Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,60
you were right the first time. I was talking about Brandt.”
“Brandt Wainwright is a very exciting, larger-than-life personality.”
“Are you talking about the ballplayer or the man?”
Crossing her arms under her breasts, Ciara leaned a hip against the countertop. “I’m not into sports, therefore I know nothing about Brandt the ballplayer. I was talking about the man.”
“I’d like to believe I got the best Wainwright from this generation, but Brandt is more than a worthy runner-up.”
“How did you meet Jordan?”
“Brandt introduced us. I needed an attorney to represent me in a sexual harassment suit and Jordan agreed to take the case.”
“He won, didn’t he?”
Aziza angled her head at the same time she narrowed her eyes. “How did you know?” There were only four people who were aware of the outcome of the suit: Kyle Chatham, Jordan’s law partner; her brother; and she and Jordan.
“I would expect no less from Harlem’s gangsta lawyer.”
Aziza managed to look embarrassed. “Jordan loves it when people call him a gangsta.”
“Is he?” Ciara asked, smiling.
“He has a tendency to morph into gangsta mode, but it’s his grandfather Wyatt who is a certified gangster,” she said. “Jordan’s folks usually spend the summer months in Maryland, but you’ll get to meet Wyatt when they come back after the Labor Day weekend. My in-laws always have a post-summer soirée at their Fifth Avenue residence, and Christiane invites everyone with a single drop of Wainwright blood, just to tick off Wyatt.”
Ciara smiled. “They sound like a lively bunch.”
Aziza sucked her teeth. “Don’t let the dollar signs fool you. Some of them can get real funky at times. Brandt’s brother Sumner is a throwback to Wyatt.” The buzzing coming from the coffeemaker signaled the end of the brewing cycle. “To be continued.”
“Da-yum,” Ciara drawled. “You were just getting to the juicy part.”
“The juicy parts are the family secrets that go back several generations. Jordan has hinted there are so many it would take at least a week to disclose all of them. When I ask him what they are, he closes up like a clam. He’s reluctant to tell me because I told him I was going to write a novel based on the Wainwrights. I usually pick up a tidbit here and there whenever there’s a family get-together. Invariably someone will have too much to drink and will start spilling the beans.”
Unplugging the coffeemaker, Ciara placed it on the trolley. “Would you really write a novel if you gathered enough information?”
Aziza shook her head. “No. I’ll leave that task to a direct descendant of Daniel Patrick Wainwright, who came to this country around the turn of the century with twelve dollars and a dream of a better life.”
Ciara checked the shelves. “I think we have everything.”
The two women retraced their steps when they pushed the trolley into the elevator for the ride to the roof. China cups were filled with steaming gourmet coffee then laced liberally with cream. It was the perfect complement for the moist miniature red velvet cupcakes.
The cupcakes, washed down with several cups of coffee, disappeared quickly. Jordan pulled a sterling cigar case from the pocket of his shirt, offering slender cylinders of tightly rolled tobacco to Brandt and Alexander.
Alexander and Jordan had helped Brandt move to a chaise. They joined him on matching chaise longues, where they lay, staring up at the sky and puffing on cigars.
“I can’t believe you don’t have any leftovers,” Aziza remarked as she filled a large plastic garbage bag.
“I told Brandt that wouldn’t be enough food,” Ciara said.
“Oh, there was enough. But when you get three guys weighing over two hundred pounds, you don’t expect to have leftovers.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for the next time.”
Aziza placed four empty wine bottles in a plastic crate. She hadn’t drunk any wine, since she was trying to get pregnant. She would know for certain if she was in another week.
“I’m going to leave these bags for Jordan or Al to take down whenever they decide to get up,” she told Ciara.
“When do you think that’s going to be?”
Aziza threw up a hand. “It could be in an hour or tomorrow morning. It won’t be the first time Brandt has had sleepovers on the roof.”
Ciara’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding?”
“I wish I was. Too much food and drink provides the perfect excuse for a sleepover. Besides, Jordan weighs too much for me to try and move him.”
“Where does your brother live?”
“He has a house in New Jersey. But he’d planned to stay over with us tonight.”
Ciara