What Happens After Hours
Автор
Kianna Alexander
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20
One
As her jet-black SUV crept down Ralph McGill Boulevard Northeast, Cambria Harding gazed at the scenery rolling by from her comfortable perch on the back seat. The dark tint on the windows allowed her a look at her old stomping grounds while protecting her from the prying eyes of others. When she’d first begun traveling this way, in her black leather cocoon with a personal bodyguard and driver, she’d felt strange about it. But years in the music business had taught her much, and now she knew exactly why such measures were necessary to ensure she traveled safely.
The historic Old Fourth Ward neighborhood of Atlanta had morphed into something different than she remembered, yet was still recognizable. As they moved along the tree-lined streets, navigating through the thick traffic, she saw the new condominium developments dotting the landscape, towering over the older, more modest homes that had been around since her youth. There were businesses, both established and budding. Pedestrians strolled the sidewalks, some walking dogs of various breeds, and others simply striding toward some unknown destination.
She sighed. It feels so good to be back here and not be working. She’d done three separate shows in the metro Atlanta area over the past year, but she hadn’t had time to chill on any of those occasions.
The last seven months had been filled with nonstop work: interviews, recording, photo shoots, and a multicity national tour that had taken her from Maine to Los Angeles and countless places in between. Exhaustion seemed too inadequate a word to describe how she felt.
A month of recuperation and spending some quality time with my granny is just what I need. “We’re close, aren’t we, Greg?” There was just enough new construction around her to make her question their exact location in relation to Granny Pearl’s house.
Her driver and main bodyguard laughed, his deep chuckle filling the cabin. “Yeah. But you know how Atlanta traffic is.” Gregory Alford, a native of Raleigh, North Carolina, had been a professional wrestler in the early aughts. Since retiring from his days as “Captain Crusher” a few years ago, he’d been putting his particular set of skills to good use by keeping overzealous fans out of her personal space.
The ringing of her phone grabbed her attention, and she slid it from the pocket of her jeans. Glancing at the screen, she swiped it to answer. “Blaine Woodson. Haven’t heard from you in forever.”
“That’s because I know you stay busy, Cambria.” His deep chuckle rumbled around her. “Where are you?”
“Actually, I’m in the A. Just pulled into town a couple of hours ago.”
“Your timing is impeccable. My little brother Miles is doing a charity event, and he wants you to consider being a part of it.”
Cambria tilted her head to the right. “Okay, but why didn’t he call me?”
“He asked me to, since he doesn’t know you that well.” He paused. “Listen, my brother can be kind of...intense. But he’s really passionate about his work to make life better for Black people in the city, especially the kids. I know it would mean a lot if you’d help him out.”
She drew in a breath, considering his request. “Well, I’m technically on vacation. But I’m down. It is for the kids, after all. Just have him get in contact with me, and we’ll go from there.”
“Bet. Thanks, Cambria. Good looking out.”
“Anything for an old friend,” she teased, emphasizing the word old.
“Since you’re doing me a favor, I’ma let that slide.”
A few moments later she disconnected the call.
Another twenty minutes passed before the SUV finally came to a stop at the curb in front of the old but sturdy bungalow. As Greg helped her out of the truck, she inhaled the cool early September air, adjusted the dark shades over her eyes and stepped onto the wide wooden porch.
Before Greg could knock, the wooden door swung open, and a smiling face appeared behind the screen door. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite niece.” Lisa Harding, Cambria’s youngest aunt and Granny’s full-time caregiver, was only five years older than her. Lisa was dressed casually in black sweatpants and a white T-shirt, with a black-and-white-patterned scarf wrapped around the crown of her head. The blond ends of her shoulder-length bob hung from beneath the wrap.
Lisa opened the door wider and Greg swept Cambria inside the house. Once they were safely inside, Cambria drew a deep breath, inhaling the spicy scent of eucalyptus as she removed her sunglasses. “You’re running the diffuser, huh?”
Lisa nodded. “When the weather turns cool, you know Mama wouldn’t have it any other way.” She chuckled. “That thing runs continuously from September to April.” She reached out for Greg’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “Always good to see you, Greg. Thanks for keeping our Sugar Plum safe.”
He gave the same stoic salute he used to give when entering the ring as Captain Crusher. “She’s easily the best boss ever, Ms. Lisa.”
Greg took a seat on the worn beige sofa in the living room, as he always did when he brought Cambria to her grandmother’s house, and the two women made their way to the back bedroom that Lisa had transformed into a combination sewing/TV room.
The low buzz of the sewing machine needle filled the space, but stopped as Pearl Radford Harding glanced in their direction. Seated in the old Queen Anne chair by the sewing table, she had been hard at work joining two quilt squares. A smile tilted her lips. “Sugar Plum. You made it.”
Cambria moved to her grandmother’s side and bent low, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Hey, Gran. How are you feeling?”
“Much better now that my baby is home.” Pearl gave Cambria’s waist a squeeze. “How was the trip?”
She stood again, grinning. “I took a private jet, so everything was great until Greg and I hit that famous Atlanta traffic. I swear, that’s one thing about the city I just don’t miss.”
Lisa, leaning against the doorframe, added, “Every time I get stuck on that parking lot we call I-85, I fantasize about all the other places I could be living.”
Taking a seat on Gran’s beige easy chair, Cambria spent a moment enjoying the feel of being home. This room had once been her bedroom, but she certainly didn’t begrudge her grandmother the space now. She owned three properties, one here in Atlanta, one in Denver, and one in a swanky suburb of Las Vegas, far removed from her parents’ place in Reno.
The passing thought of her parents, with their Bible-thumping, sanctified attitudes and general disapproval of every life choice she’d ever made, was such a bitter one that she immediately pushed it away.
The sewing machine began to hum again and Lisa slipped out, leaving Cambria to enjoy Granny Pearl’s company. “So, Gran, what’s been happening around here since I’ve been on tour?”
“Let’s see.” She moved the fabric along the machine’s plate with slow but deft hands, never taking her eyes off her work as she spoke. “Reverend Yarborough retired last month. We’ve got a new pastor now named Reverend Farmer. Nice young man, got a wife and a lil baby girl.”
Cambria listened intently as her grandmother regaled her with all the gossip from church, her book club, and some of the locals Cambria had gone to high school with. When her grandmother mentioned her old singing partners, Eden and Ainsley, Cambria stopped her. “What’s happening with them, Gran?”
“I said they both done married into the Woodson family. Eden married the producer you worked with, what’s his name? Bart? Blake?”
“Blaine,” Cambria interjected with a laugh.
“Yeah, him. Anyway, Ainsley married the other one, the one that runs the equipment and all that.”
“Gage.” She clearly remembered her interactions with all the Woodson siblings, even though so much time had passed.
“Yep, that sounds right. Anyway, they ’bout to have a gala at the end of the year, to celebrate thirty-five years in business. And that last brother, you know, the young one? He’s been doing a whole lot of good work around here.”
Cambria nodded, thinking back to the phone call she’d received. “So I’ve heard.”
What kind of work is Miles doing? And how do I play into it?
Guess there’s only one way to find out.
Seated behind his desk in his office at 404 Sound, Miles Woodson leaned forward, investigating the printed financial report he’d just received from the company’s staff accountant. Scratching his chin, he reread the line of numbers he’d already read twice. Unfortunately, the numbers remained unchanged.
Profits on studio time are down 4 percent from August. He cringed, thinking of the recent expenditure for the new digital audio workstation now in use in Studio One, as well as the cost of the new soundproofing foam that had been added to both recording booths. Then there was the reflooring of the C-Suite to consider. And while he loved the new beige tile that had replaced the dingy nineties carpet in his office, he knew there would need to be some belt-tightening if profits didn’t improve soon.
He shuffled around in his desk drawer for a bit, until he found the midyear report that had numbers from January to June on it. After studying it, he found a promising trend that gave him hope things would turn around.
Signing off on the August report and setting the papers aside, he got up and walked to his bookshelf. Locating the 404 Cares Community Foundation binder, he returned to his desk and began flipping the pages.
He frowned, noting the 22 percent drop in donations to the foundation over the last two quarters. Outside of his duties as chief financial officer for the family’s recording studio business, he was also president of the company’s charitable foundation. 404 Cares owned a small building two blocks away from the offices and studio, where Miles and a small staff made up of volunteers from within the company and students from local universities offered classes, entertainment and enrichment opportunities for local youth. One of his pet programs was Mindful Mediation and Self-Defense, which taught young people how to resolve their conflicts without violence, and to defend themselves if violence ever paid them a visit.
If I don’t raise some money soon, I’ll have to start cutting programming at the center. He wanted to avoid that if at all possible, and would even be willing to dip into his own pockets to do so. Hopefully, this talent show will be a smashing success.
He closed the binder, opened his laptop and clicked on the browser. Navigating to the home page of the local newspaper, he skimmed the weather report and the top stories displayed there. His eyes were drawn to a story about poverty among Atlanta’s Black citizenry. Sipping from the blueberry protein shake in the tumbler on his desk, he read the article straight through, troubled by the statistics it mentioned. Joblessness, underemployment and hunger were running rampant in parts of the city where the population was mostly Black. And while so-called “urban renewal” had brought huge profits to some, many communities of color remained underserved and in some cases forgotten by the lawmakers charged with representing their interests.
He shook his head. This is exactly why I do the work I do.
On a new tab, he navigated to Sweet Peach Tea Report, one of the city’s most popular yet shady gossip blogs. He scrolled down the home page, praying he wouldn’t see his family or company mentioned. His prayer went unanswered, though, because he found an article about a third of the way down titled “404 Sound: Scandal Central.”
Rolling his eyes, he clicked on the headline and opened the article. As he read the first few lines, he could feel his jaw tightening.
“404 Sound, the city’s most legendary recording studio, owned by the wealthy and well-connected Woodson family, has seen more than its share of messy situations recently. Between rumors of an outside child fathered by the family patriarch, and this summer’s in-studio brawl where two New York rappers threw hands like girls throw panties onstage at a Tank concert, it’s beginning to look like the family business may not be as squeaky clean as we once thought.”
Groaning aloud, Miles closed the tab. A brief internet search of the company name pulled up five other similar articles, one of which appeared in the New York Post.
Well, that’s enough internet for today.
He closed the laptop and slid it away from him. He couldn’t ever remember 404 receiving this much negative attention before, and he certainly couldn’t imagine it happening at a worse time. They’d had their share of slipups and mistakes, like the recent lost equipment debacle that thankfully hadn’t made its way to the blogs...yet. Damage control seemed too soft a term for what needed to happen to restore the family reputation before the thirty-fifth anniversary gala, and he worried he didn’t have the fortitude to get it done.
A knock on his door drew his attention, and he swiveled his chair in that direction. “Come in.”
The door swung open and Blaine marched inside. “Morning, lil bro.”
“Hey, Blaine.” He tried to loosen his expression, knowing he probably wore his stress on his face. “What’s up?”
“I should be asking you that. Why is your face screwed up like that? You look like you’ve been sucking lemons.”
Miles sighed. “I spent the morning looking over reports for both the studio and the charity. Let’s just say I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.”
“You’re not doing it alone, Miles. The whole family is here to pitch in, though sometimes I think you forget that.” He flopped down onto the black leather cushion of the guest chair on the other side of the desk.
“I know that, logically. But between faltering profits, low donations and the gossip rags talking trash about us, it’s looking pretty bleak from this side of the desk.”
Blaine chuckled. “I’m guessing you saw that article in SPTR.”
“You guessed right.”
Waving his hand dismissively, he said, “Don’t worry about them. They talk shit about everybody—that’s kind of their business model.” He paused. “I’ve got good news, by the way.”
“Well, I could use some, so let me hear it.”
“I talked to Cambria earlier today. Turns out she’s already here in Atlanta on vacation, and she’s agreed to see you to discuss being a part of the talent show.”
For the first time today, Miles felt some of his tension melt away. “Really? Just like that?”
Blaine shrugged. “I told her it was for the kids, and that was all she needed to agree.”
He sat back, sinking into his executive chair, and exhaled. “Great. When does she want to meet?”
He pulled out his phone. “She texted me her address and a time. I’ll send the info to you now.” He tapped his screen a few times.
Miles’s phone vibrated on the desktop, and he picked it up and glanced at the screen. “Nine o’clock tomorrow.”
“Right. And she warned me her security is on point, so you should expect a pat-down when you pull up.”
He chuckled. “She is a major celebrity, so I guess that makes sense.” Setting his phone down, Miles reopened his laptop. “Thanks for running point on this for me, Blaine. The kids in my defense class overwhelmingly voted for her as the celebrity judge for the talent show, so I know they’ll be excited.”
“So will any man or music lover in the Atlanta metro area, once word gets out that she’s here.” He laughed as he stood. “I gotta get back to work. I’m leaving early to take Eden to her prenatal checkup this afternoon.”
Miles felt the grin stretch his lips. “I still can’t imagine you as anybody’s dad.”
“Neither can I, but I guess I’d better get used to the idea,” Blaine quipped as he headed for the door. “Later, bro.”
“See ya.” Navigating to the document he’d used to brainstorm the talent show, he made a few small tweaks, then printed it out, along with as much useful information about 404 Cares as he could find. Cambria had agreed to meet with him; the least he could do was be fully prepared to explain his mission and purpose.
This event, and the funds it generated, would provide warm coats, food and holiday gifts for families all over the Atlanta metro. And while Cambria Harding wouldn’t have been his choice for celebrity judge of a kids’ talent contest, she had a lot of local love and name recognition that would likely translate to ticket sales.
When it came to his community work, he would do whatever it took to make it a success. He had so many memories of happy Christmases growing up, and he believed all children deserved the same.
