This is so unfair.
I’m almost out of money, my marriage is a sham, and my self-esteem is lower than it has ever been in my life. I want a good marriage. I want fame. I want a seven-figure income. I want to take a vacation. Is that too much to ask for a woman who’s willing to work twice as hard as anyone else to assure her success?
My heart says no, but life is telling me yes. A part of me wants to give up. I’m getting so frustrated, but the bitch in me keeps fighting. Something is warning me that if I give up, my life, my marriage, my family, and my career will be the laughing stock of the publishing industry.
I fight the urge to feel sorry for myself. I fight the urge to cry daily, and I forge ahead. I think about my late mother more and more and know that she wouldn’t want me to give up.
That said, fuck Lynzee, and fuck Jett if he doesn’t have my back. I deserve some respect around this camp. I pick up the phone book and get to work.
Consumers Bank is the same entity that swore they loved doing business with Jett and me. We haven’t been late on a payment and still have equity in our home. So, what’s the damn problem? Okay, I know we don’t have a large stream of income coming in, but we can pay our bills out of the loan money. Why does it seem like no one else has faith that I’ll get a new contract soon? Well, they can all go to hell, because I’ve paid my dues, and I know it’s only a matter of time before things change and I’m on top of the publishing world again.
My forty-ninth birthday is next month, and it’s going to be the first year that I won’t be able to buy myself a present. Temporarily, I have put the matter of April and Jett out of my mind. We have more important issues to deal with. I’ve told Lynzee as much.
I told her, “He doesn’t have the money for a lottery ticket, let alone an airline ticket to California to meet April.”
I think I’ve finally figured out why Lynzee has been bugging me to tell Jett. She’s always been the weak one in the family. She doesn’t have the balls to tell Jett about his daughter. She wants me to do the dirty deed.
Now, Jett and I have once again applied at dozens of loan companies. Both of us have over sixty hits on our credit report. He walks around the house angry all the time, and I have to keep thinking of new and creative ways to keep him from bringing up the idea of selling the house. Some days it seems like our marriage is hanging on by a thread. I worry constantly that he’s going to leave me, but then he surprises me one night.
Before we go to bed, Jett places my hands in his. “We need to talk.” We sit on the bed.
“Why do you look so serious? Have I done something wrong?” I ask.
“No. It’s me. I’ve been selfish. Charity, I don’t want a divorce, now or ever. You mean the world to me. I don’t care if you get a book deal. We’ll work something out.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “My Lord, Jett. You had me worried. You know how stubborn you can be.”
“You’re right. But know this: nothing or no one will ever keep us apart. You’re my soul mate, and we belong together.”
“And you’re my soul mate, too. I don’t want or need anyone else.” For a moment, I think once again about telling him about April, but something makes me hold back. I’m losing my house, I’m losing a book contract, and I’m losing my mind. I can’t lose my husband, too.
He caresses my face. “Then show me.”
Slowly, but deliberately, we make magical love. Afterward, we bathe and make love again in our oversized tub. By the time we make it to bed, we’re both smiling and overjoyed with one another.
“I love you, Jett.”
“And I love you, baby. I take one breath for me and another one for you.” He wraps me in his arms and lulls me to sleep.
We finally accept the inevitable. No one will approve our loan. It doesn’t matter that we have over a half a million dollars in equity. What hurt us the most are the three late payments on our mortgage that occurred twelve months earlier. I thought Jett would be furious, but he’s merely perturbed.
Jett doesn’t hesitate. He calls Crye-Leike Realty and puts our house on the market. “Charity,” he says when I can’t stop crying, “we don’t have any choice. If we don’t sell the house, we’ll end up losing it. Is that what you want?”
“No.” I keep silent as I watch him prepare to do something that I know that he hates to do: sell his Harley Davidson motorcycle so that we can pay the upcoming house notes. If we don’t sell the house in six months, we’ll be in foreclosure and completely out of cash.
Given our current financial straits, I find little consolation in the news reports that shout gloom and doom all over the States due to this national housing crisis. Apparently, we’re not the only ones in this country facing financial shipwreck. In Memphis, people’s homes are being foreclosed on, unemployment is almost thirteen percent, and the homeless rate is higher than ever.
Even so, when Jett suggests selling some of the twins’ art work that we own, I refuse. I don’t want to tell our sons we’re in financial trouble. In truth, Jett doesn’t want to sell any of their work either. He is as proud of them as I am.
One night, I find him sitting on the bed in the dark. I sit beside him and ask what’s wrong. “I’m beginning to feel my age. I’m old as Chuck Berry without the guitar and dance moves.”
“Hey, baby,” I say, smiling and caressing his buttocks. “You still rock my world.” He smiles because he’s supposed to, and walks away.
I’m unable to muster the strength to put him in a better mood. The situation we’re in is totally my fault. After Jett retired from Champion Motors, he hadn’t worked in more than ten years. I know that he dislikes working at a car dealership at this stage of his life. It’s killing him to work, and it’s killing me to sell this house. I don’t know which one of us is more depressed.
Our realtor, Elaine Faulkner, keeps in constant touch. Elaine is a Caucasian woman in her early sixties. She has the thickest dyed blonde hair that I’ve ever seen. A size ten, she’s still gorgeous. She looks like she was the high school prom queen back in the day. Elaine is very spiritual and prays with Jett and me at least once a week.
Thus far, we don’t have any appointments to show our home; however, Elaine informs us that she’s received numerous calls inquiring about the property. Elaine explains to us that it’s hard to sell a multi-million dollar home in Memphis, but with luck, we’ll find a buyer, possibly one of the Memphis Grizzlies.
Even though we aren’t speaking, I am tempted to call Lynzee and ask for her help again. She’s got millions. Surely she can spare a few thousand. I dial the number over and over again, but keep hanging up. What if Jett and Herman are right? What if she wants me to lose everything? What if she brings up April again? How can I stall her this time?
Just like an ungrateful sister, I’ve forgotten about the money she gave me months earlier. I never told Jett about the money. Jett resents Lynzee as much as I do, and I don’t want him to feel like he owes her anything.
Although we are nearly broke, I manage to send Tyler a birthday gift. She turned fifteen a week ago. I sent her some stationery with her name on it. I hope my small gesture will garner a call from Lynzee, but it doesn’t.
My agent seems to have the perception of a tarot card reader. She seems to intuit when I’m depressed.
“I’ve got a suggestion,” Arlene begins.
“Shoot.”
“Why not write a thriller? There are very few black thriller writers.”
“I love it, Arlene. Thanks.”
I’m excited. I read books by Robin Cook, Steve Martini, John Sanford, and Catherine Coulter. In no time, I come up with a great concept: a female serial killer. I’m positive that this idea will work. It has to.
10
“Hello,” Jett says, and then pauses as he balances the phone under his chin. “Why, hello, Lynzee.”
Jett is always civil to people, no matter how he feels about them. I’m sitting in the living room watching Nip/Tuck. I hear Jett laugh. What’s so
damn funny? I turn the volume down so that I can hear his side of the conversation.
“Sure, the boys will love that.” He pauses. “All right. I’ll tell Charity. Thanks!”
My heart sinks lower than the grave. Is she finally going to tell him the truth about April?
Jett turns his back. The bastard. Are he and Lynzee having a discussion about April? My temperature rises fifteen degrees as I bide my time.
Before he hangs up, I’m standing in front of him, demanding a detailed report. My knees are shaking, but I’m trying valiantly to stand my ground. If it’s over between us, it’s over.
“Lynzee wants the boys to visit her and Tyler. I told her that it was fine with me.” He challenges me with his eyes. “How do you feel about it?”
“It’s okay I guess.” I’m so relieved, I could kick my heels. “Who’s paying for it?”
“She’s going to overnight the tickets to them tomorrow.”
I feel like I am going to suffocate. My instincts tell me that this isn’t a casual visit. Lynzee has a motive, probably to find out exactly how bad our finances are, possibly to introduce the twins to their half-sister.
When we ask the boys if they want to go, they’re thrilled. They chat with Tyler every month or so, and can’t wait to see her in person. Tyler’s IQ is over 160. She’s been double promoted and will graduate before she turns sixteen. Though they rarely voice it, Javed and Jamone secretly admire people who are very intelligent. The twins, Zedra’s daughter Naja, and Tyler, have vowed that they will go to Brazil once they are all enrolled in college. I wonder: Will this trip now include April?
On the morning the twins leave, I try to keep a straight face when we say good-bye to the boys at the airport. They seem so excited. I don’t want to spoil their fun with my negative attitude.
While they’re gone, I put in sixteen hours a day in my office, working on my thriller. It’s going to be a series like John Sanford’s Prey series, and have an ongoing main character like Sue Grafton’s alphabet novels. I thank God that I have a very creative mind. In my desk there are at least twenty book ideas, some of them inspirational, some of them dramatic, and some sexy as hell. I admit I’m not good at editing, but I am a damn expert at plotting and thinking up themes.
I think of my mother constantly. She wouldn’t want me to sell our home. She would want me to lie, beg, and steal to stay here. And I can feel, just like Halle Berry in Gothika, that because someone is dead doesn’t mean they’re gone. I know that she’s right here watching over me and mine.
The following Monday we have our first house appointment with a couple that lives out of state. They both love the house, and keep complimenting us on the interior decorating. The husband wants to know if he can purchase more land. He owns horses and wants an additional five acres. There are nearly fifty unexcavated acres adjacent to our property. Elaine informs the couple that she is certain that buying more land is an option, and she’ll have an answer for them in a couple of days.
“Jett and Charity,” Elaine says after the couple leaves, “I’d like to talk to you two for a moment.” After we’re seated at the kitchen island she tells us, “The couple is pre-approved. They can well afford your house.” She smiles. “And in this economy, that’s a great thing.”
“Thanks, Elaine,” I say. “Jett and I really appreciate all of your help.”
“It’s my job to keep my customers happy and make your transition to your new home go well.”
New home? Why’d she have to mention that? I’m not ready to deal with a new home right now. Elaine says a prayer, and she and I hug before she heads out.
“Baby,” Jett says in an excited voice after Elaine leaves, “I want you to start looking for a house immediately.”
I cringe. I am in such denial, I never thought about looking for another house. When Elaine calls the following day and tells us that the owner of the subdivision will indeed sell the five acres the buyer requests, I am downtrodden. I now have no excuse for not looking at potential homes.
The boys call us from Lynzee’s house. I refused to dial her number. Undeniably, they are having a great time. Lynzee spent thousands buying them new clothes and gym shoes.
“Javed,” I ask, “are you and Jamone having a good time?”
“Yeah. It’s like 90210. It’s live. Aunt Lynzee took Tyler and us to a Lil’ Wayne concert. It was kronk. Everybody was there and we had front row seats.”
“That’s nice.”
“We’re going to see John Legend on Tuesday.”
“Okay. Is there anyone else going with you guys?” I’m hoping that Lynzee isn’t going to bring April out of the woodwork. All I need is her captivating my sons with all of her money and then making me look bad.
“Nope. Just Tyler, Jamone, and me. Oh, and Tyler’s boyfriend is coming too. He’s sleeping over that night ’cause we’re not getting back until late. And, Mom, Aunt Lynzee hired a limo to drive us to the concert. Isn’t that wild?”
“Yes,” I mumble, but I don’t think that he hears me.
I do my best to appear to be happy about their trip, but find it difficult to keep up the pretense, and hang up quicker than I normally do.
I keep myself as busy as I can while the twins are gone. I hope that they miss me as much as I miss them.
Since the two of us are rarely alone, I fuss over Jett like he’s a little boy, and he loves every minute of it.
“I love you, Jett. Do you still love me?”
“You ain’t never got to ask. I love you like my shadow. I need to be that close to you.” He kisses me. “Bet on that.”
When the twins come home, Jett and I watch as they model outfit after outfit. Neither one mentions April or any hint of an older sister. I’m assuming that Lynzee didn’t tell them the truth—at least not yet.
That night, while we’re watching the Detroit Tigers play the New York Yankees, Jett tries to console me. I’m crying like a three-year-old, and can’t seem to stop. “Don’t be upset, honey. Lynzee is just showing love to the boys that she can’t show you.”
I feel his words have merit. I also feel that there is an undertone in his voice. Since I’ve entered perimenopause, our sex life has changed drastically. Other than that week I spent convincing him that he needed to give me another chance, we only make love on the weekend. In our heydays, we made love three to four times a week, and back then that was also once or twice that same night. Sometimes waking up in the middle of the night and stealing a piece were some of the best moments of our marriage.
Since I turned forty-nine, I have tried to explain to Jett that my hormones are changing, and I don’t get excited the way I used to. But how can you tell a man that you don’t desire him anymore? I know I hurt his feelings, but he tries not to show it.
Tonight, my man seems nervous. After twenty-seven years together, I know what’s on his mind. I have the foresight to apply the K-Y jelly that I never thought I’d need, before I get into bed. Lurking in the back of my mind is my need to prove to myself that I’m a better lover to Jett than Lynzee was.
Even though it’s dark in our bedroom, I can still see his handsome face. Jett reaches down, tips my chin up to his, and gazes tenderly into my eyes for a long moment. “I love you, Charity. I adore you.” He kisses me the way a lover should. Then he says softly, “Passion lasts but a fleeting moment; compassion, a lifetime.” He strokes my face. “A man needs a friend. Someone he can talk to, confide in.” He kisses each cheek, and then brushes his lips swiftly across mine. “I am so grateful to have you. It’s impossible for me to show you just how much I treasure our marriage.”
“Maybe I can help you.” I lower my hand to caress his essence.
“You don’t have to do this, baby.”
“I know, but I want to.” I help him slide off his boxers. He reciprocates, removing my satin negligee. I taste the tingle of Listerine on his tongue. My senses are saturated with him, the calm, economical power with which he moves his hips. And his smell, steaming up at me,
a musky animal fragrance, bringing images of Jett sitting on his Harley, his generous crotch bulging against the leather seat cushion. As I lay beneath him, our bodies a perfect fit, I feel guilty that I’ve neglected him for so long. At this moment, I want nothing more than to please my sweet man.
I don’t realize that I’m moaning until I hear him say, “Moan to me, baby. I knew you were going to be good tonight.”
“Hold me tight,” I encourage. “Need me right now.”
Jett kisses me once more, a kiss like those I dreamed of when I was a teenager. His touch is soft, tender, and loving. His skin is as soft as butterfly wings, satiny as port, but twice as intoxicating. I will gladly die tomorrow if my shroud can be so silk-like and snug as the feel of his skin against mine. He feels smooth and warm as he slides deeper and deeper into my flesh. I move with him as effortlessly as breathing. He makes it easy for me to forget my world and all its pressures. I notice for the first time on his face an expression so exquisite, so soft in its voluptuous delight, that angelic is the only term that I could apply to it.
Now, I am half hypnotized by the erotic grind of his hips. The molecules of earth mix with the molecules of flesh, and our skin shimmers like precious jewels. We pause at the same moment, in exquisite anticipation. When we begin again, our rhythm is synchronized. My hands feel like his hands; my shoulders feel like his shoulders; my breasts, his chest; my thighs, his thighs. He becomes me and I become him. Enraptured.
“I love you, Charity,” Jett whispers. In the next breath, he withdraws, turns on his side, and, in seconds, falls into a deep and peaceful sleep. I listen to his soft snoring and watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest for a few moments, then turn on my side, tucking the sheet beneath my breasts.
We Ain’t the Brontës Page 6