“Oh, my goodness! We’re sorors! Well, now I understand why you came to talk to me. You just have a Delta’s heart. Are you active?”
“No, but I need to be. I haven’t been active in a few years, but I promised myself that after Christopher’s wedding, I was going to become active again.”
“That would be great. Maybe we can join the same chapter.”
Inside, I screamed, No. Outside, I said, “Maybe.” This time, when I pushed myself to the edge of my chair, I finally stood up. “I have to get going.” I didn’t have anyplace where I needed to be, but I didn’t need to be here. “Are you walking out?” I asked when she stayed seated.
“No, I’m going to go to work from here. So maybe I’ll catch up on some reading and do some thinking.”
I wanted to tell her to stop thinking. That’s what had her so confused. She needed to be praying . . . and for a moment I thought about asking her if she wanted to come to one of our prayer meetings. But in the next moment I remembered my prayer partners and the things they might say to Harmony. Plus, how weird would it be to be praying with my ex’s next. No, the prayer group was out. What I would do was pray for her as much as I could.
Looking down at her, I said, “It’ll all work out.”
Harmony stood and I gave her a quick hug before I turned and walked out the door, moving faster than when I came in. But no matter how quickly I walked, I couldn’t outpace my thoughts.
Harmony was looking for any reason to believe Quentin, and I didn’t believe a word he said. That man was gay and I had no idea what he was trying to prove with Harmony. But whatever it was, it was going to have to stay between the two of them.
As I turned over my car’s engine, I thought about what I’d say to Brock when he asked me about my day the way he did every evening when he came home. I needed to get to working on what I would say. Because I wasn’t about to tell him about this.
I’d never talk about it and I’d never do it again. I was sorry, but my soror was on her own with this one.
Chapter
Twenty
Mr. and Mrs. Goodman.”
I broke away from our kiss when the waiter called our names, but my eyes stayed on my husband. It was Brock who turned away and told the young man to come inside.
After he stepped through the drapes, the waiter held out a menu. “Dessert?”
When Brock glanced back at me, I slowly and seductively shook my head. “We’ll have dessert at home,” I whispered into his ear.
My husband’s face filled with a grin. Turning back to the waiter, he said, “Check, please. Quick!”
“It’s right here, sir.”
I massaged Brock’s thigh as he pulled out his credit card and handed it to the waiter. When the man stepped away, Brock twisted and pulled me into his arms once again.
“Thank you for this, baby,” I said.
His response: he pulled me deeper into his embrace.
I couldn’t count the ways I loved this man. For no reason at all, Brock had come home tonight carrying a cloth garment bag.
“This is for you,” he said.
I was spoiled. This was nothing unusual. Brock always brought home gifts for me, my mom, and even Tori, when she was home. But as if this were the first time, I clapped my hands. Who could ever tire of being treated like this? “Thank you! But what’s the occasion?”
“Dinner.”
“Dinner?” I looked at him and at the same time scrolled through my mind trying to remember what event I’d forgotten.
Brock said, “This morning, I decided that I wanted to have a great dinner with my wife. So, I made reservations for us at Rendezvous at seven.” He glanced at his watch. “You better get moving.”
This was what life was like with a man who told me and showed me how much I was loved. I’d thanked him with a kiss that any other time would have led us straight to the bed. But I pulled back, leaving him breathless, and dashed into our bedroom to get ready for our Thursday-night rendezvous at one of the premier restaurants in the city.
Within a half hour, I was wearing (and really feeling) the red wrap, knee-length dress that Brock had selected for me. And another thirty minutes after that, we were snuggled on the butter-soft leather sofa at the restaurant.
Rendezvous had to be one of the most romantic places in the world. The restaurant was owned and managed by a group of ex–football players who’d really pimped it out. Designed only for parties of two, each seating area was set up like an intimate living room, with a small round table for dinner, then a cozy love seat where patrons could enjoy after-dinner drinks and dessert. And each setting was behind heavy brocade drapes, giving maximum privacy for guests to enjoy their dinners in whatever way they wished.
The ambience by itself would’ve been enough, but the food was world-class. Adolphe Baptiste, the chef, was a black Frenchman who combined the French dishes he’d grown up enjoying, with his new love . . . soul food. So the menu was filled with the kind of cuisine that could only be found at Rendezvous: barbecue chicken quiche, jambalaya tarts. And the desserts: pumpkin éclairs and anything you could ever imagine, chocolate.
It was always hard to leave this place, but as Brock held me now, I couldn’t wait to get home to tell him, and show him, how much I loved him.
“Mr. Goodman?” the waiter called once again from outside of the drapes.
“Yes.”
He stepped into our space, and as Brock signed the check, I swung my legs onto the floor and slipped back into my shoes. Brock stood, then helped me up, and held my hand as we walked through the restaurant. I once again marveled at how blessed I was to call this man my husband. And like I often did, I said a silent prayer that Brock and I would be this happy all the days of our lives.
Brock stepped in front of me to push open the door just as another man was stepping inside. Both moved so fast they bumped into each other.
“Excuse me,” the men said together, then looked up.
“Brock!”
“Quentin!”
My husband and my ex-husband spoke at the same time.
And, as they spoke, I did, too. “Jett!” I said, looking at the man who’d stepped into the restaurant with Quentin.
“Hello, Sheridan,” Jett said to me.
Shock made me stand still for a moment as I looked this man up and down and calculated how long it’d been since I’d last seen him.
It had been almost ten years. I’d seen Jett just weeks after Quentin had told me that he’d fallen in love with this pro golfer who’d been his old friend and had become his new lover.
A few weeks after Quentin left me, Jett had done the unthinkable; he’d come to my home asking why I wouldn’t let my then-ten-year-old daughter spend the weekend with him and Quentin. Jett had stepped to me boldly, with audacity, and he’d been dumb enough to come unarmed.
I’d wanted to beat him down then, and even now, just remembering, I felt my fingers curling into fists.
“How’ve you been?” Jett asked me, like he’d forgotten that we weren’t friends.
“I’m . . . good . . .” I stuttered. I glanced from Jett to Quentin then back to Jett before I heard Brock clear his throat. “Oh . . .” Turning to him, I said, “This is my husband, Brock.” Then, glancing at Brock, I said, “And this is Jett. Jett Jennings. Quentin’s . . .” I left a blank at the end of my sentence and looked at my ex to finish for me.
Quentin said, “Friend.” And with a smile that he passed to Jett, he added, “Jett’s my friend.” He spoke with no shame, no concern that he’d been seen by me and Brock.
My husband reached toward Jett, and when they shook hands, I wanted to slap Jett’s hand away. Wanted to tell him to keep his hands off my man. Wanted to tell him that I didn’t trust him around any man that I loved.
Then the four of us just stood there, exchanging glances, saying nothi
ng. Seconds passed. Then more seconds of standing, more seconds of nothing.
Then, “Well . . .” all four of us said at the same time.
“We were just leaving,” Brock said, saving us all. “Good to see you, Quentin, nice to meet you, Jett.”
My husband spoke for me because I said nothing to either one of them as I brushed past, relieved to be on our way outside so that I could breathe.
Brock didn’t say a word as we walked to the end of the restaurant’s carpeted entrance. Not until he gave his ticket to the valet attendant, then turned to me, and together we said, “Awkward.”
“Who are you telling?” I asked.
“So . . . that’s Jett, huh?”
I nodded. “I’m surprised you remembered his name.” Of course, I’d told Brock the entire tragedy of the quick demise of my marriage. He knew everything from my shock, my hurt, and finally my deliverance from Quentin having any kind of hold on my heart.
“Well, yeah. His name isn’t that common. But even if I didn’t know, I would’ve by the way you glared at him.”
“That obvious?”
“Sweetheart, if I didn’t get us out of there, I was gonna have to pull you off of him.” He chuckled.
“You know me well, ’cause I did think about hitting him. Just knocking him out the way I’d knocked out Quentin. The way I see it, I owe Jett one.”
“That’s what I love about you. You’re so warm and fuzzy.”
He laughed; I didn’t.
“Awww, come on.” He put his hand around my shoulders.
“I just don’t like that man.”
“Well, the good news is that you don’t have to like him, and you don’t have to see him again. Remember, that’s Quentin’s life, right?”
I nodded.
Brock’s cell phone rang, and as he answered, I glanced back at the restaurant. What were those two doing here? I turned from the restaurant and glanced at Brock, still on his phone.
“Baby, I’m gonna run to the restroom,” I whispered. Then I made my move before my husband could stop me, before he could give me any kind of warning.
Rushing through the restaurant’s doors, I had to pause for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. And in that moment I wondered what was I doing back in here? First of all, I needed to really get delivered from this curiosity thing that I had going. And second, even if I wanted to snoop around, I couldn’t. Not with the way this restaurant was set up.
The hostess greeted me with a smile. “Mrs. Goodman, is everything all right?”
“Yes,” I said, giving her the same restroom story I’d given Brock.
“The restrooms are right over there,” she said, pointing toward the bar.
I thanked her, then moved as slowly as I could without looking like a stalker. And again, I asked myself what did I expect to see? Even if I knew where Quentin and Jett had been seated, I wouldn’t be able to see or hear a thing unless I peeked my head inside their drapes.
This really was ridiculous, but since I was already back by the restroom, I decided to use it. But the entire time, my mind was on Quentin and Jett.
They’d walked in so casually, so comfortably, like they’d always been together. They’d looked that way the first time I’d ever seen the two of them together. It had been days after Quentin had left, and they were on the golf course. They moved in concert with each other, one the melody, the other the harmony. I remember thinking that they were old friends who looked like new lovers.
Today, they just looked like old lovers.
Seriously . . . the way they’d walked in here. I knew it; Quentin hadn’t changed.
And then I thought about Harmony.
Quentin’s fiancée and my soror. This was why she was questioning herself. It wasn’t because of me and all the questions I’d asked at Christmas. It was because she knew; Harmony knew in her heart.
But as I washed my hands, I washed away all thoughts of Quentin, Harmony, and Jett. This was their drama; and just like my husband had told me, I needed to stay out of it. I was really going to work on doing that.
Drying my hands, and then tossing away the towel, I swung open the bathroom door, rushed into the hall, and right into the chest of a man. He caught my arm as I stumbled backward.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and looked up. And then I snatched my arm away from his grasp.
Jett held up his hands as if he were surrendering. “I was just trying to make sure that you didn’t fall.” He started to walk away and I stopped him.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him.
He turned to face me. “Here? At Rendezvous?” He paused. “I’m here with Quentin.”
“I thought you moved away. Left Los Angeles.”
“I did. I’m back.” He grinned. “Why’re you asking? Were you planning a welcome-home party for me?”
See, this was one reason why I didn’t like this man. The few interactions we’d had after he’d taken my husband from me, I always felt like he was taunting me, teasing me, reminding me that he had won.
“I wouldn’t even plan your funeral,” I said.
He laughed. “Well, I’d love to stand here and chat, but . . .” He paused and then he came a little closer so that I could see his eyes. “Quentin’s waiting for me.”
Taunting, teasing . . . or maybe he was testing me. Maybe he thought that I still wanted his man.
I said, “Quentin’s engaged. Did you know that?”
“Why’re you telling me?”
“ ’Cause I think you need to know.”
He raised a single eyebrow. “You sound like you still care about Quentin,” he said.
“I care about the father of my children. I care that he’s well, and that he’s happy.”
“Well, then,” he said, with a bit of a smirk. “If that’s what you care about, then be glad that I’m back in L.A. because Quentin and I are good friends. And everyone needs to have good friends around them.” Then, with just a little chuckle, but without another word, he stepped into the men’s room. Leaving me in that darkened hall to think about all that he’d said. Leaving me there to realize that this man was nothing but a snake. The devil, for real. For whatever reason, Jett had come back for Quentin. And Jett was going to get what he wanted. Quentin having a fiancée? That didn’t matter.
I thought about waiting for Jett and telling him that he needed to back away. But that thought lasted for two seconds. He’d just laugh in my face and ask me how could I help Harmony when I hadn’t been able to help myself?
So, I just walked toward the front of the restaurant, moving much faster now, my pace totally opposite from the way I’d come in. But this time, sadness and sorrow were the reasons I moved so fast. Harmony was in for the same heartbreak that had come to me.
Brock was sitting in the SUV right in front of the restaurant and the valet held the door as I stepped into the car.
When the attendant closed the door, Brock tilted his head. “You all right?”
I nodded as I clicked on my seat belt.
“Just asking ’cause you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I turned to him and smiled. “I just want to get home and be with you.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” He smiled and for once I was grateful that my always sensitive husband wasn’t having a sensitive moment right now.
I didn’t want Brock to know that I’d talked to Harmony. I didn’t want him to know that I’d talked to Jett. Didn’t want him to know that that little talk with Jett had changed my mind.
Maybe I did need to have another talk with Harmony. Maybe Quentin and Jett’s little secret needed to be exposed.
And, I was just the person to do it.
Maybe.
Chapter
Twenty-One
I’d already texted Kendall and Asia, telling them to meet
me in the Learning Center right after service, and ever since I’d sent that text right in the middle of Pastor’s sermon, I couldn’t wait for the church service to end.
Not that I didn’t enjoy my pastor’s ministering. I loved to hear Pastor Ford preach. But it was her message today—“Keeping Secrets”—that had me on the edge of my seat.
“That’s what I want to talk about today,” she’d begun. “Keeping secrets and what part do secrets play in our lives as Christians.” After a pause, she said, “Many in our faith will tell you that keeping secrets is a bad thing. That keeping secrets is hiding, holding something in the dark. And when you do something in the dark, what will a Christian tell you?” Pastor Ford held the microphone away from her mouth and pointed it toward the sanctuary.
The congregation piped in, “What’s done in the dark will always come to light.” We spoke in unison, as if that line had been rehearsed.
“That’s right!” Pastor held up her hand and shifted her feet from side to side like she was about to break out in a little jig and testify.
The sanctuary filled with laughter.
But then she stopped suddenly, and the smile left her face. “Here’s the thing. Y’all are wrong. You don’t even know what you’re talking about. But you know, I’m gonna set you straight, right?”
“Right!” someone yelled out as the members laughed again.
“Turn to Matthew 16:20,” she told us. But before most of us could open our Bibles or click on the scripture from our tablets, Pastor Ford said, “Let me just tell you what it says, ’cause this is so good, I can’t slow down. Jesus told the disciples not to tell anyone that He was the Messiah. He told them to keep it a secret.” The way she shut her Bible, then stood back, she might as well have dropped the mic and walked away from the altar.
“So, if keeping people in the dark is always bad, why did Jesus tell the disciples that’s what He wanted them to do?”
Usually, I took pages of notes in church because my pastor was a teacher, and even though I’d been under Pastor’s leadership for more than twenty years, every single Sunday I learned something.
Forever An Ex Page 15