Man of Fortune - Rochelle Alers

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means I overlook the front of the building. The building superintendent is in 1F. His wife is our security,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “She sees everyone coming and going. Don’t be surprised if she asks you what you’re doing in the building.”

      Rodney smiled. “What do you want me to tell her?”

      “You can say you’re my cousin.”

      He angled his head. “We look nothing alike.”

      Opening her mailbox, Tamara removed a magazine and several pieces of junk mail. “Okay, Fox. We can be play cousins.”

      “Ain’t that just like black folk?” he teased. “I think we’re the only race with an abundance of play cousins.”

      Tamara laughed as she closed and locked the mailbox. “You’re right about that.”

      Rodney followed her up the first flight of stairs. The smell of disinfectant lingered in the air. “The building is spotless.”

      “That’s because Mr. Clifford sweeps the halls every day and mops every other day,” she said over her shoulder. “There’s a door at the end of the hall on the first floor that leads outside where you can put garbage. All garbage must be in plastic bags, or we’ll have to pay a fifty-dollar fine for the first infraction. It escalates with each infraction. I’m thankful we don’t have the dreaded New York City curse of roaches or rodents, and most tenants want to keep it that way.”

      “That sounds good to me.”

      Tamara reached the fifth floor and turned left down the tiled hallway. It had taken a month for her to get used to walking up the stairs. Not only was the exercise good for cardiovascular conditioning, but she’d also lost weight while toning her lower body.

      She’d joined a local health club, but rarely worked out because she never seemed to find the time. However, with a month’s vacation, she planned to visit the club several times each week.

      Tamara remembered she’d told Duncan Gilmore that she had little or no time for socializing. But that was not the case now. She had a month—four weeks—to do whatever she wanted to do for herself. She planned to wait a few days, then call to tell him when they could get together for dinner.

      She unlocked the door to her apartment and slipped out of her shoes. “Shoes worn at the hospital are left on what I call the quarantine mat.” Tamara pointed to the mat under a table in the entryway. She opened a closet and took out a pair of flip-flops. “You can wear these.” Rodney took off his cap and placed it on the table next to a bonsai plant. She gave him a pointed look. “You can always walk around in your bare feet, Fox.”

      Dropping his knapsack, Rodney slipped out of his running shoes, sat down on a straight-back chair with a seat made of rush and slipped on the rubber thongs. He stood up, towering over Tamara by a full head. “What are the house rules?”

      Smiling, she stared at the shock of flyaway red curls falling over his forehead. “What makes you think there are any rules?”

      His reddish eyebrows flickered. “You’ve already apprised me about the shoes and the garbage, so there have to be other rules.”

      “The only rule is that I’m not going to pick up after you. If you mess it up, then you clean it up. And you’re toast if you touch or attempt to water my plants.”

      “That’s easy,” Rodney crooned.

      “We will see,” Tamara retorted.

      Duncan lay on a cushioned chaise on the terrace outside his bedroom, bare feet crossed at the ankles. He’d taken a mental-health day.

      The night before he and Kyle had gone over to Ivan’s house after they’d closed their offices. They’d ordered takeout while watching the baseball game. He and Ivan had overruled Kyle, who didn’t want to watch the Mets playing on the west coast, but after downing a few beers it didn’t matter who was playing or on which coast. It was after three in the morning when he and Kyle had got into a taxi to return to their respective homes. The game had gone into extra innings.

      Within minutes of walking into his bedroom, Duncan fell across the bed and went to sleep. When he woke the sun was up, and he’d called Mia Humphrey to tell her he wasn’t coming in.

      He wasn’t hung over, but it felt good to lie around and do absolutely nothing. There were times when he felt guilty because Viola Gilmore had practically browbeat him by telling him he would amount to nothing if he didn’t take advantage of every minute of the day. His aunt took him on what she’d called a field trip to several blighted neighborhoods to show him burned-out and boarded-up buildings, vagrants and drug addicts standing around aimlessly and men and women who carried all of their possessions with them and slept in doorways because they didn’t have a place to call home. Viola equated laziness with failure, and even at fourteen, Duncan knew he didn’t want to become a failure.

      The ring of the telephone disturbed the quiet. Reaching over, he picked up the cordless without looking at the display. “Hello.”

      “Hel-lo.”

      He listened for the woman on the other end of the line to say something. “I think you have the wrong number,” he said after the seconds ticked off.

      “Is this Duncan Gilmore?”

      Duncan sat up straighter, trying to remember where he’d heard her voice. “Yes, it is. Who’s calling?”

      “Hold up, playa. Don’t you recognize my voice?”

      “Tamara? Is that you?”

      “Yes, it’s Tamara. I…I didn’t expect you to be home at this time.”

      “Is that why you called now? Because you were trying to avoid talking to me?”

      A soft gasp came through the earpiece. “If I didn’t want to talk to you, Duncan Gilmore, I never would’ve called. In fact, I would’ve thrown away your business card.”

      “But you didn’t, and I’m glad you didn’t.”

      “Why, Duncan?”

      “Because I want to talk to you.”

      There came a pause. “What do you want to talk about?” Tamara asked.

      “When are you available to have dinner with me?”

      “I’m open, Duncan. Any day, any time.”

      A frown formed between his eyes. “Did you lose your job?”

      “No,” she said, laughing. “I’m on vacation.”

      He smiled. “If that’s the case, then what are you doing tomorrow?”

      There came another pause before Tamara said, “I have to check my calendar.”

      “I thought you said any time, any day.”

      “I did, Duncan. I was just teasing you.”

      “So,” he crooned, “the doctor does have a sense of humor.”

      “Only when she’s not working,” Tamara retorted.

      “How long are you on vacation, Tamara?”

      “Four weeks.”

      Duncan whistled. “I suppose that’s enough time for me to make you laugh.”

      “Hold up, numbers man. Don’t get ahead of yourself. I only agreed to one date.”

      It was Duncan’s turn to pause. “You’re right. Forgive me for being presumptuous.”

      “You’re forgiven, Duncan.”

      “Thank you. I have to make a reservation, then I’ll call you back.”

      “Where are we going?”

      “Sailing.”

      “Sailing?” Tamara repeated.

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