My iPhone twists in my hand as I consider calling Luxury. I’ve never chased after a lady in all of my life. With her the rules have changed, but there are certain lines that shouldn’t be crossed.
Yet for this tiny, sweet, gorgeous young lady, the sky must be the limit. Luxury deserves the type of man that is able to be attuned to her every need. Not to say that I don’t have that covered while under the sheets. But she deserves the entire package, with a red ribbon on top.
Instead of calling her, I meet Doctor Whitson at his suggestion at Berto’s Bar and Grill. This hole in the wall, surrounding by artistic gems in the center of Harlem boasts that it was established in 1972 on the sign. Berto’s Bar is simply downtrodden on the outside, but as I neared a place that a “Duke” wouldn’t be caught entering, fresh flavors entice my nostrils. As a man of my word, I grabbed the sticky door and opened it, with the notion that I would hear out the good doctor.
The place is dimly lit but packed to capacity with patrons filling the booth areas, and I weave around the table and chairs in the center for the bar toward the back. The music is a Spanish lover’s promise, and I wish I didn’t know Spanish not wanting to listen to words that weave together how Luxury feels about me.
“Cranberry juice, and water, half and half,” Whitson’s telling the bartender as I pull out a tall stool.
“Scotch, no rocks,” I say, taking a seat.
Whitson looks over at me, and is no longer the man who admired my knowledge of his intellectual discoveries. He pulls out a silver lighter with his initials–didn’t even peg him for a smoker. Whitson clicks it a few times, and then puts it back.
“Used to smoke one pack a day and chased it all back down with too many swigs of gin. Now it’s just cranberry juice and water,” Whitson says to no one in particular while grabbing a chip and scooping it into salsa. “Never thought I’d break the habit. Lord knows Gina tried. The day we found out she was pregnant with Lux, I stopped just like that,” he snaps a finger. “Cold turkey. No going back, no regrets.”
“Congrats, couldn’t have been easy.” I try to see where this conversation is going. In a manner of seconds, I’ve taken in each and every patron in this establishment, mannerisms, no potential threats, but the old Doctor baffles me. The discussion should have begun with him threatening me not to see his daughter again.
“No. Actually, that’s where you’re wrong, Doctor Finch. Stopping with the drinking and cigarettes was so very easy,” Whitson says. He finally looks at me. “Love makes you do strange things. It makes you strong and daring, it makes you put another person’s wellbeing over your own. Victor, can I call you Victor?”
“Sure.” I grab my drink and toss it back, grit my teeth to the burn then nod for another round.
“Fell free to call me, Jonah,” Whitson says.
“Sure thing, Jonah.”
“How old are you, if you don’t mind, Victor?”
“35.” I reply watching his eyes instantly turn upward and avert to the left as he calculates the difference of age between myself, and his only daughter.
“28. That’s the estimated age of brain maturity–when someone can make moral decisions, with a fully developed mind. Thinking with this,” Whitson points to his afro covered cranium, “and not this,” he points to his heart. “This muscle is protected by a chest cavity and all kinds of sinew, ligaments, and other organs. Yet it makes us more unruly. It’s the reason that some of us need anger management and others of us choose the wrong mate.”
I nod my head in understanding. Now I gather where we are headed.
“Good thing you’re 35,” Whitson says. “Yes, that’s a good thing. It means you know exactly what you want, exactly when to make a life-changing decision.”
“Truth.” I decide to nurse this new drink, since I don’t want the ex-alcoholic to think I’m currently one.
“Now, please don’t assume I’m being premature. You’ve known my daughter all of two weeks.”
“21 days, exactly.” My face is blank. Whitson stares me down. He finally takes a sip of his drink, and then eats another chip.
“You haven’t known Luxury long enough to make any rash decisions. Let me tell you a story.” He goes back to pulling out the lighter, flicking it on and off. His nerves appear to be getting the best of him. “A little over a year ago my lovely Gina was murdered, Luxury was the one to find her.”
“Wow,” I attempt to act surprised. I eventually show a shred of sincerity at the thought of Lux stumbling upon her mother’s disfigured corpse.
“Right before that, escrow was already rolling on a nice home in the ‘burbs. I mean real nice. Probably not as nice to what you’re used to,” Whitson looks me up and down again, eyes trained on my Rolex and diamond crusted cufflinks.
Jonah Whitson finally smiles as his eyes search a fond memory meant for only him, and then he says, “But let’s just say that Gina finally got the greenhouse she wanted–she had a green thumb like Lux does. Gina was going to get the large kitchen that she wanted, with double ovens. I would have an area of the home sectioned off for my laboratory, so I didn’t have to step into Greco Tech every day. We’d been searching for that house while Lux was off at college. Gina was moving slow on the situation. Her parents were sick. They lived in the same crummy apartments in the Bronx. Yeah, we had lived in the Bronx back then. Got married and moved into an apartment down the hall just to be near her parents. They had died; Lux was at college. My Gina and I were ‘moving on up.’ And then Lux comes into the apartment after being home from NYU for not even long enough to call it a break.” With every word stringed together, it becomes even more difficult for him to say, “My baby girl found Gina’s body. So much blood, so much gore.”
“That’s awful,” I reply, stoic enough to hold in all the anger brewing inside over what Luxury had to go through. Doctor Charles Everhart will pay.
“After that, Lux wanted to stay in this stagnant position. Sort of almost lost in time. Harlem, with its diversity beckons her. I follow. In a matter of days, we’re buying the loft, converting the top. She’s purchasing this crumply building a few blocks over for ‘Urban Gardens’ when flowers aren’t her dream. You, know what?” He pauses, “Lux first went to NYU as an art major. Gina told me how many times she changed course, and sought a new major,” Whitson shakes his head. “Guess when Luxury was younger, only Gina pruned her drawing skills. The first time Lux handed me this piece of paper with crayon squigglies, I bought her a scientific calculator.” Whitson stops to take another chip.
“Anyway, back to story. Lux, my sweet child, she’s stuck in this world. Lux has been in this sort of stagnation since my beautiful Gina’s death. She opened up the florist shop Gina wanted, but will not utter a single word about her mother. Not one. She won’t take money, not one of my pennies that I’ve gotten from my inventions. I’ve offered to buy her a shop in Martha’s Vineyard.” He shakes his head as if grasping the location out of a list of so many places to imply how much he has tried to offer his child. “Lux is bent on paying back her own school loans. Bent on suffering in solo mode. Comes to bring me flowers, when it’s really her only form of therapy that she is willing to take after seeing Gina’s body. I’m ready for Luxury to be happy.” Whitson sighs with that last statement. A seed of hope is planted within his weary spirit for his daughter. “Lux is 22, so she’s got time to get out of this place in her mind. But as young as she is, I don’t want Luxury’s time wasted on you.”
The simple words slam into my chest. They came from Whitson’s mouth. Jonah Whitson means the world to his daughter; all I can do is respect him.
“All right, Whitson.” I pat his back, beginning to get up with legs heavier than led. This conversation is over, a monologue of sorts, but more powerful than a defense attorney’s concluding remarks during a high-profile case.
“Call me, Jonah, after all, I’ve just bared my soul to you, Victor.” Whitson looks me in the eyes. His brown eyes acquiring a certain understanding that I will stay the hell away from his daughter.
As I step out of the building, I dial my assistant Monica. Soon as she answers I say, “Find me the best private investigators and private security that all of New York has to offer.”
“Okay, D’Ross.” Monica quickly adds, “but you’ve got an important engagement scheduled in six days–”
CLICK.
Later that evening, I was determined to see Luxury one last time before returning home. At least my grandmother, The Queen will be happy that I’m ready to complete all my dukedom duties in Arlington. Mom will breathe easy and can stop arguing about how I’ve neglected my duchy. I need my Little One fully out of my mind. I can’t stand to speak with Lux. She has this way of making me accountable for things that are beneath a royal.
Wow, a royal.
As a child at Cambridge Academy and all the while Burt the Butler helped with my upbringing, I never considered the difference between royalty and common folk. Mother always had this air about her that implied she was different from the rest, even though she was married into it; Princess Mary made it seemed like a birth right. Father was fit for a king, even though he’ll never be one. Either way, we don’t hold ourselves at offense for shortcomings.
We don’t have shortcomings. But the look in Luxury’s eyes at times can potentially weaken me. I remember when she first came to our date not wearing what she should have, or talking back. I know that she believes I have faults. Dukes do not have limitations, but Lux makes me want to be a better man.
It’s past 2 a.m. when I pull out the mechanism used to unlock the Whitson’s front door. Silently, I slip upstairs and to Luxury’s bedroom. My eyes adjust to the darkness, but Luxury has a nightlight on. I unplug it. Then duck beneath the low hanging flowers that are strung upside down, probably some preservation technique.
Grabbing the stool from near the door, I take it to Luxury’s bed and sit. She’s in the midst of a peaceful slumber. For a while, I can watch her. Even though I have a few things to do in New York before leaving, this is the last time I plan to see her. For Luxury’s sake.