The Build Up (53)

“Is that a cake on the front seat? Looks amazing,” Porter said, practically drooling in the window.

“It sure is. My mama’s recipe.” I smiled tightly and handed him the cake through the window. He held the cake with one hand and opened my car door with another. I took a deep breath and grabbed my purse. Porter extended his free hand and helped me out of the driver’s side.

“It’s going to be fine. My family is totally normal,” said Porter. “Well, except my brother Todd. I’m pretty sure he’s an alien.” We both chuckled, walking up the sidewalk toward the house. As we approached the door, I felt Porter’s hand on the small of my back. As he leaned toward me, I felt the tickle of his breath on my ear.

“You look amazing,” he whispered. His thumb made small circles on the small of my back. I felt goose bumps down my spine. It was less like goose bumps and more like deep reverberations. I looked at his hazel-green eyes dazzling in the midday sun. He looked so happy to have me here that I couldn’t help but smile.

He opened the door, beckoning me inside. The foyer to the home was covered with colorful, floor-to-ceiling paintings. They were remarkable. I stopped to admire them. I gently fingered the canvas, feeling the brushstrokes of thick, oil-based paint on the canvas. You could tell whoever created them really was passionate about their work.

“This is my stepdad Desmond’s work. Pretty amazing, huh?” he said. I was almost speechless at how vibrant they were. Aside from pretentious dudes who proclaimed to be artists and just sold T-shirts, I’d never met a real, live visual artist before. Desmond was a genuine artist. It was masterful.

“They’re breathtaking, Porter,” I said, turning to look at him.

“Now, don’t ask me what any of it means. I’m sure there is some deep, esoteric meaning that I’m just not able to wrap my head around. I’m no art critic. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“There she is!” said a voice out of nowhere.

Porter’s mother came around the corner. A slim, dark-skinned woman with closely cropped relaxed hair, she wore cat-eye frames and a Kente cloth patchwork apron that said World’s Best Grandma. The pictures in Porter’s office didn’t do her beauty any justice. She looked more like his sister than mother; clearly her black was not cracking. She quickly wiped her hands on the hem of her apron. “Hello, Ari! I’m Porter’s mom, Eloise.” I extended my hand for a shake, but Eloise pulled me in for a hug. She smelled like all the spices of the season, warm and inviting. She smelled like memories of home.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Harrison,” I said. She frowned and looked at Porter. He shrugged.

“Did Porter tell you to call me that? Oh, you don’t have to be so formal, dear! Eloise is fine. Now, come on in. This cake looks divine! Do you make it? Porter, take that cake and put it on the dessert table. Take the girl’s sweater and hang it up. Boy, I raised you better than that. Let me introduce you to my husband, Desmond.” Eloise spoke so fast, taking me by the arm before I could object. I looked over at Porter. He gave me a sympathetic smile as he hung my sweater up in the coat closet.

Locked arm in arm with Eloise, I was given a quick tour of her home, starting with the foyer. She explained how Desmond was an abstract artist, with much of his work being influenced by his Caribbean heritage. Even she didn’t understand his work sometimes, but she found it beautiful. We stood in front of a painting near the powder room of what appeared to be a woman on a beach. It gave me Romare Bearden vibes.

“He says this is me,” said Eloise with a smile. “I don’t see it.” Her head tilted to the side as she examined a piece. I was sure she looked at it 1000 times a day. Yet, her eyes still were in wonderment.

I stood back a bit. “I can see it. It has your energy.”

Eloise looked at me and smiled. “You think so? Oh, that’s very sweet.” She patted my arm in tender, appreciative acknowledgment.

Finally, we entered the large family room. It looked like something out of Town and Country magazine. I quickly realized Porter’s idea of “just family” extended to friends of his parents and an abundance of laughing, teenage girls. His mother explained she’d also invited her students who didn’t have stable homes or were food insecure. It seemed as if Porter’s kindness and generosity was the byproduct of amazing parents.

The incredibly large television was blasting football while calypso music was simultaneously playing. I recognized the man in the recliner as Porter’s stepfather, Desmond. He was talking to a guy balancing two toddlers, a boy and girl, on his knee. I assumed that the man was Porter’s brother, Todd. They looked like they were having a bit of a spirited argument. I felt nervous, as if I was intruding. I looked down and in front of Todd were several beer bottles and an empty rocks glass.

“Everyone,” announced Eloise. “This is Ari. Porter’s...coworker. They’re working on the soccer stadium project together.”

Everyone turned around to look at me. I heard a couple of coughs and felt a few uneasy stares. The teenage girls were whispering and giggling. I wanted to run and hide, but I felt Porter’s hand on my shoulder. I quickly scanned the room and landed upon Porter’s brother Todd. His brother’s expression was blank, maybe a little confused. After Eloise’s introduction, Desmond got out of his seat and approached us. He hugged me and kissed me on the cheek.