by Donna Hill
“Love—”
“I know that we were supposed to celebrate our anniversary in another week. Celebrate our love. Our devotion.” She laughed bitterly. “But you never were ready for this. You are not the one for me. You are not going to be my husband. Or my lover. Or in my life anymore. That I know.”
“Love—”
“And I know that you need to give me fifty feet, because I didn’t need to find out in a fucking blog that the man I love ain’t shit,” she finished in a harsh whisper, tears filling her eyes before she closed them as a sharp and piercing pain radiated across her chest.
One solitary tear filled with the weight of her pain raced down her cheek.
“I love you—”
Love laughed bitterly before she picked up her BlackBerry and threw it away from her. It hit the mirror over the brick fireplace, shattering the glass.
“Oh, Love.” Tashi sighed, coming around the table to wrap her arms around her shoulders and hug her up in some sistah-friend love that she needed.
The act of friendship and support shook her to her core and the dam broke from the act of compassion. The tears raced down her cheeks like an endless relay race to soak Tashi’s cinnamon brown shoulder.
“Girl, what are you going to do?” her friend asked as she patted her back like a mother belching a newborn.
The question made Love weary deep in her soul. Everything about her life and the path she was on—with love and marriage and family—was just shattered into a billion pieces and blown away by imaginary winds, never to be reclaimed. Her life with Byron was over. It was way more than she wanted to tackle at the moment.
Chapter 1
“Summer Lady”—Santana
Three Years Later
May
“If my lover could be the summer sun, I would lay naked beneath him, exposed and waiting for him to reach out to kiss and caress my skin as his heat would fill my body and his light would elevate my moods,” Love said in a husky voice with just a tinge of her South Carolina accent slipping through as she stretched her long and slender limbs up as if she could touch the clear blue skies from where she stood on the rooftop of her brownstone. “If only my lover could be the summer sun, I would have no regrets and our love would last a lifetime. I would even share his brilliance with millions as long as he stayed available for me upon request.”
She fought the urge to slip her silk robe from her body and truly let the sun bronze her already cinnamon brown complexion. Even though she owned the two-story brownstone and, thus, exclusive rights to its spacious rooftop, she had no desire to give her neighbors a peep show. Instead she wrapped her arms around her body and looked out at the city landscape as the sun rose in the sky. Harlem.
Once the mecca for African-American art and culture, the city was now known for more than just its historic Renaissance.
Love flew to its warmth and character in the months following the end of her marriage to Byron. It was the place that embraced a wounded sistah needing to flee the flashing lights of the paparazzi as she tried to recover from the hurt and embarrassment from where she lived on the Upper East Side. Harlem’s warmth nurtured her. The sense of community embraced her. The success of its revitalization revived her. The beauty of the brownstones intrigued her. The history healed her.
Duke. Langston. Billie. Ella.
And now Love.
There was nothing better than sitting on the rooftop just as the sun began to rise and writing about her day in her leather-bound journal. Knowing she was in the city that nurtured art and culture, and maybe even sitting on the same roof as a famous Renaissance writer, made her feel more connected to her words and their composition.
She smiled softly as she picked up her sweating glass of peach tea from the ledge of the roof. Only the hint of summer was in the air, but she could feel it coming. And she couldn’t wait. Love had a jones for the summer season. There was a whole new life and vibrancy to Harlem during the summer months. Everything got kicked up a notch.
The entertaining on rooftops.
The summer festivals in the park.
The sounds of music of many genres mingling in the air.
Gospel brunches.
Lovers strolling down the tree-lined streets at a pace that could be considered lazy by those who just didn’t understand how to relax and enjoy the moment.
It was only May, but summer was almost home in Harlem.
She smoothed the edges of her shoulder-length hair pulled up into a loose chignon and took a deep sip of her home-brewed peach tea before she tilted her head back and allowed the rays to kiss her neck and the soft brown skin exposed in the vee of her robe. She hated to leave the sun, but other duties called for the day.
With one last soft release of air, Love turned and padded barefoot across the brick-paved rooftop to the large black metal door. “If my lover could be the summer sun,” Love said, with one last look at the sun over her shoulder before she walked through the door, and down the flight of stairs.
She loved her brownstone. It was a mix of the building’s original 1900s architecture, with moldings, a fireplace, and hardwood floors, and plenty of contemporary upgrades and modern design.
The entire building could fit inside the living room of the apartment she had shared with Byron on the Upper East Side, but this felt more like home than any of the three residences she walked away from. Everything about the warm décor with small hints of fuchsia was her. She never regretted her decision two years ago to move to the Hamilton Heights section of Harlem.
It was a different pace—one that she desperately needed.
Trying to heal her broken heart under the lights of paparazzi and bloggers had nearly broken her. She felt like she didn’t want to leave the house. She got tired of the hoopla. She got frustrated with the fame.
True, her event-planning and design company, Lovely Events, had a celebrity client list filled with athletes, musicians, and actors, but she had found the balance between promoting them and their events while staying in their shadow.
Unlike celebrity wives before her who had been done wrong, she had no comment to release, no publicist to tell her side to, no wish to grace the pages of Essence, Vibe, or Vanity Fair to sing her sad song. She had a life to rebuild and a thriving business as an event planner on which to place her focus.
Like the wedding today she had been planning.
Although she planned out every minute detail to the likes of her clients—and to ensure that her signature taste level was achieved—there still was a lot to do.
She rushed across the living room and down the short hall to her master bedroom. Her cell phone was vibrating on the center of her unmade all-white bed. She never took it or her house phone onto the roof. She considered that her time to unwind and get her thoughts clear for the day ahead or to sit under the stars and reflect on the day behind her.
Slipping out of her robe, she grabbed up her cell just long enough to answer the call and put it on speakerphone before placing it on her ebony dresser. “Hey, Tashi,” she said, reaching into the long drawer to remove undergarments. She selected a deep purple sheer bra and matching thong.
“You haven’t changed your mind about letting me slip into the wedding today?”
Love rolled her eyes and smiled as she sprayed her favorite perfume, Lovely by Sarah Jessica Parker, all over her body. “Tashi, you know I am not letting you crash these people’s wedding. You can forget about it.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Tashi sang through the line, very off-key.
“I offered to let you work for me and you turned me down,” Love said, walking across the room to her closet—the one complaint of the apartment. It was more of a step-in than a walk-in.
“Work? It’s Saturday! I did my forty hours for the man this week,” she balked.
Love just laughed as she shook her head. “Talk to you later, Tashi,” she said, grabbing a tailored black satin skirt and a top with sheer blouson sleeves.
“Gue
ss I’ll have a spa day or something . . . but you . . . uhm, you take care. I know how weddings get to you.”
Love paused in pulling the skirt up over her hips to lock eyes with her reflection in the mirror hanging on the inside of the door. Tashi was her best friend and she had been there through all the mess and stress of Byron’s betrayal. “I’m good . . . but thanks, girl,” she said, before moving over to pick up her cell. “I’ll call you later.”
She ended the call and forced herself not to think about the past as she finished getting dressed.
“Girl, you were born to fulfill dreams.”
“I’m glad we were able to bring your vision to life.” Love smiled warmly as she eyed the look of pleasure on the bride’s and groom’s faces. She always could tell if she truly hit the mark with her event planning and design by the look on a client’s face. Another satisfied customer, Love thought, as she rubbed her slender hands together in front of her.
When she moved from small-town Holtsville, South Carolina to New York to attend college, her plan was to take the city by storm. She loved her down-home raising, but she always felt that there was so much more of the world to explore out of the small-town limits. Ever since she could remember, she knew she was headed up north first chance she got. College was her way out.
And it was the best four years of her life, living on campus, studying, exploring the city, and planning small events for friends, on-campus clubs, and some of the faculty. Once she graduated, she was filled with big dreams, a huge sense of style, and a head for business. She eventually set up her own event-planning business on the side, and within a few years, her business began to grow through word of mouth and press for her uniquely planned events.
But then she met Byron at one of her charity events and everything changed. Everything. Love happened. Big time. His jet-set life and powerful friends became hers as well. Two years later they wed. Their contacts helped her expand her brand and her business. She never thought she would go from being a small-town girl just making it in NYC to being both the wife of an R & B superstar and one of the premiere event planners in New York, catering to celebrities, athletes, and the wealthy elite.
In their marriage, her career had thrived; unfortunately, her heart hadn’t fared that well.
Love pushed away any sad thoughts of love lost—or rather crushed—as she guided the couple out of the elaborately decorated ballroom to an outer room designed with subtle hints of their chocolate and ivory wedding colors, a bottle of their favorite Veuve Clicquot champagne, and light appetizers.
“Just relax and enjoy the moment as we finish up the cocktail hour and then get all of your guests seated,” Love told them, her soft voice very calming and relaxing. “We should be ready to announce you in about ten to fifteen minutes, and again, congratulations, here’s to the rest of your lives together.”
With one final reassuring smile, Love slid her slender figure out the door just as the multimillionaire football quarterback and his new bride shared a deep kiss. As soon as the door closed, her smile faded just a bit. It wasn’t that she wasn’t happy for her clients, she just wasn’t disillusioned about how long the happiness would last.
Been there. Done that.
As an event planner, it was Love’s job to plot, plan, and execute every detail for charity events, awards galas, dinner parties, and red-carpet events . . . but weddings were the worst for her since her divorce a few years back. Everyone focused on the wedding and not many gave a bootie-toot about the marriage. And with him being a high-profile athlete, the battle was going to be even tougher for them with the world’s focus on celebrity and fame.
But her job was to focus on the wedding day, not warn them about how tenuous love could be under the spotlight.
Love paused at the entrance to the ballroom and placed a hand to her chest as she took a moment to get herself together. This day—and any day she was at an event for a client—wasn’t about her. Her issues. Her problems. Her drama.
She let nothing affect her professionalism.
Love always stayed cool, calm, and totally collected.
Always.
After a quick walkthrough of the cocktail hour in the spacious library, Love quickly checked in with her staff to ensure they were following her strict instructions. She took a moment to look out the large floor-to-ceiling windows of the semicircle foyer. It was a beautiful day out, but she was glad they opted against any outdoor activities. That would’ve meant more work and more challenges for her. More planning. More—
Love did a double take, locking her wide expressive eyes on the tall and slender man climbing out of the back of a huge SUV with blacked-out windows. Her heart pounded as he turned, but she didn’t need to see his face or his two burly bodyguards to know it was her ex-husband. They began to walk up the steps together toward the front door.
“Shit,” she swore.
Flustered, she made an un-Love move and clumsily backed away from the window before she turned and fled into the guest bathroom off the foyer. She pressed the button on her wireless headset. “Faryn, uhm . . . is . . . is . . . my ex-husband on the guest list for the reception? I know he wasn’t at the wedding. Was he?” she asked, nearly slipping on a wet spot in four-inch vintage Gucci heels.
“No, Ms. Lovely. Let me check something. One sec.”
Love paced.
“It had to happen, Love,” she advised herself. “You couldn’t avoid him forever.”
Love hadn’t been alone with her ex since the day the story broke about his cheating. She stayed with Tashi until he moved out of their penthouse, and anytime after that, they were accompanied by their lawyers hammering out their divorce. He was always busy touring or in the studio, and she always made sure to steer clear of any red-carpet events, parties, or premieres that she knew he would attend.
“Shit,” she swore again, hating the unexpected. The unplanned. The sudden pothole in the road.
The press would have a week or two worth of speculations about the awkward meeting between Byron Bilton and his done-wrong ex-wife. Love hated to be in the press outside of mentions or blurbs about her events. She wanted her personal life to be . . . personal.
She turned on the gold faucets and lightly dampened a hand towel to moisten her neck and behind her ears. Now she wished Tashi was there with her. They met when Love hired her as her personal assistant just a little over three years ago. After just four short months, Tashi moved on to a less stressful job, but their friendship had lasted. Her friend was the bold one with the quick wit and snappy comebacks for days. Tashi would know what to say. What to do.
Love licked the peach-tinted lip gloss on her full heart-shaped mouth before releasing a stream of air through pursed lips. There was the slightest tinge of warmth and color around her long slender neck and high cheekbones. She used her fingertips to smooth her shaped brows and the soft edges of her jet-black hair pulled up into a loose topknot. “Okay. Alright. No biggie, Love,” she said to her reflection, smoothing her satin skirt over her hips before she turned and left the restroom.
Beep.
“Go, Faryn,” she instructed, closing the door behind her.
“Mr. Bilton was the last-minute plus one for one of the bride’s guests . . . a Sasha Kilmore.”
Love’s steps faltered as she caught sight of her ex, and a woman she presumed to be Sasha, in the corner enjoying an impassioned embrace while his bodyguards pretended not to watch.
“Yes, I see that, Faryn,” she dryly told her assistant. “Thanks.”
Everyone turned at the sound of her voice, and all of the men’s faces shaped with surprise.
Love locked eyes with her ex and then shifted them away. She took some pleasure in knowing the desire to slap the taste out of his mouth was gone. She hadn’t known if she would ever get over that. “Excuse me,” she said, polite and reserved.
Byron stepped away from his date. “Nylah, you’re the event planner?” he asked, his voice just as husky and soulful as when he sang.
>
Byron was the only person to call her Nylah. The only one. All her family and friends back in Holtsville called her Love. The tradition continued once she went to school in New York. Back then, she thought it was endearing that he called her by her given name, but now she, ironically, realized that love—her name or the emotion—was no way in his vocabulary. She had loved and trusted this man with her heart, her soul, and her body. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.
She spotted the dark-skinned beauty trying to step forward, but both the guards blocked her path. Love rolled her eyes heavenward before she turned to walk down the hall.
“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, Nylah,” Byron said from behind her.
Love paused, her back still to him.
“So I’ll leave. Okay?” he said.
Surprise and relief washed over her. She nodded. “Thank you,” she said over her shoulder, before hurrying forward, away from her past.
Chapter 2
“Summertime”—DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince
“One last shot, Maleek. Make it money.”
Maleek Trenton formed his face into the stern look of a Zulu warrior as he fixed his tall and broad muscular frame into a relaxed pose in the black towel he wore low-slung on his hips. Like it would drop to the floor in the blink of an eye and expose his semihardness to the world. He didn’t care. He was a professional athlete who worked hard on the build of his six-foot-ten-inch frame. Plus . . . his inches below the waist were nothing for any man to be ashamed of.
He maintained his sexy and aloof composure as the photographer from Total Fitness Magazine eased her camera to her face and the flashes began to lightly explode around him.
“That’s a wrap,” she said, finally lowering the camera. “Unfortunately.”