Pieces of Dreams. Donna Hill
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“That’s part of the problem,” he said out of nowhere.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Neither do I.”
He was quiet for a while as he absently fingered the brochures, looking around the office, but not really seeing. I thought that would be all he’d reveal. But then, like a young thief eager to make a confession, he let the words pour out of him.
“I just know that going back may resurrect some things that are best left buried.”
My “situation” tapped me on the shoulder again. “Then…why go?”
“That’s what I’ve asked myself these past weeks. But if I don’t go, too many questions will be left unanswered. I’ll never really know if I made the right decision.”
“Made the right decision—you mean about your job, where you decided to live…?”
Slowly he shook his head. “No. About the woman I chose to marry.”
“Oh,” was all I could summon in response. His confession surprised me in its bold honesty and its reflection of my life, and something inside of me needed to know if there was a solution to my own quandary. Maybe he had it, this stranger.
I looked at him for a moment. His face was gone. In its place was my own, staring back at me, waiting. In the blink of an eye what began as a benign conversation suddenly took a serious twist. What could I say to him, to this man who felt the need to share a part of himself with a total stranger, to one who wouldn’t be judgmental? Perhaps that’s what made it easy.
“I think I understand,” slipped across my lips.
“You do?” He sounded mystified, and absently sat down opposite me.
I nodded, thoughtful. “I’m sort of at a crossroads myself. And have probably asked the same questions as you.” I leaned forward on the desk and clasped my hands, staring at them for a moment. I looked at him, and our gazes connected in that inexplicable split second when you realize that a chance meeting has the potential to change you future.
He fingered his wedding band.
“How long?” I asked, pointing to the ring.
“Three years.”
“Any kids?”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “A little girl.”
“That’s nice. Kids make things worthwhile.”
“Yeah. But sometimes they’re good camouflage for what you don’t want to see or deal with.”
Was Jamel camouflage for me? Was I using my son as a shield, to keep from dealing with the truth? Was I using him to convince myself that as long as he was happy, cared for, and loved, everything was as it seemed—the picture of a perfect nuclear family—that Jamel didn’t represent my tie to the past with Quinn and my road to the future with Taylor? I shook off the notion.
“What about you? Any kids?”
I nodded. “A little boy, Jamel.”
“Hmm.” He looked away, seemingly lost in thought.
“Is this—person—you think you should have married going to be at the reunion?”
“Yes. She’s the one who sent me the invitation. Humph. I didn’t know she’d kept up with me,” he added in a faraway voice.
“Oh.” Did Quinn know that I’d kept up with him over the years through Val? That I knew about the success of the foundation he’d started in his sister Lacy’s memory, or that I listened to his CD in the privacy of my car? That I knew he was working on another book, and he and Nikita had often visited Shug’s Fish Fry in Harlem on Friday nights? Yeah, I knew. It was as though by catching snippets of his life I could vicariously remain a part of it. Although the tidbits of news were often few and far between, they filled some of the spaces. Sometimes.
“Do you think the trip to Chicago is going to change things between you and your wife?” I knew what I was really asking. I was asking him about me, my life, and I needed to hear the answer from someone who stood to lose everything. As I did.
“I’m sure it will. One way or the other. I think that’s what scares me—the fact that my marriage will be tested, my vows held up for inspection.” He stood. “But if I don’t go, I’ll never have the answers.” He looked directly into my eyes. “Will I?”
I felt as if I held the future of this stranger’s life in my hand. With one word I could decide his fate—and more importantly, my own as well.
“No. You won’t. You never will. And until you do, you’ll always ask yourself what if? Nothing will ever be whole.” Then all at once everything crystallized for me. I knew I must take the chance. Go against the odds, and deal with the consequences. It would never be fair to Taylor for me to be unsure, be with him as a second choice. I needed to clear the path behind me, so that I could move forward with Ty—no obstacles, no looking back.
He smiled, almost in thanks, I thought.
“Then I guess I’d better book that ticket. Round trip.”
As I keyed in the last of the reservation information, I suddenly realized that he sounded so sure, so certain that what he had at home would be waiting for him when he returned. I prayed the same would be true for me. I had to believe that it would.
Chapter 2
Now Comes the Hard Part
As I stuck my key in the lock of my town house several hours later and stepped inside, my heart thumped, and that funny dipping feeling took hold of my stomach.
“Mommy!” Jamel squealed, and he came barreling toward me as if he’d been shot from a cannon, right up into my arms, just as he did every evening.
He wrapped his little legs around my waist and his arms around my neck. I smothered his face with kisses until he was giddy with laughter. My heart filled.
“Did you bring me sumfin?”
“Yes.” I kissed his cheek. “A lot of love.”
He giggled. “Where?”
“In my purse, of course.”
I dropped my purse on the hall table and carried him down the short foyer, heading in the direction of the scent of grilled salmon coming from the kitchen. Yeah, Ty was working his magic. The thought made me smile.
“Hi, Babe,” I said to his back while he continued to cut up fixings for a side salad.
I put Jamel down and eased up behind Taylor, sliding my arms around his waist, pressing my head against the expanse of his back. Mmm, he smelled good. If only I could wrap myself up in his essence.
“Hi, yourself.”
He turned from the sink, grabbed a dishtowel to dry his hands, and pulled me full against him. We fit, every dip, every curve. Perfect.
I raised my head, looking up at him while he lowered his, brushing soft lips teasingly across mine. A shudder spread through me, like water being skimmed with a stone, just as it had from the moment we met.
Taylor’s body was sculpted from dedicated hours at the gym. Muscles rippled beneath his shirt, and I never grew tired of running my hands over him. I remember when he first walked into the door of the travel agency—all I could think was, Oh, my God. He had this—this—walk that defied explanation, smooth like a long lazy panther with a touch or urban assuredness—casual but raw. His skin reminded me of warm brandy, and there was a faint shadow of a beard stroking his strong chin, with a dimple dead center that gave him a rugged but boyish look. And yet it wasn’t so much the good looks, the drop-dead body, arrogant swagger, or Isaac Hayes voice that caught and held me. It was the soft center, the quiet strength that hovered just beneath the surface that intoxicated me.