When there was nothing else to clean, she wandered into the office, praying to find peace in the midst of Hart to Heart. But in minutes, she raised herself from her executive chair and left the office without having moved one paper.
She leapt into a pair of jeans, brushed her fingers through her hair, grabbed her leather jacket, and rushed to the car. She turned on the ignition even though she had no place to go. But she had to get away—from the ticking clock that teased her with the passing of time, and the telephone that taunted her with its refusal to ring.
“Maybe this is what he does,” she spoke aloud as she maneuvered through the streets. “Maybe he preys on desperate women.” She never imagined herself to be like one of those women in those Lifetime movies. But here she was, wandering through the city like a nomad, with her mind fixed on one thing. She had turned into one of those girl-you-need-to-get-yourself-together Lifetime heroines.
“Gas is too expensive for this,” she exclaimed as she made a right onto Lincoln Boulevard.
Ten minutes later, she parked her Explorer in the no-parking zone and clicked on her cell. Once she was put through, she said, “Do you have some time for your best friend?”
“Yeah, girl, what’s up?”
“Need to talk.”
“Wanna meet for dinner?”
“Look out your window.”
“What?”
“Look out your window,” Sheridan repeated.
She could hear Kamora’s pumps clicking on the hardwood floor of her office, and then Sheridan looked up through her sun roof.
“This must be an emergency,” Kamora said as she waved. “Come on up.”
Sheridan pulled her car into the underground garage and took the elevator to Kamora’s office. Once Kamora closed the door behind her, she asked, “What’s up?”
Sheridan sank onto the couch. “Thanks for seeing me. I know you’re busy.”
“This is what we do.” She sat next to Sheridan. “Is Quentin giving you a hard time?”
Sheridan almost laughed at her words. It wasn’t Quentin who had given her a hard time. She shook her head. “This isn’t about Quentin. But before I tell you, you have to promise you’ll never repeat this.”
Kamora looked at her as if she was crazy. “Who am I going to tell?”
“I don’t even want you to say anything to any of your guy friends.”
Kamora chuckled. “Girl, when I get with a man, I’m not talking or thinking about you.”
“And you have to promise…”
“Enough with the promises. Just tell me.”
Sheridan took a breath. “I had a date Friday night.”
Kamora frowned. “The night I was going to come over to your house?”
Sheridan nodded.
“So, my girl is getting out again. Well, good for you. So, who did you go out with?” And then Kamora snapped her fingers. “Oh, that guy from the recital who sounded like a black Kennedy.”
“No, not Carlton. This is a man I met at the church. Brock Goodman.”
“A church guy. Well, at least he won’t have his hands all over you.”
Sheridan wanted to explain that he wasn’t actually a church guy, but she was buckled over with laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Kamora asked.
“He had more than his hands all over me. He had his hands, and his mouth, and his…” She stopped.
Kamora’s eyes widened. “Girl, don’t tell me you did the nasty,” she whispered as if they were in tenth grade exchanging secrets.
Sheridan nodded.
Kamora leapt from the couch and clapped as if she’d just won on The Price Is Right. “You are kidding me.”
“I wish I was kidding. I cannot believe I did that.”
Kamora rejoined her on the couch. “Why not? You’re human. And I’ve been trying to tell you, this is a hard walk.” She paused and waved her hands. “I know what you’re going to say about God not being pleased…”
“He’s not.”
“And all of that,” Kamora continued, ignoring Sheridan. “But it’s just the way things are these days. You’ve got to know the whole man—know in the biblical sense.” She bounced back on the couch and kicked her feet in the air. “I want details, girl.”
Sheridan sighed. “Well, let’s just say I know why God set it up like this. Why He says if you’re not married, no sex, period.”
Kamora closed her eyes and groaned.
“Because He knows it will end up like this,” Sheridan continued. “He knows you will give yourself to a man and then never hear from him again.”
Kamora opened one eye and peeked at Sheridan. “What you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”
“He hasn’t called me,” Sheridan wailed. “He left Saturday morning, right after Christopher found us.”
“Christopher?” Kamora’s scream lifted her from the couch.
Sheridan grabbed her hand and pulled her back. “I’ll tell you about that later, but Brock said he would call, and I haven’t heard from him.”
“Was this the first time you guys went out?”
She nodded. “First time. We went out. We had sex. Wrong move on every level.”
Kamora paced in front of the couch. “Well, I agree. I don’t believe in first-date contact.”
“You make it sound like football.”
“Girl, with me, sometimes it is.” She waved her hands. “But don’t distract me. I’ve got to figure this out. So he said he’d call and then he didn’t. And so you called him and—”
“I didn’t call him,” Sheridan said, as if she was offended. “I don’t call men.”
Kamora laughed. “You sleep with men on the first date, but you won’t call them after the first date.”
It sounded ridiculous to Sheridan too.
Kamora continued, “Girl, welcome to the new millenium. This is how we do it.” She held her phone out for Sheridan. “Call him.”
“I’ll call him on my cell,” Sheridan said, although she had no intention of doing that.
Kamora shook her head. “No, he’ll recognize your number, and if he’s playing possum, he won’t answer. But this way you can trick his butt and catch him.”
“I don’t want him that way.”
“I know, but the point is to find out what’s going on with this bozo.”
She wanted to tell Kamora that Brock was no bozo, but somehow Kamora’s words made sense. She did want to know what was going on. With reluctance she took the phone and dialed the number she had already committed to memory.
She held her breath as it rang. And then after the fourth ring: “Hey, this is the good man. When you hear the beep, do your thing.” Beep.
Sheridan did her thing and hung up. “Voice mail.”
“Try again,” Kamora encouraged. “You never know.”
Sheridan followed her friend’s advice, only to get the same message. Sheridan sighed, waiting for further instructions.
“So that didn’t work,” Kamora said. “Do you know where he lives?”
“No,” Sheridan yelled, as if she couldn’t believe the question. She could imagine what Kamora had in mind. “And even if I did, wouldn’t be going over there.”
Kamora looked as if she was disappointed. “Oh, well. We’ll figure out something.” She grabbed her jacket.
“Where are you going?” Sheridan asked.
“With you. First we’re going to do a little shopping, clear our minds enough to come up with a plan. Then we’ll go to dinner and discuss strategy.”
“I can’t. I have two children who’ll be home from school in a couple of hours.”
“Girl, please. Chris can take care of himself and Tori for a few hours. Call him, tell him to order pizza and you’ll see him later.”
Sheridan was grateful for the invitation. It would keep her away. Away from the clock. Away from the phone. “Okay, but I feel like a terrible mother. I’m always feeding my kids pizza.”
“Honey, if Chris found you and what’s-his-name doing t
he do, pizza is not what makes you a terrible mother.” Kamora laughed.
Sheridan sucked her teeth. “Thanks for making me feel worse.”
Kamora hooked her arm through Sheridan’s, guided her toward the elevators, and asked, “So tell me now, what exactly did Chris see?”
Sheridan parked her car in the driveway. At least Kamora had kept her entertained. Shopping, dinner, then a movie. And she’d thought about Brock no more than one hundred times.
Through the sunroof, she glanced up to the darkened heavens, knowing this was just another lesson.
“How many more of these lessons about men are there?”
She was sure she’d never trust any man besides her father, brother, and son again.
As Sheridan moved toward her front door, she was surprised that the entire downstairs was dark. She stepped into her home, flicked on the light, and shrieked.
Her scream made Christopher and Déjà jump from the couch. But not before Déjà lowered her T-shirt over her naked chest.
Sheridan inhaled as much oxygen as she could.
“Christopher,” she yelled. “What is going on?”
“Nothing.”
That word and the fact that he didn’t even look afraid fueled her fury. She marched into the living room. “What is going on? Where’s Tori?”
“She’s up in her room, Mom. I was just waiting for you.”
“This is how you wait?”
He shrugged. “Déjà’s stranded. She missed the last bus and Brendan is in Mississippi.”
Sheridan wanted to ask why Brendan hadn’t taken Déjà with him.
Christopher continued, “So I was going to drive her home. Can I borrow your car?”
She wanted to slap Christopher upside his head. “How are you going to do that? You can’t drive after dark.”
“I thought you’d let me do it this one time.”
She had no idea how she kept the rest of her screams inside. What happened to her intelligent son? The one she had thought about minutes before—the one she believed she could always trust?
Sheridan turned her glare to Déjà. The girl smiled and then blew her signature bubblegum bubble. Sheridan wanted to smash the gum in her face.
“You don’t have any way to get home?” Sheridan asked.
Déjà shook her head.
What about walking?
Déjà smiled. “I can stay here. My dad won’t mind.”
You have lost your mind. “I’ll take you home,” Sheridan growled.
Christopher said, “I’ll ride with you.”
She needed to get away from this boy before she beat him down. “Who’s going to stay with Tori?” she asked in a tone that told him she thought he was stupid.
“She can come with us?” It was supposed to be a statement.
Sheridan didn’t even bother to answer. “Get your things, Déjà,” she demanded, looking at the girl because she couldn’t stand looking at her son.
Déjà grabbed her bag. “This is all I have.” As she held her purse up, Sheridan noticed that her nails still claimed Christopher; this time the long, curved nails were sapphire blue.
Sheridan marched toward the front door. “Christopher, check on your sister. And make sure your homework is done. I’ll speak with you when I get back.”
She rushed to her car, but when she got inside, Déjà was not behind her. Christopher and Déjà were in the doorway, standing under the light, kissing as if they’d never see each other again.
Sheridan blasted the horn, startling them both. She shook with anger as she leaned on the horn again, not caring if she awakened Mrs. James. Not caring if she awakened everyone in the entire county of Los Angeles.
Déjà jumped into the front seat and waved until Christopher was out of sight.
“Where do you live, Déjà?”
“In Pomona. On Lemon Street, right off the freeway.”
Pomona. Sheridan had forgotten. She glanced at the clock. By the time she drove this child home and then came back, it would be after midnight.
For more than fifteen minutes they exchanged no words. Déjà chewed her gum as if it were her job, and Sheridan drove, her anger simmering.
Finally Déjà said, “You don’t like me much, do you?”
What was your first clue? “It doesn’t matter if I do or don’t, does it?”
“It matters to me,” Déjà said softly, “because I love Chris.”
Oh, brother.
“I really do,” Déjà said, as if she knew Sheridan’s thoughts.
“And he loves me.”
“Christopher is not old enough to be in love, Déjà.”
“I think he is, Ms. Hart.” She twisted in her seat and faced Sheridan. “You don’t know him like I do.”
Now Sheridan wanted to slap her too. “You’ve known Christopher for five minutes. I’ve known him since I carried him in my womb. Tell me again that I don’t know him like you do.”
Déjà sighed, popped another bubble, and said, “Why don’t you like me?”
She couldn’t say all of the words that would explain it, so instead she said, “Let me ask you this. You’re eighteen. What do you want with a boy so young?”
“He’s not that young, and he’s really not a boy, Ms. Hart.”
Sheridan gripped the wheel. “He is a boy, Déjà. He’s a boy playing grown-up. And you should know better.” As she said the words, her insides stirred. In some other place, at some other time, this conversation could be happening—but she wouldn’t be in the driver’s seat. Brock’s mother could be glaring at her as if she were some misfit corrupting her baby boy. His mother could ask her what she wanted with a man so young.
But at least he’s a man. Still, her thoughts didn’t make her feel better. What was the difference between her and Déjà?
Déjà said, “I don’t see anything wrong with me and Chris being together. We have fun and he’s taught me a lot of things. He’s not like all those other guys I’ve been with.”
Oh, God. “I’m sure he’s not like the boys you know,” Sheridan said, and then tried to suck back her words. “Look, Déjà,” she said, softening her tone. “In less than two years, Christopher will be going to college. He’ll leave home, probably leave California.” If I have my way, he’ll be going to school in China. “Besides the fact that he’s so young, that’s another reason why it doesn’t make sense for him to be in a relationship.”
Déjà leaned back. “He told me you liked Nicole Blake. What’s the difference between her and me?”
Only God’s grace kept her from laughing and really hurting this girl. “It doesn’t make any difference to me who the girl is. Christopher is too young, and I’m not going to allow this to go on.”
Sheridan clicked on the radio, but when she heard Luther crooning about how love had been good to him, she flicked to another station. She settled on KKLA and the Christian broadcast Focus on the Family. This girl needed to hear something uplifting, inspirational—a message that would convince her to keep her behind away from Christopher Hart.
Forty-five minutes later Sheridan stopped her car in front of Déjà’s home.
“Thank you, Ms. Hart,” Déjà said, and hopped out of the car.
Sheridan glanced at the clock. It was just after eleven. Too late to go into anyone’s home. But this was a desperate matter that called for a desperate measure. “I’d like to meet your father. Is it too late?”
Déjà frowned. “No, but I don’t know if he’s home yet. He usually hangs out when he gets off work.”
Sheridan nodded. “Let’s see if he’s home.”
They walked up the driveway of the stucco ranch-style home, past a gray truck with more rust than paint.
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Harold.”
“No, I mean, what’s your last name?”
“Blue. His name is Harold Blue.”
Sheridan nodded but then almost tripped on the concrete path when she realized what that meant. This child’s
name is Déjà Blue. Before she had a chance to recover she stepped into the house.
It could have been the middle of the day, judging from the sounds of the Blue household. Although no one was in the front room, Sheridan’s ears were accosted by a baby’s cries and toddlers’ squeals. Still, she was able to hear the sounds from a television that was slightly overpowered by a CD blasting, “Lean over to the front and touch your toes.”
As her eyes wandered through the space, the first word that came to her mind was brown. Everything was the color of mud: the pleather couch, the stained recliner, the bookshelves, the carpet—even the curtains that hung at the window were a drab brown.
Déjà tossed her purse on the brown table and walked toward the hallway. “Daddy,” she yelled.
“What are you screaming for, girl?” a voice bellowed back.
“Daddy, Chris’s mom wants to meet you,” Déjà shrieked. Then she turned to Sheridan and spoke softly. “Have a seat, Ms. Hart.”
Sheridan looked again at the couch, covered with empty KFC bags, soda cans, and toddler’s toys. Her glance moved to the stains on the recliner and she wondered what they were. She shook her head and stepped back, moving closer to the door. “No, thank you. I won’t be staying long.”
“What did you say?” Déjà’s father spoke as loud when he entered the room as he did when he yelled from the back. He stopped when he saw Sheridan and grinned as his eyes roamed over her body one inch at a time.
Sheridan pulled the belt of her trench coat tighter.
“Daddy, this is Ms. Hart, Chris’s mother.”
Harold Blue was a big man who stretched his clothes beyond their size. His white T-shirt hugged his chest and barely covered his stomach. He wore jeans that were hip huggers, not because of style, but because he couldn’t get the pants to his waist over the rolls of skin that bulged from his side.
Sheridan kept her eyes on his eyes. “Hello, Mr. Blue.”
“Yeah.” His grin widened. “Nice to meet you.” He motioned for her to have a seat. “Do you want a beer?” he asked as he popped a cigarette into his mouth and sat on the couch.
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