The Other Black Girl(79)

The most eye-catching piece of all depicted Malcolm with his hand placed pensively on his temple, painted in shades of red, white, and blue. In case one didn’t know to what it was paying homage, a small, postcard-sized rendering of the Obama HOPE posters that were big during his first presidential campaign was tacked right next to it, a period next to a very long, very powerful sentence.

“You know, he’s still one of my heroes. I miss him. I still remember that day…”

The words came soft and low, but perfectly enunciated. It took me a second to realize that it was the silver-haired woman speaking, and that she was speaking to me. Really, I didn’t truly realize it until she turned around to face me.

My first thought was how she reminded me of someone—a family member, maybe. The kind of family you see only once every three years or so, at family reunions. My second was how good she looked. Her skin was almost completely wrinkle-free, and her build looked slim—fit, even—in a pair of black skinny jeans layered beneath a black sleeveless tunic.

“Obama?” I managed, when I realized I had waited far too long to respond. “Yeah. I miss him, too.”

“No.” She cut me off as she walked over to the couch nearest to her and had a seat. “Malcolm.”

I could only nod.

“Oh, Shani—great. You guys finally met.”

Lynn had entered the room. There was something resembling a smile on her face, but she didn’t look particularly happy—an expression, I noticed, that the silver-haired woman had also been wearing when she first turned and looked at me.

“We actually haven’t,” she admitted.

I moved to remedy the situation, reaching my hand out for hers. “Shani Edmonds.”

The woman reached out, too. “Kendra Rae. Kendra Rae Phillips.”

She watched as recognition lit up my eyes, filling the rest of my face with a blaze of embarrassment. “Oh my god,” I said, shaking her hand slowly. “Ms.… Phillips. Hi. I didn’t know you were… in the city?”

Or anywhere, for that matter, I thought.

“No one does,” Kendra Rae said, as firmly as her fingers were clasping mine, “and we intend to keep it that way. Don’t we?”

“Sure.”

“Good.”

“So, um…” I gestured around the room. “How long are you… have you…?”

I stopped, then started again as Kendra Rae continued to stare at me intently. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, but she was still gorgeous—ageless, even—with eyes as rich and deep brown as Karo corn syrup.

“What are you doing… here?” I finally managed.

At that, Kendra Rae’s impassive demeanor collapsed into a small, dazzling grin. I grinned right back, relieved. I’d barely been able to keep my eyes from bugging out of my head, but this woman didn’t seem put off by it. She seemed to be thriving off it, like a daisy turned toward the sun for the first time in who knew how long.

Kendra Rae extracted a newspaper article and a notebook from a small patchwork bag I hadn’t noticed she’d been carrying. “Lynn reached out to me not long ago with some very interesting information,” she explained, flattening the article across her lap. “So, I’m here to tell you both a little bit about my time at Wagner Books. But first… Shani?”

She paused and looked me in the eye.

“Yes?”

“You need to tell me what you saw Hazel give to Nella at Curl Central.”





13


October 17, 2018

Hey, Nellie!

First things first—my deepest, sincerest apologies for such a late reply! Promise to let you know some upcoming dates for our drinks as soon as I have them.

In the meantime, would you mind sending me Hazel-May McCall’s contact info? (Do you know her? She works with Maisy, right???) Just saw that wonderful article about her mentoring program in BookCenter and thought I’d give her a little shout. I’d be forever grateful!

Thanks so much! xx Lena

Nella looked over her shoulder one more time before taking another violent whack at the Keurig with her fist, but the damn thing didn’t babble or sputter the way it was supposed to. It just kept hissing.

Crossing her arms, she stared at it for a moment, contemplating other ways to beat the Keurig into submission. It certainly wasn’t how Jocelyn would have done it, but since Jocelyn wouldn’t be returning to Wagner—rumor had it, Germany had taken her back—Nella saw any method of fixing the Keurig as fair game.

She’d already used her fist on the machine, but she wondered what would happen if she used her head. This method sounded particularly appealing, given how well she’d memorized Lena Jordan’s rather irritating email. Sincerest apologies, Lena had said. Thought I’d give Hazel a little shout.

And, perhaps the worst part of it all: Hey, Nellie!

Nella had made the mistake of reading and then rereading Lena’s note before she had a chance to do anything reasonable that morning, like grab a coffee or get a bagel from the café. Lena’s words had been running through her mind on loop like a bright bodega marquee sign, punctuated every now and then by two meaningless X’s.

Had it really been that difficult for Lena to give her one or two dates she was available? And was Nella’s name really that hard?