Hope’s smile lingered after Frieda had gone. This was her crazy “I am who I am” cousin, and one thing was for sure, what you saw was what you got. As much as she chided Frieda for her fast-lane lifestyle and questionable dating etiquette, she also admired Frieda’s ability to live life to the fullest and on her terms. As Hope prepared to leave the restaurant and signed the receipt, adding a twenty-dollar tip to the fifty-dollar total, she decided to do more of that herself—live a full life—beginning with doing whatever it took to become a mom.
A smile spread slowly across the face of the person who sat directly behind the table just vacated by Stacy, Hope, and Frieda. She couldn’t believe her good fortune on hearing the juicy drama that had just played out. She always knew Stacy had had that child to try to trap Darius, just like she’d always known he’d never stay with her. And not for one minute did she believe that her idol, the man of her dreams, was gay. Everybody knew Bo was Darius’s business partner, and that gay chitter-chatter that had been all over the news had been planted by Darius simply to keep people like Stacy away from him.
“What are you smiling about?” her date asked. He gave her a seductive gaze, and hoped the smile was for him.
It wasn’t, as her next words confirmed. “I’m smiling because what we just heard puts me one step closer to what I want. And I always get what I want.” She rocked her leg and twirled the straw in her drink as she pondered which plan to put into play. Then the smile faded, her eyes narrowed, and the young, determined woman made a declaration: Darius Crenshaw is as good as mine!
3
Babies Are Blessings
“Are you sure you don’t want to fly over here? My business wraps up in a couple days. We can take an extended European tour and then go down under for the Australian Open.” Cy’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “Maybe sneak into the stadium at midnight and make love on the main court.”
Hope smiled as if Cy could see her face through the phone. She knew her six-foot-two, one-hundredand-eighty-five pounds of caramel goodness would do anything to make her feel good, which is why she tried to put on a happy face around him and now respond with a cheerful voice.
“That would give new meaning to tennis balls, now, wouldn’t it?”
“Not to mention the things I’d do to you with my racquet,” he said, laughing. “But if we continue this discussion of racquets and balls much further, I’ll have to cancel the rest of my meetings and fly home now.”
“Promises, promises,” Hope countered. “I love you, baby, but handle your business. I’ll be here, ready and waiting, when you get home.”
“Last chance for this first-class ticket, baby.” Cy’s want to see his wife had turned into need. “Especially since your mom canceled her trip. And speaking of, how’s Earl? Still improving?”
“Daddy’s much better. In fact, Mama said he may be released in a couple days. Thank God this wasn’t an actual heart attack. It was a warning, though. Mama said she and Lena are joining forces to play food cop. Of course, Daddy was in the background begging for smothered pork chops.”
“If Earl’s joking around, he’s definitely on the mend. That’s good to hear, baby. Maybe you should fly there instead. I can even meet you in Oklahoma if you want.”
“That’s a good idea, Cy. Maybe I will. I’ll either call or e-mail you as soon as I make any plans.”
They shared a few more naughty innuendos before Hope gently placed the receiver in its cradle. She fought to maintain the lightness and joy that had transpired during the conversation with her husband. The happiness lingered briefly, especially as she thought of her mother and father genuinely getting along for the first time since they had divorced more than a decade ago. Hope felt a small sense of pride knowing their attendance at her and Cy’s wedding had been the catalyst to her parents’ platonic reconciliation. Lena was a big help too. She and Earl had recently married, and Lena had immediately offered her friendship to Hope’s mother and Earl’s ex-wife. “We’re all family, Pat,” she’d said. “You loved him then, I love him now. So we’ve already got something in common.” When Earl complained of chest pains and couldn’t catch his breath, Pat’s was the second number Lena dialed, after 911.
That’s some kind of woman, Hope thought as she flipped through hundreds of television channels. Her mother was the kind of woman Hope doubted she could be. If she and Cy ever divorced, heaven forbid, could she be friendly toward his new wife? Hope felt she would have to try, for the sake of their children … if there ever were any.
Children—what Hope wanted more than anything in the world. The second of her two-pronged, decade-long prayer to God. He’d already answered the first part. Cy Taylor was everything she could ever want in a husband, lover, and best friend. When she thought about Frieda, Stacy, and the hordes of single women at her church, Kingdom Citizens’ Christian Center, her gratitude intensified. Frieda changed men like some women changed hairstyles. And just look what Stacy is going through. Hope felt guilty for wanting more. She and Cy had been trying forever to get pregnant. Aside from when he was out of town, theirs was an almost daily effort to welcome in a Cy Jr. or little Hope. Would she ever wipe mashed potatoes from the mouth of her own bundle of joy?
I don’t know if or when I’ll do that, Hope thought. But what she wasn’t going to do, she decided, was sit in a three-million-dollar penthouse suite overlooking the Pacific Ocean with a five-karat diamond on her hand, food in the refrigerator, money in the bank, and have a pity party. She could almost hear the response if her mother knew Hope was feeling sorry for herself: “Girl, you better add up your blessings before the Lord starts subtracting!”
Her mother would be right. She was too blessed to be stressed, and she decided to start acting like it. Hope went online, booked a Monday morning ticket to Tulsa, phoned her mother with her travel plans, and sent Cy an e-mail. She felt better after talking to her mother. After fixing herself a snack tray, she hunkered down for a marathon viewing of the Conversations with Carla television shows she’d Tivo’d the week before.
The first two shows—on religion in the workplace and life after sexual abuse—were interesting but didn’t hold Hope’s genuine interest. She was about to come to that same conclusion about Wednesday’s show, “Today’s Working Woman,” when—after hearing from a bank executive and a woman who owned her own catering business—Carla introduced her next guest.
“For some of us, being the wife of a successful man can feel like a full-time job,” Carla joked with her usual warmth. “Juggling his needs with those of the children can sometimes get tricky, especially for new mothers. Here to share her story, as well as tips on how to succeed in this balancing act of motherhood and ministry, is the wife of an international business entrepreneur and pastor, a woman successful in her own right, Millicent Kirtz.”
Hope froze, celery stick in midair, blue-cheese dip dripping unnoticed on the plush, silk divan. Surely this wasn’t the Millicent she knew, the woman who’d stalked her husband and almost ruined New Year’s two years ago. There’s no way God would bless her with a child before me, Hope thought.
But she thought wrong, because onto the stage walked a poised and radiant Millicent Sims Kirtz, looking as beautiful as ever. Hope dared not think, let alone state the obvious, that motherhood agreed with her. Not that anyone would ever look at her and assume she’d had a child. No, Millicent was still model thin, even on television, which supposedly added ten pounds. Her cream-colored dress, belted at the waist, complemented her lithe, five-foot-seven frame and accented her perfect pooch of a derriere. The strappy jewel-colored sandals she wore were Giuseppe Zanotti originals. Hope knew this because a similar pair was in her closet. But Millicent’s excellent taste in footwear wasn’t the problem. What had taken away Hope’s appetite was hearing the words Millicent and mother in the same sentence.
Millicent’s makeup was flawless. It brought out the gold undertones of her café-au-lait skin, and if girlfriend had any blemishes, no one could see them. She wore
her naturally long, dark brown hair in a cascade of curls. The soft-looking ringlets bounced slightly as she rocked to and fro in Carla’s plus-sized bear hug of an embrace. It was the way Carla greeted most of her guests, as if they were long-lost relatives. Her unbridled show of affection made the guests feel right at home, and most ended up talking to her as if that were true, spilling secrets as if it were just the two of them curled up in the living room sipping tea.
Hope moved from the divan to the floor, directly in front of the sixty-five-inch flat-screen television. A surge of jealousy rose up before she could stop it, and at that moment, if she could, she would have reached through the television screen and slapped the happy off Millicent’s face. She almost couldn’t bear to watch, yet couldn’t turn away as she listened to Carla and Millicent go on and on about the joys and challenges of motherhood.
“I think it helped that little Jackson was a total surprise,” Millicent said in response to Carla’s question. “He came along as quickly as my marriage to his father at an impromptu ceremony in Mexico. And just like that unplanned, spontaneous occurrence, our son has brought the greatest joy.”
“Wait, hold up, I think I just heard another story-line. I know we’re talking about motherhood, but your wedding wasn’t planned?”
“Not exactly,” Millicent answered, nonplussed. “Jack and I had already planned to get married; we just hadn’t planned to marry so quickly. And, no, I was not pregnant before the wedding,” she deadpanned directly into the camera. “Jackson was conceived three months after we returned to California.”
Carla also spoke into the camera, directly to the television audience. “Did y’all hear that? Millicent got pregnant after she was married.”
She eyed a few women in the studio audience and spoke conspiratorially, again as if they were the best of friends. “You know how lies get started, so when you repeat this story, tell the truth and shame the devil.” Carla’s laughter tempered her not-so-subtle message to gossipers, particularly those in the Kingdom Citizens congregation, where Millicent had once been a member. Then Carla turned back to her guest. “So here you are, juggling your duties as a pastor’s wife and in-demand marketing consultant, and here comes a baby. Oh, my!”
“Exactly. I was shocked but pleased. Jack has two children from a previous marriage, but we always talked of having one of our own.”
“So he’s, what, hitting those terrific twos now?”
Millicent laughed. “I remember you calling them that, Carla—the terrific instead of terrible twos. And, yes, Jack and I, along with his children, Sarah and Thomas, are enjoying those moments right now … immensely.”
Millicent winked at the audience to underscore her sarcasm. They laughed along with her, feeling a part of the camaraderie Carla had created onstage.
“Babies are blessings,” Millicent went on, ironically spouting the same phrase Hope had earlier said to Stacy. “Ultimately even the challenges with Jackson are a gift.”
Hope watched the rest of the segment through a sheen of tears. Millicent Sims Kirtz was a mother. Millicent had a child who was two years old. Millicent had gotten pregnant without even trying, three mere months after marrying her husband.
The irony of life wasn’t lost on Hope. When she’d married Cy, she’d gotten what Millicent had long desired. And now Millicent had something Hope desperately wanted. Check, and checkmate.
Hope reached for her purse and pulled out her cell phone. With Giorgio in town, she wasn’t surprised to get Frieda’s voice mail. Hope only hoped they’d made it to a hotel and weren’t humping like two love-starved teenagers in a rented SUV on a dark side street.
She waited for the beep. “Frieda, why didn’t you tell me Millicent had a baby? I know you knew; you never miss Carla’s show. Call me when you get this message. I don’t care what time.”
Hope hung up, dialed Stacy, and also got voice mail. It’s probably just as well, she thought, hanging up the phone without bothering to leave a message. Stacy probably couldn’t care less that Millicent or anybody else had a baby. She was dealing with enough baby-mama drama of her own.
4
Baby-Mama Drama
“Who was it?” Darius asked as Bo placed the phone back on the receiver and his arm around his husband.
“Baby-mama drama,” Bo said simply. Enough said.
It was almost a week to the day since Stacy had been served the custody papers, and she’d been calling Darius ever since. After their one and only conversation had turned into a shouting match, Bo had suggested any further communication happen through their attorneys. Bo had been right, as was often the case when it came to all things Darius. And while Darius knew his attorney had not only phoned Stacy repeatedly but also e-mailed a proposed child-support increase that could result in Darius dropping the lawsuit if she complied, Stacy was still acting a fool.
Darius sighed. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
“A scorned woman is hell,” Bo corrected. “But we both know what this is about, and it’s not about a baby. It’s about you.”
“I know. And don’t even go there with another round of ‘I told you so.’”
“I wasn’t,” Bo lied even as he almost choked on the litany of ways he’d tried to discourage Darius from getting involved with Spacey Stacy Gray. He’d known she was trouble the first time he’d laid eyes on her. But with Bo, anybody remotely interested in Darius was trouble until thoroughly investigated and proven otherwise. Not that it mattered. Darius had finally seen the light, ended the sham of a marriage he’d had with Stacy, and come home to his heartbeat. He and Darius had been enjoying life ever since. Not only that, but after Darius had come out of the closet, his already successful music career had soared. The numbers he’d lost in judgmental church members had been more than made up by new fans in ever-growing gay America. That was one thing about the homosexual community—those birds of a feather definitely stuck together.
Bo lazily ran his hands across Darius’s closely cropped hair, rubbed his broad shoulders, and admired the smooth, chocolate skin. “Uh-huh, tight as a drum, just as I figured. You can’t get all stressed out with this Stacy business.”
Bo stood, stretched his lithe, light-skinned, five-foot-nine body, walked behind the couch, and reached for Darius’s shoulders. He was as good a masseur as he was a business manager. Darius began to relax immediately.
“Dang, baby, you’re almost better than Ching,” Darius said, referring to the licensed practitioner he saw once a week when his schedule permitted and he was in town. He rolled his neck from left to right, no longer feeling the kinks that had been there moments before.
“Almost? Ching wishes he could knead a muscle like I do, and he’d like to knead one muscle in particular, if you get my drift. At least he’s not in the band,” Bo finished quietly.
“Contrary to your popular belief, my dear man, everyone is not after me sexually.” Darius chose not to respond to the band reference. Randall, his six-foot-one bass guitar player, rumored to swing in both directions, had sent Bo into a tizzy from the moment he’d been hired a month ago.
“Uh, did I say everyone? ’Cause I could have sworn I just said Ching.” Bo recognized that Darius hadn’t taken the band bait and wisely dropped it.
“Okay, more specifically, Ching is not trying to have sex with me. He has a girlfriend.”
“Is her name Stacy?” Bo asked. His skepticism was obvious. “I rest my case.”
Once again ignoring Bo’s jab, Darius rose from the couch and pointed to where he’d been sitting. “Let me return the favor.”
Darius’s strong fingers were soon working their magic. Bo moaned his appreciation until his cry was an exaggerated wail.
“You nut,” Darius said, laughing. “It sounds like you’re about to climax.”
“No, but I’m hoping that will be happening within the hour.”
Darius figured this somewhat happy mood was as good a time as any to spring on Bo the news that would surely upset him—a
s anything upset him that Bo didn’t control. As it was, Darius had kept the secret for almost a month, a rarity for this partnership where everything was shared.
“Oh, hey, I’ve got some news.”
“Aw, hell.” Bo sat up and turned to Darius. “What?”
“Relax, baby,” Darius said, continuing the massage. “This is lightweight. A fan club.”
“A fan club? Says who?”
“Says me, that’s who!”
“Okay, cool, but where did this come from all of a sudden?”
“From the Andersons’ daughter. You remember them, right? Clyde and Bernadette?”
“How could I forget their homophobic asses? Those are the ones who accosted us in the parking lot, right? The woman with a face like old cottage cheese telling us what we were doing was an annihilation?”
“Abomination, nut. But, yes, that’s them.” Darius rejoined Bo on the couch and put his arm around him. “It seems their daughter doesn’t share those archaic views. In fact, she’s a computer whiz, and, according to her, my number-one fan. She wants to head up a fan club for me. I don’t see a problem with it.”
“Yeah, neither did Paul Sheldon.”
“Who’s that?”
“From that movie, Misery, with Kathy Bates. He didn’t see a problem either until his ‘number-one fan’ pushed his ass down a set of stairs and then broke both his legs. Of course, I’m sure the leg Miss Thang is interested in isn’t the one you walk with.”
“Her name is Melody.”
“That light-skinned, loud-mouthed girl with a booty the size of our widescreen?”
“Her booty isn’t that big.”
“Oh, so you’ve been looking.”
“No! Stop trying to start an argument. I’m not interested in that girl—I repeat, girl. She’s sixteen years old.”
“I don’t care if she’s sixteen months old. She’s got a va-jay-jay, and so I say nay-nay. She can be a member, but let somebody else head up your fan club. What about that old chick who wears those outlandish hats? I like her.”
Heaven Right Here Page 2