by Shelly Ellis
“I guess we can begin now,” Yolanda announced.
Of course, when she said that they could begin, she wasn’t referring to just brunch itself. She was referring to that day’s “agenda.” After their plates were filled and their coffee cups and juice glasses were full, Yolanda signified that their meeting had commenced by tapping her teaspoon on the edge of her porcelain teacup. The loud clinking made everyone in the room fall silent.
Lauren stared down at her plate. This was the reason why she was always late to Saturday brunch. This was the part of the tradition that she loathed the most. It wasn’t because she disliked her mother or her sisters—though they could be overbearing as all hell sometimes. It was because she couldn’t stand to sit through this! These meetings always made her feel like she was a member of a crime syndicate.
Yolanda interlocked her fingers and grinned. “So, who would like to go first?” She scanned her eyes around the table.
“I will,” Cynthia said, raising her slender hand. She waved her French manicured nails and proudly tossed her sun-kissed locks over her shoulder. She batted her hazel eyes and smiled. “I’ve made some progress with Henry Perkins, the director over at Landview Bank.”
Yolanda leaned forward, now interested. “Really? Is this the one that was playing hard to get?”
“Oh, he was in the beginning, but not anymore. I had to show him a little somethin’—some leg and a little boob—but I think it did the trick.”
Lauren rolled her eyes while Dawn frowned, causing a wrinkle to appear on her delicate ebony brow. “And how do you figure that?”
Unlike Cynthia, who looked similar to the actress Vanessa Williams in her younger years, Dawn looked more like the bust of Nefertiti carved out of black onyx.
Cynthia gave her sister the side eye and sucked her teeth. “Because he invited me to dinner Friday.”
“A business dinner or a real dinner?” Yolanda asked.
“It’s a business dinner, but he wants to go out for drinks alone afterward.”
“Good. Very good! But you know the rules, Cindy.” Yolanda pointed across the table at her eldest daughter. “Don’t get too arrogant, baby, and don’t take that he’s attracted to you for granted. Just because a man is responding to you doesn’t mean you hold the reins yet. Remember that, ladies.” She slowly looked around the table again. “There could be a girlfriend you don’t know about on the sidelines. He could think you’re a woman who’s there for a good time and he can just use you and move on to the next one. But if you’re careful and you’re smart, he won’t know what hit him.” Yolanda smiled as she raised her teacup to her lips. She blew the hot liquid inside to cool it down. “I’m telling you. If you play your cards right, he could be your next husband, Cindy. Give it a few years and get a divorce, and you could have a nice alimony nest egg. A bank director brings home more than just pocket change.”
All the daughters, with the exception of Lauren, nodded in agreement.
Like Cynthia needs another ex-husband, Lauren thought. Between all the women at the table, they had more than a half-dozen ex-husbands combined. Of the sisters, only Lauren had yet to take the one-way ticket down the aisle straight to divorce court.
“And what about you, Steph?” Yolanda asked, turning her attention to her other daughter.
Like Lauren, Stephanie was a shade somewhere between Cynthia and Dawn, but unlike Lauren, she wore her hair long and flowing down her back. She was also taller than her petite younger sister.
“Whatever happened to that lawyer you met at that party in Arlington?” their mother persisted. “Any progress?”
Lauren ignored the rest of the conversation, focusing on her breakfast instead.
This was every Saturday brunch at the Gibbons home: a group of women plotting—over French toast, sausage, and eggs Benedict—how to chase men and take their money.
It was a family tradition that began with Althea. The family matriarch had grown up in a crowded sharecropper shack in North Carolina but through cunning and beauty managed to successfully snare three wealthy husbands and die a very rich woman. She passed on her skills to her only daughter, Yolanda, who then passed it on to her daughters. In turn, Cynthia, Dawn, Stephanie, and Lauren were expected to pass it on to their kin. (Clarissa’s invite to their Saturday brunch was definitely a sign that her own “classes” had begun.)
For the Gibbons girls, men were just a means to an end. They bought you houses. They bought you cars. They gave you children and they gave you money. But that was about it. The only thing that mattered was your family and that meant your sisters, your mother, and your children.
Lauren had never met her father, nor had any of her sisters met theirs. But their mother said it wasn’t necessary to meet them.
“As long as he takes care of his financial obligations to you, what difference does it make whether you see him?” Yolanda would ask when the girls were younger and they openly wondered why they had not received so much as a birthday card or telephone call from any of their dads. “We’re important,” Yolanda would insist. “Not a man who knows absolutely nothing about you.”
The belief that men were just a means to an end had been so deeply ingrained in all of them that even Lauren had fallen under its spell . . . for a while. She had started off on the same path as her sisters. Back then, she had used men and their money with only fleeting misgivings about what she was doing. She probably would be married and divorced by now and have moved on to the next man if it wasn’t for James Sayers. She wasn’t sure if it was her good fortune or bad luck to have ended up with the likes of him.
Chapter 3
James was twenty-two years Lauren’s senior. He was one of the most powerful men in town and had an air about him that drew respect and sometimes awe from those around him. He had his own law firm whose clients included Fortune 500 companies with offices in Dulles and other parts of the technology corridor in northern Virginia. He had a sprawling estate that was bigger than the Gibbons manor, a brownstone in New York, a condo in DC, and a summer home in St. Bart’s. He owned six cars that included a Ferrari and Bentley, and a yacht that he kept docked along the Chesapeake Bay. It seemed that there wasn’t anything that James wanted that he couldn’t buy or hadn’t bought already.
When Lauren met him, he had let her know instantly that he was attracted to her, and something about him seemed so much unlike the other men she had dated. He was not only romantic but protective. She didn’t have to pretend with James. He understood her and their arrangement instantly. He let her know that he wanted to take care of her and give her money and shelter. All she had to do was be the beautiful young woman on his arm, cook his food, and warm his bed at night. Lauren agreed to those terms and moved into his home.
It had seemed like a good arrangement . . . in the beginning. Lauren was happy to play the trophy girlfriend, and he seemed happy to be her sugar daddy. But after less than a year, things started to change.
Lauren began to notice it first in the little patronizing jokes James made about her. He began to call some of the dresses she wore “slutty” and tell her whenever she talked to his friends and business associates that she should keep her thoughts to herself. He ridiculed her for enrolling in culinary school. He said her talent was in looking beautiful and nothing else.
“Don’t stretch yourself, honey,” he would say before patting her lightly on the behind.
Later she often wondered if, in some ways, he had been jealous of her desire to become a chef. After all, how could she focus completely on catering to him if she pursued dreams of her own?
His protectiveness slowly took on a darker tone and Lauren began to wonder if James wanted to protect her—or control her. He started to text her constantly. When she arrived home, he wanted a rundown of what she’d done that day and whom she’d spoken to. She found out that he was monitoring her cell phone calls through their monthly phone bills. She started to hide her purse after she discovered him digging through it one day after she left
it sitting on her vanity. By the end of the second year, Lauren had had enough. But by then, it was too late. The verbal abuse became physical.
The night he beat her, she bolted. She ran barefoot in her silk nightgown out the bedroom, down the hallway, and down the winding staircase of the East Wing. She found the hiding place for her purse, grabbed her car keys, and ran into the frigid November night.
It was seven months later, yet she could still remember that night perfectly: how the light flakes of snow fell around her while she puffed gusts of air with each panicked breath she took, and how the freezing gravel driveway dug needles of pain into the soles of her bare feet as she ran from his house. She didn’t stop to go back inside and get a pair of shoes or a coat. She felt like she couldn’t stop until she got far away from there.
Lauren had pulled off in her car just as James swung open the front door. He had bellowed after her while her tires screeched and sent gravel flying. She glanced over her shoulder to find him running after the car like a madman. She drove at nearly sixty miles per hour to the opened front gate.
As Lauren drove away, she had sobbed, both angry and hurt that James had done that to her. She cried even harder when she realized that she had really done it to herself. She had let him abuse and manipulate her for two years in exchange for what? Money? Expensive cars? Trendy clothes?
“But I didn’t know any better,” she had quietly lamented, feeling sorry for herself.
She had been taught to play this game and now it had come back to bite her in the ass.
“But now you do know better,” a new part of her replied. “And you will never let this happen to you again.”
Lauren’s tears began to fade with the emergence of her new resolve. She would change herself. She would change her life. She wouldn’t hunt men anymore for their money. She wasn’t going to depend on anyone but herself for a sense of security.
As the snow continued to fall, Lauren felt lighter. She had finally shaken off the shackles of her old life. She was finally free.
“Lauren,” her mother said after they made their way around the table and all the other sisters had shared stories of their recent conquests. “What about you, honey?”
Lauren shoved her scrambled eggs around her plate with her fork. “I don’t have anything to share.”
Her mother gave a heavy sigh, removing her dinner napkin from her lap. She placed it on the vintage chenille tablecloth. “It’s been seven months now, baby. I think it’s been long enough for you to get back out there again.”
“I told you that this wasn’t temporary, Mama. I’m done. OK, I’m done! I’m not doing it anymore!”
“Oh, Laurie, Laurie, Laurie. Don’t let that man do this to you, honey! He’s already moved on. I heard he’s dating some twenty-year-old paralegal. Don’t let him make you give up like this. You made a mistake! All right? It’s that simple. What do I always tell you girls? Don’t give a man too much power! It’s one of the oldest rules in the family book . . . and you broke it. You handed over the reins to him and before you knew it, the buggy lost control. But we all learn from our mistakes,” Yolanda said, looking around the table. “Don’t we, ladies?”
Cynthia, Dawn, and Stephanie quickly nodded in agreement.
Cynthia turned and nudged Clarissa, who had been gazing listlessly at her plate. The young girl looked up surprised and nodded distractedly.
She shouldn’t be here, Lauren thought as she gazed at Clarissa’s innocent face. She shouldn’t hear this nonsense!
Yolanda smiled as she held up the newspaper that had been neatly folded near her plate. “I have a tip to help you along, Laurie, and it’s a good one. He’s a man I think would be perfect for you.” She shook the newspaper open. “Are you sure you aren’t interested?”
“I said ‘no.’ ”
“Oh, hell!” Cynthia exclaimed. “If she isn’t interested in him, than I am! Who is he, Mama?”
Dawn sucked her teeth. “What do you mean ‘who is he’? I thought you said you were working on the bigwig over at Landview Bank!”
“Honey, I’m a multitasker!”
“Multitasker? Please! I swear you think you should get first dibs on everything.”
“I’m the oldest! Why shouldn’t I?”
It quickly devolved into bickering, with Cynthia and Dawn going at one another’s throats. Their mother calmly raised her teaspoon and tapped it on the edge of her teacup again. At the sound of the clinking, all the sisters stopped arguing.
“No one gets first dibs on this one,” their mother said firmly. “He was reserved for Lauren and she turned him down, so now it’s whichever one of you makes headway with him first.”
“Well, who is he, Mama?” Cynthia repeated impatiently.
All the sisters, with the exception of Lauren, listened eagerly.
“He’s a football star,” Yolanda said as she stared down at a newspaper article and sipped her tea. “Well, I guess ex-football star. He’s newly retired. His name is Cris Weaver. The first name has a funny spelling for some reason. C-R-I-S not C-H-R-I-S.”
“From where do I know that name?” Dawn paused. “Mama, did he play for the Dallas Cowboys?”
Yolanda nodded. “He did, but he retired last year. He’s the one that bought the old Holston place. He’s been renovating it for a while now.” She tapped at a paragraph in the article. “It says here that in addition to being a football player, Cris made several good investments in dot.com start-ups and a music label. He was listed last year on Forbes’s Most Powerful Celebrities list. Between money from his old sponsorships, his stock portfolio, and investments, he’s estimated to be worth more than forty million dollars.”
Their eyes widened collectively.
Stephanie let out a long, low whistle. “Damn, that beats James Sayers by a good twenty mil,” she muttered.
Lauren’s eyes instantly shot up from her plate at the mention of James’s name. She glared at her sister.
Stephanie demured as she nibbled at a piece of toast. “I’m sorry, Laurie. I know James is an asshole, but it’s true!” she whispered.
Lauren watched as her mother looked down at the photograph of Cris Weaver.
“Getting this one would mean you definitely hit the jackpot, girls,” Yolanda said.
With mild interest, Lauren glanced at his picture. When she saw it, she gaped.
It couldn’t be!
It was the same guy from yesterday, the one who had come into the kitchen to compliment her on the food!
“But it’ll be a challenge,” Yolanda continued, oblivious to Lauren’s amazement. “My sources tell me that he officially moved into town about a week ago, but I heard he’s elusive. He’s rarely at his home and no one has seen him in any of the shops on Main Street. Good luck tracking him down.”
“I’ve se—”
Lauren stopped herself.
Everyone at the table turned to look at her, but she quickly clamped her mouth shut.
Her mother stared at her expectantly. “You what, honey?”
Lauren was going to say that she had seen him at her restaurant only yesterday—in fact, she had even spoken to him—but something held her back from sharing her news. Lauren was sure that it wasn’t possessiveness.
No, Lauren told herself. She couldn’t covet a man she barely knew. Just because he made her heart pound like she was hopped-up on caffeine when she looked at him, and she had been thinking about him off and on since yesterday, didn’t mean that she wanted to keep him to herself.
I said I wasn’t interested in him and I meant it. I’m not interested in any man right now. I’m just . . . I’m just trying to protect him.
When her sisters got their hooks in a man, they could be brutal—especially Cynthia. He seemed like a nice guy. He didn’t deserve to be chewed up and spit out.
“I was . . . I was just going to say that”—she tried her best to think up a quick lie—“that I have no doubt one of you will probably track him down. You’ve got noses like bloodhound
s when it comes to sniffing out a rich man.”
“Just because you lost the fight in you,” Cynthia muttered, “doesn’t mean you can make fun of the rest of us. You gave up, but that doesn’t mean all of us have to.”
“Cynthia! Apologize to your sister for saying that!”
Lauren stood from the table. “Don’t worry, Mama. I’ll just take that as my cue to leave.”
“Oh, sweetheart, don’t rush off. Cynthia didn’t mean that. Tell her you didn’t mean it, Cynthia!”
“I’m not rushing off. I said when I arrived that I couldn’t stay long. I have to get to the restaurant.” She leaned down and kissed her mother’s cheek. “I guess I’ll see you again next weekend.”
She turned, pushed her chair back to the table, and rushed out before her mother had the chance to ask again for her to stay.
Chapter 4
Stephanie Gibbons pulled to a stop in front of the scrolled wrought-iron gate, pressed the button to lower the driver’s-side window of her silver BMW, and smiled at the stocky, uniformed guard who had been sitting on his stool at the gatepost. He had been idly flipping through a car magazine when she pulled up. He slowly raised his eyes from the tricked-out Land Rover on the page spread, saw Stephanie, and instantly perked up. His plump face brightened into a grin.
“Good afternoon,” she said, pushing back her sunglasses to the crown of her head. “I’m Stephanie Gibbons. I’m here for the Baylor event.”
“Uh, yeah . . . umm . . .” He fumbled as he rose from his stool, dropping his magazine to the glass booth’s floor. “Umm . . . let me just . . . just check that here.”
She watched as he reached for a clipboard on his small, cluttered desk. He quickly flipped its pages and scanned the names on the list. “You said Stephanie Gibbons?”
She nodded.
“Yeah, I got you right here.” He tapped one of the pages with a ballpoint pen. “Go right ahead.”
“Thanks.”
A natural flirt, Stephanie gave him a saucy wink. She lowered her sunglasses back to her nose and pulled off as the gate slid open.