Thank you for your patience and your continued support. I appreciate it.
I do not own Glee or the characters and I honestly do not own The Billionaire's Embrace.
SAM
Jocelyn, it turned out, fancied herself as something of a tactical genius, an intellectual descendant of Sun Tzu.
The first part of her plan involved having me learning all about African American culture to convince Mercedes that I was capable of understanding her background.
The second part required me to purchase certain things for my apartment and discard others... to make my home more welcoming.
And the third part involved... learning to ride the subway.
"I already know how to ride the subway," I said.
"Yeah, but when was the last time you actually did it?" she asked. "When you were a kid and your mom thought you needed to see how the other half lives? Get real, you have a car and driver. But in your defense, if it was me, I wouldn't take the subway either."
"So then, why is it so important for me to start taking the subway?" I asked.
"Who's making the list here, me or you?" she asked. "That's right, it's me. You don't get to ask questions."
I rolled my eyes.
We were in Starbucks again, three days after our first meeting and Jocelyn had brought an actual typed list of the things that I needed to do. And I was beginning to get the feeling that her tasks were more about forcing me to jump through hoops for her own amusement, than actually helping me to win Mercedes back.
But it was important to be on her good side, and so, I was willing to indulge her, at least for now.
It also gave me some more time to figure out how I felt about seeing Mercedes again.
"Okay, step four," Jocelyn said. "Sell your company, give away all your belongings and move into a yurt in Central Park."
"I'm not going to do that," I said. "Rent in Central Park is much too expensive."
"What about a tent?" she asked. "Smaller footprint, right? You can afford that."
"Not if I sell my company," I said. "How will I buy food? I have no marketable skills. My resume only has one line... Head Mogul."
"Well, okay," she said. "You can keep the company for now. I pulled your expense reports from the last fiscal year. Pretty good profit margins, but corporate donations are on the low side. You need to work on that."
"You're right," I said, amused. "I'll speak with the board of directors immediately. In the meantime, why don't we work on the first three steps for now? You wouldn't want me to get overwhelmed, would you?"
"Hmm," she said. "You're probably right. Your tiny man-brain can't handle too much change all at once. Get started on this and I'll check in on you next week."
At that, she folded the list in half and handed it to me.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said dryly.
Tiny man-brain?
I had to admire this woman. There weren't many people who would say something like that to my face and I found it refreshing.
I was surrounded by people who told me what they think I wanted to hear, so it was an interesting change of pace to be around someone who had no compunctions about telling me what she really thought.
"Good luck, lover-boy," she said, standing and gathering her things. "Call me if you need help." Then she winked at me, pulled the hood of her coat over her head and sailed out of the coffee shop.
I watched Jocelyn go, torn between irritation and amusement. I wondered if she would call Mercedes and give her a full report of our meeting. And if so, what that report would entail.
Hopefully, nothing but flattering statements about my animalistic appeal.
As Harry drove me back to the office, I thought about the tasks Jocelyn had assigned me. The first was probably the most necessary and useful because I hardly knew anything about African American culture.
And I didn't think that she would have suggested it unless it mattered to Mercedes. At the very least, I was sure that Mercedes would appreciate the effort.
Learning the cuisine seemed the obvious choice. I was a competent chef and I had never known a woman to turn up her nose at a home-cooked meal.
Mastering the full repertoire was out of the realm of possibility, of course, but learning the basic techniques shouldn't be too difficult. The only hurdle would be finding someone to teach me.
I put my secretary on the case...
To her credit, she didn't even blink when I asked her to find someone to come to my apartment within the next few days and teach me traditional Soul cooking.
"I'll have a list of names for you by this afternoon, Mr. Evans," she said.
She had it for me by lunch.
There were four names along with references and brief biographies. And I spent a few minutes studying the list.
The first name seemed the most appealing. The person was an older woman who ran a successful restaurant on the Lower East Side. So I called the number my secretary had provided and quickly arranged for the woman to come to my apartment the following evening for a private cooking lesson.
She sounded suspicious at first and even I had to admit that it was an odd request, but she quickly acquiesced when I suggested a price.
The next evening, I left work early to go grocery shopping. The woman, Shaunda, had given me a long list of ingredients to purchase and I was able to find everything I needed at the Chelsea Market.
None of it was too exotic, fortunately, and the noise and crowds at the Market reminded me why I ordinarily had my housekeeper do the shopping.
As soon as the thought passed through my mind, I imagined Jocelyn telling me sharply, that regular people had to do their own shopping.
I wished I knew how to explain to that woman...and by proxy, to Mercedes...that I would never be regular.
Promptly at 6:00, my intercom buzzed and the security guard downstairs informed me that I had a visitor. I told him to send her up and a few moments later, the elevator doors slid open and the woman I presumed to be Shaunda, stepped out.
She looked like someone's grandmother... short, round and her gray hair pulled back into a bun.
She carried a plastic bag in one hand and she looked around the foyer of my apartment with a narrow-eyed suspicion that immediately reassured me that I had chosen the right person.
"Mrs. Johnson, thank you so much for coming this evening," I said, doing my best to look friendly and non-threatening.
"Hmm," she said. "You have a very large apartment, Mr. Evans."
"Please, call me Sam," I said. "Could I offer you something to drink?"
"Yes, thank you. You're very polite," she said. "A glass of water will do. Where is the kitchen? Did you buy the things I told you to?"
I led her into the kitchen, feeling incredibly entertained. I suspected that being raised by my mother had hardwired me to respond positively to grumpy women.
Whatever the case, I was looking forward to a delightful evening of being bossed around by Shaunda.
My kitchen, at least, met with her approval. I had gone all out when I designed the unit and had every top-of-the-line appliance.
Unnecessary and indulgent, yes, but once you cooked on a Bertazzoni, there was no going back.
Mrs. Johnson turned on one of the burners and clicked her tongue appreciatively when the gas flared into life...
"Good," she said. "We'll make some good food tonight."
A few moments later, we laid out the ingredients on the counter and she set me to chopping vegetables.
Then she asked,
"Do you know what is the meaning of soul food?"
I shook my head from side to side, then answered,
"No. I have some idea, but it might be misguided."
"You're not only polite, Mr. Evans, you're very honest. Anyway, 'Soul' is the word used to describe the swag and unique style of African-American cuisine. You know, the flavor. And so, Soul Food, in essence, is African American traditional food."
I nodded in understanding. And she continued...
"Hence, the reason why soul food so good, is because it's cooked from the heart... and also obviously from the soul. I will teach you to make a basic soul dinner," she said. "It's very popular and has nice flavors."
I did what Mrs. Johnson told me to do. I even dipped chicken in a mixture of flour and breadcrumbs and dropped them in the fryer to be deep fried.
"Why do you want to learn to make Soul Food?" she asked me. "To impress a woman?"
I smiled wryly. She got it right in one.
"You could say that," I said.
She narrowed her eyes at me...
"How do you know this girl? Does she work in your office and make pretty eyes at you?"
"Nothing like that," I said. "She was... well... someone very special to me."
"Oh. And you want to win her back," she said, nodding. "This dinner will do it. I'll be using a few of my grandmother's secrets and her personal recipes. I have no doubt this lady will fall into your arms, and maybe cry."
"I would rather not make her cry," I said, taking a piece of chicken from the fryer.
"Not sad tears. Tears of joy," she said. And then, "Probably." She pursed her mouth at me. "Now slice the lobster into cubes."
Mrs. Johnson walked me through the recipe, step by step, disclosing a few secrets here and there. She made me do everything myself and while I worked, she told me all about African American cuisine... how it is consistent with the classic Southern cooking techniques of frying, simmering, sautéing and smoking.
She left me with handwritten directions for the lobster mac and cheese and a number of other recipes. And also strict orders to follow everything exactly...otherwise I'll botch it.
I wrote her a check and thanked her profusely.
"Bring this girl to my restaurant if this dinner works," she said. "Or I can set you up with my niece."
"I'll keep that in mind," I said, amused and walked her to the door.
With the cooking taken care of, I turned to the next item on Jocelyn's list...
Despite the fact that she had never actually seen my apartment, she had instructed me to toss out any 'ostentatious rich guy stuff' and seeing as she hadn't specified anything in particular, I decided to ignore that command.
But the other part of task #2 was a list of things that I should add to my living quarters...things that she evidently thought would make Mercedes feel that I was welcoming her into my life.
Things like books, houseplants, a particular type of tea, a silky bathrobe and a framed photograph of a lone woman with a suitcase in hand called, 'Woman Against The World'.
On Saturday, I worked from home for a few hours in the morning and then spent the rest of the day shopping. I tried to think of things that Mercedes had liked or expressed an interest in.
I also thought of foods she had enjoyed and added them to the list from Jocelyn.
It took me several hours of running around lower Manhattan and several more hours of arranging things to my liking, but by the time I went to sleep on Sunday, I was pleased with what I had accomplished.
The next step was to see if Madame Jocelyn would be equally pleased...
Speaking of Jocelyn...
She came over on Tuesday evening after we had both finished work. I had already started on dinner by the time she arrived and left my pork chops searing in the pan to greet her.
"Nice place," she said, looking around as I led her into the living room. "Not as over-the-top as I expected."
"What did you think?" I asked. "That I'd have oil paintings of myself all over the wall? Or gold-plated marble statues of nude women?"
"You tell me, you're the billionaire," she said. "I don't know what I was thinking...maybe a pet tiger or something."
"It would ruin the drapes," I said. "Please, have a seat. I need to deal with dinner before it sets off the smoke alarm. Could I offer you a pork chop?"
I left her there and went back into the kitchen a little concerned that my food would be ruined.
"No, I'll eat when I go home. But thanks."
The pork chops, fortunately, still looked edible, albeit a bit charred on one side. I watched through the pass-through as she started snooping around my living room instead of sitting down.
She rifled through the stack of magazines on the table and then went over to the bookshelf and started examining my tchotchkes.
I waited, keeping an eye on my pork chops, until she got to the end of the bookshelf and noticed the photograph I had hung on the wall.
"Huh," she said. "You really did it. I didn't think you would."
"You told me it was necessary," I said, slightly annoyed.
"Well, sure, but I didn't think you would take me seriously." She spent a long, considering moment gazing at the photograph, then said, "This is a nice picture."
"The artist did nice work," I said. "Would you like also to see my fully-stocked snack cupboard?"
"Oh Lord," she said. "Yeah, okay, hit me with your best shot."
I showed Jocelyn the cabinet I had cleared out and filled with Mercedes' favorite non-perishables. There was tea and honey, crunchy...not chewy...peanut butter granola bars, unsweetened dried mango and lightly salted cashews.
Sadie looked and said nothing, but I could tell from her expression that she was pleased.
"I'm going to eat dinner now," I said. "You can keep snooping around my apartment or you can sit down with me and have a glass of wine."
"I could use a glass of the most expensive red wine you have in this apartment," she said.
"That would be a twenty dollar 2012 Cabernet," I said, and grinned at her expression. "I'm a Scotch drinker. I don't keep expensive wine on hand."
"That's a shame, but twenty bucks a bottle is still better than what I usually drink," she said. "Bring it on!"
We sat at the table and I ate my pork chops while she sipped at her wine and complained to me about her job. She was a graphic designer and thought that the company she worked for gave her minimal room for creative self-expression.
"It's stifling," she said. "They want everything to look exactly the same. Why bother having multiple designers, then? It makes no damn sense."
"Have you thought about going into business for yourself?" I asked. "You've got quite the portfolio, it sounds like."
She snorted.
"Yeah, freelancing is everyone's dream, isn't it? Meanwhile, I've got bills to pay, though. I like getting regular paychecks." She shook her head. "Maybe someday. Anyway, I told Mercedes that I met with you."
I set down my fork...
It hadn't occurred to me that she would tell Mercedes about our collusion, but in retrospect, it would've been surprising if she didn't.
"How did she respond?"
"She was pretty mad at first, but she got over it. She doesn't like people doing things behind her back."
"I don't think anyone particularly enjoys that," I said. "Is she willing to meet with me?"
"Yes. You can get in touch with her when you're ready. I'm officially giving you my blessing."
"Well," I said. "Thank you. Let's hope it goes well."
After I finished eating, I went into the kitchen to put my plate in the dishwasher and Jocelyn got up and began wandering around the living room again.
I was about to offer her another glass of wine in an effort to stop her snooping, when she bent and looked at one of the photographs arranged along the sofa table.
"Who's this?" she asked.
I walked over to where she stood and glanced at the picture she was referring to. It was Calvin and I at the mini-golf place on Randall's Island...him beaming widely after beating me three rounds in a row.
"That's my Little brother," I said.
Jocelyn made a face at me.
"You are not related to that child."
I grinned.
"You don't think we look alike? He's my little brother as in Big Brothers Big Sisters. His name is Calvin."
"They let you out of the office long enough to do that?" she asked.
"I'm the boss," I said. "I can play hooky whenever I want. It's true that I don't get to spend as much time with him as I would like, but I make an effort to see him every week."
"Okay," she said. "I give up. You win. Mercedes wasn't exaggerating when she said you were perfect. Are you sure you aren't a robot sent to earth by a technologically superior alien race to monitor the progress of our civilization?"
"Fairly certain," I said. Had Mercedes really told her that I was perfect? "But I guess it's possible that I'm a sleeper agent, so I can't make any guarantees."
"Ha!" she said. "Right, I'm going home now. Carlos worries if I'm out too late. Let me know how it goes with my girl, okay?"
"I will," I said. "Thanks for all the help."
"Good luck!" she said.
There was still one more thing I needed to take care of before I contacted Mercedes. It would be fairly time-consuming, though.
And so, I waited until the weekend, when I could more easily justify taking the time off from work. Nobody was tracking my hours, of course, but there were always more things that I could be doing.
I existed in a constant state of guilt and denial.
On Saturday, I awoke early and went up to the roof. It was a cold morning, but the sun warmed my face as it crested the roof lines of the buildings to the east.
I was going to make Mercedes a reading room... a sanctuary, somewhere she could hide when she needed to.
When I designed my apartment, I chose to sacrifice a certain amount of square footage...extra bedrooms and a dedicated home office...in favor of an extensive, two-story outdoor terrace, with abundant greenery and a sweeping view over the Hudson.
Now, in early March, it was too cold to spend much time outside, but come summer, I would spend nearly every free hour outside.
I zipped up my coat and walked up the narrow staircase to the smaller garden on the roof of my actual apartment. There was a small garden shed on the upper level, tucked against the surrounding wall.
When I first moved in, I had the notion that I would do all of the gardening myself. I didn't have enough time, of course, and had been forced to hire a gardener, who came once a week and kept things in much better condition than I would've been able to do on my own.
Consequently, the shed had sat vacant for the last two years, empty of everything but a couple of cracked terracotta pots and a small spade.
I decided to clean it out...
I tossed the pots and the spade, dusted the shelves, wiped the corners free of cobwebs, washed the windows and swept the floor. I even got down on my knees and scrubbed the floorboards.
And when all of that was done, and the shed smelled like a daisy and gleamed like fresh snow, I hauled in my favorite and most comfortable armchair.
Then I brought up two boxes of books that I had ordered from Amazon and arranged them neatly on the shelves.
Mercedes seemed to read widely and indiscriminately, so I bought the entirety of several end-of-year best books lists.
By the time I had everything cleaned and organized to my liking, I was sweating and had shed my coat altogether.
The work had been worth it. The shed looked cozy and inviting.
I planned to have an electrician wire it and install lighting and some type of radiant heat, but for now, it was good enough.
I hope she would like it.
Now, there was nothing left to do but contact her, and hope...
Season's greetings! Stay safe!