by D. A. Young
“Porsha, thank you very much for having us!” Ozzie Canters boomed in his loud voice as he grabbed his hostess’ hand and kissed the back of it.
“The food was superb, as usual, but the entertainment,” his brown eyes twinkled mischievously in his ruddy face, “while unexpected was quite amusing. If I’d known in advance, I would have placed money on your granddaughter! The girl has quite the right hook and crossover.”
“Ozzie!” Marlena turned bright pink with embarrassment as she reprimanded her husband. He guffawed and placed his black Stetson atop his bald head with an unconcerned shrug while his wife hugged Porsha and the two women exchanged air kisses.
With a sympathetic glance, the older blonde woman spoke to her longtime friend. “It was a pleasure as always, Porsha. Your granddaughter is a lovely young woman. One that doesn’t strike me as being easily provoked. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for that vulgar Delancy chit. Her family isn’t exactly known for having grace or tact. Dare I say she may have had it coming?”
Porsha Stanton chose not to address the question. Instead, she inclined her head with a gracious smile. “I’m glad that you both had a good time. I’m sure Neville will be glad to hear it as well.”
“Make sure you tell ol’ Neville to go easy on the girl. Hell, any female that can scrap like that is alright in my book!” Ozzie announced heartily. He waved goodnight at her, and finally allowed Marlena to drag him out the door.
When her butlers finally closed the doors, Porsha nodded to them, signaling that their shift was now over. They bade her goodnight. Only when she was certain that she was alone did Porsha gingerly sink to the last step of the grand, sweeping staircase in the middle of the foyer. Relieved her guests were finally gone, she exhaled the stress that held her slender frame prisoner the entire evening.
Like a hunter targeting its prey, their ‘friends’ searched for signs of weakness in her sophisticated facade. Anything to indicate that she was embarrassed by the drastic turn the evening’s soiree had taken. Their efforts would be in vain. Porsha was the consummate hostess and thrived under pressure. She would be damned if she allowed the nosy busybodies to see the turmoil festering beneath her skin. However, the evening wasn’t over quite yet.
To take her mind off the night’s unsavory events, Porsha focused on the details of the spacious foyer. Custom-created, black wrought iron and glass double doors. Calcutta gold and cream marble flooring that shone from the steam cleaning earlier that day. Ceiling-to-floor windows were draped in pale cream and gold silk curtains. On either side of the staircase was a four-and-a-half-foot cream pedestal with a white, ten-piece, cascading Phalaenopsis orchid arrangement nestled in burnished gold urn-style vases. Porsha glanced upward at her favorite piece in the foyer. The ornate fourteen-carat gold and crystal chandelier gleamed brightly. Each of the three hundred rock-crystal stones was hand-polished with leather cloths once a week.
Every inch of the twenty-thousand square foot French provincial estate had been painstakingly decorated by Porsha herself. She’d created it with the large family she and Neville intended to have in mind. Alas, that goal wasn’t to be.
Gracefully, she rose to her feet and glided down the long corridor lined with family portraits dating back over a century. Porsha paused before the large family portrait on the end wall. It was painted thirty years ago and featured Neville, herself, and their only child Melody Lashay. She was the couple’s miracle baby after countless miscarriages. Porsha smiled faintly at her angelic daughter’s mutinous expression. Even at the tender age of six, Melody had blazed with rebellion. At first, Porsha and Neville thought it was a phase that she’d eventually grow out of. As time progressed, they soon learned otherwise.
Melody despised their lifestyle and the high expectations that came with being a Stanton. She was so mortified by their wealth that she often lied about her background to strangers. Her shame stung Porsha and enraged Neville to no end. The Stantons’ owned and operated four of the most successful vineyards in Santa Barbara and Napa Valley. That they were entirely black-owned was an even prouder accomplishment. Unfortunately, Melody never took that into consideration. She just knew that she couldn’t be friends with the people she preferred, play the music she loved, or dress in her unique style, thanks to her parents’ lofty achievements. They accused her of being ungrateful while she likened them to elitists.
“I can’t wait to leave here for good! When I do, I’ll never, ever come back!” Melody screamed, pressing her fingers to her bleeding nostril. “I won’t answer to you or anybody else!”
Scoffing haughtily, Neville whipped his handkerchief out of his pants pocket and dropped the nose ring he’d ripped off into it. Calmly, he threw it in the trash, ignoring his daughter’s livid expression. “I look forward to that day and will definitely hold you to it. You’re a complete disgrace to our good name.”
Porsha tried to intervene, but she felt caught between two cyclones. The war between Neville and Melody waged daily. The only reprieve allotted to Porsha was when they slept. Father and daughter were too proud, stubborn, and headstrong to acknowledge their similarities. Most days, Porsha could only pray that they didn’t kill one another. Ultimately, Neville had to concede defeat to his willful child when she got pregnant at seventeen by a young man that she’d been sneaking around with from a blue collar family in South Central Los Angeles of all places!
Melody and Marcus Glover got married and moved in with his parents while they both finished high school. In the end, Melody got her wish. After her daughter was born, the couple divorced and went their separate ways. She changed her and the child’s name back to Stanton, and Marcus didn’t protest. He enlisted in the army and never saw them again. With her newfound independence, Melody refused to return home, infuriating her parents further. She’d lived her life on her own terms, answering to no one but the Father Almighty.
In life, nothing was promised. There were probably moments of regret and what-ifs. The chances to right wrongs or do-overs were rare, but if the opportunity presented itself, they were seized with a grateful heart and open mind. That was exactly what Porsha did when Melody called and requested they meet. She’d imploded her mother’s world when calmly informing her parents that she had metastatic cancer. Melody, who never asked them for anything, had asked Neville and Porsha to take her daughter in until Billy’s twentieth-first birthday when her trust fund became available.
Living with a teenager again had done wonders for Porsha. She loved every moment spent with the girl who brought their quiet residence back to life and kept Neville on his toes. Especially on nights like these. Porsha winced as her husband’s raised voice thundered from the west wing of the estate.
“You’re exactly like your mother!” Neville Stanton spat, his tone a combination of disgust, fury, and consternation.
The target of his wrath was his only grandchild, Willamina. With an insolent expression, she was slouched defiantly on the antique Venetian-style ivory silk sofa. Her exaggerated yawn served to further infuriate Neville as she’d known it would. “Oh? Please enlighten me. I can’t wait to hear your opinion on another subject that you’re yet again, an expert on.”
“You’re too damned foolish and self-centered to care about our family name or reputation!” His walnut complexion was flushed with anger as he furiously paced the room. He spun around to confront her. “Well, girl?! What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Neville, please calm down!” Porsha chided, entering the sitting room to sit next to Billy. “You have to be mindful of your blood pressure.”
With a small smile at the picture her granddaughter represented, Porsha knew Melody must surely be turning in her grave at the luxurious sight. In her black, sparkling vintage Valentino gown and jeweled tiara, Billy was the epitome of rich, fabulous, and beautiful. Her eye-catching looks had yet to reach their full potential, but when they did and Billy realized the power she held…heaven help the man or men who loved her.
Porsha took
her granddaughter’s hand in hers and their fingers interlocked automatically. She was rewarded with an infectious grin and sly wink. It made Billy resemble her darling Melody so much that Porsha’s heart squeezed painfully with the realization. And like her mother, Billy was just as free-spirited. It was a trait that Porsha secretly admired. Being a Stanton could be a little overwhelming and stifling at times. Especially on occasions such as these.
“Neville, I’m sure that it was a simple misunderstanding. Let’s all turn in and sleep on it—”
“What in God’s name were you thinking to do something that incredibly stupid, Willamina?!” Neville bellowed, ignoring his wife.
He was not the least bit surprised when Billy shot up from the sofa , insubordination radiating from every bone in her body. The layers of her long, black taffeta dress swished around her as she stepped to him.
“I was thinking she had it coming!” Billy stated, chin tilted defiantly. The action made the diamonds in her tiara glimmer underneath the chandelier lights. She was a majestic sight to behold, with her regal posture and the cloud of raven black hair billowing around her slender shoulders. Her expressive black eyes were storms of defiance, and that full mouth was curled into a snarl that would have made Grace Jones bow down. Everything about her cautioned Neville to tread carefully.
“If standing up for myself and not allowing anyone to disrespect me makes me like Mom, then I accept the props no matter how derogatorily they’re given.”
“I’m sure you do, Willamina, and that type of hubris will eventually be your downfall,” Neville informed her coolly.
“Maybe it will; maybe it won’t. All I know is that instead of being so against such an appalling,” her eye roll and use of air quotations made Porsha smile and Neville gnash his teeth, “notion, you should also try being a little more like her.”
“Oh, dear.” Porsha coughed delicately to cover her giggle. Poor Neville looked completely apoplectic at their granddaughter’s impertinence.
“Is that right, my dear? Well, what exactly would your mother say about your recent behavior?” Neville raised a supercilious eyebrow at her. “I wonder if she’d commend you on being a lousy pick-pocket? Or perhaps, she’d give you a medal for smoking copious amounts of weed?”
“You know nothing about me,” Billy ground out between clenched teeth. “I’ve already said that weed wasn’t mine!”
“Let me guess; you were keeping it safe for a friend? I know and notice everything about you, Willamina! Like the fact that you omitted pick-pocketing from your denial. My daughter and I may have rarely seen eye-to-eye, yet, I know she wouldn’t want you to throw your life away by engaging in such juvenile delinquent acts!”
Billy growled when Neville smacked his forehead dramatically. “Oops, let’s not forget the assault and battery rap you’ll face if Ambrosia Delancy chooses to press charges against you for breaking her nose.”
Porsha had heard enough. “Maybe she should have punched Ambrosia’s silly mama for naming her such a ridiculous name! Ambrosia isn’t a person; it’s a damned salad! Stop acting like you like that tacky family, Neville! I’ve heard you complain on more than one occasion about their dreadful behavior. Besides, I told you not to invite them.”
Neville shot his wife an exasperated look. “You’re really not helping here, Porsha. How I feel about the Delancys is a moot point. This was Willamina’s coming out party, and she embarrassed us all with her roughneck actions!”
Thanks to Melody’s estrangement from them, Billy’s grandparents were practically strangers to her until they united over a mutual, ruthless enemy. The cancer that claimed Melody had been merciless. It devoured their daughter, scarcely granting her time to make amends with Neville and Porsha. The devastation it left in its wake gave her family a heartbreaking bond to build on.
Although terrified of being uprooted from the bungalow that she and her mom had lived in practically all of her life, Billy had honored her mother’s request with optimism. With the help of friends and neighbors, she’d packed up the shambles formerly known as her life and left L.A. She made no promises to stay in touch with anyone except her best friend Kenton Medina. On her last night, they’d thrown her a “going away/honoring Melody party” that Billy would never forget. Right now, she’d give anything to be in her old home, surrounded by her things and in Melody’s arms.
“That crack-headed ho insulted my mother!” she fumed, wrestling the tiara from her head. She hurled it at his feet, and it bounced off his black Saint Laurent dress shoes. “You’ve got shit seriously fucked up if you think I won’t cold-cock a bitch for talkin’ smack about me or my mother!”
“Not. Another. Word.” Neville hissed into her face. Undaunted, Billy didn’t flinch. They stood toe-to-toe, neither blinking nor willing to concede an inch.
“It doesn’t matter what was said! It was how you responded! Every action does not deserve a reaction. And of such magnitude, no less!”
“My bare minimum reaction will always be that, if not more, should my mother’s memory be disrespected,” Billy vowed furiously. “Where I come from, you don’t open your mouth unless you can back shit up! That white girl should be thanking me right about now. I might have just taught her the one lesson that will save her miserable, little life.”
“You knocked her across the buffet table and busted her nose in front of fifty witnesses, Willamina!”
Her blasé shrug incited Neville to rake her up and down with acquiescence. “I don’t even know why I bother. You’ve been allowed to run free of proper etiquette your entire life. How could you possibly know right from wrong? This entire situation is hopeless.”
He ignored Porsha’s fulminating glare and moved to stand before the windows overlooking the garden. Dispassionately, he continued, “Your mother’s rebellion and your father’s bloodline run too deep for you to ever change. I knew I should have let Marcus have you instead of turning him away at Melody’s funeral. We’d all be better off if he’d taken you back to Chatham, New Mexico.”
Billy was stunned and confused by his admission, wondering if she’d heard him correctly.
Marcus Glover, her father, had returned for her mom’s funeral?
She wasn’t even sure she would recognize him. The only thing her mother had kept of him was their homecoming picture. Melody had always insisted that he was a good man, however, they’d never quite fit into each other’s lives. By the time Billy was old enough to ask the hard questions, Marcus was nowhere to be found. Her paternal grandparents had retired and moved back to Alabama. They’d displayed no interest in getting to know her after Melody divorced their son. That stung, but she had her mother and vice versa. They’d always been more than enough for each other.
Now, Marcus had returned, and her grandfather had denied Billy the opportunity to meet him. He’d taken away her right to permit or deny Marcus a place in her life. Who the fuck gave him that honor?
“How dare you?! That wasn’t your choice to make!” she objected vehemently.
“I. Had. Every. Right.” Neville sneered. “That man ruined my daughter’s life and our family’s good name! If it was up to me—”
“But it wasn’t up to you!” Billy screamed, causing Porsha to jump and Neville to freeze. Speechless, he turned to face her.
Her chest felt compressed, making breathing a monumental challenge. She struggled to contain the vitriol that clawed through her, demanding that Billy give it a voice. From this point on, she was done playing nice. Of keeping shit together and not sinking. Every day was a struggle to open her eyes and get out of bed, knowing that her rock wouldn’t be there. For the last month, she’d struggled to adjust to living here, fitting in, and not disappointing anyone. She was failing miserably on all accounts. Billy didn’t know how her mother had made it seventeen years without inflicting bodily harm to Neville. Every conversation was dipped in kerosene, and his criticisms were matches waiting to strike. There wasn’t enough room in this mausoleum for him, her, and the ginormous Re
dwood stuck up his ass.
“How dare you raise your voice to me! After all I’ve done—”
The match struck and sparked, quickly billowing into a conflagration of rage. Billy grabbed an Art Deco ashtray from the coffee table and threw it at him. Neville ducked and it shattered against a portrait of Porsha nursing Melody. The art piece crashed to the floor, and the ornate gold frame split. Billy’s fury swiftly overshadowed the pang of shocked remorse her action caused.
“When will you learn that people are not possessions to control and own?! You can’t nor will you ever control me! I’m eighteen and, legally, an adult! Fuck those trust funds! I don’t need or want them. I came here to honor my mother and maybe, just maybe, build a relationship with you! Since I’ve been here, all you have done is criticize me! You continuously throw my mistakes in my face and nitpick daily! It’s too much! You’re too much! Well, no more! It ends here and now! I’m leaving!”
“Billy, no!” Porsha cried, agony shredding her already mangled heart. She attempted to embrace her, but her granddaughter neatly sidestepped her with an apologetic grimace.
“I’m so sorry, Grandmother! I just can’t!” In a whisper, she added, “I promise to reimburse you for the frame.”
Head averted to hide her tears, Billy fled the room. Her heels were the only sound in the house, echoing on the marble floors as she took flight. With every step they made up the staircase, Porsha felt her heart breaking until only minuscule pieces remained. Finally, she heard a door slam. It was the last straw for her. She’d just watched history repeat itself. This time, she wouldn’t stand by like an idle fool.
“Good riddance.” Neville’s voice was devoid of emotion. “Trying to break her in was tiresome. We could only anticipate more embarrassing situations, like tonight, in our future.”