Hidden Memories (30 page)

“Let me see,” Xavier said, his lips pursed together. Pointing to the floor-length sheath, he said, “I like this one. The pearls are exquisite. It looks hand-sewn. How much time are we talking?”

“The wedding is in August.”

“That gives me four months. I can work with that. First I’ll do some sketches, and then, once we agree on the design, we’ll pick out the fabric.”

“How much?” Sage asked, knowing that the soon-to-be-famous Xavier was not going to be inexpensive. But she didn’t care; she had to have a gown that she loved.

“That’s going to depend on the fabric and the amount of handwork. I’ll give you an estimate when we agree on a sketch.”

“When can you have the sketches ready?”

“How about late next week?”

Sage flipped open her Day-Timer. “Okay, I’ll put you down for Friday afternoon.”

“That’ll work. Now let me walk you out of here.”

* * * * *

A foreign, acrid smell assailed Sage’s nose as she entered Cameron’s library. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the furniture massive—huge tufted leather chairs and dark oil paintings of wealthy families from the eighteenth century, their faces stern and unfriendly. She took a deep breath, identifying the distinctive odor of a Havana cigar and, at the same moment, she remembered the last time she had smelled the pungent scent—the day Cameron was elected governor of Georgia.

“What are we celebrating?” Sage asked as she approached the governor sitting in front of the burning fireplace. Cameron puffed on a long brown cigar, his face reflecting contentment.

He cocked his head to the side and twisted his mouth into a relaxed smile. “I’m celebrating a moment. A rare personal moment.”

“I can come back later, Cam.”

Placing the cigar in the ashtray on the end table, Cameron shook his head. “I’ve had my moment.”

Sage eased into the leather chair next to the end table. “Are you happy with your speech?”

“Benjamin is impossible to work with. He insists on writing the damn thing.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “That’s what I hired him to do.”

“I like to use my own words.”

“I know. You can speak from the heart and sermonize when you’re campaigning, but this is a different audience. You’re going to be speaking to governors. Heads of state. So the speech has to be strong and powerful, creative and polished.”

“What are you implying, Sage?”

“Your national image is at stake. It’s an honor that you’ve been asked to be the keynote speaker, but you have to talk about the issues that are of concern to other governors. It can’t be full of rhetoric or sound like a Sunday sermon.”

“You sound like Benjamin. He’s working on the draft. We agreed on the theme and the key points.”

“Cameron, the conference is in three weeks,” Sage chided. “You should be working on the final draft.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll ad lib.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” she said, chuckling softly. “I’ll talk to Benjamin tomorrow.”

Cameron leaned back against the chair and picked up the cigar. “What else is going on?”

“There’s a problem with Nona Corporation.”

Cameron’s demeanor changed from relaxed to worried.

“I thought it was a done deal.”

“It was, until South Carolina countered the bid.”

“They’ve got to bring that plant here. That’s a possible two hundred additional jobs in an area of the state desperate for jobs. I’ve told some of the community leaders that the manufacturing facility was a go. I’ll look like a fool.”

“Clark Anderson has arranged another meeting with Nona’s president and the board of directors,” Sage said. “But he doesn’t want to go in empty-handed. He wants to know if you would authorize tapping into the building funds to float them a forgivable loan.”

“I hate to do that, Sage. I know I’m going to need that money to entice other companies.”

She rested her chin on the palm of her hand. “We may not have any other choice.”

“If all else fails, tell Clark to negotiate on the price of the land,” Cameron said. He put the cigar in his mouth and inhaled the bitter tobacco. “We’ll give them a loan, if they provide two hundred jobs over a three-year period. But they have to give us a guarantee.”

Chapter Fifteen

It was early evening when Sage drove out of the heavy rain into her garage. As the garage door descended to the ground, she heard the door to her house open. Peering through the windshield, she saw Ava motioning for her to hurry. Sage reached across the seat to retrieve her briefcase and shopping bags, opened the car door and climbed out.

“Come on, Sage,” Ava urged. “Hurry up.”

Oh, no, something was terribly wrong, Sage thought, assuming the worse. “What’s the matter?”

“Something came for you. Come into the living room.”

Sage placed her briefcase and shopping bags on the kitchen table and followed her sister into the living room. A large package wrapped in heavy brown paper leaned against the sofa.

“That woman from next door brought it over. She said they left it on the porch. She’s a nosy woman. I always see her peeking out the window,” Ava said.

“That’s Ms. Odom. I guess she doesn’t have anything else to do.” She picked up the rectangular-shaped package. “It’s from Aunt Maddie,” Sage said, glancing at the return address.

“Open it,” Ava urged.

“Girl, you scared me. I thought something was wrong,” Sage said, tearing away the wrapping with the excitement of a child opening a Christmas present.

“Let me help,” Ava volunteered, ripping away the brown paper.

They were momentarily speechless when they saw what was hidden under the brown packaging—a spectacular, gold-framed painting, an abstract depiction of a man, woman and child connected by a heart.

“Wow,” Ava said.

“It’s beautiful!” Sage gushed, her eyes beaming with admiration and pride. “This is my father’s work. Look at the bold lines and vivid colors.”

“There’s a note on the back,” Ava said, removing the envelope and handing it to her sister.

Sage recognized her aunt’s large, expressive handwriting. The note read,

This painting was stored along with several others in Mama’s attic. Since we’re moving her to a nursing home, we have to get rid of some of her belongings. Satchel painted this shortly before he went to Vietnam. I thought you should have it.

“This is a wonderful surprise,” Sage said, stepping back for a fuller view of the painting. “I always wondered if Daddy had done more paintings. Mama said that he painted a lot when they first met, and then he stopped. She said she begged him to keep painting, but he was discouraged, complaining that no one would buy his work. When I was born, he started painting again.”

“He was talented, that’s for sure,” Ava said, plopping down on the chair.

Sage ran her fingers over the painting, imagining the brushstrokes. Her thoughts swirled along with the painting’s circular strokes, swimming back to a past of turpentine, paint and musk, remembering her father standing in front of an easel with a faraway look on his face and paint smeared on his face, hands and clothes. A Billie Holiday album would be spinning on the record player, her distinctive voice filling the air.
“Turn it over, Sage,”
he would say when the last song on the album ended. It took many tries and several scratched records before Sage learned to position the needle on the beginning edge of the 33-1/3 vinyl record.

“It reminds me of Gauguin,” Sage said distractedly, memories spinning in her head. “You know, if he had lived, Daddy might have been another Jacob Lawrence or Romare Bearden.”

“Or William Tolliver,” Ava said, giggling mischievously.

Sage turned toward Ava, her eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“He’s the only artist I know,” Ava said, pointing at a Tolliver print hanging over the sofa.

“I know it’s crazy, but this reminds me of the painting I bought from Tawny,” Sage said. An inexplicable eerie feeling washing through her.

“I don’t think so,” Ava said, shaking her head emphatically. “Let’s go see.” She rose up from the sofa and went into the hall.

Sage followed behind, her curiosity fully aroused.

They stood in front of the picture of three women in motion, dancing to a drumbeat.

“It’s the colors. The color palette is the same,” Sage said. “The bright reds, greens and purples.”

“I guess,” Ava said, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly.

“So where are you going to hang it?”

“Over the sofa.”

Talking to the lone figure sitting on the bench in the William Tolliver lithograph, Ava said, “Well, old man, it looks like you’re going to have to find somewhere else to hang around.”

Chuckling, Sage glanced at the picture. “By the way, you had another message from Kelly. She’s been trying to reach you.”

“I know. But I’ve been trying to stay away from her.”

“Really?”

“All she wants to do is get high. Every day. All day. I’ve decided that’s not what I want to do.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I’ve been worried about you since the funeral. I’ve noticed that you haven’t been going out much.”

“I haven’t felt like partying,” Ava said, taking a few steps up the staircase. She stopped and then turned back around. “To tell you the truth, the last time I went out with Kelly, she took me somewhere.” Ava paused, and a trace of fear glazed in her eyes. “She said it would help me forget Daddy. It was real scary, Sage. Everybody was high. I didn’t like it. I made her take me out of there.”

Sage noticed the fear in Ava’s eyes, and wondered what her sister had seen that had frightened her. For a brief moment, she thought about asking Ava about the place, but decided she didn’t want to know. “That’s good.”

“I miss Daddy a whole lot. I think about him every day,” Ava said somberly. Leaning against the railing, she continued, “It hurts to think about him, but I don’t want to forget him. But even though he’s not here, I wouldn’t want to do anything that would hurt him. Anyway, I’ve decided to go to school.”

“Atlanta School of Arts?”

“Yep, I really want to be a fashion designer. Mommy is sending my sewing machine.”

“I’m proud of you, girl,” Sage said.

* * * * *

Ramion reached for Sage’s hand as they walked out of the lobby of the historic landmark Fox Theatre, where Broadway plays and musicals were staged and singers, dancers and comedians performed. Ramion steered her through the crowd of people dressed in fancy suits and cocktail dresses.

“Didn’t you just love it?” Sage asked.

“Yes, it was very powerful, very moving.”

“August Wilson’s plays are always so deep and spiritual. You know, the next time he has a play in New York, I’d like to go.”

“Let’s plan on it.”

“Ramion,” a squeaky voice called out.

Ramion and Sage stopped in front of the ticket counter.

“Ramion,” the voice repeated. An attractive, petite brown-skinned woman with long, flowing hair emerged from the crowd. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Selena. How about you?”

“Great!” she answered with a flirtatious smile.

“I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Sage Kennedy,” Ramion said. “Sage, this is Selena Tucker. She used to work at Edwin’s law firm.”

Selena flashed Sage a cold look. “Hello,” she said, turning her eyes immediately back to Ramion. “I didn’t know you were getting married.”

“We’re getting married in August,” Ramion said. “I heard you finished law school. Where are you working?”

“Ah, I work for an attorney,” Selena said, her expression carefully blank. “Umh, in Gwinnett.”

“Is that right? What firm are you with?” Ramion asked. “I know a few attorneys out that way.”

“Ah, there’s my date,” Selena said. “Gotta go.” She disappeared into the crowd.

“That was strange,” Sage said.

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you see how nervous she got when you asked her who she’s working for?” Sage spotted Edwinna rushing in their direction. “That damn Edwinna is coming.”

With a scowl on his face, he said, “She can’t possibly believe I want to talk to her.”

“Ramion, Sage!” Edwinna said.

Sage refused to speak to her, communicating her disdain with hostile eyes and a tight mouth.

“Edwinna,” Ramion said, his voice as warm as an icicle.
I must have been crazy to date her just because she’s Edwin’s daughter,
Ramion thought.

“I’m really getting into this election. In fact, I’ve discovered being a state representative has a lot of perks,” Edwinna said. “Becoming an elected official is appealing to me more and more.”

“Edwinna, do whatever you please,” Ramion said, shrugging his shoulders. “It makes no difference to me.”

“We’ll see if you feel that way on election night,” Edwinna taunted. Turning toward Sage, she said, “To be or not to be. I’m talking about the wedding, of course. It was just in the news that twenty percent of planned weddings end up being cancelled. Sometimes it’s the bride, but most of the time the groom gets cold feet.”