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  We laugh, and Sierra comes and sits in my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck. “You must've been pretty persuasive. Brad assigned me full duties to coordinate the conference, since he's so swamped with work.”

  I shrug indifferently. “But isn't that why he's paid the big bucks?”

  “Yes. And it's also why he has the authority to dump his work onto me,” she notes, frowning slightly.

  “Forget Brad. Forget the firm. Forget the presentation and the conference,” I gently order. “You've got the day off, but you're not going to spend it lying around here snoozing.”

  “And what will I be doing instead, dear sir?” Sierra asks, giggling.

  I pull her close. “You're going to spend all day getting pampered and indulged and doing whatever you want,” I say, punctuating each word with a kiss.

  Sierra answers with a beautiful smile. I'd make love to her again, but a quick glance at the clock tells me there's not enough time. So I hug her and finish explaining. “At nine o'clock a limousine is going to pick you up and take you down to Salina's Spa and Boutique.”

  Sierra's eyes widen with delight. “Salina's! That new place that opened up last month down in the Galleria?”

  “That's the one, baby. I've checked it out, and they're the real deal. Just like their advertisements promise, they cater to the delicate skin, body, and hair needs of gorgeous black women like you.”

  “And you've hired a limousine?”

  “But of course!” I answer, faking indignation. “I'm not having my wife treated like a commoner on our anniversary.”

  Sierra laughs. “You're too much.”

  “No,” I answer. “I'm in love.”

  She searches my face, her expression a strange mixture of wonder and happiness. She brushes my cheek with her palm, pulls me close, and kisses me, tenderly at first and then with building urgency. Sierra pulls me back to the bed and down to her. Moments later, I'm back inside her and loving the feel of her ankles pressed hard against my butt, urging me deeper into her sweetness. It's good, so very good. And it's plain, so very plain.

  TWO

  Sierra and I kiss quickly, then she breezes past the rigidly standing limo driver. He's decked out in a black stiff-billed cap, black suit, and shining black shoes, and he's holding the car door open for her. My baby gets into the car like a movie star, and certainly like someone who comes from a class and status where limos are the rule and not the exception. Over the years I've adjusted to Sierra's upper-class world, but I'm still a mere student of its ways and wonders. Sierra flows through it as one bred to its customs and privileges.

  The driver closes Sierra's door, then gets into the car himself. Sierra rolls down her window and blows me a kiss as the limo backs out of the driveway. I cup my hands around my mouth and speak loudly. “Have fun!”

  She waves as the limo glides down the street, rounds the corner, and disappears. I watch until it's gone, check my watch, and hurry into the house. We finished making love just in the nick of time before the limo pulled up.

  I shower quickly and dry off, stopping for a moment to inspect myself in the mirror. My body's lean, tight, and hard. It's a pleasing result from all the hard hours of effort and sweat I expend every week down at the gym. At thirty-seven it's not so easy keeping off the fat anymore, but I refuse to be like some men I've seen in their late thirties. They look like they just woke up one morning and said, “I quit!” What really gets me are the guys with the big guts and boobs bigger than a woman's who insist that their wives, girlfriends, or significant others stay a size six. Sierra's kept herself slim and trim for me, and I'm going to keep myself toned and muscled for her. When we step out on the town, I want my baby to be proud of the man strutting beside her.

  I turn to the side, run my hand along the six-pack of ridges in my stomach, and turn back to the front. At six feet two inches with a midsection like solid rock, a chiseled chest, and shoulders that have broadened further to give me that coveted upper body “V” shape, my physique is a testament of power. My narrow waist doesn't have the slightest trace of love handles, and there are a few barely visible gray hairs on my head. My face is smooth, and my skin is deep brown and offset by what Sierra calls my “sexy, light brown” eyes. All in all, the reflection I see in the mirror is pleasing. I finish my survey and get dressed in business casual attire.

  This is going to be a short workday, and since I'm not passing through corporate headquarters, it'll be all right to be informal. This is one of the reasons I like being an inner city regional manager for the Speed Shift Auto Parts retail chain. I spend most of my time in the field checking the operations of “my” ten stores, and I'm mostly my own boss. So on days when I don't feel like wearing a suit and tie, I don't. But I still have to fight being imprisoned by my schedule, especially when it comes to meeting Harry and Gordon for our monthly breakfasts.

  Sierra normally gets her hair done down at Our Hair, which is owned by my home-girl, Desiree Easton. I felt kind of guilty about steering one of Desiree's customers to someone else. But Sierra's appointment at Salina's is just for today, so Desiree's not permanently losing a customer. Besides, Sierra truly likes what Desiree does with her hair.

  “She's the only stylist who gets my hair to grow instead of fall out,” she once praised.

  About two years ago, Sierra mentioned that a new hair salon had opened near our Diamond Ridge Estates neighborhood and that everyone was raving about the service, skill, and affirming atmosphere of the place.

  “And I hear that the owner once lived in the Brownfield District,” she informed me. “You should come meet her. You two might know each other.”

  I had my doubts. Few made it out of Brownfield, and fewer still made it into business success. But my interest was piqued, so I went down to Our Hair with Sierra on one of her appointments. The instant I saw Desiree, it turned into a reunion. Her brother, Chub, and I had been part of the same wrecking crew. He was one of the first and few people who'd implored me to get out of Brownfield.

  “Denmark, you're too smart for this dead end of a life,” he'd encouraged. “You've gotta sky outa here!”

  Oddly, Chub never took his own advice. I was puzzled by that but didn't let it hold me back. I got to thank him the night I saw Desiree in the street getting slapped around by a small-time thug named Odin Meers.

  “Your punk brother owes me money!” he'd hollered. “He ain't paid, so you will.”

  He grabbed a breast. Desiree slammed her knee into his nuts. He grunted, then tore open her shirt. I attacked. Odin left the hospital two weeks later on crutches and wearing a neck brace.

  I grab the keys to my Corvette, my cell phone, and my briefcase and hurry out to the garage. Moments later, I'm on the road and heading into town to meet Harry and Gordon down at the Hog Jowls restaurant. The sun is out. The air is crisp. WCLV is spinning some classic Biggie Smalls. And today's my anniversary.

  From the moment I saw Sierra, I knew that my days of ripping and running were over. I tore up my five little black books, told the crying honeys I was dumping that they needed to get a life, and got down to business making my baby happy. It all started six years ago on Continental Flight 5667, en route from Cleveland to Las Vegas.

  I was on my way to a fun-filled week of gambling, booze, and entertainment, my reward for winning a lottery drawing at work. Sierra was going to meet some old college friends who were gathering to see a former classmate making his debut at the Gut Busting Comedy Club. I was sitting in first class (for once, free didn't mean second-rate), stretched out, and glad no one was sitting in the aisle seat next to me. Then the sweetest voice I'd ever heard said, “Excuse me.”

  I looked up and was slain. Whatever future dreams, plans, or schemes I had were over. Sierra's smile shone like ten suns. Her golden eyes were soft and contrasted wonderfully with her rich, dark skin. The sound of her voice was like a plucked harp string. Her hair was cut short and sassy. She was dressed in a simple white blouse that hugged a pair of big, full breasts
crowned by large, erect nipples. And her snug Levi's held in their grip a tightly curvaceous rear end that demanded a first, second, and third lusty glance.

  “The flight attendants told me I could sit here,” she said, glancing down at the magazines I'd placed in the empty seat. “Can I sit down?”

  I snatched up the magazines. “My pleasure,” I said.

  She sat down, buckled up, and exhaled in a huff. “Thanks. I just couldn't take it anymore.”

  “Couldn't take what?”

  “That ignoramus sitting behind me.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “It was a she. And it wasn't so much what she was doing, but saying.” She adjusted the tightness of her seatbelt and kept talking. “This woman was bragging about having just quit her job, since her bosses had the nerve to … how did she put it?” Sierra thought for a second, then snapped her fingers. “Oh! For having promoted some ‘f-in darkie,’ over her.”

  I clenched my jaw. “Even at thirty-three thousand feet, a bigot still bubbles up from the slime.”

  “And a stupid bigot at that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sierra chuckled. “Along with being narrow-minded, she's now unemployed. And I'll bet her ‘darkie’ supervisor isn't losing a wink of sleep.”

  “Good point,” I said, nodding.

  Sierra pulled a book out from her large purse.

  “What's the title?” I asked.

  “Within These Hearts.”

  “By Phyllis Friedland?”

  Her eyes flashed, and she nodded, smiling.

  “That's a great book,” I said. “It's one of the best histories out there on the role of black women during the Civil Rights movement.”

  Sierra's smile broadened. “You're well informed.”

  I sat taller. “I try.”

  “I'd love to read more,” she lamented. “But with all of my work projects, it's all I can do to keep up with my professional reading.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I'm an architect. And you?”

  “I'm a marketing exec.”

  It was a fact, but not the truth. Sierra was confident, talented, and obviously educated. I hadn't gotten interested in education until I was well out of high school and had decided to redirect my energies into something that wouldn't get me killed, addicted, or caged. I'd moved steadily up Speed Shift's management ladder and, by the time I met Sierra, had almost completed a business degree night program at Kent State University. Once I graduated, I intended to go straight for my MBA. But on that day when Sierra sat down beside me, we were educational oceans apart. When I didn't see a wedding ring on her finger, I grabbed an oar and got busy rowing!

  I extended my hand, and we shook. “I'm Denmark Wheeler.”

  “Sierra Montague,” she said. “I'm a little rusty on my history, but wasn't there a slave revolt leader named Denmark Vesey?”

  I nodded proudly. “In 1822, he masterminded what would've been one of the biggest revolts in North America.”

  “And you're named after him?”

  “To put a fine point on it, yes!”

  “As I recall, Vesey came to a pretty bad end, didn't he?”

  “He was betrayed.”

  She sighed. “And the struggle continues.”

  We shared a bitter laugh and spent the rest of the flight talking, moving quickly from work hassles to sharing impressions of our favorite movies, singers, books, and writers. The conversation gradually expanded to include talk of family, friends, professional experiences, and aspirations. We went far and wide, always coming back to books that reminded us of some person, place, or event.

  “You've certainly read a lot!” Sierra commented as the plane was landing. “What college did you graduate from?”

  I glanced out the window, deciding whether or not to come clean about my college situation. It was evident from Sierra's speech, poise, and outlook that she was a black blueblood. She was no stranger to hard work, but it was different from the hard work I'd known. She had labored to get on the dean's list. I had struggled to stay alive. She'd vacationed in Paris, Montreal, and Rio. I'd gotten as far as Detroit. Some of her friends got invitations to the White House. Some of mine were just getting out on parole.

  But I was feeling close to her. If she rolled me for shallow credentials, she'd surely roll me for being an auto parts store manager—and the sooner I knew the better. So I said, “I'm finishing up a business degree right now at Kent State. A few years after high school, I started working at Speed Shift Auto Parts. The money got good, and I got promotions. I didn't get interested in college until just a few years ago.” She didn't say a word or bat an eye, so I went on and said, “And my actual marketing exec duties are those of a store manager.”

  She looked into her lap, then at me. “Do you like what you're doing?”

  “Yes. I do, very much.”

  “And is it paying you what you want?”

  “More than I could've imagined.”

  “Then you're one of the lucky few working at a job they like, getting paid top dollar, and looking forward to Mondays.”

  The plane was taxiing toward the terminal, so we updated each other on our mostly uncommitted love lives, exchanged numbers, and discussed the possibility of getting together before leaving Vegas.

  “Why don't you let me take you out for a late show when you're through with your friends at the comedy club?” I asked her.

  “Why don't you come with us?”

  I smiled and quickly agreed. The plane was pulling up to the jet-way. Time was running out, so I leaned close and went for broke. “Sierra, you're a captivating woman, and I'd like to see you again after this trip.” I looked straight into her eyes. “As a matter of fact, I'm thinking that I'd like to keep seeing you after we get back to Cleveland.”

  Just over a year later, her highbrow family and friends ventured out from their gated enclaves to join me and my fellow working stiffs from the factory floor, construction sites, and alleys to celebrate our wedding. Harry and Gordon kidded me about getting lucky and marrying into money, but I shut them down quick.

  I loved Sierra not only for her sweet, darling self but for the freshness she brought into my life. She was so different from any woman I'd known before, captivating me with stories of people she'd met, places she'd traveled, and events she'd experienced. Her world was more gentle, peaceful, and inspiring than what I'd endured in the Brownfield District, and I loved her for sharing it with me.

  Harry and Gordon still couldn't believe the change in me. I was on a short leash and loving it. They bet big money that I'd be cheating before my first anniversary. I took Sierra on a week's Caribbean cruise with the money I collected from those clowns. Flirting women let me know that I could have them with a word, but I refused to hurt my wife. Sierra was the one I'd chosen to love and grow old with until the end, and that's how it's going to be.

  THREE

  I'm on the way to Harry's house to pick him up. He called a few days ago to ask for a ride, explaining that as soon as we finished breakfast a salesman from a Harley-Davidson motorcycle dealership was stopping by to get him. “He's takin’ me down to pick up my brand-new black-and-chrome Sportster,” Harry had boasted. “I won't drive my car again till the first snowflake falls.”

  I punch the speed dial button on my cell phone for Harry's pre-programmed number and wait through two rings. He answers with a shout: “What!”

  I flinch as his booming voice whacks my eardrum. “What's got you so pissed?” I ask. “You still couldn't get it up last night, even with the Viagra?”

  The hostility seeping through the phone is fanned away by Harry's soft chuckle. “Man, don't be tryin’ to make your problems mine,” he quips. “My stuff springs stiff the moment I need it.”

  “And that deep groove in your palm says you need it a lot.”

  We laugh, and I say, “I'm heading your way.”

  “Good! Make it quick. Inez is gripin’ about her biological clock again.�
��

  “What's she saying?”

  “What ain't she sayin’? She got up, got dressed for work, and started complainin’. It went downhill from there.”

  “Is she still at home?”

  “She's too drunk to be anyplace else. That's the worst part. Whenever we have this argument, Inez grabs a bottle and turns into the classic mean drunk.”

  “You sound like you need to be rescued.”

  “I do! So hurry!”

  We hang up, and I shake my head. I feel bad for Harry. Even before he married Inez three years ago, his life was complicated by doing contract carpentry work and running two rib shacks, a janitorial service, and his half-stake ownership in a bowling alley. Before the wedding he explained to Inez in clear, strong language that he absolutely did not want children. She seemed fine with that then, but she's changed her mind now. She's got a battle on her hands, since Harry's still smoldering about Claude, his son from his first marriage.

  For almost ten years Harry poured money into a special insurance policy for Claude's college tuition. All the young man had to do was attend an Ohio college or university. Once he graduated from high school, the insurance company sent the check to Claude. And young, adventurous Claude, suddenly loaded with cash, flew off to Europe. Life was good till the money ran out. He's been bumming around the continent ever since. Harry hasn't heard from him for nearly a year, and he's worried sick. And then there's Inez.

  “I don't care how much she complains!” Harry declared after their last “let's have a baby” argument. “I ain't settin’ myself up for another eighteen years of sleepless nights and bankruptcy.”

  Both of them have explosive tempers, especially Inez. I've sometimes wondered if one day I'll drive over to their house and find a smoking crater and a hovering mushroom cloud.

  Inez's parents aren't happy about Harry's refusal to give them more grandchildren. Her older brother thinks he's a self-centered jerk for squashing his baby sister's desires. And her younger sister says that that's what Inez gets for “marrying a retread.”

  Harry's hassles with Inez's family sometimes remind me of the troubles I've had with Sierra's people, especially her older brother, Amos. Except for Sierra's father, Theodoric, none of the Montagues were thrilled that she was bringing an urban pauper like me into their “royal” midst.