An Excerpt from Nia Foxx's Best Made Plans

I dressed in a camel-colored, spaghetti-strapped pantsuit, which hugged my firm curves nicely. Since Ian was tall, I felt very comfortable wearing a favored pair of black, two-inch sling-back sandals. We were in the middle of a moderate LA summer, so I selected a black shawl to throw over my shoulders. I decided to wear my hair up for the evening, letting a couple curly tendrils cascade over my shoulders. I wasn’t big on makeup, but I did make an effort to apply light foundation, eyeliner, and lip gloss. I couldn’t believe that I was getting dressed for an impromptu date with a man I barely knew. Did that seem desperate? Maybe I should have made him wait a few days.

Ian’s arrival interrupted my self-berating. He was punctual and just as attractive as I remembered. Dressed in black slacks and a violet-colored button up shirt, he looked casually handsome. Mmm, and he smelled of tangy musk, like a man should, which was also important.

“You look fantastic.” He draped the shawl over my shoulders. I was old-fashioned about those kinds of things, so he definitely got points for that. His hand rested on the small of my back and he escorted me to his silver-colored Lexus. Nice choice, classy without all the hype and flashiness of a Mercedes or BMW.

More points were added for opening the car door. The plush interior was clean and smelled of him, and he looked confident sliding behind the wheel. John Coltrane drifted from the speakers like a warm embrace, putting me instantly at ease. We chatted lightly about music, transitioning to sports when I commented on a billboard that featured a smiling Kobe Bryant and his new line of overpriced shoes. I learned that Ian was a die-hard Lakers fan, which I didn’t fault him for, although my heart would always be with the Chicago Bulls, even if Michael Jordan had become a turncoat.

We arrived at a quaint, café-style restaurant on Rodeo Drive that was famous for its Italian cuisine. My firm had entertained clients there several times, and I knew a reservation was definitely required. I wasn’t sure if I should be impressed or not. I guess I would have to see how this all would played out. I wondered if a date backed out at the last minute. One thing was for certain, he’d better not try and stick me with the check.

“Thank you,” I said when Ian held out my chair.

He leaned over to whisper in my ear, his warm breath brushing my ear like a gentle caress. “My pleasure.”

Looking at him across the table I was struck by his self-assuredness. Here was a man definitely used to getting what he wanted. It was all natural, not a by-product of his position and thankfully not the kind inherent in a man with a criminal record longer than my arm.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Just how wrong my first impression of you was.”

“Hmm, and what was that?” He took a sip of water .

“Well, I’m glad you’re not a parolee, which is what I previously thought.”

He choked on the water. The look on his face was priceless.

“You thought I was an ex-con?” he asked, after taking several seconds to regain his composure.

“Yeah, pretty funny, huh?”

“I’m sure there are some guys that would like to see me behind bars, but as of yet it hasn’t happened. So tell me, how did I earn such a dubious honor?”

“When Tas said she recognized you, but she didn’t remember you as a member of the band, I just put two and two together.”

“And came up with five, apparently.” He smirked.

“Obviously.”

“So my being a lawyer is okay with you?” he asked.

“It’s a step up,” I said enjoying the easy bantering.

“Hmmm. And who would your ideal man be?”

“Morris Chestnut.” He asked.

His smile didn’t waver. “Well, Morris I’m not.”

I shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“You said you’ve never dated a white man before. Can I ask why?” I was about to answer when the waiter came to take our orders. He was a young Latino who seemed like he’d rather be anywhere else but serving us. I shook my head.

I ordered the shrimp scampi, which I’d had there before. Ian looked at me in surprise, since neither of us paid much attention to the menu. He ordered a pesto dish.

“We entertain clients here often,” I offered at his unasked question as the waiter sauntered away with our orders. The young man had major attitude, and he was lucky that I wasn’t the one tipping him tonight.

He nodded, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, I’ve never dated a white man. As to why, there really isn’t an answer; it’s just never come up I suppose. Do you think there is a difference between white and black men?”

He paused a moment. “I think the politically correct response to that question would be to say no, there isn’t one.”

“For some reason, you don’t strike me as the PC type.”

“I’m not.” He leaned forward for a moment. “But I’ll let you be the judge on if we’re all the same.”

“I don’t know, I think I’d need a more case studies to sample from,” I joked, looking around the full restaurant. “Maybe I could get the phone numbers of some of the other patrons here, and there are a couple of guys at the office who’re pretty handsome.”

“Hey, why don’t we just focus on this guy?” He cocked his head slightly, giving me a lopsided grin.

I laughed again. “Well, you don’t expect me to make an informed decision with only one study to review. What would my college professors say?”

“I’d hope they’d understand that you would wound a man very deeply if you didn’t give him your undivided attention.”

“Undivided?”

“Would you have a problem with that?” Was he asking if I was currently involved? “How about seeing how things go first?” I countered.

“Fair enough, but don’t think I won’t try and change your mind.”

“I’m curious,” I switched topics. “How did you manage to get a reservation here on such short notice?”

He smiled again, or had he ever stopped? I wasn’t sure. “My friend owns it.”

“Really?” I said, disbelief evident.

“Yes, really.”

I was willing to bite. “So this is your typical first-date move. Take the woman to an expensive restaurant, but don’t clue her in that you have connections and are probably spending no more than the equivalent of a McDonald’s Value Meal on her.”

He laughed out loud at that one. Not a nervous laughter, just hearty.

“Am I on the money?” I asked.

“Not quite. I rarely bring my first dates here, and I always pay my tab in full. I’m also a pretty good tipper. And no, I didn’t have another date lined up for tonight if that’s what you’re getting at.”

I smiled at that, not sure if I should believe him. But what did it matter? I was out to have a good time, and as long as he didn’t pull the I-left-my-wallet number, everything would be fine.

The rest of the date went pretty much the same way, easy bantering, and good conversation. I learned that Ian was second-generation Scottish and grew up in a middle-class, single-parent home, his father having passed away at a young age. Ian worked hard to get where he was, and he hated people who took their family’s substantial bank accounts for granted. Something we both had in common. I saw enough nepotism in my line of work to learn to loathe it.

Ian was a typical only child, wondering what it would have been like to have siblings to grow up with. On that front, I told him that he didn’t need to glorify large families. There were a total of three of us kids growing up, and I was the Jan Brady of the bunch. We were three years apart, respectively, and fought like it in our youth. I’m sure my poor parents later regretted making the decision on having us so close in age. It wasn’t all bad though, and now as adults, we appreciated each other. My older sister was a devoted mom, on her second marriage to a man she met online. She’d moved to Arizona to be with him and things seemed to be going well for them. He accepted the fact that she couldn’t have children, and she cherished the two that he had from a previous relationship. My younger brother was fresh out of medical school and thoroughly sowing his wild oats in the San Francisco area. He usually came down once every few months to get some good home cooking, have my mom dote on him, and show off his latest girl toy, usually some twenty-year-old undergrad.

My parents would look at us and would say, not bad for a janitor and housekeeper. They were right. We could have gone in other directions. We weren’t the Huxtables by anyone’s standard. There were enough scares in our young lives. The time my brother was implicated in a drive-by because he took to hanging out with the wrong bunch, my sister’s pregnancy at sixteen and the botched abortion that left her sterile, and me, well, I was pretty much a nerd living in the shadow of a beautiful older sister and an outgoing younger brother. I was content to sit in my room, read, and draw. Nothing had really changed much, except my age and the size of my bank account.

The date ended some three hours later. Ian drove me home, but neither of us was ready to say good-night. I definitely wasn’t going to invite him upstairs, although I had to admit I was tempted. Besides his obvious physical appeal, he seemed genuinely nice, and there was no denying a definite interest on both our parts. Several times I found myself wondering what it would be like to be held in his arms. Would his kiss be soft and probing or hot and intoxicating? He suggested that we walk our dinner off by circling the block, which I agreed to, glad he didn’t want the date to end either. It was cooler out now but still perfect for a stroll. We chatted about every topic under the sun, including taking sax lessons as a child and the passion for jazz having developed later as he listened to his mother’s favorite artist.

“And when I found out that girls dug musicians, I practiced night and day,” he joked.

© Nia Foxx, August 2008
All Rights Reserved