by H.H. Fowler
Doreen opened the door and left with a grunt.
Chapter Three
Brandon View Baptist Church
When Paul Lakatos introduced his son, Brian Lakatos, to strangers, they often walked away with either one of two questions burning through their minds: Had Paul adopted Brian Lakatos as his son, or had Paul married an African American woman? Genes usually did not lie. Paul was a white man with powerful grey eyes, whereas Brian had the smooth complexion of caramel toffee. However, as the First Family of Brandon View Baptist Church – with Doreen and Wynton thrown into the mix – one could easily piece together the puzzle. Wynton resembled Paul; the same way Brian resembled Doreen. But strangely, in personality, Wynton was nothing like his father, as Brian was the total opposite of his mother.
Brian emulated much of Paul’s desire for the pulpit, and as he stood behind the oak-laden monstrosity, outfitted in a Ralph Lauren three-piece suit, he watched his father stroll into the sanctuary with Karl Benton – a man proud of his Hispanic heritage. The two men had been friends long before Brian was born thirty years ago.
As a matter of fact, his mother, Doreen, and Karl’s wife, Sharon, had been the best of friends. However, while the bond remained strong between his father and Karl Benton, the friendship between the women had shriveled to pure hatred. When one woman called another woman’s child a rapist, there was no restitution to be made. It might have been twelve years ago, but Brian remembered vividly the hurtful words that had been exchanged between Doreen and Sharon…
“…don’t you call my daughter a whore,” Sharon had huffed in Doreen’s face. “Wynton is primarily the blame. He is known for sleeping around, forcing himself on these poor, virgin girls –”
“You must be out your mind, Sharon, to make such derogatory statements about my son,” Doreen lashed back. “Jasmine is no virgin! Everybody knows that! Your daughter was on all fours when you found her in your bedroom – sexual positions too advanced for a virgin, don’t you think?”
“Who told you that?” Sharon had fumed.
The only person who knew the explicit details of that night when Sharon burst in on Wynton and Jasmine was her husband, Karl. Sharon didn’t believe that Wynton was that fond of his mother, to be as revealing as that. She cut her eyes to Karl, who at that moment, seemed content to revel in silence.
“…it doesn’t matter how I found out,” Doreen had said.. “Jasmine is just as much the blame as Wynton. I don’t approve of any of my boys having sex at sixteen, but for God’s sake, Sharon, you’re making my son out to be a criminal of some sort.”
“I don’t care what you say, Doreen,” Sharon said. “Your son forced himself on my daughter!”
“So, you’re calling Wynton a rapist?”
“Well, blessed assurance! You took the words right out of my mouth…”
That night was the last time Brian had seen Sharon at their home. Two months later, Jasmine was shipped off to a boarding school in New York – never to be heard from or seen again. At times, Brian wondered if Karl had really gotten over that situation between Wynton and Jasmine. He never talked about it, and in a way, Brian was grateful. Karl was an excellent friend to his father, and Brian would hate to see such a connection dwindle into nothingness. The two men had so much in common that it was oddly frightening.
“Brian! Join us,’ Karl yelled. The morning service had just ended and Brian had been moving toward the exit. When Brian got close enough, Karl affectionately threw a hand around Brian’s shoulder. “Your father and I want to show you something. Do you have ten minutes?”
“Sure,” Brian replied, and then added with humor in his voice, “Unlike you and my father, I don’t have anyone to go home to.”
“A fine chap like yourself – I’m betting that will soon change,” Karl grinned. “A good woman is hard to find these days. They don’t make them like they used to.”
“I don’t know if I totally agree with that statement,” Brian said, as he traipsed behind Karl toward Paul’s office. “My problem isn’t finding them. It’s choosing the right one.”
Karl spun around and met Brian’s pensive gaze with a mischievous smirk. “If you’re talking about the ones that come here at this church – run for your life! They are too much into themselves – not good wife material.”
“My brother is getting hitched in a few months,” Brian said. “And he appears to be quite smitten…”
Karl held open Paul’s office door for Brian to enter, before adding, “All that glitters is not gold; remember that. Besides, that girl has never stepped foot into this church.”
“What foolish advice are you giving my son?” Paul smirked, which seemed to highlight the grey hair that grew beauteously at the sides of his head. He walked toward the two men entering his office, attired in the same color suit as Brian. The only difference was that Paul’s suit was five sizes bigger and he wore a deep purple tie, instead of the mint green that Brian wore. “Doreen and I have been working our butts off to get this thirty-year-old ‘boy’ out of our house. Don’t ruin our hard work.”
“You better watch what you say, old man,” Brian teased. “Because you might just get your wish.”
“Don’t you think it’s about time that you and Wynton give me some heirs before I die?”
“But I thought we were your heirs,” Brian told his father.
“Proverbs 13:22 – a good man leaves an inheritance for his children’s children.” Paul kept that mischievous smirk going. “I did not write those words, my boy; I’m just trying to obey them.”
“Don’t sweat the boy, Paul,” Karl said. He gave Brian a casual pat on the back. “Women come with their own problems. It takes ‘real’ men to maintain one for forty years. So, take your time…”
“Karl, Brian doesn’t have time,” Paul said, his grey eyes coming alive with amazement. “He’s five years older than I was when I started to date his mother…”
Brian looked at Karl in mocked annoyance. “Please, don’t tell me that this is the reason you asked me to join you. Living with this man, I’ve had enough advice on my decision in choosing a wife.”
Karl’s grin widened until it showed his pearly whites. “Of course not, our young protégé. We don’t wish to overstimulate your impressionable mind. Please have a seat by that table.”
Paul bent his head and let out a quiet chortle. It tickled him to see the way that he and Karl got under Brian’s skin. If Brian hoped to succeed him someday as Bishop over Brandon View Baptist Church, the boy had better toughen up. Running a ministry of any reputable size could bury an immature leader in frustration. Paul pulled up a chair next to his son, while Karl took his position next to a projector screen that had been set up by the church’s IT department.
Brian observed how his father and Karl had gracefully slipped into their professional personas. With them, business was business and pleasure took a back seat. Karl had evolved into a savvy real estate developer and had overseen the design of several grand structures in Brandon, Florida. Over the years, Paul’s company had provided the tons of steel required to sustain projects of such magnitude. The men were two powerhouses that had become inseparable, and at times, Brian felt a bit intimidated being in their presence.
“We are in the age of technology,” Karl stated. “I don’t see why we continue to kill so many poor trees…help me out, Paul. Turn that thing on for me…”
The first image that materialized on the screen showed acres of land, piled high with refuse, and surrounded by a forest of weeds that had gone unattended for months.
“Tell me what you see, son,” Paul challenged Brian.
“Is this a trick question?”
“No, just tell me what you see.”
Brian shrugged noncommittally. “I don’t know; it looks like a dumpsite of some sort.”
“Is that all you see?” Karl prompted. “A dumpsite? Come on, Brian. Look again…”
“But, that is what I see,” Brian said a bit annoyed. “A huge piece of land
that looks abandoned.”
“Use your imagination,” Paul said. “It’s more than a dumpsite.”
Karl grinned, waving a hand toward Brian as if to say ‘never mind’. “Paul, our work will not be easy with this generation. Please, put up the next image.”
The old, abandoned-looking image was replaced with a clean copy of a well-developed metropolis. Massive buildings, so intricately designed that Brian wondered if such structures could ever be built. Every infrastructure appeared to be in place. Roads, drainage systems, water supply, telecommunications, parks, public housing – the likes of a city operating on its own power. Brian was undoubtedly impressed, but still he hadn’t a clue to what these two men were trying to get across to him.
“This, my son is the future home of Brandon View International. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Paul stood up and faced Brian. “A municipality – where one of the largest edifices will be erected in Brandon, Florida. I may not be around when it is completed, but I promise you, this will be the remainder of my life’s work.”
“Our congregation is less than a thousand people,” Brian said. “Why do you want to build such a monstrosity?”
“It’s called vision,” Karl said. “Our membership is growing. In three years, we won’t have space to accommodate the people. Expansion is inevitable…”
Brian tried to hide his displeasure. He was not the type that chased after wealth and grandeur. He was certain this was another one of his father’s silly impulses – trying to outdo his contemporaries. “What does mother have to say about this?”
“Doreen?” Paul’s voice was shrouded in bitterness. “What choice does she have? She’s in Jamaica being a bloody pest to your brother and his fiancée. He called me this morning complaining about it. But this project will be completed with or without your mother’s approval.” He glared firmly at his son. “And I don’t expect you to side with your mother on this. In case you forgot, you’re next in line to become the next bishop of this church. So you better catch the vision and start acting like you care about it…I will see you at home.”
Chapter Four
“I agree with you, Miss. Edna,” Wynton said to his fifty-year-old event organizer. “We had a swell time in Ocho Rios. Thanks for an excellent show; at least I know how my money is being spent.”
“I’m pleased to be on your team,” Edna said. “You are in great demand, which makes my job a helluva lot easier.”
Wynton, who was riding in his limo, stole a quick glance at his fiancée, whose back was turned toward him. They needed to talk, so the sooner he got Miss Edna off the phone, the sooner he could turn his attention to the woman whose name he planned on changing to Mrs. Lakatos come November. However, he needed Edna to understand where he was at this point in his life. Performing at sold-out concerts several times a year and traveling from city to city was the dream of any serious musical artist, but it was only part of what would complete his happiness.
“Now, Miss Edna,” Wynton said firmly. “I can’t do any more tours of this magnitude. I’m getting married in a few short months and I need time to get some things together.”
“So, that’s your way of telling me that I will be out of a job,” Edna joked.
“We’ve talked about this briefly, Miss Edna. Small gigs are fine, but let those sleeping giants sleep on – at least until I’ve settled a bit into my ‘new’ life.”
“How long are we talking here? You can’t afford the risk of slipping into obscurity.”
“I release two albums a year,” Wynton said. “A short break will not push me out of the limelight. You said so yourself. My fans are crazy about the music that I put out. Some of the other ‘big name’ artists are not as prolific as I am, but they are still flying high. It’s all about building my brand. And we have done that.”
Edna accepted her defeat and kept her professional timbre going, “Well, then, let me remind you now since I’ve got you on the phone. On Thursday – three days from today – you have a short interview with Katie Donnahue at My Fox Tampa Bay, followed by a stage performance. It’s a TV station located on the west of Kennedy Blvd.”
“That’s fine; I can do that,” Wynton said and then added in a humorous tone, “I am not as old as you are, Miss Edna, but I have problems remembering my own name sometimes. Send me a text or something.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Funny Man,” Edna grinned. “You will admit that I’m the best in the business.”
“That you are, Miss Edna, that you are.”
Wynton disconnected the line just as the limo cruised out of the Lewis Airport. It was a privately owned airport that Wynton used to escape the blitz that came along with being a celebrity. It was not that he didn’t appreciate the open doors his talent provided, but he was wary of the hungry sharks who wanted to capitalize on his fame. He’d had dozens of reputable offers from big name music producers, offering him the world if he would consider scribbling his signature on the dotted line. Wynton, however, was a shrewd businessman, and was careful not to get too excited about the contracts being thrown at him. He did not need big time producers as badly as they needed him, because he’d made it to the top without them.
Wynton had his own record label and had been producing music under it for the past four years. The aspects of the business that he could not handle were outsourced – to industry gurus like Miss Edna, who handled most of his bookings and promotions. The only real pain in his butt at the moment was his distressing mother, who’d tried repeatedly over the years to sabotage his career in music. But he would fight her at every turn to keep his company progressing – the same way he would fight to make Tara Lamont the next Mrs. Lakatos. Wynton tapped on the glass to get the limo driver’s attention, who happened to also be Wynton’s main bodyguard. Everyone called him Tiger.
“Let me know when you are near Adamo Avenue,” he said. “I want to get some chocolate ice cream. You know the place I’m referring to?”
“Yes, sir…”
Wynton had hoped his words to the driver would pull Tara’s listless gaze from the window. She was crazy over chocolate ice cream. However, the deep slump in her shoulder, and the prolonged silence suggested that she had no interest in being charmed out of her depression. Wynton grasped the palm of her hand, and with his thumb, he gently caressed it. He wished he could massage away the hurt she was experiencing, but it was not easy getting over his mother’s vicious verbal attacks.
“I love you,” Wynton said quietly. “That’s what’s important. It doesn’t matter, the crazy things my mother says. She’s just a miserable middle-aged woman looking for attention. She can throw as many tantrums as she wants; I’m not leaving you. Do you feel me, baby?” Unhurriedly, he moved his strokes up Tara’s arm, allowing the tips of his fingers to graze her neck.
Tara’s insides shuddered in response to Wynton’s touch. She knew if she turned to face him at that point, she would give in to the feelings he was stirring in her. It didn’t help that the limo driver had John Legend’s voice crooning in the background.
“Do you want some chocolate ice cream, or do you want me?” she heard Wynton ask. “Or, if you prefer…” he paused, as his lips explored the contours her skin, giving small kisses the way she liked it. “…you can have both. I’m here to please you.”
She squeezed Wynton’s hand. “Your mother really hurt me,” she said, turning to face him. “I’ve never been called a ‘hag’ in my life.”
“Don’t take it so seriously…”
“Wynton, do you even know what a hag is?”
“You’re not one of them, so why should I care?”
“Do you think I’m ugly?”
“C’mon on, baby. I can’t believe you’re letting my mother get to you like this –”
“I’m serious, Wynton,” Tara huffed. Her pageboy haircut made her look fierce and inviting at the same time – one of several reasons why Wynton was attracted to her. “Why does she hate me so much? I’ve gone out of my way trying to g
et that woman’s approval, but nothing I do, moves her. Am I too black for her ‘white’ son?”
The question made Wynton study the remarkable shades of their skin, which he often did when they lay naked in his bed. His complexion looked a lot like coffee creamer, whereas Tara’s was as dark as coco beans. “First of all, my mother is African American,” he said. “So, I am as much an African American as I am of my father’s blood – call him ‘white’, if you desire. I don’t care. I wish I had been born with a little more melanin. Maybe that would have pleased you.”
Tara felt Wynton’s fingers slip away from her neck – a sign that she’d made him cross. She shot a guarded look in his direction. “Why are you getting upset? It’s not fair that you should take it personal –”
“Because you’re making a big deal out of nothing, Tara. I’m not marrying my mother; I’m marrying you.”
“It would be just like I’m marrying your mother,” Tara shot back. “She’s never gonna let us live in peace. She followed you from Brandon, Florida to every island during your music tour. Last night she made the security guard open the door to your dressing room and she hid in the dark like she was a bloody assassin. Now, you tell me, Wynton, if you couldn’t stop her from coming on the tour with you, what makes you think you can stop her from interfering in our marriage? If that’s how it’s gonna be, we might as well end this relationship between us right now…”
The limo stopped in front of a sign that read, Mr. Roger’s Ice Cream Parlor. The limo driver slid the small glass window behind him to one side and then leveled his fat face toward Wynton.
“Boss, do you still want to get some ice cream?” he asked.
Without breaking his gaze from Tara, Wynton took a fifty dollar-bill from his coat pocket and held it in the air. “Get as much as you can and then take me to my apartment. My fiancée and I will be staying in for the rest of the day. Make sure my schedule is free.”