Greed, page 24
part #3 of Seven Deadly Sins Series
I nodded. “I ended up spending the whole day with her, though that wasn’t my plan. I got there a little after noon and was just supposed to talk to her for about two hours. But then, when I got ready to leave, my car . . . I don’t know what happened.” I shook my head. “Some guys, some friends of hers took care of it. They had to run and get some oil and some other fluids.” I shook my head and waved my hands like I had no idea what had been wrong with my vehicle. “It took a few hours, but then I got on the road.”
“You drove home from Birmingham and your car wasn’t working?” Now his voice was filled with concern.
“Yeah, but it was cool.” I waved my hand. “I made it, I’m safe.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I don’t get it.”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t approve of me going to see a designer, that you would say we can’t afford it. But Stephon, her idea . . .” I pulled the sketch that I had rolled up inside my purse out for him.
His eyes widened as he took in the image. “Wow.”
“I know, right?”
“It doesn’t look like a wedding dress . . .”
“That’s what makes it so special. I mean, I’m not sure about the color, though the silver is so regal, but that dress would be fire in white, and I would be the only person in the world who would have this.”
Slowly, he nodded, then handed the sketch back to me. I thought with the card, with the sketch, with the story, all would be well. From the look on his face, though, all was not.
“So why did you lie?”
“Because you wouldn’t have approved. You would have told me we couldn’t afford it, and I wouldn’t have gone to meet her. But even knowing that I can’t afford this dress”—I held the sketch up—“it was so wonderful for me to sit and talk to Terez. I just thought that I could get to Birmingham for the consultation and be back in time for our dinner. I’m so sorry.”
He nodded. “But you still lied. And that’s the part, Zuri, that I’m struggling with. Because I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to marry a liar.”
I flinched. “I told you why I lied.”
“It doesn’t matter. If I know you’ll lie to me, then I will never be able to trust you. Because if you’ll lie to me, you’ll cheat on me. And that . . .”
“I’m sorry,” I said, wanting to beg for his forgiveness, “and I really mean it.”
He nodded. “This is what you can know about me. No matter how hard the truth is, you’ll always get that from me. And I need that same promise from you.”
“You have it, Stephon.”
As perfect as our relationship was, this wasn’t the first time we’d had a tough talk—never about lying, but we’d had our debates about me wanting to spend money, or me wanting to go out—but no matter what the talk was about or how heated it got, it ended the same way. Stephon always wrapped his arms around me.
And this time . . .
He nodded, then turned back to his canvas, sat on the stool, and turned up the music so that now the violins screeched.
I stayed in place for a moment. Surely, he’d forgotten about me still standing here. But all he did was pick up his brush and focus again, like I hadn’t come home this late with a great explanation.
Swinging my purse back onto my arm, I paused behind him. He didn’t look up.
“I’m going to bed,” I said.
He said nothing.
“I’m sorry.”
At least this time, he nodded.
I said, “I love you.”
And this time, he spoke, but when he said, “I love you, too,” I wished he hadn’t said anything at all. Because I love you, too wasn’t anything close to beyond infinity.
36
It had been two weeks since I’d seen Harrison, and watching him strut toward me as he approached our table at the Winery gave me a good view of him in all of his sophistication. And I realized how much I’d missed him. Well, not him—though I thought Harrison was a cool guy. But I’d missed the dinners, the driver, and the events. I’d missed Harrison’s lifestyle.
The thing was, though, Stephon was more important than all of that. So over these last few weeks, I’d dove into fix-it mode. I’d gone to work (I had some things I had to fix there, too), gone to see my father, and come home. I’d talked to Audra on the phone, especially to apologize for missing our dinner, and then I’d checked in with Ms. Viv more than a few times—to see if she had found a mentee for me yet (she had not), to see if she was okay (she was, according to Psalm 34:8, which she recited to me), and to let her know that I was doing well (and she asked me to repeat Romans 8:28 with her).
But besides that, my focus was on my man. And it had worked. I knew that for sure because Stephon had shown me in the way he made love to me last night.
Finally.
I could breathe.
So when Harrison had called me this morning, I agreed I could have lunch. Just lunch.
“Well,” Harrison said as he sat down at the table. “Finally. Where have you been?”
“I told you, I’ve been busy.”
“Must be some project, huh?”
“It is. My life depends on it,” I said. “But it’s good to see you. I’ve never been here,” I said, looking around at the place, which had wine bottles everywhere, even as table centerpieces.
He said, “As you can imagine, this is one of my favorite spots.”
“For sure. They serve wine, don’t they?”
We laughed, and then, for the next hour, we didn’t stop. We chatted, caught up, and I was thrilled when Harrison told me about a college he was partnering with for their student exchange program.
“Oh my God. Aren’t you excited?”
“Beautiful lady, I’m excited every day when I can look up, ’cause that means I can get up.”
Yeah, but wasn’t it easier to look up when you had at least a million in the bank? He was one blessed man.
We chatted until the waitress brought the check, and then she said, “Would you like your package now?”
He nodded, and I wondered what that was about.
Until she returned less than a minute later. With a thin box that she handed to Harrison, and when she turned to leave us alone, he held it out to me.
“This is for you,” he said, “just to say I’m sorry.”
I kept my hands in my lap when I said, “For what?”
“For what happened when we went to Birmingham. I know you had plans, I know I messed them up, and I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Because he still held the box in the air, I finally took it from him and with a breath opened it and sighed. “Hermès.”
He nodded. “Their scarves are so beautiful.”
And expensive, I thought as I held the red, white, and gold silk scarf in my hand.
“Now, before you say anything about this costing too much”—he paused as I glanced at him—“Hermès is one of my clients.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “They’re in my discount book. So I get great deals on these things. Practically free.”
This may have been practically free to him, but I knew how much these scarves cost. I inhaled, trying to remember what he’d told me about friendship and gifts and these being just little things.
“So,” Harrison said, “I hope you’ll accept this and not do that back-and-forth thing.”
I wanted to object—truly, I did. But . . . I knew in the end . . . this scarf was going home with me.
“Thank you so much” was all I said before I folded the silk back into the box.
He smiled as if my quick agreement made him happy. “Now, I have something else to tell you.” He signed the check, handed the billfold to the waitress, then turned to me. “I’m going to the Bahamas this weekend.”
“Wow.”
“It’s what I call a turnaround trip. Just for about forty-eight hours, but I have to put together an event for someone, so I’m doing some scouting and preplanning.”
“The Bahamas.” I sighed. “I always imagined going there because it seems so close,” I said. “It’s right there. Not like Europe or even other parts of the Caribbean.” I stopped, thinking this wasn’t about me. “Well, have a good time.”
“Come with me.”
“What?” The volume of my voice was much louder than I meant it to be, but Harrison was lucky that I hadn’t screamed.
“Come with me.” He leaned back and held up his hands. “We’ll have separate suites, so you’ll know this is all legit. But I don’t want to go alone, so come with me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
That exchange amused him, because the ends of his lips did that twitching thing again. “You know ‘because’ stops working as an excuse after you’re seven years old, right?”
I laughed. “Because . . . I have to work.”
“Is that it? I thought you were going to say because you don’t have a passport.”
“Oh, no.” I chuckled. “I’ve had my passport for over ten years. This is my second one.”
“I thought you said you never traveled anywhere.”
“But I also told you that all I’ve ever wanted to do was travel. What would I look like saying that and not being prepared to do that?”
“See?” He held up his hands as if I’d made his point. “You were prepared for a time such as this. Now you have to come with me.”
“I told you, I have to work.”
“You’ll only miss Friday; we’ll be back Sunday afternoon.”
I sighed. If only I could.
He said, “Well, I know you have to get back to work, but I can give you a couple of days to think about it,” as if I’d given him a maybe. “Till Wednesday. I’d have to get your ticket by then. First class, of course.”
I had never been on an airplane, and this man was talking about first class? I’d seen enough pictures, enough movies to know what that meant.
As we walked outside of the restaurant, Harrison continued to share the details of the trip, the things we’d do—a tour of the island, a sunset cruise.
“And the shopping sprees,” he said as he walked me to where my car waited with the valet. “I won’t buy you a thing, but I promise you because of the people I know, you’ll be able to buy whatever you want. You’ve never shopped until you’ve been to the Bahamas. Especially their gold.” He winked as he closed my car door and sent me on my way.
Harrison’s words consumed me. All the way back to the office, the entire rest of the day at work, and then on the entire ride home.
The Bahamas.
My first time on a plane.
First class.
And if I knew anything about Harrison, the accommodations would be first class, too.
I’d lived a wonderful life these past months—the events, the clothes, the jewelry. What I’d experienced to this point should have been enough.
But to get on a plane. To be in a hotel suite. That would be the ultimate.
I sighed as I pulled into my parking space in front of my apartment and sat there for a moment. Was there any kind of way to make this work? Shaking my head, I knew there wasn’t. There was no way I could get on a plane with another man and keep the one that I loved.
I was a bit surprised when I walked into the apartment and there was no music playing. “Babe?” I called out.
Stephon came from the bedroom, dressed in slacks and a white shirt. “I was hoping you’d get home in time.”
“What’s going on?” I asked right after he kissed me.
“I’m heading over to the art gallery with the first five paintings. They want to start figuring out the display.”
“Babe!” I hugged him. “This is really happening. I mean, I know it’s in what? Ten days?”
“Nine.”
I clapped my hands. “I’m so excited.”
“I am, too.” He didn’t have to tell me that. I heard the glee in his voice. “So you’re gonna go over there with me?”
“Are you kidding? Do you want me to drive you?”
He laughed, kissed me, and then we jumped into his truck after he once again made sure the paintings were secure in the back.
On the drive from College Park to Midtown, Stephon chatted about things he’d told me before but I was always so happy to hear again. All of his dreams for the shows he’d have, all of the paintings that were still seeds waiting to be born of his brush.
“And then one day, babe”—he reached for my hand—“I’ll have my own studio, and next door, you’ll have your interior design firm. Two creative minds, doing the dang thang.”
I laughed with him, I dreamed with him, I loved him.
In less than twenty minutes, we pulled into the back of Le Blanc Noir Gallery, just down the street from the Four Seasons Hotel. I loved this part of Atlanta, right in between downtown and Buckhead, and I imagined that one day—after we got the art gallery and interior design firm, of course—we’d live in an expansive penthouse apartment that would be showcase-worthy, and we’d entertain friends and clients and live our best lives.
I’d never asked Harrison where he lived, but I imagined it was a place such as the one that just passed through my mind.
Harrison.
The Bahamas.
Shaking my head, I pushed those thoughts aside as I took Stephon’s hand and we stepped into the art gallery. Even walking through the back door, the space was impressive—the bright white walls that would be the backdrop for the paintings almost glowed, as did the white marble floor, which gleamed.
“Stephon,” a thin man who reminded me of the president of France greeted him. “It is so good to see you.” He spoke with a French accent, too, and I wondered if that was where the name of the gallery had come from.
Until another man followed the white one, this one black, with the same slight build, same close-cropped haircut, same light gray suit with a narrow tie.
Now I understood the name, the gallery, and this partnership.
Stephon introduced me to both—Gabin (the French president) and Enzo. When they turned to me, even their smiles matched, and both greeted me with a double air kiss.
“This is going to be a marvelous show,” Gabin said. “Let’s get the paintings.” He rubbed his hands together as if he were about to touch gold.
As the men went to Stephon’s truck, I moseyed through the space, which was filled with about a dozen red, white, and blue pedestals of varying heights. I loved the look, but I imagined the gallery that Stephon and I would have and the things I would do to bring our personalities to our space.
When they returned, I joined the circle as they slowly stripped the coverings from the paintings, and I beamed as the two lauded Stephon’s work, giving higher praise to each next painting as it was uncovered.
“So, we have five here,” Enzo said, taking inventory. “You’ll bring the other seven . . . when?”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Stephon began. “I have ten in total, and . . .”
“No, no, no,” Gabin and Enzo exclaimed together, sounding like they were singing a song. “We must have a dozen.”
“I know that’s what I said,” Stephon began as he stuffed his hands into his slacks, “but this is what it looks like.”
“You don’t have other paintings?” Enzo asked.
Stephon shook his head. “Nothing for a show.”
Gabin said, “Well, you have a week,” sounding as if that were a year.
Stephon laughed. “I’m not sure it’s in me to paint two in a week.”
“Well, just give us another one,” Enzo said as if this were a negotiation. “At least one more. This has been all planned out: the space, the artists. We must have at least one more from you. And think of the money. Not one of your paintings will sell for less than a thousand.”
Gabin nodded. “That will be the lowest. Most will be closer to five thousand. The opening will be filled with investors who love to discover artists. They will pay much to get their hands on these.” He shook his head. “That is why we must have at least eleven.”
I stood beside my man and tried my best to keep my expression the same. In my head, though, the numbers were flying as I did the calculation. Stephon and I had never talked about how much he’d make with this showing; I’d just been so excited about this exposure. But even with a percentage going to the gallery, this would be quite a bit of money for us.
Stephon sighed but nodded. “I guess I really don’t need to sleep for seven days. But my fiancée”—all three of them looked at me—“isn’t going to be happy about this.” Stephon smiled when he said that, but I saw his concern.
“You understand, don’t you?” Enzo said.
“Of course,” I said. “The most important thing is Stephon having this show and doing it well.”
“Well, there you have it,” Gabin said, and then he, Enzo, and I clapped as if that would be motivation for Stephon.
I clapped because I wanted to support my man. But I also clapped because I had just figured out how I would be able to support my man and get my first trip on a plane, too.
EVEN THOUGH WE were on the interstate, Stephon drove slowly, as if we were just taking an afternoon ride. As Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 14 played, I bobbed my head, feeling the romance of this song. The speed of the car, the song that serenaded us . . . I knew this was a moment Stephon wanted to savor. His first major art show. As he relished this, so did I.
Stephon was the first to speak. “It’s going to be an intense seven days.”
“It’s going to be fine. I don’t know if you can rush creativity, but I know you, and I know your talent and gift.” I squeezed his hand. “I am so proud of you. And I love you.”
He gave me a quick glance and a grin. “Beyond infinity.”
I wanted to cry now, every time I heard him say those two words. Because, not having heard them that one time from Stephon, I now knew how precious the words were to me.
He said, “Okay, I’m going to give it my best shot. I have an idea for one painting, and if I finish this in time, I’ll come up with something else.”
