Chapter Twenty-Nine
Kwame
Opportunity Knocks
I’d resigned myself to not seeing her until Sunday, so Sin is the last person I expect to find at my doorstep on a dreary Monday night. “I know it’s late. I just took a chance you’d be here and free,” she says when I open the door.
“Uh…hi.” I stare dumbly at her, my vision clouded by surprise that doesn’t know which way to assert itself. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone as I am to see her now. But I also know that if she’s here something is wrong. “Are you okay?”
“Can I come in, or… do you have company?” She looks up at the sky and it’s only then that I notice the drizzle of rain visible in the beams projected by my security lights.
“I’m alone, and of course you can come in.” I open the door to make room for her to step through it.
She exhales as if she was holding her breath. “Thank you. I’m sorry to drop by like this.” She slips past me and takes her black, pointed toe flats off and lines them up neatly next to the pair of basketball sneakers I left there a few hours ago.
I gaze down at them side by side and like the way it looks. She clears her throat, and I look up to find her watching me. I even pretend that I’m sorry she caught me and my smile deepens.
Her eyes narrow “What are you smiling at?”
I shrug. “Just…you’re here.”
She quirks her pursed lips and shrugs. “I know I asked for space but I really needed to talk to someone, and it’s you.”
Flattered and happy doesn’t begin to describe how it makes me feel to hear those words. “I’m glad you came. I’m just cleaning up after dinner. Do you mind hanging out in the kitchen?”
“Sure.” She looks down, and I follow her gaze to her bare feet. She wiggles her cute pink-tipped toes, and I have to rip my eyes away and swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth.
She clears her throat, and I drag my eyes back to her face. Her brown skin is glowing despite the cold and her dark brown eyes are limpid in this light. I wonder if she’s remembering the same thing I am, but know better than to ask. “Do you have an extra pair of chale wotes? I hate being barefoot.”
I nod and smile at her use of the Ghanaian colloquialism for flip-flops. “Then you’ve come to right place. I do, too. Excuse me.” I point to the wall panel behind her. “I need to get in there.”
“Sure.” She ducks her head and steps aside. I press the wall with the flat of my hand. The top panel springs open to reveal a cabinet full of house slippers in every color and size. “Take your pick. I ordered a dozen pairs in every size when I was in Ghana last.”
She stares at the wall long enough for me to wonder if she heard me. I’m about to repeat myself when she takes a step toward it.
“Wow, a secret panel full of shoes…I thought I’d have to die and go to heaven to see something like this,” she says and pulls out a black pair covered in a gold and white pattern made up of the Adinkra symbol my parents used to create our family crest, and that adorns everything with his name on it.
She murmurs something under her breath as she inspects them.
“Will those work?” I ask.
“Yeah, this is Bese Saka.”
“My mother had it embossed on her stationary. It stands for affluence, abundance, and unity.” I smile despite the wistful pang in my chest.
“Talk about manifesting your life.” She waves her hand around the grand room.
“Except she never really got to enjoy it. This was her dream house…and she never lived in it.” I laugh like I’ve made a joke and turn away from her before I say more. The slap of the rubber shoes hitting the floor is followed by the shuffling of her soles.
I make my way without waiting for her, but she catches up with me in a matter of steps. “So, she left it to you?”
“Yes. She wanted me to make it a home. She loved it.”
“I see why. It’s beautiful,” she says, her head swiveling to take in the cavernous, furniture-free living room and dining room. “Why don’t you have any furniture?”
“I have everything I need. Just…haven’t gotten round to decorating.”
“If I lived here, I’d never leave. It’s gorgeous.”
It’s funny how differently we see this space. I realize that I haven’t actually looked at the parts of the house I don’t live in. She’s right. The rooms have two-story-high windows that overlook different ends of the massive back lawn.
“I work a lot. But maybe I should—”
“Oh my God,” she gasps as we step into the kitchen.
“What?” I ask, looking around for what could have elicited the sound.
“This kitchen, it’s beautiful. It’s a dream.” She walks over to the first island and runs the flat of her hand over the white, grey and gold counter tops and shakes her head in awe. “Wow, I’ve never seen stone like this.”
“It was made especially for the house in Ghana. Much like everything else they purchased for the renovations.” That pang of wistful regret is back. I hate that my mother never got to live in this house that she built with so much care.
The walls are paneled with white wallpaper embossed with the Adinkra symbol. The only things that aren’t are the appliances.
“I could live in here,” she says as she strolls through the space, touching every surface with a reverence I wish I could inspire. She opens the fridge. “SubZero, commercial size and empty,” she mutters.
“I hate cooking for one, so I eat out.”
“Or at my mom’s,” she quips and throws me a teasing smile over her shoulder before she walks over to the butler’s pantry.
“Holy shit. You’ve got more dishes than a restaurant.”
“Yeah, my mom loved crockery. I inherited her collection and even though I’ll probably never use them, brought it here with me.”
“I’d eat on these every day.” She sighs and gazes at the cabinets while I gaze at her.
Her profile is sharp and striking. Only the outrageously full swell of her lips hints at the lushness of her whole face.
A dainty jawline, straight broad-bridged nose, and high cheekbones form the perfect pedestal for her upward sloping almond- shaped eyes. Her lashes are dark, thick, and nearly straight.
On a heavy sigh, she lets her head loll back and closes her eyes.
I stop staring and am instantly alert. “What’s wrong, Sin?”
“I wish I’d been born wealthy instead of good looking and smart.” She casts me a baleful look.
“What?” I bark a surprised laugh then quell it when she scowls and walks out of the pantry.
“Wait, are you serious, Sin?”
“Yes, money is freedom and choice.”
I shake my head. “No it’s not.”
She shuffles over to the bar and hoists her lush ass onto the buttery yellow leather chair that cradles it so perfectly I’m jealous of it. It’s closer than I’ve been in a long time.
She props her elbow onto the counter and rests her chin on a closed fist.
“So, if you didn’t have bills, you wouldn’t work?”
“Of course I would work. But not like this. For people who lie, backstab and care more about cozying up to sources instead of reporting on them.”
I slide into the stool next to hers. “What happened?”
She and slumps in her seat. “I hate my job.”
I nod in understanding even though I’m surprised. She’s always talked about work as a calling. But as I think about it, she doesn’t talk about it much at all. If I didn’t bring up her column every Sunday, she might not talk about it at all.
“I’m not sure I even want to be a journalist if this is all it’s going to be.” She looks despondent.
“You love your job.”
“I love the idea of it. The possibilities it holds.” She lets out a sigh and stares straight ahead unblinking.
“But the reality?” I prompt when she doesn’t continue after a few seconds.
She shakes her head slowly and blinks as if to clear her vision.
“The reality is I’m stuck with an editor with an aversion to thinking outside the box and I pissed off the one person I needed to impress.
And you know what? I don’t care. She’s an asshole and if she liked me, it would mean I was, too. ”
“Not necessarily, but I get your point.”
She purses her lips. “I took this job because I wanted to be back in DC, but also because I wanted to do something that didn’t consume me the way investigative work used to. I thought this was what I wanted.”
“And it’s not?”
“No, it is. I mean, I don’t want to end up where I was a few months ago.”
“Where was that?”
“With my work stolen, and nothing to show for it.”
“Damn that’s grim.”
“That’s what’s happened before. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve learned my lesson and the story…it doesn’t want to let me go. I want to see it through and let it go.”
I understand the feeling. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
She bites her lip and shakes her head. “Yes. I’m so close to nailing this person down.”
“So, what’s stopping you?”
“My target is someone who is normally impossible to pin down and I found out he’ll be at an event in DC in two days. I need is a press pass.”
“And your boss said no.”
“Yes.”
“Well fuck her. Go anyway.”
“I can’t sneak my way into that kind of event.” She looks down at her hands and frowns. “He’s going to slip through my fingers again.”
“Who is he?”
“I can’t tell you. Not yet. Not until I’ve got him.” She curls her hands into fists at the same time a smile curls the corners of her mouth.
I let out a low whistle of appreciation. “I’d hate to be the person you’re thinking about with that blood-thirsty glint in your eye.”
She scoffs and curls her lip. “He’s everything I hate. A criminal with power and money who plays the good citizen by day but is nothing close to it. I want to expose and stop him.”
“Then you will.”
She growls low in her throat and slaps the counter. “It’s the perfect story for the paper. I’m the perfect person to write it. She shot it down like I’d suggested writing about an alien invasion.”
“Did she say why?”
She rolls her eyes and sucks her teeth, the universal West African sign of disgust that makes me miss my mother. “Her reasons were bullshit. And she did it in front of the entire department.”
I wince in empathy. Seeing her so defeated makes my chest ache. I run a hand up her back and massage the base of her neck. She’s so tense. “I’m sorry.”