CHAPTER 7
Kimberly pulled herself out of bed and went to answer the knock on her hotel room door.
“Good morning, Ms. Maitland Your order.” The room service staffer wheeled a food cart into the suite. Light bounced off the silver covered plates. “Where would you like me to put this?”
“Over by the terrace please.” She looked around, frowning at the disarray. Her clothes were tossed everywhere, her shoes were slouched under the table, and her purse was opened on the couch, its contents littering the surface.
“Of course.” He pushed the cart near the terrace doors, opened the leaves on either side of the cart, transforming it into a small linen covered table. He locked the wheels and turned to Kimberly with a practiced smile. “I hope everything is to your liking.” He produced her receipt in a black leather billfold, which she signed and added a sizeable tip.
He gave a short bow of his head. “Thank you. Enjoy your meal, Ms. Graham.”
She walked behind him to the door and locked it. Returning to the table the first thing she did was pour a cup of coffee. Her head still pounded. She wasn’t sure if it was lack of sleep, stress, or the two empty bottles of wine that lay on the floor next to her bed. Probably a combination of everything. She’d requested a bottle of aspirin along with her breakfast. She struggled with the child-proof top which she always thought was ironic since she consistently had trouble opening medicine caps. She shook three tablets into her palm then downed them with large swallows of coffee. She picked up the bottle. ‘Extra strength.’ Yes, that’s exactly what she needed, extra strength to do what she must.
She opened the doors to the terrace. The drapes fluttered against the warm, late morning breeze. Disjointed images suddenly flashed in front of her. It was dark. Loud. Music. A tree-lined street. She was in the pink dress that was now on the floor. Her pulse quickened. The pictures felt so real. She didn’t know why. She swung away nearly colliding with the cart. What happened last night?
Her long fingers stroked her throat. Where had she been—another night with a random stranger? Bar hopping? Or had she stayed in all night and simply drunk herself into a stupor? Her heart tumbled. She didn’t know and that was more frightening than anything else.
She flopped down on the chair closest to the cart and lifted the silver cover that revealed the fruit platter with two slices of toast, and an egg white omelet. Her stomach rolled, bile rushed to her throat and burned. She gripped the edge of the table and squeezed her eyes closed as she drew in long, deep breaths.
Slowly her lids fluttered open as her stomach wobbled then settled. Her hand shook when she reached for the glass of orange juice. She took a sip then a long swallow. Juice dribbled onto her chin. Absently, she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
What the hell happened last night? Her gray-green eyes scanned the mess she’d apparently created. She tried to bring the images that bounced around in her head into some kind of focus and couldn’t.
Her eyes clouded with tears. Everything was spiraling out of control. She desperately missed her daughters and the life that had been snatched from her. What Rowan was doing was beyond cruel. How could he be so utterly different from the man she’d met and fallen in love with?
When they’d met over fifteen years earlier, Rowan Graham was an up-and-coming tech guru with designs on launching his own firm and snatching up all the corporate contracts that he could handle. He was larger than life and made her believe that together they could walk on water.
She was captivated by Rowan’s energy, but mostly for the way he made her feel. With his sandy brown hair, chiseled physique, and piercing blue eyes, he was a matinee idol come to life. Everywhere they went together women had no problem giving him an extra look, a subtle smile even if she was standing right next to him. And he would slide his arm around her waist, pull her close and whisper in her ear how good she looked and that he couldn’t wait to get her home. His words of love and encouragement always shoved her insecurities aside and cooled the ‘come ons’ from the countless female admirers. He was always her biggest cheerleader and moral supporter.
So how could all that turn into this? How could he simply stop loving her? She was the same person she’d always been. Did her lineage change her worthiness?
She nibbled on a strawberry, still plagued by not remembering what happened the night before. Whatever it was, her only hope was that it was nothing that would come back to haunt her.
Feeling a bit more human after a long shower and a longer washing of her hair, she sat on the side of the bed wrapped in the hotel robe, her hair turbaned in a towel and reached for her phone. She’d been out of the office for more than two weeks. She hadn’t spoken to Gail in almost as long. She’d missed or ignored several calls from Gail and had not returned the messages left on her voice mail. She owed it to her long-time employee to at least check and see how she was doing and if she was able to secure counsel for her clients.
Kimberly scrolled to Gail’s number, tapped the phone icon and waited. She started to hang up, end it all before it began. What could she possibly say?
“Ms. Graham?”
Gail’s incredulous voice broke through Kimberly’s fog.
“Gail. Hello. How are you?”
“How am I? How are you? Where are you? I’ve been so worried.”
Kimberly closed her eyes. Emotion swelled in her chest. The idea that someone cared was almost more than she could take.
“Ms. Graham?”
Kimberly took a breath, cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Gail, about everything and the position I put you in.”
“I’ll be fine. My concern is you. Maybe I can help. At least I can listen. This is so unlike you. Talk to me,” she gently urged.
“I . . . wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“Why don’t you start by telling me where you are.”
“In a hotel, The Hilton . . . in New Orleans.”
“Okay. Isn’t that where your family is from? Did something happen with your family?”
Kimberly sputtered a withering laugh. “Family! I don’t have a family.”
“Of course you do. You have a husband and two beautiful daughters.”
Tears slid down her cheeks. “No I don’t. He . . . took everything. . . my children.” She wept openly. The sobs shook her body as she rocked back and forth.
“What do you mean? He who? Your husband?”
Kimberly stared at the white wall. “Yes. Rowan. He changed the locks. He took my girls. He won’t answer my calls.”
Gail was quiet for a moment. “What about your parents?”
She laughed. “My parents! They’re at the root of all of this. All of it,” she cried out. “I’m sorry. This isn’t why I called.” She swiped at her eyes and sniffed. “Were you able to get services for our clients?”
“Yes. Everyone is taken care of. I’ve been doing some temp work, but I’ve been thinking about taking some time off myself. Maybe . . . take a trip to New Orleans. I’ve always wanted to see the city.”
A knot formed in Kimberly’s throat. “Really?” Her voice wobbled.
“Which Hilton are you in?”
“On St. Charles.”
“Do you think you can hang in there for a couple more days until I get there?”
Her lashes fanned her eyes. “Yes.”
“Good. Please take care of yourself until I get there. Please.”
Kimberly sucked in air. “I will. Thank you, Gail.”
“I’ll call you once I make arrangements.”
“Okay.”
Kimberly rested the phone on her lap. She pressed her fist to her lips. Someone cared. Her brow tightened. She lifted the phone and called Rowan.
As she’d expected the call went to voicemail.
“What you’re doing is wrong Rowan. You know this. Those are my children, too. I have a right to see my children! You’re punishing me for something that was out of my control. I’m the same woman that you claimed to love all these years. The same woman! Are you really the kind of human being that bases their feelings about someone on race? As long as I was white, I was good enough be your wife and the mother of your children. But now . . .” The automated message advised her that the time for recording was up. She called back, then again. Paced. Each time becoming more enraged, more frantic, swinging from fury to pity, to utter despair and back again.
By the time she threw the phone across the room she was spent. Her throat was raw. Her eyes burned. Her right temple thumped. She heaved in air until her heart slowed to a reasonable rhythm and the sting had lessened enough that she could see.
She tugged off her robe, tossed it to the floor and went to look for something to put on. She pulled off the towel from around her head, dropped it on the floor and shook out her strawberry blond hair. She scanned the chaos of the suite while she picked up and put down items of clothing, kicked shoes out of the way. Thank goodness for housekeeping service.
Zoie went up to the attic that she’d converted into her office. Once upon a time the attic was no more than storage for all the things that couldn’t find a home. It was where she’d discovered her grandmother Claudia’s trunk that had the journals and photographs that set her on the path to discover what really happened between her family and the Maitlands.
She rolled the chair away from the antique roll top desk and sat down. So much had changed since she’d first sat at this desk. She’d been so angry with her grandmother for tying her to this place, forcing her to stay among women that she believed would rather see her any place other than here. What did she know about running a fruit and vegetable business—any business for that matter? She’d been so fucking pissed that she couldn’t see clearly, total tunnel vision. She went on a scorched earth agenda and didn’t care who got burned in her process.
She rested her head back against the chair and rolled her gaze up to the raftered ceiling. What was she going to do? Tensions were renewed between her and her mother. Jackson was pissed at her, and the business was doing well. She sucked on her bottom lip. There was nothing holding her here anymore. Maybe she could do like Miranda suggested and get her old job back at The Recorder. She did miss it. She missed the pace, the hunt for clues, putting the pieces together, and she desperately wanted to find her father. But digging up the past regarding her father was a no-win situation if she stayed here. She’d made enough of a mess.
She reached for the business ledger to review the scheduling of deliveries to the local market and private customers and crosschecked the information on the computer. She ran her hand along the bumpy green leather and the red trim binding. The gold foil lettering had long ago worn away leaving behind flecks of the letter ‘R.’ Her grandmother was all pen and paper, meticulously noting every bag of seed purchased and every dollar and cent on her investment. When she’d taken over, she’d initially thought the process antiquated, but there was a certain kind of comfort in penning the information, watching the numbers add up over time, page after page. And if there was one thing she’d learned as a journalist, computers crashed but notebooks didn’t. The ledger was her go-to. The computer was only backup. She flipped to the next page, looked up and stared out the tiny attic window. At some point, she was going to have to tell her mother and her aunts what the lawyer told her about the will. Based on their response she would make her final decision.
She reached across the desk and turned on the little portable radio. Jackson had rigged it some kind of way that allowed her to get reception, but only on one local station. After a bit of static, and jiggling the dial like Jackson showed her, the station came through loud and clear. The host was giving a news run-down. Apparently, Michael Jackson had caused an international stir when he dangled his infant son Prince Michael II over a balcony. Who does that? She hit the keys, copying the entries from the ledger. What made her sit up and pay attention was when the host segued to national news. President Bush announced a change in Middle East policy stating that the U.S. would not recognize an independent Palestine until Yasir Arafat was replaced. And the U.S. was in the process of creating a new division called Homeland Security in the wake of the World Trade Center attacks.
Those were the kinds of stories she wanted to sink her teeth into. Some of her best work was her series on the World Trade Center disaster. She shut the ledger and sighed, pushed away from the desk and stood. She arched her stiff back and rotated her neck.
While she’d been working, it had grown dark and begun to rain. Fat pellets popped against the window and bounced off. Dammit. She needed to check the tarp on the garden. She walked over to the window. In just a matter of moments it was difficult to see out to the street. She started to turn away but stopped. She pressed her face closer to the window, trying to make out the forms beyond the swirling mist. Her heart thumped. The car. The white car.
She spun around and ran down the stairs, along the hallway. She grabbed a coat from the rack, draped it over her head, flung open the front door and darted out onto the porch. The car was pulling away. She couldn’t make out the driver or the plate. The rain came down in sheets, so hard and fast that she might have imagined that she saw a car at all.
“ Chile why are you standing there with the door wide open in this weather? Gon have the whole front hall full o’ water,” Sage fussed. “Close that door, girl.”
Zoie backed up into the house and shut the door. Robot-like she took the coat off her head and hung it back up. Slowly, she looked across at her aunt.
“What in the world is wrong with you? Eyes don’t look right.”
Zoie had to catch her breath, think about what she was going to say because she knew if it came out wrong, she would sound just as crazy as her aunt Hyacinth who may not be as disconnected as everyone thought.
Zoie swallowed the truth. “Sorry Auntie. I started to go out to see about the garden and it was raining too hard.”
Sage frowned and held her rooted to the spot with a ‘don’t try it with me stare.’ “I look stupid to you? Since when you go to the vegetable garden out the front door?”
Zoie forced a wobbly smile. “That’s just it Auntie, I wasn’t thinking. I was upstairs working on the books and saw the rain.” She wiped some water from her forehead. “I just ran out.” She sputtered a laugh. “But I do need to go check on the garden and make sure the tarps are secure.”
“Did that already,” she said, slowing Zoie’s escape. She planted her fists on her hips. “Listened to the weather this morning. Knew a storm was coming.”
“Oh.” Zoie blinked rapidly. “Thanks, Auntie.”
“Hmm, umm,” she hummed in her throat while she watched Zoie go back up the stairs.
Zoie went to her room and shut the door. Had the car really been out there? Was it even a white car? It was so hard to tell between the fog brought on by the heat and the downpour. Maybe it was gray or light blue. She didn’t know anymore.
She sat on the window seat and tried to make out the shapes in the distance. She was starting to feel that she was in some kind of Hitchcock thriller, complete with a mysterious car and a dark and stormy night. She gave a little shiver and went over to her bed. Maybe it was all a crazy coincidence. Like Jackson said, why would Lena do something like that. It didn’t make sense.
Over the pulse of pounding music, voices raised in conversation and laughter, Kimberly signaled the bartender for her fourth refill. She was finally becoming numb, and wasn’t that the reason why she’d fled the confines of her hotel room to find solace in the warm brown liquid surrounded by strangers? As much as she wanted to sink into a solitary pit of oblivion, the part of her soul that still pulsed with any kind of humanity needed the pressing of flesh, the sound of something other than her own twisting thoughts.
Periodically she’d check her phone. Maybe Rowan called and she missed the ring because of all the noise. He hadn’t called.
“Think you should slow down a bit, take it easy, ma’am,” the bartender said when he put her drink in front of her.
She cupped her hands around the tumbler and slid it toward her. “I’ll take it under advisement,” she said, her words flowing in slow motion from her brain to her mouth. She lifted the glass to her lips and took a swallow. The usual kick and burn of that first gulp had lessened and she wasn’t sure if that was good or bad; either she was growing immune or he was watering down the drinks.
Through a gaze clouded by tumblers of whiskey, she studied the crowded space; the bodies leaning in, on and around each other. Polished mouths and swinging hips, bulging biceps and bellies over belts, decked up and down in rainbows of colors.
Everybody had somebody, even if only for one night. Yet, in a room overflowing with people she was still alone. The way she’d been most of her life. She’d become so accustomed to being her own best friend that she was ill-equipped to navigate the waterways of friendship. That quality of being able to stand alone, on the outside looking in, made her an excellent attorney. The only one who’d been able to open her up was Rowan, and then her daughters. She was broken now—vulnerable. Loving and being loved was a cruel trick of emotion that had stripped her of the bits and pieces of existence that she’d spent her life putting together.
A plate of hot wings with celery sticks and blue cheese dressing appeared in front of her.
Her eyes lifted. He had a nice smile.
“Eat something. On the house.”
She bit down on her lip to keep from crying. “Thank you,” she managed.
He eased her glass of whiskey away and replaced it with a glass of ginger ale.
She blinked back tears. “Why?” she asked.
“That’s a pretty big question. Eat first, and maybe then we can talk about the age-old question why.” He grinned and walked down to the other end of the bar.
She picked up a sticky wing, brought it to her lips and bit off a piece dripping in sauce. Her belly sang in delight. When was the last time she’d eaten anything? She didn’t remember, but before she knew it the plate was a pile of bones swimming in sauce and blue cheese.
Her head was beginning to clear. At least enough to determine that this wasn’t Kansas.
“Can I get you anything else, ma’am?”
He was maybe thirty, thirty-five. Hard to tell in the dim light. The black t-shirt outlined a firm but slim body. He had nice eyes, kind eyes.
“Umm, do you have French fries?”
He chuckled. “Sure do. Coming right up.”
Dipping each fry in a mini pool of ketchup, she chewed slowly, actually appreciating something as simple as a good French fry.
The bartender returned. “How are they?”
“Good.”
“Need anything else?”
“You’re very kind. Whoever you are I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.” The famous line spouted by the ill-fated Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire popped into her head. How apropos. Would she too be doomed to be carted off to an institution—abused by everyone she allowed herself to care for?
He leaned in just a bit, close enough that she could smell the mint on his breath. “You are no Blanche DuBois.” He refilled her glass of ginger ale from the tap.
“You were going to tell me ‘why.’ ”
He half-smiled. “You seemed like you needed something, not another drink. And you remind me of someone.”
“Oh. Not sure if that’s good or bad.” She shifted her bottom on the barstool.
“It’s mixed,” he said with a sad smile.
“Who do I remind you of?”
“My sister. Twin.”
“Twin sister. That must have been fun. I don’t have siblings. I do—not really.” Her features tensed. She threaded her fingers through her hair, picked up a fry then put it back down. She pushed the plate aside.
“Yeah, it was pretty cool. Couldn’t play pranks ‘cause obviously folks could tell us apart,” he said with a chuckle. He took a damp, white cloth from beneath the counter and wiped off the bar top. “Besides looks, we were night and day in personality.” His gaze drifted away for a moment then returned to settle on Kimberly. “She didn’t know where she belonged either.”
Kimberly stiffened.
“Our family comes from a long line of octoroons. Most could pass easy as the sun rises. Some crossed ovah to the other side, some only when it was convenient. Me, I decided to take my chances on the ‘dark side.’ Nila, that was her name, she couldn’t ever figure out what side of the fence she wanted to be on.”
“Can we get some service down here?” someone at the other end of the bar yelled.
“Be right back.”
Her chest heaved. What would make him say those things to her? More importantly, what made him feel like he could? Her years of being paid deference in any situation kicked in, overrode the fact that she was a woman alone in a bar who needed a bartender to slow down her drinks to keep her from falling over or worse.
Her back straightened with indignation, anyway. He was being too familiar, as her mother would say. Speaking to her as if they were equals.
Octoroon. The word bounced back in her head. She blinked, rapidly peeling back the years to her days on the playground when Ella Delange was called out and humiliated by Susan Langford and Mary Ellen Tully. They’d called her half-breed and said her mother slept with a monkey. ‘If we throw water on you, I bet your hair will nap right up. Just like a nigger,’ Susan taunted. A crowd had gathered and circled Ella. Tears streamed from her hazel eyes, but more than that, Kimberly saw real fear in her eyes. At the same time, she wasn’t sure if the fear was because of the crowd or something else. Ella tried to run, but each time she attempted to break free of the circle that surrounded her, she was shoved back to the center as the crowd grew more frenzied and vicious. They pulled and tore at her hair freeing the once-neat twin braids. They tugged at her bright white blouse until the tiny buttons danced and popped across the concrete. Ella tried to cover herself but it was too late. The crowd fueled by teenage hormones and century-old ingrained prejudice descended on Ella like vultures. Her tears and her pleas fell on blind eyes and deaf ears. If anything, the crowd became more incensed.
Somebody, she couldn’t remember who, held a small white bra up in the air, waved it over his head. “If she got brown nipples she a nigger for sure.” She could still hear Ella’s screams that finally brought the teachers. Everyone scattered. What was left was what used to be Ella Delange. In her place was a wild-haired, wild-eyed fourteen-year-old, half-naked girl trying to cover her ripe breasts with trembling hands. When she went home that day and told her mother what happened to Ella, Lou Ellen Maitland simply said, ‘that’s what happens when them coloreds try to pass.’
“Are you okay?”
Kimberly glanced up. Her vision was cloudy and her cheeks were wet.
He put a paper napkin in her hand.
She sniffed hard, took the napkin and mumbled her thanks.
“Food can’t be that bad,” he teased.
“I should go.” She dug in her purse for her wallet.
He placed a hand on hers. “On the house, remember?”
She dragged in a breath, dabbed at her eyes. “You never finished telling me why?” She needed to know now more than ever.
He rested his forearms on the counter. She watched the muscles harden.
“Because I couldn’t save my sister.”
She frowned. “Save her from what?”
“Herself. Society.” He pursed his lips as if contemplating his next words. “Nila wanted to be what she could never be—white. She wanted the acceptance and the privilege that went with looking how we appeared. But to do that she had to shut the door on everyone who loved her.”
“I’m sorry,” she stammered, not sure what else to say. What she needed to do was leave, get away from him. He was picking away at what was left of her protective covering, seeming to be in search of an opening.
“I don’t know your story, but I can guess that you’re carrying something heavy.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” she fired back.
“You’re right. I don’t. But when you’ve been behind this bar as long as I have you get to know people. Some people come in just for a good time with friends. Others come to find someone. Then there are those that want to lose themselves, wash away what ails them.” He angled his head to the side. “I place you in that group.”
Kimberly glanced away, fidgeted with her empty glass of pop.
He took the glass, refilled it from the tap, then placed it back in front of her.
Her gaze lifted. She clasped the glass with both hands. “You’re right, you know,” she quietly admitted. “I do want to get lost.” She blinked rapidly. “But the truth is I’ve been lost all along and never knew it. I don’t know who I am and you can’t lose what you never had.”
He studied her for a moment. “I’m pretty sure you don’t mean that literally. I don’t get that I’m talking to Jane Doe.”
She felt the halo of a smile tug at her lips for the first time in weeks. “No, you’re not. My name is Kimberly,” she said on a hesitant breath.
“Nick,” he returned with a nod of his head.
The tightness in her chest lessened. “Nice to meet you.”
He lightly tapped the counter with his palm. “Now that we have formalities out of the way I’m gonna check on my other customers. You sit there as long as you need to.”
From the corner of her eye she watched Nick charm and cajole his customers, while periodically throwing a glance in her direction. Did he want to make sure she was still there or was it simply habit to check his work space? She preferred to think the former. And as the effects of the whiskey continued to recede she realized that she had in fact accepted the kindness of strangers, but she would not become Blanche.
Bit by bit the clientele continued to morph from the high-energy crowd of earlier to a more subdued group who’d settled in for the long haul. It was coming up on one in the morning. She couldn’t sit there forever or expect Nick to ignore his customers to keep her company. But she didn’t want to go back to her hotel room alone either.
Nick sauntered over to her, leaned on the counter. “You good?”
She pressed her lips tightly together and nodded.
He seemed to study her for a moment. “I get off in like twenty minutes.”
The words hung in the air between them.
What did he want her to say? “Oh. I probably should get going myself.”
“If . . . you don’t mind waiting.” He gave a slight shrug. “I can walk you to your car . . . make sure you get there safely.”
She swallowed down any hesitation. “Sure. I’ll wait,” she said before she changed her mind.
“Good.”
Why was she leading him on? What did she hope to gain? Did she plan to fall in bed with him like she did with a perfect stranger—John? Before that escapade—that she still could not fully piece together—she’d never been with another man other than her husband. Her gaze slid down the length of the table to settle on Nick. At least—if things got interesting—she was alert enough to know what she was doing. Whatever that might be.