“A rich man. A powerful man. That’s what kind of man he is,” Deena finally said in a voice so vindictive it promised some secret punishment for a private vendetta.
“A man who works on his wedding day?” Mama Fee asked.
“God, would you just leave that alone? Look, Jamison didn’t want anything big. He just got elected to office. I’m his former assistant. I’m pregnant. The press, they’ll run all over it. They’re still running pictures of his first wife in the newspapers here. ‘Kerry Jackson.’ Fucking press.”
“The press?”
“The press. Yes, the newspapers. The fucking websites. I have to think about that. We have to think about that. I’m marrying the fucking mayor of Atlanta, Mama Fee. Jamison Jackson. Not some jailbird like Patrice did.”
“I know, baby. I heard you a million times before.”
The sound of the beautiful stones and pebbles cracking beneath tires in the driveway announced a new arrival.
Deena jumped up from her empty champagne flute with amazing ease and stepped quickly to the mirror over the fireplace. She puckered her lips, cleaned her teeth with her tongue, smiled, and was out the front door.
Mama Fee looked back out the window in time to see the soon-to-be son-in-law she’d never met close his car door and lean into Deena’s open arms with a stiff back. He was carrying a laptop in one arm. Had a gym bag draped over the other shoulder. Was wearing sweats. Mama Fee looked from him to the picture in her hand. Alone in the silent room, she looked over her shoulder for the maid and then slid the picture into her purse.
“You’re late, Jamison” Deena said outside. “We’re gonna have to hightail it downtown if we’re going to do this today.” She paused but he didn’t say anything. “We are doing this today. Right?”
“Jesus. A million questions. I just got here.”
“My mother’s here.”
“I know,” Jamison said. “I bought the bus ticket.”
Deena stood in front of him with her feet firmly planted in the pebbles and stones like a little girl about to cry.
“So, we’re doing it?” she repeated after recovering with a hand on her hip.
“Yes.”
“I’m just asking because we were supposed to go before the judge earlier and—”
“We’re going to Forsyth.”
“Forsyth County? Why? That’s too far away.”
“It’s just far enough. I can’t risk everyone knowing about this.”
“They’re all going to know soon. Right?” Deena asked, setting off a conversation they’d had most every day since she’d announced she was pregnant.
“Yes. I just need to keep this quiet now. Until we’re married. Then I can make a statement. I need to control the situation. Get in front of it. I’m still dealing with Gause’s shit. And Jeremy with those hookers in Biloxi. I need some time out of the headlines.”
“Fine. Well, where’s your mother? Where’s Tyrian?”
“Mama said she’ll meet us at the courthouse,” Jamison explained. “She didn’t want to risk blowing my cover.”
Deena smiled at this lie. She knew Jamison’s mother didn’t like her. She’d actually told Deena herself just days after Deena started working as Jamison’s assistant when he announced his run for mayor. She’d come up behind Deena in the bathroom, looked at her reflection in the mirror and said, “I smell your shit. More like diarrhea.”
“What about Tyrian?” Deena asked again.
“My son’s with his mother.”
You give a man everything. All of you. Out on a table. Everything. Appetizers. Sides. Drinks. An entrée. And dessert. Just everything you have to give.
For this, you ask for something. A small thing.
You get nothing.
I was tired of getting nothing. Nothing from every man. I’d bend like this. I’d turn like that. They’d notice and smile. Follow me for a little while. And then, I was alone again. Back and broken. Worse off than I was before. Poor. And Black. And a woman. And I don’t need to have gone to college to know that shit ain’t fair.
So, you’re damn right, when I met Jamison I was tired of getting nothing. But I gave him everything anyway. I wore high leopard-print heels and shit. I dusted my nipple in Ecstasy. I fried chicken in my thong in the middle of the night. Whatever he wanted. He noticed. He smiled.
Then I asked for something.
He got real quiet. That man-not-answering-the-phone-or-e-mail quiet.
That’s when I realized I wasn’t being left with nothing this time. I was taking what I wanted.
It’s funny what a man will do to keep what he has. When I told Jamison I was pregnant, his first question was how far along I was. I knew what this meant. I lied. fifteen weeks. He told me to take his credit card and pick out an engagement ring. He had to marry me to keep everything he has. And that’s no trouble for me. I wanted to marry him because of everything he has. Because now I have it, too.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2008 by Grace Octavia
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-1850-6
ISBN-10: 0-7582-1850-8
His First Wife Page 28