Sometimes Love Read online

  Sometimes Love © 2017 by Victoria Kennedy

  Brown Girls Publishing, LLC

  Digital ISBN:

  Print ISBN:

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means including electronic, mechanical or photocopying or stored in a retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages to be included in a review.

  First Brown Girls Publishing LLC trade printing

  Manufactured and Printed in the United States of America

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It is reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped” book.

  Interior Design by TWA Solutions.com

  Dedication

  This is for my children, Amanda and Lawrence,

  for their belief and unconditional love.

  Acknowledgements

  I thank God from whom all blessings flow, for which I am extremely grateful.

  To Victoria and ReShonda who appreciated the story I had to tell. I will always be grateful for the opportunity and the mentorship.

  To my mother for her belief in me. To Pop for what he sees in me.

  To my children for encouraging me. To my husband for pushing me.

  To My Lil Bro for not letting me give up. To Shaunie for having my back.

  To Aunt Marie for her love of books and my aunts and besties who were my first beta readers. To my extended family and host of amazing friends who motivate me without even knowing it. To my sister-friends for their friendship and Dove Love.

  To Zora’s Den for community.

  To Beverly Jenkins for stories that inspired me to pursue this life and for the standard that continues to inspire me.

  Most of all, thank you, Gram, for putting books in my hands and the beauty of words in my mouth. Together, they inspire the stories of my heart. I did it, Gram. I would like to think you would be proud.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  ChapterNineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  It hadn’t rained for weeks. I couldn’t wash my car, the reservoirs were dry and the grass was a paler shade of green, a dimmer version of itself. Nothing was as it should have been.

  Like me.

  I had been planning a reggae festival for months and spent a lot of time promoting it, circulating bold reports across Baltimore, claiming it to be the best thing to happen since the new millennium. In short, I had been bragging all around town. I prayed my predictions would be more accurate than Y2K. But as the days rolled by, we were only getting a shower here or there, and it was becoming harder to envision the lush, Caribbean lovefest I had planned. For that to happen, some things had to come back to life.

  Like me.

  I was doing the college radio circuit with interviews on shows for every intended market—from Latin to Caribbean and African to hip-hop. The feedback was even better than I’d hoped. People were propositioning me and my partner, Michael, with offers of financial support. For once in my professional life, I had all the money I needed. Instead of working for a client, I was working for myself with a great partner. At least, that component of my spectacular event was falling into place. It was a big part and that gave me hope.

  Then someone slashed my tires and pranksters were trying to sabotage all of our hard work. Our posters were ripped down and the police still insisted it was random. A couple of the investors got word of the recent incidents and were becoming skittish, making it hard to convince them to stay on board.

  The turning point came when Michael’s father gave a n interview about the zero-tolerance bill he was trying to push through the city council. He directed attention away from the obvious problems, like the murder rate, and used the mishaps befalling the festival plans as an example of what else wouldn’t be tolerated. It wasn’t a lot but it was enough to halt the foolishness and allow us to get back on schedule.

  Michael was well-known because of his family. He was a Franklin—the son of Wesley Franklin, a city councilman in the 3rd district, a civil rights trailblazer, a roughneck attorney with a polished façade and shady connections, a champion of the people. They were practically royalty among us.

  We’d been unlikely friends, since high school—the popular, handsome, society boy and the awkward, shy, car dealer’s daughter. I’ll admit, in those early days, I’d carried a bit of a crush on him but all the girls had. He was larger than life and beyond most of our reaches—excelling in sports, debates, and engineering, all while keeping his approachable demeanor and winning smile. The truth was, none of those attributes even mattered. Just the family he was born into was a ticket to Baltimore’s black elite.

  We had grown very close over the years, ever since he’d come to my rescue in the crowded quad one windy afternoon. He proved he was more than a man of privilege when he stood up to a few of his peers for making fun of me…in front of everyone. “How about we even things up,” he’d said, pulling up his friend Tank’s pants legs to show the lifts on his shoes to compensate for his lack of height. The round of laughter that resulted cost him one of his boys in a second and gained him a friend for life. He’d been taking up for me ever since. Surely, taking on a business venture hadn’t required much thought at all. We were already giving themed parties, and the after-parties to concerts, but the events were always small, always intimate. Michael decided, it was time to go to another level.

  He always insisted on putting me out front but I don’t think anyone was ever convinced I had any connection to him. Since he was so good to look at and well-connected, people always assumed he was the start and finish for everything in our company. This go around, what mattered most was the vandalism and pranks ceased. Not many would be willing to risk rousing the ire of Wes Franklin. I was happy to benefit from the peace that reverence created. No matter the cause, my life could return to a semblance of normal or something close enough.

  By the first day of the event, the air had turned much cooler. It was chilly. I awoke to rain pounding the roof, even though the forecast had only called for a slight chance of showers. I ran to the window and looked out at the sight of all my plans flowing down the street into the drain.

  Michael greeted me in a bright yellow slicker with a cup of coffee and a smile, when I arrived at the festival site shortly after. I could find nothing to smile about. He slid into the passenger seat of my car, offering me a donut, as if I wasn’t too angry to chew. As I said, I had been bragging all over town and this setback would make some vandals very happy. I was pessimistic and pissed-off. “I’m glad you’re so full of sunshine,” I said, as I pushed the donut away. “I can’t find a way to make this something to be happy about.”

  He smiled harder. “That’s because you refuse to give yourself permission to play.”

&n
bsp; “What are you talking about, Michael?”

  “You have to look at some situations with a child’s eyes and find a way to have fun with what you have.”

  “Says the guy who always had anything he wanted to play with.”

  “No,” he insisted. “Says the guy who spent hours playing with the boxes his toys came in, taking pleasure in creating something from nothing.”

  “What?” Michael was talking in riddles and frustrating me more.

  “Just go home, Zoë, and let me do my thing.”

  Instead of sitting down with him to plan some alternatives, I wanted to kick myself for not setting a rain date. I didn’t think there would be a need. But it wasn’t the time for tantrums either. Always the one to worry about others’ opinions of me, I was more concerned with failed appearances than the wasted time and effort. Michael tried his best but the usual encouragement wouldn’t do. I took his advice and went home. It seemed like every raindrop was mocking me and reminding me of my incompetence. I wondered if it was time to hang my head in disgrace.

  Chapter Two

  At barely 3 o’clock, I was having a pity party and desperately needed to leave the day’s ills behind me. Looking out of the bathroom window, I was trying to decide whether to take a bath or shower, believing there was nothing like steamy water caressing one’s skin to soothe the troubled soul. The doorbell rang. I thought maybe if I ignored its unwelcome interruption, it would stop. I had two more days to go for the duration of my festival weekend and the forecast was just as dismal as the downpour I was witnessing.

  The doorbell rang again and this time, more persistently. I was in no mood for company, but it was clear that the person ringing the bell would not go away. I stormed out of the bathroom, fumbled through my closet for a robe, and mumbled every unpleasant name I could think of.

  When I reached the middle of the stairs, the ringing stopped and I cursed out loud. A voice called out for a name I didn’t know, as I headed back upstairs, with no plans to answer. The man at the door insisted on calling, “Sheila, is that you?” Can he see me through the frosted window? I had to go and shut him up.

  I snatched the door open and found myself face to face with the tallest, darkest stranger I had ever seen. His skin was the color of dark chocolate with blue undertones that suggested an exotic heritage. And he had enough of a scowl to look like a bad boy. With his hair closely cropped, strong square jaw, and perfectly sculpted cheekbones, he looked like a mask on my wall…like a warrior. My lips twisted in a brief smirk at the observation.

  He seemed to be acquainting himself thoroughly with my appearance, as I stood in a wide-legged stance, arms folded across my chest. I’m sure I looked like a madwoman with my eyes bucking out and teeth clenched, ready for confrontation. My disappointment over the festival had been bottled up and the interruption was like the vigorous shake of a soda bound to end in an explosion. I hadn’t been able to vent my frustration all day. This innocent stranger was an easy target for everything bubbling to my lips.

  He looked down, consulting a piece of yellow paper and looked back up at me.

  “Yes?” My hand went to my hip. I was giving major attitude because first, he stood there staring and second, he was saying nothing.

  “Sheila?” His voice came out like a croak, like he wasn’t sure about using it but knew it was necessary.

  “Excuse me? Is there something I can help you with?” My words were polite but the delivery was something else altogether. “Uh…I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said. “May I speak to

  Sheila, please?”

  The smooth texture o f h is voice surprised me. It was so drastically different from his initial attempt to speak. It didn’t fit his appearance and I was thrown for a minute. I was too wound- up, however, to stop myself from spouting a harsh reply.

  “No, I’m sorry you disturbed me and you have the wrong house.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I looked at him, as if another mouth appeared on his forehead and started to speak.

  “Look, I don’t know what kind of games you’re playing, Sir but nobody named Sheila lives here. I’m two hundred percent sure. And the next time you want to waste somebody’s time, do me a favor and knock on a different door.”

  From the time those words passed my lips, I regretted my tone, only because he appeared stunned. As the effect of my tirade registered on his handsome face, he seemed taken aback. He was surprised by my outburst; so was I. Taking a shot at him hadn’t felt as good as I’d hoped.

  It was my turn to be surprised though, when the stranger flashed a dazzling smile, melting my icy demeanor immediately. “Uh…Maybe I should start over, Miss. I’m Humphrey Pearson. I have a friend who possibly stayed in this house with her family and we lost touch over the years.”

  Was that a British accent?

  An awkward silence followed but somewhere in it, I found the voice to speak.

  “Well…uh… my brother’s been living here for three years now so they must have moved at least that long ago.”

  His eyes were piercing. His gaze—penetrating to the point where I felt self-conscious. I could have sworn he was looking at my faded robe and bushy hair with distaste, as he spoke, causing me to preoccupy myself with the condition of my cuticles. Nevertheless, his manners remained impeccable.

  “What’s your brother’s name?”

  My remorse quickly vanished, as the sister-girl attitude found its way back into my body language and my voice.

  “You sure do want a lot of information, for a total stranger. I can assure you, my brother’s name is not Sheila and no one by that name lives here with him…I do.”

  He smiled again but it wasn’t as forthcoming. Yet, even in its tentative state, it had a lot of power.

  He said, “I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right. I do apologize for the intrusion.”

  I realized the terrible impression I must have made on him. I don’t know why it even mattered. But it did. It wasn’t every day a courteous, drop-dead gorgeous brother with a British accent rang my bell and it was no wonder—look at how badly I treated him.

  He was retreating from the top step, when I stopped him with my introduction.

  “Look, I’m sorry. My name’s Zoë. Let me apologize for my abruptness. I’m not usually so rude. You caught me at a bad time.”

  Neither was I usually so polite to strangers, but I didn’t have to let him know that. After all, he wasn’t just any old stranger. He happened to be a nosey but charming, charismatic one. That made a difference.

  “It’s possible my brother purchased the house from your friend. Perhaps, I could have Phillip call you when he gets in.”

  I found myself unconsciously adopting his formal tone, the same way I’d adopted my cousin’s stutter in my youth.

  “That sounds like a good idea,” he replied, his smile even brighter than before.

  He unbuttoned his black leather jacket and reached into his back pocket to retrieve his wallet. It was hard not to notice the muscular physique under his cream-colored funnel neck pullover and even harder not to notice the sharp contrast between the sweater and his smooth, deep ebony skin.

  A chill reminded me I was standing in the vestibule in autumn with the rain pouring down and the door wide open. Or was that it? When Humphrey extended his arm to hand me his card, our fingers touched. Goosebumps seemed to appear for emphasis and I pulled the robe tighter. For a moment, I didn’t think about his being a total stranger and I wasn’t thinking about getting upstairs to take that bath or shower. I was wondering how special this mystery woman could be, that this finest specimen of a man was trying to track her down in the middle of a rainstorm on a chilly afternoon and he hadn’t seen her in years. That thought brought with it a twinge of something akin to jealousy, which made no sense…no sense at all.

  “I’d appreciate any information your brother could give me,” he said, his voice pulling me back from my musings. “Phillip, is it?” he asked with a hint of his killer smile.


  Damn, I slipped-up.

  He thanked me and walked away, disappearing into the gray mist blanketing the block.

  Minutes after he left, I ran a bath with Satsuma bath beads, poured a glass of white wine and slipped into the steamy water. The aroma of citrus and cinnamon rose up from the tub and I surrendered to the calmness it helped create. My goal was to live in the here and now, not the past or the future, but right in the moment. That included, not entertaining thoughts of the man showing up at my door like a hero in a story.

  Almost as soon as I finished drying off, Michael called. The last time I’d seen him, he was standing under a big umbrella at Lake Clifton, watching all the vendors pack up their wares and go home. I was overwhelmed with guilt when I heard his voice on the line. I’d needed an ego check, when the going got tough. I couldn’t take the humiliation and left without offering assistance to anyone, not even him.

  Imagine my surprise when I heard laughter, as he told me about his great plan to save the rest of the weekend. He had arranged for tents to be delivered to the site for the remainder of the festival.

  “Zoë, it’s all taken care of,” he said. “They’ll deliver the tents in the morning. I hear, the rain will start tapering off tonight but I’d rather not take any more chances.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Probably build a business built on girls’ nights of painting and sipping wine.” He wasn’t going to let me forget my grand idea from the previous year.

  “Hey, don’t sleep on those. They’re pretty popular right now.” “Yeah, but they don’t get interviews on radio and TV.”

  I liked how his little quip was used as a reminder that he didn’t want us to remain mere party planners. The festival was meant to elevate us to Event Planner status and I trusted his lead. “Good point, Michael. …I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Same here and thank God, we won’t have to find out.”

  As usual, he managed to find a way to make things happen. I hung up with a renewed appreciation for Michael. His attitude was a large factor in our success. We had accomplished a lot over the past five years due, in large part, to his positive outlook. The company was operating in the black. And now, we were on track to give Baltimore an event to remember. He was so optimistic about the remainder of the weekend, it was becoming contagious. Maybe I did need to give myself permission to play too.