Quinn’s pulse pounded so loudly in his ears he could barely make out what she was saying. He felt as if he’d been tossed into someone else’s nightmare.
“So I need to know if you two still want the apartment. I know how desperately she wanted to move. Said you’d be a hard sell, though.” She chuckled. “It’s such a lovely place. I told her she should let you see it first, but she insisted that she wanted to take care of everything and surprise you, so you couldn’t say no.” She chuckled again.
Quinn took slow gulps of air. He had every intention of just hanging up, ending the nightmare now. But something kept him on the line and pushed words through his mouth that he didn’t know were forming.
“Why don’t you gimme your address, and I’ll come by. I think it’s about time I saw this place.”
The movers would arrive shortly. He looked around. The apartment was full of memories. All of which he wanted to put behind him.
He’d finally given in to Maxine’s insistence that they go through Lacy’s things. He’d let Max take what she wanted. He took the old second-hand piano, the one Lacy’d given him on his twenty-first birthday. He smiled, recalling the moment and the look of pure joy on her face when she saw his astonished reaction. His fingers lovingly caressed the keys. He moved away and took an accepting breath.
Boxes were packed and taped, his clothes bagged and ready. He checked the cabinets and closets for any overlooked items. He checked under the bed and behind the wall unit. He took a broom and swept it beneath the love seat and then the recliner. Satisfied, he ran the broom under the couch and was surprised to find it meeting resistance. He tried again and his notebook came sailing across the floor.
For several moments, he just stared at it. Bending, he picked it up. Remembering. He ran his hand across the pebbly black-and-white cover. One day perhaps he’d open it again….
The bell rang.
His eyes swept the room.
Time to go.
Chapter 3
The professor’s nasal voice continued its monotonous droning. The words blurred as if water had dripped on a penned page. The room was thick with the scent of sterility, body heat and morning breath.
Amidst it all, Nikita struggled to concentrate. She couldn’t. The drone dissolved into a dull buzz. She wanted to giggle as she pictured the rotund Professor Cronin as a huge bee—buzzing, buzzing, flitting from one student to pollinate another, dripping words of “constructive criticism” all along the way. The room grew smaller. The buzz grew louder, closer. She had to get away. Bzzz, bzzz.
She heard him demanding in his astonished nasal voice that she return to her seat, calling repeatedly to her retreating back. It was the first time she’d heard any animation in the buzz since the start of the spring session.
No one ever walked out of Professor Cronin’s anatomy class, under threat of expulsion. So at any moment she expected a firing squad to let off a round. She hurried. She wanted to run. But of course running through the sanctified hallways of Cornell University Medical School was against the Eleventh Commandment: “Thou shall not digress from proper decorum.” Or was that her parents’ commandment?
She pushed through the glass doors, greedily gulping the clean, fresh air, inhaling the pungent aroma of freshly cut grass and blossoming buds. Faster. She headed for her dorm, not quite sure what she’d do when she arrived, only knowing that she had to get there. She’d figure it out. Rebellion felt exhilarating. She smiled.
The buzz grew fainter.
Six and a half hours later, soothed by the sound of Kenny G on CD, Nikita pulled into the endless driveway of her parents’ imposing Long Island estate. For the first time since she’d signed off the Cornell campus she questioned the veracity of her hasty actions.
Several moments passed—Kenny’d G’d, Al’d Jarreau’d and Grover’d worked his magic—before she took the key out of the ignition. She released a sigh. “It’s now or never.” Never, a little voice whispered back.
Nikita slid from behind the wheel of her silver-and-black Mercedes convertible—a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday four years earlier—easing the door shut. Her honey brown eyes settled on the house.
Set on sixty acres of land, in Lattington—which was situated in the “Gold Coast” of above upper-crust suburbia—the Harrell home was the envy of many. It was an architect’s delight, of Southern, turn-of-the-century charm coupled with modern accoutrements such as tennis court, swimming pool and gazebo. Their home had been the focus of many Home and Garden, House Beautiful and Architectural Digest issues. What seemed to impress everyone most, was that the Harrells were both black and affluent. Dr. Lawrence Harrell was one of the most renowned vascular surgeons in the United States, and Professor Cynthia Lewis-Harrell was the first black woman to head the mathematics department at Princeton University. Then there was Nikita.
Absently she ran her professionally manicured hands along the length of her ten-months-in-development dreads. They’d finally reached below her ears, and she couldn’t wait until they were long enough for her to vary their style. Her parents, on the other hand…
She looked up. Second-floor lights twinkled against the impending nightfall, a sure sign that she’d missed dinner and that her folks were settling down for the evening. Tradition.
Determinedly she proceeded down the cobblestone walk, careful because of her heels. The smooth stones could tell many a tale of her skinned knees and bruised elbows.
She pressed the bell and listened for the familiar beeps of the alarm being disengaged. The door swung inward.
“Niki! What on earth? Your parents didn’t say anything about you coming home,” Amy rushed on, hugging Niki to her slender frame. She had been with her family for as long as she could remember. Amy was the real power behind the well-oiled Harrell machine.
Amy released Niki and set her away. Her sharp brown eyes narrowed. “What’s going on? I’ve never known you to just come home without letting anybody know.” She peered around Nikita, looking for something that would explain the unannounced arrival. “Come in here and let me look at you.” She hustled Nikita into the house. “Are you sick?”
“No.”
“In trouble?”
“No, no. Nothing like that, Amy,” Nikita assured. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, that’s all.” She forced a smile.
“Humph. That doesn’t sound like you. Not like you at all. Your folks are upstairs and you already missed dinner,” she scolded, walking with Nikita down the Italian tile foyer.
“Amy! Who was at the door?”
Nikita’s heart knocked at the sound of her mother’s strident voice.
“It’s Nikita. She wanted to surprise us.” Amy threw Nikita a sharp look of disbelief.
Her mother, caressed by a pale peach satin lounging outfit and a cloud of Donna Karan’s Chaos cologne, floated to the top of the oak staircase. “Nikita! Larry, Larry. Nikita’s home.”
“I’ve dropped out of medical school.”
The silver teaspoon that her mother held clattered against a tiny demitasse cup. Cynthia’s gray-green eyes rounded in disbelief.
Nikita’s gaze darted across the table toward her father, who appeared to have not heard a word. The only indication that he had was the telltale flare of his nostrils.
Cynthia turned toward her husband. “Larry, for God sake, did you hear what she just said?”
“Of course I heard her.