by Maryann Reid
This Life: A Novel
By Maryann Reid
An Alphanista® Book
Also by Maryann Reid
Sex and the Single Sister
Use Me or Lose Me
Marry Your Baby Daddy
Mrs. Big
Every Man For Herself
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This Life. Copyright © 2014 by Maryann Reid. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.
Published by Alphanista® Books LLC
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition: January 2014
For anyone, who has ever wanted to disappear….
Acknowledgments
It’s been almost 7 years since I’ve written one of these. This book denotes my journey back into writing, and it goes without saying that there are many to thank, and they know who they are. My deepest love and gratitude goes to my mother, Veronica Reid, who told me to take this book off my computer and finish it. It had been just a file a year ago from when I first started it in 2007. I am glad I listened. Thank you for your support and always believing.
More gratitude goes to everyone who played a part in reminding me of what I love to do most, and never letting me forget. Part of this book was written in Abu Dhabi, UAE, and I am grateful for the time to reflect and write as a new story unfolds.
THIS LIFE
Chapter One
February 6
Miami, Florida
Faint whimpers came from the hall closet as Blake stepped out of the bathroom. Nausea churned her gut, and she stood paralyzed by memories of times when she’d made those same sounds. Times when the man she’d loved and trusted enough to marry slapped her to the floor and then…
Please…let it be rats. Or a problem with the plumbing. Anything else…just not that.
She knocked on the closet door. “Is someone in there?”
No answer, although the groans stopped.
Her heart thundered and her hand trembled, but Blake forced herself to grip and turn the knob. Two wide-eyed faces turned toward her as she swung the door wide open.
Sherry Greene, Blake’s publicist, had her legs wrapped around the naked hips of NBA star Derrick Fox. Both were panting and covered with sweat.
The three stared at each other for seconds that felt like years to Blake. She felt dizzy for a moment, but then outrage surged through her veins.
“Pull your pants up and get out, Derrick. There isn’t an apartment here with your name on it. And, Sherry?” Blake fixed her eyes on Sherry’s and lingered there, letting the woman know that Blake had made a decision and nothing could change her mind. “You can get out, too. You’re fired.”
She tapped speed-dial code “2” on her cell. After barely half a ring her call was answered: “Hi, Ms. Bertrand. What can I do for you?”
“Edith, I’ve just fired Sherry Greene and told Derrick Fox he’s not welcome anymore. Please have security escort them to their cars.”
“Right away, Ms. Bertrand.” Edith, Blake’s right-hand woman, ended the call. Blake knew she’d immediately make another to the security team.
“I thought you was a businesswoman,” Derrick complained, zipping his fly as he approached Blake. “For three million and up for a pad, what’s it to you if I do the nasty in a hall closet?”
“I don’t want tenants who aren’t smart enough to know what their bedroom is for.” Blake raised her eyes to Derrick’s as the power forward for the Chicago Bulls loomed over her. She didn’t back down.
“Bitch.” Derrick strutted to the door leading out to the courtyard and opened it, shouting over the noise of the party outside, “Yo, Kay-Kay! Say good night, baby, we’re outta here.”
Through the open door Blake spied Kayla Knight, popular new actress and Derrick Fox’s girlfriend of two months, throwing a puzzled glance at her date and making her way through the party crowd to join him. Four security personnel gathered at the door, waiting to see the personas non grata to their cars in the adjacent parking deck.
“Blake, please,” Sherry said behind her. “He’s so…” As Blake turned to face her, Sherry threw her hands up in a gesture of helplessness. “I just got carried away. I’m sorry. It will never happen again.”
“I know it won’t.” Blake nodded to two of the security guys, who moved to stand one on each side of Sherry. “Thank you, gentlemen.” She watched them beckon Sherry to come with them, and Blake turned away as she heard Sherry let out a muffled sob.
#
Back in the bathroom, eyes closed, Blake took a few deep breaths. She opened her eyes and inspected her reflection in the mirror, anxious that the ordeal of chilling memories and the confrontation with Sherry and Derrick might show in her face or posture.
A sigh of relief escaped her lips when she couldn’t find any telltale symptoms of the unpleasantness. If she’d gone pale while frightened or red while angry, her bronze skin was back to its usual color. She still carried herself upright and composed, just as she’d done in her modeling days. Her dark eyes looked alert but untroubled. She decided her lipstick could use a touch-up, and gave herself a fresh coat of burgundy before rejoining the party.
Security, Sherry, Derrick, and his date were all gone. Yet as she crossed the empty hallway to the courtyard door, Blake felt as if someone was watching her. She paused at the door and glanced at the security cameras, though she knew they weren’t scheduled to be switched on until Monday, when tenants would be allowed to begin moving into the luxury apartments.
“Keep it together, sister,” she muttered. She flung the courtyard door open and stepped back out into the crisp night. True cold was a rarity in Miami, its subtropical latitude and proximity to the Atlantic keeping the winters mild. It was cooler than normal tonight, but that only meant the temperature was in the sixties. Some of the men wore long sleeves and some of the women were in jackets or formal wraps. None appeared uncomfortable.
Blake moved to the short table where one of two co-caterers was operating an outdoor bar. Edith stood nearby at the long table spread with appetizers, chatting with the maître d’. Their gazes met, and Edith gave Blake a decisive nod: troublesome persons removed, no drama in the process.
Hiring Edith Wright is still the smartest business decision I’ve ever made. Blake smiled and waved at her personal assistant, who’d been with her since her time in the world of fashion modeling.
With the Chinese New Year only two weeks away, Blake had chosen that as her decorations theme for the grand pre-opening of The Blake Tower. It lent an exotic ambience to the occasion in Latino Miami.
Paper lanterns hanging from the branches of landscaped trees shed a soft glow throughout the courtyard. Appetizers consisted mainly of Chinese recipes, but also on offer were lamb and lobster skewers, foie gras, and caviar. Chunlian—long, narrow strips of red paper painted with gold Chinese characters—were draped from every balcony and convenient branch. In Chinese culture, red symbolized prosperity and gold symbolized wealth—appropriate, Blake thought, for the opening of an apartment building catering exclusively to the rich and famous.
All around the courtyard the fortunates invited to the party circulated, nibbling hors d’oeuvres and sipping the alcoholic beverages of their choice. Owners of businesses that would occupy the ground floor sat at small tables, explaining to tenants the services they’d
offer them. Along with a few other carefully selected vendors, there would be a gourmet grocery store, a high-end fashion boutique with in-house tailoring, a gym and spa, and a jeweler. Tenants could accommodate a number of their most common needs without ever leaving the apartment building.
“Where have you been?” asked Margot, Blake’s best friend, dressed in a black, off-the-shoulder knee-length dress.
“You don’t want to know,” Blake said with sarcasm. “I’m not letting anything get in the way of tonight.” Blake smiled across the room.
“Well, you go and do that. I just love seeing you in action. I can catch up on the juicy details later.” With that, Margot glided to the bar.
“Good evening, Ms. Yee. You’ve done superb work tonight,” Blake said to the owner of the Chinese restaurant co-catering the party.
“It’s an honor to be chosen to serve the admirable Blake Bertrand.” Ms. Yee bowed low to Blake, who bowed her head in return.
She next complimented the gourmet caterer on their traditional fare and bar, and then began making the rounds to her guests. Barbara Santers, now retired and rumored to be in the market for a mostly self-contained new primary residence in Miami, was a lifelong idol of Blake’s. Her stomach fluttered with nerves as the dignified lady approached her with a broad smile. Local news photographers clustered around to capture the moment, as Blake’s respect for Barbara was public knowledge.
“Ms. Bertrand! At last we meet.” Barbara Santers opened her arms to offer a hug.
Blake gladly accepted, but couldn’t help thinking, Thank God she’d rather hug than shake hands. “Please, call me Blake. I’m just so glad you accepted my invitation. I’ve wanted to meet you ever since I was a little girl.” And now that it’s happening, I can hardly believe it. Oh, I hope I don’t say something stupid, or trip over my own feet…
“I’m just sorry circumstances didn’t allow us to meet while I still worked in television. You are a brilliant woman, Blake, and you would have made one hell of an interview subject. As it is, I have more than a dozen former colleagues who begged me to ask you to do interviews with them. I’m just not so sure I want them to have what I couldn’t.” Ms. Santers winked at Blake over her champagne glass as she sipped, and they both laughed.
“Well, I always dreamed of telling my life story to you. I’m not sure I could settle for anyone else.” Blake swirled her Grand Marnier Sidecar before taking a sip of it. “But if you decide you want to do a favor for a friend still in the journalism biz, let me know and maybe I’ll do it just for you.”
“Screw that, maybe I’ll make a one-time comeback just to interview you myself! A Talk With Two B’s, they could call that show.” Again they laughed, and clinked glasses to toast each other. Then Santers added, “First and foremost, however, I need to go see your leasing agent. I love Miami, and I think one of your penthouse apartments is exactly what I’ve been looking for. Talk to you some more later?”
“Anytime!” Blake returned Barbara’s small, casual wave, and her idol strolled to the leasing agent’s table to sign a rental agreement.
“I see dreams do come true,” a welcoming familiar masculine voice said behind Blake.
“Uncle Thorne!” Blake whirled and threw her arms around Thorne Howes, former Santana guitarist and one of her late father’s dearest friends. Thorne had a massive soft spot in his heart for women. After Blake’s father died, Thorne visited Blake and her mother, Jacinta, as often as he possibly could. Through the years he’d never missed a birthday or holiday, always phoning and sending a gift if he couldn’t be there in person. By his side stood his wife, actress and model Michaele Jarvis, who grinned and pulled Blake into a hug of their own.
“You act surprised to see me.”
“I am! I thought you’d be busy recording a new album.”
“We’re on hiatus for the weekend. As soon as I got your invitation, I told them there’s no way I’ll miss my niece’s declaration of independence from her thug of a husband.”
In unison the three of them turned to gaze at The Blake Tower, her first solo real estate development in the ten years since she’d married Lang against the advice of her mother and Uncle Thorne. Twenty floors of waterfront elegance, it was also her first project catering solely to the wealthy. Blake Bertrand was a newly free woman with a number of cherished plans, for which she’d need an abundance of money. She knew exactly who to get it from: the super-rich. And, having moved in their circles all her adult life, she knew precisely what they craved in exchange for their plentiful dollars.
“I’d say we should rent an apartment here so we’d have a second home close to Blake and Jacinta,” murmured Michaele, “but I don’t think we could afford it, Thorne.”
“Don’t be silly. If you two want an apartment in The Blake Tower, it’s yours.” Blake smiled at Michaele, who smiled back before looking at the apartment building again.
“It’s magnificent, Blake. Your best work yet,” Michaele said.
“Sure is,” Uncle Thorne chimed in, his eyes shining. “Your dad would be so proud of you, if he was here.”
They made the rounds together, greeting VIPs from not only Miami but across the United States. Manley and Melinda Yates suggested Blake could do some real estate developments in Seattle that could rival New York, London, Paris, and Tokyo in global appeal, and Blake promised to give the idea some thought. Someday, maybe, she added in her thoughts. I have other plans in mind for the next few years. Oprah Winfrey seized the opportunity to repeat her frequent request that Blake appear on one of her television programs, and perhaps collaborate with her in some charity projects. Blake apologized for having a crammed schedule and promised they’d talk sometime. She renewed old contacts and made new ones, and felt her soon-to-be ex-husband’s absence from her side as nothing less than a godsend.
At almost midnight, Blake took the podium set up near the double-door entrance flanked by Ionic columns and colossal statues of ravens, Blake’s trademark. Edith rang a bell to attract everyone’s attention. When silence reigned in the courtyard, Blake spoke into the microphone:
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming. The Blake Tower opens for move-in on Monday. But if you can’t wait until then, I’ve got a leasing agent here to handle preliminary paperwork. Zach, give us a wave so everyone will know where to find you.” She paused while her senior leasing agent swung a paper lantern over his head, earning a ripple of appreciative chuckles from the party guests.
One gentleman in the crowd didn’t look around for Zach, however. He kept his gaze riveted to Blake’s face. She hesitated as she realized that all night he’d been looking at her every time she happened to glance in his direction. He grinned, white teeth in his fine mocha face matching his cream-colored shirt. As the other guests began turning their attention back to Blake, the gentleman lifted one hand in a lazy wave.
From somewhere near the attentive gentleman, a wolf whistle split the air. Deshawn Thomas, lean and graceful center fielder for the Pittsburgh Pirates, licked his lips at her, not at all bothered to be seen doing so by about fifty of the most influential people in the United States. Blake gave a slight shake of her head. She wanted to tell him his moves for summoning street girls were no use with her, but she didn’t want the words she’d choose quoted in tomorrow’s news.
Catching her gaze again, her cream-shirted admirer pointed at the vulgar athlete and rolled his eyes. She felt her mouth reward him with a broad smile, almost as if her lips had a mind of their own.
Beside her, Edith cleared her throat, watching Blake with an inquisitive expression on her motherly face. Reminded of her duty, Blake shook off an odd nervous tingling in her gut and spoke into the microphone again:
“As many of you know, next week I have a court date to finalize my official status as a single woman again.” Cheers and shouts of congratulations rose from the crowd, photographers and reporters capturing her every move and word. “This is an exciting time in my life, and I have plans that go beyond real esta
te developments. I’ve long been called an inspiration to women and girls, especially women and girls of color. In the coming year I will be starting some new projects to benefit women in business. The Blake Tower is grand, but you haven’t seen anything yet. Stay tuned!”
She stepped down from the podium to thunderous applause. Before she reached Uncle Thorne and Michaele again, the cream-shirted gentleman moved to intercept her.
“Ms. Bertrand,” he said, holding out his hand to shake hers, “I know you’re busy, but may I please give you my card and maybe we can meet for lunch sometime?”
Blake frowned at his extended hand. “I’m sorry, but I don’t shake hands.”
Not only was he not offended, he grinned and playfully slapped his own face. “Doh. I’ve heard that, but I forgot.” He plunged the hand he’d offered her into a pocket of his heather-gray slacks instead, and pulled out a business card. “We both do Miami real estate, and I’d love to talk shop sometime if you’d be willing.”
She took the card but didn’t look at it. “Who are you?” She was curious to know how he got in the party, but didn’t ask in case she’d appear too interested. Besides, she thought, Miami is a small town, and private really means what happens indoors stays there.
“Brett Skeet. I only finished my certification half a year ago, but I’ve already sold three ball players’ homes on Star Island. You’re a hero to many of us in real estate, you know. Myself included. I’d enjoy learning from a legend over lunch. Or coffee, whatever.”
“I’ll have to check my schedule.”
“Of course. Just one thing, though, in case your schedule doesn’t seem to have any openings.”
Blake had half-turned away from him. Now she turned back.
“I’ve just got to say, your ex-Lang is proof positive that a man can live without brains or balls.” Brett Skeet flipped another lazy wave at her and moved off toward the outdoor bar.