Temptation: The Aftermath

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  What I wanted to do was grab my purse, get in the elevator, call an Uber, and pay him extra to speed over to Mae Frances’s east side apartment. The problem was, my friend wasn’t there. In the last year, I could count the days, probably not even using fingers on both hands, that she’d spent in the uptown, upscale apartment that allegedly she still called home.

  Mae Frances wasn’t in New York and the challenge was, she could be anywhere. She could be in Sicily or Santa Monica, but most likely, that woman was probably back in Smackover.

  Yup … Mae Frances knew everybody, had connections all over the world, and had visited places I’d never heard of. Yet for the last year, she’d spent most of her time in that country town, Smackover, Arkansas.

  Just a thought about that place put a pinch in my heart. Because of the memory of what I’d learned last summer. That long-hidden secret that had taken away my father, given me another … and then the ultimate treasonous act of the universe — made Rachel Jackson Crackpot Adams my sister.

  I backed up — Rachel really wasn’t a crackpot. At least not thirty-six percent of the time. She’d turned out to be a pretty good sister, texting regularly, making sure that I called our father often. Or, if I didn’t initiate the calls, at least I accepted his.

  I hadn’t spoken to Simon this whole week while this was happening with Jefferson, so I did owe him a call. But right now, I didn’t have time to think about my history or what had become my extended family.

  I pressed the number for Mae Frances again, and like before, one ring, then voicemail.

  “Ugh!”

  I repeated the process, and so did she until the fifth time, she cried uncle and picked up.

  “Jasmine Larson, somebody better be dead or you will be,” she said.

  “Why aren’t you answering my calls?”

  She huffed, then puffed, and said,“If I don’t answer your call the first time,” another huff, another puff,“that means I’m busy and I’ll call you back.”

  “Why are you out of breath?” I asked. “What are you doing?”

  Then, a voice that was so close, it sounded like he was speaking right into Mae Frances’s cell phone, said, “Come to Daddy.”

  Oh, my God!

  I couldn’t unhear that. And that voice — that was Rachel’s Uncle Bubba, which kinda meant that he was my uncle, too. Which kinda meant that whatever he and Mae Frances were doing was some kinda incest.

  Oh, my God!

  “I’m enjoying life.”Mae Frances’s sing-song voice broke through my mental machinations.

  “Where are you?” I pressed my eyes closed because I never knew with Mae Frances. She would either tell me it was none-ofmine … or she would tell me the truth and describe how she was naked, in bed, with … my uncle.

  Oh, my God!

  Mae Frances said, “Are you my mama?” choosing the none-ofmine route. “I don’t think so,” she answered for me. “So don’t ask me no questions.”

  “Well, wherever you are, when will you be back?”

  She released an exasperated sigh.“Bubba and I are in DC. We’re staying at Trump Tower.”

  I gasped. And then, gasped again. Like seriously, I thought I was going to start hyperventilating. “Mae Francis, how could you spend any money on that fool in the Oval Office?”

  “You think I spent a nickel here? Girl, bye. I’m here ‘cause I’m in one of these thousand dollar a night penthouse suites — for free.”

  “Free? Why?”

  “Why you think? I got something on that man. Uh-huh,” she hummed. “The Russians aren’t the only ones. It’ll come out soon, but until then ….” She paused, then sang,“Hey … party over here!”

  Oh, my God!

  Actually, I was glad that Mae Frances didn’t share the details of what she knew. Because not only did I not want to know, but there were more important, personal issues to handle right now. “Well, we have to work out something because I really need your help.”

  The music was gone from her voice and now she sighed as if my words were a burden. “You always need my help,” she said. But then, in the next moment, she broke out in a fit of giggles. “Stop,” she dragged out the word like she was a schoolgirl.

  “Really, Mae Francis? Can you ask Bubba,” I refused to call him uncle, “to give you a moment?”

  “You know what, Jasmine Larson?” But before I could say anything, she granted my request. “Give me a minute, baby and I’ll make it worth your while.” A couple of seconds ticked by, then, she returned, speaking in her all-business tone.“Okay, what you need?” “So, here’s what’s going on ….” I inhaled, then exhaled a short version of what happened over the last week: from Jefferson’s accident, to my reconnecting with Kyla, to the mystery hat lady and the blessing of finding her license plate.

  “That’s all I have,” I said, finishing up.“Her license plate. So, can you find out who she is?”

  For many moments, there was nothing but silence and I knew Mae Frances was rolling the conversation through her mind. Then, “Now, tell me again why this is any of your business? If the man wanted to get his freak on, that’s no concern of yours. That’s between him and his wife, right?”

  “That’s just it,” I said. “I think there’s something else going on. I can’t tell you what it is, but I’m really concerned about this woman. I think she’s up to something and I don’t want her hurting Kyla.” “Well, that’s not your responsibility. You didn’t sleep with her husband.”

  If she had been right in front of me, I would have told Mae Frances the whole story; in fact, over the years, I was almost sure that I had shared that part of my past with her. But I couldn’t remind her of that now, not while she was in her double-king bed, on thousand-thread-count sheets, laying up with Bubba. I was well aware that my time was limited.

  So all I said was, “Kyla is dealing with enough right now, just praying that her husband will survive. It’s really sad, Mae Frances. He’s been in a coma since after his operation and I don’t want her to have to deal with anything else. Especially not another woman. That would break her heart; it might even kill her.”

  “Ugh! You’re laying it on thick, but I get it.” She sighed. “You know I’m a softie. So, all right. I’ll come back home.”

  That was what I wanted, but still, I said, “You don’t have to do that. Don’t you think you can handle it from D.C.?”

  “Do you want my help or not, Jasmine Larson? You know how I operate. I need to take care of these things in person.” She didn’t give me a chance to say anything.“So here’s what we’ll do. Text me the license plate and I’ll call my connections.”

  “You know someone at the DMV, right?”

  “The DMV? Why would I go there? I’m gonna go straight to the top. Gonna call the Cuomo brothers. Andrew or Chris. It doesn’t matter. One of them will help me.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t even know why I’d asked her about the DMV. I was talking about some clerk and Mae Frances was talking about the governor of New York or the CNN anchor.

  “Yeah,” she said. “You know their daddy, Mario, was one of my best friends, God rest his soul. So Andy or Chris would be glad to give me anything I need.”

  Now, the governor of New York was Andy?

  “Not that they would do it themselves, ‘cause you know they can’t. But they know people, who know people, who ….”

  “I get it,” I told her.

  “Okay. So, I’ll fly back home tomorrow.”

  With a smirk, I just had to say, “Oh, I’m glad you still call New York home.”

  “You know what, Jasmine Larson?”

  “I’m sorry.” I couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “So, you’ll fly back tomorrow and ….”

  “And you’ll pick me up from LaGuardia.”

  “Would it be okay if I sent a car? Tomorrow is my spa date with Hosea and you know we do everything never to miss that.”

  “Well, since I love Preacher Man,” she said, calling Hosea by the only name
she ever used for him, “you can send a car. I’ll get on that two o’ clock flight.” She spoke as if she knew the schedule of every airline coming into New York from DC. “So I’ll land between three, three-thirty.”

  “I got you.” “You’d better.”

  And then, she hung up. Without a goodbye, or see you tomorrow. I guess her attention was already back to Bubba.

  That made me cringe.

  But, at least Mae Frances was coming home. That made me happy.

  Because things were about to be handled. For real.

  chapter 17

  Kyla

  My eyes fluttered open. How many days had it been? Four, no five because today was Saturday and I was just plain exhausted. But here, in this bed, on these sheets and under this bedding that made me feel like I was sleeping on clouds, I had some peace. Because of Pastor Hosea Bush, life with my husband in a coma was a little bit easier.

  I didn’t want to do it, but I knew I had to get up soon. Rolling over, I glanced at the clock on the Victorian-style nightstand. The digital numbers glowed: 8:11.

  “Hmmm,” I moaned and did one of those morning stretches to awaken my limbs. The only good thing about the time I’d spent in New York was that my body had finally adjusted to East coast time.

  Pushing myself up, I planted my feet on the rug, then trekked into the oversized bathroom that was a big as a small New York apartment. The mosaic floor was cool under my feet and just as I turned on the faucet, the hotel phone rang.

  I picked up the extension, already knowing who was on the other end. “Good morning, sweetheart,” I said, my voice echoing through the bathroom.

  “Morning, Mom. I’m back from the gym and I’m going to jump in the shower. You up?”

  “I am,” I said, surprised that Nicole hadn’t knocked on my door this morning. She was right across the hall, and she usually checked on me most mornings before she went down for her hour workout. “I’m about to do the same. So, I’ll meet you downstairs at our regular time?”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll be ready before then and I’m gonna walk over to Starbucks. Want me to get you the regular?”

  “Yes and thank you.”

  “Okay.” She blew me a kiss, then added, “Love you, Mommie,” and if I didn’t know for sure that my child was thirty, I would think that she was nine. She still held that same sweetness, that same innocence. That is, until she got up to Harlem Hospital. When she walked through those doors, she was a warrior, marching in wearing the full armor of God.

  I paused for a moment and remembered those long-ago days. It was something that had started in children’s church with Pastor Ford, something that Nicole brought home and wanted to do every day before she went to school.

  “Ready, Mommie?” Nicole said, dumping her backpack on the floor as she came into the family room, dressed for school and ready for battle.

  I nodded as my seven-year-old sat next to me on the sofa. And then another nod from her, and together we began, “Therefore put on the full armor of God so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground and after you have done everything, to stand.”

  Nicole and I stood up.

  Then together, we continued, “Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist.”

  We paused and pretended to wrap belts around us. “With the breastplate of righteousness in place.” More pantomiming.

  “And with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace.”

  We continued with the scripture, acting it out as if we were putting on all the pieces of armor.

  “In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit which is the word of God.”

  Then, the last verse, Nicole recited alone: “And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and all requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the Lord’s people.”

  Then, she paused and together we said, “Amen.”

  That had been our daily ritual, one that we’d kept until the day she’d left to attend Yale University. We’d had to stop then, though I was convinced that my child put on her armor every day the same way. It was clear that she wore it; it was in the way she walked, the way she talked, the way she demonstrated strength and commanded attention and respect. There’d been many times this week when she’d taken the lead away from me with the doctors. And because of who she was at her core, I was fine with that. “Thank you, Lord,” I whispered. There was much that I had to be grateful for, but the gift of my child was at the top of my list this morning.

  As I brushed my teeth, my thoughts shifted from the past to the present, from my daughter to my husband. The doctors were using the word progress more and more. Jefferson hadn’t yet awakened, but the doctors were pleased with the direction.

  “As you know, our major concern has always been the swelling, which is improving every day.”

  I didn’t need Dr. Reid to tell me that. It was apparent; Jefferson’s eyes no longer looked like they were swollen shut.

  “He’s recovering well, and maybe tomorrow, but most likely Sunday, we’ll begin to bring him out of the coma.”

  Dr. Reid had told me that last night. That was good news.

  That was scary news.

  Because to this point, the doctors couldn’t determine the extent of the damage to his brain. They were optimistic because of how quickly he’d been treated. But they had concerns: would he have his memory, would he be able to talk and walk, would he ever function again as Doctor Jefferson Blake? Those questions didn’t matter. Whatever the answers, whatever his condition, I would be fine. It would all be for the better because just having Jefferson back would mean there could be no worse for me.

  Under the two-headed shower, I thought about how magnificent it would be to stand under this pulsing rain for the rest of the day. But since that wasn’t possible, I got in, took care of business, then got out. My next stumbling block came when I wrapped myself inside the chamois microfiber robe that felt like the duvet that covered me at night. Then, when I stepped back into the room, the king-sized bed and cloud-soft sheets cried out to me, but I ignored all of that and turned instead to the suitcase that Alexis had shipped to me.

  I was grateful for more clothes and put together a jeans, white T-shirt and a camouflage jacket outfit that made me look like I was ready for the battle that would come with my husband’s recovery. Then, I gathered my wallet, phone and tablet, dumped them into my purse and after tucking the room key into the back pocket of my jeans, I headed downstairs.

  When the elevator doors parted, the grandeur of the Plaza’s lobby greeted me as it did every morning and I strolled through the opulence as if it were ordinary. But no matter how long I stayed here, I would never grow accustom to the elegance of this national historic landmark. How could I? How could I ever walk below the five tier crystal chandeliers and not be in awe? Or step across the marble floor and not be amazed? Or how could I not smile at the millionaires and billionaires who huddled in the lobby making plans, setting meetings, all to shake up the world?

  But the best part of each morning was seeing my daughter, standing by the gilded doors, waiting for me with a grande vanilla mocha. Compared to Nicole’s latte macchiato with a double shot of espresso, mine was a kiddy drink. But it helped me get my day started.

  I smiled as I made my way to her, but then, I was sure my smile widened and brightened when I realized that she stood next to Hosea.

  “Good morning.” I first kissed Nicole, then gave Hosea a hug.

  To him, I said, “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d accompany you ladies this morning. I have a full schedule this afternoon, so I thought I’d ride in with you and we can pray with Jefferson before I leave to take care of business.”

  Looking up to him, I said, “I’d like that.”

  As we stepped thr
ough the lobby’s door to the car that always waited for us two feet to the left, Nicole chatted.

  “I don’t think I will ever get used to the fact that the Hosea Bush is a friend of my family’s.” She fanned her face the way she’d done every day since she’d met Jasmine’s husband.

  The driver held the door for us as Nicole and I slipped into the back and Hosea sat in the passenger seat. Once the driver pulled away from the curb, Nicole started up again.

  “Where’s Auntie Jasmine? She didn’t come by yesterday ….” And then, she paused like she wasn’t so sure of her statement. She said, “Or did she?”

  I guessed her days were running together like mine.

  He said, “She wanted to come this morning, but had a couple of things to take care of. Her best friend is coming back to New York today.”

  “Oh, where has she been?” Nicole asked.

  Hosea laughed. “That’s a long story for another time.”

  He still chuckled and his joy filled the car. No matter what was going on, I felt good, I felt safe when he was around.

  Hosea Bush was a really good man. That was a simple statement that meant so much. But that was exactly what Alexis had told me when she’d first met him:

  “I’m on my way home from having dinner with Hosea Bush,” Alexis said when she answered the phone.

  “Really, how did that go?”

  “I asked him to come home with me and I wasn’t talking about having tea.”

  I’d been so shocked at her words and I’d asked her how much wine she’d had. She’d told me it wasn’t just the wine.

  “It’s true, I drank my dinner, but he’s such a good guy, Ky. He really cared about me finding out that his wife had screwed my husband. And now ….they had a baby. He wanted to help me get through this. I don’t know how he ended up with Jasmine.”

  That was what Alexis said then, and that was my question now. Hosea had been there for me every moment of this ordeal, at least the moments that mattered. I knew that Jasmine had tried to do the same, but my feelings for her were so different than my feelings for him.