Chapter Six contd. . .

“You dropped something, Priye,” Joy said, reaching for the traitorous scrap.

“Oh!” I bent down to reach for it, but Joy was half-way there. As I leaned over to snatch it up before anyone could spy the contents, our heads collided.

“Ow!”

“Careful.”

“Watch it.”

That split-second delay in grabbing it made all the difference. Brenda’s sharp eyes noticed the Steeldogs logo and the handwritten note with the request for me to call Jack. It wasn’t as if she had supersharp sight. She was able to notice it because she was faster than both Joy and me combined.

Brenda managed to scoop the note from both our grasps. She was so fast, it reminded me of a scene from that old Kung Fu series. Snatch the pebble from my hands grasshopper.

“Priye!”she said, looking up at me with shinning eyes.

“Where did you get this?”

“What is it?” Mother asked, wanting to know what kind of dropped paper, short of a C-note, could cause so much commotion at the restaurant table.

“Nothing,” I said hastily and held out my hand for Brenda to return it. You should have seen how easily the shining in her eyes turned to the glimmer of sweet revenge. This was her payback for my tickling her.

“Nothing,” Brenda echoed, mimicking me, then waved the paper in front of everyone’s noses, gloating. “Nothing but the phone number of one of the sexiest men in the world! Sexy and unmarried. Did I mention that he wasn’t married?”

Her admission was like waving raw meat in front of a pack of pit bulls. “It’s from Jack The Flash Deneen of the Steeldogs.”

“What?”

“Who?”

“How did you get that?”

“What’s a Steeldog?”

Questions from my relatives came from every corner.

“It says here that he wants Priye to call him at her earliest convenience. And he’s underlined earliest.” She turned the note around for the others to see, show-and-tell style.

“Where did you get that?” Aunt Rosa asked, then snapped her fingers in remembrance. “Wait a minute. . .I think I saw him. He was on the flight from Ghana, wasn’t he? I saw a man – a long, tall, gorgeous drink of water – coming off the plane. He was literally mobbed, people asking for autographs. I knew he was some kind of celebrity, but I couldn’t connect the face with the name. So that was Jack Deneen, huh?”

“Priye, have you been holding out on us?” Joy wanted to know.

“No, of course not. There’s nothing to tell.”

“Maybe I should tickle you until you confess,” Brenda suggested, raising a finely arched eyebrow at me. “It would serve you right.”

“There’s nothing to confess,” I insisted. It was my turn to raise my hands in protest of innocence.

“Uh-huh” Grandma said, narrowing her eyes at me.

Suddenly, she broke into a wide smile and nudged my aunt Ebere. Aunt Ebere nudged Aunt Pam, who sort of winked at Aunt Rosa. It looked like a human version of a domino rally.

The only thing I could do was put my head in my hands. That was it. My fate was sealed. If it hadn’t been decided among them who would be the “target” when they all went into the ladies’ room, the traitorous scrap of paper had made the decision for them. There was no question now. I was it. The target.

“Let me see that,” Aunt Pam said, holding out her hand across the table. I had to resist the urge to snatch it out of Brenda’s hand as she held it out for them.

“You know, there’s been a lot of buzz in the local sports news about that man. They say he’s pretty good.”

“I wouldn’t know.” I said stiffly. “I don’t follow football.”

“Yeah. I hear he’s supposed to be some kind of superstar at that, too.” Joy said slyly. “I was at a club once, where a bunch of Steeldogs were supposed to hang out.”

“And what were you doing at a club, missy?” I asked, trying to throw the heat off me.

“Uh-huhh. Don’t even try it, missy,” Joy stressed in return. “I was there for a bridal shower for a friend of mine. Anyway, someone yelled out, ‘Steeldogs in the house!’ The next thing you know, the place is a zoo. You’ve never seen so many women lose their minds all at once. Screaming. Running. Dropping their own dates like they were bad pennies. It was ridiculous. There were so many bras and panties with telephone numbers thrown at those poor players that it looked like an explosion at a lingerie factory.”

“What’s the matter, Joy? Couldn’t get yours off fast enough?” I asked snidely.

“You hear that, Aunt Doris, Priye is being ugly to me.”

“Play nice, girls,” Mother said automatically, sounding as she had when we were kids growing up together.

Aunt Pam scanned the note, shaking her head.

From there, things went from bad to worse. Grandma peered over Aunt Pam’s shoulder, reading the note aloud to herself.

“This is a crying shame,” she said softly. “In my day, when a man wanted to spark a woman, he did so with respect. He came to her parents’ house and courted openly, like a nice girl deserved.”

“George was over at our house so much, we started to adopt him,” Aunt Rosa remembered.

Grandma laughed out so loud. It was a wonderful laugh, sort of like Brenda’s. It made me think that humour was hereditary.

She then turned her piercing gaze to me. “That’s how we did it in those days, Priye. Respectfully.” She placed her palms flat on the table and leaned forward so that her face almost brushed the centerpiece. “You are a nice girl, aren’t you, Priye? You didn’t do anything to give that man the impression that you weren’t?”

“Grandma!” I squeaked, my face as red as the cherry glaze on my cake. I could feel waves of heat wafting from my face, threatening to wilt the flowers of the floral arrangement.

“Of course she’s a nice girl, Grandma.” Joy stepped in smoothly. “Priye probably wouldn’t give that dog the time of the day. That’s why he had to push his telephone number on her. Otherwise, he’d have hers and we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. Isn’t that right, Priye?”

Sweet Joy. I should have known that she’d back me up. My head bobbed up and down in agreement, like a cork.

“Well, we’ll just see about that. Somebody give me one of those phones.”

Quicker than lightening, four different telephones appeared on the table in front of my grandmother. Nokia. Samsung. BlackBerry. Android. She had her pick.

She adjusted her glasses and said, “Read that number out to me, Pammie.”

“What? What did she say? Mother, what did she say?” I asked.

My breath came out in a breathly whisper. Panic had closed my throat, making it difficult to speak, even breathe.

“She asked your aunt Pam to read that man’s number out loud to her,” Mother said calmly. She took a sip from her coffee as casually as if my grandmother had asked someone to read a selection from the menu to her.

Grandma held the telephone almost at arm’s length, trying to read the small numbers on the handset as Aunt Pam called out the numbers.

I turned pleading eyes to Aunt Rosa. It was her sister. Couldn’t she do something to stop her? But Aunt Rosa only gave me that its going to be all right look.

Grandma put the telephone up to her ear and cleared her throat deliberately, waiting for someone to pick up on the other end – while I waited for a miracle to end this. A bolt of lightening. A herd of wild elephants. Abduction. I wasn’t choosy, just as long as I didn’t have to be conscious for what could very well turn out to be the most embarrassing moment of my life.

“Yes, hello. May I speak with Jack Deneen, please?”

“Tell me this is a sick joke,” I whispered to Brenda, tugging on her sleeve.

“Shh!” she shushed me and brushed my hand off of her.
“I can’t hear.”

“This is going to be delicious,” Joy said, rubbing her hands together. I had a sneaking suspicion that she wasn’t talking about the food.

“Mr. Deneen, my name is Mrs. Adesuwa Johnson.” She paused, then said, acerbically, “Never you mind how I got this number. What I want to know is what intentions you have for my granddaughter.”

She paused, waiting for the response, then said, “You mean you make it a habit of passing your private number out indiscriminately, sir?”

Another pause. “Let me refresh your memory, Mr. Deneen. Priye Cole is my granddaughter. She’s a nice girl – a good girl.”

I grimaced, fearful of what Jack must have been thinking. He’d been unexpectedly kind by keeping me company on the plane. After the brush-off signals that I’d given him at the airport, he hadn’t had to do it.

Grandma then lifted her eyes to the ceiling as if listening very carefully to the response. “I see.” Another pause. “Hmmmm. I see.”

“What? What does she see?” I asked aloud to no one in particular. No one was listening to me, anyway. Their eyes and ears were all glued to Grandma’s lips.

“Is that a fact?” Grandma continued, then looked curiously at me.

“What’s a fact?” I demanded but respectfully, because you didn’t use that tone with Grandma. Not unless you wanted your lips knocked into next week from a lightning fast, backhanded slap. I personally had never received such treatment. But I’d heard things.

“Well, sir, in that case you can tell her yourself tonight over dinner. Do you like Nigerian food?”

“Tell me what? What is she doing?”

“Why are you so interested?” Brenda wanted to know.

“You don’t follow football. Remember?” Joy put in her two cents.

My own words had come to haunt me.

“Sounds to me like she’s just invited him to dinner.” Aunt Rosa said, winking at me.

I shook my head, not comprehending. The setup couldn’t be as simple as that. These women were masters at it, often taking weeks of planning to arrange a meeting between the “target” and the “intended.” They’d been in the matchmaking business for years, as long as I could remember them planning family reunions. By producing that phone number, I’d made it too easy for them. I’d taken all of the fun out of their matrimonial machinations.

Grandma said with finality, “Eight o’clock sharp at the Nobles Restaurant. Do you need directions? No, I don’t imagine that you do. It’s my anniversary, Mr. Deneen. A very special one, so please dress accordingly.”

She then closed the phone and handed it back to Aunt Pam.

The table was silent for a moment.

All eyes turned toward me. Then, an explosion of laughter had more than a few patrons staring at us. -

http://lolatellsatale..com/2013/07/hearts-of-steel-chapter-6_2.html?m=1

Lmao....this is one hell of a crazy family....na wa o..*btw* tanks for the lovely update dear

Shu! Na wa for them matchmakers. But i'm glad he's coming to dinner. Enough chemistry.

Wow! Getting interstin.. More ink to ur pen

I love this. Waiting for chapter 7.

Emerald dan: Lmao....this is one hell of a crazy family....na wa o..*btw* tanks for the lovely update dear

Lol abi na

Emeraldz: Shu! Na wa for them matchmakers. But i'm glad he's coming to dinner. Enough chemistry.

Yea! I must admit while writing chapter 6, I was blushing for Priye

Candis009: Wow! Getting interstin.. More ink to ur pen

Thanks dear

Charmin':
I love this. Waiting for chapter 7.

On its way

Make i carry my private jet come carry d chapter seven that is on its way so that traffic jam no in delay am.

oluwadamilola (@damex33) must u b evrywere loooolllllls anyway sha it fun reading ur comments

oluwadamilola (@damex33) must u b evrywere loooolllllls anyway sha it fun reading ur comments especially since u moi namesake

oluwadamilola (@damex33) must u b evrywere loooolllllls anyway sha it fun reading ur comments especially since u moi namesake

@ omolola weldone ma lady u doun a grt work

oluwadamilola (@damex33) must u b evrywere loooolllllls anyway sha it fun reading ur comments especially since u moi namesake

@ omolola weldone ma lady u doun a grt work

@ priye hmm wat a family wish u luck enough chemistry and wat a matchmake

pwettyolly: oluwadamilola (@damex33) must u b evrywere loooolllllls anyway sha it fun reading ur comments especially since u moi namesake

@ omolola weldone ma lady u doun a grt work

@ priye hmm wat a family wish u luck enough chemistry and wat a matchmake

lol, mayb its cos i love stories just lyk u namesake. So u love moi comments? Awwww, thanks. Am pleased to know u too . :*,

pwettyolly: oluwadamilola (@damex33) must u b evrywere loooolllllls anyway sha it fun reading ur comments especially since u moi namesake

@ omolola weldone ma lady u doun a grt work

@ priye hmm wat a family wish u luck enough chemistry and wat a matchmake

Thanks dear

Chapter Seven

I heard the telephone ringing, but couldn’t find it right away. It was stuffed in the bottom of my bag, wedged somewhere beneath my sweaty workout gear. My first inclination was to let it ring. I had voice mail. Whoever it was could wait. But something, loud and unwilling to be ignored, in my mind said, “You’d better answer that. It could be Priye.”

Instinct, maybe. Or wishful thinking. I didn’t remember being this impatient waiting for a woman to call since high school. I congratulated myself. Somehow, I’d almost managed to get through the entire practice without thinking about Priye Cole, and wondering whether or not she was thinking about me.

As the telephone continued to ring, I flipped it open and checked the caller ID before answering. It was a number that I didn’t recognize. Usually, I don’t answer those kind of calls. There are so many scams out there. You answer a call from someone you don’t know, accept long distance charges from an unfamiliar area, the next thing you know, you’re fighting an outrageous bill with little recourse because you were the idiot who took the call.

The number was unfamiliar, but the area code said that it was a local call. I took a chance.

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello. May I speak with Jack Deneen, please?”

“Speaking.” I paused in midstride. It was a voice that I didn’t recognize. Feminine. Elderly. There was the tiniest bit of treble, indicating advanced age. And it was colored by a soft, cultured drawl. At the same time, it was an authoritative voice. The way she asked for me made me believe that she knew that she was speaking to me before I’d confirmed it.

“Mr. Deneen, my name is Mrs. Adesuwa Johnson.”

I didn’t recognize the name. If this was another telemarketer trying to sway me, I was going to be perturbed. “How did you get my number, Mrs. Johnson?”

“Never you mind how I got this number. What I want to know is what intentions you have for my granddaughter.”

I could have dismissed her as a crank caller – simply hung up the phone and turned off the ringer. After repeatedly getting my voice mail, crank callers usually gave up. Yet something about this call didn’t feel like a crank. Most cranks that stumble on my phone number don’t know that it’s mine. That is, they don’t ask for me directly. This woman had.

“You mean you make it a habit of passing your private number out indiscriminately, sir?”

That struck a raw nerve. I should have hung up. I could have hung up. I didn’t. Instead, I stood out there in the parking lot, tired, baking, wondering who this was and what they wanted. If curiosity killed the cat, what was it going to do to this Steeldog?

I cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder as I climbed into my SUV and started the engine. I adjusted the air-conditioning to full blast cold, thinking that the jolt of cold air would also cool my temper. I was too tired, too hot for guessing games.

“There is nothing indiscriminate about my behaviour, madam,” I said, adopting her formal tone. It was indeed formal, almost regal. This was the tone of a woman who commanded respect.

“I can’t answer your question because I’m not sure who your granddaughter is and how she got my-”

She cut me off, even as the realization of who this woman might be hit me. An image of Priye, adjusting those ludicrous bears on the airplane seat, saying almost in chagrin, “Grandpa always gets the window seat.”

Those bears were presents for her grandparents. This must be Priye’s grandmother.

“Let me refresh your memory, Mr. Deneen. Priye Cole is my granddaughter. She’s a nice girl – a good girl.”

Priye! She’d contacted me. Correction – it was her grandmother who’d called. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how she’d gotten my number. What would possess her to call me? Overprotectiveness, obviously. Somehow, she’d found the number and was now rushing to her granddaughter’s defense of what her tone suggested was an evil, immoral, callow fellow.

It almost made me want to laugh. If only she knew how unnecessary her defensive response was. Priye was quite capable of fending off any unwanted advances. As easily as she could draw me to her with her reluctant smile, she could also chill me with a disapproving frown and a toss of her head.

“More than nice, Mrs. Johnson. The very essence of proper civility.” I said, and hoped that she didn’t hear the humour I tried to squelch from my tone.

“I see.”

I couldn’t tell by her tone if she was mollified or if she thought that I was full of it.

I forged ahead, unmindful of the verbal roadblocks the grandmother was throwing in front of me. It must be genetic, this coolness of verbal response. Priye was loaded with it.

“In fact, Mrs. Johnson, I’m surprised that she kept the number at all. She was very reluctant to take it. I think she did it to humour me, to get me to stop bothering her with my completely unsolicited conversation.”

“Hmmmm. I see.”

Again, the noncommittal response. Was she giving me monosyllabic replies to keep Priye from knowing what was going on?

I took a chance and asked, “Is she there with you now? She can tell you for herself.”

Either Mrs. Johnson didn’t fall for it or Priye wasn’t there with her. I kept talking, quickly, trying to erase whatever negative impression she had of me.

If I had to guess at Mrs. Johnson’s age, I would wager that she had been raised in a time when people valued manners over expediency. I wasn’t going to find out what I wanted to know by bombarding her with prying questions. It was going to take gentility. Finesse.

“Mrs. Johnson, it’s obvious that you care very much for Priye. I can hear the concern in your voice. You can rest assured that my, uh. . .intentions are completely honorable. If you know her so well, then you also know what an attractive, intelligent, well-bred young woman she is.”

Was I laying on too thick? Was I smothering my chances of ever getting to see Priye again? If Mrs. Johnson didn’t think I was sincere, she could end this conversation just as quickly as I could – with the press of a button. Click. Dial tone. No more Priye.

If Priye was as close to her family as the conversation led me to believe, then I wasn’t going to get very far with her without going through the grandmother first. I had to keep her talking.

“Is that a fact?” she said, in a curious mixture of material pride and condescension of my obvious flattery.

“An undisputed fact, madam. I’d be a sorry spectacle of a man – stone-blind, deaf in one ear, and dumb as a brick – if I didn’t at least try to get to know her better. I’d like another opportunity to try, if that meets with your approval, Mrs. Johnson.”

“ Well, sir, in that case you can tell her yourself over dinner.”

Victory! Something had worked. Either that, or she was luring me to do me in, to make sure that I never bothered her granddaughter again.

“Do you like Nigerian food?”

“I love Nigerian food.” I said enthusiastically, though I wasn’t sure if I did or didn’t. I hadn’t tried it in a long while. I had a vague recollection of needing lots and lots of water. But for the chance to see Priye again, I’d eat a platter of Pepper.

“Eight o’clock sharp at the Nobles restaurant. Do you need directions?”

“I’ve visited Lagos countless times and even have a home here,” I said solemnly, assuming that a woman like Mrs. Johnson would appreciate the appearance of stability.

“No, I don’t imagine that you do.” She used that tone again that felt oddly like a slap on the wrist – as if admitting that I knew my way around the city was like admitting that I got around.

What could Priye have told her about me to give her that negative impression? There wasn’t much she could have said. I thought I’d been my best behaviour at the airport.

“May I ask the occasion, Mrs. Johnson?” My mind raced ahead to figure out what I had in my closet to pull together appropriate attire.

“It’s my anniversary, Mr. Deneen. A very special one, so please dress accordingly.”

The phone line went dead. And just like that, I had a date. I had a date!

I slapped the steering column and crowed triumphantly to the roof of the SUV. Suddenly, I paused. Doubt crowded in. I had a date, but which one? Priye or her grandmother?

It didn’t take a Rhodes scholar to figure out which woman I preferred. But if I had to charm the older one to get to the other, well. . .a man had to do what a man had to do.

And the first thing I had to do was get the feel of the football practice off me. Even though I’d taken a brief shower after the drills, my grandfather would have called it “a lick and a promise.” I needed hygiene fortification. I needed charm power. That meant the works: haircut, manicure.

Somehow before eight o’clock, I had to squeeze in the second practice session, buy an anniversary gift for the grandparents, buy flowers for Priye, wash myself, get my car detailed, select an outfit, find the restaurant. . .

If Mrs. Johnson was as discerning a woman as she sounded over the phone, then she would scrutinize me from head to toe. Normally, I wouldn’t have worried. I am a man of discerning taste – a little gift from my mother. She would scrimp and save to purchase something of quality that she wanted, rather than settle for something of lesser value.

Sometimes that meant extravagance. But not always. She taught me the value of caring for the few quality items we had. The alternative was not caring for the cheaper items because we knew they were easily replaceable. Mother was not one for waste. Now, I choose my clothes and accessories carefully, paying as much attention to quality and style as I do to the price tag.

My grandfather taught me a long time ago that money couldn’t buy class. Class came from within. It was conveyed by the way you conducted yourself.

“Keep your head unbowed, Jackie boy. There’s nothing wrong with a long day’s honest work. A little dirt under your fingernails won’t kill you. And that’s the God’s honest truth.”

Then he’d sent me off with a pat on the back, saying, “But your mother will kill you if you come to the supper table without washing your hands.”

Let Mrs. Johnson use the white-glove test on me. I was going to pass the inspection with flying colours.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I considered the possibility of blowing off the afternoon practice session. Maybe I was taking an awful chance, jeopardizing my good standing with the coaching staff and team owner by going AWOL. We had a scrimmage game next week, which was why I was here in the first place.

What if this night turned out to be disastrous? What if I got to the restaurant and found that I couldn’t stand to be around Priye Cole and her intrusive, well-meaning, family?

I paused at a red light, my fingers nervously drumming on the steering wheel.

Why was I doing this again? I tried to rationalize why I was having recurring thoughts about a woman I barely knew. I played over in my mind our chance meeting at the airport – from my first glance at the full lipped, full hipped, honey dripping woman nestled between two bears, to the last look as I left her struggling with those toy monstrosities on the plane.

We had only been together two hours. Not much time. But packed within that two hours, I’d shared with her a gamut of emotions that left me wanting to laugh with her and love with her. In reliving those two hours, my hands tingled when I remembered the strength of her fingers as she clasped my hand in fright.

The plane had dipped unexpectedly, raising a cry from the passengers. She’d stopped in mid-sentence, and her hand had flown out to grab mine. It had been an instinctual response. One human being seeking out another when one believes that death is imminent. We were not so perfect strangers, sharing a less-than-ideal situation. The brush of her fingertips against my palms had sent a jolt up my arm, that made me want to wrap it around her tense shoulders and draw her close to me.

They say that adversity brings people together, forges an undeniable bond. Could my attraction for Priye be a by-product of that experience? Could I, in seeking her out, subconsciously be seeking the closeness we’d shared, if only for a while?

I shook my head at my foolishness. Psychobabble. I’d wanted to get to know her before I ever stepped foot on that plane - before the forces of nature ever forced us into each other’s company. Nature had played a part in guiding me to her before the storm.

My mouth turned up into a smile, remembering how she’d reluctantly laughed in polite tolerance of my jokes. I appreciated the depth of her commitment to her family. I was given a glimpse into her upbringing by her open expression of irritation at the airport hellion.

Only two hours. Two lifetimes’ worth of emotion combined into that short spam of time. I don’t remember ever before meeting a woman so open, so passionate about life.

Open is such a funny word to think of in terms of Priye Cole. Because if you’d asked her, I’d bet that she’d say that she hadn’t revealed a thing about herself to me. Her carefully modulated responses to my questions might have deterred a less persistent man.

I can attest that you don’t get far in this world giving up at the first, halfhearted block. If you wanted something, really wanted it, you kept at it.

If I was willing to brave the perils of a family in full force on a first date, then I was going to make it worth my while. Maybe I’m just crazy. One too many sots to the head without my helmet. Call me crazy, then.

I wasn’t going back this afternoon to practice. There was just too much at stake.


*********************************************


“Vamp,” Brenda said, shaking her head. Her expression was my prime factor in deciding against one of two dresses that I’d bought to wear to my grandparents’ anniversary dinner. We sat in my room, comparing our purchases and catching up on old times.

“Who asked you?” I muttered, holding the dress in front of me as I checked out the effect in the mirror. Traffic-stopping red. It had a high collar, but was shorter than I remembered. Its hemline was definitely nearer to my waist than it was to my knees. My mother wouldn’t approve, but I was sure Jack Deneen would. After the verbal lashing my grandmother had given him, I wanted him to know that at least one Johnson woman was on his side.

“You did,” Joy reminded me. “You asked, And I’m here to tell you, that the dress says hoochie mama to me,” she concurred. “All you need now is six-inch nail tips and sparkling gold shoes.”
“To match the gold tooth you’d need right up in front for all the world to see when you skin and grin at that football player.”

“You ladies are nothing nice,” I chastised.

“Trust me, you don’t want to wear that one,” Brenda said. She pulled off the plastic store covering protecting the second dress. That dress was more demure, but I had to admit, I liked the way it fit me better than the first dress. When I sat down in it, I wouldn’t have to worry about whether my hemline would crawl up my thigh with all the vigor of a salmon heading upstream to spawn.

The dress was black suede, and slightly off shoulder. The hemline was longer, falling just below my knees, but a kick pleat in the rear gave a tantalizing glimpse of my thigh when I walked. I ought to know. When I bought it in the store, I’d paraded up and down in stocking feet in front of the dressing room for a full ten minutes before taking it off. It had only taken me a split second to decide that was the dress I wanted – even when I saw the hefty price tag.

The fact that it appeared to slim my hips and lift my bust line was enough to blind me to the cost. Together with the open-toed, black suede pumps and the eight-inch pearl strand necklace that I’d borrowed from my mother (that is, that she didn’t know I’d borrowed), the outfit made me feel very sophisticated.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my room, I held the dress up to me and pulled my hair high, off my neck. Turning my head to the left and to the right, I considered the possibility that my cousins were right. This was a better choice. More appropriate for the evening. I’d feel more comfortable in this dress, more confident.

“I look good,” I lifted my chin and announced to the room.

That sent Joy and Brenda into spasms of laughter.

“Oh, you’re just jealous!” I accused them.

“I’ve got to go before Priye’s head swells, sucks up all of the oxygen from the room, and pulls us into the resulting vacuum.” Brenda stood as if to leave.

“Spoken like a true university professor,” I teased.

But before she left, she kissed me on the cheek. “You know that I’m just messing with you, Priye. You sure do look good, girlfriend,” she whispered. “Now, you go get that man.”

Joy made gagging noises. “Oh, brother. With all of this saccharine-sweet sentiment flying around. I’d better go before I need an insulin shot.”

“Come here, girl. Show us some love,” I called out to her.

We opened our arms and drew Joy into our circle. For a moment, we were kids again, swearing to be best friends forever – to never let anything come between us. And nothing did. Except of course, life itself.

Suddenly, I felt ashamed for every cursory e-maid I’d ever sent them in my halfhearted, family-obligated effort to stay in touch. I regretted the missed birthdays, graduations, and promotions. I lamented over tears we’d never shared together, losses we’d never helped each other to bear. I wanted to recant every broken promise to call, every unanswered Christmas or birthday card.

And at that moment, I resolved to try harder. To be a better cousin, a better friend.

“Get out of my room,” I said through a throat tightening with emotion.

“See you tonight, Priye,” Brenda promised.

“Later, cuz.” Joy planted a peck on my cheek and followed Brenda down.

I moved to the window, drew the curtains back, and waved at them from the window. The sound of their car engines, fading as they headed down the road, was an eerie reminder of just how easy it was to lose sight of what really mattered to me.

There was a time when there had been nothing I didn’t know about my cousins. Now, they were virtual strangers to me.

“Not again.” I made a solemn promise, one that I intended to keep this time. I turned to my stuffed animals. With them as my witness, I would have to stick to it.

“I’ll never let them out of my life again.”

http://lolatellsatale..com/2013/07/hearts-of-steel-chapter-seven.html?m=1

My God, see close marking 4rm grandma to flash. How will d anniversary be. Watch out in the next chapter.

omolola this is impressive,welldone... More ink to your pen...waiting patiently for the next chapter

'yindamola:
omolola this is impressive,welldone... More ink to your pen...waiting patiently for the next chapter

*wwwwww! *kisses* Oyin

Grandma is a Badoo,i wld like 2 knw aw she met grandpa

wonderful @damex333 u are welcome @ molola kissssesssss waiting 4 d next update ooooo

pwettyolly: wonderful @damex333 u are welcome @ molola kissssesssss waiting 4 d next update ooooo

Kisses
Next update would be tomorrow morning, hopefully

I like the way you write, nice!

ibkaye: I like the way you write, nice!

Thanks love

I've followed your stories but for the first time I have to say this is the best thing I have read in a long time, offline and online. And I have read a lot. Welldone. Please publish this I would buy.

nikinash: I've followed your stories but for the first time I have to say this is the best thing I have read in a long time, offline and online. And I have read a lot. Welldone. Please
publish this I would buy.

Thank you so much!

Swidy i see u o...shey u're updating abi??

Chapter Eight

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. This was worse than it had been at the airport. When I’d first caught sight of him, striding through the terminal, I had what I’d considered to be a mild case of curiosity. It had been just an exercise in people-watching to help pass the time. The way he carried himself would have drawn my eyes to him – even if I’d been in a committed relationship. After all, I am a woman. I’ve got eyes.

I used them to their full effect, zeroing in on him with laser-beam accuracy. This time, I didn’t have a magazine to hide behind. This time, when he saw me, he knew that I was watching him. My appraisal was open, unfiltered.

I wanted to speak with him again in the worst kind of way. Not at all like when we were on the plane. Then, I’d kept the conversation going because it kept me distracted. He’d prevented me from making a total fool of myself – shrieking in unadulterated terror each time the airplane rode the wave of another air pocket.

But this. . .this was something entirely different. As he stood in the foyer of the restaurant, I knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he was waiting there for me. No chance meeting. No happened-to-be-going-my-way. He was there, with an invitation from my grandmother, but with an inclination to be there that was all his own.

As soon as he saw me, his entire face lit up with a smile. His eyes, both feral and gentle, swept over me. I closed my eyes for a moment, thankful for the fashion fates that had guided me in the choice of this outfit.

I’d read romance novels where the heroine claimed to be floored at the sight of the romantic interest. I’d always passed that off as a crock of horse spit – often quickly flipping past those initial meeting pages to get to the “good part.” The happily-ever-after part.

If a man wanted to quicken my breath, let him touch me. Pleasure me. None of this eyes-meeting-across-a-crowded-room business. You couldn’t pay me to believe that a simple look could make my heart pound and my breath freeze.

I renege. I recant. I take it all back. Jack Deneen’s gaze could – and did. If I had ten thousand years and just as many words, I don’t think I could ever explain it – how I felt both cherished and challenged. How he, without saying a single word, could make my backbone straighten and my knees weaken. I felt my face with flush and hypersensitive nipples pucker as I brushed by a bracing wind.

The very pit of my stomach churned, not unlike the feeling I got every time I stepped onto an airplane. This time, it wasn’t a knot of fear but an expanding, volcanic flash of desire. I doubted, in my state, if I could eat a single bite of dinner tonight.

At the same time, I wanted to nibble along his freshly shaved jawline. I wanted to sample the delicious curve of his full lips. I could spend the entire evening touching my tongue to each of his fingertips and watching his response each time I tasted another digit.

The pressure of my brother’s hand against the small of my back as he steered me to our private dining area jolted me back to reality. I had better get a grip on myself before I entered the dining area. Grandma, Mother, and my aunts would be watching me like a hawk. I could almost see my grandmother sniffing the air, and instantly determining from the changing scent of my pheromones that I wasn’t thinking “nice girl” thoughts about Jack Deneen.

“Priye,” Dozie said, squeezing my elbow. “We’d better get moving, girl. You know how Grandpa doesn’t like to be kept waiting, especially when there’s food involved.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I said, not taking my eyes from Jack.

“Who’s that?” Dozie demanded, and indicated by the sudden addition of bass in his voice that he didn’t take too kindly to the towering “super-hot” dude in the Armani suit visually feeling up his little sister.

Working with my father in our family roofing business had given Dozie his own share of sculpting. He wasn’t as tall as Jack, but I think they matched each other, inch for inch, in the width of their shoulders.

“Grandma invited him,” I said quickly, disengaging my elbow from his possessive grip. More of my relatives had started to pour into the foyer. If I didn’t move quickly, I wouldn’t get a chance to talk to Jack privately before dinner. I’d be too overwhelmed with multiple versions of “long time, no see” greetings, wet kisses of welcome, and exclamations of how I’d grown.

“Go on in. I’ll be there,” I promised, pulling away from him.

“Grandma invited him, huh?” he said, suspiciously, “I don’t think he’s a relative. I would have remembered him. Though something about him is kinda familiar. He wouldn’t be from Grandpa’s side of the family, would he? Cousins from out of state?”

More like out of this world! Jack’s gaze was sending me reeling to the stars. “He’s Jack Deneen.” I refreshed my brother’s memory.

Dozie snapped his fingers in recognition. “That’s right! He’s that striker for the Steeldogs. I didn’t know Grandma had that kind of stroke to get that hotshot striker to come to her dinner party.”

He started toward Jack.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I put my hand in the middle of his chest to stop his progress.

“To talk football, maybe get his autograph. What do you think?”

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

“Why not? He’s a football player. That’s his job. He’s not going to mind me talking a little shop with him. Maybe give him more pointers to improve his game.”

I glanced back at J.D where he stood patiently. From this distance, his game looked pretty good to me. In the back of my mind, I wondered why he hadn’t approached me yet.

“Listen, Dozie, you are not going to ruin this night for me. . .that is, I mean. . .Grandma with talk about that stupid game.”

I kept my voice low and tight, tapping my index finger into his chest for emphasis. I could hear them now, monopolizing the conversation with football stats and predictions for the games to come. I didn’t want to hear it. I had issues with the game. But that didn’t mean I wanted to insult the man who played it.

“Go on, now. Get to getting. I’ll be in to dinner in a minute.”

“Oh, all right,” Dozie grumbled. “But I don’t see why I just can’t talk to the man.” It was like sticking a plate of his favorite food, in front of him, handling him a spoon, and telling him that he’d better not touch a crumb.

I waited until he was almost out of sight, smoothed my hands over my dress, then started toward Jack. Just as I’d feared, I had to wade through a wall of well-meaning relatives before I could cross the twelve feet that separated us.

“Hi,” I said a little breathlessly, and felt a little foolish for the inadequate greeting.

“Hello, Priye Cole. I was wondering whether I’d have to send a search party out to rescue you.”

God, how I loved the way he said my name – as soft as a kiss. Possessive and familiar, formal and respectful. We didn’t speak for several heartbeats, letting our eyes communicate privately what curious onlookers had no right to hear.


**********************************************


I pulled another handkerchief from my inner pocket and dabbed at Priye’s cheek. It gave me an excuse to move closer to her.
“A present from one of your relatives,” I said and wiped away a smudge of lipstick, undoubtedly left by one of her female kin. At least, I hoped it was a female.

Pressing the handkerchief into her palm for safekeeping, I took the opportunity to squeeze her hand in silent welcome.

“If this keeps up, I can start a collection of Jack Deneen memorabilia,” she said, lowering her eyes. She then noticed the flowers that I’d completely forgotten I’d brought for her.

“Are those for me?” She sounded pleased, even surprised. It made me wonder what kind of men she’d been dating to be so astonished by an old-fashioned, yet effective, means of showing interest.

“That depends.” I said, holding them toward her, then pulling back just as she reached for the gold cellophane wrapper.

“On what?”

“On whether or not you think these are good enough to convince your grandmother that my intentions are completely honorable.”

Priye’s laugh hinted at her embarrassment, but she said, “You have to convince me first, Jack Deneen.”

“And how do I do that?” I asked, leaning toward her.

She didn’t step away, but met my gaze head on. “You can start by handing over those lovely flowers.”

“Do you like them? They’re yours then.”

Ten minutes until eight o’clock. I’d been waiting at the restaurant, determined to be on time, since 7:25.

Since I wasn’t sure about their local food, I’d been requested a menu and a few minutes of the maitre d’s time to figure out what I could tolerate and what I’d better steer clear of. Whether the supper tonight was buffet style, order from the menu, or preplanned courses, I was going to make sure that I wouldn’t embarrass myself in front of Priye’s family.

“Shall we go in?” I suggested, crooking my arm. She slipped her arm through mine. Her hand rested on my forearm.

“Do me a favor, will you Jack?” she asked, looking up at me.

What? Anything for you, Priye. You name it. Walk barefoot over a bed of hot coals? Bring you the moon? Develop a cure for the common cold? If you ask it, I’ll do it. . .
“What is it? What can I do for you?”

“Try not to talk about football tonight,” she pleaded with concerned eyes.

. . .Oh woman! Anything but that!

I looked at her. “Are you serious?”

“Very,” she said, pressing her lips together.

“May I ask why?”

“It’s my grandparents’ sixtieth anniversary. That’s quite an accomplishment, especially these days when couples are lucky if they last five years without tearing each other apart. It’s a special night for them. I just don’t want anyone to steal their thunder.”

“You mean me?”

She nodded. “something tells me that you’re going to be a very hot topic of conversation at tonight’s dinner table.”

“Why do you think your grandmother invited me if she was concerned about anyone taking away her limelight?”

“That’s another long story. For another time.” Priye promised.

“So what do I do if someone asks me a football-related question?”

“Punt,” she suggested, with a raised eyebrow.

“Unlike the NFL, there is no punting in arena football.”

“I know that,” she said in the same prickly tone as when I’d caught her offering child-rearing advice – or rather paddling-to-the-rear advice – to the airport hellion. “I meant it figuratively.”

“I see,” I said slowly. “I’ll do my best, Priye. But I can’t promise if your grandmother pins me down with threats to my person if I don’t explain the difference between a touch-back and a touchdown, that I won’t cave in.”

“I couldn’t ask for anything less than that, Jack Deneen,” she said wryly.

Chapter Eight contd.. .

Together, as close to hand in hand as we could manage, we entered the area reserved for Priye’s grandparents’ anniversary dinner.

In all, there were about thirty Johnson family who had gathered.
“There certainly are a lot of your relatives here tonight.” I murmured out of the corner of my mouth.

Normally, crowds didn’t bother me. I was used to the pressure of their scrutiny. But this was different. I didn’t have my teammates with me, sharing the responsibility of success or failure. I had Priye; but I wasn’t completely sure what team she was on. She seemed pleased to see me. But if Mrs. Johnson gave me the thumbs-down, would she side with her?

“Oh, this is nothing, just a fraction of my family. You should see us in about a year.”

“What happens then?”

“That’s when our family reunion is scheduled. My mother and aunts are doing the planning this year. Tomorrow, we’ll meet and have the official kickoff planning session.”

“You need an official meeting to figure out when you all want to meet again?” I sounded incredulous.

“Have you ever been to a family reunion, Jack?”

I shook my head. “I get together with my relatives during all the major holidays when time allows. But we’ve never had an official reunion.”

“You don’t know what you’ve been missing!” she exclaimed. “It’s like having a huge party with hundreds of your closest friends. No two reunions are ever alike, because each year there is a set different set of planners.

It didn’t bother me a bit to think that I’d still be with Priye in a year’s time. What bothered me more was the here and now. We approached the dining table.

I took a mental deep breath and gave myself a rousing pep talk.

. . .All right Jack. Here you go. Don’t fumble this one. . .

There were five round tables in the room, each able to seat seven or eight people. She steered me toward the head table, to a woman I knew had to be Mrs. Adesuwa Johnson, a striking woman of indeterminate age and timeless grace. I thought I’d had her pegged until I noticed a woman who might have been her twin sister sitting just a couple of seats over. They were involved in a lively discussion. Their voices rose slightly above the rest of the family’s.

At one point, the rest of the room quieted, until everyone realized that they weren’t the target of the elder Johnson sister’s wrath. I couldn’t make out exactly what the conversation was about. But the words mark of the devil, juvenile tendencies, and laser peel made their way across the room.

“My grandmother’s sister must have told her about her tattoo. And now Grandmother has hit the roof. I knew she would. I told my aunt Rosa that she would.”

“Are they twins?”

“No. My aunt Rosa is older; but you’d never know it the way my grandmother behaves.”

“Bossy?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” She looked up at me, wrinkling her nose at my choice of words. I could tell that she was searching for a diplomatic way of rephrasing my assessment of her grandmother.

“It’s just that she knows what’s best and likes to tell you in no uncertain terms. She’s strict, but fair. Come on. Let me introduce you to her.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Priye? They seem to be a little preoccupied.”

“Don’t tell me that a big, strong athlete like you is afraid of a couple of little God-fearing, churchgoing ladies?”

“Your grandmother has all the gentility of a Bengal tiger,” I remarked. “And I mean that respectfully.”

She squeezed my arm. “Come on, Jack. Don’t be afraid. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I stopped. “You heard me?”

“Of course. I heard you. I know I seemed scared out of my wits, but I was listening to you, Jack. I heard every word you said.”

As we approached the table, the conversation dropped off bit by bit. It seemed as though all eyes swiveled toward us.

“Grandma,” Priye said, loud enough to be heard, but not so loud as to appear to talk over the conversation between the sisters. “I have someone that I want you to meet. Grandma, this is Jack Deneen. Jack, this is my grandmother, Adesuwa Johnson.”

Mrs. Johnson looked up at me for what seemed like several minutes and didn’t say a word. Then she held out her slender hand.

“How do you do, Mr. Deneen.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Johnson.”
“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I hope we didn’t inconvenience you.”

“Not at all,” I replied, and mentally crossed my fingers against the small stretch of the truth.

“Your seat is there, Mr. Deneen,” Mrs. Johnson indicated. “Next to my sister, Rosa Lawson.”

“Mrs. Lawson.” I extended my hand to her, but she stood instead and clasped me warmly to her.

“Priye told me how you kept her company on the plane, Mr. Deneen. Not being a big fan of air travel myself, I can appreciate how much comfort a friend can be. Thank you.”

I think I said something equally gracious to Priye’s aunt. But inside, I was soaring. So far, so good. They hadn’t dismissed me outright. I’d been a bundle of nerves, waiting for Priye and her relatives to arrive. Scenarios of varying degrees, from mildly embarrassing to the unforgivably uncouth, had flown through my mind as I’d used the Global Positioning System in my car to get to the restaurant.

I could only imagine what kind of silly grin I had on my face at the time. My motives for sitting next to Priye on the plane had been purely selfish. But if by being so, I could win one more Johnson over to my side, I’d take the praise.

“So you’re with the Steeldogs?” A tall, elderly gentleman dressed in a dark, three-piece suit stood and held out his hand to me. A large, rawboned man, he looked uncomfortable in the fancy surroundings. His hands, large and gnarled, spoke of advanced age, failing strength, but the uncommon endurance as he patted at his shining, perspiring forehead with a handkerchief.

“This is my grandfather, George Johnson,” Priye introduced. “Grandpa, this is my friend, Jack Deneen.”

“Pleasure to meet you, sir.” I said, shaking his hand.
“Congratulations on your wedding anniversary.”

“Thank you, thank you. Yes, I’m feeling mightily blessed.” Once the pleasantries were over with, he thrust his hands in his pockets, leaned close, and said, “So, son, what do you think of your chances this year to take it all?”

I shrugged, pressing my lips together and shaking my head.

He stood, staring at me, watery brown eyes blinking periodically, as if he expected me to say more. I didn’t. I’d promised Priye that I wouldn’t.

I glanced at Priye and responded carefully. “I. . .uh. . .I really couldn’t say.”

“What do you mean you can’t say? You trying to tell me that you’re sworn to secrecy about whether or not you’re going to make it to the UEFA cup championship?”

Rosa Lawson caught the look that passed between Priye and me, then chuckled softly. “You poor boy. Priye, tell me that you didn’t put a gag order on our guest.”

“Aunt Rosa, you know me better than that,” Priye dissembled.

How could she have sounded so innocent knowing fully well that’s exactly what she’d done?

“Uh-huh. It’s because I know you that I’m hereby overruling you.” She looked up at me with a conspiratorial wink. “I’m sure Priye meant well. But I’m here to tell you, the child has some major issues with the game of football. But that doesn’t mean it has to ruin your evening, does it, Jack?”

“No, but I promised that I’ll try not to bore anyone with my stories.”

“Let’s just say that our friend Jack found some very creative uses for duct tape and stink bombs,” her aunt Rosa continued.

“You heard about that?” I asked in chagrin.

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear this one,” Priye said.

“Sure you can,” I said, patting her shoulder. “I think a more interesting story is what turned you off football.” I turned the conversation back to her. “You didn’t tell me that you didn’t like the game.”

“Oh, well. . .I guess the subject never came up,” she said and winced. We both knew that wasn’t exactly true. She’d had plenty of opportunity to tell me to stop running my mouth about the game. It had been mostly all I talked about on the flight from Ghana to Lagos.

From the way she’d responded, I’d thought she was a dedicated fan. She’d nodded at all the right moments, asked questions at all the appropriate intervals. I looked at her now with a grudging respect. She must have been in agony the entire trip – between the threat of imminent death on one hand and my boring her to death with my stories on the other. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t entertained thoughts of jumping out of the plane to put an end to her misery.

"Is everyone here? I'm ready to eat now," Priye's grandfarher announced to the room.

"Please join us at our table, Mr. Deneen," Priye's grandmother indicated a couple of seats.

"Oh, goody! We get to sit at the grown-up table," Priye said in mock awe.

"You won't be so pleased when you find out about all the embarrassing stories I'm going to tell Jack all evening," Aunt Rosa predicted.

"Aunt Rosa," Priye began in warning.

"Don't sound so surprised, honey. You know we were not going to let this evening slip by without trying to totally humiliate you."

"Grandma, you're not going to let her do that, are you?"

"You mean totally humiliate you?"

"Yes."

"Well, not totally," Mrs. Johnson promised.

"Exactly," Mr. Johnson added, "I mean, what kind of loving, supportive grandparents would we be if we went around telling your friends that when you were nine years old you put Vaseline on your chest to encourage your bust to grow?"

"George, leave the girl alone. Don't embarrass her in front of her friend."

"Thank you Grandma," Priye said in relief.

"Besides, she wasn't nine - she was twelve and still flat as a pancake."

Priye put her elbows on the table and hid her head in her hands. "Times like these I almost wish I was adopted."

"We won't have to embarrass her," Mrs. Johnson said, lifting a disapproving eyebrow. "I'm certain her questionable table manners will do the job for us."

She jerked her arms back, and folded her hands primly in her lap. I leaned over and whispered loudly so that almost everyone at the table could hear, "If you can remember to keep your elbows off the table, I'll try to remember not to chew with my mouth open."

"Can we order now?" Mr. Johnson insisted.

"In a minute, George. Wait until the whole family is here," Rosa said.

"If some folks want to delay, that's their business. We told them what time dinner would start." He waved over one of the waiters and indicated to start taking drink orders.

I was glad that I had arrived good twenty minutes early. Seemed like running late was an unpardonable sin in this family. Moments later, a couple I assumed were Priye's parents walked briskly into the dining area.

I might have passed the father on the street and not recognized him as being related to her. He stood about five-foot-eight or-nine, with the build of a pro wrestler: wide shoulders and long arms, barrel-chested. His dark hair was speckled with gray, bristly and shaved close to his head. Though the suit he wore was well tailored, probably altered to fit his irregular features, subtle body movements led me to believe that he'd rather be wearing something else, something that allowed him a greater range of motion.

He togged at his tie as if to adjust it and he walked with his hand near the buttons on his jacket, as if he wanted at any moment to rip the confining cloth away. When he came over to shake my hand in introduction, his grip was firm, sure and callused - the mark of years of hard labour.

The woman who walked in on his arm was definitely Priye's mother. They say that eventually all daughters turn into their mothers. I couldn't help staring. That was going to be Priye in twenty years or so. My head swiveled back and forth, noting the similarities between the two women. They had the same heart-shaped face, the same deep-set eyes.

"Sorry I'm late, Mother," Priye's mother said as she leaned down to kiss Mrs. Johnson on the cheek. "Happy anniversary."

Mrs. Johnson reached up and patted her daughter affectionately, then sniffed delicately.

"You smell like petrol," she noted.

"We had a flat tyre. I helped Sunny change it."

I also noted the obvious differences. Mrs. Cole had a few more lines around the mouth and eyes, a touch of gray in her hair. She wore her weight comfortably, as if she'd stopped worrying about conforming to what the fashion industry pushed as the perfect size.

She exercised to maintain good health, I could tell that from the firm tone of her bared arms. But she wasn't going to starve herself or squeeze into too-small clothes or shoes. That I noticed by the light gray silk, free-flowing, two-piece tunic and pants and low-heeled shoes that she'd selected.

Also, unlike Priye, she wore her obvious affection for and devotion to her husband openly. Priye still sought for relatives' approval before emotionally investing in a relationship. Doris Johnson Cole may have once had to go through a similar approval process, but she had passed through. Sunny Cole was now a member of the family - and the one and only man in her life.

During the course of the evening, I don't think Mrs. Cole realized how often she showed to the world how much she loved - and was still in love with - Sunny Cole. From the time the first course was served, they shared from each other's plate, offering tender morsels. They participated in the table conversation, yet at the same time managed to convey to the room that they were wrapped up in each other. He held her hand, she leaned her head on his shoulder. He laughed at her jokes; she kept his plate full.

The more I watched them, the more encouraged I became. In a few years, that could be us. If Priye and I could make it past these crucial, beginning stages of desire cooled by doubt, romance tempered by rationalizations, we had a chance.

If - and what a huge if - we were willing to accept the unexplainable pull toward each other, celebrate rather than condemn our differences, we, too, might find that once-in-a-lifetime love.

http://lolatellsatale..co.uk/2013/07/hearts-of-steel-chapter-eight_6.html?m=1

Hmmm...Im impressed!! *following*

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