Love Me or Leave Me

“I know it’s powerful,” Drake said. He wished he’d gone directly to his room. Alexis was right, but knowing that caused a cloud of weariness to settle over him. “I think I’ll be getting to bed,” he said. “Thanks for the company.” He plodded up the wide, winding stairs, his mind on Pamela and how he’d felt earlier that evening at the door of her apartment. And he thought back to the times she had caressed him so sweetly and so lovingly—asking nothing and demanding nothing—and he’d felt as if he could move mountains.

He reached the landing and banged his fist on the railing. “What the hell’s wrong with me? I know damned well I don’t want any other man to have that woman.” But did he love her? “Hell, I’m not going there,” he said to himself. “If I do love her, I’ll probably act like it.”

After a shower, he dried his body and slid between the leopard-print sheets that he preferred. “The day will come, I hope, when I look back at this time and laugh at myself.” He turned out the light and went to sleep.

At that moment, Pamela worried less about Drake’s decision than he did. She had made up her mind to relegate him to her past and look for a man with whom she could build a life. She loved him, and she believed in his integrity, but he’d already killed enough time. Long after telling him good-night and, in effect, goodbye, she sat on the edge of her bed trying to deal with her inner conflict and her sense that their song hadn’t played out.

But I can’t go on like this. I need someone I can count on, a man who will give me the family I long for.

“Oh, Lord,” she moaned. “Why did I have to fall in love with him?”

Refusing to succumb to the moroseness that threatened her, she went into the living room and put on Jump for Joy, a compact disc that she bought in Paris two years earlier. Where but in Paris would one find the music of Josephine Baker, who died decades earlier? Pamela never failed to dance to that music, and she danced then. Danced until she fell across her living-room sofa exhausted. Danced until the tears cascaded down her cheeks like water from a broken dam. She lay there for a few minutes, getting used to the pain, then got up from the sofa, splashed cold water on her face and laughed.

“Drake Harrington, you’re the only man who can lay claim to making me cry, and, honey, you’re the last one.”

Awaking the next morning to the ringing of the telephone, she slammed the pillow over her head, dragged the blanket up to her neck and got more comfortable. The ringing persisted, and she reached from beneath the covers to knock the phone from its cradle, but missed and bruised her hand against the lamp.

“All right,” she grumbled and sat up. “Hello.”

“You still in bed? Sorry to wake you up. I know it’s Saturday, but I thought you’d be up and around. I called to remind you that Tuesday is your mother’s birthday,” her father said, “so don’t forget. You know how she loves her birthdays. We don’t expect you to come down here during the week. Just call.”

“I’d be there if I could get off, Daddy. How are you and Mama?”

“We’re good.” His deep and musical voice had always given her a feeling of security, as did the strength he projected with every word he spoke, even when he was being amusing. “We watched you on the national news the other night. First time we saw you on camera. I can’t tell you how proud we were. I opened a bottle of champagne, and we congratulated ourselves on what we’d created.” Laughter rumbled out of him, the self-deprecating and mischievous laughter that she loved so much.

“Bob Kramer had an emergency, and the producer grabbed me the last minute and said, ‘You’re on.’ How did I do?”

“Great. You don’t think I’d open my best champagne to commemorate a flop, do you? We’re proud of you. It was first-class.”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

“And you looked great in that red suit. Where’s that engineer you were talking about? Isn’t it about time he spoke to me?”

“That may never happen, Daddy. There’s something real good between us, but… Well, he isn’t ready.”

“From all you said about him, he’s probably a good man, but if he isn’t ready, move on. A lot of first-class white guys would flip backward over you. I keep telling you that.”

“I know, Daddy. I know. Where’s Mama? Let me speak with her, please.”

“She’s at the hairdresser’s.”

“Well, give her a hug for me. I’ll be sure to call her Tuesday.”

She hung up and got out of bed. Her father wanted her to marry a man who, like himself, was white, but the last thing she wanted was a marriage complicated by the social problems that her parents faced. Besides, she was attracted to black men. Her father could hardly be called prejudiced considering that he’d married an African-American woman and embraced her entire family. Pamela tossed her head as if in defiance and headed to the kitchen to make coffee. He married the person he wanted—and against his family’s wishes, I might add—and, if I get the chance, I’ll do the same. As soon as she got to her office, she phoned a florist and ordered flowers for her mother, specifying that they arrive Tuesday morning.

Shortly before noon on Saturday, Russ arrived at Harrington House—the place where his room always awaited him—with Velma Brighton, his bride-to-be and Alexis’s older sister. Weeks had passed since Drake and his two older brothers had been together, and it seemed to him almost like Christmas as they greeted each other with the customary embrace. He loved his brothers and welcomed the women of their choice as he would have blood sisters.

“Only three more months,” Drake said to Velma. “How do you keep Russ’s feet on the ground?”

Velma winked, displaying the wickedness that he associated with her dry humor. “With patience.”

“Not so,” Russ said. “I’m a changed man. I wait till the light turns completely green before I enter the inter section.”

“I never knew you to do otherwise,” Telford said.

“Was he always like this?” Velma asked, standing against Russ with his arms snug around her.

“Always,” Henry put in. “Ain’t a one of these boys changed one bit since they were little. Instead of being an impatient kid, Russ is an impatient man.” He rubbed his chin as if savoring a pleasant thought. “But I’ll say it right in front of him. He’s as solid as they come.”

Although Henry had worked as the family’s cook since Drake was five years old, Drake and his brothers regarded him as a member of the family who did most of the cooking. Long before their father’s death, it was Henry to whom they looked for guidance and nurturing, for Josh Harrington worked long hours to build a life for his children and to ensure their status in Midwestern Maryland. They couldn’t count on their mother—a woman who didn’t want to be tied down and who left home for lengthy periods of time whenever it suited her—to be there when they needed her. So they turned to Henry, who treated them as if they were his own children.

Henry’s pride in the three men was obvious to anyone who knew the family. Indeed, acknowledging his role as a father figure to the Harrington men, Alexis had asked Henry to escort her down the aisle at her wedding to Telford, for which she earned his gratitude and deepening love.

“You got all your wedding plans straight?” Henry asked Velma. “Let me know if you need me for anything.”

“I wish I had me to do the catering,” she said, and not in jest, for she had achieved wide fame as a caterer of grand affairs. “And I just found out that one of my bridesmaids is almost four months pregnant and showing. Since I have a matron of honor, I don’t know what to do with her. In three months, she’ll be over six months and even bigger than she is now. Other than that, everything’s fine.”

“Aren’t you going to replace her?” Alexis asked. “She’s got a lot of chutzpah to spring a late pregnancy on a bride.”

“Not to worry,” Velma said, “I’ll think of something. For the last three days, I’ve been lecturing to myself that she doesn’t deserve any more consideration than she’s giving me, but…she’s a friend.”

Drake listened for Russ to tell Velma that what that bridesmaid was proposing to do was unacceptable, but Russ said nothing, and he wondered at the change in his brother. Time was when Russ would have pronounced that the woman be excluded, and in a tone so final that his bride-to-be wouldn’t dare object.

Later, as the three men sat together in the den discussing the advisability of entering into a contract with the Ghana interior minister to build a shopping mall, Drake observed the calm and assurance with which Russ accepted Telford’s rejection of one of his ideas, where months earlier, he would have complained that his two brothers always got their wishes because they voted together. On this occasion, Russ merely said, “What’s your reason?” then listened and nodded his approval.

She’s all the balm Russ’s ego needs, Drake thought. She’s good for him. Again, the memory returned of those moments with Pamela’s arms around him, teasing him, and how like a king he felt when she unashamedly adored him.

Henry looked into the den. “Drake, did you see the mail I put on yer desk?”

“I haven’t looked at that desk since I’ve been back here. Thanks.”

“I’d like to know who scrambled yer brain,” Henry said. “If it’s who I think it was, you shoulda been home Friday night before last when she called ya.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said to his brothers, bounded up the stairs and went to his room. He dug through a week of mail and found the one thing he didn’t care to see: the tiny, stingy handwriting of Selicia Dennis. Although tempted to throw it away without opening it, he decided to read it.

Dear Drake,

I’m sorry that we haven’t hit it off. I fear I’ve misrepresented myself to you. Doris Sackefyio was kind enough to give me your address, and I’m apologizing if I made a nuisance of myself. I’m enclosing two tickets to the memorial jazz concert at the Kennedy Center next month. I hope you’ll use the second ticket to take me with you.

Warmly, Selicia

He noted that she included her phone number, but not her email address. He put the tickets in an envelope, debated whether to enclose a note, decided not to and sealed it. To be sure that she got it, he would send the letter by certified mail, return-receipt requested. Feeling the need to be outside and alone, he put on a storm jacket, stopped by the den to tell his brothers he’d see them later and walked out toward the Monocacy River. If he encountered a living being, at least it wouldn’t be able to talk.

On Monday, having convinced herself that she should attend a luncheon of industry professionals, Pamela found herself seated beside a likable man who obviously had the respect and—she thought—the envy of his peers. Oscar Rankin—tall, handsome, fortysomething, white—had the veneer of success wrapped securely around him. He set his cap for Pamela and made no effort to hide his interest. She’d heard of Oscar Rankin—who hadn’t?

“Would you like more wine?” he asked her. When she rejected the wine and his other offer to be of service to her, he changed tactics. “I saw you on the national evening broadcast a few nights ago,” he said, “and you brought that show to life. Of course, looking as you did—stunningly beautiful with a no-nonsense attitude—would captivate any sensible man.” In a subtle and innocuous way, he managed to claim her attention throughout the luncheon.

“Let me help you with that.” She looked up and saw him beside her at the cloakroom window, and before she could discourage him, he was holding her coat for her. Mildly irritated, she asked him, “What do you want, Mr. Rankin?”