THE GOOD MISTRESS II: The Wedding

by Amarie Avant

  Mila

  Beverly Hills

  Mila and Blake had been home for almost a week, returning from their Swiss vacation. It was Sunday, and she was preparing for brunch, which had become a tradition over the years for Mila and her sisters. As Mila got ready, her thoughts settled on her middle sister, Lido.

  At one time, Mila and Lido were the closest of the three sisters. Despite her erratic behavior, Lido had been the shoulder she cried on when Warren died. During those times, Mila didn’t even have to give Lido’s frequently dysfunctional behavior a pass. Their closeness had to do with Mila choosing to attend college in the States instead of becoming her father’s legacy in Ethiopia. And Mila declining the arranged marriage her father had set up—the perfect arrangement—had solidified their relationship. Now, however, the situation was reversed, Mila and Yasmin were the closest.

  Lido had not attended their Sunday brunch since she’d almost ruined Blake and Mila’s relationship with her awful behavior. Not to mention the time she walked around naked in order to tempt him. This Sunday, instead of Lido attending, Lido’s ex-girlfriend, Veronica, came in her stead. Veronica had initially started coming to Sunday brunch because Lido had wanted to goad Yasmin whose religious ways frowned upon their relationship status.

  Somehow, Mila had convinced Yasmin, who was stuck in her old-world ways, to allow, as Yasmin called Veronica, the carpet snatcher, to continue coming to brunch with them. It seemed to Mila that Veronica was continually nursing a broken heart. She was always left cold and jaded at the hands of Lido, but for some reason, the girl kept going back. Yasmin and Mila were convinced Veronica was too kindhearted and still in love with Lido. Mila felt sorry for her, which was how Mila formed a friendship with Veronica.

  The Beverly Hills restaurant they were patronizing was all the rage. White linen and fresh cut flowers adorned the tables. Crystal and china made up the place settings. A famous award-winning chef created the best savory dishes and the most artistic, colorful deserts that were trolleyed around on silver carts.

  As Yasmin and Mila slowly ate, Veronica chowed down on every item. Food could mend a broken heart.

  “Girl, do you plan on keeping all that food down?” Yasmin asked. “I know, that was blunt, but . . . you’re eating as if your life depends on it.”

  Veronica, a blonde Victoria’s Secret model with sensual baby blue eyes, scooped up mashed potatoes and gravy, while her other hand held a half-eaten cupcake. She took an anxious bite from the cake. “It’s okay. I’m just so glad you let me come to brunch. I really don’t get to eat a lot, normally. But yeah, I am going to,” her voice lowered, “move this food right along my slim figure, later on.” She winked.

  Yasmin, shocked, nodded her head. “Well, since Veronica was okay with my mouth, I’ll keep going.”

  Mila placed her mimosa on the table. “You don’t have to—”

  “Veronica, while I don’t agree with your lifestyle, waa sharmutto is nacday,” Yasmin began.

  Mila wondered at how Yasmin’s beautiful Somali features never fazed, even when being judgmental.

  “What did she say?” Veronica asked Mila, not at all angered, but dreadfully curious.

  Mila couldn’t tell Veronica that her oldest sister had called her a whore, so she said, “You’re free-spirited. Yasmin is traditional.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Veronica agreed.

  “That being said,” Yasmin continued, “you have to want better for yourself. And Lido Ali is a walking plague. She has no heart.”

  Veronica’s blue eyes glossed over. “I know.” She shoved the last bit of cupcake into her mouth in embarrassment.

  Mila kicked her sister under the table.

  “It’s true,” Yasmin said, defending herself.

  “Well, sugar coating it—” Mila started to counter.

  “I did. I spoke in our native tongue.”

  Veronica dabbed at her eyes with the linen napkin. “Mila, remember when I told Lido it was over?”

  “Um,” Mila straightened up somewhat. “I recall . . . a few times.”

  “No. The one time I threatened to murder Lido if you didn’t take her with you.”

  “Of course . . .” Mila almost felt uncomfortable. Feigning distraction, she waved off the cart before her that had salmon and crab cakes.

  “I just keep replaying that in my mind,” Veronica said, then she grabbed the waiters arm. “No, don’t go.”

  In a second, she had cluttered the table with more food. “I was at my wit’s end. Ready to murder her. Then I let Lido back into my life. But I swear, if Lido returns again, I’m . . . I’m . . .”

  “You’re going to treat her the way that she’s been treating you?” Yasmin inquired, although her entire demeanor was shrouded in doubt.

  Veronica had just shoved a crab cake into her mouth, and all she could do was nod.

  “If you do, I will applaud you for it. Now for you, Mila,” Yasmin said.

  Mila stacked her half-eaten plate, with three other plates that Veronica had all but demolished a few minutes ago. “Oh, no, I don’t need you reading me. Yasmin, that look in your eyes tells me you are ready to dig in. If your stay-at-home ass feels like offering advice and wisdom, you can volunteer at my nonprofit organization. Honey, you can read books to the kids, help them cultivate a brighter future.”

  “Ha!” Yasmin lowered her voice, trying not to call attention to herself, and took a sip of her champagne. Even though they didn’t consider themselves black, in the eyes of everyone else they were. They were truly minorities in the classy Beverly Hills restaurant.

  Mila huffed, knowing her sister wasn’t done yet. Never in her life had Yasmin not said what she meant. No matter what, she’d tell her version of the truth.

  Yasmin picked up her silver fork and cut her quiche perfectly. “So, tell me, how was Switzerland?”

  “Great.” Mila instantly regretted the automatic response. She knew what Yasmin was trying to get at—the proposal—marriage. Veronica looked on with interest, clearly invested in her happiness with Blake, while Yasmin looked ready to read her Genesis to Revelations.

  “He hasn’t proposed since we left the snow,” Mila said, apprehensive, biting her bottom lip. Mila mentally counted down how long it would take Yasmin to place the blame on her for their not marrying. Truly, she was at fault. He’d asked so many times, and each time, she had refused him.

  On one of their last few days at the cabin, she had caught him on his cell phone in the living room. As she entered the room with their coffee, she had tried to gauge his mindset. The conversation she had with Zenobia had ended in high spirits. But the moment she went to talk to Blake, the worry she felt about declining all his proposals had come back. He was sitting on the couch, toggling on his phone. He seemed to be wrestling with something. Blake loved her, and the entire world knew that he had her heart. But was he beginning to think that he didn’t? Did he doubt their love? His love for me. Will he give up?

  “He loves you,” Veronica had a starry-eyed look. “What’s a couple hundred proposals? It will make him want you more and love you harder. Men don’t want an easy woman who gives in readily. They want a challenge.”

  Yasmin made that damn face that caused Mila to look away. The sharmoto, please or rather, bitch, please face.

  “Girl, you know how to make a man give up.” Yasmin shook her head, and in the next sentence, she was speaking in their native tongue. “Father agreed to this relationship. You have his blessing, so do it!”

  “Please,” Veronica cut in. “I really want to know what you all are talking about.”

  Mila snapped. “I’m sorry. But she won’t mind saying it again in English. I don’t think Yasmin could shut up if she wanted too.”

  “Precisely,” Yasmin said in a harsh whisper. “I love my walaashay yar, and I—”

  “I know that word, it’s little sister.” Veronica seemed excited.

  Mila agreed, although not too hyped up about it.

  “And I want
the best for her,” Yasmin said. “Our father introduced me to a good Somali man.”

  “What?” Veronica asked, finally not so interested in consuming her weight in calories—times twenty.

  “Faaid and I had an arranged marriage.”

  “And that’s good, Yasmin. My nephews are taken care of, and they have good temperaments, so I believe he’s a good father. That’s what matters,” Mila agreed.

  “I learned to love Faaid.”

  Veronica gasped, realization hitting her. “And you and Lido were supposed to have arranged marriages.”

  Mila gestured for a waiter. She needed a new mimosa. Hell, she needed some serious bottle service.

  “What happened?” Veronica asked.

  “Oh, the man in question, he was Ethiopian.”

  “But you all are Somali,” Veronica said.

  “We are. But we left Somalia when we were young due to the civil war,” Yasmin answered.

  “I believe I was almost five,” Mila mumbled, knowing good and well that Veronica had more questions.

  “That’s young.”

  “It was. But with conflict one grows smarter, stronger, more prepared,” Mila said. Yasmin nodded, taking another bite of quiche.

  “Faaid’s family came from our very own village. The arrangement was not for an advancement in class or money. One day, Faaid’s father came into our father’s office.”

  “Our dad’s a physician,” Mila added.

  “Yes, and I was fourteen. My father-in-law was sent along his way with medicine and an arranged marriage. A few years later, our father was preparing to introduce Lido to a very prominent Ethiopian family. And I mean royal blood as in Farquaad lineage.”

  “What?” Veronica’s eyebrow rose.

  “Z’ier Yacob Farquadd, the crowned council of Ethiopia, son of the Emperor.” Mila spoke up, although she wasn’t all that interested in hearing the story. She thanked the waiter for the fresh mimosa, and said, “You’ll be greatly rewarded for keeping them coming.” She slipped several bills into his hand.

  “Sheesh, so Lido was going to marry into the Farquadd family?” Veronica asked.

  “Yes and no. She was supposed to marry the cousin of Z’ier. But Lido assumed dad had made another kind-hearted arrangement while at work, healing and saving some poor soul. The village we are from, doctoring people is more a caring sport than it is for money,” Yasmin said.

  “But what do you mean, yes and no?”

  “I’m almost there.”

  Mila chuckled. “Trust me, don’t ask questions. You’ll just prolong this. Yasmin loves the mic.”

  Mila’s older sister paid her no attention. “So, instead of taking a patient at his office, our father was coming home from a visit at a very extravagant mansion to announce the engagement. Lido didn’t even know that part until she’d gone. She made it clear that she wasn’t marrying someone that she didn’t know. But the kicker is, the bitch didn’t know that he was Ethiopian royalty.”

  Veronica gasped.

  Yasmin paused for effect, the good gossiper that she was, and reeled Veronica back in by way of giving her a moment to sponge up all the story.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Veronica said. “The royal blood cousin was offered to Mila instead!”

  Realizing how loud her outburst had been, Veronica glanced around. She offered a pretty smile that stopped some of the glares and the snooty side chatter of their neighboring brunch goers.

  “Damn,” Mila cut in. “You should’ve just finished the damn story.”

  “Humph.” Yasmin nodded. “Veronica, you’re smarter than I thought you were. Lido declined before father could explain just what she had won! A few weeks later, she took off, without a word said. Our father made the arrangement for Mila instead. I know, people around the world think Lido’s shit doesn’t stink and that she’s God’s gift to mankind, but that awkward, long-legged girl isn’t half as pretty as Mila.”

  Veronica smiled. “You do have this innate beauty. Modeling agencies just love awkwardness, though.” She shoved her blond hair behind her large ears. “When I was young, I hid my ears. Tyra Banks told me to embrace them about ten years ago. Now, back to this story, I can see Lido being very angry about not having this royal guy, which is why I’m guessing she never told me about any of this.”

  “Yup, at first, she didn’t, but now, she thinks that Mila took him from her. Even though our baby sister had nothing to do with it. Heck, Mila talked our father out of the marriage as well for an education. It broke his heart to agree. And Mila took our father’s disappointment to heart and steered clear of him for a while. I swear until Mila met Blake, I always believed she was cursed for not marrying into the Ethiopian Royal Family. I mean, there was Warren too, but . . .”

  “Well, if I’m not cursed, why do you think I’m not married?” Mila cocked her head to the side.

  “I think that you’re afraid to let go, Mila. The look in your eyes when Blake is near, wow. It’s heaven on earth. And it’s also the same look he has for you. Just say yes already.”

  Blake

  Blake could recall every romantic gesture for Diane and how he thought he’d won her heart when they were in their twenties. Little did Blake know that any guy from the other side of the tracks would have done for the blue-blooded beauty. She just lucked out when it came to a man with ambitions. Of course, Mila was nothing like Diane, but here Blake was, thinking about how similar the situations were.

  The raw sound of his Bugatti cleared his mind of every romantic gesture for the moment. Pine trees zipped by, and a brownish-blue blur, the Pacific Ocean, went with it. He toggled the shift, scoffing at himself for Googling the best proposals.

  A lack of confidence had him mumbling to himself. “I can give her anything in this world.”

  Realistically, Blake knew there was something other than the kind of proposal he offered that was stopping her. He knew he could arrange a hot-air balloon or rent an orchid garden or some exotic location to show her the ring, but it wouldn’t matter. Something else was preventing the woman he loved from saying yes.

  He maxed out the speedometer for just a split second before reigning in the beast of an engine, gliding along the corner of the race track.

  When Blake came to a stop, Lamb was standing next to the finish line as was the attendant.

  Lamb squinted at him like he was crazy. The look in his blue eyes was enough to let Blake know that he’d lost control, not of the car, but of his own demeanor for a moment.

  Lamb slid into the car, driving it to gas it up.

  “Thought you were gonna smash out for a second,” the attendant said.

  Blake tugged at his tie and headed for the exit. The ride had taken him to the brink. He knew what he had to do now.

  He was ready to go home, take a sip of his most prized bourbon, and ask Mila for the last time to marry him. If she said no, that would be the end of that question. He loved her enough to stay, no wedding bells needed.

  Blake paused for a moment, he missed Zenobia and Isaac’s mother, Serenity. She’d tell him to fight harder.

  But damn it if he wasn’t going to fight Mila for her love. He’d take what he could get for his own sanity and hers.

  ***

  Blake had gone home to his glass house in the Hollywood Hills. The maid was shocked when Blake told her to take the evening off. But then again, she’d been even more shocked when he asked her to purchase Top Ramen noodles at the grocery store before she hit the road for the night.

  On the deck outside of the glass door was a table. A spray of stars peppered the sky— just a tad more than being all the way in the city. The outdoor fireplace was aglow. The candles were lit, and chilled wine was on the table by the time the automated voice of the smart-house, announced Mila’s arrival.

  She wore jeans and a shirt, but none of the material hugged at her curves, which just made him want her more. Blake’s cell phone vibrated across the marble table, but he couldn’t take his eyes off his woman. The scre
en lit up. Special Agent Cynthia Taylor was calling him. They hadn’t talked in ages.

  Keeping his gaze on Mila’s natural beauty, Blake pressed the ignore button. “How was work?”

  Mila glanced down at herself. “I get to put on flip-flops and hang out with teenage girls who talk about being mothers. It made for a much better day than power suits and memos.”

  He smiled. The iPhone began to buzz again, and Blake pressed the button to power it down. He was about to mention how proud he was of The People’s Love Project, Mila’s nonprofit organization, when Mila spoke again.

  “Blake, are you mad at me?”

  He leaned against the counter. “You keep asking me that.”

  She almost looked as if she had been slapped. “Okay, and I want to know the truth. Baby, we have to talk.”

  “I made dinner. We can sit and talk.” He gestured toward the table.

  “I like this.” She smiled. “The candles. Not being at the house in Santa Monica. I always feel like your mind is still at work when we stay at the beach house.”

  “My mind is always on you, Mila,” Blake said, his voice almost as smooth as the thousand-dollar bourbon in his hand. He wanted to keep calm. Shit, I’m the fucker with abandonment issues, so what’s her problem. Where had that thought come from?

  Mila took her purse off and walked over to Blake. He didn’t offer her the fond affection that she had grown accustomed to.

  “I love you,” Blake said, playing with the hair on his strong jaw. “If you’d like to talk, we can talk. But let’s sit down to dinner.”

  “Okay.” She took a few steps back, hesitated, and then retreated outside to the table. “This is beautiful.”

  Blake followed her with the silver plate and dome. As they sat down, things became awkward. Silence filled the air.

  Blake uncovered the plate.

  Mila’s head tilted to the side, and then she was laughing. A good laugh that he hadn’t heard since the first time he scared her with what he assumed was the perfect proposal.

  “Top Ramen? We aren’t in college anymore, Blake.”