by Shelly Ellis
“Well, that’s when your ex-boyfriend upped the ante. He said he could make it worth my while if I would just forget your resume, pretend like I never saw it. I let him show me the check. It was for fifteen thousand dollars. He went through the whole production of sliding it across the table. He thought he had got me then, but I shoved the check back at him and said I’m my own man. I have my own money. Nobody buys me and nobody sure as hell tells me what to do. And I didn’t like how eager he was about the whole thing. I felt like if I took the check, I would be making a deal with the devil.”
“He’s not the devil,” Lauren mumbled as they passed another Main Street storefront, “but he’s probably as close as you can get to it here on Earth.”
“Well, I’m glad he pissed me off enough to hire you. I didn’t do it just to spite him,” Phillip quickly added, “but he certainly made me want to give you a chance. I hate smug sons of bitches like him.”
“Thank you for being strong enough to stand up to him, Phillip.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, chérie.” He waved his hand again. “I hope your new man is a lot better than the last one, though.”
“He’s light years ahead of James, Phillip. There’s no comparison between the two.”
“Glad to hear it.” He let his cigarette hang out the side of his mouth. “Because I don’t need another man comin’ along tryin’ to bribe me. I wouldn’t bother with pleasantries this time. I’d just kick him out on his ass.”
She laughed.
They continued to walk down Main Street, both falling into a silent reverie as a cool breeze briefly abated the sweltering heat, allowing them to appreciate their surroundings.
Lauren had walked this street so many times in the past thirty years that she could close her eyes and still see it: the two-story brick fronts, the perfectly trimmed bushes, the oversized ceramic flowerpots filled with pansies and marigolds by the glass front doors, and the old-fashioned streetlamps. Feldman’s Ice Cream Shop was still at the intersection of Main Street and Poplar Avenue with the “Flavor of the Day” advertised on the washable board in front. Across the street was Mimi’s Coffee Shop and next door was Exquisite Florist. A block down was a bridal shop with the same three wigless mannequins in the windows. Only the bridal dress fashions varied from year to year.
Lauren’s eyes drifted to an antique store that had opened a few years ago. Old furniture wasn’t really her thing, so she had never been inside the establishment, but it was nice to see something new on Main Street. She glanced at the window and then suddenly did a double take. She stopped and stared. Her eyes scanned the cherrywood Queen Anne secretary writing desk and chair in the center of the window display of wares and furniture. She thought she recognized the set. It looked eerily similar to a desk and chair set that her mother owned. It was almost uncanny. She wanted to take a closer look.
“Phillip, I’m going to take a little detour,” she mumbled distractedly, making him frown.
“Everything all right?”
“Oh, everything’s fine. I just want to check out something.” She finally tore her gaze away from the window. “I’ll catch you later, OK?”
“All right, chérie.”
She waited for a car to go through the intersection before crossing the street. As she drew closer to the store window, she realized it wasn’t her imagination. The writing desk and chair were definitely her mother’s. She could tell for sure by the pattern on the upholstered seat, the gold stitched roses and the red and navy blue stripes. But why would her mother’s furniture be in a store window? Her eyes then shifted to an English grandfather clock at the other end of the window display. It also looked familiar: the mahogany case, the brass arch dial, and the rolling moon phases. She wasn’t as sure about it, but it could be her mother’s clock.
Lauren opened the antique store’s front door. A bell rang overhead as she entered. She hesitated, frozen on the green WELCOME mat. The shop was dark and slightly dusty with a mothball and wood varnish smell that she always associated with old things. There was a heavy oak desk and an old-fashioned wooden cash register toward the front of the store, but no salesperson stood behind the desk. In fact, no one else seemed to be in the store but her.
“Hello,” Lauren called out, her voice echoing in the silent room. “Hello?”
She stood awkwardly at the entrance, unsure whether to tap the brass bell by the cash register or turn and leave. Suddenly, an older white man with tufts of thinning white hair and thick glasses emerged from a room toward the back. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and saggy brown corduroys held up by red suspenders. He came shuffling in with a stack of antique books with cracked bindings in his hands. Lauren stepped forward. She loudly cleared her throat.
“Umm, excuse me.”
He almost dropped his books as he turned to her in surprise. He pushed his sagging spectacles up the tip of his nose and gave an awkward smile.
“Sorry, miss. I didn’t know you were standing there.” He placed the books on the oak desk. “How can I help you?”
“Well, I . . . I noticed the writing desk and chair in your window. I was trying to find out more about them?”
His smile widened. He walked toward her. “Are you a collector?”
“No, not really, but . . . my . . . my mother sort of is.”
“Well, they are a wonderfully well-preserved writing desk and chair from the early 1900s,” he explained, shuffling toward the window. He pointed at the chair. “The upholstery on the seat isn’t original, though. That was added several decades later.”
“Who sold it to you?”
His smile faded. He stiffened visibly and squinted at her uneasily from behind the lenses of his glasses. “Why do you want to know that?”
“Just curious. Like I said, my mother’s a collector. She, uh, she likes the story behind the pieces as much as she likes buying the pieces themselves.”
Lauren could tell she gave the right answer. The old man instantly relaxed his rigid shoulders. His awkward smile returned. “Well, unfortunately, there isn’t much of a story behind this one. A woman sold them to me a few weeks ago, but she didn’t have many details. She was quite lovely, but . . . she didn’t seem to be one for conversation. She didn’t seem very interested in haggling, either.” He glanced back at the desk. “She said she was eager to get them off her hands, along with the grandfather clock in the window and the lovely French medallion-back sofa over there.”
Lauren followed the gnarled finger that he pointed across the room. She instantly recognized the sofa in the shop’s corner with its lush red velvet upholstery. The last time she saw it, it was sitting in her mother’s living room.
“I just couldn’t resist her offer.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Do you think your mother would be interested in any of those pieces?”
Why had her mother sold the furniture? Her mother loved those pieces. She coveted them more than she would a Cartier watch or a diamond necklace. All her antiques were treasured finds for her, one of a kinds.
It doesn’t make any sense!
“If none of these fit your fancy,” he said, mistaking Lauren’s shake of the head for a no, “the woman said she’ll bring me more pieces next week.”
Lauren gazed at him in surprise. “What did you say?”
“If you come here next Tuesday, I can show the other pieces to you and your mother. Bring her along. I could give her a good deal.”
Lauren nodded blankly, still stunned. She turned and walked toward the shop door.
Chapter 22
Lauren had told Phillip she was going to take a slight detour, but she had no idea how much of a detour it would be. She pulled to a stop in front of her mother’s home, her delicate features now marred by a deep frown. She opened her car door and walked up the stone pathway, for the first time noticing that the landscaping along the front of the house looked a little shoddier than usual. Some of the bushes were badly in need of a trim. The dahlias had started to wilt and should ha
ve been pruned days ago. Crabgrass and dandelions were starting to peek between blades of grass on the once-perfect lawn.
Lauren rang the doorbell and waited patiently for one of her mother’s many maids to answer. When she did not see a silhouette darken the windowpane along the front door, she rang again. Several seconds later, the door finally opened. Lauren gawked in surprise when she saw her mother standing in the doorway. Her mother never answered her own door.
What the hell is this about?
Though Yolanda Gibbons looked as flawless as usual, her glamorous clothes, hair, and makeup could not mask the fact that she looked resigned and weary.
“Mama?” Lauren asked, the confusion apparent in her voice. “Where’s . . . where’s Esmerelda?”
“She doesn’t work for me anymore,” Yolanda said quietly, stepping back from the door, ushering Lauren inside with an unfussy wave of the hand.
“Doesn’t work for you?” She stepped into the entryway.
“Yes,” Yolanda said casually, adjusting the cuffs of her blouse. “I had to let her go.”
“Why? What happened?”
“I didn’t know you had such an attachment to my employees, Laurie.” She turned and started to walk down the hallway. “I could give you her home address if you’d like to send her flowers.”
Lauren rolled her eyes at her mother’s sarcasm. “Mama, what’s going on?” She trailed behind her. She glanced into the open doorways as they walked down the corridor and saw that each room was glaringly empty. In fact, the whole mansion felt vacant. Their voices seemed to echo in the darkened rooms. “Where is everybody? You didn’t just let go of Esmerelda. You got rid of all the other maids, too, didn’t you?”
Her mother didn’t answer her but instead continued with unhurried strides into the sitting room.
“And I went to the antique shop on Main Street today,” Lauren continued, raising her voice so that Yolanda could no longer ignore her. “I saw your writing desk, grandfather clock, and sofa in there. The store owner said you promised him you would bring even more pieces next week. Is something wrong, Mama? Are . . . are you in some kind of trouble?”
Lauren watched as her mother slowly lowered herself onto her settee. “Nothing’s wrong. I just needed to tighten my budget, that’s all.”
“I wouldn’t call letting go of all the help and hocking your stuff at an antique store ‘tightening your budget’!”
Yolanda’s lips tightened. “Lauren, I shouldn’t have to remind you, but I am a grown woman. I’m your mother. The last time I checked, I didn’t have to explain myself to you or anyone else. Am I wrong?”
“Mama, I’m only trying to help! If you don’t tell me what’s—”
“And how exactly could you help me?” Yolanda shouted as she sprung from the settee, again catching Lauren by surprise. She raised her eyebrows mockingly. “Can you pay my mortgage, Laurie? Can you pay off my debts? You’re in the same position I’m in, honey. You don’t have anything! The only money you had was the money that James gave you and that’s all gone! Maybe that’s why he’s come to me to collect. He can’t get the money from you, so he thinks he can hold it over my head.” Yolanda shook her head ruefully. “But the joke’s on him. I don’t have any more money to give!”
Lauren stilled. “James came to you asking for money?”
“Oh yes, and he was ever so helpful in providing me a final tally on paper of how much I owe.” She sighed. “He threatened legal action if I don’t pay him back according to his terms. He wanted to draw up a repayment contract. I told him to give me time to think about it.”
Lauren lowered her eyes and stared at the Persian rug beneath her feet. Every time she thought she couldn’t hate James any more than she did, he did something that made her hatred for him ten times worse.
“I’m really sorry about that, Mama. I’m sorry that he would—”
“Don’t apologize. As far as I’m concerned, James Sayers can get in line.”
“Maybe . . .” Lauren swallowed. “Maybe Cynthia can help you with money, Mama, or . . . or Dawn can.”
“They can’t help.” Her mother turned away from Lauren, crossing her arms over her chest. “They don’t have enough.”
“But why not at least ask?” Lauren suddenly remembered something. “What . . . what about the money Grandmother Althea left behind? Why can’t you use that?”
“The money she left behind?” Yolanda gave a cynical laugh. She turned back around to face Lauren. “Oh, Laurie, whatever money your grandmother left was gone by the time her creditors got their grubby hands on it. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but my dear mama, rest her soul, liked to spend money more than she liked to invest or save it. And I guess I’m more like my mama than I thought.”
“So am I,” Lauren muttered quietly.
So Lauren and her mother were both broke and in debt. How was that possible? Her mother had been married five times and had received at least a million dollars in divorce settlements. She had gotten money and gifts from her boyfriends for decades. Yet now she was selling off her furniture piece by piece to raise badly needed funds. Now she was alone in a seventeen-room mansion after firing her waitstaff and groundskeeper because she could no longer afford to pay their salaries. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous and so sad.
Lauren sank into the chair behind her. “So . . . what . . . what are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. If worse comes to worst, I might have to sell the house.” She looked around the room forlornly, rubbing her shoulders. “But hopefully it won’t come to that. After all, I’ve been researching new sources of funding.”
“Sources? What sources?”
Yolanda’s face suddenly brightened. “Oh, it’s a good one, Laurie. I’ve heard that a very rich man in his midsixties—a widower—moved into an estate two towns over. They say he’s very charming, though I haven’t met him myself.” She wrinkled her nose. “I heard he’s not much to look at, but that’s never mattered much to me. I just hope—”
“Wait,” Lauren said, interrupting her mother. She held up a hand. “Wait! You mean you want to get a new man? That’s your new source of funding?”
“Of course. What else would I be talking about?”
Lauren stared at her mother in disbelief. She’s actually serious.
Even though Yolanda’s life was now in complete disarray because of the poor decisions she had made in the past, her answer to all her problems was to do the same thing all over again.
“Mama, I don’t . . . I don’t think another sugar daddy is the answer to all your prayers.”
Yolanda’s smile disappeared.
“I just think . . .” Lauren tried to consider her words carefully. “I just feel that getting involved with a man right now just for money—just to take care of your debts—will only make the situation worse.”
“And as you told me, Laurie, I understand you feel that way, but I’ll take my chances.”
Lauren closed her eyes. “Mama, please hear me out. I—” “Don’t you have to get back to your restaurant?” her mother asked, scowling as she walked toward the doorway. “I don’t want to keep you. I understand how busy you are.”
Lauren could tell as she gazed at her mother’s stern face that she was being shut out, that she would have a better chance of holding a conversation with a brick wall. Her mother was set in her ways. She believed in the holy book of gold digging. Nothing would shake her faith.
With a heavy heart, Lauren rose to her feet.
“You’re right. I should go. Phillip’s probably expecting me back soon.”
Her mother gave a curt nod. “Thank you for the visit.” Lauren walked toward her mother. Just as she stepped into the corridor, she paused and turned to gaze at Yolanda.
“Look, I’m . . . I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mama,” Lauren muttered, hoping that her mother would get her true meaning, because Lauren was talking about more than money. The kind of help her mother needed couldn’t be done with just
a checkbook. “You know I would if I could. We may have our differences, but . . . you know I would do almost anything for you guys, right?”
Yolanda’s scowl instantly disappeared. “I know, sweetheart. But it will be all right.” She pushed back her shoulders. “I am Yolanda Gibbons, honey. If anyone can find a way out of this, I certainly can.”
Lauren hesitated, forced a smile, and nodded. She slowly walked down the corridor to the front door, hoping that her mother was right.
Chapter 23
Jamal typed a few keys on his keyboard before gazing at an open case file on his desk. He was flipping a few pages when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and saw that it was the front desk calling him.
“Yeah?” he asked distractedly, raising the receiver to his ear, still staring down at the text on the page. It was a muddled deposition. He would definitely have to take lots of notes.
“Mr. Simmons, you have a gentleman at the front desk who says he’d like to speak to you,” the receptionist droned into the phone. “He says he doesn’t have an appointment.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
The receptionist paused. The phone line went silent. She returned seconds later with a loud sigh. “He said his name is Mr. Uptight. I don’t know if he’s joking or what.”
Jamal slowly shook his head, knowing instantly who it was.
“Should I tell him he needs to make an appointment?” the receptionist asked.
“No. No, tell him I’ll be down in a sec.”
Cris stood anxiously by the black lacquer receptionist desk, leaning against it as he waited for Jamal.
“He said he’ll be downstairs soon,” the older white woman drawled, adjusting her headset on her gray hair helmet. She then pointed to the leather couch on the other side of the carpeted waiting room. “You can have a seat.”
“I’m fine standing. Thanks,” he muttered, making her narrow her eyes at him. She loudly huffed, then haughtily faced her computer flat screen.