Love Me or Leave Me. Gwynne Forster

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      He reached the landing and banged his fist on the railing. “What the hell’s wrong with me? I know damned well I don’t want any other man to have that woman.” But did he love her? “Hell, I’m not going there,” he said to himself. “If I do love her, I’ll probably act like it.”

      After a shower, he dried his body and slid between the leopard-print sheets that he preferred. “The day will come, I hope, when I look back at this time and laugh at myself.” He turned out the light and went to sleep.

      At that moment, Pamela worried less about Drake’s decision than he did. She had made up her mind to relegate him to her past and look for a man with whom she could build a life. She loved him, and she believed in his integrity, but he’d already killed enough time. Long after telling him good-night and, in effect, goodbye, she sat on the edge of her bed trying to deal with her inner conflict and her sense that their song hadn’t played out.

      But I can’t go on like this. I need someone I can count on, a man who will give me the family I long for.

      “Oh, Lord,” she moaned. “Why did I have to fall in love with him?”

      Refusing to succumb to the moroseness that threatened her, she went into the living room and put on Jump for Joy, a compact disc that she bought in Paris two years earlier. Where but in Paris would one find the music of Josephine Baker, who died decades earlier? Pamela never failed to dance to that music, and she danced then. Danced until she fell across her living-room sofa exhausted. Danced until the tears cascaded down her cheeks like water from a broken dam. She lay there for a few minutes, getting used to the pain, then got up from the sofa, splashed cold water on her face and laughed.

      “Drake Harrington, you’re the only man who can lay claim to making me cry, and, honey, you’re the last one.”

      Awaking the next morning to the ringing of the telephone, she slammed the pillow over her head, dragged the blanket up to her neck and got more comfortable. The ringing persisted, and she reached from beneath the covers to knock the phone from its cradle, but missed and bruised her hand against the lamp.

      “All right,” she grumbled and sat up. “Hello.”

      “You still in bed? Sorry to wake you up. I know it’s Saturday, but I thought you’d be up and around. I called to remind you that Tuesday is your mother’s birthday,” her father said, “so don’t forget. You know how she loves her birthdays. We don’t expect you to come down here during the week. Just call.”

      “I’d be there if I could get off, Daddy. How are you and Mama?”

      “We’re good.” His deep and musical voice had always given her a feeling of security, as did the strength he projected with every word he spoke, even when he was being amusing. “We watched you on the national news the other night. First time we saw you on camera. I can’t tell you how proud we were. I opened a bottle of champagne, and we congratulated ourselves on what we’d created.” Laughter rumbled out of him, the self-deprecating and mischievous laughter that she loved so much.

      “Bob Kramer had an emergency, and the producer grabbed me the last minute and said, ‘You’re on.’ How did I do?”

      “Great. You don’t think I’d open my best champagne to commemorate a flop, do you? We’re proud of you. It was first-class.”

      “Thanks, Daddy.”

      “And you looked great in that red suit. Where’s that engineer you were talking about? Isn’t it about time he spoke to me?”

      “That may never happen, Daddy. There’s something real good between us, but… Well, he isn’t ready.”

      “From all you said about him, he’s probably a good man, but if he isn’t ready, move on. A lot of first-class white guys would flip backward over you. I keep telling you that.”

      “I know, Daddy. I know. Where’s Mama? Let me speak with her, please.”

      “She’s at the hairdresser’s.”

      “Well, give her a hug for me. I’ll be sure to call her Tuesday.”

      She hung up and got out of bed. Her father wanted her to marry a man who, like himself, was white, but the last thing she wanted was a marriage complicated by the social problems that her parents faced. Besides, she was attracted to black men. Her father could hardly be called prejudiced considering that he’d married an African-American woman and embraced her entire family. Pamela tossed her head as if in defiance and headed to the kitchen to make coffee. He married the person he wanted—and against his family’s wishes, I might add—and, if I get the chance, I’ll do the same. As soon as she got to her office, she phoned a florist and ordered flowers for her mother, specifying that they arrive Tuesday morning.

      Shortly before noon on Saturday, Russ arrived at Harrington House—the place where his room always awaited him—with Velma Brighton, his bride-to-be and Alexis’s older sister. Weeks had passed since Drake and his two older brothers had been together, and it seemed to him almost like Christmas as they greeted each other with the customary embrace. He loved his brothers and welcomed the women of their choice as he would have blood sisters.

      “Only three more months,” Drake said to Velma. “How do you keep Russ’s feet on the ground?”

      Velma winked, displaying the wickedness that he associated with her dry humor. “With patience.”

      “Not so,” Russ said. “I’m a changed man. I wait till the light turns completely green before I enter the inter section.”

      “I never knew you to do otherwise,” Telford said.

      “Was he always like this?” Velma asked, standing against Russ with his arms snug around her.

      “Always,” Henry put in. “Ain’t a one of these boys changed one bit since they were little. Instead of being an impatient kid, Russ is an impatient man.” He rubbed his chin as if savoring a pleasant thought. “But I’ll say it right in front of him. He’s as solid as they come.”

      Although Henry had worked as the family’s cook since Drake was five years old, Drake and his brothers regarded him as a member of the family who did most of the cooking. Long before their father’s death, it was Henry to whom they looked for guidance and nurturing, for Josh Harrington worked long hours to build a life for his children and to ensure their status in Midwestern Maryland. They couldn’t count on their mother—a woman who didn’t want to be tied down and who left home for lengthy periods of time whenever it suited her—to be there when they needed her. So they turned to Henry, who treated them as if they were his own children.

      Henry’s pride in the three men was obvious to anyone who knew the family. Indeed, acknowledging his role as a father figure to the Harrington men, Alexis had asked Henry to escort her down the aisle at her wedding to Telford, for which she earned his gratitude and deepening love.

      “You got all your wedding plans straight?” Henry asked Velma. “Let me know if you need me for anything.”

      “I wish I had me to do the catering,” she said, and not in jest, for she had achieved wide fame as a caterer of grand affairs. “And I just found out that one of my bridesmaids is almost four months pregnant and showing. Since I have a matron of honor, СКАЧАТЬ