We both laughed, taking sips of coffee between chuckles. His laughter reminded me of my dad, big and boisterous. I looked away, trying to focus on something else. Three years and the pain was still there like a picked-at scab.
“Yes, my daughters would kill me if I took their closet space. Okay. We’ll think of something else. Speaking of ladies, how is Se?ora James?”
I smirked. Real smooth, Mr. George. “Mama’s good. She told me to tell you hello.”
Mr. George, with his deep, sun-worn complexion, blushed. “Si. Yes, tell her hello as well. The scones were wonderful last week.”
“I will.” I nodded with a knowing grin. Old people flirting was so stinking cute.
“Anyway, back to this bathroom.”
I bit my dry toast and watched as Mr. George scratched his temple with a pencil. “I don’t know. But I really don’t want you to lose the space with just a big shower. Plus, the classic tubs in these homes. Very popular for resale. You’re an architect. You know these things.”
When George mentioned the shower, my mind wandered. Images of Porter, naked with me in my imagined huge walk-in shower with the dual rainfall showerheads. Our bodies all slick with soap. Porter, standing behind me, moaning my name like he did last night. My body up against the wetness of the glass and his hands going down my…
“Ms. Ari?” said George, interrupting me from my very erotic daydream.
I blinked. “Okay. Mr. George. I hear you. But… I really want the shower.”
Mr. George pulled out his pencil and pad to make some notes. “Okay, Ms. Ari. But I’m telling you, a nice, traditional claw-foot tub would be so elegant.”
I frowned. Clearly an old-fashioned claw-foot tub would be too small for me, let alone me and another person. Clearly, we were still at an impasse. “Let’s table it. In the meantime, can you just look at the tile I brought back from Italy for the bathroom? I just took it out of storage. We can at least get started on tiling near the vanity.”
Mr. George shrugged, closing his iPad. “If you say so. Now…about these doors in the laundry room…”
Mr. George continued to speak about the plans for the house, his voice eventually sounding like white noise. I needed to get rid of these thoughts of Porter. He would not consume me for the rest of the weekend. No fucking way. As Mr. George walked into the laundry area to take measurements, I pulled my cell phone out of my robe and texted Bella.
Me: Bella, are you free? Too much to text. Brunch later? Technically, it’s a late lunch/early dinner. Pick a spot.
I expected Bella to take the requisite twenty minutes to text me back, but she responded in seconds.
Bella: Bitch, where were you last night? Better yet, with who? I almost called Doris because I thought you had been kidnapped or something. Anyway, I’m down for some adult time. I’m starving. Leaving the girls with Zach. I’ll txt you the addy.
I snorted. I could always count on Bella to be there for two things in this world: food and me.
I watched as Mr. George opened the box of tiles. He hummed his approval as he carefully examined each piece of tile out of the neatly wrapped box, holding them up in the soft light of the bathroom. It was a smoky blue and pure white color in a baroque pattern. I had purchased them on a whim in Florence. They sat in my storage unit in Chicago for years with the hope that I’d use them to build my house with my future husband. When that idea crashed and burned, I tucked those tiles away and let them collect dust until I decided to move back home. Finally, I’d have a use for them. Those tiles deserve to be used and admired. Husband or not.
Mr. George looked up from the box, adjusting the pieces neatly back in place. “No worries, Ms. Ari. I’ll handle the tile with care. It’s beautiful. Very romantic, si?”
Still in a daze, I nodded my head, grabbing the collar of my robe. “I thought that.”
That and a hell of a lot more.
“Hey, go easy on the brakes. She sputters but she still runs, okay?”
The valet at Dunn’s River Café frowned as I tossed him the keys to Honey, who was totally out of place in the parking lot of the city’s hottest new gathering spot. I’d been so happy to have my girl back I’d donned my bright yellow sundress and matching block-heeled sandals, and my halo of coils was pushed back with a yellow Ankara scarf. I felt like the goddess Oshun. It is an unmitigated fact that Black women of all shades look good in yellow. Melanin rich skin needed to be adorned by Mother Nature’s brightest color. Who was I to argue with Mother Nature?