Chapter 20
Bristol
“WHY DO YOU KEEP SMILING?” I ask Grip as we walk toward the book- store for the debate.
“You’re wearing my necklace.” He squeezes my hand and slants me a smile, his eyes locked on the gold bar dangling between my breasts.
“Your necklace?” I touch the chain around my neck, tracing its inscription. “I distinctly remember buying this myself.”
“But I inspired it,” he says smugly.
The Neruda line carries such significance in our relationship, declaring, my heart broke loose on the wind. I can’t wear it without thinking of our first kiss, without remembering him slipping under my armor, his own vulnerability tempting me to share things with him I’d never shared before.
“I love it when you wear it.” He studies the sidewalk as we walk briskly toward the bookstore. “You look beautiful tonight, by the way.”
“Well I knew I needed to dress warmly since you were making me walk.” I laugh at his good-natured grimace.
A white sweater fits my torso closely, and cropped, wide-legged pants of the same color swing loosely from waist to mid-calf. My camel-colored leather boots and cashmere coat finish off the outfit.
“These boots are already killing me,” I complain, sneaking a glance at his face.
“I don’t want to hear it.” He laughs and tucks my arm into his. “It’s a gorgeous night for a walk, and you know it.”
He’s right. The chill in the air underscores the holiday cheer lent by Christmas decorations on every corner and in the store windows.
“It’s our first Christmas as a couple,” I say.
“Yup. Too bad we’ll be back in LA. Maybe I’d get my snowfall on Christmas morning if we stayed here in New York.”
“Do you want to stay?” I hope he doesn’t. I miss my palm trees and my goddaughter, my brother and Kai. I think I even miss my parents. It must be time to go home.
“Nah.” Grip pulls his leather jacket a little tighter around him. “I’m ready to go back. I’d rather have our friends and family than snow.”
“Maybe you’ll get it tonight. They’re calling for it.”
“I’m not gonna count on it.” He stops in front of a bookstore with a line of people stretching from the door. “We made it, and look, your feet didn’t give out.”
“Very funny.” I lean into his shoulder. “I’m really looking forward to hearing Dr. Hammond.”
Grip’s smile drops, and he glances into the store.
“Yeah, well, Clem Ford may be an ignorant ass bastard, but he’s also smart and tough. Hopefully Iz can hold his own.”
He more than holds his own. I’m astounded by the sharpness of Dr. Hammond’s mind. His thoughts are agile, contorting and twisting to cut Ford off and anticipate his arguments before he makes them. I was impressed when I read his book that impacted Grip, but hearing him in person, I understand why we moved to New York, why this man’s ideas swept through Grip like a hurricane.
Dr. Hammond is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. There is a restrained power to him, to the force of his intellect. Physically, he’s more like a football player than a professor. Six-five or so, he’s not so much wearing the dark blue suit as leashed by it. I can already tell he’d rather be comfortable than fashionable. Picture a younger Idris Elba, and you’ve got Dr. Hammond. His charisma is time-released, fed to you in slow, sneaky doses, slipped to you with a smile that seems like it’s costing him something. His reserved demeanor, which should make him seem aloof, instead pulls you closer. It draws you in and
sits you down to listen. I glance around the bookstore, crowded with his students and readers clutching copies of his book. His deep voice pitches low, and you’re not sure if you’re on the edge of your seat because you’re straining to hear or because what he’s saying is turning the things you thought you knew upside down, but either way, he has you on edge.
In contrast, everything repulsive in this world convenes in Clem Ford. I want to scrub my ears after sitting through an hour of his thinly veiled racist rhetoric. He has a brand of charisma, too, a dark pull, an undertow for bottom feeders.
He has his own supporters here, young students who follow him to the edge of blatant bigotry. As a businessman, he is convincing and astute. Unfortunately, his business is prisons. I never considered that many corporations use prison labor at a fractional cost, and having a large incarcerated population is good for business.
And bad for prisoners.
Ford and Professor Hammond personally dislike one another; it’s apparent from their opening statements and the first questions they take from the audience, standing on opposite shores with an impassable body of water between them. Ford’s ideas are fiscally sound, but morally bankrupt. The professor picks apart each argument methodically, persuading the audience with a formidable grasp of history and philosophy, and a compelling vision for the future.
Grip still isn’t happy about Professor Hammond’s perspective on our relationship, but I read grudging respect in his eyes, a reluctant pride in how well Iz—as he told everyone to call him—represents the issues they’re both committed to. I squeeze his hand, and he turns to look at me.