Destination Wedding

by Jacqueline J. Holness

  Jarena hoped she was saying the right things. Senalda looked at her for a moment before moving Jarena’s hands from her shoulders. Thankfully, Mimi and Chauncy were not where they had been before. But they did find Mimi in the women’s bathroom. While gazing in the mirror, she was reapplying her lipstick, her complexion nearly matching its red color.

  “Just because you married someone you’re not in love with doesn’t mean that I’m going to let you make a mockery of my wedding.” Senalda glared into Mimi’s eyes in the mirror. “Last night you and Wendell’s best man were flirting, and tonight you are kissing one of his friends. This is not a Tyler Perry movie. This is my wedding! And I didn’t plan it this way. You are married, so act like it!”

  Mimi rolled down her lipstick tube before turning around and responding to her diminutive accuser. “Why is da woman always seen as the home wrecker?” Mimi barked as she swiveled her neck, throwing her spindly dreadlocks which spread across her back like a shield. “Wendell’s best man is married too. Did you ever think he was tryin’ to get wit me? I don want dat man!”

  “That’s a first,” Senalda snapped.

  Jarena still didn’t know what to say or do, which puzzled her because PR crisis management was one of her specialties. Senalda had a right to confront Mimi, but she wondered what the fallout of this clash would be.

  “What you sayin’?” Mimi said, her arms folded and head cocked to the side.

  “You’ve got a problem. I don’t care if he did approach you first. It was obvious that you did not mind his attention. So how did you end up kissing another man tonight? Did he kiss you first, or did you just trip and fall on his lips? You’re supposed to be my matron of honor and you’re acting like a hoe!”

  “Okay, okay,” Jarena said, stepping between them. “Y’all, we cannot do this here. People can probably hear y’all outside. Maybe we should go back to the hotel and talk this through.”

  “Talk nothing,” Senalda hissed. “I’ve said what I need to say except for one last thing.”

  She pushed past Jarena and marched up to Whitney, who was perched next to the portion of the bathroom countertop nearest the door. “Whitney, will you be my matron of honor? Clearly, Mimi doesn’t respect the sanctity of marriage or give a damn about me or my wedding!”

  Mimi opened her mouth like she was going to say something, but nothing came out. Instead, tears cascaded down her cheeks as she ran out of the bathroom. Jarena was about to run after her when the women heard rustling from the far end of the bathroom. A tiny, elderly white woman emerged from the last stall, made her way to the sink and plunged her hands under the faucet. As she washed her age-spotted, veiny hands, she looked up at the friends.

  “I don’t know which one of you is getting married, and pardon me for listening to your conversation, young ladies, but after fifty-four years of marriage, I believe I have some wisdom to impart.” She dried her hands with paper towels and fluffed her silver curls before stepping to the center of the group of women like she was an impromptu keynote speaker. “It is true that weddings and marriages can change friendships, but sometimes it is our very own faults that push our friends away. And those same faults affect marriages.”

  As quickly as the woman began her speech, it was over when she parted the circle of women rendered catatonic.

  “Thank you for the wisdom,” Jarena finally managed to say with a smile. She held the door for the woman as she walked toward it.

  “You’re quite welcome,” she said. She threw the paper towels in the trash bin and looked back. “I hope I helped. And congratulations to the beautiful bride in your group!”

  Jarena thought about everything that had transpired. Over the course of their years-long friendship, the four women had obviously argued before. All of them had strong personalities so they were bound to rub each other the wrong way from time to time, but this felt different. Like they were at crossroads, and whatever happened at this wedding would determine their friendship going forward.

  Having known Mimi since high school, Jarena knew that her boy craziness, now man craziness, clouded her judgment from time to time, but she had gone too far this time, even Jarena had to admit. And she also knew that Senalda, an unabashed control freak, had little tolerance for uncontrolled behavior. And while planning her wedding, her characteristic controlling and newfound-bridezilla ways were on display for everyone to see. Whitney was her girl, but she was not one to ponder the deeper questions of life nor come up with a way to fix this so that everyone would still be friends afterward. So it was up to Jarena, who prided herself on being the most balanced of their group, to fix this. And Jarena kept thinking, because she was convinced the answer would come to her. But she just didn’t know how to fix it right then. All she could think of was the very moment that started them on their journey to this destination wedding.

  CHAPTER 1

  December

  Jarena

  OUR COLLECTIVE JOURNEY TO getting married started on December 22 at 11:30 p.m. Wearing my flannel PJs that had been softened into submission through several washings and a silk scarf wrapped around my plaits, I was nestled in bed, about to read a devotional book, when my phone rang.

  “Girl, turn to ABC rat now!”

  Although Mimi was screeching, I was determined not to buy into her frequent hysterics without a reasonable explanation.

  “I’m about to go to sleep, Mimi,” I whispered. I conjured up a yawn for effect. “Why?”

  “There’s gonna be a report on Nightline about why single black women aine gettin’ married, and they interviewing women from Atlanta. You HAVE to watch.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, satisfied with her explanation as I rolled over and grabbed my remote from the other side of the bed.

  “Alright, bye,” she said.

  One commercial later, I felt my eyes involuntarily shut, but ABC’s Cynthia McFadden’s words about successful black women not being able to have the proverbial “love, marriage and a baby carriage” opened them again. She asked if successful black women have too high standards, or if the small selection of black men was the problem. “Linsey Davis tried to answer that question.”

  I sat up, all of a sudden wide awake, so I pressed the volume button and leaned forward. The journalist, also a black woman, interviewed four women about being single in Atlanta. She started with a beautiful light-skinned black woman with shoulder-length hair, laughing with and toasting three girlfriends at a local restaurant. The journalist told us she was celebrating her thirty-first birthday. Next, she was working in a courtroom as a prosecuting attorney who was also running for state court judge. A clip from an Atlanta Falcons game in the Georgia Dome showed her on the sidelines shaking pom poms while wearing go-go boots. Beyoncé’s hit song “Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)” was the soundtrack connecting the scenes. So this woman is an attorney running for state court judge AND an Atlanta Falcons cheerleader and she still doesn’t have a man! I groaned out loud.

  At thirty-two years old, I was two years past when I thought I would be married, although the rest of my life seemed to be on track. In college, I decided that I wanted to be a publicist and made sure I was working at one of Atlanta’s top public relations firms a month after graduation, and by the time I was in mid-twenties, I’d opened my own PR firm, 85 South Public Relations, representing up-and-coming hip hop artists in Atlanta. While I struggled to get a few major clients at first and constantly worked crazy hours, I had managed to carve out a nice career for myself. But here I was ten years after graduating, and I was as single now as I was the day I left school.

  “Forty-two percent of black women have never been married,” the journalist said, before explaining the statistic was twice the amount of white women in the same category. I jumped out of my bed like it was a trampoline and stood next to the television.

  She broke it down even further. Of one hundred black men, subtracting men without a high school diploma, job, or who were in jail, only about fifty were even available for ma
rriage, she said.

  The rest of the women interviewed were just as beautiful and accomplished. One of them hadn’t been in an exclusive relationship since college and she was almost thirty. Shoot, that’s my story too, except I’m two years older. I got back in bed and under the covers. I don’t need to see this before I go to bed. I’m probably going to have nightmares now. I chuckled aloud.

  “DEEP,” I texted.

  “Team Old Maid, beotch,” Mimi responded. I laughed, despite being shaken up by the news report.

  Steve Harvey appeared on the screen next. A picture of his book Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man flashed across the screen as he spoke.

  “How did Steve Harvey with his three-marriages self get to be a relationship guru?” I said. I had tried to avoid the book, but the buzz around it was strong.

  Steve agreed that black women didn’t have a lot to choose from, but he also said that some had unrealistic standards for black men. He pointed out that a black man doesn’t have to be a C-level executive with the paycheck to match to be eligible for marriage. He surprised the four women, walking in on them during the group interview. He actually sang the chorus of “Single Ladies” before advising them to compromise instead of settle. He had a point: not everyone can marry a doctor or a lawyer. Somebody’s got to marry the garbage man.

  The journalist ended her story with the attorney’s words. She said she wanted to get married, but she was not willing to settle to do it. And if that meant she would be single forever, so be it.

  I rolled my eyes to heaven, picked up my remote, and hit the power button.

  • • •

  As I drove from my condo in Smyrna to my Midtown Atlanta suite near Georgia Tech the next morning, another cell-phone ring disturbed my thoughts.

  “Good morning, Bossy,” I proclaimed. My girls and I had christened Senalda with that name the moment we’d heard Kelis’s song “Bossy.” Senalda wanted to run everything.

  “What’s up, girlie?” Senalda replied. “Did you see Nightline last night?”

  “Unfortunately,” I said with a frown.

  “Yeah, I know,” Senalda said. “Pissed me off too. Especially that statistic that 42 percent of black women have never been married. And they interviewed black women from Atlanta, too. My question is, What about the black men in Atlanta? Why didn’t they interview them? If you subtract the trifling men that don’t want to settle down because there are too many women to choose, and the gay men—because you know this is the black gay man’s capital—black women got it hard out here!”

  “Preach!” I said while continuing to navigate rush-hour traffic.

  “But you know what?” Senalda continued, “we can’t go out like that. We can’t be a part of that statistic.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Okay, I was thinking, me, you and Mimi got it going on, AND we can have men too. We’ve just got to focus on it. Remember when we first met? I thought I was the only one who mapped out a career in five-year intervals,” Senalda said, recalling our first encounter as brand-new professionals in a Delta Sigma Theta Sorority alumnae chapter meeting almost a decade ago.

  “Yeah,” I said, scared about what was going to come out of Senalda’s mouth next. She could make a project out of anything.

  “Let’s map out our love lives. Since it’s December, it’s the perfect time to plan for next year. I think we should commit to doing things differently and setting some achievable and measurable goals. And I think we should put our love lives first for once, or at least make them as important as our careers. If we do this thing right, I bet we can meet the men of our dreams AND get married by the end of the year.”

  “Are you crazy?” I piped. “You can’t meet a guy and marry him in a year! Especially in Atlanta.”

  “Really? I thought you went to church every Sunday?” Senalda said. “What’s that verse? All things are possible with God? I haven’t been to church in forever, and I know that verse.”

  “Well, you got me there,” I had to admit. “So what’s the plan?”

  “I was thinking we should meet every month and have monthly and yearly goals. And how about the name ‘Destination Wedding’ for our project? That came to me last night. I’ve always wanted to have a destination wedding, and we are all on a journey to get married. Our first meeting should be a vision board meeting next month. We can have it my house.”

  “Leave it to you to have a plan,” I said with a laugh.

  “And Whitney can be our consultant since she’s already married,” Senalda said.

  “Of course,” I quickly replied, somewhat humoring her. When Senalda had her mind set on something, no matter how unrealistic, it was best to play along until she finally realized the futility of it all.

  “Okay, I’ve got a meeting in a few so I gotta go.”

  “Holla at you later.”

  “I’ve been in the South for more than a decade, and I’m still not used to words like ‘holla.’ So country! Bye girl.”

  CHAPTER 2

  January

  Jarena

  I EXAMINED HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE filing into Cascade Baptist Church’s mammoth sanctuary in Southwest Atlanta, wondering what they hoped the New Year would bring. I had been in church all of my life, but I didn’t let my faith dictate how I lived my life. Basically, I wasn’t a holy roller.

  I did want to meet someone special, but there was something else going on with me too. I loved my work and was making good money, but over the last few months, the music I was promoting was starting to feel unsavory or meaningless altogether. And all the schmoozing I had to do with the “sadity” and “bougie” folk in the A was getting on my nerves too. I found it hilarious that black people moved to Atlanta from all over since the 1996 Olympics and basically created new realities for themselves. Everybody was ballin’ out of control on the weekends and working regular ole jobs on weekdays. None of that used to bother me before because it all seemed like a game that I knew how to play very well. But lately, I’d found myself wanting to stay at home rather than network at yet another party. As I sat in a pew, watching the megachurch fill up, I was hoping for some inspiration for the New Year.

  And then I saw the devil out of the corner of my eye. I turned to the left and looked smack dab into the handsome chocolate-brown face of Percival Whitaker III. In the seconds it took for me to force myself to smile casually at him, his wife, and his two girls, the span of our “relationship” flooded my memory.

  I met Percy, as he told me to call him, two years ago. After that year’s Watch Night Service, I decided to join the church’s homeless outreach ministry, and he was one of the ministry leaders. After we passed out blankets one Saturday morning in downtown Atlanta, everyone went for coffee at a nearby Starbucks. We were the last to leave. A natural-hair snob since I lovingly coaxed my once permed hair into a large, wavy Afro that framed my face years ago, I told him I loved his bushy, curly, black hair. He told me my face looked like it smelled like cinnamon. It was corny, but it made me giggle. Having coffee with him led to actual dates. He said he felt weird about dating me since he was a ministry leader and asked me to keep our budding relationship a secret. I was just happy to be dating a handsome Christian man who was at least five-foot nine like me, and I hoped for the best.

  After one month of dating, I discovered the real reason why he didn’t want anyone to know about us: he was married! But his wife and children were living out of town until she could get a job in Atlanta. I discovered this when they showed up in church with him one Sunday morning at the 8:30 service. I called him afterward, demanding to know what was going on. He explained and begged me to keep our secret. Since our “relationship” only consisted of a few dates without sex, I kept his secret and stopped seeing him immediately. I didn’t need the drama. I dropped out of the ministry and began going to the 11 a.m. service instead. I hadn’t seen him in over a year, until that moment.

  Percy and his family sat in the pew one aisle over, but I willed myself to focu
s on the service. The four-member praise team began singing a few gospel songs. I was never the biggest gospel music fan, but the frenzied energy of the room convinced me to clap along with the congregation. I was surprised that I started to feel better almost instantaneously.

  As they roared the last notes of their final song, the pastor strode up to his stand. “I don’t know about y’all, but I don’t need no club to get crunk on New Year’s Eve,” he shouted while moving his arms as if he were about to break out in a run. “I don’t need no Dom Perignon to get my party on. This is my Happy Hour right now, and I’m so glad you saw fit to be with Cascade Baptist on tonight! Can I get an ‘Amen,’ church?”

  A chorus of “Amens” rose like incense over the congregation.

  “After that music, I know y’all expect me to deliver a powerful word,” the pastor said. “The praise team really set it out, but I want to let you know hearing from God is not always about pomp and circumstance, although sometimes that may be the case. Sometimes God is in whisper church, and that is what I will be speaking on tonight. ‘God Is in the Whisper.’ Turn to 1 Kings 19.”

  I never took notes in church, but I felt compelled to write down the pastor’s words.

  “How many of you get tired from time to time? You feel like you have been doing all of the right things, but you’re still being attacked. And now you’re ready to give up. Well, that is what happened to the prophet Elijah. He was doing what the Lord wanted him to do, but all he was getting was opposition. How many of you know that when you are doing what God wants you to do, you will have opposition? Jesus will not bear the cross alone, but I digress.”

  My vibrating phone distracted me so I reached in my black Coach bag. “Hey, how are you? You look really nice tonight.” I turned to look at Percy, but the devil was no longer sitting with his family. I scanned the rest of the sanctuary but didn’t see him. Every now and then since we “broke up,” Percy would text me. I can’t believe that devil is bold enough to text me from somewhere in this church with his wife and kids practically sitting next to me. My phone buzzed again. “No need to respond. Was just saying ‘hey.’ I thought about you while I was in the bathroom.” I cut my phone off, turning my attention back to the pastor.