Dear Reader:
There are some decisions in life that a human being dreads ever having to make. On the top of that list is the decision to save one person’s life over another’s. The pain and anguish increases ten-fold when the lives are those of children. In Nina’s Got a Secret, that is exactly what the main female character must decide; which child’s life to save. In this gripping tale of love, secrets, and drama, Brian W. Smith takes readers on a thrill ride full of suspense and intrigue.
Some people get married for love. Some people get married for security. Some people get married for sheer convenience. At the end of the day, they have still made a commitment that their partner expects them to keep. But often both spouses may be hiding a secret and things are rarely as they seem. What happens when carefully laid plans and unrealistic expectations begin to unravel, when friendship turns to blackmail and jealousy, when everyone has an end game plan of their own is told within the pages of Nina’s Got a Secret. I am sure you will enjoy it.
As always, thanks for supporting the efforts of Strebor Books. We strive to bring you fresh, talented and ground-breaking authors that will help you escape reality when the daily stressors of life seem overwhelming. We appreciate the love and dedication of our readers. You can find all of our titles on the Internet at www.zanestore.com and you can find me on Eroticanoir.com (my personal site), Facebook.com/AuthorZane, or my online social network, PlanetZane.org.
Blessings,
Publisher
Strebor Books International
www.simonandschuster.com/streborbooks
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Book Club Questions
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank God for continuing to bless me the way he has—even when I fail to acknowledge his power or understand some of the things that have happened in my life. I’d like to thank my family for always supporting me. To the readers—especially the book clubs—who have supported me throughout my career, I say thank you.
Last, but certainly not least, I’d like to thank Zane for giving me the opportunity to join the Strebor team.
“To subdue the enemy’s army without fighting
is the acme of skill.”
—SUN TZU, The Art of War
PROLOGUE
SAN DIEGO, CA
JUNE 14, 2000 – 2:46 P.M.
No matter how much forewarning a person is given to prepare for the death of a family member, rarely is the allocated time enough. Sure, we try to be strong by being proactive in our preparation. We secure insurance policies and put them in a safe place where they’re accessible and easy to retrieve. Some people even take their emotional maturity to another level by writing the eulogy before the ailing person dies . . . that’s what Larry did in an effort to prepare for his wife, Deidra’s, death.
Unfortunately, Larry learned the hard way that trying to prepare for the death of a loved one is a lot like the description Mike Tyson once gave a young reporter during a crowded press conference.
The young reporter stood in the back of the room and boldly blurted out, “Mike, your opponent says he has a good plan on how to beat you.”
Mike looked at the young reporter with his trademark scowl and profoundly replied, “Everybody’s got a plan—until they get hit.”
No one ever said Iron Mike was the sharpest pencil in the box, but that was a very profound statement. It’s a statement that perfectly describes the issue of death. Mike’s comment captures what death does to us all; it punches us in the face until our eyes water and forces us to suddenly forget our so-called plans for dealing with it.
Deidra was diagnosed with inoperable brain cancer a few months after she gave birth to their daughter, Chrissy. When the hospice nurse, Maxine, visited on the day Deidra’s life expired, she didn’t have to tell Larry that Deidra had a few hours left. The normally poised Maxine seemed on edge as she checked Deidra’s pulse and adjusted the gauges on her breathing apparatus. For weeks she’d eagerly given Larry a detailed prognosis on his wife’s condition, but on this final day, she avoided looking into Larry’s eyes—a behavioral change Larry quickly picked up on.
As the nurse backed her car out of the driveway, Larry could feel his heart flutter. His mouth became dry as his nerves started to seize control of his body as he stared helplessly out of the window and watched the nurse drive away.
Larry was usually poised and in total control of his emotions, but he could feel himself starting to lose it. His body became jittery and his hands began to tremble as he searched for the intestinal fortitude he would need to control his feelings. If only there was a button he could push, or a magic potion he could drink, to help stop the emotional roller coaster that raged out of control within him.
He could hear his friends and family members in the living room. As more arrived, their murmurs grew louder. Occasional sounds of laughter were usually followed by crying sounds. They were usually followed by words of consolation.
There is an old saying:“Pressure doesn’t create character, it reveals character.” Never is this saying truer than when there is an impending death in the family.
When pressure kicks in, most of us seek refuge in the emotional bunkers we are most comfortable with. The specter of death illuminates this fact. You can bet your paycheck that whatever personality traits a person displays during calmer times will become much more pronounced when the unpleasant aspects of life show up at the door.
The family clown will do all he/she can to entertain. The family’s Bible-toting Christian will do all he/she can to be viewed as the spiritual backbone. That one sneaky money-grubbing family member will slip away into a bedroom and start rummaging through drawers and file cabinets in search of insurance policies he/she has absolutely no right to look at. Last, but not least, the family’s designated “passer outer”—the person that starts screaming and faints at everyone’s funeral—will do what “passer outers” do: pass the fuck out.
While everyone congregated in the next room, playing their roles to a tee, Larry reached and grabbed his wife’s cold hand. Deidra was hanging on for dear life, but her extremities were beginning to resemble that of a corpse. She’d lost so much weight that her face looked skeletal. Her veins were protruding from her skin like little purple tubes.
As Larry slowly slid his fingers across Deidra’s knuckles, he shared his thoughts with his wife. “Well, baby, I guess I’m gonna have to do this parenting thing on my own. You know you’re wrong for leaving me hanging like this. We always said that we would grow old together, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to work out the way we planned.
“Can you believe that the baby we struggled to conceive is about to turn a year old? I can tell that she’s going to be just like you when she gets older. I’m going to make sure there are always reminders of you around so that she will never forget your beautiful face.
“Sweetheart, I know you’re tired. I know you’ve been trying to hang in there and be strong for Chrissy and me, but I want you to know that it’s okay. I’m going to take care of our baby. I will protect her with my life if I have to.
“I want you to go ahead and sleep. Get your rest. Just know that Chrissy and I are going to be okay. Know that we love you with all of our hearts, and that we will never forget you, baby. We love you—I love you.”
The tears Larry had been struggling to hold back finally escaped his eyes and cascaded down his cheeks. He’d been the picture of strength since Deidra was initially diagnosed, but all dams—whether they are physical or emotion
al—are subject to collapse.
Larry’s first emotional meltdown came swiftly and with the ferociousness of the floodwaters that spilled over the levees in New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina. He felt helpless each day as he watched Deidra’s corneas take on a different hue and the whites of her eyeballs become less visible because of her sagging eyelids. His inability to change her destiny caused him to revisit an old childhood habit of biting his fingernails. When Larry was a kid, he often nibbled on his fingernails and fingertips when he was nervous. He hadn’t engaged in the nasty habit in nearly twenty years, but his grief caused him to rely on any coping mechanism he could think of. With each passing day, his habit became worse. By the time Maxine departed for the last time, the tips of Larry’s index fingers and the cuticles around his thumbs looked like they’d been gnawed on by parasites.
Signs of the erosion of Larry’s emotional state were obvious in other ways. He’d been so consumed with Deidra’s care that his own hygiene was suffering, an odd occurrence for a man who normally took great pride in his appearance. Realizing that his body odor and the smell of Deidra’s body fluids had combined to create a stench in the room, Larry decided that washing up right there on the spot was better than spending even one second away from Deidra’s side. He poured the remains from a water bottle on a towel and scrubbed his underarms nonstop for more than ten minutes, pausing long enough to allow the burning sensation produced by the friction to subside. He followed up this odd way of bathing by dowsing his underarms with powder.
Comfortable with the fresh smell emanating from his armpits, he reached back and locked the door to his bedroom as he finally let the tears he’d been holding back flow. His older sister, Barbara, the family Bible toter, knocked hard and pleaded for him to let her in, but he ignored her and buried his head into Deidra’s covers.
Larry allowed himself to have one of those deep, heartfelt cries. It was the kind of cry that originated in the lower diaphragm and gushed out like oil from a rig. These moments may happen once or twice in a man’s life, and when they happen, the only worthwhile and effective consolation is solitude.
Interestingly enough, the sound of his emotions and Barbara’s banging on the door didn’t stop Larry from noticing the absence of the most important sound in the room. The sound was so subtle that most people would have missed it, but its absence was enough to make Larry stop crying. It was a sound Larry had grown accustomed to hearing during the three weeks that Deidra lay in the house receiving medical care from Maxine.
An oxygen tank sat a few feet away from Deidra’s bed. A thin tube ran from the top of the tank and into Deidra’s nostrils. It was her lifeline. As the days passed, it became increasingly difficult for Deidra to breathe. Every few seconds, she could be heard taking a breath as she struggled to garner as much oxygen as her fluid-filled lungs could handle. It sounded like someone with the permanent sniffles.
While sitting next to Deidra’s bed during the course of the three weeks, Larry actually started anticipating the sniffs. He monitored the sniffs so closely that he could tell when Deidra’s time was running out because the sniffs starting coming quicker. The shorter time between sniffs was an indication of how difficult it had become for her to breathe.
While he sat slouched in the chair next to her bed sobbing uncontrollably, Larry attempted to dry his eyes once he noticed that the sniffs he’d grown to anticipate suddenly stopped. There was no sound. The room grew cold. His wife’s vein-covered, frigid hand was now lifeless. Deidra was gone. Larry was now a widower.
Two Thousand Miles Away On That Same Day . . .
NEW ORLEANS, LA
JUNE 14, 2000 – 10:12 P.M.
Nina sat on the battered hardwood floor of her mouse-infested, one-bedroom “shotgun” house and clipped coupons. She looked like a little Native American girl as she sat with her legs crossed and her wavy black hair pulled back into one long braid.
Nina took great pride in her coupon collection. She could be a perfectionist at times, and it showed in the way she carefully cut along the dotted lines of the coupons she chose. Afterward, she would painstakingly separate the old from the new, the cereals from the drinks, and the 20% off coupons from the 10% off coupons. NASA scientists didn’t display this type of attention to detail.
Although she focused hard on her task, she kept a watchful eye on her ten-month-old daughter, Precious, who lay sleeping on a blanket a few feet away. The child had just dozed off, so Nina was careful not to make any sudden moves that would startle her light-sleeping and overly-observant infant.
The beat-up 20-inch television was positioned a few feet in front of her on a rickety, particle-board stand. Nina was able to ignore the distorted picture because the television’s primary purpose was to serve as a source of light for the room. Nina had learned to not rely on the television for entertainment because the picture was extremely snowy and the remote control was missing buttons, making it impossible to change the channels.
With the television permanently set on Channel 4, Nina focused on her coupons and occasionally glanced at the local news. She didn’t pay much attention to the news report until she heard the reporter announce, “Two African-American males found shot to death in a drive-by shooting that appeared to be drug-related.”
Nina allowed the old rusty scissors she was using to rest for a moment as she squinted to try to see the reporter on the ashy screen. She inched closer to the screen to get a better view of the live broadcast. Suddenly, the ash on the screen gave way just long enough for her to notice that the bullet-riddled car in the background behind the news reporter looked a lot like the car Flip, her child’s father, drove.
As angst started to invade her senses, Nina applied the universal hood technical support strategy to the television to fix the picture. She smacked the television a few times on the side and shook it until the picture started to show better. Much to her chagrin, the clearer the picture became, the deeper she would plummet in the porthole to a pain she would never shake.
Nina placed her hands over her mouth and stumbled backward as the reporter announced the name of the victims. “Bystanders identified one of the victims as twenty-one-year-old Donald ‘Flip’ LeBlanc.”
The coupons that Nina had carefully stacked in three separate piles were stepped on and now scattered all over the floor as Nina wandered aimlessly in the tiny room. Her need for physical support prompted Nina to immediately pick Precious up and squeeze her tightly. She hugged the child until she awakened. Unaware that her father had just been murdered, Precious did what any startled baby would do after being awakened from a sound sleep: she started crying.
Nina stood there holding her child in the middle of the room and cried along with the baby. It was as if time stood still. They were all alone. Their bond as mother and daughter instantly magnified.
Before she could put Precious into the crib and turn the volume up on the television, Nina’s phone started to ring excessively. Nina didn’t bother to answer. The angst that invaded her body when she first saw the car on television had mutated into an emotional pain that was so heavy and hurtful it made her knees buckle.
Once Nina collapsed and fell to the floor, answering the phone was no longer an option. At that point, Nina didn’t care. She knew that it would be her so-called friends notifying her of what she already knew: the love of her life was dead.
CHAPTER ONE
MAY 14, 2008
Despite all of the hoopla surrounding a wedding day, more often than not, the people jumping the broom usually have less fun than the curious guests attending the ceremony. When it’s your wedding day, glee and unbridled joy is often replaced with tension. The type of smile that’s customary for such a festive occasion is stored away until after the ceremony. Even the poise needed to embrace last-minute snafus and unexpected occurrences is usually lost and nowhere to be found.
The church where Larry and Nina gathered for their nuptials was impressive. The Mercedes limousine that was parked outside waitin
g to whisk the new couple away was equally impressive. There was no shortage of guests there to see this odd union. But, all of the pomp and circumstance in the world can’t hide a lack of sincerity from the primary participants. A fact Larry would be forced to come face-to-face with.
The thing that made the union between Larry Dennison and Nina Arceneaux so unique was that the roles were totally and unmistakably reversed. Traditionally, it’s the woman who is irritable and difficult to get along with on the day of the wedding. It’s the woman who is more concerned about the decorations and whether the minister is on time. It’s the woman who is wasting time badgering the wedding coordinator about the seating arrangements when she should be getting her hair primped. Stereotypical roles weren’t to be in this union.
“Larry, you need to calm down, my brotha,” said Terry, Larry’s best man.
“Man, I just want everything to be right. Do you have the ring?”
“For the fifth time, yes, I have the ring!”
“Okay. I just want this to be perfect. I really want this to be a special day for Nina.”
“Dog, just relax. I’ve already had the wedding coordinator double and triple check everything. All you need to do is get ready to grab your nuts, kiss your days as a bachelor goodbye, and marry that woman.”
Larry stared in the mirror and looked at his tuxedo once again. Sweat beads started to form as he struggled to pluck a pesky piece of lint off of his shoulder.
“Dog, are you absolutely sure you wanna do this?” Terry asked.
“Yep, so don’t ask me that again.”
“All right, my brotha,” Terry said, as he stood behind the nervous groom and put his hands on his shoulders. “I just wanna make sure you got your head on straight. My instincts are tellin’ me that this may not be a good move.”
“Trust me, dog, my head is on as straight as it’s ever been,” Larry replied, opting to look at Terry through the mirror rather than turn around. “Nina and I are meant to be together. We are in love with each other. We get along great, and I love her daughter like she was my own. She supports me and my career; and the fact that she is finer than Beyoncé doesn’t hurt.
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