Love Me or Leave Me

With a diffidence that she didn’t believe was real, he shrugged slightly and let a smile flash across his face. “You shouldn’t ask a man that question unless you want the answer. I want to get to know you, because you’ve got me damned near besotted, and I’ve only known you an hour and a half.”

She stared at him for a full minute in disbelief, but his facial expression didn’t waver. For reasons she didn’t fathom and didn’t try, laughter floated out of her. “Are you serious?”

“As serious as I’ve ever been in my life. Have dinner with me this evening.”

She released a long breath. He didn’t look one bit like the father of her children, because they would have dark brown, sleepy and long-lashed eyes. Harrington eyes. “Not this evening. I’m busy.”

“Tomorrow evening. Before you give me the brush-off, get to know me. If I come up short, I’ll take my medicine and graciously step aside.”

Talk about self-confidence! “Where do you want us to meet?”

“At your front door. Where do you live?”

His directness reminded her of boardroom tactics. He’d have to learn that she wouldn’t roll over for him. “We’ll do it my way this time. Where may I meet you?”

He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Are you married?”

“No, I am not. Are you?”

“Definitely not.” With that remark, she heard the implication that he wasn’t planning to marry anytime soon.

“Well?” she asked, letting him know that she’d stated her position and that the next move was his.

“I acquiesce to your wishes.” However, both his faint smile and his demeanor told her that acquiescing was not a thing with which he’d had much familiarity. “Meet me at Le Cheval Blanc. Seven o’clock. I do hope you will extend me the courtesy of seeing you safely home.”

She let a quick grin suffice for an answer. “See you tomorrow evening at seven.”

He was punctual, as she knew he would be, and he rose and went to greet her as she followed the maître d’ to his table. He thanked the maître d’ and tipped him, then leaned down and brushed her cheek with his lips. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

“I try to keep my word. I’ve always liked this restaurant. It’s one of the most elegant in town. Thanks for choosing it.” She wondered why he seemed crestfallen and asked him, “Did I say something wrong?”

“No. I suppose I’m disappointed that you know the place well. I had hoped to give you a unique experience, but I imagine a woman like you has been treated to everything special that Baltimore has to offer.”

She chose not to answer. She hadn’t seen it all, but that wasn’t his business. She soon decided that he was most comfortable talking about himself, his ideas and his accomplishments, and she let him do that. She didn’t find him offensive, but he didn’t appeal to her, so she decided to settle for a pleasant evening with him, and whenever he made a joke, she laughed.

The evening passed pleasantly enough, and when they stood in front of her apartment door, her one thought was of gratitude that Mike, her favorite doorman, was not on duty. “You’re pleasant to be with, and I would like to spend a lot of time with you. Did I make any headway with you?” Oscar asked her. “I have a sense that, while I didn’t strike out, I haven’t gotten to first base. I won’t ask if there’s someone else. Just tell me if he’s special to you.”

How was she to answer that? “There is someone, and he is very special.”

He grasped her hand, looked at her ring finger and shook his head as if perplexed. “I hope he knows what a lucky man he is. If I were special to you, I’d do something about it.”

“Thank you, and thank you for a very lovely evening.”

He gazed down at her until she had to struggle not to fidget. “Forgive me. That was rude, but you’re so beautiful. Goodbye.”

She went inside and closed her apartment door. Had she gone out with Oscar Rankin because of her father’s nagging? If so, her libido, or whatever caused her to be attracted to men, proved more reliable than filial regard for her father’s wishes. But why couldn’t she like him? It wasn’t as if he were like Lawrence Parker. She checked her phone messages, didn’t have one from Drake, flipped off the machine and got ready for bed.

“There’re other men, and I am going to be attracted to at least one of them,” she said aloud. “Drake Harrington is not the only man I can like.” Then, in her mind’s eye, she could see him leaning against the doorjamb of her front door, his height of six feet, four inches nearly reaching the top of the door frame. She pictured him relaxed and lithe, his long-lashed dark brown eyes glittering with some pleasant thought and a smile on his incredibly handsome face. And every time he laughed, really laughed, the look of him reduced her to putty. Mesmerized.

Maybe it wasn’t intended that such a man should give himself to one woman. “He’s trouble,” Rhoda had said to her the last time they lunched together. “Every woman who sees him will be after him.” However, Drake seemed to have no grandiose notions about himself. And although Rhoda swore that Drake was a stud, that he’d go after any woman who showed an interest in him, she knew better.

“I’m going to join the Urban League, the NAACP, and I’m going on the next Million Man March,” she said aloud, and then laughed at herself, for she knew she wouldn’t do any of that. She crawled into bed and fought for sleep.

Several mornings after that, Drake entered the construction site of the Josh Harrington–Fentress Sparkman Memorial Houses in Frederick, Maryland, that honored his late father and uncle. As the project’s engineer, he planned to check the pipes that had been installed up to the first floor, and arrived early so as to complete the inspection before noon that day. A series of strange noises got his attention, and he followed the sounds to an area where boards were measured and cut.

“What the devil are you doing in here?” he asked a small boy who held pieces of wood that should have been too heavy for him to carry.

The child stood before him clutching the boards, his body shaking. “I…uh. You’re not going to put me in jail, are you?”

“This is a hard-hat area. Something could fall on you and kill you. What’s your name?”

“Pete. Pete Jergens. Are you going to call the police?”

“No. How old are you?” He noticed that the boy still held the pieces of wood close to his body. “Well?”

“I’m nine, sir.”

Hmm. Good manners. Drake took the boy by the arm and walked with him out to the van that bore the legend Harrington, Inc.: Builders, Architects and Engineers. “Get in here. You and I are going to talk.”

“But can I go home first, sir? My mom will be worried about me, and I have to be at school by eight-thirty.”

“What are you going to do with that wood?”

The boy held his head down as if ashamed. “Cook breakfast, sir.”

He stared at the child. “With wood? You have a kitchen stove that burns wood?”

“No, sir. We have a gas stove, but the gas was turned off, so we have to cook in the fireplace.”

His whistle split the air. “Where’s your father?”

“My dad’s in jail. A man called him the n-word, and he beat him up so bad the man had to go to the hospital.”

“How many sisters and brothers do you have?”

“Four. I’m the oldest. Can I go now, sir? Please. I’ll be late for school.”

“I’ll drive you home. Where do you live?”

Drake drove the three and a half blocks thanking God that he didn’t grow up in an environment where broken glass littered the streets, cars had to skirt automobile tires, boarded-up houses lined every block and the stench of refuse offended one’s nose. He parked the truck, locked it and walked with Pete to the house.

“What are you going to do?” the boy asked him.

“I’m going to get that gas stove turned on.” He imagined that the children were nearly frozen. “Call your mother to the door.”

“Mom. Mom, can you come here? My new friend wants to see you.” He realized the boy referred to him as a friend so as not to alarm his mother.

Stella Jergens, a tiny woman little more than five feet and one inch tall, appeared at the door and gazed up at him. “Please don’t punish him for stealing the boards. If we didn’t have them, we would freeze, and I couldn’t cook.”