Hidden Memories Read online

  Sage studied their identifications, making sure their faces matched the photos on the badges.

  “He’s put on some weight since then,” the younger white agent said, referring to his partner’s expanding girth. He was all-around average in height, weight and looks. His bright-red hair was his distinguishing feature.

  Sage responded to their humor with a thin smile. “Have a seat, Gentlemen.”

  “No thanks,” the black agent said, stepping closer to the bed. “I’m Agent Jim Bennett and this is Agent Ron Davis.”

  Sage nodded. “You apparently know who I am.”

  “Yes, Ms. Kennedy, and we’re sorry that you were hurt in the explosion. It can be a traumatic experience.”

  Sage nodded. “I’m okay. I’m going to be released tomorrow.”

  “We’re trying to find the persons responsible, so we need to ask you some questions if you’re up to it,” Agent Bennett said, removing a notebook from his jacket pocket.

  “Sure,” Sage said, while adjusting the bed to an upright position.

  “What time did you leave your office?” Bennett asked.

  “We left about eight fifteen,” Sage said, thinking about the ten-minute diversion in the elevator. She would never tell them about that.

  “You left with Ramion Sandidge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see or hear anything as you were leaving?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Ramion came into the office and we talked for a few minutes. I was about to leave, but if Ramion hadn’t come when he did…” she said, her voice dropping with the reality of her words. She paused briefly and said, “I might have stayed longer.”

  “When you walked down the hall to the elevator, did you notice anything?” Agent Bennett asked.

  “I told the security guard that we were leaving. I heard him radio to somebody that he was securing the floor.”

  “Did you hear or smell anything unusual?” the younger officer interjected.

  Her dark brows drawn together, Sage pondered the question for a minute. “No.”

  “What about in the elevator? Did you see or hear anything?” Agent Davis probed.

  “No,” Sage said.

  Both FBI agents took notes as they questioned Sage. “We’re aware of the threats Mr. Hudson has received since the campaign,” Bennett said. “In recent days, have you received more threats or anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No. We got a lot of threatening letters in the beginning, but then they tapered off. Every time the media reports that Cameron is narrowing the lead, we get a bunch of hate mail. A special security team has been assigned to protect Cameron during the campaign,” Sage said. Suddenly thirsty, she reached for the pitcher of water on the bedside table and poured herself a cup.

  “We know about them,” Bennett said, nodding. “We’ll be working with the security team and the ATF during this investigation.”

  “Can you tell me any details?” Sage asked.

  “We don’t have anything substantial,” the black agent said. “We’re following up on different leads.”

  “Even the ones that might not seem important,” Agent Davis said.

  “It’s unbelievable what some people will do,” Sage said, then took a sip of water.

  “Believe me, we want to catch this person,” Agent Davis said.

  “Or persons,” Bennett said.

  “Persons?” Sage queried with a raised brow.

  “Usually there’s more than one person involved in something like this,” Agent Bennett said. “We’ll be in touch. Be careful, Ms. Kennedy.”

  * * * * *

  “Darling, I’m so glad you’re all right,” Cameron Hudson said as he entered Sage’s house. He hugged his campaign manager, relieved to see for himself that Sage had recovered from her injuries. A large man with the massive body of a football player, Cameron’s wide, fudge-brown face, darkly chiseled features melted like chocolate as he smiled warmly at Sage.

  They stood in the open two-story foyer of Sage’s designer-styled house in an upscale Atlanta neighborhood. “Come in,” Sage said, and led Cameron through her living room into the kitchen, passing Romare Bearden and William Tolliver paintings that hung on the wall. Two of her father’s paintings were displayed in the living room, and her favorite painting by him hung over her bed.

  “Lady Day,” Cameron said when he heard Billie Holiday’s distinctive voice singing “Strange Fruit”.

  “She’s one of my favorite singers, although this song isn’t my favorite.” Shrugging her shoulders, Sage said, “Maybe it’s my mood. Years ago they hung people on trees, now they blow people up.”

  “Billie Holiday knew what she was singing about. She couldn’t get away from racism. She would perform in places that would let her entertain them onstage, but not allow her to sit in the audience.”

  “I know,” Sage said, turning off the stereo. “Thanks for the beautiful flowers. As a matter of fact, they’re on the table in the dining room.”

  “Sarah sends her love. Jessica and C.J. wanted to come see you, but they’re in school.”

  “They’re so sweet,” Sage said, referring to Cameron’s two children.

  “I want you to know how grateful I am for all the hard work you’ve done on my campaign,” Cameron said, sitting down at the kitchen table. “I credit you with making me a serious contender.”

  Sage had been at the press conference when Cameron declared his candidacy for governor of Georgia. She’d baited opponent US Senator Baker into debating Cameron after mailing a fact sheet about the senator’s questionable voting record. She’d steered the campaign back to the political issues when race became the divisive focus of the campaign. She’d garnered national attention with a massive voter registration drive, registering thousands of never-registered voters and reactivating nonvoting registrants. And, she’d managed to get key political support from local and national figures.

  “I know.” Sage smiled and, embarrassed, changed the subject. “I think Senator Baker is tired of denying responsibility for the bombing.”

  “I don’t think he’s responsible. That’s not his style. He’s too arrogant. He considers the governorship his birthright, and he doesn’t believe for a second that he needs to scare people away from the polls to keep me from winning.”

  “I suppose,” Sage said. “Anyway, I feel better knowing that the polling places will be secured, but you have to know the National Guard presence could deter voters.”

  “I can’t take any chances. The FBI has several leads, but nothing concrete.”

  “I’m just glad they’re treating this bombing seriously,” Sage said, and took a seat across from Cameron. She opened up two folders. “Here’s the information you need for your meeting with Rupert Williams, as well as your speech for the NAACP. Marika’s working on your schedule.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you’re following doctor’s orders,” Cameron said.

  “We’re too close, Cam. If Baker agrees, we’re going to reschedule the debate for next Sunday. The consultants will be here Tuesday to start coaching you.”

  * * * * *

  Sage’s telephone rang three times before rolling over to electronic voice mail. She didn’t answer the phone. She didn’t want to be disturbed. But whoever was calling was insistent. As soon as the phone stopped after the third ring, it started its insistent peal again. When it began ringing for the tenth time in less than ten minutes, Sage finally picked up the phone. “Hello,” she said, irritation in her voice.

  No one responded.

  “Hello,” Sage repeated. “Who is this?”

  “Sage?” The voice was tentative and fragile; it was strange and unfamiliar. But Sage knew the voice. It was the same anxious voice, resonant with undertones of suppressed emotion, that she’d heard the last time she saw her mother.

  “Mama?” Sage asked. She hadn’t expected to hear her voice. She hadn’t spoken to her mother since she graduated from college.

  “Thank goodness y
ou’re all right,” Audra Hicks said, her voice high-strung and nervous. “When I heard you were in the building that blew up, my heart stopped.”

  “I wasn’t in the building. I was…”

  “I’ve been so worried about you,” Audra said, not hearing Sage. “I’ve been trying to reach you to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I talked to Ava. She knows I was released from the hospital two days ago.”

  “She told me, but I had to hear your voice for myself.”

  “I’m fine, Mama,” Sage said. “As a matter of fact, I’ll be going back to work tomorrow.”

  “You be careful. It sounds so dangerous down there. Doesn’t seem the South has changed much.”

  Sage wasn’t in the mood for a new-South-still-the-old-South conversation. “I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s so good to hear your voice,” Audra said, her own voice wrapped in deep emotions.

  Sage didn’t repeat her mother’s words; she didn’t share the sentiment. She struggled with long-buried feelings that now bubbled up and nearly choked her.

  “I want to come see you,” Audra said, hesitantly, nervously. “It’s been so long. Too long since we’ve seen each other.”

  “This is not a good time,” Sage said. Memories of the hollow, aching loneliness of her childhood flitted through her mind, memories that had begun when her father died. “I’ll be very busy with the election.”

  “I’m coming to Atlanta for an assembly. I thought maybe we could have dinner.” The words rolled out hurriedly, as if Audra needed to get them said before her nerve deserted her.

  Sage searched for a reason to refuse her. She didn’t want to dredge up old feelings. She’d worked too hard to keep them buried inside. She reached for her Day-Timer, flipping through the pages. “When are you going to be here?”

  “Next Thursday through Sunday.”

  “I don’t know,” Sage said doubtfully, scanning her busy calendar.

  “Please, Butterfly. It’s been too long,” Audra insisted.

  Satchel Kennedy instantly flashed in Sage’s mind and the warmest emotions filled her soul. She closed her eyes for a moment, picturing her father’s warm smile. He’d called her Butterfly, sometimes Sweet Butterfly.

  “We could have dinner on Friday,” Sage said, her voice carefully nonchalant.

  “Oh, that would be so wonderful,” Audra said merrily. “I can’t wait to see you.”

  “I’ll see you next week, Mama,” Sage said before hanging up the phone. She stared blankly at the papers spread out on the kitchen table, then got up from the table and walked into her bedroom. She stood in the doorway, staring at her father’s painting hanging over her bed—a bright, colorful painting of butterflies flitting about a beautiful garden.

  Chapter Two

  “It looks like people coming together, united by forces they don’t understand,” Sage said, peering up at the huge painting hanging on the wall of La Touissant Art Gallery.

  “No, it’s about an uprising. Maybe in a small country or island. See, their hoes and picks are their weapons; they’re about to fight against their oppressors,” Ramion said.

  Sage narrowed her olive eyes at Ramion, amazed that his interpretation was so different from hers. “But the expressions on their faces are hopeful.” Pointing, Sage said, “Look at that woman, the lady with her eyes closed. She’s relieved that there’s going to be peace. She’s trying to connect with the force or something spiritual.”

  Ramion smiled slightly, enjoying their debate, a welcome change from courtroom arguments and statements. “I think she’s scowling. She’s tired and defeated,” Ramion said, scrutinizing the texturized painting of islanders standing in a field with a majestic waterfall in the background. “Look at the picture on the other wall,” Ramion said, indicating a similar painting on the other side of the spacious gallery. “It’s by the same artist.” Turning back to Sage, he said smugly, “Its theme is revolution.”

  “It’s not a revolution. See, they’re holding something in their hands.” Chuckling, Sage said, “They’re waving voter registration cards.”

  Ramion laughed and unconsciously rubbed Sage’s arm with his hands.

  Tawny Touissant, the owner of the art gallery, overheard Sage’s remark. “Girl, you can’t get your mind off the election, can you?”

  “What can I say? The election is next week. I’m a bundle of nerves. I shouldn’t even be here,” Sage said. “It’s been wicked.”

  “Relax, girlfriend. I’m just glad you weren’t badly hurt by that bomb! Still no word on who did it?”

  “Nothing,” Sage said. “I try not to think about it too much.”

  “Well, Cameron is going to win in spite of the bombing,” Tawny said with the earnest enthusiasm she showered on the artists she represented.

  “Baker is holding a narrow lead,” Sage said.

  “So? It can change tomorrow. You know, politics is a lot like art. Everyone has his or her own perception. Think of yourself as an artist who painted Cameron’s image. Election Day will be the debut of your artist’s work. The votes are the bids people make on the paintings. The person with the highest bid wins.”

  “That’s an interesting analogy, Tawny,” Ramion said.

  “I never quite thought about it like that,” Sage said, her voice husky with hope.

  “What are you wearing?” Ramion asked Tawny. “You look like a…”

  “Lamppost,” Tawny said, giggling about her black jumpsuit and funky high-top black-and-white hat. “I can’t paint a damn thing, Ramion, so my creative expression comes through in my funky fashion style. I heard you all talking about Medu’s painting. Believe me, it’s not that deep… Ah, here he is now,” Tawny said, waving her hand in a beckoning motion toward the man who’d just entered the room.

  The artist approached with a friendly smile and a nod of greeting at Sage and Ramion.

  “Medu, I’d like you to meet my friends, Sage Kennedy and Ramion Sandidge.”

  Medu shook Ramion’s hand and turned to greet Sage. “Delighted,” he said, his melodious accent revealing his Haitian heritage. “So you like this one?”

  “They were just discussing it. They think it’s about a revolution,” Tawny said with a conspiratory laugh.

  Medu joined Tawny’s laughter, stroking his tightly curled beard that covered half his face. “It’s a celebration…a holiday that we take midday.”

  “I certainly didn’t see that,” Ramion said, glancing at the painting with a new perspective.

  “I don’t think many people do. I love listening to people’s interpretation of my work,” Medu said. “I like tapping people’s emotions.”

  “That’s what I love about this business,” Tawny said. “I’m not an artist, but it’s fun to watch people’s reactions.” She hosted openings that went beyond the meet-the-artist-and-have-some-white-wine receptions. Located in the Virginia-Highland area in a turn-of-the-century house, her openings were real events bordering on theater or performance art.

  “These two paintings always spark controversy. Either people see…” Medu’s sentence was cut off when a pair of lips grazed his. He responded to the succulent pleasure of Edwinna Williamson’s provocative kiss.

  “Hello, baby,” Edwinna purred to Medu. Her cinnamon-brown face glowed with regal pride that bordered on arrogance. Not a trace of embarrassment showed in her deep-set black eyes and sly smile.

  “Hey,” Medu said with an embarrassed smile. “Everyone, this is Edwinna Williamson.”

  “We all know each other,” Edwinna said. “Hello, Tawny. Sage.” With a provocative grin, she said, “I know Ramion very well,” staring deeply into Ramion’s dark eyes.

  “Ah, that Ramion. I didn’t make the connection. You two were once together. But we’ve changed partners. It’s a good thing we’re not friends, eh, Ramion?” Medu said, laughing lightly.

  “Medu is most direct,” Tawny said with an uncomfortable giggle.

  “We’re all adults,” Medu said, casually shrugg
ing his shoulders.

  “Daddy tells me you’re leaving us,” Edwinna said to Ramion.

  Surprised that Edwinna had learned so quickly of his conversation with her father only hours before, Ramion stepped closer to Sage as if to protect her from Edwinna’s revelation. He saw the bewildered look pass through Sage’s eyes, then disappear as it was replaced by an expression of curious interest.

  “News travels fast,” Ramion said, hoping that Sage wouldn’t be angry that he hadn’t told her about resigning from the law firm founded by Edwinna’s father. Under Edwin Williamson’s tutelage, Ramion had gone from junior attorney to senior partner in five years. His resignation would take him from the empowered embrace of Edwin to the unchartered waters of a career with a new law firm. The prospect still unnerved him.

  “I’m surprised. You never expressed interest in working for a bigger firm,” Edwinna said, reprovingly.

  “I just never shared that information with you,” Ramion responded.

  “I guess congratulations are in order,” Tawny said, sensing the negative vibes in the air.

  “Thanks, Tawny,” Ramion said.

  Noticing the crowd converging at the receptionist’s desk, Tawny said, “Excuse me, folks. I’ve got some people to greet.” As she walked away, she added, “Help yourself to the food. Thanks for coming.”

  Medu filled the awkward silence that followed Tawny’s departure. “Sage and Ramion were discussing this painting. Ramion thought it was about a political uprising, and Sage…”

  Not interested in hearing Sage’s opinions, Edwinna interrupted, “Ramion would think that. He’s very focused. And politics are very much on his mind.”

  “Given that the election is next week, I think it’s on a lot of people’s minds,” Sage said.

  “And that explosion,” Medu said. “You’re very fortunate you weren’t seriously hurt.”

  Edwinna ignored that and turned the topic back to Ramion. “Speaking of politics, Ramion has big plans to run for the state senate. Or have you changed your mind about that too?” she asked, expressing remnants of anger for the way Ramion had ended their relationship. She’d always known that he didn’t love her, but she’d intended to change his feelings. Edwinna despised Sage for robbing her of the opportunity to stake a claim on Ramion’s heart.