Dark Echo

Chapter 8

December 20, 2014“Eighteen Pinckney Street, please,” Tara says as she slides inside the taxi's back seat. Her cell phone whooshes, delivering a text message to Laura and Leanne, explaining she's on her way.

“Cru Café?” The taxi driver asks with a familiar accent.

“Yes, thank you. I bet you didn't need the address,” Tara says, with a polite smile, noticing the attractive driver through the rearview mirror. “You probably know most of Charleston's restaurants.”

“Yep, I can navigate Charleston with my eyes closed,” he states with a chuckle.

Suddenly, Tara recalls hearing that dialect in New York. “Nice accent. Have you been in the States long?”

“Oh, thank you,” he says, with a quick glance in the mirror. “I've lived in America twelve years altogether—ten in New York and two in Charleston.”

“Well, you can't tell by your accent. I would've guessed a shorter time.”

“No, Miss … This is my home for a long time.”

“I can't place your dialect. Are you from France?”

The driver glances at Tara with a flash of perfect white-piano teeth and smiling brown eyes. “Well, in Haiti, where I'm from, we speak both French and Creole. Have you heard of Creole?”

That's it, she thought. Of course, she'd heard Creole many times in New York. She perceived subtle differences between French and Creole. One sounds more refined and the other a little choppier, but she hates to relegate one language more sophisticated and the other unrefined. It's the same as saying one is better than the other, and she refuses to place labels on anything or anyone. From her understanding, the dialect is a melding of French colonists and African slaves. Two beautiful languages fashioned into one. “Do you speak both?”

That's it“Well, I grew up in a household where both Creole and French were spoken. My father was born in France, and my mom in Haiti. She speaks Creole. So, I switch between the two often.”

Aww, you're a half-breed as well, she thought. “Where in New York did you live?”

Aww, you're a half-breed as well“In Tarrytown in Westchester, do you know it?”

“Yes. I'm also from New York.” She's visited Tarrytown on many occasions and remembers the expensive homes in Westchester County and wonders how he could afford such a wealthy zip code. Okay, Tara, don't rush to judgment. After years of meeting various people from her job, she's learned you can't judge a person the first encounter and refuses to draw conclusions about this man.

Okay, Tara, don't rush to judgment.Quizzically, the driver peers at her from the rearview mirror. “Did you live in Harlem?” He asks.

Tara exhales annoyance. “Did you ask that because I'm African-American?” She replies hastily. It's ironic she refused to judge him, but he's already assessed her status simply on color. She's not surprised by her sharp bite but regrets her tone. “Sorry, I didn't mean to snap, but I hate stereotyped assumptions. No, my family lived on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.”

“A city girl … Your family must do well financially to live in Manhattan?”

“And so must yours to live in Tarrytown.” Tara wonders why she's so snippy with this man. She's never responded so rudely to a stranger before. “Yes, Manhattan is expensive,” she says in a friendlier tone, ignoring the family money bit.

“Yes, Manhattan is expensive,” she says in a friendlier tone, ignoring the family money bit.When the taxi stops at the light, the driver's eyes linger in the mirror. Tara shifts uncomfortably and peers out the window at Market Hall's Greek-revival style on Meeting Street, standing like a Roman temple. Did he take the long route to Pinckney Street? From her townhouse, the ride is a straight drive on Longitude Lane. A little perturbed, she starts to challenge his directions when halted by another question.

Did he take the long route to Pinckney Street? From her townhouse, the ride is a straight drive on Longitude Lane.“Why did you move to Charleston?”

Again, she catches his eyes in the mirror. Inexplicably, agitation subsides. “Charleston is my family's hometown.” Urged by his steady gaze she continues, “They moved back. I came to visit and fell in love with the place,” she says in a singsong voice.

“Yes, Charleston is different from New York—more peaceful, nicer people, not so stressful.”

“Yes … That's one reason I'm drawn to the city.”

The driver stops for a pedestrian crossing the street, and a silent pause ensues. Tara retrieves her cell phone, believing he's finished with questions. When the cab moves again, he resumes the conversation.

“I thought you were from the Caribbean. You resemble women from the island with your amber complexion and wavy hair.”

She's heard that before and hates explaining her origins. Although reluctant to respond she's inexplicably compelled to answer. “No, I was born in New York.” Changing the topic quickly Tara asks, “So, what brought you to Charleston?” Her question echoes with a lingering pause, and she believes he hadn't heard. She opens her mouth to speak when he replies.

“Law School …”

She senses a shift in his mood, and wonders why he took so long to respond. “Really … A law student—”

“No, I drive taxis for a living,” he replies bitingly. “Do you think all Haitians are taxi drivers?”

“N-No, I …” Looking in the rearview mirror Tara notices him smiling.

He winks. “I apologize; I'm just busting your chops. You were so curt with my Harlem comment, I thought I'd get you back,” he explains with a big grin.

Tara's lips curl and her brows arch. “Touché!” she says, feeling better about her earlier sharp remark and suddenly drawn to his playfulness.

“Yes, I'm a law student, Miss. This taxi belongs to a friend who lets me drive on occasion to make extra money while in school.”

“Which school are you attending?”

“Charleston School of Law over on Mary Street … Have you heard of it?”

“Yes … Excellent school. My dad is a visiting professor. He teaches business law when he's not busy running his practice. Have you taken Professor McPherson's classes?”

“Dr. James McPherson?” He asks in a higher pitch.

His excited tone causes Tara's brows to lift. She shakes her head affirmatively, “Yes.”

More enthusiastic, the driver glances back, and studies her face. “You're kidding? You're Dr. McPherson's daughter? He's been my professor for two semesters.”

“Wow, what a coincidence.” Tara has always been curious what impact her father makes on his students, though she's never had the opportunity to see his lectures, she admires his passion for the legal profession. “So how're my dad's lectures?”

“Dr. McPherson has been a great inspiration. I thought Business Law was going to be another boring lecture on torts, contracts, and theories. But your father is sharp; he keeps it interesting.”

Happy her dad has a fan, she wonders what he would say about this man as a student. “What type of law will you practice?”

“Environmental law … I've advocated environmental protection for years.”

“That's wonderful. We need more socially responsible advocates to prevent conglomerates from destroying our planet.”

“That's my goal … What do you do for a living?”

Tara wonders if he'll approve of AHD's ethics. The company is doing everything to give back to the community. And all the sweepstake homes are environmentally friendly. She considers the Alcott's many charitable causes, and she's certain he'd approve. “I'm Managing Director at AHD.”

“AHD … What's that?”

“Oh, Alcott Home and Design …” Tara glances at her watch, realizing she's twenty minutes late. Cru Café is probably packed with the weekend brunch crowd. Reservation only, the owners are undoubtedly rushing patrons through the door as fast as they can. She hopes the girls have ordered already.

“Don't worry; we're almost there,” he says, catching Tara's worried expression. He speeds down Hayne Street, veers onto Church Street, and makes a sharp turn at the next light. Unassumingly, Cru Café sits in a small, lemon-chiffon, eighteenth-century home.

Before Tara retrieves the fare from her purse, the car door opens. “You didn't have to do that,” she says, admiring his manners.

“No, I don't mind. You're such a lovely lady, and I enjoyed our conversation. My name is Ellison. Do you mind if I ask for your number?”

In the back seat, she'd only seen his face. Surprisingly, she's impressed by his sinewy physique. Tara muses—good-looking, ambitious, law school; he's my dad's student, why not? “My name is Tara.” Handing him the fare with a business card, their fingertips flick, rousing a familiar sensation in her gut.

good-looking, ambitious, law school; he's my dad's student, why notIn the front seat, Ellison pulls a sheet of paper from a notebook and starts writing. “I'm going to call you. So, don't forget my name … Ellison.” He folds the paper, tears it in half, and hands her the piece with his name and number.

Tara takes the paper and smiles warmly. “Okay, Ellison.” How can I forget someone who looks so good? She suspects he took the longer route to Cru on purpose … She knows he did.

How can I forget someone who looks so good