ivan had remained aloof. Jared had always had more friends than Ivan, but unfortunately following his friends had gotten Jared killed.
Picking up a lightweight raincoat, Ivan slipped it on over his suit. When he’d gotten up earlier that morning, meteorologists were predicting rain, with temperatures in the low forties. Fall had come and he’d looked forward to an Indian summer. Halloween was five days away and the temperature had dropped steadily with the waning daylight hours.
Grasping his leather case, he tucked it under his arm and left the classroom. He hadn’t planned to teach, but a former professor had asked him to fill in for a colleague taking a sabbatical. The first time he walked into the classroom and introduced himself as Dr. Campbell, he felt as if he belonged there. It’d taken years for him to go from a college freshman not knowing what he wanted to study to graduating with an honors degree in the social sciences.
He attended graduate school as a psychology major, then followed as a postgraduate, working toward a PhD. He took a year off before enrolling in a postdoctoral program in psychotherapy and psychoanalysis. His sister, Roberta, teased him, saying he’d become a professional student, but the education and training had given him expert status in his field when it came to understanding the psyche of African-American youth.
Ivan stepped out onto the sidewalk and was met with an onslaught of icy pellets. The rain had turned to sleet. Turning up the collar of his raincoat, he ducked his head and walked toward the West Fourth Street-Washington Square subway station.
* * *
Nayo rang the bell to Ivan’s brownstone, chiding herself for walking, instead of taking a cab. The temperature was just above freezing, but with the sleet it felt colder. “It’s Nayo,” she said into the small intercom speaker affixed to the side of the building when she heard Ivan’s smooth baritone ask who it was. There came a buzzing sound and she pushed open the door and stepped into the cloaking warmth of the vestibule. She smiled when she saw a pair of men’s shoes on a thick straw mat under the credence table. Sitting in the leather chair, she bent over to take off her boots at the same time the door to Ivan’s apartment opened.
Her head came up and she met his mesmerizing smile. He looked as if he was dressed for the tropics: colorful Hawaiian shirt, khaki walking shorts and sandals.
“Hi.”
Ivan winked at Nayo. “Hi. Come in where it’s warm.”
Standing, she placed her shoes on the mat, then walked into the apartment. The air throughout the entryway was redolent with the sweet, fragrant smell of burning wood. Shrugging out of her coat, she handed it to Ivan.
Hoisting a leather tote over her shoulder, she rubbed her palms together. “It feels good in here.”
Ivan closed the closet door and turned to Nayo. She hadn’t worn gloves or a hat, and moisture shimmered on her curly hair like diamond dust. Reaching for her hands, he cradled them. “Where are your gloves?”
Nayo met the gaze of the man whose image she couldn’t get out of her head. She was fascinated not only by his face but also the man himself. And did he look good. He also smelled scrumptious. She wanted him with a desire that bordered on obsession.
“They’re packed away with my winter clothes.”
Lowering his head, Ivan kissed her icy fingertips. “I think it’s time you unpacked your winter clothes. Don’t you know you could get frostbite?”
Nayo sucked her teeth. “Now who is being dramatic? I grew up in a little town near the Adirondack Mountains where we had two seasons—summer and winter.”
“I thought I heard an upstate inflection in your speech.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you have something against upstate folks?”
“Not in the least. In fact, I find them more laid-back than people from downstate.”
Nayo tried extricating her hands, but she was no match for Ivan’s strength. “I never knew what ‘flipping the bird’ meant until I came here to go to school.”
Ivan smiled. “Have you ever given someone the finger?”
Her smile matched his. “Yes. In fact, I did the other day when a cab driver came within inches of hitting me. Not only did he get the finger but also a few choice four-letter words.”
“No!” Ivan’s expression registered shock.
“Oh, hell, yeah,” she drawled, rolling her head on her neck. “You’re going to have to let go of my hands so I can give you dessert before it melts.”
“What did you bring?” he asked, releasing her hands.
Reaching into the tote, she took out a plastic container. “It’s homemade pistachio gelato.”
Ivan took the container. “Who made it?”
“I did.”
With wide eyes, he stared at her, then the container of frozen dessert. “You make gelato?”
Nayo rolled her eyes. “Yes, Ivan. Now please put it in the freezer before it gets too soft.”
Standing at attention, Ivan saluted her. “Yes, ma’am, sir.”
“Which one am I?” Nayo asked, smiling.
His gaze moved slowly over her face, down to her chest and still lower to her hips. A black sweater and matching jeans could not disguise the curves that made for a lush, compact body. He smiled at seeing her tiny feet in a pair of thick, black socks.
“You’re definitely a ma’am.”
Nayo wanted to tell Ivan she wasn’t old enough to be a ma’am, but the words were locked in the back of her throat. The way he was looking at her warmed her blood until she found difficulty in drawing a normal breath.
Her eyelids fluttered wildly. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what, Nayo?” Ivan asked in a voice that was barely above a whisper.
“Like…like…”
“Like I’m the big bad wolf bent on eating the sweet little maiden?”
“Something like that,” she mumbled under her breath.
Reaching for her hand, Ivan pulled her along with him as he made his way to the kitchen. “Don’t worry, Nayo. I won’t take a nibble unless you give me permission.”
What was there about her that gave off the vibes that told men she was available for their sexual amusement? Geoff had been forthcoming when he admitted he wanted more than friendship, that he wanted to sleep with her. They’d sleep together, then what?
She’d never been one to engage in gratuitous sex. It hadn’t happened when she was twenty and now that she was in her thirties she’d become even more discriminating. Not only were there STDs that couldn’t be cured by penicillin, but she’d heard stories from women who’d invited strange men home with them and were lucky to have survived the ordeal with their lives.
She’d thought her parents were just talking out of the side of their necks when they warned her about the dangers of moving to the big city. It’d only taken a single incident for Nayo to acknowledge their warnings bore truth. She’d arranged to meet a fellow photography major to work on a joint project, and as soon as she’d walked through the door of his apartment, he’d pounced on her like a large cat. A well-aimed knee to his groin had disabled him long enough for her to escape. When she’d seen him again in class, he’d acted as if nothing had happened. It was only when Nayo had gotten in his face that he apologized, saying he’d had too much to drink. Drunk or not, she’d threatened to have him arrested for attempted rape if he even looked her way again.
They’d spent the next four years avoiding each other, and on the day of graduation he’d given her a gift with a note saying he’d enrolled in AA after the incident and had been sober ever since. When she’d returned to her Village apartment and opened the exquisitely wrapped box, she’d received the shock of her life. He’d given her a brand-new Nikon camera with a set of lenses that had cost a small fortune. Nayo had never gotten to thank him for the gift because he’d left the state to return to Wisconsin.
She owned several cameras, including the twelve-point, three-megapixel Nikon D90, the revolutionary digital camera with D-SLR. It had the capability of capturing high-definition movie clips that enabled her to use interchangeable lenses for video, as well as stills. The most amazing feature of the camera was its incredible shutter speed of four-point-five frames a second. However, her first Nikon had become a sentimental favorite and she’d used it to shoot many of the bridges. The photographs in which she’d wanted to capture time-lapse changes in light, she used the D90.
Ivan let go of Nayo’s hand when he opened the freezer to store the gelato. “Coffee, tea or cocoa,” he asked when he turned to look at her standing in the middle of the kitchen. He didn’t know why, but she appeared so small, delicate.
“I’ll take cocoa, but only if you have marshmallows.”
Reaching for a pot hanging from a hook on the overhead rack, Ivan gave her a warm smile. “You’re in luck. My niece came to visit last weekend and she’ll only drink cocoa if it has cream or marshmallows.”
Nayo moved closer to the stove top when Ivan opened a cabinet for a jar of cocoa powder and another jar filled with tiny marshmallows. He walked back to the refrigerator to get a bottle of milk. She went over and took the milk from him.
“How old is your niece?”
“She’s nine going on ninety. I’m constantly reminding my sister that she gave birth to an old soul.”
“I’m surprised you would say that.”
“Say what?”
“Talk about people having old souls. You’re a psychologist, and as a scientist, don’t you only believe in what can be proved with empirical evidence?” Nayo watched Ivan pour milk into the pot, then turn on a burner in the induction-cooker stove top. She found it odd to cook without a visible flame.
Ivan gave Nayo a sidelong glance as he poured cocoa into the milk, stirring it with a wooden spoon. “There are some things that will always remain a mystery to science. Despite all the advances in modern medicine, doctors still don’t know what triggers the onset of labor in a pregnant woman.”
“‘Render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar and unto God all that belongs to Him.’”
“Well said.” Ivan grinned.
Ivan removed the pot from the burner before it bubbled over. Reaching out, he caught Nayo around the waist, lifting her effortlessly above his head. She screamed as he straightened his arms and held her aloft as if she were a small child.
He lowered his arms and tossed her up like a beach ball, catching her against his chest. Nayo screamed again and Ivan felt the air on the back of his neck stand up. When he saw her face, he recognized fear in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured, placing soft kisses on her hair and forehead.
Within seconds sheer panic was replaced by a blinding rage, and Nayo drew back her fist and punched Ivan’s chest. “Ouch!” Her hand had landed against solid muscle.
“You can hit me again if it will make you feel better.”
“Yeah, so I can break my hand.”
Bending slightly, Ivan lowered Nayo until her sock-covered feet touched the tiles on the kitchen floor. “I’m sorry I frightened you.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You have enough weights downstairs, so there’s no excuse to use me for a barbell.”
“I said I was sorry. Don’t you believe me?” he asked when she continued to glare at him. He took a step. “Maybe you need a little convincing.”
Nayo didn’t have time to react when she found herself cradled against the solid hardness of Ivan’s chest as his head came down. She opened her mouth to protest, but anything she was going to say was cut off when his mouth covered hers in a kiss that sucked the air from her lungs.
The mouth she’d stared at, remembered in her sleep, wanted to photograph, silently coaxed her into responding even when she hadn’t wanted to. The arms wrapped around her body felt like bands of steel, and when Nayo swallowed the moist warmth of Ivan Campbell’s breath, she knew she was fighting a losing battle.
Her body went pliant as she gave in to the warming glow that began between her legs and spread up and outward, reaching her extremities. Ivan had warned of frostbite when he should’ve warned her that his kisses had the power to heat her blood to boiling. Curving her arms under his shoulders, she held on to him as waves of passion buffeted her like a tiny boat in a storm.
“Ivan!” It took Nayo a few seconds to recognize her own voice. It’d dropped an octave. “Please let me go,” she whispered against his soft, firm lips.
Ivan blinked as if coming out of a trance. He wasn’t certain what prompted him to kiss Nayo, but he had no intention of apologizing. For frightening her, yes; kissing her, no.
“Go and sit in front the fire, sweetheart. I’ll bring your cocoa.”
Nayo nodded numbly. Walking on shaking legs, she moved trancelike out of the kitchen to the alcove. Her heart was still beating a runaway rhythm when she collapsed on a leather chair with a matching footstool.
How did he know?
How did Ivan know she’d wanted him to kiss her?
If she were truly honest with herself, then she would’ve told him that she wanted more than a kiss.
This was only the third time she’d been with Ivan Campbell, and she wanted him to make love to her.