Man of Fate. Rochelle Alers

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СКАЧАТЬ that was attached to his brownstone. Along the street were townhouses, carriage houses and Georgian-style brownstones that made up the neighborhood known as Strivers’ Row. Originally, he’d bought the property as an investment and for the tax write-off, but then changed his mind. He’d decided not to rent the expansive triplex, but to live in it himself. He was still ambivalent about whether he would eventually rent the one-bedroom rental duplex with a downstairs basement.

      Working with Duncan Gilmore, his friend and investment adviser, Kyle’s net worth had soared and when the Strivers’ Row townhouse was put on the market, he’d met with the real estate agent, checkbook in hand. When the real estate agent showed him the property, she’d suggested that he live in one section of the townhouse and use the other part for his private practice. Kyle knew the beautifully renovated six-bedroom, six-bathroom, three-story townhouse was much too large for one person but he’d come to value his privacy and didn’t want clients to know where he lived. Having worked for a prestigious corporate law firm had its advantages and disadvantages, the former being a generous six-figure salary and year-end bonuses. But it also meant having little time for himself.

      Three years later, he and his childhood friends—Duncan and Ivan—bought another Harlem property, this one in the historic Mount Morris neighborhood.

      Kyle deactivated the security system and walked into a small area between the kitchen, pantry and the first-floor deck. Kicking off his slip-ons, he left them on a mat and walked into the kitchen to put the gift-wrapped box containing a slice of wedding cake, a souvenir from Micah and Tessa’s wedding, on the refrigerator shelf. After placing Ava’s handbag on the granite countertop, he checked the wall phone. The display read: No Missed Calls. It wasn’t often someone called his house, except for family members. No news was good news.

      He had a habit of calling his parents on Sunday evenings for an update on what was going on in the family. The calls were actually not to hear the latest family gossip but to reassure his mother that he was alive and well.

      Frances Chatham had been the most concerned when he revealed he was leaving his position with the corporate law firm to set up his own practice. She went on about his decision to give up a position that she and her contemporaries had struggled for so that he could have his piece of the American dream. What Kyle had to remind his mother was that he was a child of the Civil Rights Movement and had realized the American dream. He could choose where he wanted to practice law, and working to help those who couldn’t afford the high-price, high-profile lawyers had always been a lifelong dream, and like the late Johnnie Cochran, Kyle wanted to champion and defend the underserved.

      Throwing his suit jacket over his shoulder, he climbed the staircase to his bedroom. He wanted to take a shower and wash away the antiseptic smell associated with hospitals. Kyle hadn’t wanted to think about Ava Warrick because he couldn’t understand why he’d insinuated himself into the situation. Without thinking he’d slipped into the role of counselor with the intent of protecting his client.

      Perhaps his eagerness stemmed from the fact that she had a brand-new car and he didn’t want to leave her on the street waiting for her friend to come from Brooklyn. And if she wasn’t able to contact her friend then she’d be at the mercy of any tow truck company out to make a quick buck. He’d gleaned from her driver’s license that she lived on the Upper West Side, putting her three stops from his 135th subway station.

      Walking into the master bedroom, he drew the silk drapes over the French doors leading to a Juliet balcony. Solar lamps lit up the backyard around an expansive deck surrounded by a flower garden with a stone fountain. Summer was already here and Kyle hadn’t been outdoors to enjoy the warmer weather. All of his waking hours were spent working on a criminal case in which his client was implicated in the armed robbery of a bodega. Despite the D.A.’s overwhelming evidence against the teenager, Kyle believed the boy when he said he was innocent.

      Emptying his pockets of loose change, a money clip and a small leather case with his driver’s license and credit cards, he left them on the side table in an adjoining dressing room. He switched on the cell phone he’d turned off before entering the hospital. Seconds later it chimed a distinctive tone to let him know he’d missed a call. Scrolling through the features he groaned when he recognized the number. Kendra Alexander had called him three times.

      Kyle had dated Kendra for a month, then told her that they had to stop seeing each other when she began to show signs of being emotionally unstable. His suggestion that she seek professional therapy was followed by a barrage of expletives he hadn’t known existed, followed by inconsolable sobbing.

      He’d referred her to his friend Ivan, a therapist, who after a psychological evaluation referred her to a psychiatrist since she needed medication to control a bipolar disorder. Even on medication, Kyle knew he wasn’t ready to deal with Kendra. If she’d been his wife then he would’ve taken care of her, but he already had to deal with his clients, who often had psychological, physical and emotional problems. Everyone who was referred to him was in crisis, and most of the time they didn’t have enough money for the initial consultation fee. He could count on one hand those he had on retainer.

      Before he even set up his practice, he knew the kinds of problems he would encounter in a community like Harlem with its widening gap between the haves and have-nots. Brownstones that had once sold for five and six figures now sold for millions.

      Punching in the PIN for his voice mail, he listened to the messages from Kendra: “Hi-eee, this is Ken. Call me.” Shaking his head, Kyle smiled, wondering why a woman as feminine as Kendra would refer to herself with a masculine name. “Call me, Kyle, when you get this message.” His smile grew wider. “I have a surprise for you, so pul-lease call me back.” He was tempted not to listen to the last message because he really didn’t want to deal with anymore surprises—at least not for twenty-four hours. Becoming a knight in shining armor for Ava Warrick was enough. “I can’t wait for you to call me back, so I’m going to tell you that I’m pregnant and I’m getting married next weekend. I know it is short notice, but I’d love for you to come to the wedding. It’s going to be at my sister’s house in Staten Island, so I hope you can make it.”

      Kyle’s smile grew even wider. Although he wouldn’t attend the wedding, he planned to send a gift card.

      Remembering Ava’s request to call her job, he reached for the number on the slip of paper he’d put into the breast pocket of his shirt. It took less than a minute to call the answering service and relay Ava’s message, making certain the operator understood that Ava wouldn’t return to work until she received medical clearance. He plugged the cell phone into a charger, stripped off his clothes, leaving them on a padded bench, then made his way into the marbled master bath with its heated steam shower, double sinks and tumbled marble floor.

      He brushed his teeth, showered and after drying his body returned to the bedroom and fell across the crisp sheets. Although he’d closed his eyes, Kyle could still see Ava Warrick’s bruised and swollen face. It was a long time before the image faded and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

      Ava returned to her room to find a strange man staring at the flickering images on an overhead television screen. He’d turned on the television, but the volume was turned down. It took her seconds to realize the man was Kyle Chatham. She hadn’t recognized him in a pair of faded jeans, running shoes and a navy-blue golf shirt.

      She’d had a CT scan, followed by a consultation with a neurosurgeon who’d reassured her that the pictures of her brain showed no evidence of bleeding or swelling. His recommendation: rest. The doctor cautioned her to avoid aspirin, as it increased the risk of bleeding. He’d also given her a referral to a neurosurgeon whose office was in her neighborhood.

      “Are you going to need the chair?” the orderly asked Ava as she tried to stand.

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