Until I Saw Your Smile (21 page)

“Shh.”

Once Xavier was up on the tables, the crowd seemed to lean in. “What up, Billyburg?” he asked.

Now
that
is a cheer. It's definitely not a Bronx cheer. Brooklyn people know how to make windows rattle.

“Hey y'all, I used to work here,” Xavier said. “Really. Miss Angela gave me my first job, and trust me, she worked me to
death.
Y'all clean up after yourselves, okay? I don't want her naggin'.” He opened a sheet of paper. “Y'all know I don't normally write anything down, but I
had
to write this one down. This one's for my favorite boss, Miss Angela. I call it ‘Dignity' . . .

Matthew glanced at Angela's face.
Look at that shy face glow! It's about time she got some recognition.

Angela turned to Matthew. “Did you put him up to that?”

She didn't like it?
“I might have.”

“It was good,” Angela said.

Xavier tucked the paper in his pocket. “Now we gonna do some free flow, all right? This is the one that got me arrested.” He smiled broadly and laughed. “Y'all in the front row might want to lean
way
back . . .”

An hour later, after chair dances, after two hundred hands waved in the air, after kids danced on the sidewalk, after the sound system rolled out, and after the crowd did an admirable job of cleaning up after itself, the shop was empty.

Matthew pointed at Angela's tip jar. “Would you look at that.”
There are mostly ones in there, but it's almost filled to the top.
“There has to be at least two hundred bucks in there.”

Angela lifted the lid off the coffee dispenser. “It's empty.” She narrowed her eyes. “And it's more like a hundred bucks in here. Forty-two cups for a hundred bucks. They made out like bandits. I may have to put a little sign that says, ‘Two dollars per cup suggested. ' ” She walked to the front and locked the door.

“So?” Matthew said.

Angela walked past him to the tip jar. “So what?” She began pulling out bills and stacking them on the counter.

“The
show,
” Matthew said. “Angela's Arts Adventures. Success or failure?”

“The name . . . failure,” Angela said. “It wasn't
my
arts.”

“I was going for a triple-A,” Matthew said. “How about Angela's
Artistic
Adventures?”

Angela dug out more bills. “Does my name have to be in it?”

This is no time to be humble.
“No. We could call it ‘Sweet Arts.' ”

Angela laughed slightly. “Boo.”

“Other than the name, was it a success?” Matthew asked.

“It worked out.” She turned the tip jar over slightly, coins cascading to the counter.

“Which means what exactly?” Matthew asked.

She scooped coins into a zipper pack. “Just what I said. It worked out.”

“Will you do it again?”

“I
may
do it again,” she said.

She'll do it again.
“Tight starched apron, lookin'
bella,
the best boss I ever had, Miss Angela.”

“My apron isn't that tight,” Angela said.

“It ain't the apron that's tight, yo,” Matthew said.

Angela smiled and shut her eyes. “Shut up and start mopping the kitchen.”

Matthew stepped closer. “Are we still on for ice cream?”

Angela put the empty tip jar onto the counter. “What is it with you and eating ice cream during the winter?”

“I need my sugar year round,” Matthew said.

Angela pushed the stool behind the counter. “I will need this stool tomorrow, I'm sure.”

“Well?” Matthew asked.
I'm wearing her down. I can feel it.

“I don't want ice cream,” Angela said.

“I'd rather have . . . some pizza . . . from . . . Mezza Luna,” Angela said. “You buying?”

Yes!
“Does this make it . . . a date?”

Angela opened the cash register. “Date, nothing, man. It's my
dinner
. I eat at eight-thirty every night, and you kept me from eating. Now get to work so I can go eat.”

Chapter 16

A
ngela took a long time to get ready.

Matthew ate five more chocolate chip cookies while he waited.

When she finally moved gradually out of the kitchen, she zipped and rezipped her coat twice. She checked her shoelaces. She went back to check the locks on the back door in the kitchen. She felt in her pocket for her keys.

“Will I be warm enough?” she asked. “I should get a heavier coat.”

“You'll be fine,” Matthew said. “It's not too cold tonight.”

She took a step toward the front door and winced. “My feet are killing me.”

“I could go get it and bring it back,” Matthew said.

She shook her head. “I don't eat cold pizza.”

“You could put it in the oven,” Matthew said.

“I don't want garlic in any of my ovens,” Angela said. “Imagine biting into a raspberry pastry and tasting even a hint of garlic.”

Not good.
“We could take a cab down and back.”

“No, that's a waste of money.” She seemed to pace in front of the door. “They deliver, don't they? No, no. The pizza will be even colder, and they add a mint to the total for delivery. Besides, what would it look like if a coffee shop got a pizza delivery?”

“That the owner likes pizza?” Matthew suggested.

“Did I lock the back door?” Angela asked.

Matthew nodded.

“Okay.” She took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled. “Okay. Call it in first so it's ready when we get there.”

“What do you like?” Matthew asked.

“It doesn't matter, but no meats or anchovies,” Angela said. “Not this late at night.”

Matthew called Mezza Luna and ordered a mushroom, black olive, and fresh garlic pizza while Angela sat in the first booth, her shoes drumming the floor.

She certainly seems nervous. Or is it excitement? I hope it's excitement.
“Our pizza ought to be ready by the time we get there, so if we start walking . . .”

Angela exhaled slowly. “Okay.” She left the booth, and Matthew opened the door. Angela stood unmoving in the doorway.

Wow, she looks really tired.
“I'll walk down and take a cab back with the pizza if you're too tired. I know you've had a longer day because of me.”

Angela shook her head, stepping out onto the sidewalk. Matthew stepped outside, and Angela locked the door. “It's about ten blocks, right?” she asked.

“Closer to eight.”

“Okay.” She pulled on the door. “All locked up. Okay. Let's . . . let's go.”

Angela took off like a shot down Driggs Avenue, Matthew trying to stay close.

We are rolling!
“What's the rush?”

Angela looked back. “I'm just trying to stay warm.”

“Don't blink or we'll pass my apartment on Havemeyer,” Matthew said, finally beside her. “I'll wave at it as we pass by. I'm sure it misses me. Where do you live?”

Angela looked straight ahead. “I don't give out that kind of information.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“You haven't figured it out?” Angela asked.

“You live . . . above the shop,” Matthew said. “The other door in the kitchen leads up to your apartment.”

“Correct.” They came to South 3rd Street. “Left?”

“Yes,” Matthew said, and he had to speed up again. “I'm glad you invested in steel doors.”

“Yeah,” Angela said. “So am I.”

“You have a short commute,” Matthew said. “And I bet your apartment smells like heaven. You can smell the air and wake up instantly, huh?”

“I only drink decaf,” Angela said. “Otherwise I'd never sleep.”

They came to Havemeyer.

“We go right here, don't we?” Angela asked.

“Yeah,” Matthew said. “You're not lost, are you?”

“No,” Angela said. “I haven't been down this way in a while.”

Matthew pointed toward Mittman's Pharmacy. “That's where I live. Above the pharmacy. I wake to the glorious aroma of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol.”

“And vanilla,” Angela said.

“Yeah.”
This is no fun at all! I can't see her eyes, and I'm starting to get winded. I guess Angela isn't into romantic walks.
“Have you lived above your shop all your life?”

Angela nodded, said, “We're here,” and with a burst of speed ripped open the door to Mezza Luna and went inside, sitting at a black and white table in the back.

Matthew paid for and brought the pizza and two ice waters to the table. “Hope ice water is okay.”

“It's fine.” She opened the box a pulled out a slice. “Looks good.”

Matthew pulled two slices out and slammed them together. “I have worked up an appetite after our workout.”

“Sorry.” Angela nibbled at her pizza.

“It's okay,” Matthew said. “I needed the exercise.”

Angela hardly looked up from her pizza or away from her water for the next five minutes, seeming to keep her eyes glued to the table, her shoulders hunched, her body stiff.

“You okay?” Matthew asked.

She looked up. “Yes. Why?”

“You don't look very relaxed,” Matthew said.

“I had a stressful day,” she said. She sipped her water. “And you caused most of the stress.”

“Guilty as charged,” Matthew said. “How can I unstress you?”

Angela shrugged slightly. “I don't know. Tell me more about your date with Monique ‘the Freak' Freitas.”

And this will unstress you?
“Do you know Monique?”

“I've heard some stories,” Angela said softly.

“Well, it was a strange date,” Matthew said.

“Aren't all your dates strange?” Angela asked.

“Recently, I'd have to agree with you,” Matthew said. “This isn't strange, is it?”

“No, it's not strange,” Angela said, “because it's not a date. It's a long walk to eat dinner.”

Eight blocks is not a long walk, it's not even half a mile, and it feels like a date to me,
Matthew thought.
Except for the race-walking.

Angela wiped her lips with a napkin. “Now tell me more about your date with Monique. I'm all ears.”

She's all ears. She has cute ears.
“You don't want the play-by-play, do you?”

“Was there any play-by-play?” Angela asked. “All
you
said was that she had a large condom collection.”

Matthew grabbed another slice. “I think Monique is a collector, a connoisseur of condoms.” He took a healthy bite, chewing rapidly.

“She sounds more like a dispenser,” Angela said.

Matthew nodded.

Angela frowned.

Oops.
“Oh, but I didn't . . . we didn't.” He swallowed. “I wouldn't.”

“You . . . wouldn't.” She stared at him.

“No.” He sipped some water. “Not that she didn't try.”

Angela sat up straighter. “And how hard did she try?”

Why did I say that?
“You really want the play-by-play.”

“No, I don't,” Angela said, “but I think I can guess.” She narrowed her eyes. “You went back . . . to her place.”

“Why not mine?” Matthew asked.

“You live over a pharmacy that smells like antiseptic, which isn't exactly romantic.” She stared at his hands. “Then somehow she lured you into . . . her bedroom.”

“Yes,” Matthew said, “and I had to duck under a ceiling fan.”

“Low ceiling?” Angela asked.

“Low fan,” Matthew said. “Definitely not up to code. You're going to eat another slice, aren't you?”

“No, and don't try to change the subject,” Angela said. “How exactly did Monique lure you into her bedroom?”

By getting naked. I can't say it that way. I'm on a date, even if Angela says otherwise. I know the rules.
“By disrobing. I blinked, and she was in the buff.”

“And that's all it took?” Angela asked.

Matthew nodded.

“So if a woman gets naked for you, you'll follow her anywhere,” Angela said.

“Well, almost anywhere,” Matthew said. “I wouldn't follow a naked woman off a cliff or to a Knicks game. Or to another Cole Porter musical. Maybe to a Brooklyn Nets game. They're playing a lot better now.” He smiled at Angela. “Go Brooklyn, you know?”

Angela blinked. “And did you . . . you know?”

“Did we?” Matthew said. “Did we—oh. Oh, no. I kept my clothes on the entire time.”

“Oh.” She fiddled with the straw wrapper. “Do you regret not having . . . no, I have no right to ask you that.”

“I have no regrets, none,” Matthew said. “I made the right decision.”

“Good to know,” Angela said.

“Glad to let you know.”
Changing the subject.
“So . . . you've lived above that shop your entire life.”

“What if I'm not done asking about your date with Monique?” Angela asked, smiling.

“There's nothing more to tell,” Matthew said. “I went home.” He smiled. “Speaking of home, where are your parents now?”

Angela rolled her eyes. “You really don't want to tell me any more, huh?”

“Because there's nothing more to tell,” Matthew said. “Now tell me about your parents.”

“My parents are in Monte Cristi in the Dominican Republic,” Angela said.

“The . . . Dominican Republic.”
Why does that place keep haunting me?

“My mama's half Dominican, half Haitian,” Angela said. “She liked Williamsburg, but she missed Monte Cristi, where she grew up. It's on the border with Haiti, right on the coast. My grandfather was Haitian, and my grandmother was Dominican. You do the math. My daddy went down there with Mama about ten years ago. I'm sure they're enjoying warm weather now.”

“Have you ever been to visit?” Matthew asked.

“No.”

“Do you plan to?” Matthew asked.

Angela looked away. “Maybe someday.”

“How often do you call home?” Matthew asked.

“Not often.”

“They left you all alone,” Matthew said.

She fiddled again with the wrapper. “Well, not completely. Anymore, anyway. I now have a partner, right? What about your parents?”

“They ran McConnell's Supermarket and Deli on Bedford Avenue for forty-five years,” Matthew said. “I'm not sure, but I think that's a record for Williamsburg.”

“Yeah? I used to go in there to get Blow Pops and Laffy Taffy,” Angela said.

“We lived right above the store,” Matthew said. “You probably saw me a couple times.”

She squinted. “Nope. Don't remember you.”

Ouch.
“Anyway,” Matthew said, “they've both retired to Charleston, South Carolina.”

“Not Florida?” Angela asked.

“They were on their way to look at condos in Tampa, stopped for the night in Charleston, and they never left,” Matthew said. “That's the story, anyway. I think my mother got carsick and they had to stop.”

“Do you see them often?” She stood and closed the box, sliding it across the table to him.

Does this mean it's time to go? We were only here fifteen minutes!
“My last visit was five years ago.” He picked up the box.

Angela zipped up her coat and picked up her cup. “Ready?”

“Sure.”

He followed Angela first to the trash can, where she dropped her cup, and then to the door, where he saw her take a deep breath before pushing through it and heading up Havemeyer at a fast clip.

He caught up with her, but the pizza box slowed him down. “You really have some Dominican in you?”

“One-quarter,” she said, her eyes dead ahead. “The rest of me is black.”

“Do you speak any Spanish?” Matthew asked.

“If I have to.” She glanced sideways at him. “Do you mind if we walk a little faster? I have to get up at four.”

“Sure.”

They covered the eight blocks in five minutes, Matthew at least a step behind her the entire way.
While the view of her initials is nice, I think I've just walked off my dinner.

Angela unlocked the door to her shop, heaved open the door, and stepped inside.

Matthew stood at the door catching his breath.

Her forehead beaded with sweat, Angela turned and smiled. “Thank you for dinner, Mr. McConnell.”

“Such a formal ending to a date,” Matthew said.
Should I ask if I could come inside? I'll wait for her to invite me.

“This wasn't a date, Matthew,” Angela said.

“If you say so,” Matthew said. “When's the last time you had a real date, Angela?”

“No comment.” She dabbed at her forehead with the back of her hand.

“So you expect me to spill my past while you hold onto yours,” Matthew said.

“Yeah.”

“Isn't that unfair?” Matthew asked.

“Yes, it's completely unfair,” Angela said. “But only to you.” She reached for the door and almost shut it. “I'm sorry, Matthew. That was . . . that was harsh.”

I'm talking to my date who says it wasn't a date through a crack in the door.
“No, it's fair. You really don't know me yet.”

“It's not that,” Angela said. “I trust you and believe
most
of what you say. I'm not sure I trust me.”