Temptation: The Aftermath

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  After a couple of nods, Hosea said, “Yeah, well, you’re probably right. But the detectives need to know this.” He glanced at his watch.“It’s too late now, but you need to speak to Detective Green on Monday.”

  “Really? But I don’t know anything.”

  “I know you think you don’t, but you may know her name. Just tell him what you know and let them figure it out.”

  “Are you sure? Because I don’t want to get Doctor Reid caught up in anything.”

  “I doubt if her story is the truth, but whether it is or not, the police need to know everything to solve this. You’ve got to do this for Jefferson.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll call Detective Green.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll call him. I don’t know how this will help, but if you think it will, then I’ll do it.”

  “Okay.” He pulled me into his arms. “So, do you want to model this necklace for me?”

  I smoothed out the collar of my blouse.

  He said, “I think it would look better if you highlighted the necklace.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, if you made sure the necklace was all that I could see. If you were wearing the necklace and nothing else, then, I could appreciate … the necklace even more.”

  I laughed.“Pastor Bush, don’t you have church in the morning?”

  “Exactly! How do you think pastors get ready for Sunday morning? They get turnt up on Saturday night.”

  I cracked up. “No. You did not just say that.”

  “It’s the truth. Now, stop stalling and model that necklace, woman.”

  Backing away from him, I began to unbutton my blouse. Slowly.

  Hosea leaned back on the bed and prepared for my show.

  I put myself on automatic, going back to my stripper days, when I commanded the stage at Foxtails Hostess Club as Pepper Pulaski. Back then when I was in college, I rocked and rolled my hips, dipped into splits, swirled upside down and around on the pole. I’d done it for cash then, but it was only for the man who had my heart now.

  And oh, how I loved Hosea. Which was why I really hated lying to him. But even though my lying days were truly behind me, there were times when I just had to do it. For the good of everyone.

  I just prayed that this would turn out for the good of me, too.

  chapter 23

  Jasmine

  “I’m sorry I missed church this morning,” Kyla said as we stood outside of Jefferson’s room. “It’s just that I wanted to be here when they woke Jefferson up.”

  “Are you kidding?” Hosea said. “Of course we understand.” My husband paused and squeezed my hand that he’d been holding since we’d arrived at the hospital. “And what’s most important is that God understands, too,” he continued. “This is where you were supposed to be.”

  She nodded and then, the way she blinked, I could tell she was in a battle with tears. I wanted to embrace her and hold her for as long as it would take for her to feel some kind of peace. I just couldn’t imagine going through something like this with Hosea. But, I stood back and instead thought about how she’d spent yesterday with my husband.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking,” Kyla said. “When they told me they were going to start waking him up, I thought he was going to do that — wake up.”

  “I did, too,” Hosea said. “But now that I think about it, you know, it makes sense. Jefferson’s been heavily sedated for almost a week; it would take time for him to come from under all of those drugs.”

  “I guess.” Kyla wiped her eyes as if she were trying to rub her weariness away.

  I asked, “So, what are the doctors saying?”

  She slapped her hands on her legs as if my question annoyed her. “Not much of anything.”

  I wasn’t quite sure if she meant to snap at me, but her tone made me take a step back. Really, she made me want to cut and run. But I stood steadfast, holding my husband’s hand.

  She said, “They started today at about ten and they didn’t tell me until then that it could take twenty-four, even forty-eight hours for Jefferson to be completely awake.”

  Hosea and I nodded together. “So, all I can do is wait.”

  “Well, do you want to go out and grab something to eat?”

  Hosea hadn’t even finished his question before Kyla shook her head. “No, thank you. Even though we don’t know when it’s going to happen, I’m not going to leave until Jefferson opens his eyes.”

  Hosea blew out a long breath.

  She responded to his sigh. “I know. You’re going to say that I’ll need to rest, but I know for sure I won’t be able to sleep until my husband wakes up.” It must have been Hosea’s expression that made Kyla add, “Maybe Nicole and I will do this in shifts if we begin to get too tired.”

  With his chin, Hosea motioned toward the door. “Nicole’s in there now?”

  “Yup. Praying with her dad.”

  “She’s a special girl.”

  For the first time, Kyla’s lips spread into something that could be considered a smile. “Yeah, she is.” But then, she glanced at me and her expression reverted back to her pain.

  Looking at me, made her say, “Listen, I really want to get back in there.”

  Hosea held up his hand. “Go on. We just wanted to stop by and make sure all three of you were okay. I’ll give you a call later.”

  Her smile was back and when she reached for Hosea, I dropped his hand and gave them room to hug. It was an awkward moment for me, though I wasn’t sure why. My husband had given many of those Sunday church-hugs to women where they stood almost two feet apart. But watching Hosea and Kyla, it looked like the only space between them was physical.

  I looked down at the floor, up at the ceiling, down the hall, then repeated. I finally turned my glance back to them and just when I was about to shout take-your-hands-off-my-man, Kyla stepped away from my husband.

  She spoke to Hosea, “I’ll give you a call if anything changes with Jefferson.” It was as if I wasn’t even there.

  Hosea nodded, once again took my hand, and we both turned away. But we hadn’t moved more than ten feet when Kyla called out.

  “Jasmine.”

  We swiveled and faced her. At first, Kyla stood in place, and then she took a couple of quick. She stopped right in front of me and pulled me into a hug that left me surprised and stiff with my arms at my side.

  “Thank you,” she whispered into my ear. “Thank you for everything.”

  When she stepped back, I was the one blinking back tears. Because she’d only uttered six words, but they felt like the most sincere words that she’d spoken to me all week.

  She gave us a small smile before she pivoted and walked back to Jefferson’s room.

  I probably would have still be standing there in shock if Hosea hadn’t taken my hand again. This time, he pulled me closer to him as we made our way out of the hospital.

  ***

  I was a liar. And while that gift had served me well over the years, it didn’t make me feel good now. But I was good at it because last night, Hosea had believed the story I’d told him about Lola and now, I’d gotten away from him — with another lie.

  When we jumped in the Uber leaving Harlem Hospital, I told him, “You know what? I’m gonna run over real quick to see Mae Frances.”

  “Nama’s back?” he had asked, calling Mae Frances by the name that Jacqueline had chosen for her when she first began to talk.

  “Yeah, I guess I forgot to tell you since,” I eyed the driver, “you were checking out my necklace last night.”

  He laughed, then leaned over and whispered, “Maybe I should buy you a matching bracelet.”

  “Why don’t you? And I’ll … model it … after I get back from Mae Frances.”

  “Bet,” he said. “So, you go hang out with her and I’ll see what the kids want to do. We might hang out in the park since it’s a gorgeous day.”

  “Okay, I’ll just be an hour or so. I’ll text you.”
/>   The driver had dropped Hosea off first and now, as we continued to my destination, I texted Mae Frances:

  Don’t have time to explain, but don’t call my house because I’m with you.

  After just a moment, she texted back: What you lying about now, JL?

  I shook my head, dumped my cell into my purse, then peeked through the window as the driver slowed the car on the other side of Columbus.

  It’d been about twenty-four hours since I picked Mae Frances up from the airport and she’d given me this information. But I still didn’t know what I was going to say to this Lola chick; I was just going to knock on her door, hope she was home, and let it ride.

  I thanked the driver when he stopped in front of the brownstone, then hopped out. The east and west sides of Manhattan always felt so different to me. The east was swanky, while the west side was just fly. What they had in common, though, was their exclusivity, especially in this part of the island. Swanky or fly, these were high-rent districts, housing multi-million dollar brownstones if you could even find one for sale.

  It wasn’t until I walked up the steps of the brownstone that I realized that I wouldn’t be able to just walk in. I wouldn’t be able to just knock on her door.

  I hadn’t thought of this.

  Still, I moved to the double doors and looked at the buzzer — there were two. One had a name above it: Johansson. I rang the other bell. After five seconds, I rang it again. And then again.

  No answer.

  Ugh! Just like Mae Frances had said, I should have waited for her because I wasn’t sure if Lola was inside, peeking at me through some hidden camera and now she knew that I had found her, or if she really wasn’t home.

  Still, I wasn’t ready to give up, though I wasn’t sure what to do. Think, Jasmine, think.

  I descended the steps, moving slowly. It was time to call Mae Frances.

  Pulling open my purse, I grabbed my cell phone, but when I looked up, I couldn’t believe it. The car that stopped in front of the brownstone had delivered a gift to me.

  She was still wearing a hat, a black one. Today, though a short veil still covered her eyes, her hat was more refined and retro — one of those Jacqueline Kennedy pillbox hats. And when she slid out of the passenger seat of the car, she wore the same style dress that she’d worn the other times that I’d seen her. Only today, it was black.

  She gathered her clutch in her hand, slammed the door, turned, and then saw me.

  Though she paused and took a little stutter-step, she was good. Those were the only signs; her face showed no surprise and I could tell right then that this woman played a good game of poker.

  When she stepped up onto the sidewalk next to me, she said, “What are you doing here?”

  I moved closer to her. “I need to talk to you.”

  She looked over my shoulder, then the other way before she faced me again. “This could be called stalking.”

  “You would know. It seems like you’re stalking Jefferson Blake.” I folded my arms across my chest, my stance meant to send my message: I wasn’t going anywhere.

  This wasn’t a major throughway, but still, there was enough traffic for Lola to not want to handle this in public view, I was sure of that.

  I said, “This won’t take long. I only have a few questions.” Then, I glanced up at her brownstone and she did the same.

  With the way she’d reacted when she saw me, I wasn’t surprised that she didn’t question me about how I found her. I was beginning to get a measure of this woman. She wasn’t moved, she didn’t crack easily.

  Her eyes roamed up and down my body, not in a gay sort of way, but as if she were reading me.

  When her eyes met mine again, she said, “Carolina Herrera?” motioning to the purple pencil-skirt suit that I wore. Before I could tell her that she was correct, she added, “Good taste,” as if she already knew that she was right.

  I was surprised that she knew this designer, since she seemed to have a penchant for only one style. Always body-hugging, showing the smooth lines of every one of her bends and every one of her curves. “Thank you, but I’m sure you realize that I don’t want to talk about fashion.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it out here like this.” Again, I glanced at the brownstone. “Can we go inside?”

  “I don’t know you like that.”

  “And, I don’t know you. So we’ll be even, Lola.”

  It was the first time that I’d spoken her name and the first time that she gave a little hint of surprise on her face. Her eyebrows rose, just a smidgen. I saw the reaction only because I stood so close.

  She gave me a long stare before she spun and moved to the stairs. Then, she did a serious model stroll up the steps. I mean, the way she swung her hips was almost obscene, certainly profane. I lowered my eyes, a bit embarrassed and embarrassing me took a lot since I’d spent a few years on a pole.

  But once she’d unlocked the outer door and we stepped through the vestibule, by the time we got to her apartment, my focus was back to why I was there.

  The moment we stepped over her apartment’s threshold, I said, “Were you having an affair with Jefferson?”

  She chuckled. I didn’t.

  She dropped her purse onto the coffee table and I took that moment to look around. Whoever Lola Lewis was, she didn’t buy her furniture at IKEA. No, this was upper east side furnishings that didn’t seem to match her. I’d put Lola at thirty-five, maybe forty-years-old, though that never cracking gene that most of us possessed, always threw me. But still, I could tell, she was a little younger than me.

  So her taste in furniture surprised me. Really, we could have exchanged many pieces, from my apartment to hers, and no one would know. She seemed to fancy the Victorian period, as did I, which showed that she had some kind of class.

  Then without a word, she turned and began walking away. I followed her, our steps in sync across the polished parquet floors. First, we passed through her dining room (and a preset table for ten covered with what I was sure was Wedgewood china) and finally into a kitchen that was straight out of Architectural Digest where the refrigerator and other appliances blended into the cabinetry.

  Hosea and I had priced that and we hadn’t even done this to our kitchen. This chick had either inherited some major money or she was the CEO of Apple.

  Or the third option — she had a major benefactor and I wanted to know if that man was Jefferson.

  “How do you know Jefferson? What were you doing with him on Monday night?”

  She reached into a cabinet and pulled out a wine glass. Just one.

  When she didn’t answer me, I said, “Look, you can either talk to me, or we can go to the police station because they’re looking for you.”

  She didn’t flinch.

  She was reaching for the handle on her refrigerator when I added, “They’re showing your picture around.”

  Again, she was good — there was only a slight moment of hesitation before she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of wine. I waited as she popped the cork, filled her glass, then took a sip. Finally, she looked up at me.

  Like I said, she knew how to handle hers because there was no stress on her face from what I’d said so far, though I began to wonder if maybe that was a facade. Maybe my showing up and my questions were why she needed a glass of wine at just a little after three on a Sunday afternoon.

  After taking a few sips, she set her glass on the limestone countertop. “What do you want to know?”

  Her question took me aback a bit. I’d been prepared to fight for every answer to my questions. “I already told you. I want to know what was your relationship with Jefferson?”

  “And, I already told you … he’s a … friend.” “That’s what you said … a friend, with benefits.” “That’s right.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said.

  She chuckled and picked up her glass. “And I care what you believe … why?”

 
“So, if you’re a friend of his, why did you leave when he was shot? If you’re his friend, why didn’t you stay?”

  I’d only asked that question because it seemed the most natural thing for me to ask at this point. But it seemed like I’d pinched a nerve or something because for the first time, she stiffened.

  What was that about?

  Had she been involved with Jefferson’s shooting? Had she set him up?

  She said, “Look, I was sorry that Doctor Blake was shot, but I had nothing to do with it.”

  At first, I was going to follow the lead of the way she tensed when I asked about the shooting. But then, she’d just said something that sent my antenna amok. “Doctor Blake? Are you always so formal with the men you screw for benefits?”

  She lifted her wine glass as if she were saluting me and laughed. “You’re not even his wife, but you’re here playing twenty questions with me. Why is that?”

  I wasn’t about to give too much information away, but I wanted Lola to know this truth. “Because his wife is my best friend. And she’s been through enough; the last thing she needs is some side piece coming in and bringing her more grief.”

  The smile that crossed her face spread slowly and widely. “Side piece? Oh trust, I was far more than that.” She sat on one of her bar stools at the counter and wiggled her hips across the leather cushions until her butt fit.

  I squinted, hoping that would activate my lie-detection capabilities. But, I couldn’t tell. I just didn’t know if this trick was lying or not. “So, you really want me to believe that you were having an affair with Jefferson?”

  “Maybe I didn’t make it clear … I don’t care what you believe.

  I’m telling you the truth.”

  “So what? You were his New York side piece?”

  “You have that half-right. I was his New York woman.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “That doesn’t make sense; he lives in Los Angeles, but he was having an affair with you?”

  “You say that like distance matters. In fact, distance is better because when he was in New York, we never had to worry about running into anyone he knew.”