CHAPTER 50

Yolanda lay her head back in the tub, letting the warm, rose-scented water soothe her tired muscles. With Theresa gone, Maxwell had dumped more work on her. She didn’t complain; more work meant more responsibility, but she hadn’t expected to be so tired.

She closed her eyes and replayed the night at Maxwell’s apartment.

He wants me to meet his family.

Yolanda smiled, nervous and excited at the same time.

This is getting serious. Am I his girlfriend? Is he trying to ask me to be his one and only?

But what if he’d only asked because he didn’t have anyone else to bring?

Shut up, girl, you’re as good as gold. A man as fine as Maxwell could bring anybody he wanted. But he’s bringing me! Out of all the women he could take, he wants me.

Her musings came to a halt when the phone rang. She picked up the cordless phone from the floor.

“Hello?”

“Yolanda? It’s me, Maxwell. What you doin’ tonight?”

Calm down. Be cool. Don’t tell him you planned on sitting in the house and organizing your closet…

“Nothin’ much.”

“You wanna go to the movies? That new Martin Lawrence movie is playing; we could check it out.”

“Sure.” Oh yeah, we’re dating! He asked me out again! Yolanda Peterson, you have a boyfriend!

“What time does it start?” she asked.

“Eight-thirty. Is that too late?”

Are you kiddin’ me? I’d fly to Egypt at three in the morning for a date with you.

“No, that’s fine by me.”

“Cool. Let’s meet at that new theater they built downtown. You know the one?”

“Yeah, I know where that is. I’ll meet you there.”

“Great. See ya soon.”

“Yesss!” Yolanda screamed.

We’re dating!

Seconds later, the phone rang again. He must have forgotten to tell me something.

She purred, “Did you forget something, baby?”

“Baby? It’s me, Gina. Who did you think it was?”

“Nobody, Gina,” Yolanda said, embarrassed. You only call when you want something, or you have something else to gloat about. What is it this time? Did your husband buy you another new car? Or is that fat baby of yours walking, talking, or doing something babies do that grabs everyone’s attention? “What do you want, Gina?”

“I was just calling to see if you’ve decided about what you wanna do this year for Mama and Daddy’s anniversary? It’s their fortieth, so we have to make this one big.”

Yolanda sighed.

Every year she and Gina split the cost of their parents’ anniversary gifts. It started small at first: gift certificates, dinners to five-star restaurants, tickets to a new Tyler Perry play. But lately, Gina had been hatching more elaborate plans. For their twenty-fifth, a trip to Hawaii; two years ago, matching Movado watches. Last year, Gina tried to hire a contractor to remodel their master bathroom, but their father had refused, saying he didn’t want another man touching his throne. They bought them a plasma TV instead.

“What is it you wanna do this year, Gina?”

She was already annoyed, because no matter how much she helped and contributed, her father always gave all the credit to Gina. It was as if he was blind when he read the zillion cards they gave him; ‘From Gina’ was the only name he saw. She didn’t know why she kept doing it. Maybe she thought her father would eventually give her the validation she desperately needed.

“I’m thinking that we should throw them a huge party at my house!”

Yolanda let out the huge breath she had been holding, relieved that it wasn’t too elaborate or expensive.

“I’ll do all the cooking, ’cause we both know you suck in that area, and you can do the decorating.”

“Thanks,” Yolanda said sourly.

“I’m looking on the Internet for different recipes…Oooh, by the way, how should I get them to the house? You know it’s a long drive.”

Gina loved to brag about the new house they had built in the Woodlands, a small suburb on the outskirts of Houston. It was a huge six-bedroom custom-made house, and Gina would use any excuse to have company over so she could brag about something new she’d bought: a new oil painting by some struggling unknown black artist, a new oriental rug, new silk curtains.

“I don’t know…why don’t you—”

“I could have Trevor pick ’em up and tell them we’re gonna take them out to dinner, then say he forgot something at the house! Then they come in and Surprise! They see the party.”

“That’ll work.”

“How should I tell people to dress?” Gina asked.

“Probably—”

“I know! Cocktail! You know, like after five? That would be so cute! Mama never gets a chance to dress up; she’ll love that, huh?”

“I guess,” Yolanda said. Why is she asking me all the questions if she’s just gonna answer them herself?

“I hope Mama likes it. I’m gonna make those stuffed peppers she likes so much, and that Southwest chicken dish she loves…”

“It sounds good, Gina.”

“Yeah, so anyway, we’re gonna throw it Sunday.”

“Sunday! This Sunday?”

“Yeah. What’s the problem?”

“I have a…I have something to do on Saturday.”

She didn’t want to say that she had a date. She didn’t want Gina in her business, asking her stupid questions. I mean, sure we’re dating, but until I’m positive, I’m not talking about this with her.

“What has Saturday got to do with Sunday?”

“I won’t be able to help prepare.”

“I told you, you don’t have to cook. All you have to do is put up some decorations and decorate the tables. What’s the big deal?”

“Gina, I’ll be there.”

“Good. What’s so important on Saturday, anyway? You got a date or somethin’?” Gina asked, laughing.

Yes! And he’s ten times better looking than Trevor.

“I have to work late,” Yolanda lied.

“That’s sounds like something you would be doing on a Saturday night. Well, I’ll call you tomorrow with more details. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Yolanda sat back in the tub, the water now cool and clammy. She put the cordless phone back on the floor and dipped her head under the water, trying to drown out the bad thoughts about her sister that were crowding her head.

* * *

They were in the parking lot outside the movie theater. It was filled with hyperactive pubescent teenagers waiting for their parents to pick them up.

“That movie was hilarious! Martin Lawrence is crazy!”

“Yeah, he’s a trip.”

“So what are we gonna do now?” Yolanda asked, eagerly anticipating a long evening with Maxwell.

He was quiet for a moment.

“You feel up for a nightcap?”

Yes! I’m in!

“Yeah, sure. I don’t mind,” Yolanda said, keeping her voice controlled and even to disguise her excitement.

“All right,” he said, heading for his truck. “It’s not that far from here; just follow me.”

She nodded and walked to her car parked three spots down from him. She got in her car, buckled her seatbelt and followed Maxwell out of the parking lot.

They were in front of his building in no time.

Yolanda hadn’t looked around that much the last time she was at Maxwell’s place, having been enthralled that he had actually invited her over for dinner. This time I’m gonna look around more, make myself more at home. I mean, that’s what a girlfriend does, isn’t it?

In Texas, bigger was always better, so Yolanda wasn’t surprised that Maxwell’s apartment was in a skyscraper. Skyscrapers were the crowning jewels in Houston’s urban revitalization program. His building was twenty-three stories high, and its residents loved its powerful location, romantic views, and unequaled access to the city’s urban pulse points. Downtown Houston, once neglected and left to rot, was now an invigorating place to call home.

Maxwell got out of his truck and handed the keys to the valet.

“Good evening, Mr. Alexander. Will you be needing your vehicle again this evening?”

“Nah. Not tonight. Thanks, Herman.”

Another valet, a tall white man, opened the door for Yolanda and asked her the same: “Good evening, ma’am. Will you be needing your vehicle again tonight?”

Yolanda looked at Maxwell, not sure how to answer.

He burst out laughing.

“Yeah, John. She’s gonna need her car tonight,” Maxwell said, shaking his head.

They walked toward the entrance, with Maxwell walking slightly ahead of her.

“Good evening, Mr. Alexander. Ma’am,” the doorman said, holding the door open for them.

The lobby was modern, yet traditional with shiny, marble-tiled floors and dark mahogany-stained walls. The concierge looked up from his desk and smiled pleasantly.

“Good evening, Mr. Alexander.”

“Evenin’, Peter.”

“Have a nice evening, sir. You, too, ma’am,” he said to Yolanda as they headed to the elevator.

Once inside, she asked, “Are you always this nice to everyone?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know everyone’s names, and you actually talk to them…”

“They know my name. Why wouldn’t I know theirs?”

“I don’t know. Most guys don’t, though.”

“I’m not most guys,” he said, looking down at her and giving her a small wink.

They stepped out of the elevator and walked down the long hallway to his apartment. He unlocked his door and Yolanda stepped in.

“Make yourself at home,” he said, as he went to the kitchen to answer his ringing phone. She followed him to kitchen and took a seat on a barstool behind his kitchen counter.

“Hello? Oh, hey…Nah, I’m not doing nothin’…”

Not doing nothing? Hanging out with me is doing nothing?

“Yeah, listen man, let me call you back. I got company. What? I told you, Andre, it’s not like that. We work together, that’s it.”

Maxwell turned his back on her and whispered something into the phone.

Yolanda ignored the conversation.

Things are still going well. At least you got invited back to his place. How many have done that?

She walked around, taking in the contemporary leather sofa and sleek, modern club chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows extended the length of the living and dining rooms, offering a breathtaking view of downtown Houston. The eggshell-colored walls were covered with vivid art. One of the oil paintings caught Yolanda’s eye and drew her toward it. The kaleidoscope of colors—deep marine blues and dark forest greens—rendered the painting dark and moody, yet inviting.

“That’s one of my favorites,” Maxwell said, handing her a glass of wine.

“Thanks,” Yolanda said, taking the white wine.

“How did you know—”

“I love black art. It’s a hobby of mine.”

Ian Bellman started off as a local Houston black artist. His broad, bold use of color soon caught the attention of the art world. His work hung in galleries all over the world, including New York, London, and Tokyo.

“This must have cost you a lot. I’ve rarely seen one in someone’s private collection.”

“It was my mother’s. She had quite an eye for talent.”

“You must really miss her,” she said.

He nodded and took a sip of his drink.

“This is a nice place,” Yolanda said, looking around.

“You acting as if you haven’t been here before…”

“Yeah, but the first time I was so nervous, I didn’t really look around much.”

“You were nervous?” Maxwell asked, surprised.

“Don’t act like you couldn’t tell; I was fumbling and stuttering all over the place.”

“You nervous now?” he asked, gazing down at her.

She looked down afraid to meet his eyes.

He placed his hand under her chin, and lifted it. “Look at me,” he said, his deep voice smooth and reassuring.

Yolanda looked up at him.

“Are you nervous now?” he asked again.

“No,” she said. But her lie was exposed when she took a sip of her wine and some of it dribbled it down her chin and onto the front of her shirt.

Nice going. Why don’t you just start drooling and put a handicapped sticker on your car? Any woman can drink without spilling it on herself.

She swiped at her chin.

“Gotcha,” he said, smiling. Taking her hand, he led her to the kitchen and handed her a paper towel to wipe her shirt.

“I’m just teasing you.”

“I made a mess,” Yolanda said, dabbing at her black shirt.

“No, you didn’t. You’re still cute.”

Cute? You think I’m cute…

“Seriously though, I was thinking about buying this place.”

Who cares? You just said I was cute. I’m cute!

“Why wouldn’t you buy this place? It’s wonderful. You’re close to all the hottest clubs and restaurants…”

“Yeah, but I’m getting older, and downtown is not exactly the kind of place you want to raise a family, you know?”

You bet I know.

“You wanna sit down?” Maxwell asked.

“Sure.”

She followed him to his sofa and sat down.

He picked up a remote on the oak coffee table, pressed a button, and the room filled with soft jazz music.

“You’re the first person who knew who did that oil painting.”

“Really?”

“Most women just comment on how pretty the colors are.”

“I keep telling you, I’m not like most women,” Yolanda said, winking at him.

Maxwell smiled and took another sip of his drink.

“What are you drinking?”

“Crown and Coke. Why?”

“I don’t know. Just asking.”

He’s awfully quiet. Maybe I should say something. But what do I say? I shouldn’t say anything. In a lot of cultures, silence is a good thing. But we live in America, stupid, I need to say something. Maybe he’s so quiet because he’s comfortable with me. It means our relationship has progressed to the point where we don’t have to entertain each other. Or it could mean he’s bored. For goodness sake, say something!

“So,” Yolanda said, toward him, “It’s been pretty hot lately, huh?”

Oh, no, girl. You’re drowning. Not the weather. Any other topic besides the weather…

“Yep. Pretty hot.”

“If you could pick anywhere else to live, just for the weather, where would it be?”

“California. I lived there for almost a year when I was in junior high because of my dad’s job. In Sacramento. Everything was just so balanced. Not too hot, not too cold, just right.”

“Like Goldilocks.”

“Huh?”

“You know, when she was eating the porridge? One was too hot, one was too cold, but baby bear’s porridge was just right.”

He gave her a weird look and shrugged.

“I guess you could look at it like that.”

Stupid, stupid…

“Why did y’all move back?”

“Because of my mom’s first bout with cancer. All our family is here, and my mom wanted to be close to her family.”

“Is that her?” Yolanda asked, noticing a picture of a smiling woman on the end table next to the sofa.

“Yeah.”

“May I?”

“Sure.”

Yolanda studied the picture of his mother. It was a sunny day. She was smiling, and her thin, shoulder-length black hair was blowing across her face. Her wide, expressive eyes were distracted, as if her mind was on something else. She must have known already. Must have had some kind of foreboding.

“She’s pretty.”

“Was,” he said, reaching over and taking the picture, looking at it intently. He set his drink on the coffee table, and then placed his hand over his mother’s face, as if he could feel her flesh pulse with life. He then placed the black-framed picture on the coffee table next to his drink.

“I’m really sorry,” Yolanda said.

“You know what I miss the most about her?”

“What?”

“Our conversations. Mama always told the truth. No matter how much it hurt, she spoke the truth.”

“You loved that about her, huh?”

“Loved and hated that about her,” he said, with a wry smile. “I remember when I was in college and was stayin’ with this chick in her apartment, driving her car, and eating her food. Somehow, she found out and called me right up and told me I was a punk. I mean she told me off. I almost hung the phone up in her face ‘til I remembered who I was talking to. Here I was, twenty years old, thinking I’m grown. But she was right. I had no business in that girl’s house like that. So I up and moved out the next day. Been on my own ever since,” he said, his voice tinged with pride.

“I bet she was proud of you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think she was.”

“I’ve been to your father’s restaurant that one time, but I don’t really know him. What’s he like?” Yolanda asked, greedy for more information about his personal life.

“Pop is…Pop is just…I don’t know. He’s a hard man to describe. You’ll see this weekend.”

“So let me guess, you’re more of a mama’s boy?”

He smiled. “I’ll be the first to admit it. Yes, I’m a mama’s boy. Me and Pop just don’t click.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know. It just seems like we’re always going in different directions. We just don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things.”

“That shouldn’t be a reason to not get along.”

“For us it is,” he said.

Yolanda looked at her watch.

“It’s getting late; I should be going.”

She thought she saw a flicker of disappointment cross his face, but he quickly recovered and yawned.

“Yeah, you’re right. I gotta get an early start tomorrow.”

She stood and got her purse. Maxwell led her out of the apartment to the elevators.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you at work. Thanks for having me over. I liked your place.”

“I liked talkin’ to you.”

“Well, I just plain ol’ like you,” she said.

He looked down.

“I’m sorry—”

He looked up. “You have nothing to be sorry about. I really enjoyed your company tonight. I, I…”

She touched his hand. “I understand,” she whispered.

He sighed. “You don’t. But thank you for trying.”

“I’m your girl, that’s what I’m here for—” she stopped, when she realized her mistake.

“You are my girl, Yolanda.”

She heard the ding, and knew her elevator had arrived.

But she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, afraid she would say something to mess everything up.

“Good night, Maxwell,” she said finally, stepping onto the elevator.