Her Lover's Legacy
Adrianne Byrd
Heir-apparent Malcolm Braddock may be the sexiest community activist under the Houston sun, but clearly he's met his match in Gloria Kingsley, the late senator Harmon Braddock's strikingly beautiful executive assistant. Both were recently spotted in a limo in a very…um…compromising position, and it appears Ms. Kingsley is influencing more than the brooding, lone-wolf bachelor's normally conservative sense of fashion (when she lets him stay dressed, of course!).We can conclude that Gloria is on a mission to make No-Commitments-Malcolm her Mr. Right. But with rumors flying about Senator Braddock–and a few dirty little secrets that didn't die with him–can she get Malcolm to secure his father's mantle as well?
Meet the Braddocks
Malcolm Braddock:
Activist. Leader. Passion-provoking son of Texas’s legendary, late Congressman Braddock. Malcolm never wanted any part of Daddy Braddock’s political plans for him. But little does the brooding bachelor know that a take-no-prisoners beauty has her own plans to make the number one son her number one mission!
Shondra Braddock:
Gorgeous. Brilliant. Wild and unstoppable. Shondra’s spent her life dealing with a family of men who want to tame her. But when she embarks on a high-stakes, highly improper international affair with her sexy, white boss, she discovers the forbidden pleasure of being with the one man who prefers her untamed….
Tyson Braddock:
Hot-tempered. Hot-bodied. And hot as hell. Workaholic Tyson put his marriage on hold for years. But he and his estranged wife are in for a seven-pound, eight-ounce surprise! Ty believes he can handle fatherhood, but can he handle the passionate new side of his suddenly not-so-predictable, but oh-so-seductive wife?
The Secret Son:
Not all of Senator Braddock’s secrets died with him. Some are still very much alive, and packing a hard, six-foot-one, muscular frame to die for. But when this exotic secret son finds out his real identity, and ends up playing protector to a fiery virgin in the process, all bets…and clothes…are off!
ADRIANNE BYRD
has always preferred to live within the realm of her imagination, where all the men are gorgeous and the women are worth whatever trouble they manage to get into.
Her Lover’s Legacy
Adrianne Byrd
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Houston. I’d like to introduce you to the Braddocks, an affluent African-American family who are entrenched in secrets, sex and political intrigue. In this four-book continuity, prepare to be swept away by their powerful love stories, and discover the secret that cost this wonderful family their patriarch. I was honored to be asked to contribute to this series, and I hope you enjoy reading Malcolm and Gloria’s journey to self-discovery and love.
Then run out and buy book #2, Sex and the Single Braddock by Robyn Amos; book #3, Second Chance, Baby by A.C. Arthur; and book #4, The Object of his Protection by Brenda Jackson.
Enjoy,
Adrianne Byrd
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Chapter 1
It was the second-worst day of Malcolm Braddock’s life. The first was three days ago when he received the news about his father’s fatal car crash. Ever since then, he’d been walking around numb and talking in a daze.
Now, Malcolm tightened his grip around his mother’s shoulders and watched the ever-graceful Evelyn Braddock draw her chin higher and somehow keep her shimmering tears from streaking down her ageless face. A forty-year marriage over without a single warning.
His baby sister, Shondra, was another story. Though to a stranger’s eye she looked calm, cool and collected, anyone who knew Shawnie wouldn’t have missed the dull listlessness of her brown eyes or the dark circles that now seemed to ring them permanently, the puffy red nose rubbed raw from endless wiping. She was falling apart.
Malcolm ground his molars together, anger and helplessness finally penetrating his numb armor. Thank God for his brother, Tyson, an unexpected and welcome Rock of Gibraltar who anchored the family and kept it together.
As the eldest son, that should have been Malcolm’s job.
A fine mist of rain descended from Texas’s slate-gray sky while fat thunderclouds gathered menacingly above the large group of mourners surrounding Congressman Harmon Braddock’s grave site. Reverend Vereen made his appeals to the heavens about mercy and forgiveness, but Malcolm had tuned all that out when the black-and-chrome casket began its descent into the freshly turned earth.
Acidic tears burned Malcolm’s eyes while his breath stalled in his lungs. No! Wait! I’m not ready yet. But time, like it had for the past three days, refused to stop and wait for him to catch up.
His father was dead.
“In sure and in certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life through our Lord,” the Reverend intoned, “we commit Brother Harmon Braddock to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”
Malcolm closed his eyes and blocked out the rest of the Burial Rite.
When it was all over, mourners cloistered around the family, once again offering their condolences. Many, if not most, Malcolm recognized as his father’s political allies, supporters and even adversaries. Their slick hands and painted-on smiles turned his stomach, but he knew it was all a part of the game—even for Houston local media outlets filming a comfortable distance away.
“Your father was a great man.” Senator Ray Cayman’s strong, wiry hand pressed into Malcolm’s. “I know the last two years—”
“Yes. Thank you, Senator,” Malcolm said in a near growl, and freed his hand from the steel grip. He knew the direction the conversation was headed and he didn’t want to go there. Not now. Probably never.
If Cayman was offended, it didn’t show in his weathered mahogany features. Actually, Malcolm couldn’t remember a time when the distinguished septuagenarian showed his true emotions, but he knew his cool brown eyes missed nothing.
With a slight nod, Cayman stepped aside and in his place a tall African-American man with unusual Asian-shaped eyes shook his hand. “Sorry for your loss,” he said with a curt nod, and then moved on.
The line of endless faces continued, and Malcolm returned to feeling more like a marble statue than a man still among the living.
Just then, Bruce Hanlon stepped up to Malcolm. “You know your father was like a brother to me,” Bruce stressed. The comment almost wrestled a smile from Malcolm. Nobody would have mistaken the affluent blue-eyed judge and the rich ebony-hued Harmon Braddock as brothers, but the two had always been as thick as thieves as far back as Malcolm could remember.
“He loved you,” Hanlon added, refusing to relinquish their handshake until Malcolm met his sharp gaze. “You know that, don’t you?”
Did he? Malcolm pressed his lips together and gave the judge a firm nod. It was the best he could do.
A familiar melodious voice floated on the air. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
He caught sight of his father’s assistant, Gloria Kingsley, talking to his brother, Ty, and his wife, Felicia. Malcolm’s chest tightened as he watched Gloria’s beautiful golden eyes turn toward Shawnie, her arms wrapping around his sister in shared comfort.
He hadn’t meant to stare while the women held each other, but when Gloria’s gaze caught his, he turned away.
Thunder rolled and a flash of lightning streaked the evening sky. It was a welcome excuse to usher his mother to their waiting limousine before the light drizzle turned into a torrential downpour and before he had to face Gloria on his own.
Hours later, the day finally came to an exhausting end with Malcolm peeling out of his suit before he finished entering his quaint inner-city apartment. He had tossed the jacket over the back of the sofa, removed his shoes near the breakfast bar and unbuttoned his shirt by the time he retrieved a Sam Adams from the refrigerator. The pull from his beer was a balm to his tattered nerves. The second chug emptied the bottle, and he had to grab another before returning to the spacious living room.
He collapsed on the Italian leather sofa and stared up at the strange flower patterns in the ceiling, trying his damnedest to clear his mind and hang on to the protective numbness that surrounded his heart.
It wasn’t working.
Images of that heated fight he and his father had two years ago flashed before his eyes. There was so much he regretted, so many words he didn’t mean.
That’s a lie, his conscience corrected. He had meant them at the time.
“You used to be a man of integrity—a man of his word. Now you’re like every other slick politician in Washington. You’re one of them—a sellout!”
Malcolm closed his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to block out the image of his father’s angry face, slack and drained of color as he’d shouted those words and stormed out of his father’s office. In his escape, he’d nearly bowled over a shocked Gloria.
True, in his thirty-two years he and his father had butt heads in the past, but not like that. Never like that.
When Malcolm was growing up, Harmon Braddock was his hero. He was the top prosecutor in the district attorney’s office, putting away bad guys and throwing away the key. It was the closest thing to an Eliot Ness that he and his friends knew. Of course, Malcolm would embellish the stories a bit whenever a member of some crime cartel was sent to jail, but it was always in good childhood fun.
When his father accepted the position as head legal council for Senator Ray Cayman, Malcolm’s interest marched in line with his father’s and he entered Morehouse for a double major in political science and history.
Years later, there were no words to describe how happy and proud he felt when his father not only decided to run, but won his seat in the House of Representatives.
Sometime during the end of his stint at Morehouse College, Malcolm began championing some of his mother’s philanthropic causes: Feed the Hungry, UNICEF and the Coalition for the Homeless—the list went on and on. When it was time for Malcolm to ship out to Harvard Law, he’d really connected with his mother’s work and had serious doubts whether politics was the right course for his life.
He brought the question up to his father, and it was perhaps the first time his father showed a flicker of disappointment in him. Feeling as if he’d somehow betrayed his father, Malcolm still entered and aced law school. But the hypocrisy of the political landscape sickened him even more.
Once he’d passed the bar, he shunned all the lofty positions offered to one whose father was a star congressman. Instead, he joined the Peace Corps and hopped the first plane smoking out of the United States.
For four years, Malcolm toiled happily in Ghana, strengthening and teaching behavior changes to reduce water-and sanitation-related diseases.
Unfortunately, his extended absence had cost him his first serious relationship with Theresa Frost, his college girlfriend who’d once promised to wait for him. Instead, when he returned, she had moved to New York and married some rich studio executive.
He was crushed.
His father thought once he’d returned to Houston that he’d worked out all his philanthropic demons and would now utilize his law degree and accept a position with the D.A.’s office, which would eventually lead to a life in politics. Instead, Malcolm founded the Arc Foundation—which in four years he had transformed into one of the world’s largest grassroots organizations of and for people with intellectual and developmental disabilities.
The tug-of-war between what Malcolm wanted and what his father wanted for him had just begun.
And now it’s over. You’re free.
Malcolm sat up, ashamed of the renegade thought. However, the guilt refused to go away. Instead, it clung to him like a living thing, choking him.
Hitting the shower, he scrubbed his skin as the steaming water pelted down. The pain distracted him.
Somewhat refreshed, Malcolm returned to the living room and scanned the sparsely decorated apartment with its few family pictures. Ah, here it is. A broken wood-framed five-by-eight picture of his father with the glass splintered like a spider’s web. It had been shoved in the bottom of a box inside the DVD cabinet.
It was his father’s official press kit photo, one with him dressed in an immaculate dark suit, perched behind a handsome mahogany desk with an American flag on his lapel and full-size flag propped in the corner.
Congressman Harmon Braddock, a man for the people.
Yeah, the rich people.
Malcolm lowered the picture back into the box and shifted his attention to a few DVDs labeled Dad’s Campaign. He had no intentions of doing it, had no idea whether he was ready for it, but he opened the DVD case and slipped the first disk into the player and clicked on the TV.
Images of the first Braddock’s Victory Campaign Party splashed onto the screen. Malcolm and the entire family stood proudly behind his father, waving through falling streamers, balloons and confetti to a jubilant crowd holding flags, signs and bumper stickers in the air.
The corners of Malcolm’s mouth curved, the memories of that wonderful night warming his body. When the camera zoomed in on his father’s face, he pressed Pause on the remote control and then studied the face that was so similar to his own: open, honest and intelligent were adjectives everyone used to describe Harmon Braddock.
At least in the beginning.
Malcolm rolled his eyes at the voice inside his head that was determined to play devil’s advocate and unfroze the frame. But seconds later, he paused the picture again. This time the image filling his forty-eight-inch screen was of Gloria Kingsley.
He was surprised to see her—an unexpected beaming face in the crowd. He hadn’t known that she was there that night. Gloria hadn’t started working for his father until toward the end of his second term in D.C.
She couldn’t have been more than—what?—twenty-one. Of course, he had no idea how old the golden-eyed beauty was; it was certainly not something a man asked a woman, either. If he had to guess, he’d say she was twenty-nine. One thing was clear, Gloria Kingsley was pretty when she was younger, but she was nothing less than a knockout now.
A pain-in-the-ass knockout, but a knockout all the same.
The first time he’d met the woman was during a rare political fund-raiser his father talked him into attending. Gloria entered the ballroom in an unforgettable black, backless evening gown that had every man with a pulse tripping over his tongue.
Malcolm raced to her side, swiping an extra flute of champagne in his haste. When he offered her the champagne, she shot him down by telling him she didn’t drink, that his tie was crooked, and then inquired when was the last time his suit had seen the inside of a cleaners. From then on out, Malcolm didn’t like her.
Of course, she absolutely mooned over his father and could regurgitate ad nauseam every speech, point of view and interview the man had ever made.
Malcolm made it a point to stay away from her.
Still, he thought she was a gorgeous woman.
The doorbell rang, and Malcolm groaned his irritation and considered not answering the door, but by the time his uninvited guest rang the bell a fourth time, he hopped up and stormed toward it. When he snatched it open, his vast vocabulary failed to suggest a single word for his unexpected, albeit beautiful, guest: Gloria.
Chapter 2
Momentarily thrown off guard by the sight of the smooth, muscular, toffee-colored skin peeking from the open V of Malcolm’s burgundy robe, Gloria unconsciously licked her lips and fluttered a hand to her throat. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Malcolm’s groomed brows crashed together above his probing brown eyes a second before his rumbling baritone snapped impatiently, “What are you doing here?”
Stung by the rebuff, Gloria squared her shoulders and wielded a sharp look of her own. “Well, I certainly didn’t come here to stand out in the hallway.”
They stared at each other, locked in a stalemate.
Gloria had feared this would happen, especially judging how Malcolm went out of his way to avoid her at the funeral, but she had also resolved to camp outside his door if that’s what it took to get him to see reason.
Finally, Malcolm stepped back and allowed her to enter through a narrowed space. Refusing to be intimidated, she crossed the threshold. Her breasts brushed against what felt to her like molten steel; volts of electricity surged through her body. She jumped.
“Must be static from the carpet,” Malcolm explained, confirming he’d felt the charge as well.
She moved on, glanced around and was impressed by the simple decor and surprising cleanliness of a confirmed-bachelor’s pad. When she entered the living room, she froze and stared at her own image on the television screen.
Malcolm scrambled from behind her, grabbed the remote from the couch and punched the power button. Once the screen went black, the room roared with a strained and uncomfortable silence. “I, uh, was looking at some old campaign stuff and, uh, well, paused it when you knocked.”
“I see,” she said.
He tossed the remote back on the couch and faced her. “Okay. So you’re not standing in the hallway,” he said, reclaiming his previous impatience. “What is it that you want?”
Why Gloria’s gaze tumbled from his penetrating coffee-brown eyes to his deliciously plump lips at the question was beyond her. As to why her stomach looped into knots whenever she was around him? She didn’t even want to go there.
“First,” she began, and then cleared her throat from what felt like a sack of marbles clogging her windpipe. “I wanted to extend my condolences for your terrible loss, Malcolm.”
When he gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod, she trudged on. “I know the past two years—”
“Stop.” Despite the soft tone, the order held the authority of a military commander. “I appreciate your coming here and all, but, uh, if you came looking for an Oprah moment, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you.”
Slowly, Gloria tilted her head side to side and cracked the bones in her neck while she prayed for patience. What was it about Malcolm that got under her skin? From the first time they met, the sarcastic know-it-all rubbed her the wrong way.
Why had she thought tonight would be any different?
“Anything else?” he prompted.
His abhorrent rudeness forced Gloria to silently count to ten. However, Malcolm took her silence as confirmation that she was through. He grasped her by the elbow to direct her back to the front door.
The touch of his hand shot off a few more sparks, but Gloria planted her feet and jerked her arm free. “I’m not finished yet!”
Malcolm sighed, rolled his eyes and shoved his hands into his pockets, widening the V of his robe and displaying a larger swath of honey-brown skin.
Gloria licked her lips again.
“Well?” he said, staring. “I’m sure you understand I’ve had a very long day.”
“I need you,” she said. When his brows crashed together again, she realized what she’d said hadn’t come out right. “I meant, I need you to come to Harmon’s—I mean, your father’s—office and help pack up his things.”
He was laughing before she finished the sentence.
“Malcolm—”
“Sorry,” he said, still chuckling and shaking his head. “You’ve come to the wrong one. This is a job for Shawnie or Ty or maybe even Mom.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scolded. “You’re the oldest—the head of the family. This is your job.”
He went from laughing to scowling in less than two seconds. “I don’t need you to tell me what my job is, Ms. Kingsley.”
“Oh, really?” Gloria arched her brows and crossed her arms. “You think it was your job to hole up in this apartment for the past three days and watch old videos instead of being at your mother’s and helping the rest of your family through this difficult time?”
He said nothing, but Gloria saw a vein appear and twitch along his jawline.
Still, she continued. “The way I see things, the least you could do is help me with Harmon’s office.”
“The problem with the way you see things, Ms. Kingsley, is that nobody cares—especially me.”
His words were a verbal slap, but she reeled back as if it was physical. Her chin came up, but when her tears came unbidden, she barely held them in check. “If it makes you feel better to lash out at me, then please by all means, do so. You’re hurting, and I understand it devastates the male ego to show any type of vulnerability—especially around a woman. But when you’re finished attacking me for your personal issues, I still need for you to help pack your father’s belongings.”
They stood in a stalemate.
“It shouldn’t take too long,” she added, gentler this time. “Plus, there’s a lot of legal stuff that you would have a better handle on than I would. And it might be one last thing you can do for him.”
Malcolm drew a deep breath. The protruding vein disappeared, and for one brief moment, Gloria thought she saw his eyes soften. Had she hit the nail on the head?
“Two hours—tops,” she lied.
After a long silence, Malcolm nodded and surprised her. “Sorry. What I said was…I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.” Gloria relaxed enough to smile. “Truce?”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “Truce.” He opened his arms and she automatically stepped into his embrace. Arms like steel bands wrapped and pressed her against an equally hard body. His skin smelled fresh, like soap.
Gloria closed her eyes and drew strength and comfort from a man she’d often found herself at odds with—and she took it. Greedily.
She must have lost track of time because she jumped when Malcolm cleared his throat. She had to extract herself from his warm embrace, so they endured yet another awkward moment.
“So, um, Monday?” she asked.
“Monday it is,” he confirmed with a studying gaze.
She cleared her throat and straightened her posture. It was time to make her exit. She’d got what she came for: the first step of many in her master plan.
Chapter 3
Malcolm needed to get his head examined.
His father’s office was the last place he wanted to be, and after that strange visit from Gloria a couple of days ago, he wasn’t too sure if it was a smart idea to be alone with her in any capacity. If he hadn’t gotten her to release him when he did, Gloria Kingsley would have felt something else rising from beneath his robe.
Actually, he was sort of curious how she would’ve reacted. Heaven knows it was a surprise to him, but the combination of her floral-scented perfume and her soft curves pressed against him awakened something within.
Something he didn’t want to explore.
Now staring up at the brick-and-glass building of his father’s local office, Malcolm scanned his mental Rolodex of excuses for one that would get him out of going inside.
Something other than the fact that he simply didn’t want to do this. He wasn’t ready. He may never be ready.
He sat in his car, watching a few employees trickle out, carrying their boxes of belongings—each unemployed now that Harmon Braddock had passed away.
The brave soul who would run for the vacant Twenty-ninth Congressional District seat would hire his own professional crew, but a few, like Gloria, would remain and help with whatever transition was needed from the old guard to the new.
Then what will she do? Malcolm wondered.
The question puzzled him, and he had to admit he really didn’t know that much about Gloria’s personal life or her history. He just knew the meticulously organized woman who ran his father’s office like a well-oiled machine. As far as he knew, she was never late, always professional and thought the sun rose and set on Harmon Braddock.
Simply put, her hero worship of his father annoyed him.
But say what he will, his father seemed equally impressed and dependent on Gloria as well—to the point that she was like a second daughter, a feeling that seemed mutually expressed by Malcolm’s mother as well.
Shawnie and Tyson were also cast under her spell and had bragged about her on more than one occasion. Yep, everyone loved Gloria, and yet whenever she and Malcolm were in the same room atoms and neutrons collided.
“C’mon. Let’s get this over with.” He removed the keys from the ignition and climbed out of his silver hybrid SUV. “Whatever you do, stay calm. Don’t let her bait you or get under your skin,” he coached, as if he was gearing up for his old college football games.
“Malcolm.” A familiar voice whipped out at him as he lumbered up the sidewalk. He looked up and smiled into Mrs. Blake’s kind face. Something about the grandmotherly southern woman made him think of Little League and homemade apple pies. Nothing about her said politics, but in truth she was one impressive campaign manager.
“Hello, Mrs. Blake,” he greeted her when he reached her. He stooped over and kissed each side of her face and enjoyed the sound of her lighthearted giggles.
“Such a handsome boy,” she murmured, like she always did when their paths crossed. “What a lovely service your family put together this past weekend. Your father was a very special man.” Her eyes shimmered. “I can’t tell you how much he’ll be missed.”
“We’ll all miss him,” he said, combating his own tears.
“You know, I don’t even understand why he was driving himself that night,” she said. “He usually had his personal driver, Joe, take him everywhere.”
Malcolm nodded solemnly. “I guess he just felt like driving himself that night,” he said. “The police report said he had to be speeding when he lost control of the car and skidded off the road. The car flipped over and…”
“Don’t do this to yourself. You know he was so proud of you.” Mrs. Blake gave his right cheek a loving pat. “I know the past two years…”
Malcolm tensed and dropped his gaze.
Mrs. Blake patiently tilted up his chin; her smile never wavered. “He loved you,” she said succinctly.
“I know,” he answered, and received another pat on the cheek.
They quickly said their goodbyes and Malcolm trudged the rest of the way to his father’s old stomping ground. The moment he entered through the doors, the few people remaining all turned in their chairs. Most of them smiled, while the others gave sympathetic shakes of their heads.
He gave everyone an awkward wave.
“There you are, Malcolm,” Gloria said, rounding the corner and rescuing him before the curious descended.
“I didn’t know so many people were still going to be here,” he whispered, trailing behind her military-like march to his father’s office.
“There’s still a lot of work that needs to be done,” she said simply. “A lot of loose ends.”
He nodded and made a quick glance at his watch. Two hours, he reminded himself.
“I saw you sitting in your car,” she went on. “I was beginning to think you were going to chicken out.”
Malcolm’s back stiffened. “It feels a bit too soon to be doing this,” he defended.
“And yet it still needs to be done,” she said, rejecting the excuse.
He huffed under his breath, thinking she was more robot than woman.
Gloria walked over to the far right side of the office where a mahogany bookshelf held a library of his father’s law books. “This was Harmon’s personal collection. I believe it was passed down from your grandfather. I have these containers,” she pointed to a stack of blue Wal-Mart brand plastic tubs. “They are labeled and ready. Over here…” She pointed to another bookshelf. “As you can see, these are filled with Harmon’s personal pictures, awards and other personal effects. Those can go into these labeled clear tubs. I sent Mabel out to find us some bubble wrap and foam popcorn so we can minimize potential damages.”
For that, he did roll his eyes. “I don’t think all that was necessary.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course it was necessary,” she said, and then flittered to another section of the office, where she had more containers labeled. Soon he tuned out her endless prattle and wondered when they were actually going to get down to the business of packing boxes. When she reached the file cabinets and started in on personal tax records versus business travel expenses, Malcolm concluded this was definitely going to take more than a couple of hours.
Amazingly, she didn’t stop there. There was stuff on the desk, in the desk, pictures on the walls, pictures on the shelves. It was all mind-numbingly dull. Which was the only reason Malcolm’s gaze drifted to study Gloria’s petite body sheathed in a tight, gray pencil skirt (as Shawnie called them) and a cloud-white blouse that perhaps had one button too many open.
Every once in a while when Gloria dipped or turned, he would get a peek of a creamy-brown breast or a black lace bra. It was a cheap thrill, but he was more than willing to take it…and enjoy it.
“Maybe I should get us some coffee before we get started,” Gloria suggested, turning and almost catching him staring.
She waited a moment, and then he realized that he was supposed to say something. “I’m sorry. What was that?”
“Coffee?” she asked, folding her arms and pulling her shirt open a bit and exposing a fair amount of what he guessed was a C-cup.
She was still waiting.
He caught and cleared his throat. “Yeah, um, coffee would be great.”
Gloria nodded and placed the clipboard Malcolm hadn’t noticed she held down on his father’s old desk. “How would you like that? Cream, sugar?”
“Black…if you don’t mind.”
Her full lips split into an instant smile. “Just like your father.”
A frustrated sigh escaped his chest before he thought better to contain his irritation.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, unfazed or ignoring the response. “You can go ahead and get started,” she tossed over her shoulder as she headed toward the door.
Malcolm’s gaze traveled down her, taking in her every curve until she slipped out of the door. He sighed and then shook his head clear of the direction his thoughts were heading. He turned around and crashed gazes with his father’s portrait hanging on the wall.
“What?” he mumbled toward his father’s stern expression. “Can’t a man look?”
Drawing a deep breath, Malcolm turned and walked to one of the sturdy mahogany shelves lined with photographs. As his eyes brushed across a collage of images that summed up his father’s life, tears rose unrelentingly.
Family pictures were mixed with his father posing with the president of the United States, the vice president, the speaker of the House and even his father’s good friends, Senator Cayman and Judge Hanlon.
Harmon Braddock in his element.
Was it a life well lived? Had his father accomplished everything he’d set out to do? Was his father happy about the man he’d become?
Malcolm drew in a deep breath, wondering if he would ever know the answer to any of those questions. His father certainly wasn’t the man he’d once idolized.
Selecting one iron-and-glass frame, he studied the photograph he’d known most of his life: the picture of his father and mother on their wedding day. His mother, an extraordinary beauty for any era, clung to and smiled up at her new husband through love-filled eyes. It was as if his mother knew without a doubt she’d married her second half, her heart, her soul mate.
Harmon Braddock held his wife with equal fervor; his promise to love and cherish was evident in his expression. Everyone who’d ever seen this photograph commented on how striking and in love the couple seemed.
To which his father always replied, “How can one not fall in love with Evelyn?”
Malcolm smiled at the sound of his father’s voice echoing from a distant memory while his gaze caressed the picture. He’d always loved this picture, for reasons more clear to him now than ever before. His parents’ love was a rarity. Nowadays, marriages didn’t last as long nor did they seem to strengthen over time. As much as their love was inspiring, though, it was also intimidating.
How did one know without any doubts they’d met their destiny? Malcolm thought he’d met her once but he’d been wrong.
Setting the photo down, he casually glanced at another. Shawnie receiving her law degree from the University of Texas, Ty and Felicia’s official engagement photo…
“Okay,” Gloria said, breezing back into the office with two steaming cups. “Black coffee for you and one hot tea for me.”
Whatever heartache Malcolm experienced was temporarily forgotten when he faced Gloria and noticed in her approach a fuller display of her creamy brown breasts thrust high in a black-laced bra.
“Here you go,” she said, trying to extend the mug out to him a second time.
He lifted his hand but his mouth had slackened.
She frowned and then followed his line of vision to see another button had worked its way free.
“Oh, my God!” She thrust the cup toward him; his coffee sloshed over the rim and burned them both.
Malcolm winced but managed to hold on to the cup.
Gloria jerked her hand back, waved it in the air as she turned toward the large desk and set her tea down in order to attend to the blouse. “You know you could have said something,” she snapped.
“Sorry,” he said with little conviction. “I was working on it.”
“Yeah. Right.”
Lips curving, Malcolm rather liked seeing Gloria’s feathers ruffled, especially since before now he didn’t think such a thing was possible. “Look, Gloria. I—”
“Forget it,” she muttered while glancing around the floor. “Just help me find the button.”
Still wearing a smile, Malcolm launched into an immediate investigation for the missing clear button against the office’s champagne-colored carpet. That is, until Gloria lowered herself onto all fours and drew Malcolm’s attention to her glorious apple bottom.
“It has to be around here somewhere,” Gloria mumbled, fanning her hands across the carpet as she crawled her way back toward the door.
Time seemed to stop as Malcolm watched Gloria inch her way up the carpet. A near-unbearable heat scorched up the column of his neck and burned the tips of his ears. Malcolm fingered his collar loose, mistakenly thinking that it was the cause of his inability to get air into his lungs. Not to mention the unexpected throb and ache against his pants’ inseam.
Just the sight of the uptight and always-proper assistant kneeling down on all fours made him fantasize about what else that position was good for.
“Here it is. I found it,” Gloria exclaimed, pushing up to sit on her haunches.
Malcolm came out of his trance quick enough to set his coffee down and offer his hand to help her up. “Glad that crisis is over with,” he joked, but his throat was still clogged with the residue of lust.
When Gloria arched a delicately groomed brow, he quickly coughed as a lame cover.
“Thanks,” she said, placing her hand into his.
At the feel of her silky palm sliding into his, Malcolm was sure his body temperature soared into the triple digits.
What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn’t stand Ms. Gloria “Know-It-All” Kingsley.
Right?
Just then, as if to rescue them from themselves, Mabel burst into the office with her arms bursting with packing material.
“I got everything you asked for, Gloria,” she said, finding a nice clear spot in the center of the room and dropping everything. “Whew!” She straightened her back just as her eyes widened to twice their size. “Malcolm,” she exclaimed, rushing around the pile of packing material and then pulling him into her pillow-soft body.
If Mabel was ever to enter into a celebrity look-alike contest, she would win for Star Jones (pre-surgery) hands down. “Gloria said that you were coming in here to help pack this stuff, but I kept telling her that it was just too soon for you to be dealing with all this right now.”
Malcolm shot a glance at Gloria, triumphant that someone agreed with him.
A frown settled around the corners of Gloria’s lips.
“It’s still work that needs to be done,” he said, quoting the efficient assistant and managing to bring a smile back to her face.
“I think we’d better get started,” she said.
Malcolm readily agreed. “Will you be joining us, Mabel?”
“Unfortunately not. I have four hungry teenage boys and a construction-worker husband who’d be rumbling up a storm if dinner isn’t on the table on time. But I’ll be seeing you again soon, I hope.”
He smiled. “You can count on it.”
“Good. Good.” Mabel turned toward Gloria and her smile dropped. “Ms. Kingsley,” she hissed, and then covered a hand over her own bosom. “Your blouse.”
“Oh, yes.” Gloria blinked. “I just found my button.” She turned toward the desk and retrieved a safety pin.
“Well, I guess I’ll leave you two to your work,” Mabel said, as if she didn’t believe for one moment that was what they were about to do.
“It was good seeing you again,” Malcolm said, barely able to contain his amusement.
“Give my love to the family.” Mabel glanced back at Gloria, shook her head and made her exit.
“Well,” he said. “I guess that means it’s just you and me.”
“Apparently.” She mimicked his awkward smile. “Let’s get started. We’ve already wasted enough time.”
He couldn’t agree more. The sooner he got out of there, the better. He turned and moved toward the first line of file cabinets near the window, pulled opened the top drawer and quickly started shoving files into the closest container.
“No. No,” Gloria said, rushing over. “Some material will need to stay here for the new…I mean…”
“It’s all right,” Malcolm said, rescuing her from tripping over her tongue again. “I know what you mean—for whoever is going to take my father’s place.”
“No one could ever take Harmon’s place.”
Jealousy stabbed Malcolm and robbed him of his breath, although he agreed wholeheartedly with Gloria’s proclamation. Not for the first time, Malcolm wondered whether Gloria’s feelings transcended the boss-and-employee relationship.
She flashed something that was obviously meant to be a smile, but ended up looking like perhaps her shoes were pinching the hell out of her feet. “I’m sorry. It all still seems so…surreal.”
He nodded. A moment of silence flowed between them while his eyes lowered and he damned the safety pin she’d used to close her blouse. He slammed his eyes shut and chanted in his head: focus, focus, focus.
“All right, Ms. Kingsley. In addition to the bookshelves, desk and walls, why don’t you tell me exactly how you want this part done?”
“Well,” she said, straightening her back. “I want you to carefully go through each folder and remove only the personal files or pet projects. Then I want you to use these dividers and tabs I purchased—” she reached for the stack of office supplies he’d missed “—and label everything and place them into the containers in alphabetical order.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.” She frowned again. “It’ll make it easier for your family to sift through.”
“It’ll also take all night,” he grumbled, glancing around the office.
“What?”
“I said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’” He made a mock military salute.
Gloria’s eyes narrowed. “Look. I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“Of course you are,” he said with more sarcasm than he intended.
Gloria glared, drew a deep breath and then turned away. “I’ll start on the desk,” she said with a strained calm.
Again, Malcolm’s gaze was drawn to her heavenly backside as she made her way across the room and then planted herself in his father’s old leather chair.
Instead of getting straight to work, she rechecked her safety pin.
Malcolm barely turned away in time. It wouldn’t do to continually get caught staring, but he felt her gaze rest on him. He sucked in his invisible tummy and straightened his shoulders so that she could get a good look and…what? Did he want her to like what she was seeing?
Soon her eyes trailed away and a strange, awkward silence enveloped the room. An hour passed, and Malcolm felt he’d made about as much progress as a turtle sprinting a hundred-yard dash. Periodically, Malcolm would finger his open collar or wipe at imaginary sweat beads. He continued to feel as if he was wilting beneath a desert sun, though the thermostat read a cool seventy-four degrees.
“Are you sure this thing is working?” he asked, tapping the small square box.
“It’s working,” she answered without glancing up. She, apparently, had no trouble concentrating on her work.
When Malcolm reached the bottom of the first file cabinet, he pulled open the drawer and blinked in surprise. Malcolm pulled out a glass picture frame, almost a mirror image of the one of his father at the bottom of Malcolm’s DVD cabinet—right down to the spiderweb cracks in the center. It was a picture of Malcolm graduating from Morehouse College. His father’s arms were wrapped around Malcolm’s shoulders, while his chin and chest were lifted high with pride.
A pain in his heart caused a few tears to trickle from the corners of his eyes. Here was the proof of his father’s disappointment in him. The only photo of father and son was buried in a drawer.
“It’s not what you think,” Gloria said.
Malcolm whirled around to find Gloria behind him, breaching his privacy. “How do you know what I think?”
He shoved the picture into the container and moved to the next filing cabinet.
“Your father pulled that picture out every day,” she said softly.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.
“Malcolm—”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” He slammed the top file cabinet closed.
Gloria jumped.
“I need to get some air,” he said, and stormed past her. More than anything, he was embarrassed for losing control and once again lashing out at her. But, hell, she was the only one around.
“Why don’t we stop and go get some dinner?” she suggested, striding after him and grabbing his wrist. “You need a break.”
“No. I want to hurry and get this over with,” he said. “I just need a quick breather.”
“C’mon,” she said. “You need to eat. I need to eat. Let’s just go somewhere and grab something—and we can talk.”
Talk. Couldn’t she see that was the last thing he wanted to do?
“I’m not hungry,” he lied. Just then, his stomach released a long winding growl. For a few seconds, he tried to hold on to his stern expression.
Gloria’s beautiful full lips were the first to split into a wide smile before her laughter erupted from the center of her chest.
After a few seconds, Malcolm joined her.
“Do you still like Chinese?” she asked. “There’s a nice place a few miles from here.”
He sighed, hesitating.
“It’s on me,” she added.
He chuckled. “I’ll pay.”
“I tell you what. Let’s make it Dutch,” she countered. “That way no one will mistake it for being a date.”
“A date? Me and you?” Malcolm laughed. “Trust me. No one will make that mistake.”
Chapter 4
Gloria couldn’t wait to get out of the office. Despite the spacious size, it felt as if they were literally on top of each other and walking on eggshells. Dinner, she hoped, would relax Malcolm a bit more. She needed him to loosen up in order for him to be receptive to what she had in mind.
The Bamboo House was dark when they entered. The only lighting flickered from tiny wicks nestled in small red candleholders placed in the center of each table in sconces on the walls.
“Ah, Ms. Kingsley,” Samira, the hostess, greeted her. “So nice to see you again. I’m so sorry. I read in the paper what happened to Harmon. It was a shock, no?”
Gloria nodded while the small woman grabbed hold of her hand.
“How are you?” Samira asked with genuine concern. “I know we’re definitely going to miss seeing you two in here.”
Malcolm’s gaze shot to Gloria, his brows launched high. “You and my father came here often?”
“Often?” Samira chimed. “They came here two or three times a week with their noses buried in paperwork.” Then as if finally catching what Malcolm said, Samira dropped Gloria’s hand and turned her attention toward him. “Harmon was your father?” She gazed up at him. “Ah, yes. I see the resemblance now.” Her smile turned flirtatious. “You’re very handsome like your father.”
Malcolm smiled. “Thank you. You’re too kind.”
Samira glanced at Gloria and winked. “You better hold on to your heart with this one. He just might steal it.”
Gloria’s face burned; she had to touch it to make sure it hadn’t melted off.
Malcolm coughed, choking back his own laughter.
“This way,” Samira sang, grabbing two menus. “Will it be just the two of you?”
“Yes,” Gloria answered.
“Would you like your and Harmon’s regular table? It’s available.”
“Uh,” she said, stalling.
“That will be fine,” Malcolm answered, carefully keeping his eyes away from Gloria’s.
Gloria fell in line behind the hostess as she led them toward the back of the restaurant. It might have been her imagination, but she swore she felt Malcolm’s heavy gaze trained on the back of her head. Was he already regretting coming here with her?
Most likely.
“Have a good evening,” Samira said, setting the menus down on their table. “Your server will be with you shortly.”
Malcolm and Gloria thanked the hostess and slid into opposing sides of a large booth.
Gloria tried her best not to jump or react when Malcolm’s knees and legs bumped and brushed against her own. She needed to get it together before she looked like a Mexican jumping bean.
“Well, this is certainly cozy,” Malcolm said, finally settling into his seat. “I can see why this was your and Dad’s favorite spot.”
Gloria’s head snapped up. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
“No,” she countered. Her eyes narrowed. “It definitely meant something.”
Malcolm met her gaze dead-on.
“Is there something you want to say to me?” she challenged.
Silence.
“Go ahead. What is it?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Forget it.” He picked up his menu.
“No.” She snatched the menu from his hand and slapped it back down onto the table. “We need to have this out. Go ahead. Ask me.”
“All right, then,” he said, leaning forward. “Were you in love with my father?”
Gloria drew a deep breath despite the fact that she was expecting the question. Her shoulders squared while her back morphed into an iron rod.
Malcolm cocked his head. “Maybe you two got together for more than just…business dinners?”
She shook her head, disappointed in just how little Malcolm thought of his father and of her, for that matter. “I’m not going to lie,” she said evenly. “I loved your father.”
Malcolm’s jaw hardened.
“But I was not in love with him,” she clarified. “It was strictly business between us. He was my mentor and my hero.”
“Hero?” he spat. “Not too many employees think of their bosses as heroes.”
“Everyone that worked for your father did,” she retorted. “I believe you did, too, at one time,” she added as a sucker punch.
Malcolm’s chin came up as he sat up straight.
“Frankly, I can’t believe you’d think such a thing. I had nothing but the highest regard for your father. I respected him, myself and his marriage.” Even as she confessed, she watched waves of doubt wash over Malcolm’s stony features. It only angered her more.
“Why is it that you’re so determined to think the worst of your father? Surely it’s not because he didn’t support that one bill?”
“That one bill…” Malcolm clamped his mouth shut and forced himself to calm down. “You know what? I think coming here was a mistake.”
It was Gloria’s turn to cock her head and stare. “You have a habit of doing that.”
“A habit of doing what?”
“Running away.” Gloria leaned back and folded her arms. “You haven’t noticed?” She smirked. “When things get a little hot, you always seem to need to run out…for air.”
Malcolm leaned back and mimicked her pose. “Is that right?”
“It makes me wonder if you have what it takes to…”
Brows sloped unevenly, he asked, “Have what it takes to do what?”
“Nothing,” she said blithely. “Forget I said anything.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Obviously, you have something you want to say, as well.”
Their waiter, Quon, a tall, lanky Asian with an obvious aversion to smiling, arrived and Gloria breathed a sigh of relief.
“Ah, Ms. Kingsley. Nice to see you here again,” he said, setting two empty plastic cups before them and then filling them with a pitcher of iced water. “Are you ready to order?”
“Yes,” Gloria said.
“No,” Malcolm countered, and then added, “Could you please give us a few more minutes?”
Gloria’s brows stretched high. Maybe she wasn’t off the hook just yet.
“As you wish, sir,” Quon said, sliding away from their table.
“You’ve never struck me as someone who liked to play games,” Malcolm said, the moment they were alone. “But I’m starting to feel like an unprotected king in the center of a chess game.”
Gloria shrugged her shoulder and tried her best to look as innocent as possible. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” He laughed. “You tell me to come help pack my father’s office, assuring me it will only take a couple of hours when you and I both know it would be, at minimum, an all-nighter. Then of course there is this dinner—”
“Well. You make it sound like I held a gun to your head. Is being alone with me so terrible?” she snapped. “Maybe I just wanted…to talk. Share stories about how great a man your father was or how much he meant to me and the other staffers. I was a fan of your father’s long before I started working for him. He was a powerful speaker and he campaigned for health-care reform long before the number of uninsured reached crisis numbers. I was thrilled when Senator Cayman recommended me to Harmon. I just…” After a few seconds with struggling for the right words, she clamped her mouth shut, but her lips continued to tremble and tears burned the backs of her eyes.
Gloria drew a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard.
At the first sight of tears shimmering in Gloria’s eyes, Malcolm felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. Obviously, the woman was still grieving, and here he was…
He sighed. “Look. So far it seems I’ve spent half the night apologizing to you for my behavior. Why don’t we just…start over?”
She glanced at him and wiped a tear before it broke free from the mesh of her eyelashes.
“For real,” he assured her. “This time, I’ll be on my best behavior.” He placed his hand over his heart. “I promise.”
Finally, Gloria smiled and nodded.
Their waiter returned. “Have you two made your decisions?”
“Hmm.” Malcolm grabbed his menu and quickly perused the items. “What’s good here?”
“You should really try the Hunan chicken with black mushrooms,” Gloria suggested. “It was your father’s…I mean…” Her words trailed off.
Malcolm offered her a small smile. “I know what you mean. And you know what?” He handed the menu over to the waiter. “I think that’s exactly what I’ll have.”
She returned the smile and surprised him by ordering the Mongolian barbecue beef. She might be a small woman but she had a healthy appetite. He liked that.
“Very good selection,” Quon intoned, his lips still a flat line as he scurried off toward the kitchen.
Being alone with Gloria—with anyone, really—was the very thing Malcolm had tried to avoid since the news of his father’s death.
He wasn’t ready to be the shoulder to cry on. How could he deal with other people’s grief when he didn’t know how to deal with his own? However, the longer he stayed in Gloria’s presence, the more he was able to see through her thin veneer. She wanted what everyone wanted—for him to open up.
And maybe—just maybe—he wanted that, too.
As he witnessed her struggle, a small part of him caved. “I loved my father,” Malcolm said suddenly.
Gloria lifted her shimmering gaze.
“I don’t want you to think I stopped loving him,” he added softly, and then cleared his throat. “I still love him. It’s just that our relationship in the past couple of years was…complicated.”
“Most are.”
“Oh?” He arched his brow. “I’ve never heard you talk about your family.”
“When have you ever been around?” she asked.
“I guess that’s a good point,” Malcolm said with a tilt of his head. “Are you close to your father?”
Gloria’s eyes lowered to the table while she gave a firm shake of her head.
Malcolm wondered how it was possible she could judge him when she apparently had issues with her own father. Yet, he bit back the comment.
As if she’d heard his private thoughts, she responded, “Trust me. My father wasn’t half the man Harmon Braddock was. He was a drunk and an abuser. The happiest day in my life was when he walked right out of it.”
Stunned, Malcolm remained silent. Finally, he slowly nodded in understanding, but he was more curious than ever. During their quiet spells, Malcolm couldn’t help but reflect over his childhood once again, zeroing in on the number of Little League and college games his father did make time for, and the number of father-and-son camping events he and Ty enjoyed despite their father’s busy schedule. Harmon Braddock had a way of making his sons feel ten feet tall, always bragging to anyone who’d stand still long enough to listen.
The truth of the matter was that Malcolm had had a wonderful childhood.
That annoying stinging in the back of Malcolm’s eyes returned as well as the mountainous lump clogging his windpipe, but thank God, Quon returned, rescuing him from his emotions with their dinner orders.
“Can I get you anything else?” the waiter asked, setting their plates before them.
After they assured him they had everything they needed, Quon, once again, slipped away from the table.
For a time they ate in silence before Malcolm blurted, “I keep thinking that at any moment I’m going to wake up and find out that the past week has just been a dream.” He stared into his plate. “A nightmare, really.”
Gloria said nothing.
“It’s true what they say,” he said. “Regret has a way of killing you softly. There were so many times I wanted to call.”
She reached across the table and covered his hand. The warmth of her touch traveled up the length of his arm.
“Don’t beat yourself up. I know the disagreement between you two spiraled out of control, but the love remained. That much was evident.”
“But did he know?” Malcolm questioned.
“Of course he did.” Gloria nodded. “And you know something else? He was extremely proud of you—your intelligence, convictions and even your passion.” She squeezed his hand tighter. “He was proud of all his children, and if you don’t mind me saying so, he had every right to be.”
Her encouraging words were just the balm Malcolm needed. He only prayed they were the truth. After all, every child wants their parents to be proud of them.
Gloria chuckled and drew Malcolm out of his melancholy.
“What’s so funny?” His lips curled, ready to join in on the joke.
“You probably don’t know this,” she said. “But once upon a time, your father tried to hook us up together.”
His laughter came easily at that revelation. “You’re joking.”
“Hilarious, isn’t it?” She shook her head and released his hand. “The first few months I started working for him, he wouldn’t stop telling me how much of a fine catch you were and how a woman would be crazy not to cast her net in your direction.” She chuckled. “He actually said ‘cast her net.’ He shoved so many dinner invitations my way, I ran out of excuses to why I couldn’t come.”
Malcolm choked on his food.
“Are you all right?” she asked when it started to sound like he was trying to hack up a lung.
He bobbed his head, reached for his iced water.
She watched him through growing concern until he finally held up a finger and said, “I’m okay.”
“What happened? Went down the wrong pipe?”
“Something like that.” He cleared his throat and favored her with a smile. “You mean all those times you showed up at my parents’ house for Sunday dinner and holiday meals were because my dad was trying to play Cupid?”
She returned his smile. “After we met at that one fund-raiser, I told him not to bother. We mixed as well as oil and water.”
“Now, who is the oil in this scenario?”
Gloria waved a finger, letting him know she wasn’t going to allow him to bait her into an argument. “The point is that we’re completely wrong for each other,” she stressed.
Malcolm hadn’t intended to, but he frowned. What was it about him that she found rejection-able? He straightened his chair and averted his gaze.
“Not that I don’t find you attractive,” she rushed to say as she sensed his bruised ego. “I do.”
He glanced up.
“I mean—any woman would. It’s just, um, personality-wise, we don’t mesh.”
“Because you don’t like men with intelligence, convictions and—what was it—passion?”
“Right.” She blinked. “Wait. I mean—”
Malcolm’s head rocked back while his chest rumbled with laughter. “Please. Please. Let’s quit before you really hurt my feelings.”
Gloria pressed her lips together, but her eyes seemed to dance with the candlelight. “I do have a way of putting my foot in my mouth, don’t I?”
Leaning over to the side, he squinted under the table and blinked. “You better be careful. Those jokers are big.”
“Ha. Ha.” She rolled her eyes. “You got me back. Can we eat now?”
“No, really. What size are those puppies—eleven, twelve?”
“Eight.” She kicked him.
“Ow.” He laughed.
“Serves you right, saying my feet are big. The real question is what size are your feet? You know what they say about the size of a man’s feet.” She leaned over and glanced under the table herself, but the laughter died on her lips.
“Satisfied?” he asked.
She sat up, her face as red as the candleholder. “We better finish eating.”
“Are you sure?” A devilish grin spread across his face before he commenced eating. This time, the silence was more comfortable while they snuck glances at each other and smiled whenever they were caught.
Maybe Gloria Kingsley wasn’t so bad after all.
Chapter 5
Malcolm arrived home at midnight.
Exhausted didn’t describe it—more like he was bone weary. His eyes were dry from looking at too much paperwork. His back ached from loading one too many tubs of law books. The last thing he wanted to do now was unload it all and carry it up to his apartment. That would have to be another project for another time. For the time being he kept everything locked in his SUV. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he’d carry everything out to the family estate.
If not, then maybe the day after.
He slipped his key into the apartment’s lock, pushed the door open and felt a sense of relief when he stepped into the apartment’s darkness. First pit stop: the kitchen. Malcolm grabbed the last beer in the fridge and made a mental note to pick up a case while he was out tomorrow. His next stop was the living room, where he tumbled onto the leather couch. He caught view of the blinking red light on his answer machine.
Twelve messages.
Even before he hit the play button, he knew who the callers were.
“Malcolm?” Shawnie’s voice filtered through the speakerphone. “Are you there? Pick up if you’re there.” After a long pause, she sighed and continued. “Well, I was just calling to check on you. No one in the family has heard from you and…well, it’s really not the time to be alone, Malcolm. We all need you. We love you.” Another long silence and then, “Call me.”
Malcolm groaned while he slid a hand over his face.
The machine beeped and played the next message.
“Malcolm?” Tyson’s steel baritone punched through the apartment’s stillness. “C’mon, man. I know you’re there. Pick up.” After a few beats of silence his brother went on, “Look, man. I know you’re going through a rough time. Things being the way they were with you and Dad and all, but give me a call. We need to talk. And if you don’t feel like talking to me the least you can do is call Mom. She’s worried about you. Hit me up on my cell when you get this message.”
The calls alternated between Shawnie and Ty. Both of their voices thickened with concern each time he didn’t answer the phone. Malcolm was instantly sorry for making everyone worry. That had not been his intention.
On the last message, Malcolm’s heart tried to squeeze its way out of his chest when his mother’s wearied voice entered the room.
“Malcolm, baby. Are you there? Baby, please pick up the phone.”
Silence.
“All right, baby. You must not be there. I was just going through some old family photo albums. You keep drifting across my mind. Baby, I’m getting a little worried about you. I haven’t heard or seen you since the funeral. Give me a call.”
At first Malcolm had no intentions of calling any of them back this late, but there was something about his mother’s voice that tugged at his soul and made him pick up the phone and punch in her number. Even as he listened to the phone ring, he chastised himself for calling so late. She was probably asleep, he reasoned, and even hoped.
“I’ll call her tomorrow,” he said, and started to hang up.
“Hello?” His mother’s soft southern twang filtered over the line. “Malcolm?”
“Hey, Mom,” he answered with an aloofness he didn’t feel. “How are you?”
“Actually, that’s the question I wanted to ask you. Are you all right, baby?”
No was what he wanted to say, but he had some sense to at least pretend he was keeping it together. “Yeah. I’m all right. How are you holding up?”
“Well…I guess I’m doing about as well as can be expected.” Her voice grew heavier with each word. “I wish you were around more, though. Why haven’t you been by?”
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