Andre lifted a stack of folders containing pending projects off his file cabinet, planning to go through them one more time. He found a great deal of satisfaction in his work, and nothing was more exciting than juggling two or three projects at the same time while researching prospective bids on others. Working under pressure kept him energized and positive, but when things slowed down his mind tended to fill with a jumble of worries about failure and loss, bringing him face-to-face with his past. Why couldn’t he shake that faded old shadow of the man he used to be?
Andre’s father, Rex Preaux, had been a Louisiana roughneck oil-field worker who migrated from one end of the Gulf Coast to the other, taking dirty offshore jobs wherever he could get them. He divorced Andre’s mother, Lorene, and disappeared when Andre was four years old, leaving behind a son with a huge hole in his heart. That was the first time that Andre experienced a true sense of loss, and the pain never fully left him, not even when he eventually reunited with his father.
As he grew up, Andre blamed his mother for running his father off, refusing to believe her story, which he finally managed to persuade her to tell him—that Rex Preaux had left her for another woman. Andre’s disappointment fueled a deep rage against his mother until Rex finally returned to Baton Rouge three years later with his new wife, proving that Lorene had been right, because Rex also brought along his second son—a skinny three-year-old named Jamal.
Rex and his new family settled down in a house only four blocks from his first family, and Andre was happy to have his dad back. However, his happiness quickly vanished when he overhead Rex telling Lorene that he would never again set foot in her home or have anything to do with his first-born child. This declaration crushed Andre, and he again blamed his mother for failing to bring his father back into his life.
As they grew up, Jamal and Andre attended the same school, played basketball in the same neighborhood streets, and actually became very close. Too close, according to Lorene, who watched Andre imitate Jamal, whom she called a wild, impulsive child who was leading her son astray.
Like water draining into a sewer, Andre was quickly sucked into Jamal’s fast life, thrilled to be earning chunks of cash while hustling drugs with his baby brother. Jamal rose to the position of leader of their gang, and life was good, Andre thought, until the local police arrested him for selling drugs to an undercover cop: marijuana and cocaine.
Andre had been seventeen years old at the time of his arrest, young enough to be tried as a juvenile. The only good thing about the crushing blow was that his record would not become a permanent blight on his past. However, by the time the judge sentenced him to two years in Jena Juvenile Justice Center, the facility was full, he had turned eighteen, so it was off to federal prison to live among the hard-core adults who literally scared Andre straight.
During his incarceration, Andre experienced a deep sense of failure at having disappointed his mother, as well as himself. Choking back his sorrow, Andre turned his back on his rebellious brother and his emotionally distant father, and reached out for his mother’s forgiveness.
Lorene responded, arriving at the prison once a week with words of encouragement to fuel the flicker of hope that Andre struggled to keep burning. He didn’t want to turn into a mean, surly brute of a man, like those he faced in the prison walkways every day, and he never wanted to be locked in a cage again.
Lorene’s weekly visits were the only pleasant periods during Andre’s incarceration, but even they didn’t last long—six months into his sentence, she died unexpectedly of pneumonia, leaving Andre devastated with grief and furious that he couldn’t attend her funeral to say goodbye.
After serving his time, he left Baton Rouge, moved to Houston, and started working jobs on construction sites, leaving his family back in Louisiana and his stint in prison to fade from his memory. He was twenty-two years old when he decided to take the steps to make something of himself, and the first thing he did was get his GED. Next, he enrolled in college and earned a bachelor’s degree in civil engineering, finally becoming an architect in his midthirties, in charge of his life at last.
Andre knew what he wanted now: a major project that was well funded and highly visible, one that would ensure the future of A. Preaux and Associates. He couldn’t think of failing. He’d come too far to lose everything he’d worked so hard to accomplish.
After finishing lunch, Andre glanced through the mail that Lester had opened and neatly arranged it in a folder in order of importance. He set most of it aside, but did zero in on a pale-blue envelope, which he opened right away, glad to see a check for sixteen thousand dollars from the boutique owner whose shop he had recently redesigned. Next, he picked up the message from Miss Kohl and punched in the number, curious to see what she wanted.
“Andre Preaux returning a call to Miss Kohl,” he told the woman who answered. A soft Spanish ballad filled the line while he waited, making him smile. Something about the tune was gently pleasant and made a statement about the company. Innovative branding, he thought, knowing he would remember this company because of the song.
“Hello.” A woman’s voice interrupted the music. “This is Riana Cole.”
“Riana?” Andre repeated, gripping the phone as he leaned over his desk. A black hole opened in his stomach. “Riana Cole? C-O-L-E? Is that how you spell it?”
“Yes, Andre. It’s me. Your former classmate in Commercial Banking in Real Estate.”
And former lover, too, he thought, swept back four years by the sound of her voice. The stream of longing that hit him, caught him by surprise. He had thought he was over her, and would never feel this way again, but here it was—that sensual mix of joy and desire that had captured his heart back then. “I’m…I’m surprised,” he began, unsure of what else to say. “I never would have dreamed I was calling you.” He eased lower in his chair and sucked in a long breath, anxious to regain his composure, wondering just what she wanted.
Surely, she must think I hate her for walking away, for not giving our relationship a fighting chance, he thought. But it was her decision to end it, and all I did was honor her wishes, as difficult as it was.
“You work for Executive Suites?” he commented, finding his voice. “I thought you were a VP at Sweetwater Finance,” he pushed ahead, not wanting to get caught up in thinking about their past.
“I don’t work for Executive Suites, I own it. The VP position at Sweetwater didn’t work out, so I created my own company and hired myself,” Riana replied in a surprisingly light tone, going on to tell him about her executive search firm.
The sound of her voice stirred up old emotions, making it difficult for Andre to concentrate on what Riana was saying. As he listened, her face emerged slowly into his mind. The way her fine brown hair swayed across her cheek. Those soulful eyes that had made him go weak whenever he’d looked into them. Her slender hands on his back, trailing fingers down his spine. The easy way she had fit with him. A lump of regret clogged his throat, holding back the words that he knew would mean nothing to her, even if he managed to say them.
“Good for you,” Andre told her when she finished filling him in on the past four years. The fact that she hadn’t mentioned marriage or children or even a serious personal relationship didn’t surprise Andre. Riana had accomplished exactly what she’d set out to do: become a successful businesswoman. Clearly, she had not let anything or anyone compromise her dream.
“…so I’m recruiting a leader for Allen’s design team on a minimum-security prison for women and juveniles,” Riana was saying.
Suddenly, Riana’s words jerked Andre back to the conversation. “What’s that again?” he asked, head tilted to the side. “You said you want to interview me for a possible job with the Allen Group?” Now, he pushed aside the emotional effects of his telephone reunion with Riana, eager to talk business.
“Yes, George Allen has contracted with my executive search firm to screen and recommend an architect/planner to lead the design team on a moderate-sized prison compound,” Riana told Andre.
“Really? Why me?”