The Way Back Home, Chapter 1

Anne Donald hunched her shoulders against the evening cold as she hurried across the campus. Reflections from the Christmas lights flickered on freshly fallen snow and turned the grounds into something resembling charcoal velvet sprinkled with rare, sparkling jewels.

Anne heard laughter echo behind her and her steps slowed. Turning her head, she saw Danitha Lewis and two of her friends coming toward her from the direction of the black student union. As they passed, Danitha gave a tiny nod of recognition but didn’t break stride. The other women didn’t bother to acknowledge her. Why should they? She wasn’t really one of them. She seemed to be doomed to be on the outside, looking in. It was her first year of graduate school and things still hadn’t changed.

Anne ducked her head down and hurried behind them. Their destination was the same. Danitha and her friends were also going to hear Dr. Trey Fraser speak on how to empower the African American community. He was a young professor from Morehouse University –only twenty-seven, yet his controversial book had garnered much critical attention, most of it positive.

He’d written about the failure of integration and opined that the future of black America rested in its economic strength and regeneration of the black family. Anne was entranced by the power and cadence of his words when she read them. Although her father had been African American she’d never known or been a part of the community that Dr. Fraser wrote about so passionately. What would it be like to be among people who acknowledged you as one of their own, she wondered?

When she’d heard that he was coming to speak at her campus, her finger had longingly traced his handsome dark brown features on the back jacket of the book cover. She was finally going to see the man who filled her day time fantasies and night time dreams in the flesh.

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Applause swept through the auditorium, accompanied by the scraping of chair legs as the audience stood to acknowledge him. Trey’s gaze swept the crowd and his smile felt as if it were a mask. He still felt a combination of embarrassment and gratitude at the adulation. He waited out the enthusiastic applause until he could incline his head and move to the back of the auditorium to sign his books.

An hour later, another book slid into his line of vision. He automatically flipped it open to the title page. “What would you like me to sign?” he asked.

“It’s for me. My name is Anne Donald.”

“How do you spell that?”

“With an e.”

He looked up, and light gray eyes set in a face with skin the tone of light buttered honey captured his gaze. She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense. Freckles sprinkled her tan skin and her reddish brown hair was pulled tightly back into a bun. Despite her fair coloring, Africa was stamped in her features. Her nose was a tiny bit wider than what would be considered ideal. Her pink, moist lips were so full and sensual that at that moment he wanted nothing more than to taste them. Had her ghost eyes cast an enchantment over him?

A cough sounded from behind her and the spell shattered. He realized that they ‘d been staring at each other. He signed the book and slid it across the table to her . He watched her with a sense akin to loss as s he picked the book up and moved away .

“Dr. Fraser?” someone asked as they pushed a nother book in front of him.

He forced his attention to the matters at hand. “Whom should I sign this to?” he asked, glancing at the rapidly decreasing pile of books to his left.

A little more time and he could retreat to the solitude of his hotel room. Speaking engagements, publicity tours and pressing the flesh were necessary, and in many ways a blessing, but they were something he had to force himself to do. He was happiest alone with his ideas, his fingers spinning words on the page.

Finally, the moment arrived when he could pull on his coat and walk out the door to his rental car. A memory of ghost colored eyes returned and he wished that there had been some way to get her phone number.

Then the Boston cold hit him with a physical blow and he shuddered against it. Maybe it was for the best that the woman had simply walked out of his life. No only was she not his type, she lived too far away from him. He couldn’t wait to return to the gentle southern winters he was used to.

“Dr. Fraser?”

He glanced up and looked into the ice colored eyes he was remembered. Was she a witch? How long had the woman waited out here in the frigid cold for him? Witch or no, there was something about her that felt like magic. He smiled at her.

“I wondered if you’d like a cup of coffee?” she asked. “I know you must be tired, but . . .” She bit her lip. “I’d really appreciate it,” she ended.

He couldn’t believe his luck. “That sounds wonderful,” he said.

She looked surprised at his sudden assent, but fell in step beside him. She barely reached his shoulder. There was something familiar about her, like she was somebody he once knew well and had forgotten.

He wasn’t able to discern the lines of her body under the big, thick and shapeless down-filled coat she was wearing, but from the softness of her chin he guessed she was overweight. He couldn’t understand why she interested him so. He’d always been attracted to lean, elegant model types–well-dressed women who wouldn’t be caught dead in the khaki-colored, Michelin man-shaped coat she was wearing.

He reached his car and almost dropped his keys in his eagerness to get out of the artic cold. He opened the door for her and she climbed into the passenger seat.

As he started the motor, she removed her gloves and rubbed her hands together. He pulled out into the street, the tires crunching the snow. The silence between them had seemed fitting. It was too cold for words flow easily, but it felt odd not to know her name.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Anne Donald. You signed my book.” She patted her bulky shoulder bag.

Anne with an e, he remembered.

“Take the first turn to your right to the coffee shop,” she said. “It’s about a block down on your left.”

He felt a tinge of uneasiness. His ready acceptance of her invitation was out of character for him. Right now he should be resting in his hotel room with a good book and a cup of decaf rather than driving around in the Boston snow with a woman he didn’t know.

What if she wasn’t stable? He sensed a sort of sadness and vulnerability, but his inner intuition told him there was something solid and strong about her. Intelligence and warmth shone from her eyes despite their glacial color. He wondered how her face changed when she smiled.

Inside the brightly lit coffee shop, she ordered hot chocolate, rich with cream. He ordered regular coffee, strong and black. Once he sat down, he’d realized how badly he needed the caffeine.

The drinks arrived quickly. She took a sip and a soft sigh emanated from her. “It’s so good,” she murmured. The hint of a smile hovered about her lips and he eagerly waited for it to break.

“Did you want talk to me about something?” he asked. His voice was too abrupt. He felt remorse as the shadow of her smile disappeared.

“It’s hard to put into words,” she said. “You write about the black community and the responsibilities of blackness so well. What I wanted to know is . . . ” her voice trailed away.

Trey sipped his coffee as he waited for her to finish her sentence. The coffee was good, hot and rich. He almost felt the caffeine rushing to his brain, erasing traces of his fatigue.

“I want to know how to do it,” she said.

Baffled, he asked, “Do what?”

“Be black.”

A chuckle emerged from his throat. “Lady, you don’t need lessons. When you look like you do, it’s something you just are.”

“Not necessarily. My parents were killed in an automobile accident when I was a baby. I survived and my white grandparents raised me.” Her voice had fallen to a whisper and Trey had to strain to hear the words. “They’ve spent the entire twenty-two years of my life trying to keep me and anyone else from realizing what I am.”

Trey raised an eyebrow. “Which one of your parents was black?” he asked.

“My father.”

“Your mother’s folks resented him?”

“Terribly. They blamed him for her death.”

“That’s tough.”

“I look somewhat like my mother. They’ve always been wonderful to me except for this one thing–if I deal with anything black they think they’ll lose me just like they did her.”

“What about your father’s people?”

“I don’t know who they are.”

“Why not?”

“My grandparents took great pains to keep that knowledge from me.”

“But you’re grown now. How can they continue to keep this from you?”

“True, I’m well over eighteen, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t make any black friends. I’ve never dated a black man. What will make that change once I meet my black relatives? What if they–” She stopped and took a deep breath. “When I try to connect, it’s as if everyone seems to know I don’t belong.”

Trey felt a rush of sympathy for her. Looking as she did, it was a certainty that she didn’t feel as if she fully belonged with her white relatives either. Her dilemma puzzled him. ” America doesn’t let folks escape the fact of their blackness if they look even slightly black,” he said. “I can hardly believe you’ve been rejected by everyone you’ve approached.”

“Not rejected, it’s more like a feeling of not fitting in, not belonging. Maybe I’ve not doing something right,” she said,

“I don’t see how you could do anything wrong if you use the usual social graces. Have you been to a black church?”

“A couple times, but it didn’t work.” She studied her hands. “I realize that it’s not them; it must be me too.”

Trey caught that one word. “Them?” he asked.

“Yes, them. Everybody is them–whites, black, Asians, Hispanics. Believe me, Dr. Fraser–I haven’t escaped my race. I just can’t figure out how to experience it.” Her eyes looked like frost melting and defeat laced her voice.

He was unsure of what to say. For some reason, he had the impossible urge to fix everything for her. “What do you know about your father’s family?” he asked.

“I know they are from Atlanta . His last name was Smith. Evan Smith.”

“Maybe that’s where you should start. Finding them could be a first step.”

She looked away “But how do I start?” she murmured, as if to herself.

“Start with your grandparents. Maybe it’s time to confront them with who you are.” He could almost feel her withdraw from his words. “No. Maybe I’m wrong,” he continued. “I think you need to start with yourself. It’s going to take courage and determination. Never give up on what you want. And most importantly, never give up on who you are.”

She stared into the swirling brown depths of her hot chocolate.

Trey couldn’t stifle a yawn. Concern crossed her face. “You must be exhausted,” she said. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you’ve given me your time and attention.” She touched his hand and electricity rushed through his body.

“No problem.” He wanted to invite her to his hotel room. He resisted the crass impulse. As much as he regretted it, he was going to have to let her walk out of his life. He took out his wallet and removed his card, his personal one with his address and private home phone.

“Nobody can keep you from who you are but yourself, Anne. When you make it to Atlanta , please let me know how you’re doing.”

She took his card and stared at it. Then she glanced up at him through her long lashes. He had the feeling that she didn’t want their time together to end either. If she was the one to make the suggestion, it didn�t have to. His heartbeat accelerated at the thought of how it would feel to kiss those soft, full lips, to make love to her.

But all she said was, “Thank you.”

Disappointment filled him. But maybe she’d come to Atlanta soon. He’d like to see her again on his home turf.