Love Me or Leave Me. Gwynne Forster
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too far with her, not even when he kissed her. More than once, she’d indicated a desire for a little more passion. He dragged his fingers through his hair. He’d known other girls, so why was he focusing on Pamela?
He disembarked, walked into the terminal and saw Ladd waiting, his face shining with a brilliant smile.
“Welcome. Man, am I glad to see you! I need a calming influence. Never get married. Women think the purpose of marriage is to spend money and reinvent the world in the process. Man, I’m worn out just watching them.”
Had he forgotten Ladd’s ability to talk nonstop for hours? He could almost feel the man’s happiness. “Don’t watch them,” Drake said. “Besides, I didn’t know Ghanaian women did that. I thought that was peculiarly American.”
“Oh, no. Something tells me it’s worldwide. How was your flight?” He motioned to the man standing beside him to take Drake’s bags.
“Smooth as silk. I slept most of the way between London and Accra.” They stepped out into the heat. “Whew! I’d better remove my coat. Say, I’m anxious to meet your bride.”
“She’s nice, man. Really nice.”
“Way to go, buddy.” A question had plagued him ever since he got the invitation and the note saying Ladd wanted him to be his best man. Well, he was paying his own fare, so he could ask if he wanted to know. “What kind of service are you having? Are there a lot of things I have to learn?”
Ladd stared at him. “What kind of— Oh, we’re Protestants. Everything will be familiar. All you have to do is stand there and keep me from passing out. How long can you stay?”
“Keep you from passing out?” Laughter rippled out of him, partly at the idea of Ladd fainting, but mainly because he knew what was expected of him. “Sorry. I didn’t think I’d need smelling salts. I’m leaving day after tomorrow. We’ve got buildings going up in two different states and in Barbados, and I’m strapped for time.”
“Too bad you won’t get to see much of the country. I told our interior minister that you might give him some ideas about the new shopping mall he wants built. Think you can spend about an hour with him?”
“No problem. Remember that I’m an architectural engineer, not an architect.”
“Yeah. I told him that. He wants to meet you. I had white trousers, an agbada, a dashiki and a kufi made for you. I’m sure they’ll fit, except maybe the kufi, but you’d better try them on.”
Drake paused momentarily when he remembered that a few steps away stood an air-conditioned car in which he would get relief from what seemed like taking a sauna while wearing a woolen sweater and an overcoat.
“I know the agbada is a long gown and the dashiki is a shirt, but what the devil is a kufi?”
“It’s a matching…you know…cap. We’re having a modern Christian wedding, but to satisfy my grandfather, you and I are wearing traditional dress.”
“What about the bride?”
He shrugged. “I’m not supposed to know, but she told me it’s a white dress.”
The following afternoon, around three o’clock, Drake dressed in the traditional clothing worn by a groom and his party and looked at himself in the mirror. “Hmm.” Adjusting the kufi, he wondered if any of his ancestors had worn one, shrugged and rang for the car that would take him to Ladd’s home. As he stepped out of the M Plaza Hotel—palatial by any measure—and into the Ghanaian heat, he wished he’d been going for a swim, but the air-conditioning in the Mercedes limousine immediately arrested his wayward thoughts. Ladd was ready when he arrived, and Drake had only a few minutes in which to observe his friend’s elegant living style.
At five o’clock, still struggling with the effects of jet lag, Drake stood with Ladd Sackefyio and his bride—who was dressed in a white, short-sleeved wedding gown decorated with white embroidery that was inset with brilliant crystals, and wearing a matching white crown—took their vows before an Anglican minister at the foot of the altar. Deeply touched by the simplicity of the ceremony and the smiles that never moved from the couple’s faces, he wondered if Russ had been right, that he’d begun to feel the loneliness of bachelorhood. He shrugged it off and went through the rituals of his duties at the reception, which included a toast and standing with the couple in case it seemed that they would topple the five-tier cake while trying to cut it.
Now, what am I supposed to do with this dame? he thought as he looked at the bridesmaid who made it clear to him and everyone at the reception that she wanted more from him than a smile. He had to be gracious. But he’d have preferred to paddle her for her lack of discretion. To worsen matters, she was an American, and the locals probably thought her behavior de rigueur for African-American women.
“Look,” he said to her when her cloying behavior annoyed him to the point of exasperation. “Cut me some slack here. I’d like to get to know some of the Ghanaian people.”
When she put her hands on her hips in a feigned pout, he walked away and a Ghanaian man immediately detained him. “I’m John Euwusi. We want to build a modern shopping mall here, and Ladd tells me you’re the man to talk to.”
Drake extended his hand. “He told me about you. I have to leave tomorrow afternoon, but we could speak in the morning, if you like.”
“Good. I’ll send my driver for you.”
At the end of their conversation the following morning, Drake agreed to discuss the matter with his brothers, for he didn’t work alone, but as a part of the Harrington, Inc. team. He hoped they could make a deal, because he wanted to get back to Ghana and see the country, including the old forts and castles associated with the slave trade.
As the Boeing 737 roared away from Kotoka International Airport, Drake glanced at the aisle seat across from his and nearly spilled the rum punch on his trousers. There sat Selicia Dennis, the bridesmaid who had attempted to hook her long pink-and-green talons into him. He liked assertive women, but the kind of aggression she displayed irritated him. He decided to behave as if he didn’t know she was there. And she wasn’t there by accident, he knew. In that circle, getting information about his departure and seat number was a simple matter. With the right influence, you got whatever you wanted.
He decided to focus on his seatmate, a man who bore the trappings of a gentleman, and introduced himself. “I’m Drake Harrington. Are you traveling all the way to the States?”
The man extended his hand. “Straight from London to San Antonio. I’m Magnus Cooper.”
They spoke at length, and Drake learned that the man was a Texas rancher, as well as a builder.
“How’s that?” he asked, when Magnus told him that he’d be in Baltimore at an undecided date to tape a program for his cousin’s TV news show. “People don’t seem to know that ranchers come in colors,” he added. “In Texas, you’ll find a number of hyphenated American ranchers—Spanish, Italian, black, Scottish, you name it.”
Drake mulled that over for a second before laughter rippled out of him. “I’m in Baltimore frequently. Who’s your cousin?”
“Pamela Langford. Her mother and my father are sister and brother. You know her?”
“I sure do.” He let it go at that and didn’t budge, not even when both of Magnus’s eyebrows went up and stayed there.
They spoke amiably until the plane landed at London’s Heathrow Airport. They exchanged contact information and agreed to talk soon. Drake was transferring to Delta and headed for his flight’s gate, but to his chagrin, when he arrived, Selicia Dennis stood to greet him. Having no acceptable choice, he took a seat and wished for something to read other than the International Herald Tribune that he carried in his briefcase.
“I live in Washington, D.C.,” she began. “How far are you from there?”
He told her he didn’t know, and she asked