The Vow
Page 1
THE VOW
A NOVEL
DENENE MILLNER,
ANGELA BURT-MURRAY,
AND
MITZI MILLER
Mr. and Mrs. Calvin Jacobs
and
Dr. and Mrs. William Bradford Johnson II
request the honor of your presence as their children
Elise Erin Jacobs
and
William Bradford Johnson III
unite in Holy Matrimony
Saturday the Thirty-first of December
Two Thousand and Five
At half past six o’clock
Peachtree Methodist Church
325 Peachtree Street
Atlanta, Georgia
CONTENTS
1 TRISTA
2 AMAYA
3 VIVIAN
4 TRISTA
5 AMAYA
6 VIVIAN
7 TRISTA
8 AMAYA
9 VIVIAN
10 TRISTA
11 AMAYA
12 VIVIAN
13 TRISTA
14 AMAYA
15 VIVIAN
16 TRISTA
17 AMAYA
18 VIVIAN
19 TRISTA
20 AMAYA
21 VIVIAN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS BY DENENE MILLNER, ANGELA BURT-MURRAY, AND MITZI MILLER
CREDITS
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
1
TRISTA
I have a wicked hangover. And as the Saturday-morning sunshine streams between the curtains into the hotel room and warms my face, I’m certain that a jackhammer has taken up residence behind my right pupil. Damn, I forgot to take my contacts out last night; they’re stuck to my eyeballs. For a moment, I think about staying in bed all day and sleeping off my pounding headache, but as my splintered gaze slowly begins to focus, it falls on the strapless violet gown hanging on the back of the closet door. I groan and remember that duty calls. Today, my best friend, my homegirl, my soror, my ace boon coon Elise is getting married, and I’m the maid of honor. And no matter that we’ve been friends since we learned how to double Dutch, I don’t think sistergirl would forgive me for even thinking about missing her big day.
Gently clasping my throbbing head in my hands, I sit up in the bed and wrap the sheet tightly around my naked body. Is the room actually spinning? I’m such a lightweight. I should have stuck to my self-imposed two-drink-max rule last night. As I feel my hair, I realize most of it has fought its way free of the sleek French knot Elise requested the bridesmaids get at the hair salon yesterday. It’s a matted mess. We were supposed to wrap it tightly and have it lightly touched up today, if necessary. Elise is going to kill me.
What time is it? Pushing aside two champagne flutes, a half-empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot, my cell phone, and BlackBerry resting on the mahogany nightstand, I squint at the digital clock. Luckily it’s only 10:17. I’ve got a while before I have to pull myself together and meet my girls Amaya, Viv, and the rest of the bridal party downstairs in the lobby to go take pictures before this evening’s wedding ceremony.
My office is under strict orders not to bother me this weekend, but judging from the red voicemail light flashing rapidly on my cell, the vibrating pager, and the bright-orange message light on the hotel phone, some are still desperate to reach me. Ordinarily I would return all voicemails and emails first thing in the morning, but I drank so much champagne last night my head feels like it’s being squeezed between the bellies of two sumo wrestlers.
Well, this is the first real vacation I’ve taken in the seven years since I joined The Agency (derisively referred to in the entertainment industry as T&A—Tits and Abs—for the high number of busty starlets and leading men with six-packs in our stable), so the demanding partners and my narcissistic clients seeking reassurance that they are beautiful, talented, and destined for Oscar glory (always in that order) will have to function without me for a few more days. Hopefully none of them have been arrested for intent to distribute, left their wife for the fifteen-year-old Scandinavian au pair, or gone AWOL from a movie shoot to check into rehab.
Gingerly turning my head toward the window, I think I hear rain. Damn, Elise has to be freaking out right now. Her ripped-from-the-pages-of–Martha Stewart Living dream wedding day is ruined. The bridal party was scheduled to take pictures outside at the botanical gardens prior to this evening’s candlelight service. Didn’t someone once tell me that rain on a wedding day was good luck? Whoever said it doesn’t matter, because I’m not about to say that to Elise Erin Jacobs. And I know my girl Amaya, the diva of drama, and even Viv, who’s the most rational of all of us, ain’t trying to say that mess either. Let the man who will vow today to cherish her till death do us part get cursed out in front of four hundred of their closest friends and family members.
Elise is an only child, so this wedding is a big deal for her family. Her daddy hit the California Quick Pick Lotto Jackpot for $87 million back when Elise was in junior high school. Two weeks later, Big Poppa Cal bought three one-way airline tickets to Atlanta, where his brother lived, and told his family to pack only the family photos; that was all they would be taking from Mercy’s Way Housing Projects in Compton.
Elise and I had lived next door to each other since we could remember; we were best friends. Whenever my mom was out on one of her drunken binges down at the dog track, my father was out looking for her, and my older sister was running the streets, I would spend the night with the Jacobs, no questions asked. Her mom—I call her Ms. Evelyn—would tuck me into Elise’s narrow cot. If I was lucky, I would fall asleep before I heard my father dragging my mother, yelling and cursing, down the hallway, back into the apartment.
After Elise moved to Atlanta we vowed to keep in touch. We wrote each other long letters with glittery red pens on “Hello, Kitty” stationery. And every Sunday, I would wait by the pay phone in the hallway of our building for Elise’s four-o’clock call. For an hour, I would catch her up on who was gang bangin’ now, my sister’s latest antics, and my nonexistent high school social life, and she would tell me about living in Atlanta. I loved hearing about their big new house, their heated swimming pool, Jacuzzi, tennis court, her new poodle Mercy. When she told me about some of the girls in her new school who called her “project girl,” I teasingly told her, “Look, Wheezie Jefferson, you better let those bama-ass girls know you don’t take no mess or punch them dead in the eye!” She’d laugh and say she’d try to do better. I thought she had the best life. When she came back to Southern California to go to UC with me, it was just like old times. We even pledged together.
And while Big Poppa Cal’s lottery fortune hadn’t exactly endeared the family to the local black elite over the years, Elise was marrying into one of the city’s premier families. Will was Atlanta’s crown prince, the son of the mayor, so the guest list was a veritable Who’s Who of the Atlanta elite. Jet and Ebony had flown in their best photographers to record the white-tie nuptials. Knowing Elise and her mom, they were probably organizing a conference call with Jesus himself right now to negotiate a break in the clouds.
But I couldn’t even be mad at my girl: she was turning out her New Year’s Eve wedding first class. Guests who were traveling from out of town were met at the airport by gleaming black chauffeured limousines. A professionally shot “welcome video” featuring Elise and Will entertained us during the short ride to the Ritz Carlton Hotel. When we arrived, the desk clerk informed us that our room charges were taken care of, compliments of the Jacobs family.
Once upstairs, we were treated to even more surprises. A huge basket awaited us in our rooms. I dug into the assortment of makeup, perfume, cologne, a robe, satin slippers, CDs, scente
d candles, and fragrant bath salts. On the coffee table was a bottle of champagne, and a silver platter with strawberries decorated in dark and white chocolate to look like they were wearing tuxedos. A Tiffany gift box held a pair of crystal flutes engraved with the words Elise and Will 2005. An envelope held a list of additional amenities at our disposal—among them, a fleet of cars on standby to take us anywhere we needed to go, as well as in-room massage, manicure, and pedicure.
As I looked around the elegant suite and popped one of the decadent strawberries into my mouth, I mumbled to myself, “Shoot! Martha Stewart ain’t got nothing on a black woman with a plan and a platinum Amex.”
The extravaganza was on New Year’s Eve, and, considering the welcome I’d received so far, I wouldn’t be surprised if they had corralled Dick Clark into forgoing dropping the big ball in Times Square in favor of doing it at their reception.
I knew it was going to be a wedding to remember.
But for now all I want to do is forget about last night.
AS A FRESH WAVE of nausea washes over me, I collapse against the mountain of pillows. I need to get to the bathroom. Why can’t I will my body to just get out of this bed, crawl across the floor, and get acquainted with the Ritz’s porcelain goddess? But I immediately dismiss that idea when the sound of the shower running penetrates my foggy brain. I bolt upright in the bed. It’s not raining outside. That’s the shower I hear running. He’s in the bathroom.
I sink back down in the bed and put one of the pillows over my face. I’m not ready to face him yet, and it has nothing to do with the hangover. I can’t believe I slept with him last night. Again.
OF COURSE I NEVER intended to sleep with Damon. In fact, I had planned to do the total opposite: to be fabulous but frosty. Divine but distant. Play it cool. Yeah, I had it all planned. So what happened?
What happened was my backbone snapped like an old rubber band as soon as I saw him last night at the rehearsal dinner. I had just returned to my seat after taking some pictures of Elise and Will when he walked into the private dining room. While I knew that, as Will’s frat brother, Damon had been invited, Elise had mentioned to me that he might not make it because he was in the midst of a big business deal. Secretly I had been disappointed. I had wanted to show him that I had made it. Without him. But there he was. Standing at just over six feet, with satiny-brown chocolate skin and a neatly trimmed mustache, dark eyes framed by lashes any woman would kill for, Damon Reynolds was still f-i-n-e. And judging by the expensive-looking suit, the last ten years had served brotherman well.
According to The Negro Network (TNN), the informal email gossip grapevine that allowed any young, black, and even mildly successful person to find out relationship status, job title, income range, and assorted other personal and juicy information on anyone within about six exchanges with friends, he was a vice president of a white-shoe investment bank in New York. Glad to hear his dream came true.
Well, he wasn’t the only one that had made their dreams come true. After graduating from college and law school, I landed a coveted job in the mailroom of The Agency, where I had busted my ass seventy hours a week and was about to become a partner in the hottest talent agency in the world. Everything I thought I wanted was falling into place. I had a growing roster of superstar clients, maintained a Rolodex that many of my backstabbing coworkers would sell a kidney—or any other major organ or appendage—for, and owned a luxurious beachfront condo. Not bad for the scholarship student from the projects who arrived at the University of California with a suitcase full of donated clothes and fifty dollars in her pocket. I wasn’t exactly the poor little girl from South Central that Damon last saw at graduation. I had made it on my own. Just like I said I would.
Elise liked to tease me that “on paper” I had everything. She said the only thing I was missing was a man. I tried to explain to her that being an SSBFDLA (a successful, single, black, female dating in L.A.) and finding a good man to date—forget falling in love with—was like navigating a full-contact sport. And besides, most brothers act like if they gave you the time of day you should come running, like Bob Barker just called your name for the Showcase Showdown. Why is it that the sisters who have men are always trying to tell those of us who don’t that it’s so easy to find someone?
But lately I had started to think about what Elise was saying. Watching a lot of my friends and coworkers getting married and starting to have children had me thinking that maybe there was more to life than work. I knew that I was on the right track to making partner at The Agency, and that would bring me the financial security I had been striving for, but maybe I want more… like someone to share my life with. I don’t want to end up alone.
Unfortunately, the most serious relationship I’ve had was two years ago with Faison, a guy I met in a chatroom on blackplanet.com who I subsequently found out was addicted to internet porn. Most of the guys I meet are wannabe actors who just want to get into my panties in the hopes that they’ll put it on me so good I’ll take them on as a client or introduce them to one of my contacts. I only made that mistake one time… okay, maybe twice. It’s rough out here.
My girl Amaya, who practically requires an IRS audit and a Sports Illustrated cover before she’ll go out with a guy, hasn’t exactly found her soulmate, either. Viv, on the other hand, is a hopeless romantic, in love and still in a “relationship” with the father of her child. Relationship. If you want to call it that.
And my work schedule is so demanding that the last thing I want to do if I actually have some spare time is play let’s-get-to-know-each-other with someone my married friends think I’d like. Ever since Amaya, Viv, and I all turned thirty a couple of years ago, it seems like all our married friends have been on a mission to hook us up with guys they “think we’ll find interesting.” And every last hook-up is a disaster. With a capital D. Which is why I was at my girl’s wedding solo.
At the rehearsal dinner, as Damon made his way around the room, greeting other friends from college, our eyes locked. Stay cool, girl. I tried to appear in control of the situation, I raised my champagne glass to him in greeting and then swallowed the contents to steady my nerves. His almond-shaped brown eyes took me in as his full lips curved into a sexy half-smile. He mouthed the word “Hello.”
“Damn, girl, is that fine-ass Damon?” asked Viv as she jumped up from her seat, nearly knocking over her chair in the process. She craned her neck to get a better look.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to act nonchalant, but Viv, the tenacious reporter, had always been part bloodhound. And after twelve years of friendship, she knew me better than anyone—especially when it came to my college romance with Damon.
“Yeah?” she said, putting her hand on her hip and snorting at my obvious discomfort. “Girl, don’t even try to act like you still not sweatin’ that brother.”
Across the room I caught Amaya’s eye; she’d turned away from one of the groomsmen, who seemed to be having a conversation with her breasts, to see if I’d noticed Damon’s arrival. I hoped she wouldn’t try to turn this into a big deal.
But I knew Viv was right. Who was I kidding? Damon hadn’t been back in my life—or, rather, in my immediate proximity—for more than forty-five seconds and I was already perspiring all the way down to my thong. As my body temperature continued to climb, I prayed the sweat wouldn’t cause any perceptible stains on my new Helmut Lang pantsuit. I slipped off the jacket and hung it along the back of my chair. My matching silk halter-top suddenly made me feel exposed. As I adjusted the narrow strips of fabric that barely covered my smallish B-cups, I suddenly regretted buying the flimsy top. While Viv and Amaya had both raved about it when I tried it on yesterday, saying it really complimented my caramel skin, I knew Amaya really wanted me to buy the top so she could borrow it when we got back to L.A. That heiffa ain’t slick. When I looked up from adjusting my clothing, Damon was standing by my side.
“Trista,” Damon said, enveloping me in a warm embrace. Even after all these years I st
ill loved the way that man said my name. He always drew it out as if he were savoring the sound of the syllables on his tongue. As we pulled away from each other, one of his large fingers trailed down my bare back; I suppressed a shiver.
“Damon, how are you?” I asked coolly.
Viv assessed after a split second that this was a DEFCON 3 situation and slid between us to save her girl from making a fool of herself. “Hey, Dame,” she said, as she hugged him, “it’s good to see you. Toast the happy couple with us.”
I accepted Viv’s interference and grabbed the champagne, refilled my glass, and took a large swallow. When I turned back to Viv and Damon, they were staring at me.
“How about a glass for Damon, Tris?” said Viv as she nudged me sharply while continuing to smile at Damon.
“My bad,” I mumbled as I filled the champagne flute in his outstretched hand.
Thankfully, before I could embarrass myself further, Will came up and pulled Damon away for a picture of the frat brothers. As I watched him leave, Amaya sidled up to me, smiling like she knew I was up to no good. I put up my hand to indicate I wasn’t trying to hear anything she had to say and took my seat.
“Damn, girl,” she said as she sat down beside me. “You hittin’ that this weekend?”
“Hitting that?” I asked, and looked at her like she’d sprouted an extra head during dinner. “Please don’t talk to me like I’m one of those wannabe rappers you like to date.”
“Call it whatever you want, girlfriend, but you might need to break him off a little sumthin sumthin tonight,” said Viv, who giggled loudly as she reached around me and high-fived Amaya. We were seated with the Jacobs family minister, who would be officiating tomorrow’s ceremony, and his wife, a dead ringer for Coretta Scott King. She looked at us pointedly and whispered something to her husband.