Donna Hill - For The Love Of You

“Coffee or tea?”

Craig blinked. “Coffee. Please.”

“Have a seat.” She went to the overhead cabinets and took out a bag of imported Turkish coffee and prepared it. Within moments the scent of fresh-brewed coffee mixed with the tempting aroma of the blueberry muffins that sat in a cloth-lined basket, waiting to be devoured. She took out a plate and retrieved jam and whipped apple butter from the fridge and placed them both on the table.

“You have an incredible home.”

“Thank you.” She poured his coffee and brought it to the table. “Cream, milk, sugar?”

“I take it black. Thanks.”

Jewel took a seat opposite him. “Help yourself to a muffin if you want. They’re fresh.”

His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t make these?”

“Actually, I did.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a grin. “A woman of many talents.” He reached for a muffin and put it on his plate. “I noticed your artwork out there. Stunning.” He cut the muffin in half and slathered it with apple butter. He glanced up when she didn’t comment. He took a thoughtful bite and experienced heaven. His eyes closed in appreciation. “Wow, this is incredible.” That brought a smile to those luscious lips of hers.

“I learned to bake from my grandmother, right here in this kitchen. It slowly became a passion of mine over the years.”

“So you grew up here?”

“The house has been in the family for almost four generations, dating back to the emancipation. I lived here with my grandmother and my father until I graduated high school.”

Where was her mother in the scenario? He didn’t recall reading anything about her. “You attended the Sorbonne.”

Her eyes flashed. A curious smile curved her mouth. “Have you been reading up on me? I thought it was the house you were interested in.”

Both, he wanted to say but didn’t. “Any time I’m in negotiations with anyone I want to know as much as possible about them.”

“I see.” Her lips narrowed.

“If I remember correctly, the original owner, Charles Biggs, was one of the few owners of these homes that didn’t own slaves.”

“True. My great-great-grandparents worked here and earned a wage. They were free blacks. They lived in the house in the back. When the owner died, he left the house, the land, everything to my great-great-grandparents.” She huffed. “It didn’t sit well with the neighbors.” Her gaze drifted off. “My granddad told me stories about how my greats fought off threats both physical and emotional from the landowners around here. Nothing worked, and eventually they came to respect my family.”

“Lot of history here,” he said respectfully and struggled to contain his surprise and excitement about the eerie similarities of their ancestors.

“Yes, there is.” She stared into her cup of tea. “So why are you here, Mr. Lawson?” She leveled her gaze on him, and something warm simmered in his belly.

“I believe that if you hear me out, you’ll change your mind about renting out your home.”

Jewel seemed to study him for a moment, as if the weight of her reality pressed against her shoulders, and with a breath of apparent acceptance she said, “Let’s talk out back.” She led the way to the veranda.

* * *

“Please, have a seat,” Jewel said, extending her hand toward one of the cushioned chairs.

“Thanks.” Craig sat and placed his plate and cup on the circular white wrought-iron table.

Jewel sat opposite him, adjusted her long skirt and leaned back. She folded her slender fingers across her lap. “So... I’m listening.”

Craig cleared his throat, focusing on Jewel, and for a moment talking about the project was the last thing on his mind. He shifted his weight in the chair. “I believe as an artist you can fully appreciate a project of passion.” Her nostrils flared ever so slightly as if bracing for attack. “That’s what this project is for me. Everything that I’ve done and everything that I have accomplished has led me here—now.” He pushed out a breath. “It’s the story of my family, the Lawsons.”

Her lashes fluttered, but her features remained unreadable.

“Of course, I’ve changed the names, to protect the guilty,” he said, not in jest. “The story of a family that came from nothing, with a history of rising up from slavery, starting a business in a shack and building a legacy that led all the way to the seats of power in Washington.” He leaned forward, held her with his gaze.

“More important,” he continued, his voice taking on an urgency, “is that now is the time. With all that is going on in the world, with all that is happening to black lives, this is a story not only of history but of hope. It’s about resiliency, about who we are as a people and all that we can be.” He took a breath. “From what you told me about your family, we—” he flipped his hand back and forth between them “—have a helluva lot in common. This house, this land and the history of it is the ultimate backdrop for the telling of this story. It won’t only be my family story, but your family story as well.”

Jewel pushed up from her seat and walked over to the railing to gaze out at the rolling slopes. “I know about your work. I’ve read the reviews and the write-ups.” She turned to face him. “They all say good things—that you are brilliant.” She smiled faintly. “And that in an industry that is utterly jaded, you still keep your integrity intact and you never work on a project for the money but for the passion.”

Craig took the comments in stride. He got up and stood beside her. He felt her stiffen. “I’ve read all about you, too.” Her eyes widened for an instant. “You’re one of the most influential artists of your generation. But suddenly you all but vanish from the public eye. Don’t you miss it? Do you still paint, sculpt?”

“In answer to all of your questions, no, I don’t,” she practically whispered.

He watched her throat work as if she would reveal more, but she didn’t. If he knew nothing else about artists of any medium, they weren’t fulfilled if they didn’t do what they were born to do. But instead of saying what he thought, he said, “If it’s about the money, we are more than willing to pay twice what we offered, and I—”

Jewel spun her body toward him so quickly that it forced him to take a step back. Her eyes narrowed in fury.

“You think because I’m not in the limelight that I’m some kind of charity case and that I need your money!”

He reached out and gently placed his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. All I’m saying is that I understand that it is an imposition, that strangers would interfere with your regular routine for weeks and you should be duly compensated, not to mention that your home would be the centerpiece of an amazing film. That’s all worth something, and for me, having this film made at this location is more valuable than you could imagine.” A slow, endearing smile curved his mouth while his eyes danced across her face.

Jewel, by degrees, seemed to relax her body. She lowered her head for a moment then looked directly at him, and the connection was so intense that he felt as if he’d been hit in the gut.

“Okay,” she finally said. “You can shoot your film here.”

A smile like hallelujah broke out on his face. He totally kicked protocol to the curb, grabbed her around the waist and spun her in a circle. She laughed like a kid at Christmas, and it was pure music.

He finally set her on her feet, and they were but a breath apart. He saw the flecks of cinnamon in the irises of her eyes, felt the warmth of her body, the beat of her heart. He wanted to know what her lips felt like, to taste her...just a little.