Page 11 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
He laughs. “Why? Is it working now?” His eyes search my face, still trying to place me.
“I couldn’t say. It might only encourage you further, and you have bad opinions.”
His mouth opens with shock, but I can tell he enjoys this sparring. And perhaps I do too.
I focus on filling my plate with deviled eggs and crudités. We reach the charcuterie board of salami roses, cubed cheese, and artfully displayed grapes. I pluck a few with tongs as his questions continue. “So, Vivian, what do you write?”
“A bit of this and that.”
“I’m sure it’s more than that, given your spirited defense of Jimi Ireland.”
“I may have done a bit of travel writing.”
He grins, his dimples revealing themselves, and drops a few slices of rolled salami on his plate. “Where?”
I pause, as always, my brain doing its usual dance as I decide how much truth to share. “My last piece, outside of my column forThe Savannah Tribune, was on the Dahomey in Benin and was published inThe Atlantic.”
“Wait. Are youtheVivian ... Edwards?” His eyebrows practically reach his forehead, and he almost drops the tongs into the cheese dip.
“Are you going to call my writing naive too? I’ll save you the trouble,” I say.
Sebastian sets his plate down. His eyes are hopeful, his grin earnest. “All right, let’s have it out. I suppose you take umbrage with my findings?”
“I think you don’tseeas much as you think you do.”
He straightens, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. “I have read, studied, and collected the travel writings of Black people spanning from the present to post-antebellum. I’ve seen a lot.”
“Hardly.” The word slips out, unleashing a flood. “You seem to believe people like Jimi Ireland should’ve woven suffering and pain into their experiences of the world, their travels. Why can’t they enjoy walking along the beach without drawing attention to ragged stones that may have left behind a cut on their feet?” The thrill of arguing with him sends a surge through me.
“Then what is the truth? Is life simply wonderful? Are we supposed to lie? Wrap our legacies in pretty bows and ignore the rot?” he says. “Our community owes the next generation more than that.”
“Owe?” My voice raises, and for the first time I realize everyone around us is watching and listening.
He notices, too, then leans forward to whisper, “Maybe we should continue this conversation in my office. I want to show you something.”
Unable to resist the urge to prove him wrong, I agree. This is providing a wonderful distraction from anticipating Death’s arrival.
He beams. “Just give me a second with the dean, and we can talk in my office.” He juggles his plate and lecture notes while walking over to her.
I stand by the door, my pulse fluttering at my wrists. Running into Sebastian twice in one day is a bit too lucky, but I’m curious about the coincidences.
All too soon, he is back at my side. “Ready?”
His office is three floors up from the auditorium. The buzz of the hall fades as he escorts me into the elevator. His cologne wraps itself around me. The energy of our argument was electric, but something about being in close quarters with him feels like the quiet before a storm, only I am not yet sure which one of us is the storm.
His office is at the end of the hall. He fumbles with the keys, then welcomes me inside as he clicks on the lights. He sets his plate and papers on the desk next to a thick leather journal. “Forgive the mess. I’m still getting settled in.”
I sink into the chair opposite his and admire every detail. “Nothing to forgive. It gives me time to admire the art.” I gesture at the largepainting that dominates the wall between the windows. It’s a sketch of a man’s face in black ink, the eyes piercing as he gazes at you, direct and knowing.
Sebastian smiles.
His large brown desk anchors the office, with a plush navy couch on the left side and a textured orange carpet running underneath. The open shelves above reveal his diplomas, awards, and a jaunty plant with the name “Lennox” Sharpied on its pot, its leaves trailing down. A large bookshelf covers the right side of the office, half filled with books, four cardboard boxes stacked underneath, half unpacked. Several books are familiar from my own shelves at home, and some are on my to-be-read list. Everything in the space says he’s intelligent, curious, and well read.
He sits across from me, fidgeting with a pen. “So where were we?”
“You were about to lose our argument?” I sit back in the chair.
“Oh, was I?”
