Duncan walked down the block to the brownstone that had become his home after Melanie Gilmore passed away. He’d promised his aunt that he would come for dinner Sunday, but had made a stop at Junior’s restaurant to pick up Viola’s favorite dessert—strawberry cheesecake.
What he found odd was that he’d had Sunday dinner with Viola the week before. They’d agreed to get together twice a month during the school year, and once during the months of July and August. Either he went to Brooklyn or she came to Manhattan.
Viola planned to retire at the end of the upcoming school year. She’d given New York City school children forty-four years of her life—the last twenty as principal and assistant principal. When Duncan asked his aunt she what she’d planned to do after she retired, her response was “travel, travel and travel some more.”
What he couldn’t understand was that she’d always traveled. She’d taken him with her on an extended tour of Ireland and the British Isles the year he celebrated his fifteenth birthday. He could look forward to visiting the Caribbean during the Christmas recess, other states during spring break and Europe, Africa or Asia in the summer. By the time he’d entered college Duncan had lost count of the number of countries, islands and states he’d seen.
Traveling with Viola had come with a proviso—he had to maintain a ninety average or he would be left with a distant cousin who owned a North Carolina hog farm. It’d taken one trip to the hog farm to turn him off. It was another three years before he could eat bacon, ham or ribs without seeing the beady eyes or snouts. He still couldn’t bring himself to eat pigs’ feet or chitterlings.
Duncan bounded up the steps of the brownstone. Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he took out a key and opened the solid-oak door adorned with a colorful wreath of dried summer flowers.
Viola used the street level of the three-story building for entertaining, the first floor for her personal quarters and she’d rented out the apartments on the second and third floors. Once Duncan had graduated from college and gotten a job, he’d rented one of the apartments on the top floor.
As soon as he stepped into the vestibule a distinctive nauseating odor wafted into his nostrils. He frowned and was still frowning when he rang the bell before unlocking the door to his aunt’s apartment. She met him as he closed the door.
“Did I smell crack in the vestibule?”
Viola Duncan nodded as she stared up at her nephew. He was dressed for the off-and-on drizzle that had begun at dawn. Today he wore a baseball cap, jeans, a rugby shirt, a lightweight jacket and running shoes. He’d replaced his contact lenses with a pair of black wire-rimmed glasses.
“That’s why I wanted you to come over. I’d suspected Mr. Hughes was smoking something, but I can’t identify what it is. I know for certain it’s not marijuana.” Philip Hughes had rented the second-floor apartment overlooking the front of the house.
Duncan leaned over and kissed his aunt’s cheek. With the exception of his height, he and Viola looked enough alike to be mother and son. Her curly hair was salt-and-pepper and her khaki-colored skin showed no signs of aging. A few lines fanned out around her eyes, but only when she smiled.
Viola had been engaged to a lawyer when she became her nephew’s legal guardian, but it was years later when Duncan learned that his aunt ended the engagement because her fiancé was opposed to starting marriage with a ready-made family. He had resented having to compete with a teenage boy for his wife’s attention. And because Viola had sacrificed her happiness for him, there wasn’t anything Duncan wouldn’t do for her.
“Where is he?”
Viola heard something in her nephew’s voice that sent a shiver over her body. “He’s upstairs.”
Duncan placed the box with the cake on a side table and removed his cap and jacket, hanging them on a wooden coat rack. “I’m going upstairs to have a chat with him.”
Before renting any of the units, Duncan had taken on the responsibility of interviewing prospective tenants and running their credit history. The tenant Viola was complaining about was a high-school science teacher.
Viola adjusted her rimless glasses, large light-brown eyes filling with concern. “Don’t go up yet, son.”
A slight frown creased his forehead. “What aren’t you telling me, Aunt Vi?” It was on very rare occasions that his aunt referred to him as her son. Most times it was when she was anxious.
“I asked him if he was smoking in his room, and he told me to mind my business. I had to remind him that there is a no-smoking clause in his lease.”
“What did he say to that?”
“He told me to, and I quote, ‘kiss my ass,’ end quote. No, Duncan!” she screamed when he turned and walked out of the living room. “I spoke to Kyle’s friend Micah about it.”
Duncan stopped his retreat, turning to face Viola. “What did he say, Aunt Vi?”
“Micah said to call him when you got here. He got a judge to sign off on a warrant, and his next-door neighbor, who is a police officer, is willing to serve it. Tessa also invited us to share dinner with them.”
Micah Sanborn and his wife Tessa lived in the same close-knit Brooklyn Heights neighborhood as his aunt. Kyle had told him that wedding planner Tessa Whitfield-Sanborn had agreed to coordinate the Warrick–Chatham nuptials.
Taking out his cell phone, Duncan scrolled through his address book and punched in the number for Micah’s home number. Micah answered on the second ring. “Where are you, Duncan?”
“I’m in my aunt’s living room.”
“Stay there. Jack Cleary and I will be over in about ten minutes.”
Duncan ended the call, then escorted his aunt into the kitchen to wait for the Kings County ADA and his neighbor the police officer to arrive. If it’d been up to him Duncan would have barged into the apartment and snatched the man up by the throat for disrespecting his aunt. But he knew how much Viola detested violence, so he would take Micah’s advice and wait.
“Sit down, Duncan,” Viola said, watching Duncan pace the length of the large kitchen.
He stopping pacing and sat on a high stool at the cooking island. “This will be the last day Philip Hughes will spend under this roof.”
Viola busied herself, putting up a kettle of water to make tea. “Do you want tea, Duncan?”
“No, thank you.”
“How have you been, son?”
Duncan smiled for the first time. “I’m good, Aunt Vi.”
She gave him a sidelong glance, silently admiring his tall, graceful body. Viola Gilmore couldn’t have been more proud of Duncan if he’d actually been her son. Although a single mother, her sister had done a remarkable job during his formative years. Melanie had given him a good foundation and Viola had improved on it.
There were times when she knew she was being too preachy about him working up to his intellectual potential, avoiding gangs and physical confrontations, not abusing alcohol or drugs and always using protection when having sex, but it had worked. Duncan had far exceeded her expectations.
“Have you met someone?”
Duncan angled his head, his expression one of faint amusement. “Yes, I have.”
With wide eyes, Viola stared at him. “You have?”
“Yes, I have,” he repeated.
“Do you mind if I ask how you met her?”
“We got stuck in an elevator together. I asked her out and she accepted.”
Viola approached her nephew and hugged him. “I’m so happy for you, Duncan. You don’t know how long I’ve been praying for you to meet someone so I can become a grandmother.”
“We’ve only had one date, Aunt Vi.”
“How was it?”
“Good,” Duncan confirmed.
“You can call me a nosy old woman, but I’m going to interrogate you anyway. Are you going to see her again?”
Duncan gave his aunt a long, penetrating look. Either he’d changed or she had, because in the past they had never talked about the women he’d dated. He’d been very discreet when he’d invited any to spend the night with him, always cognizant that although he was paying rent he still lived under his aunt’s roof.
“I plan to, Aunt Vi.”
Viola dropped her arms when the kettle began whistling. “You know that I worry about you being alone.”
Duncan kissed her hair. “That’s what mothers are supposed to do.”
Her eyes glistening with moisture, she went to turn off the stove. “God sent you to me because he knew I would never have children of my own.”
“I’ve thought about adopting a child.”
Viola’s hand shook slightly as she attempted to fill a cup with hot water. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious. I shouldn’t have to tell you about the number of children of color languishing in foster care because no one wants to adopt an older child. I have more than enough room in my home and I meet the income criteria.”
“But a child should have two parents.”
“I grew up with a single aunt and mother and I turned out all right.”
“You were the exception, Duncan.”
“And my son would also become the exception.”
Reaching for a bottle of honey, Viola added a spoonful to the steaming tea. This was a side of her nephew she’d never seen before. When he’d lost his fiancée he’d sworn never to marry or father children. Now he was talking about adopting a child.
Viola knew any child Duncan adopted would have a wonderful role model for a father. There was no doubt he would stress education, take him to sporting events and expose him to the arts. The first time she’d taken Duncan to a ballet it was to see The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center. Her nephew was more enraptured by the music than the costumes and dancing because he was familiar with the works of Tchaikovsky. She stopped stirring the tea when the sound of the doorbell echoed throughout the apartment.
Duncan moved off the stool. “I’ll get it.”
He walked to the door and opened it. Micah and another man wearing street clothes stood on the steps. He shook hands with the assistant district attorney. “Thanks for coming.”
Micah smiled, even though the warmth didn’t reach his dark, deep-set eyes. Tall, dark, with even features, the former NYPD lieutenant had made a name for himself as a tough prosecutor for the district attorney’s “gang busters” division. He’d prosecuted several gang members who were now serving lengthy sentences in state prisons.
“Duncan, this is Jackson Cleary. I brought him along as backup.”
Duncan offered his hand to the police officer. “I appreciate your help, because otherwise you’d have to arrest me for kicking this dude’s ass for disrespecting my aunt.”
Jackson’s blue eyes narrowed. “I’ll kick his ass for you.”
As if on cue, Jackson and Micah reached into the pockets of their jeans for small leather cases with their badges. Micah nodded to Duncan. “You go up and see if he’ll open the door for you. If he doesn’t, then Jack and I will take it from there.”
Duncan led the way to the second floor. He knocked on the door to Philip Hughes’s apartment, listening for movement. The smell of crack was even more pungent.
“Who is it?” The query came out slurred.
“Duncan Gilmore. Open the door, Mr. Hughes. I’d like to talk to you.”
“Get the hell outta here and leave me alone!”
Duncan tried the knob. The door was locked. “It’s all yours,” Duncan said to the police officer. He stepped back when Jackson Cleary pounded on the solid-oak door.
“Mr. Hughes, this is the police. I want you to open the door.”
“Not without a warrant.”
Jackson winked at Micah. “I just happen to have one, Mr. Hughes. Now open the door.”
There came the sound of shuffling feet before the click of the lock opening. The door opened and Duncan stared numbly at the man. He hardly recognized him. He was thin, almost to the point of emaciation. His normally shaved brown pate bore stubble. The haze clouding the room had an acrid smell. Jackson slapped the warrant against the man’s frail chest.
“Go sit down before you fall down.”
Duncan stood off to the side as Jackson began his search. A table was littered with dozens of tiny pellets, glassine packets filled with white powder and what appeared to be marijuana. A crack pipe lay nearby.
“Hey, Sandy, you need to take a look at this.” Jackson was staring at a computer monitor.
Micah walked over to see what his old police-academy buddy was looking at. He smothered an expletive when he saw the shocking images, they threatened to make him physically ill. “Cuff the freaky bastard and read him his rights. Then call someone from the Sex Crimes Unit to pick up this computer. Make certain they search the apartment for more tapes or disks.”
Duncan had an idea of what was on Philip Hughes’s computer screen. He motioned to Micah to step out into the hall. “Try to make this as unobtrusive as possible for my aunt.”
Micah nodded. “I’ll make certain they send an unmarked car. He’s going to be charged with drug possession and child pornography. I’m going to make certain he’ll never set foot in a classroom again. Why don’t you take your aunt over to my place? Give me your keys and I’ll lock up the place. Tell Tessa I may be a little late for dinner.”
Duncan patted Micah’s back. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem. Congratulations. Kyle told me you’re going to be his best man.”
“Thanks. I’m planning to throw a little something at my place for everyone to get together either late September or early October. I hope you and Tessa can come.”
“I think I can speak for Tessa when I say we wouldn’t miss it.”
Duncan went downstairs, leaving the ADA and the police officer to deal with the piece of garbage in his aunt’s house. He saw firsthand how easily he’d been duped. An excellent credit score, impeccable letters of reference and a good work history was a mere facade for a man who was a drug abuser and a purveyor of kiddie porn.
He told Viola they were going to the Sanborns while Micah and Officer Cleary escorted Philip Hughes off the premises. His aunt gave him a look that said she didn’t believe him, but didn’t press the issue.
They walked the four blocks to where the Sanborns lived and where Tessa had set up her Signature Bridals. Duncan whispered to Tessa why Micah was going to be late, and Viola gave her the box with the cheesecake and several bottles of wine from her prized collection.
Duncan was reunited with Tessa’s cousin Faith McMillan and her husband Ethan. They’d come to Ivan’s earlier that summer to help celebrate Kyle’s thirty-ninth birthday.
Tessa introduced him to her older sister Simone and her brother-in-law Raphael Madison. Duncan remembered Kyle telling him about the bride’s beautiful sister, and he had to agree with his friend. Simone Whitfield-Madison was stunning, with deeply tanned tawny skin, curly reddish hair and brilliant hazel eyes. There was no doubt she and her blond-haired, blue-eyed husband would have beautiful, exotic-looking children. The doorbell rang and more Whitfields, ranging from seniors to preteens crowded the sofas, loveseats and chairs in the many rooms of the stately brownstone.
Duncan found himself cloistered in a room with the men, discussing everything from President Barack Obama to the Yankees. A good-natured argument erupted when Ethan brought up the topic of the pennant race. Only a few percentage points separated the top two teams in each league and division. Although he’d come with his aunt, Duncan felt the lack of female companionship. The elder Whitfield men had their wives, the Whitfield women their husbands.
He wanted Tamara—he wanted to see her, talk to her, touch her and kiss her. Mixed feelings surged through Duncan as he tried to understand why he was so attracted to Dr. Tamara Wolcott. They’d spent six hours together, but it hadn’t been enough for him.
Duncan wanted more—a lot more.
* * *
Tamara didn’t get out of bed until after noon on Sunday. She showered and pulled on a pair of sweatpants, socks and an oversize T-shirt. Two cups of coffee, a banana and one slice of buttered toast served as brunch. She made her bed, and then crawled back into it to read the stack of magazines that had piled up for months, while music from the radio on the bedside table played softly. She’d just finished reading an article in W when the phone rang.
Reaching over, she picked up the cordless phone, mumbling a greeting.
“Tamara, is that you?”
She put down the magazine. “Who else would it be, Renata?”
“It didn’t sound like you.”
“I can assure you that it is me.”
If her sister was calling her it had to be because she wanted money. Her shopaholic sister regularly exceeded her monthly budget whenever she just had to have a new pair of shoes or that cute little outfit. Tamara constantly reminded her that, as an elementary school teacher, the effect of designer shoes and suits would be lost on her young students. But Renata had always been and would always be a fashionista.
“I’m calling because Tiffany and I want to host a surprise sixtieth birthday celebration for Daddy.”
“Where are you going to host it?” Tamara asked.
“I’m willing to have it at my house, but Tiff hinted that she wanted it at her place because she just added a party room.”
Tamara knew her sisters were notorious for attempting to upstage each other. “Host it in a private room at a restaurant.”
“Where, Tamara?”
“That’s for you and Tiffany to decide. Either you can have it on Long Island or the city.”
“If you can check out some restaurants in Manhattan I’ll check them out here.”
“How many people do you expect to invite?”
“Sixty. That’s going to be the magic number.”
Tamara smiled. “I like that. What budget are we working with?”
“Tiff and I figured it would cost about a hundred per person. Add an additional thousand for an open bar.”
“What if we throw in three thousand each? That should cover everything, including tax and gratuity. Do you want to have it on that day or on the weekend? Try to keep in mind that weekends are more expensive.” This year their father’s birthday fell on a Thursday.
“I prefer celebrating on his actual birthday.”
“What about the menu?” Tamara asked.
“That would depend on the restaurant.”
Tamara thought of a midtown restaurant overlooking the Hudson River and made a mental note to call the Hudson Terrace. “Are you going to have a problem coming up with your share of the costs?” she asked Renata.
“I’ll borrow the money from my credit union.”
“What’s up with you, Renata?” Tamara asked in a quiet voice.
“What are you talking about?” Renata’s tone had hardened, taking on an edge.
“Are you and Lenny having financial problems?” The sound of weeping came through the earpiece, shocking Tamara. Although her sister always called to ask to borrow money, Renata always repaid her. “Renata, talk to me.”
“I…I can’t. I have to hang up.”
Tamara held the receiver until a shrill beeping sound forced her to return the handset to its base. Instinctively, she knew Renata was hiding something—but what? she mused. She would wait until tomorrow, after her brother-in-law left the house to go to work, then call Renata.
Sinking against the mound of pillows supporting her back, Tamara closed her eyes. She’d never been one to get involved in her sisters’ personal lives, because they seemed to live charmed existences. They had the perfect husbands, homes and children. Both had purchased McMansions in the affluent Wheatley Heights community. Vaulted ceilings, marble floors, massive chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling windows greeted visitors when Renata or Tiffany opened the doors to their homes.
Whenever her sisters ventured into the city they refused to come to Tamara’s apartment because they didn’t want to walk up five flights of stairs. Not so her parents, who loved Manhattan and preferred staying with their daughter than in a midtown hotel. Tamara always adjusted her schedule to spend time with them. Either she took them out for brunch or prepared their favorite breakfast foods.
She jumped, startled when someone rang the downstairs bell. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Tamara went to the door and pressed a button on the intercom. “Who is it?”
“Trenz Florist. I have a delivery for a Tamara Wolcott.”
She pushed the button to disengage the lock on the downstairs door, wondering who could’ve sent her flowers. Opening the closet in the foyer, Tamara reached for a small wooden box on the top shelf. In it were a stack of singles, her tip stash for dry cleaning, laundry and groceries deliveries. Carrying bags up five flights of stairs was not something she relished.
Tamara opened the door when she heard the soft tap. A young man handed her a large bouquet of bloodred and hot-pink roses in a glass vase. She signed the receipt, handing him a tip, and he thanked her profusely. Plucking the card off the cellophane, she read the neat printing: Thank you for a wonderful evening; we must do it again! Duncan.”
“And we will do it again,” she whispered aloud.
She removed the cellophane and carried the vase into the living room, where she set it down on a table amongst a collection of Waterford crystal votives. The sweet scent of the flowers wafted into her nostrils.
Returning to the bedroom, she picked up her cell phone and dialed the number to Duncan’s cell. A smile softened her mouth when she heard his soothing baritone. “I want to thank you.”
“Thank me for what, Tamara?”
“For sending me flowers.”
“I hope you like them.”
“I love them. They’re beautiful.”
“So are you.”
“Easy, Duncan, or you’ll give me a swelled head.”
“Better your head swelling than mine.” A groan came through the earpiece. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“Yeah, you did,” Tamara teased. “Where are you, Duncan?”
“I’m in Brooklyn visiting my aunt. Why?”
“I thought maybe I’d treat you to dinner.”
“I just ate. What about you?”
“I haven’t eaten yet.”
“I could stop by and take you out so you can eat.”
Tamara shook her head although Duncan couldn’t see her. “Don’t bother. I’ll either fix something light or order in.”
“I’ll take you out.”
“But you’ve already eaten, Duncan.”
“I’ll have coffee, or I’ll watch you eat. I’ll be leaving here in about half an hour. Look for me sometime around six.”
Tamara smiled. “Okay. I’ll be ready at six.”
“I’m wearing jeans, so it’ll have to be a casual place to eat.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“I’ll see you at six.”
Tamara ended the call, then did a happy dance, twirling around the room. Duncan sending her flowers had given her an excuse to call him. What she was forced to acknowledge was that she’d wanted to see him again.
What she refused to acknowledge was that she wanted to sleep with Duncan Gilmore.