Watercolored Pearls

by Stacy Hawkins Adams

  "Look, Mommy! All done now and ready to eat!"

  He gripped the paper, stood up on his chair, and leaned toward Erika to hand it over.

  "Good job, Aaron," she said and smiled. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes."

  She grabbed him around the waist and lifted him across the table, into her arms. Erika hugged him tightly and planted a loud kiss on his soft cheek.

  Despite the darkness of her days as Elliott Wilson's wife, God had created something magnificent from the best of the both of them. Aaron had been graced with their similar honey complexions and thin frames; he was the perfect combination of his parents. When he spent time with Elliott during supervised visits, no one doubted that the two were father and son. Yet put the boy next to Erika and there was the same effect—he looked just like his mom.

  He was still young enough that the life that had been crafted for him was the only normal he knew. It made sense to Aaron that the bedroom he slept in every night used to be Aunt Serena's when she was a girl, growing up in this North Richmond ranch-style house.

  "Doesn't everybody have someone like Aunt Serena and Uncle Micah?" he once asked Erika, when a friend at preschool moved into a new house her parents had built.

  Erika snuggled with her son until he squirmed away.

  "What's in here, Mommy? A birthday card?"

  He had noticed the pink envelope that bore Elliott's Chesterfield County return address. Thank goodness he couldn't read.

  Before she could dream up an appropriate answer, the doorbell saved her. Erika settled Aaron back into his seat and headed toward the living room. She anticipated who it was, but stood on her toes to peer through the front door's peephole anyway.

  Gabrielle was just in time for dinner. Erika opened the door and led her friend toward the kitchen. "Sorry you left your key this morning. Had to work later than usual?"

  "Yeah," Gabrielle replied. "Had an evening meeting to finalize the papers for the Mitchell deal. The spaghetti smells good."

  Gabrielle lived two hours away, in Northern Virginia, where the main office of D. Haven Designs was located. When the interior design firm that also employed Erika opened a Richmond office two years ago, Gabrielle began traveling to the capital city twice a week.

  Erika worked full-time in Richmond and insisted that Gabrielle stay in the extra bedroom of the house she was renting from Serena and Micah.

  The arrangement worked well, for a number of reasons. Among them was that it meant she didn't always have to do "Elliott watch" alone.

  Gabrielle took her briefcase to the guest room and returned seconds later. She strolled to the kitchen sink and washed her hands with the antibacterial soap perched on the window ledge. When Aaron leapt from the table to find the tennis ball a neighbor had given him earlier that day, the stack of mail caught Gabrielle's eye.

  "Another card, huh? Wonder what he's saying this time." She spoke in a hushed tone, mindful that Aaron was within earshot.

  Erika shrugged and set three plates on the table, including a miniature one bearing Scooby-Doo's image.

  "He keeps saying he's a different man," she said. "I see him at church, serving as an usher. I know he provides free legal counsel on small cases for members who can't afford representation.

  "But I don't trust him. He says he's giving me space, but these cards keep coming," Erika said. "Like clockwork. On the first and fifteenth of every month. The day of the month we met and the day of the month we married."

  Gabrielle shook her head and scanned the hallway for Aaron. "I hope you're keeping them. For evidence."

  "Most of them, unless I get frustrated and rip one apart," Erika said and chuckled. "That's happened a few times."

  She picked up the card that had arrived today and ran her forefinger across the envelope flap.

  "Why not read it? I know I've heard it all before."

  Before she talked herself out of the decision, she tore open the envelope and sighed at the card’s cover: "'If love had another name, it would be yours . . .'"

  Her eyes widened when she read the message inside.

  "What?" Gabrielle asked.

  "He says he's found someone else. He wants a divorce."

  3

  Tawana Carter hated begging. Tonight, though, she couldn't help it. She stood at the door outside of her apartment, trying not to stare at the muscles rippling through her date's crisp white oxford shirt and denim jeans, and silently pleaded with God to give her the strength to say no.

  "You tired?" Grant Parker peered at her over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses and let a slow smile travel across his broad, handsome face. His deep brown eyes locked with hers.

  In the thirty seconds she hesitated before responding, Tawana thought about Misha, possibly still awake inside, and how her daughter didn't need to accidentally meet another one of Mommy's "friends." She knew her mother would have her door ajar, listening for a stranger to tiptoe down the hallway. She recalled how she usually felt the day after.

  Thank you, God.

  Tawana shrugged and returned Grant's full smile. His grin noticeably faded when she replied.

  "You know, I am a little tired. It's been a long week. Thanks for a wonderful evening, though. It was fascinating to learn more about the goals of a future plastic surgeon—in and out of the operating room."

  Grant leaned toward Tawana and lightly hugged her. She accepted, but she really wanted a kiss.

  "You're pretty interesting yourself, soon-to-be Attorney Carter. I'll call you."

  Tawana offered another smile and hoped he hadn't noticed her gripping the doorknob behind her. She watched him swagger toward the elevator and returned his wave before he stepped aboard and disappeared.

  "I need a drink," she mumbled and inserted her key into the lock. Seconds later, she stood before her pantry, debating which of the two bottles of wine appealed to her tonight. She needed just enough to ease the loneliness and inadequacy that routinely engulfed her, until sleep delivered some peace.

  She reached for the merlot, a Christmas present a professor had "regifted" to her for helping organize his student files.

  When a set of golden-hued arms encircled her waist, she turned toward Misha and gave her daughter a hug.

  "Hi, baby. What are you still doing up?"

  It was Friday, but her mother sometimes made Misha go to bed on time during the weekend too.

  "Gram and I just finished playing Monopoly. I'm bored. Can we play checkers?"

  Tawana smiled at the slender, sandy-haired seven-year-old version of herself. Their matching fair skin, sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of the nose, light brown eyes, and long legs often made people do double takes. The only thing that prevented mother and daughter from being mistaken for sisters was Tawana's curvier hips and advantage in height. Their sixteen-year age difference seemed even slighter when the youthful Tawana didn't wear makeup.

  She rested her glass and wine bottle on the counter near the sink while she searched through a cluttered drawer for a corkscrew.

  "You're always bored. It's nine-thirty and past your bedtime. Go."

  Misha ignored the instruction and sauntered over to Tawana, where she watched her mother open the merlot.

  "Gram's probably in bed by now. When she heard you coming through the door, she said she was going to call it a night. I'm not sleepy. Tell me about your date."

  Tawana paused with her wine glass halfway to her lips and looked at her daughter. "How did you know I had a date?"

  "Gram told me. She said she was going to stay up until you made it home, to make sure you behaved."

  Tawana gulped some wine and turned away from her daughter. She bit her bottom lip. "Misha, we'll talk about it later. Go to your room. Read a book or something until you fall asleep."

  "But Ma, I—"

  Tawana gave her the "You heard what I said" glare. Misha rolled her eyes and stormed out of the kitchen.

  "Spend the rest of the night with yourself, then!"

  "Little girl
, don't make me come after you!"

  Tawana slammed her glass on the Formica countertop, spilling some of its contents. She strode toward Misha's bedroom but stopped halfway down the narrow hall when the door ricocheted against its frame.

  "I know that little second grader didn't," Tawana muttered and put her hands on her hips. She was heading toward Misha's room when her mother breezed past her.

  "I'm glad you didn't stay out all night this time. That girl is watching you." Ms. Carter disappeared into her dark room and gently closed the door.

  Tawana crossed the hall, raised her fist to pound on her mother's door, then stopped. She didn't have the energy to fight tonight. Mama always had something negative to say, no matter what she did.

  And sooner or later, she was going to have to deal with Misha's rebellion. The girl wasn't a preteen yet, and she already had begun acting out. Who did she think she was, talking like that to an adult, to her mother of all people?

  Tawana changed courses and went toward Misha's room instead. She turned the doorknob and peered inside. Misha sat on her bed with her arms and ankles crossed. She was facing the mirror above her dresser and scowling at herself.

  "You owe me an apology," Tawana said. She leaned against the door and waited.

  Misha lowered her head and mumbled inaudibly.

  "Excuse me?"

  "I'm sorry, Mommy."

  "Put on your pajamas, brush your teeth, and go to sleep."

  Tawana left Misha's bedroom door open and returned to the kitchen. She should be using this time more wisely, reviewing briefs or doing research for an upcoming paper. Oh well.

  She filled the near-empty wine glass to the rim with more merlot before shutting off the lights and sauntering to her bedroom.

  "Good night, Misha. Love you!" she called to her daughter.

  There was a long pause.

  "Love you too, Mommy."

  Tawana savored the wine and turned her thoughts to Grant. Her lips curved into a smile as she recounted their dinner and brief evening stroll afterward. She'd have to call Elizabeth tomorrow to thank her for connecting the two of them. Some friends knew how to arrange a blind date.

  Tawana set her glass on the nightstand. She slipped off her high-heeled sandals and the sleeveless linen top and low-waisted black capris she had changed into after her torts class. She hadn't known what to expect from her date, but she had wanted to make a memorable first impression, one that lingered.

  "Thrilled" inadequately described what she felt when the chiseled, bronze-complexioned Grant had greeted her on the steps of the law school library. They spent the evening at Veronique, not far from Harvard's campus, enjoying the restaurant's harpist and melt-in-your-mouth food.

  Now she tossed the clothes near the door, on top of the pile to be laundered. She tucked away her shoes and rifled through the armoire for her red pajama shorts and matching top.

  Tawana slid into the jammies and flipped on the bathroom light. Her thoughts kept her company while she completed her nightly facial cleansing routine, brushed her teeth, and wrapped her shoulder-length hair in a scarf.

  She tried to recall a time when she hadn't turned to something alcoholic to relax her after a long study session, or just before a nerve-wracking encounter, like tonight's date.

  Minutes later, she plopped on top of her bed and polished off the last of her drink. She snuggled under the covers, thankful that her mother hadn't cranked up the air tonight. Usually she'd be shivering.

  Her head sank deep into the pillow. Sleep was coming quickly. Then the shrill ring of the telephone jolted her to attention. Tawana groaned and groped the nightstand with her fingers. She grabbed the cordless phone and cleared her throat, in case it was Grant.

  "Hello?"

  Too late. The caller had already been directed to voice mail.

  She waited a few minutes before dialing into the automated system to retrieve her messages. Should have checked them anyway when I got home, she thought.

  There were three new messages.

  A call that morning from her hair salon reminded her of an early appointment the next day. Good. She was overdue for a touch-up.

  Elizabeth had called around 6 p.m. "I can't wait to get details, so I'm calling ahead of time to remind you to call me tomorrow! Let me know what you thought of Mr. Hunky. Did I do well? I might not be a sister, but I know how to pick 'em!"

  Tawana laughed out loud and erased the message. She'd have to school her Irish-American friend. It was "sista," not "sister."

  The next message woke her up.

  "Hello, Ms. Carter, this is Emery Goodwin with Wallace, Jones and Johns Law Firm." Tawana reclined against the headboard as she listened to the rest of the message.

  "We're delighted that you've accepted a spot in our summer internship program. Specific instructions and details will be coming shortly, through the mail, but I'm touching base to see what your other needs may be while you're in Richmond this summer, such as transportation and lodging. Please call me on Monday so we can go over logistics for the twelve weeks that you'll be part of our team."

  Tawana placed the cordless phone on the charger and fell back onto her pillow, wide awake now. If she were a typical law school student, she'd be beside herself with anticipation over this internship at one of the nation's top law firms.

  She wasn't the average twenty-three-year-old, though. She had a child. She shared a cramped apartment with her mother, who was struggling to be supportive in an intellectually and culturally foreign world. And she dealt with classmates who she was sure considered her a charity case, able to skate by because of her stereotypical circumstances.

  In recent weeks, Tawana had been thrilled and proud to have landed such a prestigious summer gig. Most of her classmates viewed this type of opportunity as part of the Harvard package, but she hadn't taken the process, or her selection, for granted.

  On some days, however, she wrestled with where she wanted this path to lead, compared to where she now found herself.

  The inconsistencies always seemed more apparent in this drab and drafty Somerville apartment, just outside of Boston.

  Ms. Goodwin's call reminded Tawana that accepting the internship had been "phase one." To succeed, she needed to follow through on the next step—finding a place to stay, for herself and for Misha. Mama wouldn't mind moving in with one of her siblings in Richmond for the summer, but Tawana had no intention of exposing Misha to her relatives, who still lived in dire circumstances in the city's northside projects.

  Instead, she was banking on Serena's and Micah's big hearts. Now she had to find the courage to ask them.

  4

  Serena stood in the foyer of her Ginter Park home in North Richmond and surveyed her surroundings. Her eyes skated from the eclectic mix of art that graced the walls to the oversized crystal vase of fresh flowers resting on the pedestal table in the center of the space. Everything sparkled and was in its proper place.

  She hadn't fared so well last week, when Bethany stopped by unexpectedly and invited herself in for a visit. Miss Diva didn't mask her dismay at the jumble of toys, newspapers, and mail splayed across the kitchen.

  "You should invest in a maid, Serena. My goodness."

  Bethany had sweetly greeted Jacob and Jaden, but recoiled when one of the twins reached for her with pudding-sticky fingers.

  "I'm wearing Prada today, little one." She had smiled apologetically at Serena while backing away. "It's dry-clean only."

  This time, Serena would be prepared for the white glove test. That is, if she could keep the boys from wrecking the place in the next twenty-four hours.

  "Why am I so concerned about what she thinks, anyway?" she said aloud, while spraying a vertical mirror with glass cleaner for the fourth time.

  Tawana's tinkling laughter startled her. Serena turned and glared at her young friend, who stood in the dining room entrance, adjacent to the foyer, holding a soiled cloth in her hand.

  "I've been wondering that, too," Tawana said
. "You—no, we—have been cleaning around here like the governor is coming, since I arrived this morning. You're hosting a Sunday afternoon cookout tomorrow, not a formal dinner."

  "What are you trying to tell me? To chill out?" Serena laughed and resumed polishing surfaces that already sparkled. "You haven't met Bethany."

  Tawana ticked off the chores she had completed on her fingers. "The bathroom is spotless. The dining room table and buffet have been polished. I've swept the kitchen floor — again. And most of the boys' toys are tucked away."

  She walked over to Serena and tugged the dusting cloth from Serena's hand.

  "I've figured it out now," Tawana said, feigning disappointment. "You wanted me to come down for the weekend to work. I feel like I'm in high school again, completing my after-school chores. We should have put Misha to work."

  Serena gave her a light hug. She still found it hard to believe that the young lady she had mentored through the highs and lows of high school was studying at Harvard. Tawana had grown up so much, and yet in many ways, she still seemed so vulnerable.

  "What are you talking about, T? It's a tradition for you and Misha to spend Micah's birthday weekend with us.

  "Misha's up there with those two-year-old boys—believe me, she is working. Thanks for all of your help. I can't get anything done around here anymore with the two of them underfoot."

  Tawana nodded. "I remember how hard it was to concentrate on homework and take care of Misha at the same time. I thought I would go crazy. But it got better as she got older."

  Serena dumped her cleaning supplies in a cloth-lined wicker basket, then cradled it in her arms. She motioned for Tawana to follow her through the kitchen into the garage.

  "I hope so," she said. "But it's hard to see beyond each day's frantic pace. I fall into bed exhausted every night."

  Serena nudged Tawana with her elbow. "I can't believe I'm taking parenting advice from my little T. The tables have turned!"