Berry Picking Read online

  Table of Contents

  Berry Picking

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

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  About the Author

  Berry Picking

  Dara Girard

  Published by ILORI PRESS BOOKS LLC

  www.iloripressbooks.com

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author.

  Copyright 2013 Sade Odubiyi

  Published by ILORI PRESS BOOKS LLC

  Cover and Layout ILORI PRESS BOOKS LLC

  Cover Photo by Leung Cho Pan/123rf

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  Chapter One

  Dear God please don't let that be him. Paula Oyelowo offered this silent plea as she sat in a West Indian restaurant, Island Dining, watching a tall, dark man speak to the maître d’ then walk towards her table. Except “walk” would be the wrong word. He bounded towards her through the elegant restaurant like the proverbial bull in a china shop. The men she usually went out with were more refined, like stallions. He was no stallion. His tie was crooked, one of the collars of his white shirt was up and the other down, his light gray tweed jacket had a dark smudge near the hem and he was vigorously wiping his hands with a paper towel--staining it black. Paula cringed. She’d been told he was an engineer, not a mechanic.

  Paula forced a smile, but remained seated as she greeted her blind date, wishing, for the twentieth time, that she'd said no to the suggestion. But she'd promised her best friend, Tamara, that she'd try him out. Her friend had been insistent and over a six-month period, had bugged her every day until she said “yes.” She had decided she would start to be mature when it came to relationships. She sighed. Being mature had meant going out with men who were a little older, in settled careers, and looking for marriage, but she had her standards and “first impressions” played a major role in her selection scheme. And she wasn’t impressed. He was almost forty. Just in her age range since she’d hit the big 4-0 soon. In four years to be exact, but time seemed to be barreling towards her. It was time to get serious. To settle down.

  “You’re not getting younger, and before you know it, you’ll be too old for any man to want,” her mother liked to remind her. With a repetitiveness that bordered on the neurotic. Sure, she could still attract the under thirty set--especially those twenty-five to twenty-eight--but she hadn't had much luck with permanency. After two relationships that had ended badly she was willing to try something, or rather someone, new. But this date looked all wrong

  “Sorry I'm late,” he said in a rush, his accent a mix of a Northeastern region she couldn't place. At least he sounded sincere. “There was this lady with a flat tire.” He collapsed into the chair in front of her then jumped up again as if on springs. “I haven't introduced myself.” He held out his hand and promptly knocked over her water glass.

  Paula leaped up in time so that the water only splashed her, rather than soaking her skirt. She bit back a swear word.

  “Sorry about that,” her date said, reaching for the glass and hitting the flower in the center of the table with his elbow.

  Paula grabbed the tiny crystal vase before it fell. “That's all right,” she said. “Sit down. I'll handle it.” Which she did by moving the vase off to her side of the table. She was used to handling crises. As a Management Consultant at a prestigious firm in Washington, D.C., she worked on merging the firm’s clients with new partners to utilize and optimize their services. She was a genius at using technologies to provide greater opportunities for companies to form collaborations with others that advanced the decision-making capabilities of their organizations. It was a tough, high-profile position, and over the past seven years she had made a name for herself in the industry. Paula inwardly groaned, wondering why Tamara thought to set her up with such a clumsy man. One would think that by his age he would be able to manage his oversized hands and feet, instead of moving around like an awkward sixteen-year-old going through a growth spurt. He didn't need to introduce himself. She already knew the vital statistics. Name? Conrad Baynard. Age? Thirty-eight. Occupation? Mechanical engineer. Income? Six figures. Tamara had used that as one of his selling points as well as telling her he was one of the finest men she'd ever met.

  He had a nice face. Not remarkable, but comfortable. Nothing to make her heart race or her skin tingle. To her he was like hot cinnamon chocolate--warm and sweet, but nothing more. She usually liked her men with a bit more spice. Paula sighed. It was going to be a long night.

  She got the attention of a waiter. She had the table changed, their settings rearranged with two new glasses of water. Then they ordered.

  “Perhaps we should start over,” Conrad said with a sheepish grin.

  “No, let's just move ahead. You know my name and I know yours so we might as well get past the banal introductions and niceties to something more interesting.”

  He lifted a brow. “A woman who gets to the point?”

  “I'm allergic to wasting time.”

  He nodded then fell silent.

  She'd been too curt. That was a terrible habit of hers, but she really did hate wasting time. One of her greatest strengths was efficiency. She knew how to be productive. How to make things happen. But it seemed the date was DOA--dead on arrival. However, since she still had a meal to eat she needed to fill the time up with something. She'd never see him again so she decided she might as well make the most of it.

  “So, tell me about yourself,” Paula asked. Men usually liked to talk about themselves so she thought that would be a safe topic to begin with.

  Conrad folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “How much did she pay you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Tamara. Did she pay you to go out with me?”

  “No,” Paula stammered, feeling her face grow warm. She shifted in her chair annoyed. She never became flustered.

  “Bribe you with something?” he asked, his gaze steady and intense.

  “No.” She tried to hold his gaze, but she had to briefly look away. “Why?”

  “So you wanted to come?”

  She returned her gaze to his. “Yes.”

  His eyes lightened with amusement and a grin spread on his face. “Then relax and stop acting like this is either the Inquisition or a job interview.”

  Paula stared at him for a moment then laughed, suddenly relieved. “It's that obvious?”

  “If you glance at your watch one more time I'll start to feel like a lab rat.”

  “A lab rat?”

  “An experiment.”

  Paula nodded and lowered her watch. “Sorry, this is my first blind date.”

  “Good. Me too. So there's no pressure. There's nothing to compare it to.”

  Except a non-blind date, but that didn't matter. Paula felt her tension ebb. “So what do you do for fun?”

  “I play in a band.”

  “Really?” she said surprised. “What instrument?”

  “T
he tuba.”

  She inwardly groaned. The tuba. Not a sexy instrument like the saxophone or piano, but a big bulky horn instrument. “Why?” she asked just to be polite. She wasn't really interested.

  “By the fifth grade I was already as tall as my teacher and I wanted an instrument bigger than me, so it was a choice between the tuba or the cello. I chose the tuba because I liked how they looked in the marching band.”

  He chose an instrument only because it would look good in marching band? He was a dweeb--all he needed were thick glasses and a pocket protector--but he didn't seem to care and soon neither did she. Paula listened to Conrad tell her about his marching band days in college and the group he played with now. He also told her about and his grandmother's blackberry patch and how he used to help her harvest the berries and how she'd make pies. By the time their food arrived Paula had to admit that Conrad was rather cute and she liked him. His life sounded so different from hers. He was a second generation American, his grandparents on his mother’s side came from Grenada and from Jamaica on his father’s side, by way of Ghana. His parents had met at the party of a mutual college friend and married soon after. They’d had two children, and provided them with a nice upper middle class upbringing. In contrast, Paula had become a U.S. citizen just four years ago. His family seemed as if it could fit in a Norman Rockwell painting. Her family definitely wouldn't, but she wasn't sure she was ready to share yet.

  “Well, it seems I've done all the talking,” he said. “Tell me about your family.”

  “There's not much to say,” Paula hedged. He seemed so regular she didn't want to shock him.

  “I doubt it. I told you about my grandmother and her berry patch.”

  Paula hesitated then said, “My mother was my father's second wife.”

  He nodded. “My father had two wives. His first one died.”

  “My father had three wives at the same time,” she clarified.

  “Oh.”

  “I was brought up in a polygamous household.” And when it became too contentious, her mother took her and her four siblings to live in Canada and then to America where they'd thrived. Her father visited, but rarely.

  “Oh. My great-grandfather, the one from Ghana, could only afford one wife. He wasn't wealthy. I don't think I could handle three women at once. One woman is enough for me.”

  Paula smiled, wanting to believe him. Most men wanted more than one woman. “How about a mistress?”

  His mouth quirked in a quick grin. “Is that a trick question?”

  “No.”

  Conrad thought for a moment then again shook his head. “No, one woman is all I need.”

  Probably because he was so awkward around them, Paula thought. If he were savvier he'd change his stance. If he had women coming at him, he'd want his share. But perhaps that's why he made a good catch. He wouldn't be the kind of man a woman needed to worry about. But then again he could be lying.

  “How about you?”

  Paula took a sip of her drink then carefully set it down. “Me?”

  “Would you want more than one man?”

  “No, one's enough for me.”

  “Are you sure?'

  “Perfectly.” She had a friend who was juggling two guys who adored her. Instead of feeling envious, Paula felt stressed at the thought of trying to keep two men happy at the same time.

  “I guess that's another thing we have in common.”

  “Yes.”

  Paula was relieved that Conrad didn't make her background seem like something strange or weird. When she'd first arrived, new friends and acquaintances treated her life like a curiosity. From what he shared, it was evident that his family was more established in Western ways than hers. He was the eldest of two and had grown up in Pennsylvania to a surgeon, his father and scientist, his mother. Paula on the other hand, had twelve brothers and sisters. The first wife had four children, the second wife, her mother, had five (she lost one in childbirth), the third wife had three. And she had scores of relatives, all envious of their American ties, always begging for sponsorship or money. Once she’d finished her university studies, she'd given what she could, but it never seemed enough. Soon the requests no longer came by airmail, but filled her e-mail on her computer, forcing her to close her account for awhile.

  “You can only do what you can, Paula,” her mother always told her. “Besides, your father is well established back home, and he and his brothers are all doing well. Live your life. Stop feeling guilty for your blessings.” But she had felt guilty. Guilty that life for her was one without much struggle, and she cherished the freedom she had, as a woman, not having to face being married off as soon as she came of age. Although she struggled with that freedom, because her mother thought it was wrong. Everyone expected her to marry and she hadn't succeeded yet. In truth, she hadn't had as much interest in it as she should.

  Thankfully, she had come to terms with what she could and couldn’t do for others, and over the years the requests had slowed to a trickle. Her status as an unmarried woman, however, continued to be a sore spot.

  They chatted some more then she saw something in Conrad’s jacket move. At first she was certain she was hallucinating. “Why would anything be moving under his coat?” she wondered, sure it had been the trick of the light. But then she saw it again.

  “What's that?” she asked.

  Conrad glanced down at his plate. “Vegetable roti. Want some?”

  Paula shook her head.”No, not what are you eating, what's under your jacket?”

  He blinked. “My jacket?”

  “Yes.” Paula leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I saw something move.” She pointed and her voice cracked when she spoke. “It did it again!”

  Conrad glanced down then swore. “I forgot I put her in there.”

  Paula widened her eyes. “Put what in where? Please don't tell me it's an animal.”

  He flashed a sheepish grin.

  “A rat?”

  “No, I wouldn't do that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “My kitten. I was going to drop her off at my brother's but then I saw the lady with the flat tire and helped her. Then when I got back in the car Wispy, that's her name because she's just a wisp of a thing, was crying so I put her inside my coat pocket because that always calms her down then I completely forgot about her and drove straight here.”

  “Well, she's obviously woken up.”

  He gently patted the lump inside his jacket pocket. “Don't worry she'll go back to sleep.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Don't believe me? Don't worry she's harmless.” He opened his coat pocket and a little gray head with large green eyes popped out and stared at her.

  Chapter Two

  “Then what did you do?” Paula's Aunt Miriam asked the next day as the two ate from a large bag of kale chips while Paula helped her aunt organize her bookkeeping. Her aunt ran a small shop and Paula helped her keep it profitable. They sat in Paula's apartment and Paula always enjoyed spending time with her.

  But as she reviewed the calculations, her mood dimmed. “She's still skimming money.”

  Her aunt shrugged. She knew her daughter wasn't trustworthy, but didn't care. “As long as it remains small who cares?”

  “I do. I have to talk to her.”

  “Leave it. Now you haven't answered my question.”

  “About what?” Paula said absently, making more calculations.

  Miriam snatched the calculator from her. “The kitten.”

  “Oh. He went back to eating as if nothing had happened.”

  “So, are you going to see him again?”

  Paula stared at her aunt. She considered her a trusted confidant, but now wondered if she'd made a mistake. Her aunt was an attractive woman who'd been a stunner in her youth. She'd married twice--marriages which she called heaven and hell. Her first husband had died in a car accident. After she became a widow for the second time, in her late fifties, when her second husband d
ied from prostate cancer, she decided against remarrying. She was one of Paula's strongest critics when it came to the men she went out with, so Paula was surprised by her aunt's question. She'd expected a tart dismissal of her blind date.

  “Did you or did you not just hear a word I said? He's clumsy, he's strange. He plays the tuba for goodness sakes.”

  “Musicians are sexy.”

  “Not this one.”

  “But it sounded like you enjoyed yourself.”

  “I did,” Paula admitted, surprised by how much she had. She sat back and smiled. “I mean, he has a great sense of humor and is really easy to talk to.” She reached for the calculator; her aunt moved it out of reach. “But he's just not my type,” she insisted, ready to change the subject. “I doubt I'm his type either. I don't expect him to call me.” She held out her hand.

  Her aunt handed her the calculator like a petulant child. “Pity, he sounded interesting.”

  “Weird.”

  Her aunt waved a kale chip at her. “He's better than Baloney.”

  “His name was Bennett.”

  Her aunt bit into the chip. “My name suits him better.”

  “You think everyone's better than Bennett.”

  “I was right.”

  “You were biased.”

  “He was no good, right? Admit it.”

  Paula made a face then munched on her snack. She remembered first describing Bennett to her aunt and all the excited feeling she'd felt then.

  “Run fast,” her aunt had said in a flat tone.

  “I don't want to,” Paula replied. “He's amazing. He's a chef and starting his own restaurant. There's already a buzz around him.”

  Aunt Miriam sniffed. “Like vultures circling something dead.”

  “He's funny, attractive--”

  “Looks aren't everything.”

  “So everyone says, but they're wrong. It helps.”

  Aunt Miriam shook her head. “You'll get bored with him.”

  “No, he's exciting and driven.”

  But she'd been right. Paula had gotten bored and the restaurant closed within a year due to poor management. Bennett talked a good game but could never follow through. He bought a food truck, but then lost interest, later he opened a corner store, which was also a flop. He had what he deemed an “artistic temperament,” which she soon discovered really meant swinging between pouting lows and raging tantrum highs. He'd sounded so perfect--charming, handsome, daring--but seemed to be more suited for a fairy-tale than a real life. In reality he was a bore. Their conversations never went beyond how talented and smart he was and how unfair the world was to him.