by Donna Hill
“That’s all well and good. But this is my child, too. I wasn’t raised like that. I don’t want to play the weekend father, the holiday visiting daddy.” He swallowed. “We get married. We raise our child under the same roof.”
“Jackson, I told you about the baby because you deserve to know, not because I was angling for a proposal.”
“I didn’t think you were. But that doesn’t change anything.”
She sighed softly and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Yes. It does. I don’t want to get married. Not like this. I won’t.”
Jackson’s jaw clenched. “So what I want doesn’t matter?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying, Lena?”
She stepped back. “I’m saying I’m having this baby and I’m not getting married. I would think you’d be relieved.”
“Relieved! Why the hell would I be relieved?”
“So you can go back to Zoie without a wife and baby tied to your ankles.”
His face morphed into a slab of disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me? You really worked all that out in your head and had the nerve to say it? When did I turn into that guy, Lena? Huh? When?” he shouted, totally losing his cool.
“When you knew you didn’t really love me but stayed anyway,” she said with a calmness that tossed ice water on his burning outrage.
He stared at her, trying to reconcile this new Lena with the Lena he thought he knew. The pieces would not fit together, no matter how hard he tried to rearrange them. Had he only been going through the motions with Lena? His stiff shoulders slumped. “I always cared about you. Deeply. You know that.”
“But it would never be what you felt for her. We both know that.” She sighed. “I’d convinced myself that if I gave you enough time, if I loved you enough for both of us, that you’d come around.” She paused. “I even tried to play the martyr when I walked out of here that night. But when I saw you in the restaurant with her, the way you looked at her—I knew for certain that you have never and would never look at me like that. And it’s okay,” she hurried to add. “I want you to be happy. But more important, I want to be happy. I deserve it. So,” she exhaled and smiled a forgiving smile, “the grill should be ready and I’m starved.” She placed a hand on her stomach. “Eating for two.”
* * *
“What the hell, man. You suddenly got one of those gray storm clouds hanging over your head that follows your ass around or what?” Lennox said.
Jackson almost laughed at the image, but not much was amusing these days. “Feels like it.”
“So let me get this straight. Lena is pregnant, and she doesn’t want to get married. Now where do you fit into this picture other than be ‘da baby daddy’?” He shook his head.
Jackson aimed the remote at the television and changed channels until he found the basketball game.
“She seems to have it all figured out. She’ll work for as long as she can, and her sister will stay with her for the first month. Lena plans to take three months off from work. The college has a great on-site child care, she says.” He blew out a breath. “As for me, I’m all in. Help when I can, be there for her and the baby. Take care of them financially and make sure I’m a factor in my child’s life. I can’t make her marry me.”
“Welcome to twenty-first century relationships. Guess women don’t need us for much of nothing anymore,” Lennox groused.
“Hmm.” Jackson put his feet up on the coffee table. “She was right, you know.”
“Who?”
“Lena. She was right about how I felt about her. I thought I loved her, and maybe I did, but never like Z. I figured if I hung in there long enough, there’d be that fire, ya know? But Lena and I never got passed simmer.”
“Hey, man, you know I got you. It’ll work out.”
“Thanks, man. I hope so.”
They both suddenly leapt from their seats and roared as a midair move by Kobe Bryant sent the game into overtime.
“Superman strikes again,” the announcer boomed.
Jackson fell back in his seat. Even as he watched the incredible replay, he sure wished that he had some superpower right about now.
CHAPTER 32
The talk with her mother and Rose’s revelations about her own past hurts and fears settled gently inside Zoie. They moved and shifted until they nudged and woke up her heart.
For so many years, she’d been utterly committed to her own anger and hurt feelings that she’d never taken a moment to look beyond the surface. In her career, she would move mountains to get at the truth. When it came to searching deep in her own soul and life, she barely scratched the surface.
She realized now that a part of her didn’t want to know because if she did she would open herself up to feelings other than anger, and then she would be vulnerable. She could be hurt. Keeping people and emotions at bay protected her. But, as a result, she hadn’t been truly living.
She was finally beginning to understand her grandmother’s master plan. Forcing her to stay and run the business was the least of Nana’s reasons. She knew her granddaughter, and Claudia knew that Zoie would find those journals and wouldn’t stop digging until she exposed the truth, a truth that Claudia could never tell, for her own unknown reasons. The uncovering of the past led to a long-overdue healing of the Bennett family. That truth was the real message in Nana’s will.
She and her mother still had a long way to go, but they’d begun the process and were determined to keep trying.
Zoie opened the cover of her laptop. She had her story to write. Not the one that Mark was expecting, but her version.
Her cell phone rang. She picked it up from the desk and was surprised to see it was Kimberly. She pressed the talk icon.
“Hello, Mrs. Graham.”
“Hello. I’ve thought about . . . our conversation.”
“And?”
“I need you to understand that no matter what threats you make to expose my family, no matter how I feel or what I want or believe, I can’t tell my family. It would destroy my marriage, ruin my children. My children!”
Zoie shut her eyes, heard the passionate plea in Kimberly’s voice.
“I can’t. Please . . . if you have any compassion, you won’t do this. They can’t find out this way.” She paused. “At least let me do it my way in my own time. Do you have children, Zoie?”
“No.”
“Then you can never understand that a mother will do anything—anything—to protect her children.”
Zoie thought about her great-grandmother, her grandmother, her own mother and the sacrifices they’d made, the losses they’d endured, the deals they’d made, and the secrets they’d kept, hoping for a better life for their children.
“I think I do,” she said softly. “You don’t have to worry about me or any story that would hurt you or your family. I promise you that. Good luck with whatever you decide to do, Kimberly. Maybe one day we’ll see each other again—as sisters.”
Zoie pressed the CALL END icon and slowly set the phone down. She turned to her laptop, opened her Word program to a blank page, and began to write her article on Kimberly Maitland-Graham.
She wrote nonstop for a steady three hours before she was satisfied with the piece. After a last spell-check, she hit SEND, and off it went to Mark. He would be disappointed, to put it mildly. It wasn’t the story they’d discussed. It wasn’t even close. But it was the story seen through her new eyes. A story about a young woman who built her own life and was determined to help the lives of others. At least she would be able to sleep at night.
She went to look for her mother. They had a lot more talking to do.
* * *
The ringing phone stirred her from sleep. With one eye open, she groped for the phone on the nightstand.
“Hello?” she mumbled.
“Turn on the television—not that local mess, a national channel,” Mark barked into the phone.
Zoie fumbled, bleary-eyed, locate
d the remote, and turned to MSNBC. There was a BREAKING NEWS banner running across the screen.
“It was just announced at Graham campaign headquarters that Kimberly Graham has withdrawn from the race for state senator, citing family concerns as a reason. Graham was considered a shoo-in for the nomination, and all the polls indicated that she would win by a large margin over her Democratic opponent,” the announcer said.
Zoie still held the phone as she watched in stunned silence.
“Are you hearing this?” Mark said, snapping her to attention.
“Yes. I’m watching.”
“So much for your series. Not much point now.”
“I suppose not,” she said absently.
“And what was that crap fluff piece that you sent me on Graham?”
Zoie drew her knees to her chest. “A change of heart. All that other shit isn’t as important as I thought it was.”
“I see.” He pushed out a breath. “When are you coming back to work?”
“That’s another thing, Mark. I don’t know when I’ll be coming back . . .”
* * *
Jackson finished speaking with Lou Ellen Maitland. For whatever reason, she’d decided not to pull her funding. He didn’t care what her reasons were as long as the project went through as planned. Now he didn’t have to mortgage his house, he didn’t have to leverage his relationship with Zoie, and he never had to tell her that it was her pursuit of her story that nearly cost him his business and his reputation. Now his crew could go back to their regular schedules and lives.
With that near disaster out of the way, the next thing he had to tackle was talking with Zoie and telling her the whole story about Lena and the baby and, most of all, that he was still crazy in love with her and that with her by his side, they could make it work. He was willing to do whatever it took.
* * *
Zoie peered out of the attic window, surrounded by the strong spirit of her grandmother. Below she glimpsed her mother and aunts walking arm in arm down the pathway toward the street.
Her grandmother’s method may have been unorthodox, but she achieved what she’d longed for—having her family together again.
Jackson’s car eased down the driveway. The trio waved and continued on their way. He’d said that he loved her and he needed to talk about them and their future . . . and about Lena. Whatever it was, she would deal with it because she loved him; from the bottom of her heart, she loved him, and he needed to hear that from her—finally.
She’d spent her life searching, but what she’d been looking for had been right here all along—love and family in all of its forms. There was nothing more important. She looked around the room at all the nooks and crannies, all the places that held the family secrets and its legacy.
“Thank you, Nana,” she whispered.
She went downstairs to open the door for Jackson.
A READING GROUP GUIDE
A HOUSE DIVIDED
Donna Hill
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The suggested questions are included to
enhance your group’s reading of
Donna Hill’s A House Divided.
Discussion Questions
1. Zoie Crawford is a complicated character. She comes across as strong and focused, but what would you see as her real weakness and why?
2. There have been dozens of stories about ‘passing.’ What made this story element different for you?
3. Claudia Bennett was the matriarch of the family. What are your feelings about what she did, holding onto that secret for so long?
4. Truth was the driving force behind everything that Zoie did. How did her search for truth change her in the end?
5. Family is at the center of the novel. What are some of the quirky elements or family secrets that you may have discovered in your own family?
6. What was the biggest surprise for you in the novel and why?
7. If you were in Zoie’s shoes, what would you have done if you’d found out about a sister that you didn’t know you had?
8. Why was it so hard for Zoie to connect with her mother Rose?
9. What was your favorite and least favorite element of the novel and why? What would you have liked to see but didn’t?
10. What are your thoughts on the Maitland family and their dark history?
11. Once the novel ended what do you see happening to the characters? Specifically Zoie and Kim?
12. Would you recommend this novel to a friend? If so, what would you tell them?
DON’T MISS
COLD FLASH
In Carrie H. Johnson’s explosive new series, forensic firearms specialist Muriel Mabley takes a one-way plunge that’s outside the law . . .
Enjoy the following excerpt from Cold Flash . . .
CHAPTER 1
Lord only knows the things we’ll do or how far we’ll go for the people we love.
Flailing around in the pool at the Salvation Army Kroc Center this Friday morning was my “thing” I was doing for my girl Dulcey. She has breast cancer. I committed to doing a triathlon, as in a quarter-mile swim, twelve-mile bike ride, and three-mile run. Mind you, I am scared to death of the water, have not been on a bike since childhood . . . that would be forty-plus years . . . and have not run with any speed since the police academy more than twenty years ago.
The SheRox Triathlon Series raises funds for breast cancer research. I admit the whole triathlon thing is a smoke screen for coping with the fear of losing Dulcey. Somehow my crossing the finish line will turn the nightmare into a fairy tale, with a happily-ever-after ending.
So here I am, three months into my training. It’s not like I never work out. At five foot three and 140 pounds, it is necessary to keep all my parts in check. I work out on a semi-regular basis, three or four times a week for a month or two, then I’m distracted by any good reason. Not this time. At least not for another month until after the July event.
I learned to swim five weeks ago and have since mastered a slow, steady stroke. Grab the water, push it away in an S motion with flat hands. Turn my head, suck in air, put my face in the water, blow out air. Each time I turned my head to gulp air, I saw this guy whipping the lifeguard, Pam, with his pointer finger. White guy, six feet, 250 pounds maybe. He was wearing a green, black, and silver sweat suit and a black Eagles cap pulled low on his brow. At first I thought maybe he was a disgruntled parent of an eel, pollywog, or fish—names that indicated a child’s level of swim achievement.
Children’s squeals bounced off the pool’s dome, signaling the end of adult swim time. The sounds were muffled each time I put my face back in the water. I dug deep to squeak out the last lap, which totaled sixteen, a half mile. I got to the deep end and flipped to retrace my path for the final length.
When I reached the shallow end and walked up the stairs, the guy had Pam’s arm pinned behind her back. He pressed against her body, talking into her ear, red-faced like a heavy drinker or druggie. His other hand was stuffed in his pocket, which bulged with what I suspected was a gun.
A quick check had the children on the opposite side of the pool with their instructors, making enough noise to part the waters.
Pam wriggled under his hold. Her wide eyes darted in every direction until they set on me. She watched me walk past them and sit on the bench. I dried my feet, my arms, and my head, the whole time pleading with the good Lord to move this guy along or grow me large enough to pound him.
He yanked Pam’s arm backward. Pam yelped like a hurt puppy. Damn. I approached from his blind side, aware of my inadequate clothing and dwarfed size in comparison to him.
“Is everything all right here?” I asked, my voice steady, my nerves shivering.
“Mind your damn business, lady,” the guy said, twisting Pam’s arm harder.
“You’re hurting me, Bunchy,” Pam whimpered.
“Shut up. Do what I’m telling you or I really will hurt you.”
Pam pulled away from the guy and screamed. I pushed her to th
e side and stepped in front of her.
“Easy, mister. I’m Philadelphia Police. Take your hand out of your pocket, slow.”
He pulled his hand out, holding a Beretta. I rushed in with one shoulder down and grabbed his arm. He got off a shot. Loud screaming. I knocked the gun from his hand, spun around, grabbed his wrist, spun around again and twisted his wrist, bringing him to the floor. I jammed my foot into his neck. He squirmed, trying to get loose.
“I’ll break it if you don’t keep still,” I said.
“You stupid bitch. I’ma kick your ass. I’ma kill you.” Spit sprayed from his mouth with each word.
I twisted his wrist a little harder and stepped into his neck a little deeper. “Not today,” I said.
Pam came up the stairs from the pool with the gun in hand. She walked over to us and pointed it at Bunchy.
“Put the gun down, Pam. He’s not going to hurt you or anyone else. Believe me, you do not want to kill him. He’s not worth it, Pam.”
“He’ll just come back. I tried to get the police to do something. A restraining order doesn’t do any good. He’ll just come back.”
“Not this time. This time he’ll go to jail. Put it down, Pam. Think about your little girl.”
She kept pointing it.
“Don’t shoot me, Pam. I’m sorry. I love you,” Bunchy pleaded, relaxing his pull on my hold. I dug my foot deeper into his neck.
She lowered the gun as police stormed into the dome. An officer took the gun from Pam and pulled her arms behind her back for cuffing.
“She’s good,” I said. He released her.
Three officers gathered to relieve me of my charge. “You sure you need our help with this guy?” one of the officers joked.
I stepped off Bunchy’s neck. Bunchy growled as he rose up and lunged forward headfirst, pushing me backwards. I went down.
* * *
“Welcome back.”
Fran Riley, my partner, put his hand out to stop me from trying to sit up. “You should stay put a few.” I brushed his hand away. He sighed a helpless verse and pulled me forward to a sitting position.