“L.A. Philharmonic?”
“No. They were there to see somebody about a donation. Mr. Greenbaum doesn’t usually do field auditions, but he’s an old friend of Mr. Davalino. They were at Juilliard together.”
“Juilliard. That’s in New York.”
“Yes, but that’s not where he lives now.”
“Well, where does he live? Where’s his symphony?”
“Philadelphia.”
The excitement cooled in her. “Philadelphia,” she said.
“He needs a cellist for their spring season. He wants me to start practicing with the orchestra right after the first of the year. All expenses paid for two weeks. If he and the principal cellist are satisfied, and he thinks they will be, the seat is mine.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Baby, don’t look like that. This doesn’t mean I’m leaving you.”
“What else would you call moving to Philadelphia?”
“You don’t understand. I want you to go with me.”
Silent again. She wanted to pull her hands away, but she didn’t do it. Just sat there letting him hold on, looking at her all earnest and eager out of those fierce eyes of his. Two hundred and fifty pounds, ugly as sin... how could a man who looked so mean be gentle as a lamb, play classical music like an angel?
“Tamara, listen... I’m asking you to marry me.”
The words seemed to echo in her ears. She listened to the echo, let its meaning sink in — and burst out laughing. Couldn’t help it. Laughter just came rolling out, low and raw in her throat.
It hurt him, she could see that, but at the moment she didn’t care. He said, “What’s so funny? I’ve never been more serious. We never talked much about marriage—”
“Why spoil a good thing. Uh-huh.”
“I never said that.”
“No. I said that. Still saying it.”
“If I’d proposed earlier, you’d have said yes. I know you would have.”
“Then you know wrong.”
“It’s not just because of Philadelphia that I—”
“Like hell it’s not. Word marriage wouldn’t have come into your head, much less out your mouth, if it wasn’t for that symphony seat and we both know it.”
Now he was flustered. “Yes, it would have... I wanted to ask you a dozen times but I was afraid you... Tamara, listen. I love you and you love me. That’s all that really matters, isn’t it?”
Everybody said there wasn’t any such thing as love at first sight, but she’d loved Horace from the first minute she set eyes on him — in psych class, opening day of the fall semester at S.F. State five years ago. Shamed her a little to think how aggressively she’d pursued him; to remember the fool thing she’d said to him the first time they went to bed, “Lord, I wish I was still a virgin for you.” They’d lived together four years now and she believed she knew him so well, as well as she knew herself.
Wrong, Tamara. Nobody knows anybody, including themselves.
“Isn’t it all that matters?” he said again.
“No.”
“What’re you saying? You’re not turning me down?”
“I’m saying I don’t want to go Philadelphia with you, married or unmarried.”
“Your career? Is that the reason?”
“Pretty good reason.”
“Baby, there’re plenty of detective agencies back east. Or... another profession, one with better opportunities. With your computer skills—”
“What’s wrong with detective work?”
“Nothing. I’m only saying—”
“You’re saying start over, doesn’t make any difference what the job is. Well, it does make a difference. I told you enough times how much I like what I’m doing, how much a full partnership in the agency means to me. As much as being a concert cellist means to you.”
“I understand that, but—”
“No you don’t, not if you think I’ll just drop everything and walk out on the man after all he’s done for me, give up my chance to be my own boss — quit being Tamara Corbin and be Mrs. Horace Fields in fucking Philadelphia.”
“Shhh! People are staring at us.”
She glowered at him. “Let ’em stare.”
“All right,” he said. “All right, maybe I was being a little insensitive—”
“A little!”
“I understand, baby, believe me I do. It’s just that the prospect of playing with a major symphony orchestra...”
“Sure. Lot more important than being a private eye, right?”
“No. No! That’s not it at all.”
“Sounds like it to me.”
His face got all scrunched up like a tantrumy kid’s. “Don’t be like this. We can work this out, I know we can.”
“How? Get married and live three thousand miles apart, see each other for a weekend every few months? This child’s not made that way, you hear what I’m saying?”
“If you love me—”
“What’s that now? Try to make me feel guilty?”
“No...”
“If you love me you’ll go to bed with me. If you love me you’ll give up your career and move to Philly with me. Make the big sacrifice. That’s emotional blackmail, my man. That’s bullshit.”
She could feel tears in her eyes. Tough Tamara Corbin, cop’s daughter, hip-hop girl, never took crap from anybody, hadn’t cried since she was about eight years old — and here she was about to bawl her eyes out in a public place. She jerked her hands away angrily. Looked off from him, across the crowded restaurant at nothing... at something that swam into focus.
Christmas tree. Tall, lots of lights and tinsel, angel in a gold and red dress stuck up on top. Pretty, like the ones the folks used to have when she and Claudia were growing up. She’d always loved this time of year. Didn’t even care that all the trappings were for white family holidays, not black family’s. Carols, decorations, Santa Claus, sappy movies, Christmas eve, presents on Christmas morning... loved everything about it. All those Christmases in Redwood City, four fine ones since with Horace, and now this year... the 25th was less than two weeks away and she’d really been looking forward to...
The lights on the restaurant tree blurred to misty yellow and red and blue halos. Ready to start bawling now. Except that she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not here. Not anywhere, dammit, not over a damn man.
“I can’t stay here,” she said. “I’m going home.”
“... You’re right, it’s better if we talk this out in private—”
“Nothing to talk out.”
Got up without looking at him, hurried away through the tables to the front entrance. The woman at the cashier’s desk said, “Merry Christmas,” as she passed by, but Tamara barely heard her and didn’t answer.
5
I was a few minutes late for the eleven-thirty meeting with Jake Runyon. Saturday mornings, downtown, in mid-December are a madhouse: clogged Sutter-Stockton Garage, clogged streets, clogged sidewalks, clogged stores. Piped Christmas music and sharp-elbowed shoppers chased me around Macy’s, which turned into an adventure in frustration. Macy’s didn’t sell the Nokia cell phone and accessories Emily coveted, they didn’t have Kerry’s favorite perfume or any jewelry I liked well enough to buy for her, they didn’t have anything I thought would appeal to Tamara. I went up to the women’s clothing department and wandered around looking at garments and trying to imagine them draped around Kerry’s slender body or Tamara’s rounder one. Nothing there, either. Next stop, the lingerie department. Poking around in there made me feel vaguely like a fetishist; I slunk away after ten minutes without buying anything.
By this time it was ten after eleven and I’d had enough of shopping. How women can spend an entire day — hell, entire weekends — in malls and stores is beyond my understanding. Two hours of crowds, noise, indecision, and dissatisfaction was at least an hour past my endurance limit. Presents for the three women in my life could wait until I had time to hunt up a store that specialized in cell phones and another one or two that would solve the gift dilemma for Tamara and Kerry. I might even take Kerry at her word that she already had everything she wanted and forgo a present for her entirely... No, I wouldn’t. Not if I expected to enjoy the privilege and pleasure of marital relations during the first three months or so of next year.