Page 91 of Savage Roses
Most nights I don’t make it home until Leontine herself is seconds away from nodding off. That’s if I make it home at all.
On nights I work too late, I stay in Northam and sleep at my old bachelor pad high-rise apartment, located across from the Northam City Park.
It’s far from easy missing out on so many moments with my wife and kids, but sacrifices must be made when you have career ambitions like mine.
Leontine understands. This is how things have to be for the foreseeable future.
“I see she’s told you about the colors,” my stunning wife says. She sweeps into the kitchen like the graceful swan she was the first night I saw her perform on stage. A genteelness about her but a distinct, unshakeable confidence I’ve always found captivating.
On our first date, Leontine made it known she wasn’t impressed by me or my position as assistant district attorney. In fact, she told me to my face she thought I was a hack who was a part of a corrupt system that criminalized the poor and coddled the rich and powerful.
Every word fell from her ruby red lips as she sat perfectly poised, her tight ballerina bun in place, as she cut up the eggplant Parmesan she had ordered.
What a woman.
My dozen roses meant nothing. My extravagant dinners at five-star restaurants. My many attempts to impress her fell flat.
Yet the more attracted I became. The more I had to have her. Winning over Leontine took me longer than a man of my means and background is used to, but I did it—Iwonher, married her, and she’s given me two incredible children.
Both of whom will go on to carry our legacy.
Leontine pauses to drop a kiss on my mouth and then stroke Delphine’s puffs. Her long, satiny robe billows as she next glides over to Marcel and disregards his attempt to shrug her off. He gets his kiss too, right on his cheek, where he wipes it off with the back of his hand.
“Mom!” he groans.
She laughs, then turns to me. Her eyes twinkle. “Will you be home for dinner tonight?”
“It’s Christmas Eve, isn’t it?”
“It is. But you’re you, and that means more than what day it is.”
I husk out a breath and nod along. “Fair enough. But this year will be different. I promise I’ll be home tonight in time for family dinner. Just the four of us. Then this one can tell me more about the colors.”
Delphine giggles when I tickle her belly. Her grain-sized teeth are still showing as Leontine scoops our effervescent toddler up into her arms. I rise too, easily towering over everything in the room with my dominating height.
“You got this,” Leontine mutters. Her three short words serve as a combination of ‘I love you’, good luck and goodbye every morning.
I kiss her in answer, grateful for the encouragement—and with the silent promise Iwillmake it my mission to be home for dinner tonight.
Battery in my pack, I’m ready to tackle the day.
I’ve begun my campaign for district attorney. In eleven months, I could achieve the dream I’ve been working toward most of my life.
According to a political columnist in theNortham Tribune, it’s mine to lose. I’d have to recklessly involve myself in an illicit scandal or be incompetent enough to fumble a high-profile case at trial to lose my campaign for DA.
Neither of which I plan on doing.
I’ve never been incompetent a day in my life, and I’ve never been stupid enough to be recklessorinvolve myself in scandal.
My record is squeaky clean. As the columnist in theTribunepointed out, I’m Northam city’s Great Black Hope—a breath of fresh air after decades of the same old, same old.
I’ll be the first African American District Attorney, a sign of change and dynamic times to come.
A man of the people.
While my education might be Ivy League and my family itself prestigious, I’m nothing like the many before me. Unlike the others, I’mincorruptible. I’m a family man seeking to clean up the streets and make the city a better place.
I’ll do anything to make that happen. But today, for once, I’ll do anything to make it home on time for Christmas Eve dinner.