Sheridan put her hands on her hips. “Too bad, because you’re going to stay. Tori goes to all your tournaments.”
“Yeah, but at least they’re good. This is—”
Sheridan held up her hand, stopping his protest. “Could you not be a teenager today?”
Christopher stuffed his hands into his pockets, tucked his chin into his neck, and turned away.
“Where are you going?”
He looked at Sheridan as if he wished she’d stop minding his business. “I’m going to sit in the back. Is that at least okay?”
This boy needs a spanking and a nap.
“Don’t you want to sit up here with your godmother?” Kamora asked.
His glare told her not to ask any more stupid questions.
“Go on,” Sheridan said, waving him away. “We want to have a good time. Just make sure you stay in the auditorium.” Sheridan sighed and turned to the three adults, who, with pity-filled eyes, told her they felt sorry that she was the mother of that young man. “Don’t say anything,” she said.
“He’s just a teenager,” Cameron said.
“He’ll come around,” Beatrice said.
“Quentin needs to realize what he’s done to that sweet young man,” Kamora said.
Cameron, Beatrice, and Sheridan stared at Kamora with expressions that asked why she had to go there.
Kamora’s eyes widened. “What? I’m just sayin’.”
Beatrice made a sound Sheridan could only decipher as annoyance, before she asked, “Is Quentin coming?”
Sheridan shrugged. “Tori told him. But she hasn’t mentioned him and I didn’t want to ask.”
“I’d be surprised if he didn’t make it,” Cameron said. “Let’s sit down.”
Sheridan’s glance wandered around the horseshoe-shaped auditorium. She smiled when Carlton Arrington waved.
“Who’s that?” Kamora whispered, and wiggled in her seat.
“The father of one of Tori’s classmates.”
“He’s cute, in a Danny Glover rugged kinda way. Is he married?”
“Divorced,” Sheridan said, praying Kamora wouldn’t ask for an introduction. Although Sheridan didn’t know Carlton well, she knew enough to protect him from her flighty friend.
“Divorced, huh? So are you.”
Sheridan twisted in her seat. “So?”
“You’re divorced, he’s divorced. What more do you need in common?”
Sheridan laughed. “A little bit more.”
“Look at him,” Kamora said, leaning in closer. “He can’t take his eyes off you.”
Sheridan tried to face forward but kept shifting to glance at Carlton.
“Look, he’s getting up,” Kamora said, sounding giddy. “He’s coming over here.”
Five seconds later Carlton said, “Hello, Sheridan,” with an inflection that left no doubt he’d been raised in the most prominent neighborhoods in Boston and had probably spent summers in Martha’s Vineyard.
Sheridan took his outstretched hand. “Hi, Carlton. Have you met my parents?”
“Yes, at last year’s recital.”
Beatrice and Cameron smiled and waved.
“And this is my friend, Kamora Johnson.”
He nodded and Kamora scanned Carlton in his silver-buttoned navy blazer. “Sheridan tells me you’re divorced.”
It was a reflex that made Sheridan stomp on Kamora’s foot.
“Ouch!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sheridan said, before she turned back to Carlton. “Well, it’s good to see you.”
“I was trying to help,” Kamora whispered, as she rubbed her wounded ankle.
Carlton said, “Sheridan, I heard…well, anyway, I’d love to give you a call sometime.”
Sheridan smiled; Kamora said, “That would be good…ouch!”
Sheridan kept her smile trained on Carlton. “I’ll call you.”
“Looking forward to it.” He took two steps and said over his shoulder, “By the way, you look terrific.”
He was barely out of earshot before Kamora said, “Why are you trying to spike me to death with your Manolos? I was trying to help you get your groove on.”
“First of all,” Sheridan hissed, “I don’t need any help, and second, my parents are sitting right next to you.”
Kamora glanced over her shoulder. “Your parents are hardly paying attention to us. Look at them holding hands. They’re planning how they’re going to get their groove on as soon as they leave this joint.”
“Do you want me to stomp on your foot again?”
“No.”
They laughed.
“Hi, Sheridan.” As Quentin interrupted their conversation, Sheridan smiled. She turned around. Quentin stood there. And next to him stood Jett.
Sheridan rose as if her seat were on fire. She could barely get her mouth open to return his greeting. While Quentin stepped over to greet her parents, Sheridan glared at Jett.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed.
“I was invited.” He paused. “I’m not trying to start anything, Sheridan,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I wanted to see Tori. Quentin said this was a big day for her.”
“You shouldn’t be here.” She turned her fury to Quentin. “I cannot believe you did this without telling me,” she whispered.
He kept his smile, although he fooled no one. “I didn’t know I had to get your approval.”
“How could you do this?” She felt the tears, and with a breath she shoved them back inside.
Cameron stood and urged Sheridan to take her seat. “We’ll see you later, Quentin,” he said, dismissing his son-in-law.
She followed her father because that was all she could do. She battled her tears and prayed for the auditorium lights to dim so she could release her anguish in private.
Beatrice leaned across Kamora. “Are you all right?”
Sheridan shook her head. “But there’s nothing I can do about it,” she sniffed. “He’s already embarrassed all of us.”
Beatrice handed Sheridan a tissue. “He didn’t embarrass us, sweetheart. He’s just trying to live his life.”
You’re supposed to be on my side.
“Well, I agree with Sheridan,” Kamora said, with her arms crossed and her lips poked out. “Quentin should be here, but he should have had the good sense to leave Jett in the car. Preferably in a closed garage. With the engine still running.”
Mercifully the lights dimmed, and a moment later Christopher was by her side, taking the aisle seat. The look of disdain he’d worn earlier was gone; in its place was concern.
“You okay, Mom?”
She nodded, afraid she’d be sorry later for any words she’d speak now.
Ms. Lott, the studio owner and an accomplished dancer, came onto the stage and gave thanks for everyone attending. Sheridan tried not to turn around. But curiosity won over good sense, and she twisted in her seat. It was difficult to see, with her view blocked by the darkness and the rows of people behind her.
“He’s on the other side,” Christopher whispered. “Where I was sitting.”
Sheridan turned around and pretended her eyes were following the performance. But she couldn’t see through the tears that blurred her vision. She sat through the series of dances, clapping when she heard others clap, cheering when she heard others cheer. It wasn’t her own strength that made her stand at the end. Kamora gently cupped her elbow and helped her to join the ovation.
When the lights came on, Sheridan rushed to the bathroom. It wasn’t until she stood at the mirror that she realized Kamora had followed her.
“I cannot believe he did that,” Kamora muttered.
Sheridan dabbed at the black tracks her mascara had left.
“I mean, to show up like that,” Kamora puffed.
Sheridan pulled a brush from her makeup pouch and dusted her face with powder.
“And to bring his lover,” Kamora exclaimed.
Sheridan banged the brush on the counter. “Are you trying t
o make me feel bad?” she asked her friend’s reflection in the mirror.
Kamora stepped backward. “Of course not.”
“Then let’s not talk about this,” she said with exaggerated calm.
Kamora returned her gaze. “I was trying to help,” she said, before she turned and left Sheridan alone.
Sheridan stayed at the mirror and smiled as women filled the restroom. She graciously accepted the compliments offered for Tori’s performance.
But as she smiled, inside she raged. And inside she cried. And inside the stalker returned, bringing his images—of Quentin and Jett, walking down the aisle together, sitting together, watching Tori together. The stalker returned, this time as a thief, stealing the peace she’d worked so hard over the last weeks to find.
It was a long, slow ride home.
Sheridan had tried, but she couldn’t find enough cheer to go out to dinner.
“Mom, Daddy, you guys take Tori out,” Sheridan had pleaded when Tori bounced off the stage and rushed to her family, ready to revel in their adoration. “I’m going home.”
“I’m going with you, Mom,” Christopher insisted.
Beatrice tried to encourage her, but Sheridan had been steadfast in her grief.
“Are you sick, Mom?” Tori had asked.
“I’m not feeling well,” Sheridan said, eyeing Quentin and Jett as they walked toward them.
“Daddy,” Tori had exclaimed, and jumped into his arms. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“I wouldn’t have missed this. You were terrific, sweetheart.”
“Do you want to come to dinner with us?” Tori asked.
“Well,” Quentin paused, glancing at Sheridan.
“Mommy’s not going,” Tori said. “She’s not feeling well.”
Quentin looked at Sheridan and his eyes apologized. “Are you okay?”
“I think you make her sick.” Christopher scowled. Then he turned his visual rage to Jett.
Christopher’s words shocked them all, but only Kamora looked like she was ready to give the second standing ovation of the night.
Sheridan took Christopher’s hand. “Mom, Dad, we’re gonna get out of here.” She kissed Tori. “You were fabulous, sweetheart. Have a good time, okay?”
Tori grinned, then frowned at Christopher. But a moment later her hand was back inside her father’s, grasping him as if she couldn’t let go.
Sheridan kissed her parents, hugged Kamora, all the while holding Christopher—afraid of what he might do if she set him free.
“I’ll call you,” Kamora whispered. “And I’m sorry about…you know.”
Sheridan nodded, then rushed from the auditorium, keeping her eyes away from Quentin and Jett. Wondering how he could be so thoughtless.
Those questions stayed with her as she and Christopher got into her car.
He allowed her to be quiet as they drove, allowed her to stay inside her feelings. She was beyond the shock now. Only sadness remained as she realized this was another turning point.
For months she’d prayed that Jett would be little more than a name, that her children would never have to deal with him. But now Jett had invaded her whole life—her children, her parents, her friends, her acquaintances. Her humiliation was public.
She left the car in the driveway and followed Christopher into the house. The balloons he’d hung on the banister for Tori bounced with the breeze. When he started to untie the string, Sheridan stopped him.
“Leave them.”
“I’m going to take them to her room,” he said, as if he wanted to dispose of any reminder of the day.
“No, I want her to see them when she comes home.”
He nodded. “Are you okay?”
Why is everyone asking me that?
“Yes.” She plastered on a smile so fake, she knew not even Christopher would believe it.
“Let me know if you need anything,” he said as he moved up the stairs.
In the living room Sheridan flopped onto the couch and closed her eyes. What was Quentin thinking? she wondered again. But then, on the other side, she marveled at her own naiveté—how could she not have expected this day? This day when their lives had to converge because of the children they shared.
“Mom.” Christopher bolted down the stairs, invading her thoughts. “Can I go over to Darryl’s after the teen all-night praise jam at church Friday?”
Sheridan opened her eyes. He hadn’t mentioned Darryl in months. And if he wanted to be with Darryl and not Brendan and Gary, then something good had come from this day.
“I forgot that was Friday. What’s going on at Darryl’s?”
“His mom invited some of the guys over for breakfast and to just hang out.”
Thank you, Lord, Sheridan thought. She’d have to thank Darryl’s mother too. And she’d thank the Lord again. There was no mention of Brendan or Gary…or Déjà.
“Déjà is going with me Friday.”
I was beginning to think something good was coming out of this day. “How is she going to do that if you’re going to Darryl’s?”
“Brendan will take her home, or she’ll stay at his house. She’s been staying over there a lot.”
Just what I needed to hear, Sheridan thought, as she remembered that Brendan lived just a few blocks away.
She leaned back and closed her eyes as Christopher returned to his bedroom.
She hadn’t come up with a plan to keep Christopher away from Déjà, so she made a mental note to talk to Quentin. The thought of him made her groan.
“Mom,” Christopher yelled again, not allowing her time to brood. “Can I order a pizza?”
She opened her purse, taking loose bills from the pocket, and a card fell onto her lap. She stood, staring at the card. “I’m going upstairs,” she said as she handed Christopher a twenty-dollar bill.
As she moved, she looked at the card again—Brock Goodman. She remembered their time together. Remembered how he kept her engaged and entertained. Remembered how good he made her feel. Remembered he was twenty-nine years old.
I should call and thank him for his time, she thought before she dialed the number. Her heart thumped faster when she heard his voice.
“Brock, this is Sheridan. Sheridan Hart. From church. We had coffee on Sunday—”
He laughed. “I know who you are. I’ve been waiting for you to call.”
She struggled to keep her smile away, but she didn’t win. “You have?”
“Yeah, in fact, I was sitting here saying, ‘I wonder when Sheridan is going to call.’ ”
She laughed, kicked off her mules, and curled up on the bed. “I told you I wasn’t going to call.”
“And I told you, you would.”
“I’m only calling to thank you for Sunday.”
“For the coffee?”
Sheridan could hear the amusement in his tone. “Yes.”
“So,” he began, “now that that’s done, what else do you have to say?”
“Nothing, I’m finished,” she kidded.
He laughed. “Well, I have something to say. Have dinner with me.”
She sat up. “I…don’t think…”
“Ah, come on. You didn’t think you would ever call me. Now you know you can do things you never thought possible. So have dinner with me.”
“I don’t know.”
“There you go again,” he said.
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Thinking that I’m asking you to marry me. I just want us to go on one date.”
“Just one?”
“Aha. You do want to do this.”
Before she could stop her mind, the stalker returned, with his backpack of images. She thought about her life. She thought about Quentin’s life.
“Brock, I haven’t dated in years, and even then, I didn’t date much. I guess—”
Before she could finish, he said, “I can help there. I’ve dated a whole lot, enough for both of us.”
She laughed. “That’s supposed to ma
ke me feel better?”
“No, dinner will make you feel better.”
Her telephone beeped, interrupting them. “Brock, hold on a sec?”
The moment she clicked over, he said, “Sheridan, do you have a moment to talk?”
Quentin stole the smile she’d been wearing since she’d heard Brock’s voice. “There’s nothing for us to talk about.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought…the other day when we talked…I thought we were in a place where you accepted my life. And months have passed now. It was time to bring Jett into my world the way he’s brought me into his.”
She wondered what that meant. Had Quentin met Jett’s family? Had he been accepted as Jett’s partner? “I think there was a better way to do it.”
“Maybe. But all of this is new to me. Everything I do, I’m doing for the first time. I just want you to know I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
“I’m on the other line,” she said, not acknowledging his words. When he stayed quiet, she added, “I really am on the phone.”
“Okay, but please call me back.”
“If it’s not too late.”
She said good-bye and then clicked back to Brock.
Brock said, “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.”
“That would never happen.”
“It was time to bring Jett into my world.” She said, “I would love to have dinner with you.”
“Wow,” he exclaimed. “I was prepared to give you the top ten reasons why you should go out with me.”
“I’d like to hear that.”
“I’ll save that for dinner. So let’s do this tomorrow. I don’t want you changing your mind.”
She laughed on the outside. “I won’t, but the weekend is better for me.”
“Okay, but let’s do it Friday. Let’s not waste any days.”
Sweet words, just like the ones Quentin used to say.
She gave him her number and address and then hung up after she made multiple promises not to cancel.
On the bed, she hugged her pillow. She didn’t need to have a psychology degree to know what was going on. Barely three months had passed; her divorce wasn’t even final. She’d sworn that she would never get near another man who wasn’t her father, brother, or son.
Yet on Friday, she was going out with Brock Goodman.
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