Through the Fire. Donna Hill

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СКАЧАТЬ stoking?” she countered.

      Slowly, Quinn began to relax, allowing himself to get reacquainted with the bob and weave of the mating game, the preliminary chat. “You’re on point, huh?”

      “I’ve spent too much time in my life biting my tongue and being diplomatic.” A momentary shadow passed across her warm brown eyes. “It cost me.”

      “Sorry to hear that.”

      She shrugged. “We all have to move on.”

      Quinn stared at her for a moment, that all too familiar refrain settling like a weight in his belly. “What if you can’t?”

      “Then we stay in that same place, unchanged and hurting.” Her unwavering stare held him in place. “And we lose the essence of what life is all about—evolution and change.”

      The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Sounds like you’ve thought about it a lot.”

      She glanced away, focusing on the contents of her cart. “I’ve had time,” she stated simply. She took a breath, then suddenly brightened. “You like poetry?”

      Quinn shrugged. “Some.”

      She pulled a flyer out of her purse. “Come down to Encore tonight. You might enjoy yourself.” She handed him the flyer and began to move away. “Nice to meet you, Quinten Parker.”

      Quinn watched her walk away, studying the sensuous sway of her hips, the way her hair in curly twists caressed her face, until she turned down another aisle and was gone. He glanced at the flyer in his hand: Rae Lindsay—Appearing Tonight at Encore. Rae Lindsay? He folded the flyer and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans, intent on dismissing the entire episode. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it, though he felt he should. He shrugged. Didn’t matter anyhow. The last place he wanted to spend his Saturday night was sitting up in some club somewhere—too many memories. That’s where he’d met Nikita, that’s where he’d returned to finally commit himself to her. Naw, Encore was out.

      But the lovely woman, with the piercing eyes and melodic voice, who spoke poignant truths, had wiggled her way beneath his armor, and there she remained.

      Quinn law sprawled across his bed, the encroaching evening and the hum of the air conditioner his only company. Maxine had called earlier to let him know that Jamel had arrived safely, and they chatted briefly about his trip and how happy he seemed. That made Quinn feel good, knowing that Jamel’s visit didn’t have any ill effects.

      “How’s Taylor?” Quinn asked, wanting and not wanting to know. He could hear the smile in her voice when she talked about her husband.

      “He’s wonderful. His business is doing great, and he’s been talking about opening another office.”

      “Sounds good, Max. Glad to hear it.”

      They were quiet for a moment.

      “How about you, Q? How are you doing?”

      “Hey, can’t complain. Taking it light, ya know.”

      “Getting out any—meet anyone?”

      “No to both.”

      “Why, Q? You can’t live in a vacuum forever. Nikita wouldn’t have—”

      “Don’t, Max. Awright? Leave it alone.” His jaw clenched.

      “If we’ve ever been anything to each other, Q, it’s been honest. And you know good and damn well you’ve never been able to tell me what to do.”

      He shut his eyes, knowing how right she was. “Yeah, yeah.”

      “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m gonna say it anyway—Nikita is gone, Q. She’s not coming back, not even if you sit and grieve from now till the end of time. But you are here. You have a life, a career, a future—a son. It’s up to you to decide what you’re going to do about them. I never knew you to half-step about anything, Q, to crawl in a corner and pull the sheet up over your head. But that’s what you’ve been doing these three years. And you’re not the man I once knew…once loved. And definitely not the kind of man you want to be for your son. The choice is yours, babe. I gotta go get J ready for bed and everything. Call him during the week. Okay?”

      “Yeah,” he mumbled. “I will.”

      “Take care, Q.”

      “Yeah…and, Max…”

      “Yes?”

      “Thanks.”

      “Later, Q.”

      Quinn thought about that conversation now, and the countless others that were so similar. He knew they were right, but it just seemed that he’d lost his will, his drive, and he didn’t know what to do to get it back. He turned on his side and spotted the flyer on his night table. Sitting up, he smoothed out the wrinkled edges against the firmness of the tabletop and reread the invitation. A picture of the woman in the supermarket took shape in his head, and he wondered if she was Rae Lindsay. Something told him she was.

      Getting up, he walked out of the bedroom and went downstairs into the living room straight for his collection of CDs. Sifting through them, he flipped each one to the back, looking for the names of contributors. Out of the first dozen he’d scanned, five had Rae Lindsay’s name clearly noted as songwriter. Songs that he’d listened to and enjoyed, both as a means of entertainment and with a musician’s ear.

      Imagine that. You really couldn’t judge a book by its cover. Rae Lindsay; a sister with not only a strong presence but with something profound and creative underneath. As a musician, he knew how difficult it was to bring together all of the various elements that make up a good song—that fascinating mix of words and music that can bring tears to a listener’s eyes, lift someone’s spirits, or recall memories of times long gone. For this reason alone, she was not a woman he could easily dismiss.

      And so he found himself seated at a front row table at Encore, the first time he’d stepped inside a nightclub in three years. When he arrived at the place, there were two young brothers, one on an upright bass and another on flute, backing a tall, dark-skinned woman reading poetry. Dressed in casual garb, she adjusted the thin straps of her mink-brown silk top, revealing the strong lines of her arms, the subtle tones blending seamlessly with her flesh, making them one. The stage lighting in the club cast light and dark shadows across the figure seated regally on the stool, giving the scene the illusion of a dream. Maybe it was intentional, Quinn thought, as he found himself closing his eyes, swept into the musical rhythm of the words, hypnotized from the play of light and the lush voice. Much of what the woman read sounded like a cross between the fiery poetry of Sonia Sanchez revved up on hip-hop and the bold verse of Nikki Giovanni updated for a new generation. He found the lilting sound of the flute tantalizing and subtly seductive. Poetically, she weaved her words between the notes, adding accents and flavor to each of her choruses, playing her audience’s energy with all the skill of a minister working a revival. By the end of her segment, the entire house was on its feet, cheering her. Everyone except Quinn.

      He was beyond applause. What he’d experienced in her magical rendering of words tapped into a part of him that had long been dormant—the melody of him—the part he’d buried, sworn was dead. It wasn’t. His heart thudded in time to СКАЧАТЬ