As dusk began to settle, Elle peered through the tinted rear window of a sleek black Mercedes sedan. She’d called earlier to reserve the top of the line Benz from EGT's coveted company fleet. It was a perk made available to her for only the past year, to entice clients of course, and she’d used it far too sparingly. Tonight she would exploit the fancy ride to elevate her clout and eliminate any hassles associated with logistics or parking. As the car pulled up to the Chicago Stock Exchange, Elle straightened, sitting for another moment until the driver looked back and said, “Ms. Rollins?”
“Oh…thank you Smitty. I’ll text when I’m ready?”
“I’ll come right away,” he said, and gave her his cell number which she placed in her phone along with a draft text ready to send. Since fleet guidelines required cars to arrive within ten minutes for return pick-ups, Elle was poised to make a quick exit when the time was right.
After entering the building, she rode a granite-encased elevator forty floors up to Everest, the swanky, absurdly-expensive restaurant that Darien had chosen for what he thought was a ‘let's work it out and keep this thing together’ discussion.
In the vestibule, she encountered a massive sculpture by the prodigious Italian artist, Cavalier Ferrari. A study in thick bronze rectangles of varying sizes uniquely stacked, it created the illusion of numerous doors and windows, some open and some closed. Elle sensed its discreet theme was a sly coincidence, then smiled recalling Kinte's assertion that coincidences, in fact, did not exist.
At 6:50 PM, she was at the Maître d's podium giving her name.
“Ah…Ms. Rollins,” said the man behind the mahogany pedestal. “I’m Henri and I’ve selected our very best table for you this evening. Please… follow me.” As they approached the table tucked in a far corner, Elle noticed what looked like a Lalique vase just to the left of one place setting, as well as a small Tiffany box on top of the plate. She rolled her eyes. Yeah, that's gonna work.
“Monsieur Wallis asked me to share that his meeting is running longer than anticipated,” Henri explained, “but we’ll take excellent care of you prior to his arrival.” He pulled out her chair. “The champagne will be over immediately.”
“No…please,” Elle was taken off-guard. “I’d prefer chardonnay,” she said, determined not to endorse the idea of a celebration.
“Monsieur was quite specific,” the elegant gentleman replied. “I’m certain Mademoiselle will be pleased with the selection.”
“No,” Elle insisted. “Just a nice chardonnay…please…you choose.”
He nodded.
A server approached with a table-side ice bucket and two glasses. “Leave the champagne,” Henri instructed. “But bring a glass of the ’07 Chassagne-Montrachet for Mademoiselle.” Within moments, the server was back with a glass of wine, followed by a waiter who left bread in a porcelain basket, a terrine of French pate’ and a plate of butter, each tiny pat precisely cast in a mold shaped like a miniature mountain peak.
Elle swirled the glass watching the legs drift downward, then expertly sampled the wine, smacking her lips. “Merci, Henri,” she said then smiled, pleased that her confidence was high enough to support levity. She sipped again, gathering her thoughts in review of the mission. The objective was simple; be clear with Darien that their relationship was finished, full-stop! Speak her truth without compromise, and then get the hell up out of there avoiding a reprise of the melodramatic scene at La Bistro Porcine. Lifting her eyes, she mouthed a prayer. Dear Lord, please don’t let it go ugly.
She drank more wine then gazed at the brilliant purple blooms in the opaque vase. They seemed familiar somehow and she inhaled deeply before recognizing the exotic fragrance. These were the Cattleya Orchids which had graced the bedroom of the lavish vacation villa in Maui she’d shared with Darien some years back. Without permission, her mind rushed to recall the exquisite island and the extraordinary time they’d had. Elle picked up the vase and breathed in the scent once more. Nice touch. Then she got up and moved them to another table.
Back in her seat, she glanced down, her eyes resting on the mysterious box. At first she hesitated, then lifted it from the plate and held it gently, acknowledging her appreciation of all things Tiffany. What she didn’t appreciate, however, was being played, and Darien had pulled out all the stops, with the fancy auberge, the ultra-exotic flowers and God knows what wrapped in a powder-blue box tied with a white-silk ribbon. Elle put the box on the opposite place setting and lowered her head. For an instant, she was drenched in melancholy, aware that when life with Darien was good, it was exceptional. But that was then, and now was a whole nother other as her mama would say.
Darien's voice intruded. “Hey, baby doll.” He leaned down placing a light kiss on her cheek.
“Hey,” she said, startled by his sudden presence.
He sat across from her and smiled. She didn’t. “Oh, come on now,” he said. “What…you had a difficult day?”
“No,” she said. Not entirely true considering her disappointment in not having heard back from Neville Powell's office and the anxious, aching stomach that had kept her awake and forced her out of bed. The discomfort had continued throughout the day.
“Then cheer up, girl.” He picked up the Tiffany box and put it back on her plate.
Elle glared at him.
He frowned, dismissing her. “Oh I see you waited for me on the champagne, too. How thoughtful. Then I’ll have a drink first, as well.” He waved to get someone's attention and a server showed up.
“Martell, XO.” Darien said. “And please open the champagne when you return.” His attention back on Elle, he said, “So pretty lady, tell me about your day.”
Elle was without words, not quite sure how to play it. Should she blurt, I’m leaving you, dumbass! Or take it more slowly, let them settle in. She shrugged, “It was…you know, OK.”
He was watching her closely now, perhaps sizing up her mood. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll tell you about my day.” Then he dragged-on Darien-like about spending the morning selecting shoes to complement his latest custom-made suit. Pushing his foot forward, he explained how the style was a variation on the classic ‘split toe.’ Then he bragged about the sumptuous details of the garment; the hand-stitched lining, his initials embroidered on the inside pocket, and the exclusive Brioni fabric shipped from Italy. He stopped and grinned. “I look good…right?”
Elle almost laughed. Darien did look damn good and through the years she’d been mostly amused by his meticulous nature. Even though obsessing over his appearance exposed a thread of conceit, he was often the best-dressed man in the room. Elle had taken pleasure in that countless times. She wouldn’t begrudge him now.
Once the waiter returned with Darien's drink, he lifted the frosty bottle from the ice bucket preparing to open it.
“I’m not drinking champagne.” Elle shook her head.
“Of course you are,” Darien said.
“No…I’m not.”
He paused, wrinkling his brow. “I think we need a moment.” The waiter nodded and walked away.
Leaning back, Darien crossed his legs and inspected his flawless shoes. After resting his hands on one knee, he looked up and spoke, “Alright, Elle. Let's get to the heart of it.” He peered directly at her. “You don’t want champagne…I see you moved the flowers,” he glanced toward the vase, “and your gift is unopened.” He fixed a frown. “Don’t you think you’re taking this I’ve been wronged performance a bit further than necessary?”
What did he say? Elle cocked her head to one side as an automatic ‘What the fuck did you just say,’ rose toward the opening between her lips. But she swallowed, pushing the harsh words back down. Now she had no choice but to go straight at it. “Darien…all this stuff,” she gestured in the air. “There's no point.” Her stare locked with his, she lifted her shoulders. “It's over…our time is done.”
Darien glared across the table, saying nothing. Instead, his jaw twitched and he folded his arms, pulling them tight to his chest as if to protect what was inside. His eyes, still trained on her, grew more intense. She could see the anger rising in him, but kept going. “You gotta know it, right?” Elle searched his face for a shade of recognition. “I mean really…after everything that's happened this year? How could we possibly have a life?” The words rocked her like a baseball bat to the gut and she grabbed her stomach with one hand, but wasn’t done yet. “What on earth could make me wanna stay with you?”
He blinked; then turned and looked out the wall of windows. His lips, uncommonly thin for a man of color, were pressed together, making them even tighter and more narrow than usual. They mirrored an often seen aspect of his demeanor; a taut and fixed perspective that rarely allowed room for dissension or even compromise. While he peered toward the expanse of Chicago sky, Elle compared the bottom half of his strained face to Kinte's full, satisfying mouth. Months had passed since she’d kissed Darien with any sense of passion or pleasure, and now she didn’t even want to; not due to physiology, but because of the words that came from his mouth, and those that did not.
When he turned to look at her, his eyes were sheathed in pools of glass. He stared for a long moment and Elle felt a twinge of compassion, as she had never seen him this close to tears. Then in an almost whisper, he said, “Excuse me,” before getting up and walking away.
Elle rested her forehead on one hand and took a long, slow breath, wishing they hadn’t struck such a bitter chord so early in the conversation. Fuck, what now? Did the possibility of a civil discourse still exist? Wait! Was the niggah even coming back? “Fuck,” she said it out loud, “I need a martini.”
Henri was walking her way, having just seated another couple. She stopped him. “Henri, I adored the wine, it was excellent. But I’m going to need a very cold martini. Can you send the waiter?”
Henri's eyebrows rose, “A martini, Mademoiselle?”
“Yes, please…Ciroc, very cold,” she said, then noticed Darien's half empty drink. “And another Martell XO for…uh…monsieur.”
“Very well,” Henri said. “Not yet ready to order dinner?”
Elle shook her head, but knew she’d better eat something considering the steady flow of alcohol as an appetizer. She spread a hunk of French bread with creamy pate’ and ate with haste. Then reaching for another piece, she opted for butter and stabbed one of the tiny mountain tops with her knife. Before flattening it on the bread, she examined its intricate shape and could even make out the layers of snow. Elle wondered how the hell they had crafted it, a perfect replica of the towering peak of Everest; that most threatening part of the mountain sorely deficient in oxygen and long known to climbers as ‘The Death Zone.’ She shuddered at the dark reference, then smashed the butter into the bread and took a big bite.
When Darien returned and sat down, he was more composed, his emotions now in check. Some of the tension had lifted as well, diffused by the simple act of him walking away. After a sip of water, he spoke. “Well…” then straightened his tie, “this discussion has turned out to be more challenging than I thought. Maybe we should start over. What do you say?” Sitting back, he crossed his legs again, his confidence out front.
Elle glanced toward the waiter heading their way. “I ordered drinks,” she said, as he arrived and set the drinks before them.
“Will there be something more…soup perhaps?” the waiter asked. Darien shook his head while smoothing the fabric of his immaculate trouser.
Elle lifted the crystal glass and tasted the sweet vodka, closing her eyes and taking a moment to let the heat of the stiff drink spread from her throat to her chest.
Darien followed suit, then said, “To starting over,” as he held his glass high.
She took another sip, placing her glass down. “So start,” she said, feeling like the chance to begin the conversation anew was a good thing for the mission.
He grinned as if claiming a small victory and reached over, lifting the Tiffany box from her plate. “Open it.”
“Darien …” She shook her head, “I…”
“Just open it, Elle. C’mon…you know it's something you’ll love.”
She stared at him, then at the box in his hand, then back at him.
“You’ve wanted it,” he said, “for a while…now it's all yours baby.”
Still eyeing the box, her curiosity swelled. There was only one thing that she’d wanted for ‘a while,’ or used to want, but not now, not anymore.
More than five years ago, she and Darien were in the midst of one of their long New York weekends. It was the Thanksgiving holiday and the only one they’d ever shared. Peyton was with Olivier in Cleveland, and Darien's wife was on a project out of the country, having missed her last opportunity for a flight home. As a result, Darien and Elle had played the ultimate tourists, attending the famous Macy's parade, indulging in a fattening southern-style feast at Sylvia's in Harlem and spending Black Friday shopping ‘til they just about dropped. Strolling down Fifth Avenue, they’d ducked into Tiffany to search for Christmas gifts and Elle happened upon the most extraordinary ring. It was like nothing she’d ever seen, before or since. The spectacular diamond was near three carats and cut in a wide crescent moon, with an uneven string of cognac-colored gems nestled along the inside curve. It was one-of-a-kind, made for a French Duchess in 1867 and outrageously priced at seventy-two grand. The salesman called it ‘Moonburst.’
Outside the famous New York jeweler, she and Darien teased that the stunning antique would be the ideal engagement ring, if ever they decided to marry. Then they’d erupted in laughter, each aware that neither was the least bit interested in marrying the other. Still, Elle made it clear that the ring, as a token of his love, was good enough for her and Darien had hinted at the possibility. She remembered the moment and the day, as one of their happiest.
Of course, if ‘Moonburst’ was in the box, it meant less than nothing now. Still she had to know, if only to see the magnificent ring one more time.
Anxiety building in her chest, she took the box from him and shook it.
He laughed a little. “Open it,” he said again.
No! She thought, No! — while tugging the ends of the crisp white ribbon and holding her breath. Then removing a light blue suede pouch, she cautiously held it by the woven draw-string as her brain shrieked, Don’t! Don’t do it! But her fingers persisted and slowly they loosened the silken cord, opening the pouch. She reached in, searching for the distinctive stone, feeling for the platinum circle, instead finding a delicate chain, which she pulled from the suede bag. Made of white precious metal, it was long and graceful and seemed to go on forever until it ended with a brilliant Tiffany key, studded with diamonds and sapphires, dangling from its center.
When Elle saw the bejeweled key, her heart sank. Not because she wanted the ring. There wasn’t a snowball's chance in hell of her accepting it now. But the key on the other hand, was something she’d never wanted to see again.
Darien leaned across the table. “Remember?” he asked. “I know how much you wanted it.”
“Really.” Her eyes were wide with sadness. “Then why didn’t you buy it months ago… when I asked for it?”
“That's just timing, babe,” he said, confusion crossing his face, “What does it matter? You’ve got it now.”
Elle laid the key on the table and folded her hands. She closed her eyes, recalling how hurt she was by his negligence at Christmas. He’d been clueless then as well, and the painful memory of being disregarded fractured her heart all over again. She picked up the gleaming key and examined it closely, “Just timing,” she said.
Darien nodded. “It's beautiful right? You still love it.”
“Loved it,” she said, staring at the key, “loved it a lot.” Then looking up, she gazed straight at him, “Until you promised I’d have it for Christmas…but I didn’t. Until you left for Aspen with Oletha a week earlier than you’d said,” she paused, looking away for a moment, biting her bottom lip, “until you asked me to run out and pick it up for myself…because you didn’t have the time. Remember?”
“Baby…” he looked tenderly at her now, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Darien's eyes lowered, but not quite fast enough to conceal the sorrow behind them. Then reaching across the table, he laid his hand on hers. “I didn’t know. I thought this would make you happy.”
Having always loved his hands, Elle slid hers from beneath his and took a few sips of her martini. “It's not all your fault,” she said, an awful realization forcing its way into her consciousness. “I’m responsible too. I had to know better.” She dropped her head. “How could I not have known?” Then raising her eyes to his, she owned it, out loud, “I mean…she's your wife. And I was…not.” Elle flinched as the unvarnished truth seared like a laser, clean to the bone.
Darien reached for her hand again. “No, you’re my lady…my number one… I love you more than anything.”
Elle began shaking her head. “I know you believe that…but it's just not real. I’m not the thing you love most.”
“You are!” he said, working to convince her and perhaps himself. “There's nothing…nothing more important than you.”
“Stop,” she raised her hand, “just stop.”
“But baby, there's nothing I love more than you…more than us.”
Elle sat across from him, wondering how the fuck he could believe the bullshit coming out of his mouth. She’d have to spell it out, enlist his understanding. But the words wouldn’t come easy and they would hurt like hell. So swallowing hard, she cleared her throat, making a path for the dreaded truth to escape.
“What’d you do this morning?” she asked, “before shoe shopping?”
His forehead creased. “What are you asking?”
“This morning,” she said. “What’d you do?”
His trademark condescending look almost claimed his face, but he must’ve caught it, allowing only a shrug. “I did what I usually do… ran a few miles along the lake…then went to pick up Brittany.”
Elle's eyes softened. “Took your grandbaby to McDonald's for pancakes…then walked her to school?” she asked.
“Yes,” he nodded then sipped his cognac.
Elle grabbed a piece of bread and spread it with a huge hunk of pate, hoping to stall the sick, queasy feeling mounting in her stomach. After taking a bite, she said, “Tell me about dinner on Sunday.”
“Dinner?” he leaned his head to one side.
“Yes…please.”
The corners of Darien's mouth tensed but he indulged her, “We ate at the house…nothing special.”
“Just the two of you?” Elle asked, her stomach really starting to ache. She took another bite of bread, without pate this time.
“No,” he said, folding his hands on the table and rubbing the tip of his index finger with his thumb. “The boys joined us with their families, like al’…” his voice trailed off.
“Like always,” Elle nodded, “most Sundays, since Oletha's been back.”
Irritation was building behind Darien's eyes and in his tone. “Where's this going, Elle?”
“Just one more question…please?” Elle knew she had to cut to the chase and get it all out, before everything went sideways. “Last Friday,” she began, “wasn’t there a gala in the modern wing at the Art Institute…a film premier about Black folk in Chicago,” she paused, “Chaka Khan sang, I heard…did you go?”
Darien's face stiffened. He leaned back again, resting his hands on one thigh. “I did,” he said, “and before you ask…Janey was in from Notre Dame for the weekend, and the three of us went; Oletha, Janey and I.”
Now Elle's stomach was on fire, churning and gaseous. “The three of you,” she said out loud to reinforce his lack of loyalty, pissed because he knew Chaka Khan was one of her all-time favorites. Whenever Chaka came back to the Chi to perform, Elle did whatever she could to be there, front and center. And this muthafucka hadn’t even mentioned it. Leaning in, she said, “Here's my point, Darien. Those are the things you love the most, and I’m not one of them. And to be clear, tonight is not about me ending us.” She pointed straight at him. “You did that…months ago. I’m just here to say I’m aware of it…and you’re off the hook, babe. You ain’t never again gotta worry about making it all fit.” She took a breath. “Cause it doesn’t…and it won’t…and I’m done.” Out of words, she threw back what was left of her martini. Fuck a stomach ache!
Darien remained cool as summer watermelon, his legs still crossed and hands lying on one knee. He stared at her, eyes dark and piercing, jaws sucked tight to his skull. Looking down for a second, then back at her, he spoke, “It's a mistake, Elle. I’ve clearly made a mistake…I see that now. But its fixable… the world's not ending.”
Removing the phone from her purse, Elle pushed ‘send’ on the prepared text, summoning Smitty. Then she stood.
Darien reached a hand towards her, “Sit down, Elle…just tell me what you need. We can fix this. Let's not make things any worse. Please…I can fix this,” his deep eyes widening, “…sit down.”
Still standing, Elle peered into his face. Something in the way he said please, encouraged her to look beyond the rigid protective exterior, in search of the heart of the man whom she’d loved for more than a decade. Real or imagined, she found it, and walked to his side. “I loved you,” she said, “so much,” and placed her hand over her heart, “I wish you every happiness.” Leaning down, she kissed his cheek, and held her lips there for a long moment. Then standing tall again, she whispered, “Goodbye.”
At once, she turned and walked fast towards the entrance, passing the bronze Ferrari and heading straight to the elevators. She pushed the ‘down’ button, “C’mon,” she whispered, looking to see which granite box was rising the fastest. Not really expecting Darien to follow, she didn’t turn around, just waited, tapping her foot, “C’mon,” she said again.
A chime sounded and the elevator closest to her opened. Elle stepped inside and pressed the lit circle carved with the letter ‘G.’ As the doors closed behind her, she grabbed her stomach with one hand, while covering her mouth with the other. She wanted to vomit, tasting that unmistakable bitterness rising in her throat. Oh my God! Elle started to cry, breathing through the tears and trying to keep from throwing up in the fancy granite elevator. When the doors opened, she saw the Benz parked out front with Smitty leaning against it. Looking up, he recognized her right away and ran in, “Ms. Rollins,” he asked, standing close, “are you OK?” Elle shook her head, both hands covering her mouth now, and sobbing into them, while her stomach roiled and heaved. A nearby security guard noticed and came to her rescue, “Follow me,” he said, “I’ll show you to the ladies room.” He pointed down the long hallway. With no time for an escort, Elle took off running, hoping, praying, she would make it.