Never Been to Me Read online

  “Allow me.”

  Persi was an angry wreck. She stopped to breathe. “Thank you again ... Nick Betancourt.”

  “Listen, have you eaten?”

  “What?”

  “If you haven’t, you must be hungry. I understand the food here is excellent and the reservations are hard to come by. I’m hungry. Why don’t we just stay?”

  Persi looked at him—this stranger named Nick Betancourt. It was her thirty-fifth birthday; she was all dressed up and had been stood up by a man who claimed to love her. This Nick seemed harmless and charming enough to spend a few hours with before she caught a cab home; it was too late for her to plan anything else.

  “Brad’s already paid for it so we might as well have a nice dinner on him,” he said, a smile dimpling his cheeks. “What do you say?”

  Persi smiled and relaxed for the first time since she’d been reminded again that she was not a priority for Brad. Unless he was on a slab in the morgue, there was no excuse. It would serve him right if she and this Nick ran up an enormous bill... then she’d get his attention. Heck, she might even buy drinks for everybody. “That sounds good, Nick Betancourt. Let me go freshen up and then we’ll sit.”

  “Great.”

  He watched her sashay away from him. Pretty, poised, confident with a thousand Nubian queens rotating her hips; he loved black women to the bone. He’d been asked to come and tell her that Brad couldn’t make it tonight. He’d come and sat at the bar waiting for that woman to show, and had noticed this one. Somehow her self-assured posture didn’t seem the type who’d be interested in a Brad Shelton. A striking, beautiful black woman with deep nutmeg and ginger–colored skin and naturally shiny, dark sable-hued hair; it shortness gave her long neck a certain fascinating allure. After a drink and a few tunes from the combo, Nick decided that Brad’s woman was a no-show, so he intended to introduce himself to this woman in the gold dress perched on the stool. Nick grew intrigued by her and he hadn’t been intrigued by any woman in many years. If she were alone, this would be an interesting way to spend an evening. He couldn’t believe they were one and the same; Persi Sinclair was an enigma.

  Upon her return, they settled into a booth against the wall.

  “Have you ever been here before?” Nick asked casually.

  “My first time,” she said as the waiter laid a linen napkin in her lap.

  “A shared adventure.” Nick commented.

  Persi ordered seared lobster bisque, a Caesar salad, and sea scallops in an apple glaze dolloped with caviar to his curried corn chowder, grilled asparagus, and lamb chops infused with rosemary-mint stuffing. At the suggestion of the waiter, they also ordered the chocolate soufflé for dessert as it required two hours of preparation.

  Despite their meal choices, Nick selected a Shiraz from the wine list and made a sophisticated production of tasting the offering from the sommelier before giving his approval. She liked that his choice bucked convention, which dictated white wine; Brad would have ordered a chardonnay on principle.

  “Persi is an unusual name for a lady.”

  “It’s really Persephone—”

  “Ah, daughter of Zeus and Demeter, goddess of spring. Someone was into Greek mythology.”

  “You have no idea.” She found it refreshing that he knew the origin of her name yet was thoughtful enough not to mention that Persephone was taken by Hades, lord of the underworld. Speaking of the devil, she asked first, “So. How do you know Brad Shelton?”

  “Brad and I were at Columbia together.”

  “MBA program.”

  “Yep. I was MBA-JD. He was there when I came and there when I left.”

  “I suppose he was in no hurry.”

  “I didn’t have that luxury. My scholarship was very specific about how long I had,” he chuckled without arrogance. “And you?” he shot.

  Persi almost choked on her wine. “Actually, I knew Brad in high school.”

  “You are not that old.”

  Today’s my birthday, she thought longing to tell him, but said, “I went in the ninth grade. A special science program and he was a senior.”

  “Oh. And you kept in touch?”

  “No. I was reintroduced to him about five years ago.” She didn’t like this conversation at all. “And you? You all good friends?”

  “Not exactly. Brad is older. We belong to the same fraternity. I lived in the frat house for awhile but it really wasn’t conducive to studying. I ran into him downtown on K Street today. He invited me up to his office.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Originally, Baltimore.”

  “Really?”

  They talked about everything and nothing and, during the next three hours and forty-five minutes, the conversation never returned to Brad Shelton. She explained that she was a chemist and landscaper, and he countered with being a musician and organizer of karate tournaments for inner-city boys across the country. His main address was a Chicago condo, but he traveled a lot and was thinking of settling down in this area near the water, so either the Potomac or Severn River were likely candidates. The couple hadn’t run out of topics to discuss but they had completed dessert, coffee, and their after-dinner drinks.

  Before she knew it, Persi was being helped on with her coat. The bitter cold air swirled off the C&O Canal and assaulted her thin dress. She pulled her small-dotted lynx about her.

  “Where’s your parking ticket?” he asked, giving his to the attendant.

  “Oh. I didn’t drive. I’ll catch a cab.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll take you home.” He watched the rental car approach, tipped the attendant, and asked, “Where do you live?”

  “Mount Vernon,” she teased as she got in and watched his face split into a wide smile. “You should have asked first.” She laughed. “I live on Logan Circle.”

  “I would have driven you to Mount Vernon,” he counter-teased. “Can’t have you traipsing around D.C. in the wee hours of the morning alone.”

  As he made a right turn, she thought of how many nights she’d left Brad in those wee hours, driven home, parked and scurried up her steps to safety, and the most she got from Brad was a call when he got home. If something happened to her in the street, Brad would have read about it in the paper the next day. As it was, he always took a cab to her house—day or night. With his vanity plates, neither he nor his car could chance being consistently seen in her neighborhood, but it was perfectly acceptable for her to risk flesh and limb to have an amorous assignation any place in the metro area.

  With the two o’clock traffic down to nil, in seemingly minutes they’d stopped in front of her house.

  “You live here?” Nick asked.

  “Yep.”

  “How many of you all live in here?”

  She giggled; she was getting used to his humor. “Just me.”

  He let out a long whistle. “I guess a landscaping-chemist must do pretty good.”

  “Thanks for the evening. It turned out better than I expected.”

  “My pleasure,” he began seriously. “Want me to walk you up?”

  “No. I’ll be fine.”

  “Flick the lights when you get in your vestibule.”

  She chuckled again before becoming lightly conflicted. This was all it would ever be between her and Nick, but there was Doxie. He’d be so good for Doxie, she thought.

  He looked around the quiet circle and said, “You can walk to U Street from here.”

  “Yep. Just up the block.”

  “I’ll let you know when I come back to town and play at Balzac’s.” He decided to let her off this awkward hook. No pressure. “You know it?”

  “Yeah. Nice club. That’d be great. I have a friend I’d like you to meet. You aren’t married, are you?”

  The question hung out there like a water-soaked diaper . . . full and stinky.

  “No. I’m not,” he answered evenly.

  “Do you like children?”

  “Love ’em. Want a passel of my own one day.
”

  “Good.” She needed to quit while she was ahead. “Thanks again, Nick Betancourt. It was great meeting you.” Persi stuck out her hand for him to shake. When he did, she smiled, opened, then closed the car door and walked up her steps, reaffirming that this would be her first, last, and only personal encounter with this guy . . . but Doxie could really use a Nick Betancourt.

  When she entered her house, she flicked on the lights. She heard him toot lightly and she smiled.

  “Easy come, easy go,” she said, reengaging her alarm.

  As Nick rounded the circle to P Street heading back toward Georgetown, he thought of Persi Sinclair; her physical presence, quiet dignity, classical elegance, and smarts whose company he had truly enjoyed. How did Brad Shelton pull her? he wondered, as he sailed though the blinking yellow light. A single, self-sufficient, simply gorgeous woman who could not only captivate but hold his attention and leave him wanting more. When was the last time a woman had piqued his interest? Brad Shelton? It did not compute. But Persi Sinclair was as complicated as her situation, and Nick had no place for crazy drama in his tranquil life. He knew there were three sides to every story: his, hers, and the truth. But Nick didn’t want complications ... his life had been complex enough and at this stage he only sought serenity.

  Too bad, he thought as he rubbed his lip absently and passed M Street.

  CHAPTER 5

  A blanket of gray clouds lay over the skyline of the District of Columbia as Brad filled Persi’s answering machine and voice mail with inane apologies. She erased them all. If he was alive and well, there was no excuse for missing her birthday. The flowers and jewelry he’d sent were refused and marked returned to sender. Doxie was elated and Persi was resigned, but of course, Brad, like the comfortable habit he was, squirmed his way back into Persi’s good graces. After two weeks, she’d finally agreed to see him at her house.

  “C’mon, Bruce. It couldn’t be avoided. Her best friend got sick so she’d canceled her trip and got tickets for us to the symphony at the Strathmore as a surprise. What could I do?”

  “Coulda told her you had other plans.”

  “I see you’ve never been married.”

  Her head jerked in his direction. Was he stupid or arrogant? She couldn’t quite figure out which. Nonetheless, she fought the urge to slap the mouth that just spoke the ridiculous statement.

  “And you couldn’t at least come and tell me yourself. Sent your flunky,” she spat.

  “Flunky?” he chuckled. “Nick Betancourt might be a lot of things but flunky isn’t one of them.” He laughed at the absurd notion.

  Persi was infuriated at Brad’s cavalier response.

  “What did you all do? Discuss me? Think you could pass me around like a frat hoochie? What did he do? Volunteer to come and tell me the bad news?”

  “Are you kidding? I practically had to beg him. He was staying in Georgetown and I asked him to go by and let you know I’d have to miss our . . . meeting. I couldn’t come and couldn’t get you on your cell. He was on his way someplace else. I figured you’d rather it come from him than the maître d’. I was being considerate.”

  “Where was he going?”

  “I dunno or care. Probably to a hotel to bed. He’s a very . . . disciplined man.”

  Persi cut her eyes at him and put her juice in the fridge.

  “He was always a strange one,” Brad mused. “Don’t know why he really pledged the fraternity. He never seemed to partake of the female, fringe benefits of being a frat man.”

  “You are a pig.”

  “A pig in love with you, Bruce. Oink. Oink. C’mon, you know we belong together. These things happen from time to time. You’re not going to be this way once we get married, are you?”

  “Not so sure I want to marry you,” Persi scoffed.

  “Ugh!” He grabbed his chest. “You wound me, Bruce. Hurt me to my heart.” He began staggering around her kitchen like Redd Foxx in Sanford and Son. “This is the big one!”

  Persi smiled despite her best efforts.

  “I see my girl’s smile.” He went over to her. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

  “It was my thirty-fifth birthday, Brad.”

  “I know. C’mere.” He gathered her in his arms. “I thought about you the whole time. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Bruce. Please don’t make me find out.”

  Persi sighed wearily.

  “Let’s go upstairs. Let me start making it up to you now.”

  Persi agreed to accompany her old beau, Rucker Jackman, to the Kennedy Center Honors for Sidney Poitier. The Heisman Trophy winner, wide receiver with Super Bowl rings for each finger was a smash-hit success, thanks to the tweaking of his date Persi. Although she and Rucker were now just friends who enjoyed a good platonic relationship, these dates with him were dangerous as she could easily recall their phenomenal loving. Always a one-man woman, his loving caused her to drop the other contenders at the time: a stockbroker and a lawyer. Rucker Jackman remained the best lover she’d ever had. His lithe, powerful body, his skillful hands and, with each rhythmic thrust of his talented love muscle, he’d coax her into the wildest, orgasmic ecstasy she’d never known.

  “Persi May, Persi May, Persi MAY!” Persi smiled, remembering his loud professtations as he rode to their mutual climaxing. The first time it happened startled her as she wondered how he knew her middle name. When asked, he’d said, “I didn’t know. But where I come from in Mississippi, May just goes naturally with Persi. Like you and me go together real natural-like. Know what I mean?”

  Back then, the sex had been supernaturally unparalleled and they shared an inexhaustible thirst for one another, but once their feet it the floor, they had little in common. From two different worlds, she couldn’t appreciate or fit into his constant party-people mode, and he thought her world interesting but largely square, although he aspired to that lifestyle in the distant future. To his credit, with all his millions, he had only one baby’s-mama and the baby was almost seventeen. Also to his credit were the Jackman Joints Cineplexes he’d opened across the country as well as Jackman Joints BBQ Shacks. Persi realized he had potential but she did not have the patience or inclination to work with him, though many women would. Money and class are not mutually inclusive, but Persi knew she continually fascinated Rucker Jackman. A fine, smart, independent black woman who didn’t want or expect anything from him was a refreshing anomaly to him.

  Persi liked her men strong, confident, and on the verge of arrogance. The fact that Rucker hoped that he could eventually win and keep her interest disqualified him from being a serious contender. So he toted her out to impress folks, always noting her title of doctor; leaving her to explain it wasn’t a medical degree but a Ph.D. in chemistry. In the old days before Brad, she’d reciprocated and kept him around for extraordinary sex and perks—he’d flown her and her friends to two of his four Super Bowls. Now as friends he agreed with Persi’s directive of no seriousness and no sex, but their friendship drove Brad Shelton nuts; an unintended delight.

  She and Rucker always had a great time and when he’d walk her to the door he’d try to steal a kiss as she’d playfully push him away. “If you become Mrs. Rucker Jackman, we could just go and do what we do best.”

  “You crazy man. I’ll watch you back to your limo,” she dismissed.

  “One day Persi May. You and me,” he said, descending the steps. “For good. ’Till death do us part. I love you, girl.”

  “Bye,” she said and closed her door. She did love Rucker Jackman, a good, honest man but opposites attract, then repel, and while the present was fun it did not lend itself to a lasting future. It wouldn’t be until death do us part but more of until our lifestyles really clash and we aren’t having fun anymore. Even if he didn’t know it, Persi did.

  Finally, the long, protracted harsh weather ushered in longer days and warmth that nudged the dawning of spring daffodils, lilacs, azaleas and, the anticipated pink buds of Japanese cherry trees that rung
the Tidal Basin. Like a superhero, Persi reveled in her transition from winter grant chemist to spring landscaper. Now, busy and smelly most of the time, she tried locating the three giant black and orange koi in time for a client’s garden party. Preparing her house for the Logan Circle spring tour, she placed her valuable collectibles in the upstairs hall closet when her high school scrapbook fell down on her head.

  “Damn!”

  Old, grainy, monochromatic pictures of Brad Shelton splattered across her highly polished hardwood floors. Look at this. Jeez, girl you had it bad, she thought as she began picking them up. Inside a black-and-white composition notebook—two pages were devoted to writing Mr. and Mrs. Bradford Myles Shelton. Persi and Brad Shelton. Persephone and Bradford Sheltonin all sorts of fancy and plain handwriting combinations. Persi knew that only Brad could lure her from her scruples. Besides not attending Howard University and being a perfumer, he was the only thing she ever really wanted in her life and didn’t get.

  Persi, the middle daughter, did everything her parents wanted and expected of her, except being a debutante and coming out, as her mother had. The archaic tradition made no sense to Persi. She put her foot down, which had been such a heady experience. Her older sister, Diana, obliged before promptly going to Oberlin College and now was eligible for tenure in the music department of Boston University. The compliant Athena wanted what her parents wanted. The one tradition Persi wanted to perpetuate—Howard University, where her grandparents and parents had met and married—and a career goal—to become a perfumer—both denied her. Once test scores identified her for the science program, they fast-tracked her into chemistry, thinking she was the second coming of Dr. Shirley Jackson, also a Roosevelt High School graduate. Persi didn’t have the interest, aptitude, or attitude of Dr. Jackson, the first black women to earn a masters and Ph.D. in physics from MIT. Her parents’ pride was evident when MIT offered Persi a full scholarship. Her mother lived long enough to hear the announcement at graduation in June, but by her fall dorm check-in, only her father and aunts escorted her; her mother had died that August. An emotionally numb Persi successfully and rotely ambled through the MIT program—undergrad, grad, and then completed the Ph. D. program. Once she graduated, she took the position at NIH, more out of convenience than desire. Opportunities always came to her and from them she selected the path of least resistance. Not once had she set out to get anything on her own . . . except Brad Shelton.