Malcolm's jaw tightened just slightly. He didn't look up right away. Where coming from the north end, white cover up, hair down. Yes, that's definitely her. Now Malcolm looked and yes, there she was.
Vivian Sinclair moved the way people move when they've spent a lifetime being the most important person in every room, which in her case was simply the truth. She was 39 years old, the CEO of Sinclair Group, one of the most powerful real estate development firms on the East Coast. Her company had acquired four city blocks in downtown Charleston in the past 2 years alone. She sat on three philanthropic boards. She had been featured on the covers of magazines Malcolm had seen in dentist office waiting rooms.
She was also technically his business partner. Three years ago, Sinclair Group had approached Carter Construction about a community revitalization project in North Charleston. The kind of work Malcolm's small firm had been built to do. Restoring neglected housing, retrofitting old buildings, building affordable units in neighborhoods that had been written off by every developer with a fancy suit and a growth portfolio. Malcolm had been skeptical.
Big money and community work had a complicated history. But Vivien had walked into his office, sat down, looked him straight in the eye, and said, "I don't want a photo op. I want actual results. Are you the man to get them or not?" He'd said, "Yes."
3 years later, they had completed four projects together. Two more were in development. They'd been in dozens of meetings on dozens of calls, shared coffee and conference rooms, and argued over contracts, and occasionally, rarely, but occasionally, laughed at something genuinely funny. But it had always been professional. She was the money.
He was the builder. That was the lane. Malcolm had never once let himself think about her in any other way. Partly because she was his biggest client. Partly because she was in a different tax bracket, a different world, a different stratosphere of human experience.
And partly, if he was being honest, which he tried to be, because he had loved his wife Denise, completely and without reservation, and the idea of loving someone like that again felt like something his heart hadn't figured out how to attempt. So professional. That was the lane. What's she doing here? Jerome asked.
Resorts public. She can be wherever she wants. You going to go say hi? She hasn't seen us. Don't make a big thing out of it.
But Jerome was already half out of his chair with his hand raised. And before Malcolm could grab him, Jerome shouted, "Vivian, hey, over here." Malcolm closed his eyes briefly. Lord, give me strength. Viven turned, saw Jerome, smiled, a genuine one, which Malcolm noticed despite himself.
She walked toward them, flip-flops in one hand, sunglasses pushed up on her head. "Jerome Carter," she said, shaking his hand warmly. "Of all the beaches on the eastern seabboard." "Small world, you remember Malcolm?" She turned to him.
"Of course." Her voice was smooth, composed. Malcolm. Vivien. He stood out of habit.