Jezebel Page 2

  Over the years, she remained apprised of all his saintly exploits from her cousin Trudy. A self-avowed drag king, they co-shared her father’s condemnation. So it was a great relief, the very same cousin walked beside her.

  Per her father’s request, his wake was held at Kelly Funeral Home, while the actual funeral was scheduled the following morning at Abyssinian Baptist Church.

  Nestled in the small bedroom community of Bedford-Stuyvesant, Kelly’s was unique in that it was the only mortuary in the entire borough that performed burials for coloreds.

  In spite of the present economy, business kept chugging away. So much, her father’s wake had been the fourth one held today.

  “I’m fully aware this wasn’t a coincidence,” Trudy whispered as they walked down the aisle, each footfall echoing through the viewing room.

  “Can’t get anything past…”

  Celeste steps slowed.

  Framed by a pair of stained glass windows and more flowers than she could count, her father’s casket loomed large and solitary like an island on to itself. Celeste lingered at the first pew.

  “He…he l−l−looks like he’s sleeping,” she whispered taking in his charcoal suit and the Bible resting in his hands. Despite appearing two shades darker and a balding pate, her daddy looked exactly the same.

  Celeste squeezed her eyes shut. She’d swore she wouldn’t break down. Her resolve missed the telegram and essentially fell like a stack of dominoes. Her vision blurred with tears and each subsequent breath became more and more difficult. Accepting Trudy’s supporting arm, Celeste slid into the pew.

  “I feel so stupid,” Celeste hiccupped through a watershed of tears.

  “Why? Because you’re being human and not some hard-hearted Hannah?” Trudy reached into her suit jacket, pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. “He might have been an ornery cuss, but he’s still your daddy.”

  “Too bad he forgot.” Celeste dabbed at the tear rolling down her cheek. “What kind of father nicknames his only child Jezebel?”

  Trudy opened her mouth. Her expression clouded and she abandoned her pep talk. Celeste mentally shrugged. Hard arguing with the cold, hard truth.

  Celeste wiped away her tears and moved to the edge of her seat. She almost stood up when a petite, nattily dressed man with a gold ‘STAFF’ pin fastened to his lapel suddenly appeared in front of her.

  “On behalf of the owner, welcome to Kelly Funeral Home. Are you family, friends or acquaintances of Mr. Cecil Newsome?”

  “Family,” Trudy replied. “I’m his niece and this is his daughter Celeste.”

  At the mention of Celeste’s name, the man’s bushy eyebrows jumped skyward. Smiling, he reached inside his suit jacket and retrieved a white calling card.

  “We’re so glad his family finally showed up. I’ve only seen friends and acquaintances thus far.” He looked at the card and a pang of guilt sliced through her.

  “Mr. Early Percy, your father’s solicitor, was here. He waited around an hour or so, but he left for another engagement. Before leaving, he left his contact information.” He held out the card. “Your father’s estate has taken care of all the funeral arraignments. However, there are some final details of your father’s will, which need ironing out.”

  In an act of politeness, Celeste took the calling card from him and slipped it into her clutch. Even from the grave, her father wasn’t finished with her.

  “If you ladies would excuse me, we have another well-wisher.” Celeste followed the undertaker’s gaze to the bullet she’d almost dodged.

  “Obviously lost and looking for directions.”

  Celeste silently agreed with her cousin’s observation as her gaze traveled over the egg and butter man standing at the rear of the parlor. Unusually tall and broad shouldered, the man’s dark suit poured over him like a second skin, attesting to the garment’s high quality.

  At the undertaker’s approach, he quickly removed his fedora. Used to white men with money in her line of business—she’d been courted by quite a few and even entertained a proposal from an Italian duke—Celeste dismissed him.

  Shane Brennan extended his hand to the undertaker hustling toward him. Instead of clasping his hand, the other man stopped short and latched his hands onto the lapels of his coat jacket. Not surprised by the man’s rather cold greeting, Shane dropped his hand.

  “Was the amount wrong?”

  Confused, Shane just stared down at the man. Not much of a talker, he allowed others to monopolize the conversation. They usually hung themselves that way.

  The undertaker stepped forward. “Your man came by earlier in the day and picked up the week’s dues. If the amount’s wrong, you should talk with Mr. Kelly.”

  Shane stiffened. The mention of dues clarified the mystery. The man assumed he was a hatchet man. The automatic association and the underworld’s unwavering proliferation even into the black community filled him with distaste. So much so, he replied with more veracity than he’d intended. “I’m here for the viewing,” he corrected, setting the man straight. “I knew Mr. Newsome.”

  Again, Shane wasn’t surprised the other man’s eyes widened in shock. “Friend of the family?”

  “You could say that,” Shane supplied, but nothing more. The extent of his relationship with Cecil Newsome wasn’t any of this man’s business.

  The undertaker eyed him up and down, but then stepped aside. “If you’re really here to offer condolences, Mr. Newsome’s daughter and niece are sitting up front.” He palmed a pocket watch and eyed it. “We close in ten minutes.”

  Shane nodded in acknowledgement as he passed. He could accomplish what he’d come to do in less than five. Too bad the man in the casket would haunt him for far longer.

  “I better make tracks.” Trudy gathered up her topcoat as she stood up. “I have a late set at Café Society.”

  “I should probably call it a night as well.” Celeste sighed heavily as she pinched her brow, temporarily staving off a pounding headache. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

  But she didn’t move or collect her belongings. Funny, she’d dragged her feet all afternoon and now she didn’t want to leave.

  Sensing her predicament, Trudy sat back down and enfolded one of Celeste’s hands with hers. “I know there’s a funeral in the morning, but how about you come with me and paint the town red? Most of the old players from the Plantation Inn migrated to Café Society as well. It’ll be like a reunion.”

  Normally, Celeste would’ve taken her cousin up on her offer. Hooch, men and good times were her personal kryptonite. And if she added in free cover to New York’s first integrated night club her offer became beyond mighty tempting.

  Still, Celeste couldn’t dredge up any of the usual excitement a night on the town generally incited. Somehow seeing tangible proof of her daddy’s death had quenched her personal demons. Well, for now at least.

  “I’ll pass, Tru. What I really need right now is a good night’s sleep.”

  Celeste expected at least one more protest. In the past, her cousin would never let her get off so easy. But Trudy no longer seemed interested in dragging her across town. Something or rather someone else had captured her attention. Her curiosity piqued, Celeste swivelled around.

  The egg and butter man hadn’t left after all. Instead, he strode down the funeral parlor’s center aisle and right up to her father’s casket. While he paid his respects, Celeste studied him.

  Standing well over six feet, he was athletically built with arms that strained the jacket sleeves of his tailored navy blue suit. He possessed a deep tan and dark brown hair clipped high on the sides and back.

  His profile was classic yet broken up by a crooked nose, which kept him from being perfect. Big as you please, he oozed a rugged confidence that would make a lesser man think twice about crossing his path and a woman beat herself up for dismissing him.

  “Who do you think he is?” Trudy whispered as he sat in the pew across from them.

  �
��He’s definitely not a neighbor.” Her father’s brownstone was located in the heart of Fort Greene’s black community. “More likely a customer,” Celeste deduced.

  Nestled on the southeast corner of a three-way intersection, her father’s confectionary store sat in a triangular building, which straddled the border between Fort Greene’s Negro community and Prospect Height’s predominately Italian one.

  As if sensing their regard, he glanced over at them and smiled. Celeste sucked in a breath. His profile dimmed in comparison to the full on picture. Although his nose appeared broken in a couple of places and should have been distracting, it accented his other attributes— the heavy slash of his eye brows, his high cheek bones, angular jaw and dimpled chin.

  Like the moment before she went on stage, Celeste’s heart raced and a rush of adrenaline tore through her body. Celeste frowned. She was acting like a naïve kid. Not a seasoned entertainer who ate men’s hearts for breakfast, lunch and dinner. To say she wasn’t any good was an understatement.

  “Either say something or shut your mouth cause you’re letting in flies,” Trudy snickered.

  Embarrassed, Celeste clamped her mouth shut. For good measure, she swiveled around completely, shunning him, yet not forgetting him entirely. He was hard to ignore.

  “The cold shoulder’s not working either.” Trudy whispered a little too loudly for Celeste’s liking. “Daddy-O’s sweating you like a cop on Fifth Avenue.” Her cousin leaned up and peered over Celeste’s shoulder. “I’m not sure if he wants to kiss you or slap you silly.”

  In all honesty, the setting was inappropriate. Yet as a self-avowed glutton for male attention, another sad effect of her father ignoring her for most of her life, Celeste couldn’t help looking over her shoulder.

  Sure enough, Trudy’s observation was spot on. His gaze unwavering and devoid of emotion, her egg and butter man’s expression was unreadable. Still, it didn’t set off any of Celeste’s internal alarms.

  As far as she knew, she wasn’t wanted for anything in New York. She’d checked before she boarded the train in Cleveland. Curious as to what made this man tick and in what capacity he knew her father, Celeste turned around completely.

  The moment their eyes met, Celeste experienced a knee-jerk reaction like a swift kick to the shin. Pleasure, not pain, rushed through her veins and emptied out between her thighs. The sensation increased when he rewarded her with a slow smile. Celeste knew if she had a tail, it would be wagging. And like a well-trained pup, she returned his in kind.

  Of course, for a hedonist a simple exchange of smiles would never be enough. Concocting her flirtation in her head, she ran her hand over her hips and smoothed out a sudden spat of imaginary wrinkles in her burgundy crepe dress.

  Why hadn’t she worn the blue number she’d purchased during the troupe’s stopover in St. Louis? Plain with no embellishments, not even a sprig of lace the dress she’d chosen for her father’s viewing aged her beyond her twenty-six years.

  She’d aimed for conservative and succeeded. Now it seemed like the worst idea she’d ever had in her life.

  Celeste slammed the brakes on her wayward thoughts. Why was she getting so hot and bothered over this chum? Not exactly a round heel, she was far from innocent and hadn’t been since she lost her virginity at the age of eighteen.

  Back on track, with her head on straight, Celeste gathered her things. As she stood, Trudy slipped from the pew and crossed the aisle. Hand extended, she waltzed right up to her egg and butter man.

  Per protocol, he stood up and shook Trudy’s hand. Celeste stifled the twinge of jealousy souring her mood. She had no reason for such an emotion. For one, she didn’t even know the man’s name. And two, her cousin preferred her meat darker.

  Celeste decided to test him. Better to try the waters before she found herself over her head like a preacher without a congregation. Grabbing the donation tray with both hands, she slowly stood.

  His gaze lifted and tracked her every move. Celeste repressed a knowing grin as she walked over.

  As a late arrival, she stood to the side and listened. Per her usual habit, Trudy dominated the conversation, while her egg and butter man peppered their tête-à-tête with one or two word answers.

  Celeste didn’t mind. As a casual observer, she drank him in from the high shine on his black wing tips, to the spot–on creases in his slacks, or the hypnotic spell of his spicy cologne, and the clarity of his jade green eyes.

  Masculine was the best word to describe him.

  In her experience with the opposite sex, Celeste rarely came across real man. Oh, she interacted with a ton of boys play acting in suits, yet none of them possessed the virile masculinity of the man standing mere inches from her.

  “Can you believe this, cousin? This bruiser’s a fan of mine.”

  “Huge,” he confirmed, locking gazes with her. Celeste’s face flushed with heat. She’d never seen eyes as green as his before. And for the first time in her life, the full impact of a man’s full attention made her insides all tingly.

  Wait. Did Trudy call him a bruiser? Celeste gave his mug another once over. She noted the faint scar on his upper lip and the fatty width of his nose. Instead of being turned off by a man who used his fists to make a living, Celeste found herself drawn to him.

  “Small world, hungh?”

  “Small world,” Celeste murmured. It was hard coming up with something witty when she was choking on envy. What she wouldn’t give to have this man be her fan. Heck, she was already his.

  Effusive to a fault, Trudy suddenly slapped her palms over her cheeks. “Where are my manners? Let me introduce you two.”

  While Trudy went through the rigmarole of polite introductions, Celeste’s world became a runway road with tunnel vision.

  Of course, she caught his name, but when they shook hands his touch made her cousin, the funeral home and even her father fade into the background.

  So much so, her cousin Trudy tapped her on her shoulder.

  “Shane was telling me he held your father in high regard.”

  “Like a father figure,” Shane added.

  Trudy’s lips puckered like she’d tasted the same sour lemons Celeste had been smacked with.

  Oblivious to their reaction, Shane continued, “I could talk to him about anything.”

  Had her father regaled him with stories of the jezebel who moonlighted as his daughter? Celeste suddenly needed a drink.

  “Your father was a great man.”

  Celeste groaned. Better make that a double. “I think I’ll accompany you after all, Tru,” Celeste interjected before the boxer could launch into a full out memorial. “It seems like I suddenly need a drink or three.”

  Celeste ignored the way his eyes narrowed.

  She knew what society thought of loose women and if Shane Brennan had been as close to her Scripture-spouting father as he’d claimed, then her opinion of him just plummeted faster than the futures on Black Friday. And she was sure his feelings had to be reciprocal.

  As she wrestled with a sudden wave of remorse, Celeste pulled on her topcoat. For some reason she wanted out of there and as far away from Shane and his preconceived judgments as she possibly could get.

  “I’ll meet you outside.” Celeste turned on her heels, but quickly regretted her lack of manners. With her hand extended and a pasted on smile she didn’t quite feel, she turned back around. “It was a pleasure meeting you Mr. Brennan.”

  “All mine,” Shane said, taking her hand and squeezing it. Once again, his touch set off another maelstrom. Her whole body tingled and her heartbeat hammered inside her breastbone.

  Before she ended up contemplating the impossible, Celeste cut it out of there.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “He’s not coming with us.” Cecil’s daughter tried keeping her voice low and her emotions in check.

  She was failing horribly.

  Shane smiled. He’d expected surprise or shock when he’d invited himself along for a night on the town, not
a full out temper tantrum.

  Her cousin Trudy paused in the process of pulling on her gloves. “Why not?”

  “For one thing he’s…he’s…he’s…” Celeste glanced over at him and seemed to lose her train of thought.

  “A boxer?” Trudy stepped over to the curb and hailed a cab. “Not a problem. Café Society is an integrated night club. I don’t think they’ll mind us sitting with a prizefighter.”

  Celeste followed her cousin, moving just out of ear shot. Just as well, Shane mused. She could cop an attitude all she wanted, she wouldn’t deter him. The Reverend had always looked out for him, so the least he could do was keep an eye on his only child.

  Who was he kidding? A sudden case of altruism had nothing to do with his sudden decision to linger in their company but more to do with sniffing around the broad’s skirts.

  Shane scratched the back of his head. He was losing his goddam marbles. The few he had left anyway. A veteran fighter with more than two hundred bouts under his belt, Shane’s short term memory was pretty much touch and go.

  Of course, he didn’t need his memory to comprehend the jolt he received when he’d made her acquaintance. Undeniably beautiful, Shane found himself instantly attracted to her. Her exotic coloring and looks wouldn’t be considered the standard of beauty by an otherwise shortsighted society. Still, Shane found her stunning. Her heart-shaped face graced with gentle arching eye brows, a pert nose and soft, full lips was exquisite.

  The rest of her was nicely put together as well. A touch over average height, she had a lithe figure blessed with mouthwatering curves. Even though her dress stopped short of being provocative, there wasn’t any denying her high, full breasts, small waist and round hips that begged for a man’s hands.

  It just wasn’t just her looks that had him barging in on their girl’s night out. She possessed a sexual magnetism that made him feel both primal and territorial. The compulsion to be near her was inescapable, overwhelming.