Chapter 7 Maurice
The luncheon reached that awkward phase where plates were pushed aside and conversations waned. Folks were ready to disperse, but no one wanted to be the first to move.
For the first time in his life, Maurice lingered. Usually, he’d slip away to recalibrate and recharge. Today, his social battery wasn’t drained in the slightest.
Why is that?
Monique sat beside him, expressive and interesting. She made him curious.
Monique smelled like orchids and coconut, with a sea breeze chaser. When had he cataloged those scents? He’d never even seen the ocean before today. When he was around her, his nose and chest burned in a way that he could only describe as… delicious.
There was something going on with her, though.
A ripple of what he thought was pain passed through her body, and her hand pressed into her hip.
Deb announced that Monique should stay close.
All the whispers and thick emotions that filled the atmosphere when the table focused on her made her appear as though she had her own gravitational pull.
Monique couldn’t be too far into her forties. Her skin was a rich, smooth brown, decadent. Luscious. Not frail. But there was a certain economy in her movements that he’d seen before—in folk fighting something quiet, their bodies keeping their own counsel. Somehow, he just knew.
He’d seen the anti-nausea routine. First, during theology courses and a practicum in the prison infirmary and later in the hospice. But Monique didn’t look ill.
Maurice mentally flipped through a catalog of sick and shut-in visits.
Mrs. Gibson, whose cancer had spread, was now in hospice.
Chemo had made her skin seem more like a canvas.
The intricacies of her vascular system had been painted on her face like an anatomy chart.
But Mrs. Gibson was also nearly ninety years old, light-skinned, and rail-thin.
Any abnormalities would have shown up immediately.
Maurice shook his head and returned to observing.
Lanie, Tommie, and Sunny were absorbed in a conversation with Deb and Don. Richard focused on his phone.
He settled into the atmosphere that wasn’t exactly quiet but also didn’t disturb him. Monique’s attention was away from the table and on the holiday lighting woven through the ornate curves of the ironwork that surrounded them.
The Turners were the first to rise from the table. Mr. Turner’s hand fixed itself to the base of his wife’s spine in a move that, from Maurice’s vantage point, had been refined through decades of experience. Their rhythm required no verbal cues. They were unmistakably together.
Cassie and Taurion rose next, their movements not as practiced but just as intense. They drifted to the garden. Taurion’s lips brushed Cassie’s hand, inspiring warmth to suffuse her tawny cheeks.
Maurice’s chest tightened.
Taurion pulled out his phone and positioned them for a selfie. Monique rose from her seat, her sleeveless blue wrap dress a fluttering streak of color across the greenery as she walked away from him.
She approached the couple, hand outstretched for the phone. “Let me,” she said, with a genuine smile as she positioned them in front of a cluster of deep green leaves dotted with colorful flowers.
The bodice of her baby-blue dress hugged her upper body and flowed into a soft skirt that skimmed her ankles, where a sparkly adornment caught his attention. Her skin against that dress made Maurice think of spring and resurrection. Rebirth. Candy-coated chocolate.
That thought slammed into him, heating his cheeks, and forcing his eyes downward. But only temporarily. Not watching her wasn’t possible.
He found her again. Sun beamed on her shimmering skin, a pleased smile playing on her lips. Her expression was open as she spoke to Cassie and Taurion. She looked happy and moved in a way that made Maurice’s previous concerns vanish.
“Look at Monie, always with the camera.”
Maurice whipped his attention to Tommie, who now sat beside him. “Where did you come from?” His gaze went back to Monique, who had ventured farther into the garden. Maurice sat taller. Watching.
“Chill, B.” His best friend smiled in a way that was beyond amused.
One thing Maurice had learned in his many, many counseling sessions was to be purposeful with his words, even the ones he never spoke out loud. But his mind was a riot of new information: colors, sensations, sights, tastes, and sounds that he’d never thought to study up on before.
He was at a loss.
Tommie was quiet beside him. “You feeling her?”
Maurice stiffened. What did that even mean? He was too old, too out of practice. And Monique? She lived halfway across the country and had kids and a life that functioned just fine before she met him.
Throughout lunch, the Lanes had oriented themselves toward Monique like a sunflower turning toward the light. And Monique had been gracious. Accepting the attention but not outwardly welcoming it.
Monique put on no show with Cassie and Taurion. They laughed and leaned into each other. Loose and inviting. Real.
Maurice wanted to see what she’d do next.
“It’s cool if you are,” Tommie said with laughter in his voice. “You been studying her like she’s some code you’re trying to crack.” Tommie patted him on the shoulder. “Just… keep an eye out, okay?”
“Of course,” Maurice said on instinct.
“I’m for real, Mo. I”—his voice was almost a whisper—“Monie’s been through some things, and…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I know she can take care of herself, but her being here means more to us than you know.”
“Whatever needs to be done, I gotchu.”
“No doubt. But I didn’t ask you here—didn’t ask you to kick it with Monie—to put you to work, my brother. I asked you here to have fun.”
Fun. The time he’d spent at the Lanes before everything went from bad to worse was fun. But Maurice could only sustain that fantasy for a few hours at a time. Tommie was talking about days. Fun. Him?
Maurice’s watch buzzed with a text alert. Darnel. He picked up his phone and read through the string of text updates about a job opportunity Maurice had been advising him on.
“You’re here,” Tommie said, taking the phone from Maurice’s hands and putting it face down on the table. “Be here. Your crew knows what to do. Uncle Jim is there. Rachel. Besides, it’s a holiday week. It’s supposed to be light.”
Fun. Light. Got it.
Sunny joined Cassie, Taurion, and Monique, smiling and laughing and posing. Richard appeared, and Sunny peeled away from the photo session to join him, her presence unacknowledged, like something that was always there. Maurice returned his attention to what Tommie had been saying.
So much for light and fun.
Maurice nodded slowly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Don, Deb, and Lanie approached. Maurice and Tommie stood to greet them.
“Boys, we’re heading up,” Aunt Deb said, squeezing Maurice’s hand. “Your mother and I aren’t as young as we used to be.” Don slipped her petite arms around Deb’s waist, whose face flashed with surprise before softening.
Tommie kissed his mothers on their cheeks. “Get some rest. We got Monie.”
“Let Monique get Monique,” Lanie said with bite, hooking her arm through Tommie’s. “You promised we’d check out the pool. Let’s go.”
“But baby, you’re not supposed to swim for at least an hour after you eat.”
Lanie rolled her eyes. “See y’all later.” She walked away, towing Tommie behind her.
Alone with Don and Deb, Maurice struggled to focus. Deborah Fairbanks was more than one of Tommie’s parents, she’d been a good friend to Maurice’s mother and an even better friend to him. Through Fairbanks Construction, he found belonging and purpose.
“Enjoy the rest of the afternoon, son,” Deb said. Her laughter was husky as she patted him on the chest. She was statuesque and striking like the women his mother had idolized in Ebony magazine when he was smaller and life was quieter.
To Maurice and so many others, Deb was strength and stability. But she was also the definition of persistence. Here with her arm draped over her love’s shoulder, spine tall, eyes steady, and heart forward, something that felt like envy rattled in his chest.
“Will we see you at dinner?” Don asked.
His eyes found Monique’s glittering against the greenery, and the world quieted around and inside him. She pantomimed a camera and pointed up as she smiled big. Then she gave him a nod and thumbs-up before disappearing into the foliage.
“Look at him.” Don sounded wistful. “Just stunned.”
Deb chuckled. “I didn’t know his face could do that.”
“I know that look.”
Deb’s voice dropped, her tone languid. “Do you now?”
“Yes, you look at me like that.”
“Always, my love.”
Don’s tinkling laughter drew Maurice’s eyes from Monique’s path to the two septuagenarians presently stealing kisses beneath a canopy of palm leaves.
He cleared his throat, but they barely registered his presence. Tired of being the third wheel, Maurice followed the stone path through the gardens and back to the lobby.
The hotel grounds were extensive. The pool and spa, according to the signs, were one way, the lobby and Old San Juan the other. Another sign led to the chapel. Behind him were the gardens. And he had a vague idea where Monique had gone.
One, two… He counted his steps on instinct as he paced between the elevators and the hotel lobby… thirty, thirty-one. Tapping his foot on a stone at the edge of the atrium, he turned around and began counting all over again. One, two, three…
“What am I doing?” He raked a hand through his beard but then stuffed his hands in his pockets as Deb and Don approached.
They pressed the button and the elevator doors opened.
Monique stood there with a bag draped over her right shoulder and had changed into some sneakers. Maurice was thankful she still wore the pretty blue dress that made her dark eyes look violet when the light hit just so…
“Y’all going to your room?” Monique said, stepping out of the elevator.
“We are,” Deb said, pulling Aldonia inside the elevator. “Maybe we’ll see you later.”
“Okay then.” Monique gave them a wave.
Aunt Deb started to say something, but the elevator doors closed on her. Monique sighed and her shoulders sank.
“I love them, but I’m all peopled out.” She sat on the bench where she’d found Maurice earlier that day and pulled a camera from her bag.
In his pockets, his fingers scratched at his thighs with nervous energy. “You’re a photographer?” Maurice asked, standing nearby yet wanting to give her space.
She shifted her bag and herself, making room for him.
He sat.
“Nah. I just take pictures.”
“What do you do with them?”
She shrugged. “Most of the time, nothing. It’s just something I like to do.
” She pulled out a tiny spray bottle and microfiber cloth and went about polishing her lens and viewfinder.
“I haven’t been able to travel in a while.
I would be so pissed if I didn’t get some shots of these gardens.
” Her smile held an unrestrained eagerness that made Maurice inch closer.
“Besides, my girls would skin me if I missed this opportunity.”
Her “girls.” She had people.
He must have sat there too long, lost in his head, because Monique stood with a sort of finality.
“Well,” she said, gathering her camera and bag. “I’m gonna get these shots before I lose the light.”
Maurice watched her head back toward the garden but didn’t move to join her.
She paused and turned to him. “You can come if you want. But I’ma be moving slow. It probably won’t be much fun for you.”
There was that word again. “I don’t need fun.”
Monique studied him for a moment. “Oh… kay then. You coming?”
He was at her side in less than ten paces.
Back at the edge of the dining room, Monique squatted near the wrought iron gate and angled herself to and fro.
He held her bag and watched her work. The way she bit her bottom lip as she found her shot was one of the most interesting things he’d ever seen.
The shutter clicked again and again, accompanied by the trickle of the fountain.
The canopy of palms filtered the setting sunlight in a way that looked like golden lace.
Tiny flecks on her skin fractured the light like diamonds. Did she know she sparkled?
“Now, Mo,” she said, adjusting her position and pressing the shutter button, “don’t make it weird.”
Part of his job was to study people. That’s what he’d go with.
She gripped the gate and pulled herself up to stand. “Tommie and the Aunties are plotting. And…” She swayed, her sharp gaze wobbling.
Maurice rushed to her side. “Are you okay?” He held her elbow.
Monique gripped his forearms, steadying herself.
“Sometimes I forget that my body doesn’t follow directions very well.
” Her eyes drifted closed, and she took a few deep breaths before looking up at him.
Those deep brown eyes of hers held volumes of information that Maurice was suddenly desperate to read.
His speeding pulse, he was certain, could be felt under Monique’s grip, but he didn’t want her to stop touching him.
She licked her lips.
His watch buzzed, making him jump.