Scarlett Love (The Scarletts Page 4

  All of them, middle-aged to doting old men, had a little vanity streak. She knew Carmen gave the case to her in her absence because she wanted to stick it to them. The meeting ended with her paying attention and then her father gestured for her to stay behind.

  Amoy rolled her eyes. Her father worked her like a partner and yet treated her like an ordinary associate. She was fed up with it.

  "Yes, Dad." She looked at her father with exaggerated patience. Douglas Lee Chang was a mixture of various Asian ancestries. His great-great-great grandfather was a Chinese immigrant who came to Jamaica in the eighteen hundreds. He married an Indian woman and bore children who intermarried with other races. Her father still had the slightly slanted eyes, from one ancestor, the height from another, and wavy hair which was still stubbornly black with only a dusting of grey at his temples to indicate that he was in his early sixties.

  "What's going on with you?" he asked, folding his arms in front of him. He assumed his patient pose, the one she dreaded when she was a child.

  "Nothing. I am fine." Amoy gave him one of her fake smiles that had him viewing her even more suspiciously.

  "That's what I told your mother but she is sure that something is wrong with you."

  Her mother the intuitive. Amoy almost groaned aloud. She could expect a visit soon. This was just the warning note.

  "I have a million things to do." She stood up.

  "Zack's wedding was good, wasn't it?" Her father leaned back in his chair, a smile on his face.

  "Very good." Amoy nodded. "I enjoyed it. I hope he has many years of happiness. Got to go, Dad. I'll be over for dinner on Sunday as usual. Tell Mom I'll talk to her then. Tell her there is no need to stop by and visit me at the office."

  Her father frowned. "Now you don't sound okay."

  "I am fine. Just busy. I have a million and one things to do now. Between Zack and Carmen's extra workload and my volunteer work at the church, this month will be quite packed."

  "Ah, I heard about that." Douglas looked pleased. "It's good to see you doing that kind of thing. Your grandmother is actually singing your praises. Your students seem to love you, she said. I always knew you would make a good teacher."

  "Really?" Amoy was shocked that Grandma Baker was singing her praises and was rigid with amazement at her father's almost misty expression.

  "You know, when you were a little girl," Douglas said softly, "I always wanted you to be a teacher. I would see you playing with your dolls and I would say, ‘Sharon, there goes our little teacher.’"

  "But I am not a teacher." Amoy narrowed her eyes at him. "I am a lawyer, a very good one too. Better than half the old men you have parading around here."

  "Good Lord, Amoy," Douglas sighed, "does every thing have to be about you and your proving to be one of the men? You are not a man. You are my daughter."

  "And as usual this conversation is crazy!" Amoy gritted trying to keep her voice down. "And I am crazy for working here where my own father still sees me as a little girl in pigtails! I don't want to be a man; I never said that. I just want to be appreciated for my efforts here without it being colored by you and your myopic view of me. I bring the largest accounts to this firm. I am the best corporate lawyer you have. And yet I am never going to be good enough."

  Douglas squinted at Amoy. "Tell me, why should I give you a partnership position in this firm when you can't even sort out your personal life."

  "Argh!" Amoy growled. "It always comes to this, doesn't it? My personal life! Until the other day Zack was single, and you made him partner last year."

  Douglas got up. "But you are not Zack; you are my little girl, who married into the family who sued your mother's family and robbed them of their family land and then you moved to work at his firm and then you divorced him, as all of us predicted and now, you are single and you can't even keep a relationship for more than two minutes."

  "And this is an old argument that has no merit on how well I do my job," Amoy huffed, "and I am through with having it out with you. One day I might just leave again and take my clients with me. Maybe I'll join up with Judith."

  "And have an all-woman, man-hating firm." Douglas chuckled.

  "I don't hate men." Amoy gritted. "And neither does Judith; she was with Zack for years!"

  "Could have fooled me." Douglas was not taking the conversation seriously. Amoy felt impotent to do anything about his complete lack of regard for her position. "Judith hates men and children; they would cramp her style."

  "I love children!" Amoy squealed. "Don't even go there and compare me to a hard career woman who lives and breathes for the boardroom—that I am not."

  "Then if you love children so much why am I still without a grandchild?" Douglas raised an eyebrow in jest. "When I was your age, I was a father to ten-year-old twins. The only reason our family is not larger is because of the difficult time Sharon had with you two."

  "Dad, stop!" Amoy said, gathering her papers. She foolishly felt like crying. Her father knew that the reason she had no children was because of her ex husband's duplicity, getting a vasectomy while she was constantly trying.

  He was hitting below the belt as usual. But strangely, today she felt vulnerable.

  She walked out of the boardroom and left him there.

  Her secretary Debbie was waiting for her with what looked like a pile of messages.

  "That detective guy John Sauce keeps calling, says he has a definite lead on Peter Scarlett…told him that he'd have to deal with you since Zack isn't here. He asked if you were pretty."

  Amoy snorted. "Zack said he's a moron."

  "And Oliver Scarlett called for Zack, said he was returning Zack's call. He is in Kinshasa. The village where he is staying does not have phone service. Said he needed legal help but he'll call back in three weeks’ time when he goes to town again. And your grandmother called."

  "Which one?" Amoy put the pile of files on her desk.

  "Grandma Baker—wanted to know if you would like to join the choir; practice is after your class today."

  Amoy groaned, "I don't want to join the choir!"

  "Don't shoot the messenger." Debbie grinned. "You forget the master plan…get into Granny's good graces, have her insist to your father that it is archaic and inhumane not to have you as partner in the firm?"

  "I don't know if it is worth it." Amoy swung in her chair. "I am this close to leaving the firm."

  "What did your dad say to you?" Debbie asked, resignation in her tone. She was quite used to Amoy battling her father to be partner.

  "He called me his little girl." Amoy moaned. "How can I be taken seriously when Douglas Lee Chang constantly thinks of me as his baby daughter who needs protection from the big, bad world? And if he is not thinking of me as a baby, he is thinking of me as an old spinster who has not produced grandchildren yet. Ugh!"

  Debbie sidled to the door. "I hear the phone ringing."

  Amoy rolled her eyes. "I didn't hear a phone. You just don't want to hear me moan and complain. That's okay. I am done complaining."

  "Don't do anything foolish". Debbie stopped at the door. "I like the bonus pay that they give legal secretaries here. I am not looking forward to starving while you start a new practice."

  Amoy smiled. "But you will come with me, regardless."

  "That I may do." Debbie shook her head. "I am such a stickler for punishment."

  "Debs, can you call Kathleen and tell her not to forget to feed Morpheus?"

  "So you have Zack's cat for a whole month?"

  "Yep." Amoy sorted through her messages. "Why, you want to share custody?"

  "Nope." Debbie exited the office almost at a trot.

  ****

  Amoy left the office at four. Lydia, the receptionist, gave her a wide-eyed, surprised look.

  Amoy smiled. "Volunteer work."

  "Oh," Lydia grinned. "Where's my brain, it is here on your calendar."

  Amoy waved to her and headed through the door. The classes were at six, She could go ho
me, have a long soak in her tub, and change into something a lot more casual than her pinstripe black suit and high heels. Her class seemed to relate to her more when she was less intimidating looking; at least, that was what one of her students told her.

  She surprised herself; she actually looked forward to it. It did give her a certain sense of satisfaction to realize that her batch of thirteen students was slowly but surely learning something. She had seven women and six men in the class.

  The women were mostly in their twenties; two of them were in their fifties. One lady said she was a domestic helper for many years and had no time for class because she had to send her sons to school. She was only coming to learn to read because her three sons were through with university; she thought it was her time to learn.

  The men were construction workers in their twenties and thirties. All of them were members of the church who needed the basics in order to find other jobs. One man, Keith Dellacourt, was in his sixties and had recently joined the church. He wanted to be able to finally read the Bible for himself.

  And in the six weeks since she had been there, Keith was practically reading fluently. He no longer needed to be in her class. He went from zero to a hundred pretty fast.

  As usual whenever she thought about her class she thought about Slater. Why was she so hung up on this guy?

  She couldn't fathom why. She had always been attracted to men who were super-intelligent and confident and educated.

  Most of them had at the very least a Bachelor’s degree, and here she was quite unashamedly thinking about a man who couldn't read or write.

  She had thought that she was not as shallow. She put down her briefcase before she pressed the elevator button and searched for her car keys she wasn't sure she had in her bag.

  She rummaged around, not looking up when the elevator door opened. She was blocking the path of whomever it was that wanted to go to the office.

  Her shades dropped from the top of her bag and she ignored it. Her keys were hiding behind her makeup kit and address book. If she didn't have paranoia about losing her phone and all the contacts on it, she would have retired her address book a long time ago, and then her car keys would not be playing hide and seek with her.

  She finally fished them out and when she looked up, her eyes made contact with Slater. He was standing patiently, holding onto her glasses with one hand and a package in the other.

  "Late delivery," he said, indicating the box. He smiled at her and handed her the glasses and Amoy found herself at a loss for words.

  He had deep-set eyes the color of dark amber. This was the first time she was seeing him close up. Close enough that she could see that he had a tiny scar under his right eye and that his hair was tight, curly ringlets all over his head and that his eyebrows were thick and level and looked like they had a sheen. His lips were not black, more of a dark purple/red.

  He stood stoically through her assessment of him. He didn't move a muscle. Maybe because he was staring at her too, hungrily, almost possessively.

  She dragged her eyes from his face and cleared her throat. They were frozen in front of the elevator staring at each other, if any body saw them what would they think?

  Surely they would sense the tension in the air. She took the glasses from him and nodded. "Thank you."

  "My name is..."

  "Slater," she finished for him. "What is your surname?"

  He grinned, the left side of his mouth moving a little higher than the right. He shifted the box in his hand and she could see his biceps bundling under his short-sleeved white polo shirt. His broad chest forced the company logo, King Delivery, to one side.

  "Wilson, I guess."

  "You guess?" She moved closer to him and that alert, intent look came back in his eye.

  "It's a long story." His voice became husky. "Do you want to hear it?"

  "Your story?" Amoy put on her briskest voice. "Why not?"

  "You serious?" Slater looked shell-shocked. "I mean..."

  "I teach at the church at six, for two hours. Today I will be available at eight...eight fifteen."

  "You teach adults to read," he said tensely. "I got your note about my penmanship."

  "I was just being honest." Amoy pressed the elevator button and then turned back to him with a frown. "You read the note?"

  He didn't answer. He looked away sheepishly. "I'll come to your class. I know where the church is; I sometimes play the pipe organ there."

  Amoy nodded briskly. "Well, see you then."

  Chapter Five

  Slater parked his bicycle near the front of the wide church steps. The doors were opened and some older ladies were at the front of the church.

  There were several cars in the parking lot. He saw a navy-colored X5 BMW SUV parked in the middle of two older cars and he assumed that the high-end vehicle was Amoy's.

  The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him. Here he was riding a bicycle to go to Amoy Gardener's Literacy Class, only after she had shocked him and said she would like to hear his life story after the class. He did not know what on earth had possessed him to tell her that. And why on earth had she offered to listen to him? He was intrigued enough to find out.

  He assumed that the classes were in the church hall, so he headed in that direction. The church hall was a large hall where they sometimes held concerts. He had been to more than one function there.

  All the lights were on when he approached the building. He looked through one of the stained glass windows and saw that the hall was partitioned into different areas. There was a gentleman at the top teaching mathematics—or at least he assumed it was mathematics; there were a lot of numbers on the board. Another person was teaching something else. There looked to be at least six classes going on at the same time.

  Amoy's class was at the back and she had quite a few persons sitting in there. She had changed from earlier when he had seen her at the office. She was in a black dress with a large yellow flower at the side. The flower curled from the back to the front, hugging one breast as it wound back up to her neck.

  She was laughing with an old man, her light honey skin flushing at whatever he said. He was looking at her adoringly. She tucked her hair behind one ear. She looked casual and pretty and unreachable.

  He wished his heart would listen to him and stop yearning after her. Why her? She was so far out of his reach it was like wishing for the moon.

  He looked at her again. She glanced at her watch and then turned to the board behind her. She wrote something on it; he couldn't for the life of him decipher what it was.

  He needed this class. He saw the need to qualify himself so that he could become a better person. Reading was essential; he knew that. It was hard for him but he could at least try.

  He needed to get this madness under control. His dream of being with Amoy was never going to happen. He leaned on the wall and exhaled.

  "Young man," a quivery voice said to his side, "you should not be afraid to go inside, you know."

  He looked down, way down, and there was a short elderly lady smiling up at him benignly. She was very dark-skinned and her eyes were bright. They twinkled from her face like gems.

  "I am not afraid." He cleared his throat. "I am just pondering some things."

  She laughed throatily.

  Then she squinted up at him. "I know you."

  He nodded. "I play the organ here sometimes."

  "Yes." She smiled and held out her hand. "My name is Sharon Baker."

  "Slater," Slater said, tensing up to hear the inevitable question, Slater what?

  She shook his hand and nodded. "Well, inside there are the literacy classes, three of them, and the mathematics classes, three of them."

  "I was, er, thinking of the literacy classes." He said it reluctantly. All of a sudden the whole world knew that he had literacy problems. He had gotten by for years without letting anyone know, and then he had had that stupid impulse to write Amoy, and now it seemed as if he was telling everybody.


  The lady nodded. "The very beginners go to the one at the back." She tiptoed and looked through the window. "My granddaughter teaches that one."

  "You are related to Amoy?" Slater asked incredulously.

  "Well, yes." She nodded. "You sound as if you know her?"

  "I do--well, not really, I deliver packages to her office."

  She smiled. "Then go ahead; this shouldn't be so hard for you since you are at least acquainted with her."

  Slater sighed. "Okay, thanks."

  "No problem." Mrs. Baker tilted her head to one side. "You were at the wedding yesterday too, weren't you?"

  "Yes." Slater nodded. "I was playing with the band."

  "I have an eye for these things." Mrs. Baker looked pleased that she remembered seeing him. "I never forget a face even though I am as old as Methuselah. My daughter says I am very observant."

  Slater grinned. "Many persons do not remember the help."

  "Ah, I think if the help looks like you they would remember. Most of the females there knew that you were on that stage." Mrs. Baker chuckled. "You know, you resemble my grandson's wife's family. Something about the eyes."

  She said it whimsically. "Especially that sweet one, very lovely man, can't remember his name. Ah, this old brain."

  Slater waited while she tried to remember; it seemed as if it was important to her.

  "Ah, I have it." She snapped her fingers. "Reuben. You look a little like him. Such handsome men."

  She winked at him. "Have a good class."

  Slater grinned; she was an old flirt. "Thank you."

  He pushed the door open and headed toward Amoy Gardener's class.

  ****

  Amoy knew the exact moment that Slater walked into her class. Amoy almost stumbled over her sentence. She was running through the weekly phonetic alphabet chart when he walked in with a ratty knapsack. He was still in his delivery uniform too. And he looked uncomfortable. Should she or shouldn't she welcome him to the class?