“Invitation, please,” the man requested, stopping Felicia as she turned into the Potomac, Maryland, driveway.
“I don’t need an invitation. I live here,” Felicia informed him, stepping on the gas. Technically, she had lied. She hadn’t actually lived in the residence since graduating from Georgetown University six years ago, but Bedside Manor, as the house had been dubbed when her father was named Holy Cross Hospital’s chief of neurosurgery, would always be home.
Instead of following the circular driveway that led to the brightly lit front doors and into the waiting arms of the valet team hired for the evening, Felicia sped her rental car past the tennis court and parked behind the house. She walked through the tall black iron gates that separated the parking area from the pool.
“Hey, Coltrane, Miles,” she called out to the two barking Doberman pinschers confined in the dog run. Though the guests had already begun to arrive and she should be upstairs getting dressed, Felicia paused by the gurgling goldfish pond and enjoyed the familiar surroundings. The pool was lit just under the cascading waterfall. Steel drums were set up to the left of the hot tub, signaling the entertainment yet to come. The doors to the cabana were thrown open, and the rich, smoky voice of Sarah Vaughan overflowed softly onto the patio. Plush towels, monogrammed BEDSIDE MANOR, were stacked neatly by the bar waiting for any guest wanting to dip into the hot tub’s warm, inviting waters.
Felicia took a deep breath and let the sweet night air invade her lungs. It felt good to get away from New York’s hustle and bustle, the trash-ridden streets, from her husband, Trace, and their marital problems. But as good as it felt, Felicia knew it was only a matter of time before she would miss the excitement and exhilaration of the city’s frenetic pace. And eventually she’d have to come to a decision about her marriage. But not tonight. Tonight belongs to Papa, she reminded herself as she headed into the house.
Walking through the mudroom, Felicia could smell the delectable aromas of Caribbean cuisine wafting from the large kitchen. There was a flurry of activity going on as the catering staff, dressed in colorful island garb, concentrated on preparing her father’s favorite dishes. As the doorbell chimed and the welcoming cries of her parents’ guests rang out, Felicia hurried up the back stairs to the second floor and straight to her old bedroom.
“Licia, is that you? I was getting a little worried,” her mother said, coming out of her room to give her eldest daughter a warm embrace. Jolie Wilcot looked positively regal in a fuchsia Isaac Mizrahi evening gown. Her youthful appearance belied her fifty-five years; tennis, swimming, and a busy social calendar kept her mind and body fit.
For as long as Felicia could remember, friends and relatives had commented on how much she resembled her mother—a charge Felicia couldn’t deny. From the five feet, six inches of lean build to the large, doelike eyes and intense passion for sourdough bread, Felicia was proud to acknowledge that she and her mother shared the same designer genes.
“Sorry, Mama. My flight was late.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re here now. Where’s my handsome son-in-law?”
“Trace sends his apologies. He’s tied up with an important client this evening.”
“You two are always so busy. It’s no wonder I don’t have any grandbabies.”
“I still have a few good years left, Mom. So, who’s on tonight’s guest list?” Felicia asked, wanting to change the subject.
“Colin and Alma Powell, though the general will probably be late. Vernon Jordan and Ann are coming and bringing Congress-woman Maxine Waters. I’ve been dying to meet her. Jesse and Jackie Jackson said they’d try to stop by. Kweisi Mfume RSVP’ed. Then there’s the Neilsons, the Strains, and Susan Mitchell. She’s bringing her latest find—some hot new film director, Richard something. Susan says he’s the next Spike Lee, so he might ultimately be a good contact for you. Other than that it’s just the usuals.”
The “usuals” were an eclectic mix of family and old friends, many of whom constituted the wealthy and influential members of the country’s black elite. “Is Lindsay here yet?”
“Your sister is downstairs rummaging through your father’s music collection and hiding all the Frank Sinatra CDs. And downstairs is exactly where I need to be.” Mother and daughter shared a smile before Jolie floated out of the room, leaving a whisper of her signature scent, Chanel No. 19, lingering behind.
Felicia crossed the hall into the bathroom she and her sister had shared since they were children. She showered quickly, not giving in to the temptation to linger under the hot, relaxing spray. Pushing aside her sister’s makeup, she took a minute to enhance her flawless skin. With practiced expertise, she applied blush to her high cheekbones, shadowed and lined her light-brown eyes, and set her full lips aglow with fire-red lipstick. In one deft move she swept her copper-colored hair into an elegant French twist. Pleased with the face smiling back at her, she hurried back to her room and slid into her dress for the evening. Another thing Felicia had inherited was her mother’s love of beautiful clothes. Tonight she was wearing a black fitted slip dress, accented with three strands of pearls that crisscrossed in the back. Diamond and pearl studs adorned her ears, and Felicia wrapped her slender wrist in a cuff of pearls before heading downstairs to surprise her father.
Drifting through the hall toward the main staircase, Felicia stopped to admire her parents’ prized art collection. The wall was lined with a brilliant display of the artistic efforts of the Wilcot children. Framed as elegantly as any Romare Bearden were handprints, finger paintings, family portraits, and other “impressionist” art whose emotional value far exceeded that of any priceless museum piece.
Descending the staircase, Felicia immediately spotted her father among the party guests. He was standing near the ficus tree chatting with a well-dressed woman, his arm draped amicably around her shoulders. Dr. Albert Wilcot was a handsome man, with broad shoulders and an athletic build. His salt-and-pepper hair, short-cropped beard, and small wire glasses gave him a distinguished, intellectual look.
“Happy birthday, old man,” Felicia laughed, sneaking up on her father with a hug.
“Bright Eyes,” he called out, his delight in her presence obvious. “I thought you were in Atlanta meeting with those producer folks.”
“Papa, nothing could have kept me away tonight.”
“Well, I couldn’t have asked for a better present. Licia, let me introduce you to Councilwoman Mable Lun. Mable, meet my eldest daughter, Felicia. This girl abandoned her father and ran off with some big-time lawyer to start her own Madison Avenue firm.”
“Are you in advertising?”
“Public relations.”
“How exciting. You must be doing quite well, and Al, you must be very proud.”
Both father and daughter acknowledged the remark with a polite smile. Albert Wilcot was indeed proud of his enterprising daughter. Felicia, on the other hand, knew that while people who heard her address had visions of luxurious office space and a thriving business dancing in their heads, the hole in the wall that housed the office of Wilcot & Associates didn’t quite live up to the avenue’s lofty image.
It might be small now, but Wilcot & Associates was definitely growing. In just one year she had gone from renting a mailbox address and working out of the apartment to having actual office space. She was also in the process of hiring her first part-time employee. Right now she was just squeaking by, but Felicia was determined to make it. She was going to prove to Trace that she didn’t need his money to buy her success. She could make it on her own. But once out of his controlling grasp, what kind of state would her marriage be in?
“Where’s Trace? Why didn’t he come with you?” her father asked, following the councilwoman’s departure for the buffet table.
Because I’m being punished for putting my work ahead of his.
“His biggest client flew in unexpectedly, and he couldn’t get away. He sends his best, Papa.”
“That’s too bad. We haven’t seen much of the two of you as—”
“Where did you park your walker, you old fart?” boomed a familiar voice.
“Uncle Joe! I thought you were still in France,” Felicia cried, giving her godfather a heartfelt hug. “Where’s that fabulous wife of yours?” she asked.
“Libby’s over there laughing with Jesse. Honey, you know we wouldn’t miss your daddy’s sixtieth-birthday celebration. We were taught to respect our elders. Lindsay, is that you?” Joe interrupted himself to pull Felicia’s sister to his side. “You two girls get prettier every day.”
“Uncle Joe, you know I was always the pretty one. It was Licia that Mama wouldn’t take out in public.”
Felicia laughed as she studied her younger sister. Although the traditional elegance of Felicia and her mother had escaped Lindsay, in its place was an unabashed uniqueness. Tonight her lithe dancer’s body was sheathed in a purple silk body suit with matching harem pants trimmed in gold thread at the waist and ankles. Flat gold sandals adorned her feet, and her chosen jewelry for the evening was a wide gold cuff and three small hoops in each ear.
“Oh, Lord, there’s Scooty Ross. Joe, come let me introduce you,” said Albert as he spirited his friend off.
“How’s business? Are you still working on that black rodeo thing?” Lindsay asked.
“Yes. Things are slowly coming together. I’m still looking for a major sponsor. I’m also working on a pitch for the Montell Spirits account.”
“As in ‘The Wine of Our Times?’ ” Lindsay asked referring to the company’s popular slogan.
“That’s the one. They’re about to introduce a new wine cooler, and we’re one of three minority firms being considered.”
“And naturally they want to target the black market,” blurted out a combative and distinctively male voice.
“Not exclusively. That’s just one market they’re after,” answered Felicia, turning to face her unknown inquisitor. Her eyes came to rest on an unfamiliar black man. Short dreadlocks covered the crown of his head, and his mouth was framed by a well-groomed goatee. His tall, lean body was dressed in jeans, a faded denim shirt worn open to reveal a white T-shirt, and sneakers. Around his neck he wore an encircled X the size of a quarter. He was conspicuously out of place in this room of elegantly dressed guests, but the fact that he was so inappropriately attired seemed not to concern him in the least.
“And you want this job?” he asked in an accusing tone.
“Well, I’d much rather have the entire pie, but I’ll settle for this one slice,” Felicia said while frantically trying to think of a reason to excuse herself.
“You don’t think it’s odd that the liquor they target toward black people has names like ‘Silver Bullet’ or ‘Mad Dog’ or features wild, crazy bulls tearing up everything? Doesn’t that tell you something about the poison they’re trying to shove down our throats?”
“Those are beers. This is a wine cooler.”
“It’s all the same. Alcohol or gunpowder—it’s just another bullet they got aimed at black people’s heads.”
“Do we know you? You keep jumping in our faces without so much as a how-do-you-do—” Felicia asked.
“Yeah, well, black folks like you have a tendency to pluck my last nerve.”
“Maybe you should leave, to avoid being plucked any further,” Lindsay suggested.
“No. I’d like to hear exactly what you mean by ‘black folks like us,’ ” Felicia said.
“I mean all you Forbes– and Town and Country–reading folks. As long as Mr. Charlie signs a contract and throws thirty pieces of silver your way, you’re happy being his paid assassin,” he said, ready for combat. “Hey, if you want to be a sell-out, cool. Just don’t walk around here trying to pass yourself off as a sister.”
“Who are you?” Lindsay asked. There was something wildly sexy about this rebellious stranger. While she found him vaguely appealing, it was painfully obvious that Felicia thought him to be a first-class asshole.
“Lexis—”
“And what in your expert opinion do I need to do to prove that I’m a sister? Wear dreads and drape myself in kente cloth?” Felicia asked sarcastically. She was having difficulty keeping a lid on her anger.
“Beats that Malibu Barbie thing you got going.”
Felicia, not wanting to cause a scene at her father’s party, counted to ten before quietly answering this obnoxious stranger. “Let me tell you something. It takes more than dreadlocks and Malcom X paraphernalia to make you black,” she said through clenched teeth. “Half the kids walking around wearing X T-shirts and hats don’t know a damn thing about the man or what he stood for. If they did, they wouldn’t be killing each other over leather jackets.”
“Oh, like you Taittinger-drinking, Porsche-driving, Armani-wearing wannabe tokens have a clue. I don’t know why I’m bothering to explain this to a bourgeois Black American Princess. I knew I shouldn’t have come here tonight.”
“That’s the first thing uttered out of your miserable mouth this evening that I agree with. How dare you come to my house and insult me and my family.” Shaking with full-blown fury, Felicia turned to leave but was waylaid by Susan Mitchell.
“Lexis, there you are. I see you’ve met Felicia Wilcot, the daughter of tonight’s guest of honor.”
Wilcot, Lexis thought. Great. He had just insulted beyond repair the daughter of the man he had hoped would help finance his next movie. This was the only reason he’d let Susan talk him into coming to yet another one of these ridiculous affairs. Despite the anticipated success of Southeast, his first, soon-to-be released film, the two-picture, six-million-dollar deal with MarMa Pictures didn’t begin to meet his budgetary needs. Supplementing the studio’s money with individual financing was the only way he could make his next films and stay true to his creative vision.
He’d really blown it big time. Susan had warned him to keep his opinions to himself, but after two consecutive days of kowtowing to these uppity black folks, the challenge Felicia presented could not go unmet. And now, in less than ten minutes, he had met and slaughtered his cash cow.
“As I’m sure he’s mentioned, Lexis Richards is president of In the House Filmworks and one of our up-and-coming directors,” Susan continued. “In fact, his first film comes out next week. Felicia owns a PR business in New York. She could be a real help to you.”
“The only help I could possibly give to Mr. Richards is in the form of a little advice.” Felicia said, wearing a Nutrasweet smile.
“This ought to be good,” Lexis retorted.
“If your social skills are any indication of your directing expertise, your best bet at success would be to find yourself a busy street corner and help keep traffic moving.”
Before Lexis had the chance to respond, their conversation was cut short by the rhythmic beats of the steel drums coming from the pool. Libby Hobson, arms around the waist of the dean of Howard University’s law school, began a conga line that eventually snaked itself around the living room and outside into the cool March night.
“Hey, you three—join the party,” encouraged Felicia’s laughing mother as she headed out the door.
“In a minute.” Felicia smiled back. “Excuse me,” she said and made a beeline to her father’s study. The conversation with Lexis had put a damper on her previously good mood. Wannabe white girl. Black American Princess. His biting accusations clung to her, bringing to the surface feelings Felicia had pushed deep inside.
After all these years she was accustomed to outrageous comments from whites, like “You don’t really act black” or “You don’t look like a normal black person.” What she never got used to, however, was having to defend herself against her own people for “not being black enough.” This form of self-defense was not only frustrating but extremely painful.
Despite what Lexis thought, Felicia was proud to be a black woman. What he didn’t seem to understand was that it went beyond simple pride. It was an issue of being caught in the middle—trapped between the black activism of the early sixties and the recent resurgence of Afrocentric pride. Felicia’s generation grew up in the glow of Martin Luther King’s dream. Her parents had pushed aside the dashikis for business suits, moved from the lunch counter into the executive dining room, and raised their daughters to believe in “being judged not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”
Assimilation was the marching order of the times, and Felicia’s parents took their mission to heart. While the Wilcots surrounded their family with progressive and accomplished people of color, they also worked hard to give their daughters the finest of everything European culture had to offer—the best private schools, classical dance and music lessons, travel abroad. Even Felicia’s marriage to Trace Gordon managed to keep her privileged and color-blind lifestyle intact.
Felicia glanced at the family photograph on her father’s desk. It was taken on her wedding day. The Wilcots were indeed a beautiful family, and by all appearances Trace, with his brooding good looks, fit right in. He was the son of a prominent family in Atlanta, his father a well-connected judge and his mother a social icon known for her energetic efforts on behalf of several local charities. The Gordons had raised an intelligent, ambitious young man who believed he could do anything—regardless of race. With degrees from Emory University and Harvard Law School, he was a firm believer in the “economics of color.” Trace believed that once one reached a certain level of social and economic status, race ceased to be an issue. Black and white no longer mattered—green was the only color that counted.
On the surface Trace and Felicia seemed the storybook, happily-ever-after couple. But were they and the rest of their well-to-do friends, as Lexis had implied, simply a group of selfish, black urban professionals enjoying the good life while so many others lagged behind?
Felicia laid her head on the large walnut desk. Lately she was always tired. It seemed as if she was engaged in a constant struggle these days. A struggle to build her business, to save her marriage, to find herself.
She could hear the collage of happy voices and steel drums, but she had no desire to rejoin the party. She had to get up early to catch the first shuttle back to New York. She was interviewing a new receptionist, and Trace insisted she be back in time to have lunch. Felicia slipped unnoticed from the study and headed upstairs. Right now she just wanted to go to bed. She needed to rest for the struggle that would begin anew tomorrow.