Lucas makes his living in uniforms and procedures; he submits to dictation and routine even if he doesn't always like it. A warrior does what he has to do in the interest of his mission. But what is the mission? That is the question he asks as he pounds the asphalt around Roderick's neighborhood. His goals are secured: he has Marlowe and he will have a life with her in the very near future. The mission he's caught up in now is hers, and he's not exactly sure what it is. She has him but her grip isn't secure.
Just as a wise man should, Lucas withdraws into the file in his brain marked 'Marlowe Ross' and rifles through her statements. She accused him of not understanding; nothing has been taken from you, she said. But something has been taken - his liberty, his freedom to touch her. He has been confined to an upstairs bedroom as silent and distant as his usual far corner of the room. And there's nothing I can do, Lucas thinks grimly as he rounds the corner and catches sight of the house. He won't leave without Marlowe and he can't force his way in to her family's private space. He has to be let in or drawn in.
Lucas almost stumbles over the force of his realization. He stops in the middle of the street, gasping, blinking away beads of sweat. She's trying to draw him in. That is Marlowe's mission - she's trying to let him into her circle. Lucas pulls up the hem of his t shirt and wipes his face. He'd thought that she didn't care about these people; he has been waiting for her to let go, like he does. But she does care, perhaps too much. That's why it still hurts. That's why she frets, and hangs on like a bulldog, and does not return the cuts and scratches that are dealt out to her. That's why she stays away - she doesn't want to bear witness to these changes. She's afraid of failure because she hasn't accepted it; she's still holding on to hope.
But hope hasn't brought anything back from the dead yet, Lucas repeats silently. He understands that; Marlowe does not. He sprints the remaining few feet to the house, jumps onto the porch, and blows through the front door. The sleeper sofa has been pulled up; voices drift out of the kitchen. He checks his watch; it's only seven thirty.
"Good morning," he says, stopping in the threshold.
"Hey." Marlowe is hovering between Tamara's parents, removing used breakfast dishes, still doing penance. She pushes back several vials of prescription pills with the edge of an empty plate and sets down a fresh cup of coffee. "Need anything else, Mr. Hooks?"
"Some sugar," Tamara's father says.
"No! No sugar," Tamara calls out from the stove. "You ain't running your pressure up today, daddy. Eat so you can take your medicine. And mama, please hurry up. I gotta have you at Erline's to get your hair pressed in twenty minutes. Hey Lucas." Tamara doesn't even look up from the stove; she gives instructions and greetings without breaking her stride. "Mo - hand me that cinnamon. Make a plate, Luacs. I'm gonna put you to work in a minute."
"Yes ma'am." He takes a step but then realizes that he is rank and soaked in sweat. "Actually, I'm going to hit the shower first."
"Hurry up," Tamara warns, flicking spice all over her cake and all over the stove. "Dang," she mumbles under her breath. "Once I wash the dishes, it's over."
"Yes ma'am," Lucas repeats. He nods politely to Tamara's parents and then glances at Marlowe. She isn't looking at him. She's moved to the sink and started loading the dishwasher. "Good looking out, Mo," he hears Tamara say as he turns to leave.
"Okay - cakes are done. I mixed up the ice cream; gotta put that on." Tamara's eyes flick back and forth, taking in the chaos of her kitchen. "Gotta get some more beer; your uncle Ned and them are coming, and you know how those bama folk get down. And ice," Tamara says sharply, snapping her fingers. "Let me make a list."
"When are you coming back, Tamara?" Marlowe asks over the rush of water from the faucet.
"Depends on what time mama gets done. I'm gonna drop her off and then do my running around. And then I gotta call Nate about those chairs from the church."
"Nate?"
"Yeah, which reminds me - get Lucas to move that furniture out of the dining room. I don't want folks messing up my stuff. I already carried my plants out to the backyard. Did you see my peace lily, Mo? Had it five years," Tamara crows. "Anyway, you can put the furniture out there too, right back by the shed. It ain't gonna rain, I don't think. Better not," Tamara grumbles, scribbling on a notepad.
Glasses and plates clink together as Marlowe fills the dishwasher. "Is she coming?"
"Who?"
"Sara."
"Oh!" Tamara exclaims. "Uh . . ." She glances at her parents and then sets her notepad and pen on the counter. "Mo - come here and let me show you something right quick." Tamara tugs on the back of Marlowe's t shirt as she passes by the sink.
"What?"
"By the pool." Tamara tosses a hard stare at Marlowe over her shoulder. Marlowe grabs a dish towel, wipes her hands, and follows.
"Girl, I forgot to tell you about Nate," Tamara says as she pulls shut the sliding door between the dining room and the pool room. Her eyes travel around the space, admiring it. "Huh, I should have something in here, a dessert table or something. Smells like chlorine, though," she comments, wrinkling up her nose. "Oh, sorry Mo; I can't get my mind off this party."
Marlowe nods. It is often the case that a party is more work than fun. "Yeah, I don't see how you can stand it."
"Got to - Roderick. Anyway, about Nate. She ain't coming, girl. She's going to see her parents in Savannah," Tamara says emphatically.
Marlowe quirks a brow. "I thought you said they weren't speaking."
"They weren't; that's the whole story. She told them she was gonna divorce Nate! So they invited her back home for the Fourth."
"What?"
"Yeah. And remember how I told you she's been following him around like a puppy for a few months." Marlowe nods, her eyes wide. "Turns out she's pregnant and now she don't want a divorce. But she's still going to see her sorry ass folks like nothing's nothing."
"Shut up!" Marlowe exclaims. "Where'd you hear this?"
"Nate told Roderick and Roderick told me," Tamara says, smirking and folding her arms triumphantly over her chest. "He said Nate has been blowing up his cell phone ever since we got back. Nate don't know what to do about that heifer."
"Damn," Marlowe wheezes, shifting on her feet. "That's . . . damn."
"I know." Tamara extends her hand and looks at her wedding ring. "See? That's what he gets for acting like that. Probably did her folks the same way. Shazzam. Deal with it."
Marlowe swallows hard. Tamara is staring at her, studying her. This isn't just gossip; it's a cautionary tale. "Everybody knows, huh?"
Tamara huffs and then purses her lips, examining her nails. "No, but they should." She glances at Marlowe's disapproving frown and rolls her eyes. "I'm ain't gonna tell it, Miss Do Right. But I told you because Roderick said Nate should have seen it coming." Tamara blinks, hesitating; she clears her throat. "He said she was almost right, but almost ain't good enough."
"Almost right," Marlowe repeats dully. Her face sags; she folds her arms over her chest, turns and paces towards the glass door that leads out to the backyard. And she stops there, her eyes focused on nothing.
"I gotta go, Mo," Tamara says grimly. Her lips move toward something like an apology or an expression of sympathy, but she holds on to it. "I'm gonna leave the truck here so ya'll can go get those chairs; I'll take your car. I'll call you when Nate calls me. Okay?"
"Okay," Marlowe replies absently. She squints against the changing morning light; unfiltered summer sun floods in through the clear glass, heating up her skin. "Damn it," she mumbles, blinking, shaking her head dumbly. Another stumbling block in a long series, or is it perhaps a sign? Not a stop sign, Marlowe thinks, furrowing her brow. A yield sign. Caution - dangerous crossing.
She doesn't hear him come in. Lucas walks slowly across the pool room, studying her posture, her frown, gauging her mood. She's wearing the necklace; she's yanking the pendant back and forth over the bridge of her nose like a zipper. He stops next to her with his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. "Keep that up and you'll break it."
"You're right." Marlowe drops the necklace back into the safety of her shirt; she smiles at his reflection in the glass door. "My jewelry box is a broken necklace graveyard."
"Stress habit."
"Yeah." Marlowe cocks her head to one side, studying his reflection. Then she takes a step back, lining up next to him, loops her right arm through his left and crams her hands in her own pockets. She takes a deep breath. "Damn, we're good looking."
Lucas snickers, both amused and pleased that she touched him without looking over her shoulder or asking about Tamara's whereabouts. "Yeah."
"Have you ever done this before?"
He pauses. Not just a relationship, a relationship with a black woman - that's what she wants to know. "No."
Marlowe nods, considering. "It doesn't bother you at all, huh? I mean, you don't even see it, do you?"
"No," Lucas says slowly. "I know that we're different, Marlowe. But I love you." He shrugs. "Not in spite of - because of." She purses her lips. Lucas disengages their arms and turns to face her. "For you, it's in spite of. Right?"
She nods slowly, awkwardly. "I'm sorry."
Lucas shrugs again. "Maybe I should be upset, but I'm not." He clears his throat, looking over her face. "Maybe I think that's brave."
"Brave?"
"Yes. Have you ever done this before?"
"No."
He nods. "You could have told me to go to hell. Instead, you're going through it. I respect that," he says firmly, deeply. "You think too much; it pisses me off sometimes," he murmurs, grinning when she grins. "But that's what you have to do. That's you. You'll change your mind."
"About what?" Marlowe asks, watching him carefully.
"About me. I'm the best thing that ever happened to you." He drags his fingertips over her cheek. "You'll figure it out eventually. Slow Mo."
Marlowe smiles at him, wrapping his confidence and his patience around her heart like a warm shawl. Whether or not he understands, he doesn't dismiss her personal struggle. That's love, apolitical and selfless. That's what she wants to give him. "I'm getting sick of you calling me that," she grumbles lightheartedly.
"I'll stop when it stops being true. Sit down."
Marlowe peers uneasily at the cold tile floor. "Why?"
"Sit. Trust me."
"Don't think you can get over on me because Tamara left." She drops to the floor with a grunt. "I'm not getting naked on this floor."
"Is that an offer?" Lucas asks dryly, sitting down across from her. He takes off his hsoes and then stretches out his legs with his feet facing her. "Take your shoes off."
Marlowe kicks her flip flops off to one side and mimics his posture. "So we're stretching?"
"Yes. Give me your hands." Lucas presses his feet to her and slowly pulls her toward him. She moans with pleasure. "You carry stress in your shoulders," he comments as he releases her. "You worry and you smoke. That's not good."
"Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Klein." Marlowe leans back in turn and pulls.
He doesn't budge. His face is composed and neutral but his gray eyes frown at her. "You worry too much."
"This is a special occasion," she retorts. "Pull."
He does; he leans back further and holds her longer. Marlowe grits her teeth. "What happens Sunday?" he asks quietly.
"What?" Marlowe croaks.
"You asked me to wait until Sunday," he says, releasing her gradually. "What am I waiting for?"
Marlow snickers as she rises from the stretch. "You want me to put the Mo better on you, huh?" She narrows her eyes, watching him as she pulls him forward. "Dang, you're heavy."
"That's not what I mean." Lucas doesn't even crack a smile as he returns her stare and reverses the stretch. He braces his feet square against hers and pulls her long and deeply until her shoulder joints unlock. She hisses. "When I agreed to wait, I didn't mean for approval," he says darkly, his jaw tense. He pulls her an extra half an inch.
"Err!" Lucas releases her gradually; she comes up glaring at him. "Approval?"
"Yes," he insists, glaring back. "Waiting out of respect is one thing. But I get the feeling that you're kissing ass to get Roderick and Tamara's approval," he declares flatly. "It's not going to work, and I don't like it."
"You're wrong." She pulls his arms and leans back, but again he resists. "It's not about approval, Lucas."
"What is it about?"
Marlowe sighs. She's trying to put her story together, a story in which she rights all of her wrongs, her errors of omission. She imagines them walking into church on Sunday with Roderick and Tamara in two, supportive and smiling. "Redemption," she says finally, staring into his cool measuring eyes. "I want to get my relationships straight, all of them." Marlowe falls silent, getting comfortable with the weight of that responsibility. She smiles wryly. "It's your fault." She chuckles at his blank stare. "You started loving me," she accuses, squeezing his hands, "you turned something on and now I can't turn it off. I didn't know what I was missing, I guess. No," she says emphatically, shaking her head. "But now I do. And I want it all back," she declares with a sweep of her hand. "We're going to church Sunday, to answer your question."
Lucas blinks. "First you hated church. Now you want to go back and make up for lost time?" he asks skeptically.
"Not hated," she corrects. "But that's not the point. When I left here, I left running. I let Nate get the last word and it's been hanging over my head ever since. Look," she begins, folding her knees and scooting up close to him. "We can't live in a bubble, right? We can't stay holed up in my apartment in D.C. There's always gonna be people talking shit for no good reason; I know that. I have to talk back."
"Marlowe." Lucas licks his lips and heaves a breath. "Fuck those people. It doesn't matter what they say."
"It does," she replies, thinking of Nate and Sara. "Somebody's right and somebody's wrong, Lucas. I let something wrong hang over me and it was like a self fulfilling prophesy. I almost made that same mistake with you," she says quietly, staring at him for a long time. "I can't let a wrong word about you or me go unanswered."
"You can't change everyone's mind," Lucas insists. "You just end up wasting time. You end up . . ."
"Getting hurt?" It will, of course, but it always hurts to settle a score, to take something back. "You always do. You know," she murmurs, linking her fingers with his. "I know you know, Mr. Labor Day."
Lucas blinks, swallows. He expected her to turn her deep scrutiny on him one day; he didn't realize that she already had. "What are we waiting for again?" he asks gruffly. "If you want to make a point, have your way with me on the front lawn."
Marlowe snickers. "That's different. Waiting is me saying the right things about you to Tamara and Roderick."
"What things?"
"Basically that I'm not just using you for sex."
"You're not?" Lucas asks innocently.
"No."
"You sure?" He scoots up to her and sits cross legged so that their shins are touching. "I wouldn't mind."
She smiles. "No."
"I won't say anything about your master plan." He crosses his heart. Especially since he doesn't understand it all. But he respects it - that's what matters. "You can have your cake and eat it too."
Marlowe lifts a brow. "Yeah, I bet. Get up," she says, rising. "We have work to do."
Lucas stands and hikes his shorts up at the waist, hovering, looking her up and down. "You're stubborn."
"No, I'm scared of Tamara," Marlowe replies, moving to the sliding glass door. "She pinches when she gets in full dictator mode. Scary." She walks up to the dining room table and starts pulling back the chairs. "She wants us to move this furniture outside."
Lucas nods, grabbing two chairs by their overstuffed blue seats. "Do I have to be scary to get my way?" he asks, slipping sideways through the sliding door.
"No, you have to be patient," Marlowe calls, following after him with a third chair. She stops behind him at the second door that leads out to the backyard.
"Set it down," Lucas says, ratcheting the door open. "You transport; I'll stack them up outside."
"Okay," Marlowe says, turning back to the dining room.
"I wouldn't have to be so patient if you weren't so stubborn."
"I'm not stubborn," Marlowe shouts over her shoulder. She steps through the door and returns moments later with a chair under each arm. She grunts and heaves all the way to the second door where she deposits them with a triumphant smirk.
"As a mule." When she turns to glare at him, Lucas looks pointedly at each of the two chairs she carried and then cocks his head.
Marlowe rolls her eyes. "I'm tough. Don't hate. Cupcake," she taunts, turning back. She grabs the last two chairs and turns to find Lucas standing in the sliding glass doorway waiting for her.
"I'm not soft. I can prove it," he murmurs, taking the chairs from her.
She rolls her eyes again, feigning exasperation. "Just do your job, soldier."
"Captain." Lucas grins at her grumbled 'whatever' as he crosses the pool room and carries the chairs outside where he flips them upside down and stacks them neatly in the corner with the others. He is contemplating a good place for the dining room table when he hears an obnoxious bang and a cry of distress from the house.
"Damn it!" Marlowe shouts.
Lucas rushes in to find that she has awkwardly wedged the dining table into the sliding glass door. Frowning, he rushes up and reaches for the dangling end. He jumps back when she thrusts it forward. "Marlowe!" he calls out. "Hang on a minute."
"Oh. Sorry," she says, poking her head through the door. "I almost had it though."
"Fold the legs in," he orders.
"I tried that. It's an antique or something; they don't fold in."
Lucas picks up the end of the table and pulls it as far as he can to his right. "Push it around easy," he calls out. She doesn't of course; she heaves the table and one of the legs bangs the sliding glass door. Lucas shakes his head. "You scratched it."
Marlowe's eyes widen. She stops in the threshold with the other end of the table. "I did?"
"No. But you will if you keep it up." He backs up to the second door and steps out. Glancing to his right, he frowns and sets the table down. "Wait a second." He steps away.
Marlowe peers out, but she can't see what he's doing. Her arms shake under the weight of the heavy wood table. She sets down her end, bears down on her knees, and pushes the table onto the soft grass outside.
A sharp cracking sound splinters the silence. "Jesus!" Lucas sticks his head in the door. "Wait. As in, stop pushing and wait. Shit," he spits, looking at the ground next to him.
Marlowe steps over the table and stands next to him. Tamara's prized peace lily is on the ground half covered in soil; the cracked antique pot is broken into shards. Marlowe covers her eyes with her hands and then scrubs her nails down her face. "Oh, Lord."
"You killed it."
"No!" Marlowe drops to her knees and picks up the plant. It seems intact, but the actual lily has broken off. She sticks the plant into what remains of the pot and frantically scoops dirt in around it.
Lucas drops down beside her; he picks up the lily and presses it to her chest like a corsage. "Appropriate for a funeral," he comments dryly.
"It's fine," she insists. "I just need another pot. I can get another fucking pot."
Lucas grins. "You broke it," he taunts. "You were too stubborn to wait, and you broke Tamara's plant. Admit it." When she doesn't, he chuckles. "You're in trouble."
"I was just trying to help!" Marlowe punctuates her shriek with two reckless fistfuls of soil that hit him square in the face.
Lucas spits and scrubs his hand over his mouth. The eyes that he turns on her are feral and narrow.
Marlowe backs away but she falls on her back in the grass, and then he is on her. He pins her down with his body weight and hovers over her with a threatening fistful of dirt.
"Open sesame."
Marlowe refuses with a vigorous shake of her head. "Nuh uh," she mumbles through the hands she has clamped over her mouth. When he wrenches her hands way, she pleads for mercy in a shrill voice. "Okay, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
Lucas' kiss is as gritty and ancient as the soil she tastes on his lips, as sweet as the soft summer grass beneath her head. He drops the dirt and clutches a fistful of her hair instead, pulling her neck back. He's already aroused; he's already ready. He's going to take her; she can feel it. "You're stubborn. Say it."
"Okay. Yes."
"Say the words: I'm stubborn." She hears a soft pop from the button on her shorts.
"I'm stubborn."
"You love me. Say it."
"I love you. I love you," she repeats with feeling as he yanks at her zipper. "I love you, Lucas."
Lucas stops suddenly, staring at her. He grabs her by the hips and rolls them over. He grins and then he laughs, flashing his dimples. "Take your clothes off and have your way with me."
Marlowe's eyes circle around in her head. She pretends to consider, but she's beyond thought now.
"It's not the front yard, but it'll do." He starts pulling at her clothes, urging her on.
"Fuck it," Marlowe snaps, giggling as she pulls her t shirt off over her head. "You, I mean." Her gold chain winks in the sunlight.
Lucas stares at the chain nestled between her bare breasts. He smiles. "I think this is a good look for you."
"Yeah?" Marlowe asks as she leans over to kiss him on the mouth. "My man gave it to me. I won't tell him what you said though. He's the jealous type."
"The homicidal type," Lucas murmurs between kisses. "I hear he has a gun and he's not afraid to use it. Don't cheat," he warns, holding her face close to his. "After this."
They laugh maniacally and make love long into the hour, baking browner in the heat, sweating and tussling like two predators at war. It's a fun game, a skin game, and they each want to win. They are lost to every thought but victory. The broken and wilting lily is neglected; the table is forgotten. They don't even notice when a tall handsome man comes around the side of the building with an armful of folding chairs. He watches them for a moment like a lonely voyeur, and then creeps back to the front of the house where he leaves the chairs on the front porch like a calling card.
