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They shared a look that was part sadness and part happiness—like the last day of school.
Denzin closed the distance between them. “I’ll be good,” he said, pulling her close for a hug and pressing a kiss to her temple. “I always wanted to know your story. What led to you being the—in my estimation—the top madam of the east coast and beyond. I never asked.”
“No need to now. It’s all in the past,” she said, finally feeling like it was getting smaller and smaller in her rearview mirror.
“I’m gonna miss you,” Denzin said, sounding sincere.
“Same,” she agreed. “Same.”
They continued to hug until Desdemona felt the weight of his erection press against her leg. “Denzin,” she said sharply, stepping back and breaking the embrace.
He held up his hands. “That motherfucker got a mind of his own,” he said, before turning to leave with one final look back over his shoulder.
“Security alert. Front gate.”
The security alarm system.
“I’m taking my television,” Desdemona said, opening the top desk drawer to remove the remote to turn it on.
She eyed Franco entering the visitor code of the security gate to open it before he drove forward in his black Honda Accord. When she first took Franco on as a courtesan he had a beautiful vintage Benz that he eventually sold to put the money toward his gender reassignment surgery.
In continuing with her preparations to close up shop, Desdemona had called some of her courtesans the night before to inform them, but there were some she wanted to talk to face to face. Like Franco. She had every intention of him leaving the Riverdale mansion with the remaining balance he needed to have his surgery.
Desdemona wanted to bless so that she could be blessed, including offering Patrice partnership in the online dress boutique as she took it completely legitimate and allowed her showroom manager to take on even more responsibility.
Everything just felt right, and with every ball she had been juggling properly set aside, the weight of her world was lessening on her shoulders.
* * *
Later that afternoon, back in her apartment, which was freshly cleaned by housekeeping, with the windows open and letting in the summer afternoon breeze, Desdemona poured herself a full glass of wine before sitting cross-legged on the floor before the fireplace. The entire apartment was chilly even with the windows ajar. She had turned up the air-conditioning to counter lighting her fireplace in May.
She looked up at her parents’ faces in the portrait and raised her glass in a toast to them. She loved them. They made her. They also imprinted on her life in ways she was sure they would regret, but her love far outweighed any regrets or judgment she had. Adulthood had taught her that life was all about doing the best you can with what you have and, unfortunately, she didn’t know their backstory or what events imprinted their lives and affected the decisions they made as adults. That left her open to forgiveness and understanding.
Who am I to judge?
Taking a sip of the wine before she set the glass on the raised hearth of the fireplace, Desdemona picked up the first journal on the stack. She rubbed the cover and opened the pages to touch her words. Her feelings. Her experiences. Journaling had made her feel closer to her mother and the memories she had of her writing away in her own little book.
There were no logs from the days she was homeless and then under Majig’s rule, but she found comfort in journaling again when she began her reign as a madam. The one from the years after her father’s death remained in her safe, but within the pages of this stack were veiled references to some of her consorts over the last seventeen years. It was time to be free of the burden of keeping those secrets.
And so as she listened to Chopin and sipped her wine she tore the pages from the journals to toss into the fire, claiming her freedom once and for all.
* * *
Knock-knock-knock.
Desdemona’s nerves were shot until the moment the door opened and Loren was standing before her. Fine as ever. Sans glasses. Hair wild. Smelling delicious. Dressed in nothing but basketball shorts. “Hello, Dr. Palmer,” she said, giving him a smile.
He took a step back at the sight of her as his face became incredulous. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
She looked past him into his studio apartment. “Are you alone?” she asked, before shifting her eyes up to his.
“What are you doinghere?” Loren repeated.
Desdemona licked her lips and slid her hands inside the pockets of the T-shirt dress she wore with heels. “We never said goodbye the right way,” she said, soft and hesitant.
He shook his head. “I didn’t say goodbye, you did, Alisha.”
Desdemona.
