Never Been to Me Read online

After graduation, they’d all gone their separate ways, attending different colleges but remained close in hearts and mind. All expected Desi would return to Jamaica but upon graduation from Stanford, he’d remained in California and was now the premier fertility doctor. Everyone teased that all a fertility-challenged woman needed to do was watch him come toward her in that white coat against his chocolate-dipped skin . . . fertility problem over. ViVi Hamilton also ended up on the West Coast, available mainly during the holidays, and Nola Rogers had gone the route of Persi’s younger sister Athena; graduated college, immediately married her college beau, had children, and never used their degrees except to calculate their accounts at Neiman’s.

  So Persi and Doxie, despite the latter’s marriage and divorce, were basically as they’d always been—the two of them. The world knew of Desi’s crush on Persi, but Doxie was the only one of the four aware of the love jones Persi had for Brad Shelton all those years. Doxie despised the way the man took advantage of her friend now . . . and Persi knew it. As with all old friends who have different viewpoints, a truce existed between the two women. Each knew how the other felt and no one was changing their minds on the subject.

  Doxie felt Brad was robbing Persi of vital years, for as long as her friend dated him she was not going to date anyone else. Brad was a dead-end relationship. Persi felt that she and Brad were destined to be together, as fate had reintroduced them, and if she were patient it would happen. In an unspoken alliance, the three agreed that this surreptitious love affair be conducted in secrecy. Doxie didn’t want Persi’s reputation trashed as a harlot-jezebel who dated a married man; bad for her future husband, wherever he might be, and bad for women who wouldn’t invite her to the necessary social functions, for the untrustworthy pariah they’d surely think she was. Persi knew discretion was paramount for her and Brad so he could make an elegant exit with his name, reputation, and assets intact. These matters were better worked out with clear heads and no unnecessary drama and angst.

  So over the last five years she’d dated enough to cover the illicit romance. She’d had long term relationships prior to Brad and wide receiver Rucker Jackman reigned the longest, but incompatibility and conflicting lifestyles caused Persi to nix him as a viable marital candidate. She’d ended it well enough for them to still to be friends . . . but no sex, as she’d done with a stockbroker and a lawyer who could not hold a candle to the fun and excitement of a Rucker Jackman. It was from this limited roster that Persi pulled necessary dates for the special occasions. With all of her professional obligations, folks assumed that she was simply too busy and career-oriented to cultivate a lasting relationship with one man.

  The telephone rang. Persi answered with a “hello.”

  “Hey, Bruce. How’s my lady this afternoon?”

  “Fine. Thank you for the flowers,” she enthused in spite of her best efforts.

  “You got them already?”

  “Woke me up.”

  “I wish it was me doing that,” he said huskily. “I loved waking you up in the morning and putting you to bed at night.”

  She blushed.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Actually, jeans and a sweatshirt. Doxie, Drew, and I are about to do our monthly volunteering at the So Others Might Eat soup kitchen before shopping at Pentagon City. Drew needs new ski clothes when she goes to visit her father in a few weeks and we want to pick up some things for the Hannah House.”

  “Oh. Doxie there already?”

  “Yep. I’ll tell her you said hi,” Persi teased, knowing each equally despised the other. “You coming over tomorrow night?”

  “No can do. Sunday with the family especially after being away for ten days.”

  So I’m free for the rest of the weekend, Persi thought.

  “In fact, I’ll have to play catch-up at work so I probably won’t be able to drop by until mid-week for a few minutes.”

  “I’ll have Drew starting on Wednesday. Doxie is keynote speaker at a conference in Colorado and I get to keep my goddaughter. Picking her up from school, homework, dinner, bath, bed—you know the routine, don’t you, Dad?”

  “Can’t I come over after the little tyke goes to bed?”

  “Don’t know where I’ll be. Their house is nearer to Drew’s school and NIH, where I’ll be for a few weeks. I’ll probably be staying there.”

  “You punishing me?”

  “No. Just making it easier on Drew and me.”

  “I’ve made the plans for your birthday. You want to hear them?”

  “You already told me. Where are you now?”

  “Car wash. We’ll dine at our bistro in Alexandria, maybe park near Haines Point and neck before checking into the Willard.”

  “Isn’t that expensive for next-day checkout?”

  “The wife is going to see a play in New York with her girl-friends—limo and all. That gives us the entire weekend. I surprised her with the trip and tickets. Part of your gift.”

  “You are such a good boy,” Persi said coyly into the phone. When she turned to the side, Doxie stood against the doorjamb, arms folded. Persi’s guilt made her straighten up.

  “We’d better get going,” Doxie said evenly, raised her eyebrow in disgust before turning to check on Drew.

  “Listen. I’ve got to go.”

  “Love you, Bruce.”

  “Yep. I know.” She hung up. “Is everybody ready?” she sang out.

  The trio’s day proceeded with them ending up at Nordstrom’s in Montgomery Mall and Doxie’s house in Kensington. After dinner, with Drew on her computer and Doxie on the telephone, Persi thought of texting Brad but decided not to. She thought of how she knew everything about “the wife” as he called her; where she shopped, when she menstruated or was sick, her doctor’s appointments and ailments, where and when she got her hair done, what social clubs she belonged to; Persi knew the girls’ activities and their social calendar, mostly so she could avoid the places the wife and family frequented. Persi never understood women who liked being in the presence of the wife at social events and made demands on the man they shared, daring him to mess up. Persi thought that behavior controlling and low-life She needed to show some respect for the institution of marriage.

  While Persi knew everything about the wife, the wife knew nothing of Persi. Persi didn’t like referring to her by name and the title, “the wife” made her seem less real . . . less of a person . . . less of a human being to be considered. Persi knew if Brad had married a friend or a girl from D.C., she would never never responded to Brad’s advances despite her high school crush. Nine times out of ten Persi would have known his wife and her family and upheld the unwritten D.C. sisterhood barring such contemptible behavior. Brad Shelton was taken. But let him divorce or the wife drop dead, then it would be open season on his available butt and consoling casserole ladies at his door. Persi exempted herself from respecting husband, hearth, and home since Brad hadn’t married a girl from D.C., but one from South Carolina. Persi had no preexisting relationship or felt no allegiance or particular attachment to Patricia “Trish” Davenport Shelton.

  Doxie extended a glass of cabernet to Persi and said, “Here you go.”

  “Night, Aunt Persi.” Drew came in and encircled her with a big hug.

  “Night, baby,” Persi said.

  Doxie turned the sound of the news down and said, “Wanna talk?”

  “About what?”

  “More like you-know-who.”

  “Jean-Luc?”

  “No. He’s an old creepy, coworker guy.”

  “He isn’t. He’s brilliant and because he is, he comes off arrogant and caustic. He’s a sweetheart if you understand him.”

  “He’s crazy. Who gives up French aristocracy lineage to be in an NIH lab all day?”

  “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Research is his passion. I admire him for leaving the family business—”

  “And millions.”

  “And striking out on his own.”


  “Crazy and creepy. It’s because you know how to handle him that he picks you for those grants to augment your design income during the winter months.”

  “And . . . I’m good.”

  “And modest.”

  “I calls ’em like I sees ’em. His wife Claudia is crazy about me too, although she returns to France every chance she gets. Woman wears some bad clothes, girl.”

  “So when are you going?” Doxie teased. “Take him up on his offer to make the necessary introductions so you can be a French perfumer like you always wanted?”

  “Therein lies the rub. I’m not ready to leave D.C. yet.”

  “We never are. Our hometown. But that’s not the ‘who’ I was talking about. Wanna talk about a black man with honey-sage eyes and a recent trip?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Frigid February ushered in its first two weeks with gray ghost days and cold nights all perpetually warmed by the effervescent presence of Drew and all her activites. Though Persi loved every minute of it, her appreciation for working mothers grew for those who kept up this pace daily. After Doxie returned from Colorado, the following days filled with birthday parties for Persi’s twin nieces, Athena’s children, her father and Sylvia’s anniversary dinner, preparatory meetings for her sorority’s spring fling and the Easter egg roll for the ambulatory patients at Childrens’ Hospital. Every three years, Persi gave permission for her house to be featured on the Logan Circle house tour in May, an annual fund raiser for the neighborhood’s civic association.

  In solidarity with Drew and other school-children in the metro area, Persi wore her pajamas backward, praying for a snow day. When she awoke to the bright-white darkness at seven, her prayers had been answered with a February blizzard; schools, airports, and the government closed. Brad called and they managed forty-five minutes before being interrupted by one of the girls. She hung up, wondering how a wife could ever keep track of her spouse in this millennium; between e-mail, cell phones, pagers, and texting, it’d be an exhausting, full-time job. The prediction of an evening ice storm prompted further cancellations as the metro Washington area suffocated, then became paralyzed by the frozen precipitation. Persi relished working from home and thankful for the free day to address her landscaping business as she reviewed her files and contracts, contacted her guys, ordered supplies, composed the newsletter to her current clients, and sent polite rejections to those who hoped to be future ones. The weather kept Brad home but he promised to make it up to her at the birthday tryst.

  “Better take your vitamins, Bruce,” he suggested.

  “Me? I’m always good to go, old man,” she teased as she licked the last envelope.

  “Yes, you are,” he agreed, thinking of her gorgeous, toned body. Not a stretch mark or sagging breast in sight. “It’s been such a long time.”

  “Over two weeks. Maybe we’re already married.”

  Birthday Friday finally arrived and Persi worked nonstop, looking forward to Brad’s exercizing all the tension from her body the way he knew best. She came home, jumped in the shower and then into the slinky gold dress she’d splurged on for her birthday celebration. As she listened to Prince command “do me, baby,” she eyed her image approvingly in the Cheval mirror, spinning and stopping in a dramatic pose to view her backless frock that plunged to her waist. “Fierce!”

  She slid her bare legs into four-inch stilettos that arched her feet and showcased her famous gams in the most alluring manner. She gazed at her defined calves, then her rounded derriere and liked the firm knot each of them displayed. “Backfield in motion tonight!”

  She checked her flawless makeup, her shiny, dark brunette hair and oversized purse for her negligee and fresh undies for the next two days—not that she’d need them. As she cut Prince off, she said, “I will take your advice, my brotha.”

  When the cab appeared outside her house, she slipped on her fur coat, clicked on her alarm, and cut off her cell phone. She loved her family and friends, accepted their well-wishes all day long, but tonight belonged to Brad; this weekend belonged to them. Persi didn’t want family or friends calling her for any emergency—for the next two days and nights they needed to call 911; she’d be igniting her own fires.

  She climbed into the cab and gave him the address of the posh, exclusive and private Georgetown restaurant instead of their usual Alexandria haunt. This is quite a gamble for Mr. Shelton, she thought. He’s getting a little riskier with the future Mrs. Shelton . . . namely me, she thought and smiled.

  As the cab pulled off, she pointed her key to lock her Audi. Tonight they didn’t need two cars as they were going to end up together in the same place. The thought of the next delicious forty-eight hours made her grin with naughty anticipation. On this night, Persi couldn’t care less what he told the wife or where she’d be, just so she didn’t show up at their door at the Willard Intercontinental Hotel.

  Persi paid the cabbie and eyed the secluded restaurant with the serpentine walkway nestled in the shadow of the C&O Canal that Brad selected out of Conde Nast magazine. Impressive , Persi thought as she sauntered into the welcoming façade, surrendered her Russian lynx to the coat check, and gave her name to the maître’d.

  “Bruce.”

  “Ah, your party has not yet arrived. Would you like to be seated at the table or have a drink at the bar?”

  “The bar.” Persi wanted Brad to get the full effect of what she wore when they were shown to their table. The front of her dress was a high boatneck cut, but he’d be treated to the curve of her bare back and spine, as it discreetly disappeared into the shimmering metallic gold material gathered at her waist.

  “Bellini,” she answered when asked by the bartender. All she had to do was shrug out of this designer garb and her breasts would be revealed in all their supple and dark-rung glory.

  She perched her body on the cushioned stool, sipped her drink, and admired the decor. Tables for two lined the tapestry-covered walls, reminiscent of the huts in Bora-Bora, insuring privacy by the drapery that hung between them. Like a giant coil, the tables swirled from the walls inward losing their draping toward the middle but still private. She wondered which was theirs. As in many of France’s finer restaurants, there were only two seatings, so patrons weren’t rushed but encouraged to linger. Probably the reason their waiting list is booked months in advance, she postulated.

  Persi sampled her drink just as she noticed a small combo playing softly from an almost hidden stage. Despite the elegant and understated ambience of the establishment, it screamed money. She sipped and swayed with the soothing, sexy music, crossed her long, brown bare legs and imagined how she’d run her painted toes up, down, and inside Brad’s pant cuffs as they ate and played little sexy pregames before the main event.

  The bartender interrupted the sensuous sounds by asking her if she wanted to refresh her drink. As she turned to say no, her eyes snagged on the sight of a lone man sitting at the end of the bar. He was looking at her. He nodded discreetly; Persi gave a noncommittal semi-smile, not wanting to either disrespect or encourage the brother. Even while she listened to the next three songs and eyed her watch, she was conscious that he was still looking at her. She gave no indication of being aware of his existence, despite an odd, magnetic presence, which she ignored until he came over after the fourth song.

  “Hello,” he said.

  Persi glared at him, not knowing whether to be flattered or annoyed. Was it because they were the only two black people here? “I’m waiting for someone,” Persi dismissed.

  “I think it’s me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Let me rephrase that. Are you Ms. Persi Sinclair?”

  “I am,” Persi said, wondering if he’d been in one of her lectures or in attendance when she’d testified on the Hill. He didn’t look familiar as she would have remembered him.

  “I’m Nick Betancour
t and I’m here for Brad Shelton.”

  Persi’s face flushed. “Excuse me?” she said and thought, Just what does that mean?

  “He’s had an emergency and won’t be coming tonight. He asked me to stop by and let you know.”

  Immediately pissed, Persi’s temper flared; she gritted her teeth as heat warmed her earlobes. She’d waited over two weeks for this night, this special occasion, and someone had ruined it. How many other days and nights had been ruined by other folks? How many times had she cooked dinner for him, only to have him call and say the wife surprised him with theater tickets? The wife’s parents had come to town and he couldn’t get away. The girls were sick; the dog threw up. The goldfish died. Why was she, Persi, always the causality of a well-planned good time? Why was her life always less important then theirs? Her eyes flashed, her pulse quickened, she wanted to pimp-slap somebody.

  “Are you all right?” he asked with concern.

  “Why yes,” she lied, an insincere smile frozen on her face. How much did this man know? Had he and Brad had a nudge-and-wink before Brad sent him over here? Brad’s best friends didn’t know about the two of them. Who was this guy?

  “He tried calling you but apparently your phone is off.”

  “Of course.” Persi fought to retain some dignity. “Did Mr. Shelton send the papers?”

  “Papers?”

  “Yes, this was a business meeting and he—I was supposed to sign—” she stuttered, thinking, Jeez that even sounds lame to me.

  “No. No papers. I’m sure he will be contacting you with the details. To reschedule,” he offered amiably.

  “Yes,” her voice croaked. Embarrassment colored her face as it was obvious that this tryst had nothing to do with business, yet this man was being so gracious about the horrendously awkward situation. “Yes, well . . . thank you.” She just wanted to bolt, run home, and curse Brad Shelton out in the privacy of her own house.

  “Nick,” he reminded.

  “What?”

  “Nick Betancourt.”

  “Oh, yes. Right. Well . . .” She summoned the bartender to settle up her bill.