Man of Fantasy. Rochelle Alers

      Ivan found his mind drifting. He had to read the same paragraph twice. He taught two classes: Clinical Use of Free Association and Dreams, and Multicultural Psychology.

      The first course explored psychoanalysis dating back to Freud’s study of his own patients’ dreams. Course work included the introduction to current theories about dreams, empirical research on dreams and clinical work with dreams. Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams was required reading.

      Leaning back from the desk, he stood and stretched his arms over his head. He’d spent the past four hours reading the papers of college students who, if their lives depended upon it, couldn’t type a simple sentence with the correct subject and predicate agreement.

      He walked out of his home office at the same time the phone rang. Retracing his steps, he picked up the receiver on the wall phone. “Hello.”

      “Ivan Campbell?”

      His eyebrows lifted when the soft female voice came through the earpiece. “This is he.”

      “This is Nayo.”

      A smile tilted the corners of his mouth as Ivan sat on the edge of the mahogany desk. “How are you, Nayo?” He’d met her for the first time Friday evening and he hadn’t expected to hear from her just two days later.

      “I’m good. Thank you for asking. I’m calling because I’ve found quite a few prints I believe would interest you.”

      “Are they of bridges?”

      “I have bridges and landscapes. However, before you see them I’d like to come and take a look at your home.”

      “When would you like to come?”

      “My days and hours are flexible, so I’ll leave that up to you.”

      Ivan glanced at the desk clock. It was minutes before noon and he had to correct two more papers before tomorrow. He taught classes on Monday and Wednesday. “I have some time this afternoon.”

      “Where do you live?”

      He gave Nayo his address. “Where do you live?”

      Nayo’s tingling laugh came through the earpiece. “I’m within walking distance of you.”

      “Where do you live, Nayo?” Ivan asked again.

      “I’ll tell when I see you.”

      “When should I expect you?”

      There came a pause. “I’ll be over in half an hour.”

      “Have you—” Ivan’s words trailed off when he heard Nayo had hung up. He’d just replaced the receiver when the phone rang again. “Nayo?”

      “Sorry, brother, but I’m not Nayo.”

      “DG, what’s up?”

      “Don’t plan anything for the first week in June.”

      A slight furrow appeared between Ivan’s eyes. “What’s going on, Duncan?”

      “Tamara and I are getting married, and I’d like for you to be my best man.”

      Ivan went completely still. It was the second time in two months that one of his best friends had announced he was getting married. He’d met Duncan Gilmore and Kyle Chatham when they were in the same second-grade class. They also lived in the same building in a public housing complex. The three had become closer than brothers, watching one another’s back. Even when Duncan’s mother died and he went to live with an aunt in Brooklyn, they’d never lost touch.

      Kyle and Duncan were there for him when he lost his twin brother, they attended one another’s graduations, offered a shoulder when a somewhat-serious relationship ended and now, at thirty-nine, they’d fulfilled a childhood dream to own a brownstone in their Harlem neighborhood. All had worked hard to stay out of trouble when the streets had been a seductive siren, beckoning them into what would become a life of fast and easy money—and prison or certain death.

      Kyle had become a lawyer, working as a corporate attorney before deciding to set up a private practice. Duncan, or DG, had made millions for clients at a Wall Street investment firm, while quietly amassing a modest fortune with his own investments.

      Everything changed for Duncan when his fiancée died in the bombing of the World Trade Center. Finding himself at a crossroads, he retreated from the frenzied world of Wall Street banking and investing to set up his own company.

      Ivan’s career also underwent a transformation when the Washington, D.C., mental-health foundation he’d headed for years lost its funding. Ivan transferred his private patients to another therapist, sold his Georgetown home and returned to his Harlem roots.

      “First the lovebug bit Kyle, now you, DG? What’s going on?”

      “It’s all good, Ivan. I never thought I’d find someone I could love after losing Kali, but I was wrong. And I have you to thank for that.”

      “You came to me as a patient and not a friend, so I told you what I tell all my patients, given your circumstances. Now you and Tamara are planning a wedding.”

      “You didn’t answer my question, Ivan.”

      “What’s that?”

      “Will you be my best man?”

      “Of course I’ll be your best man, DG.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Where’s the wedding?” Ivan asked. Kyle and Ava Warwick had planned a Valentine’s Day wedding in Puerto Rico.

      “It’ll be in New York. Tamara and I decided to have it on one of the yachts that sail along the Hudson River.”

      “I’ll make certain to block out the first week in June. Congratulations and give Tamara my best.”

      “I’ll tell her.”

      “Have you told Kyle you’re getting married?” Ivan asked.

      “I just spoke to him. He said we should set up an MNO at least once a month.”

      Ivan smiled. “Are you certain your woman will allow you a men’s night out?” he teased.

      “You’re talking crazy, brother. Are you equating marriage with being on lockdown? I think you’ve been dating the wrong women.”

      “It’s not about dating the wrong women, DG. It’s just that I don’t want to commit to one woman.”

      There was an uncomfortable silence before Duncan said, “You should try it, Ivan. At least once before you get too old.”

      “On that note, I’m going to hang up on you, Duncan. Are you going into the office tomorrow?”

      “No. Tamara’s off tomorrow, so we’re going to look at rings.”

      “Let me know when you both have the same weekend off, because I’d like to host a party for you.”

      “I know you’re not cooking, Ivan.”

      “Very funny, DG,” he sneered. “Just because I don’t grill that well doesn’t mean I can’t cook.”

      Duncan’s