A Private Affair. Donna Hill

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      Six and a half hours later, soothed by the sound of Kenny G on CD, Nikita pulled into the endless driveway of her parents’ imposing Long Island estate. For the first time since she’d signed off the Cornell campus she questioned the veracity of her hasty actions.

      Several moments passed—Kenny’d G’d, Al’d Jarreau’d and Grover’d worked his magic—before she took the key out of the ignition. She released a sigh. “It’s now or never.” Never, a little voice whispered back.

      Nikita slid from behind the wheel of her silver-and-black Mercedes convertible—a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday four years earlier—easing the door shut. Her honey brown eyes settled on the house.

      Set on sixty acres of land, in Lattington—which was situated in the “Gold Coast” of above upper-crust suburbia—the Harrell home was the envy of many. It was an architect’s delight, of Southern, turn-of-the-century charm coupled with modern accoutrements such as tennis court, swimming pool and gazebo. Their home had been the focus of many Home and Garden, House Beautiful and Architectural Digest issues. What seemed to impress everyone most, was that the Harrells were both black and affluent. Dr. Lawrence Harrell was one of the most renowned vascular surgeons in the United States, and Professor Cynthia Lewis-Harrell was the first black woman to head the mathematics department at Princeton University. Then there was Nikita.

      Absently she ran her professionally manicured hands along the length of her ten-months-in-development dreads. They’d finally reached below her ears, and she couldn’t wait until they were long enough for her to vary their style. Her parents, on the other hand…

      She looked up. Second-floor lights twinkled against the impending nightfall, a sure sign that she’d missed dinner and that her folks were settling down for the evening. Tradition.

      Determinedly she proceeded down the cobblestone walk, careful because of her heels. The smooth stones could tell many a tale of her skinned knees and bruised elbows.

      She pressed the bell and listened for the familiar beeps of the alarm being disengaged. The door swung inward.

      “Niki! What on earth? Your parents didn’t say anything about you coming home,” Amy rushed on, hugging Niki to her slender frame. She had been with her family for as long as she could remember. Amy was the real power behind the well-oiled Harrell machine.

      Amy released Niki and set her away. Her sharp brown eyes narrowed. “What’s going on? I’ve never known you to just come home without letting anybody know.” She peered around Nikita, looking for something that would explain the unannounced arrival. “Come in here and let me look at you.” She hustled Nikita into the house. “Are you sick?”

      “No.”

      “In trouble?”

      “No, no. Nothing like that, Amy,” Nikita assured. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, that’s all.” She forced a smile.

      “Humph. That doesn’t sound like you. Not like you at all. Your folks are upstairs and you already missed dinner,” she scolded, walking with Nikita down the Italian tile foyer.

      “Amy! Who was at the door?”

      Nikita’s heart knocked at the sound of her mother’s strident voice.

      “It’s Nikita. She wanted to surprise us.” Amy threw Nikita a sharp look of disbelief.

      Her mother, caressed by a pale peach satin lounging outfit and a cloud of Donna Karan’s Chaos cologne, floated to the top of the oak staircase. “Nikita! Larry, Larry. Nikita’s home.”