Page 54 of The Best Man: Unfinished Business

Chapter Thirty-two

Harper

Harper fumbled his way through Robyn’s kitchen as a guest in her home.

It was a modern contemporary, spacious and open, but still modest. Very…

Robyn. Each time he’d been there, it was strange to observe the purity of her choices, a home as a true extension of just her.

And he felt like he learned more about her every time.

The square gray tiles on the floor were a nice complement to the earth-toned walls adorned with boldly colored Ghanaian artwork that Robyn had chosen, made by local painters and sculptors.

There were massive portraits of Black women with full lips, bold hairstyles, and curvy shapes presiding over the living room, while expansive landscapes bursting with bright greens, oranges, yellows, and reds took up the remaining space.

Plants decorated the floors, windows, and her backyard, which was complete with a patio and a hammock.

Even her small garden was flourishing, in sharp contrast to the one she had built back in the day at their Upper West Side brownstone.

Her neighborhood of Airport Hills was gated and quiet, a few minutes and a world away from Accra’s bustling city center.

It was a nice place to settle and maybe even growup.

After searching through the refrigerator and cabinets, Harper managed to assemble all the ingredients for lamb kebabs and started to prepare the dish from memory.

Whether Harper liked it or not, Robyn had made it clear before they’d left the restaurant that she had a date and was keeping it.

She’d been planning on letting Mia sleep over at Haniah’s apartment.

But Harper didn’t want to leave Mia that night, so he “inserted” himself.

He was in Accra for her after all, so why not spend the time with his daughter?

He warmed some pita and got a salad together with some fresh tomatoes, local greens, and mint from Robyn’s garden as he took a sip from a red blend he’d opened.

Setting the vibe was music that he didn’t know by name, but was some female Afrobeats artist named Efya that Robyn had put on.

It certainly felt very Robyn: old school, sonically acoustic, and soothing.

Harper sipped his wine, waiting for the lamb kebabs in the oven to sizzle their way to a perfectly timed tenderness.

During a moment of stillness—Robyn was getting ready and Mia was in her own room—he reflected on how in the hell he’d found himself in Ghana.

What had Mia been thinking causing that kind of panic?

Harper wondered. He was still in disbelief over her admission at Robyn’s Nest. Clearly, her call was about something deeper—it had to be.

Maybe Mia had still not fully accepted her mom and dad’s divorce. But she hadn’t acted out before.

Harper thought back to his own childhood.

He grew up a happy kid in Montclair, New Jersey, with both parents under one roof his entire life.

His parents had conflict and arguments and the like, but they always seemed to work it out.

Of course, Harper and Robyn grew up when divorce was in the zeitgeist in the eighties.

Women had autonomy like never before in history and decided what they wanted from love and marriage.

Husbands would have to adjust or the wives were choosing self-determination.

At that time, it seemed like divorce was everywhere, leaving men like Dustin Hoffman’s characters stuffing bread into a glass of egg yolk trying to make French toast “like Mommy.” Even through spats, Harper’s folks laughed off the notion of separating.

His dad let him know divorce was “expensive” and it was “cheaper to keep her.” His mom let him know marriage was hard sometimes and folks had disagreements, but you work through them, look at the bigger picture, and try to be good partners to one another.

Had I been a good partner to Robyn? Harper wondered.

Had he looked at the bigger picture? Maybe and maybe not.

Mia was in distress and yes, she needed to mature and grow up, but had they been fair to her?

Was this somehow their fault? Mia had gotten caught in the middle of their midlife crises—three years ago Harper had been so busy feeling sorry for himself and Robyn had been unflinching in her decision to uproot herself from America.

Especially now, he couldn’t help but wonder how these life changes were actually affecting her.

Harper had muffled his doubts with FaceTime, expensive gifts and gadgets, elaborate trips, and taking transatlantic trips like a commuter just to be with her.

Clearly now, he saw that none of that was the same as being in her life day-to-day.

At the timer ding, Harper pulled the lamb kebabs out of the oven and put the dish on the counter, admiring his handiwork with a deep inhale of the savory aromas he’d created. Before Harper could take another sip of wine from his glass, the doorbell rang.

“Grab that, please!” Robyn bellowed from her bedroom.

Harper looked toward the home’s entrance, took a small breath, crossed to it, and opened the heavy wooden doors.

The open entryway revealed a tall, dark, well-built brother with a bouquet of flowers.

Kwesi in his very sharp African-inspired ensemble.

An outfit Harper didn’t think he could pull off, but this dude was like a model.

“Hey, man. Those for me?” Harper remarked at the sight of begonias, trying to keep things light between them given their inauspicious first meeting. Kwesi didn’t really seem to get it. Or simply was not amused. He certainly looked surprised to see Harper opening the door.

“Ummm, no. They’re for Robyn,” he responded with that damn elegant accent, sounding cooler than cool, with charm in his faint smile, clearly waiting to be invited in. This dude…

“I’m just joking, bro.” Harper made sure his tone was jovial.

“Come on in. Robyn’s still getting ready.

You know how it is…” He gestured for Kwesi to enter with a sweep of his arm.

“I’ll take those.” Harper pointed at the flowers.

Kwesi hesitated, looking at Harper before he handed them over as he walkedin.

“Sure.” Kwesi walked past Harper into the foyer. His size was imposing. Harper found himself looking up at the dude, with his expensive outfit and cologneon.

Harper offered to put the bouquet in water.

“I’m sure there’s a vase around here somewhere.

She used to collect them back home.” He headed to the kitchen, trying to play the hospitable host. It was far easier than a straightforward apology.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Harper said as he retreated into Robyn’s kitchen.

“Oh no, I’m fine,” Kwesi said as he stood awkwardly in the doorway by the patio.

“It’s no trouble, man. I already got this red blend poured that I’m sipping on. It’s pretty tasty.” Harper gestured toward the open bottle on the counter as he searched Robyn’s cabinets for a vase.

“Ahh,” Kwesi said with an air of recognition. “That’s from my vineyard.” It wasn’t boastful or arrogant. Just matter-of-fact. Harper was confused for a beat, looked at the bottle, then back at Kwesi.

“You have a vineyard ?”

“Not mine solely. Just part of an investment group. Me and my buddies,” Kwesi responded casually. “I could ship you a case if you’d like.”

“Ohhh, that’s generous of you. Thanks,” Harper answered. But suddenly he was done with wine for tonight. He instead found the vase and began to carefully unwrap the flowers. He saw Kwesi watching him closely.

“Make yourself at home. Have a seat,” Harper said as he filled the vase with the flower stems and then poured water from the faucet into it. Kwesi took a seat on the couch in the sunken living room.

“Robyn! Your ummm, your…Kwesi is here!” Harper awkwardly called out.

“Thank you! Be out in a minute!” Robyn returned. Harper grabbed his wineglass for show and joined Kwesi in the living room.

“Trust me, that means at least another ten,” Harper opined as he took a seat on the neighboring easy chair. “Sooo, you from here or…?”

“Born and raised. Went to university in London but spent many summers and holidays with my parents and grandparents here. I claim Ghana more than anything else. You?”

“New Jersey. Born and raised. Live in Brooklyn now.”

“Oh, I love Brooklyn.”

“You been? Oh cool. Yeah. I heard it’s different now than when I was growing up, but change happens….”

“It does.” Kwesi nodded along with Harper into more seconds of awkward silence. Harper searched his mind for something else to say.

“So that dude, Abo—Aba—Guy ya? Guy ye..?”

“Aboagye,” Kwesi corrected.

“Yeah, him. He’s the landlord I guess?” Kwesi nodded. “Do you have any idea why the rent has to be paid so far in advance?”

Kwesi brought his broad shoulders into a shrug. “I just met him the other day. Don’t know him, personally. It’s just the way it is, I suppose. The way it’s always been. Some traditions are hard to break.”

“So change happens, but not here….”

Kwesi paused to consider Harper’s semi-question, semi-statement. “I think the notion is they also figure that Americans and Europeans have money, so they’d rather collect up front. Particularly since much of their wealth has been off colonization,” Kwesi responded.

“But Robyn’s Black, ” Harper offered, then gestured between them. “ We’re Black. This guy seems to be screwing her over.”

“Some landlords are an unscrupulous lot. But I spoke with him to do what was necessary to get repairs done and stop him from showing up unannounced until he does.”

Harper considered Kwesi’s words, then nodded. He wished he could find a reply that was better or cooler than “Thanks. Robyn could use the support, I’m sure.”