Apple Brown Betty (6 page)

She looked down as he neared her, fumbled with a calculator, tallying her commission thus far today. She could feel his shadow looming over her. Then his voice lowered upon her. “Hello, Cydney.” It was so rich with feeling, so hefty in its masculinity. Cydney lost her place on the calculator keys, closed her eyes to gather her calm. “Cydney,” Stephon repeated. She slammed her fingers into the calculator, pushed it aside and looked up at him. His even-teethed, perfectly white smile made her abandon her attempt to ignore him further.

“What are you doing here, Stephon?” she asked, her heart pressing against her chest where she secretly wished his hands were.

“I left the office and decided to take a drive down this way. I wanted to see if you had done that restaurant review yet for Cush.”

“My deadline is weeks away,” Cydney said.

“You get off soon, don't you?” Stephon asked.

“Yes, but I'm dead tired. I've got to get myself some sleep.”

“No classes tonight?”

“No,” she said, “and I think you know that. Don't you have every detail surrounding my life filed in your PalmPilot?”

He laughed. “What do you say we go check out Cush together?”

“I told you, I'm bone tired. And I also told you we had to stop doing this.”

“I didn't ask that we do our usual,” he defended, his arms outstretched, pleading his case. “You're my drug, Cydney. You have to let me ease off of you. A meal, that's it. I promise.”

“I don't know, Stephon. This doesn't make it any easier.”

He batted his eyes. “One meal, that's it. Please, Cydney.”

She glanced at her watch. “I'll be done in about twenty minutes, okay?”

Stephon clasped his hands together. “I'll go look around while I wait.” He started to move away, then turned back. “Where is the intimate apparel in here?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

Cydney didn't miss a beat. “Your wife's a what—large? I believe that section is upstairs. I'm not sure, though. The petites—where I get my things—that's on the next level to the right after you get off the escalator. Check next to there.”

Stephon looked at her, smiled. She looked down, fumbled with the calculator again.

T
he restaurant was full once again, a cause of celebration for Desmond. Even though this had become the norm, Desmond always worried about the day it wouldn't be the norm. The day he would find himself, sleeves rolled up, walking around from one empty table to the next adjusting the flower centerpieces and pulling wrinkles from the table linens to keep his body and mind occupied. Conventional wisdom said that no business stayed hot from its birth onward, but his parents' restaurants had, and it would leave serious discord in Desmond's stomach if his couldn't match that success. It wasn't something he needed to do, or simply wanted to do, it was something he had to do. Drive, ambition, those were admirable qualities, but for Desmond this was something far greater. This was about leaving his father speechless and in awe.

Desmond walked toward the front of the restaurant, stopping to shake a few hands as he traveled through the maze of aisles. Karen was still acting funny toward him, still cool. It was high time he thawed her a bit, let her know she was important to him, professionally, and remind her that she did have that big diamond rock on her ring finger since it appeared she didn't remember.

Karen was on the phone when he reached her, appointment book opened, pencil in hand. She turned slightly as Desmond approached, gave him a bit of shoulder.

“Yes, seven-thirty is fine,” she said in that voice that was so sexy. “We look forward to serving you, Mrs. Buchanan. Goodbye.” She hung up and took her time writing down the Buchanans' reservation, spending more time with each letter than a calligraphist.

“Why are you so upset with me?” Desmond asked.

Karen didn't look up, but answered, “Not upset with you, you're a grown man, entitled to do as you please. I have no claims to you and if you want to go around—” She caught herself. “I'm not upset with you, Desmond.”

Desmond put his hand to her wrist, stopped her furious writing. “The only way I'll know what's bothering you is if you come out and say it. I thought we were close.”

Karen looked up, those eyes boring into him. “We are.”

“Then?”

“It's just that I don't get you sometimes,” she said.

“How so?”

“You're contradictory.”

Desmond crinkled his forehead. “Me?”

Karen closed her reservations book, placed the pencil against the catch plate of the hostess podium. “The times you've talked about your family, it has become obvious to me that you adore them, yet you've made it clear that the last thing in the world you wanted to do was run their chain of restaurants.”

“That's correct,” Desmond said, “and I didn't. So where's the contradiction?”

“But you still chose to follow behind them into the business. Maybe not the family business, but you're in the business.”

“I grew up around restaurants,” Desmond defended. “It's in my blood. I just said I didn't want to find myself as district manager of the Ruckers' chain.”

Karen shook off his answer. “What about that woman, Nora, who came with your family on opening night?”

Desmond grunted. That's what this was all about. Now they were getting to the heart of the matter.

Karen dodged his look of judgment. “I asked your sister about her. You were engaged to marry, but you broke off the marriage.”

“I know this,” Desmond said. “I'm the one who did it.”

“You know that woman still loves you…anyone could see it in her eyes. I looked in yours and all I could gather was a twinge of regret. Yet, you took her home with you.” Desmond's gaze shifted to his feet. Karen softened her voice. “I think very highly of you, Desmond. I have no qualms about admitting that my husband is less than perfect and that I sometimes think about…” Her voice dissipated as Desmond looked up again. “Sometimes I think about how different my life would be if I had married someone with a stronger purpose, someone like you. In many ways, me coming to work, flirting with you, makes going home more bearable.”

“I didn't know your marriage—”

She shook him off. “I hate to think that the man I think so highly of would cause the kind of harm that I know you've caused that Nora woman. You were the typical guy when you took her home that night, and I like to think that you aren't typical.”

Desmond eyed her, his expression serious. “I try not to be.”

“Have you ever been in love?” Karen asked him.

“I don't even like to think about that question,” Desmond said. He shifted his weight from left leg to right, wrung his hands.

“Too many of our men have that same problem,” Karen said sadly. “And too many of our women suffer because of it. It'll hit you one day, Desmond. When it does, do what feels right in your heart—because I know you have a good heart—and you'll never go wrong.”

“The talk shows condemn thinking with just your heart,” Desmond said. “Sometimes you have to use your head.”

“What you have to do is make sure your heart and mind are on one accord, that they're both clear—like they say at the end of church service. In your heart you knew you would never marry Nora, I bet. I also would wager my salary—” she smiled to let him know she meant figuratively “—that you knew it in your mind before you even proposed.”

Desmond nodded. Karen was alright. Where was she when he was growing up?

 

“Turn left up here,” Cydney said.

Stephon put on his blinker, made the turn, slowed about halfway up the block. “Goodness!”

“What is it?”

“I'd heard horror stories about Asbury Park, but this is incredible. Who would dare open up a business around here? Nothing but junkies, dealers, whores and burnt-out buildings.”

Cydney said nothing. By condemning the city, Stephon was condemning her. The harshness of his tone, the disgust in his voice made leaving this married man alone a more doable task. She could just picture him with the same upturned nose, the same judgment in his voice, looking at her with disgust. But she'd never give him the opportunity; she'd never let him know that this city of nothing but junkies, dealers, whores and burnt-out buildings had spawned her.

“You believe this,” he continued as they passed a young girl with red boots up above her knees, a jean skirt with the hemline up above the top of the boots. “She's peddling her ass in broad daylight.”

“She's trying to survive,” Cydney shot back.

Stephon smiled. “Well, that's mighty Democratic of you, Cydney. The Republicans will be very upset to have lost you, but they'll recover. I suppose you'd probably like me to offer that young lady a job, something in…customer service.” He chuckled. Cydney didn't.

Republican, was that how he saw her?

“Cush is up there on the right” was all Cydney could say.

Stephon curbed his car, moved the transmission arm to Park, but sat with the engine running. “You think my car will be safe here?”

Cydney shrugged. “We'll see when we come back out.” She unbuckled her seat belt and waited for him to open her door. He didn't seem certain of his next move. “Stephon, I'm waiting.”

He came back from a million miles away, tried to smile with comfort. “Yes, let's go and see what Mr. Desmond Rucker has for us here.”

Cush had a deep burgundy awning, an elaborate sign with the cursive Cush insignia that could be lighted at night. A thick carpet, the color of the awning, led up the small slope of sidewalk directly to the front door. The door was some rich heavy wood with a polished brass handle and had a menu screwed to the frame and enclosed in sturdy plastic casing. To the left of the entrance was a little window with a picture of Desmond Rucker and a second picture of his staff displayed like jewelry in some fine jeweler's storefront.

Stephon stopped and looked at the picture. Cydney did as well.

“That's Desmond Rucker?” Cydney said.

Stephon wheeled toward her. “Yes, it is.” He clenched his teeth and made his jaw muscles bulge. “Why?”

“Surprised to see he's so young,” she said. “I was expecting a much older man.”

“You know that cliché about wine getting better over time,” Stephon said. He pulled at his necktie, tightened it. He was a handsome, influential man. Just over forty years of age. He wasn't in his late twenties like Desmond and Cydney, though. Looking at how Cydney looked at the picture of Desmond Rucker, Stephon was happy his instincts had forced him to come with her.

“You ready to go in?” Cydney asked.

Stephon hesitated. “Yes, I'm ready.” Cydney moved to open the door. Stephon rushed across her. “Let me get that for you,” he said.

Desmond Rucker was standing by the entrance podium engaged in a deep conversation with the hostess. His head was down, looked as if he'd just been scolded. Cydney could feel her pulse in her fingertips as she got a good look at him. He was fine with a capital F. She immediately regretted the decision to come with Stephon.

The woman at the podium with the silky hair and the warm smile greeted Stephon and Cydney. “Welcome to Cush. Party of two?”

“Yes, just the two of us,” Stephon said. Cydney did a double take. Was it her or did Stephon's voice deepen even more than usual?

“Smoking or nonsmoking?” the silky-haired woman behind the podium asked.

“Nonsmoking,” the suddenly Barry White-esque Stephon answered.

Cydney stood back, trying to keep her eyes from drifting to Desmond Rucker. When he finally did look up, and held his gaze on her, she made sure to scan the restaurant and act nonchalant. Desmond stepped forward.

“I'm Desmond Rucker, the proprietor,” he said, extending his hand to Stephon.

“Nice place you have here, Mr. Rucker,” Stephon said.

“Thank you,” Desmond replied. He looked to Cydney. “I hope your wife agrees.” Desmond eased his hand from Stephon's firm grip and extended it to Cydney.

“I most certainly agree,” she said. She turned her left hand, held it up. “And wife isn't on my résumé.” They held eyes for a moment, a connection taking place. Nothing else needed to be said.

“Your table is right this way,” Karen said. She took up two menus, shot Desmond a stabbing glare as she walked off with Cydney and Stephon.

Stephon pulled out Cydney's chair for her to sit. She never remembered him doing that before. She placed the linen napkin on her lap and opened her menu. She could feel unspoken words hanging over her, Stephon's eyes watching her. It took a great deal for her to keep from smiling.

“I'll be right back,” Stephon said after a moment. “I have to make a quick phone call.”

“Checking in on the wife?” Cydney asked. Stephon gritted his teeth before walking toward the restroom where the phones were nestled in the hallway.

No sooner had Stephon left than Desmond Rucker took his place. “I hope your boyfriend doesn't mind but—”

“You make a lot of presumptions, don't you? Stephon's not my boyfriend,” Cydney corrected. “He's my boss.”

Hard as he tried, Desmond couldn't keep his eyes from widening with pleasure. “Oh, okay. In that case, may I ask your name?”

“Sure you can ask.” Cydney dropped her head and scanned the menu.

“Well?”

She continued studying the menu. “I didn't say I'd give it.” She didn't know why she took this playing-hard-to-get route, but something told her Desmond would appreciate the mystery of her.

Desmond smiled, nodded. “Name isn't important for now.”

The confidence in Desmond's voice stirred Cydney's insides. She tossed her hair, looked him eye to eye. “You say
now
as if there will be a later.”

“I haven't been more positive of anything in my life, Miss Wonderful,” Desmond told her. He nodded. “There will definitely be a later.”

Cydney didn't know how to respond. Miss Wonderful. God, it was poetry to her ears.

“You're kind of cocky about yourself, aren't you, Mr. Rucker?”

“I'm trying to be confident,” Desmond answered, “while I wonder to myself what kind of man could make you smile just at the thought of him, and if I could ever be that man.”

“All you have to do is ask me,” Cydney said.

“I haven't had very much success in asking you questions.”

Cydney nodded. “This is true.”

Desmond tried to mask it but there was desperation in his voice; where it came from and why it was there was a puzzle even to him. “What kind of man could make you smile with just the thought of him, Miss Wonderful?”

Cydney had been asked variations of this same question for as long as she could remember, all women had, but something in Desmond's eyes made her change the answer she normally gave, made her search deep within herself for the answer she didn't even know existed. “A man,” she heard her voice say, “that makes me forget about the passage of time. A man that I'll look at forty years after I looked at him for the first time and wonder where the years went and how it was that I lived them with such happiness and joy.”