Man of Fate. Rochelle Alers

      Kyle made it to the corner and flagged down a passing taxi. He didn’t mind walking in the rain or snow, but not fog. There was something about not being able to see where he was going that was unnerving. Settling into the back seat, he gave the cabbie the address and the cross streets. The weather made it impossible for motorists to go more than a few feet before having to stop for a red light. The cabbie signaled then maneuvered around a bus, tires spinning and slipping on the oil-slick roadway.

      “Slow down, my man,” Kyle called out from the rear of the cab. “I’m not in that much of a hurry.”

      Every Monday he went into the office two hours before his staff arrived to review open cases before their weekly staff meeting. He’d started up his practice sharing a full-and a part-time receptionist and the cost of a cleaning service with Ivan and Duncan. Then he’d added a full-time paralegal, an office manager, a legal secretary and recently, a part-time paralegal who’d once worked as a court stenographer. A former colleague had asked to join the firm as a partner because he, too, had tired of the heavy workload at corporate law firms, but Kyle told him that he would have to get back to him. Jordan Wainwright was a highly skilled litigator, but the question was, did he have the sensitivity to work well with the residents of the Harlem community?

      The cabbie executed another maneuver, prompting Kyle to knock on the partition. “Hey, brother, your tip depends on you getting me to where I want to go looking the same as I did when I got in this taxi.” Thankfully the driver got the message and slowed down. Kyle didn’t want a repeat of Saturday night’s visit to the hospital.

      As promised, he called Ava four hours later, knowing her sleepy, husky voice would send shivers up his spine. There was something about her that had him thinking what his grandmother referred to as “impure thoughts.” Impure or not, Ava Warrick had him thinking about her when he least expected to.

      Reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, he pulled out his cell phone and punched speed dial. The telephone rang three times before he heard her voice.

      “Hello.”

      Kyle smiled. “Good morning, sunshine.”

      “Where are you, Kyle?”

      “Why?”

      “I’m asking because I’m looking out the window and the fog is so heavy I can’t see across the river.”

      “I’m in a cab on my way to work.”

      “Why so early?”

      “I always go in early on Mondays. How are you feeling?” he asked.

      “I’m much better than yesterday,” Ava admitted. “I just have to be careful that I don’t bend over. When I do it feels as if all of the blood in my body is rushing to my head.”

      “Don’t try to do too much too soon.”

      “Okay, Daddy.”

      Kyle frowned. The last thing he wanted to be was her father. “I don’t mean to sound like your—”

      “You could never be my father, Kyle,” Ava snapped, interrupting him.

      “I didn’t mean it that way.”

      There came a beat before Ava said, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. You didn’t deserve that.”

      “Apology accepted. What are you doing for dinner?”

      “I plan to eat leftovers.”

      “Forget about the leftovers. I’ll bring dinner.”

      “You don’t have to, Kyle.”

      He smiled. “But I want to. What don’t you eat?”

      There came another pause. “I don’t like yellow squash,” Ava admitted.

      Kyle laughed. “I’ll be certain to leave it off the menu. Expect me sometime after six.”

      “I’ll be here waiting.”

      I’ll be here waiting. Ava’s promise was etched in his mind even after he ended the call. Kyle knew he wanted to see her again as much to see if she was all right as to assuage his curiosity about a woman who piqued his interest in a way no one had in a very long time.

      She wasn’t as beautiful as some of the women he’d dated, yet she claimed her own special beauty that he found irresistible. She was outspoken, a trait he admired in a woman, and she was intelligent, something that was requisite for any woman with whom he found himself involved.

      “You can let me out here,” Kyle instructed the driver. He handed him a bill, exited the cab and sprinted the short distance to the brownstone. The three-story structure had come with twelve rooms, nine of them bedrooms, as well as four bathrooms and multiple fireplaces.

      Kyle, Ivan and Duncan had hired an architect to reconfigure the nineteenth-century landmark structure from personal to business use. They’d added an elevator and the vestibule was expanded into a waiting area with comfortable leather furniture, wall-mounted flat-screen televisions and potted plants. During the winter months a fire roared around the clock in the huge fireplaces.

      Duncan’s financial planning firm occupied the first floor, Kyle’s law practice the second and Ivan’s psychotherapy practice was on the third. The street-level space was transformed to include a gym with showers, a modern state-of-the-art kitchen, a dining room and a game room.

      Kyle climbed the stairs to the entrance, unlocked the front door and disarmed the alarm. Closing the stained-glass doors behind him, he reset the alarm and took the stairs to the second floor instead of the elevator. He was seated behind his desk, perusing a case file when his legal secretary stuck her head through the partially opened door.

      “Good morning, Kyle.”

      He glanced up, smiling. Cherise Robinson’s neatly braided sandy-brown hair framed a light brown face with an abundance of freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. Her cheeks were bright red, which meant she’d spent some time in the sun.

      Cherise had come highly recommended by an elderly neighborhood attorney who’d suffered a mild stroke. On the advice of his wife and doctor, the attorney had decided to retire. Kyle hired the man’s legal secretary, paralegal and office manager. Not only had the three worked together for many years, but they knew the ins and outs of a legal practice.

      “Good morning, Cherise.”

      “What time is this morning’s staff meeting?”

      He glanced at the clock on the credenza. It was eight-fifty. “Is everyone here?” Although usually easygoing, Kyle was finicky when it came to being punctual. He allowed for the occasional bus or subway delays, but not the mundane excuses of oversleeping or broken alarm clocks. He paid his employees well and expected nothing short of perfection from them.

      “All present and accounted for.”

      “Tell them we’re meeting at nine-thirty.”

      She nodded. “I’ll let everyone know.”

      Kyle returned his attention to the file