“So when is Joya coming back?” I asked carefully.
I noticed the muscle in his jaw jump but otherwise there was no change in expression.
“Granny J tells me it should be any day now. She and I get along. She knew how cut up I was when the marriage ended so she went out of her way to warn me of Joya’s coming.”
“That was nice of her. I would think she’d be on her granddaughter’s side.”
“Granny J’s never taken sides. That’s why I like her. She’s always been fair.”
“How long were you two married?”
“Me and Granny J?”
“Don’t play with me.”
“A little less than five years,” Quen said. “Joya and I were very young.”
“How young?”
“She was nineteen and I was twenty-one.”
“That’s young. So how come you got married that young?”
“I’ll tell you after we eat.”
I didn’t know anything about their marriage. I’d just moved from the Bronx when they were breaking up. Flamingo Beach had been buzzing with the gossip. You’d think no one had ever gotten divorced before and Joya was being called some pretty rotten names.
Our food arrived. After the waiter left Quen whisked off the covers. He’d ordered some kind of bean dish he called dahl and I’d ordered mulligatawny soup though I could barely pronounce it. And I’d ordered a fish dish with plenty of rice. Much as I hated to admit it everything smelled delicious. But maybe it had something to do with me starving.
Reluctant to let Quen off the hook, I returned to the conversation. “So you were telling me why you got married young.”
Quen set his knife and fork aside. “Because I had to. Because it was the right thing to do.”
I wasn’t sure how to interpret that so I did in the only manner I understood.
“Shotgun wedding?”
“Something like that.”
“And you did the right thing. Nobody gets married because someone gets pregnant in this day and age. So how come you did?”
There was a gleam in Quen’s eyes. “You’re asking some mighty personal questions, sugar.”
“Am I? It’s not like I’m a stranger. I was there for that breakup but you never ever talked about it, never once said a word.”
I didn’t think I was overstepping. Quen and I had met at the Haul Out in the midst of that mess. He’d be sitting at the bar, nursing a beer when I toddled in. He’d looking lonely and pathetic like he needed rescuing. I struck up a conversation with him but couldn’t get more than a one word sentence out of him. I blamed my fat for his lack of interest in me. But truthfully he wasn’t interested in anyone. He was suffering from a broken heart.
There had been speculation and rumors. Some said Joya had cheated on him; others said she’d married him then refused to go to work and that she’d set herself up for alimony. All I knew was that Quen was moping around. And then out of the blue he’d decided to go back to school and become a nutritionist.
Quen reached across the table and took my hand. “Don’t get mad at me, babe. There are things a fellow just can’t talk about. Let’s just say Joya and I were young and really didn’t know each other.”
I spooned rice in my mouth and sucked on it like it was ice cream. I was that hungry. “How do you feel about her coming back to town? It must feel funny.”
“I’m just trying not to think about it.”
He might not want to talk but I needed an answer to a particular question.
“Do you still love Joya?” I asked, holding my breath.
Quen looked at me with those soulful brown eyes of his, the tendons at the sides of his neck pulsed. After a while he said, “Joya will always have a special place in my heart.”
And with that my hopes of getting this man interested in me were dashed. No way could I compete with Joya Hamill unless she’d changed drastically over the last five years.
And even so, she’d have to have grown buckteeth and a tail.
Chapter 7
I was lounging poolside at 411 Flamingo Place when my cell phone rang. Flopping onto my back, I reached for the rattan purse that I’d stuffed everything into: book, extra pair of sunglasses, bottled water, sunblock and a spare candy bar or two in case I got hungry.
“Yeah,” I drawled, shoving my sunglasses onto my head to get a better view of the man in a Speedo on the diving board. Only a brave, confident man wore those tiny bathing suits that left nothing to the imagination.
“I rented one of your apartments,” Manny said, sounding totally pleased with himself. “Now you and me can have dinner.”
I ignored the last part and managed to crawl into a seated position. “You rented Quen’s apartment?”
“Yes, to Emilie Woodward—the woman in charge of leisure sales at the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort. She didn’t even try to bargain when I told her what the price was.”
“Excellent. I love you, Manny.” The words just sort of popped out, and for that brief second I meant them. Quen was going to be pleased.
I would have to split my commission with Manny but I was still excited. That meant one down and only one more to go. Juggling two jobs was starting to wear me out. I’d never worked so hard in my life, and I planned on kicking back today since it was my first day off in what seemed like years. Today was going to be all about me I decided.
Earlier I’d taken the time to wander around Jen’s complex cataloguing everything it had to offer. And there had been quite a bit. The main floor where the lobby was, offered all types of services: everything from banking, dry cleaning, a mini grocery store and a coffee shop.
The gym I knew about because it was where I worked out. But outdoors there were also tennis and handball courts plus a jogging track that ran adjacent to the boardwalk. When you were taking a run you could see the ocean. There was also a small barbeque area with picnic tables, and there were hot tubs throughout the grounds and another pool.
Talk about living large. I’d never quite experienced anything like it.
“Now that I’ve taken care of this for you, don’t you think I deserve something special?” Manny, the shameless dog, asked.
I sat up straight and began laughing. Mr. Speedo was jumping up and down on the diving board. After posing several times like Mr. Universe, he dove into the pool and in the process that teeny, weeny bathing suit slipped and something went flying out of the front, a sock maybe? The residents, sunning, were laughing so hard it became almost impossible to hear Manny.
“What did I say that was so funny?” Manny sounded annoyed.
“Nothing. I just saw something that reminded me of you.”
I laughed again because Mr. Speedo’s weenie was even smaller than Manny’s. Imagine that? I started laughing again.
Manny’s voice came through the earpiece. “How come you can go out with Quen Abrahams but you can’t go out with me?” he whined. “I make more money. I can buy you things.”
“It isn’t always about money,” I replied. Probably the whole town had seen me and Quen at Taj and put their own spin on it.
I thanked Manny for renting the apartment and before I hung up I asked, “When does the Woodward woman want to move in?”
“As soon as she can. She’s a transplant, here because the hotel made her an offer she couldn’t refuse and she’s sick of living on the premises.”
“She’s that anxious? I’d be happy if anyone let me live anywhere for free.”
“Not if you can’t ever get away from work.”
“I’ll discuss the rental with Quen,” I said and hung up. Then I propped myself up on my elbows and watched Mr. Universe try to make a dignified exit. But everyone was staring at him and laughing so hard their sides ached.
A woman sat down heavily on the lounge chair next to me. She carried a cell phone and wore dark glasses.
“Hello,” she said. “Nice day for the pool.”
I smiled back at her until I recognized it was Camille Lewis. Sh
e gulped down her ice tea and I waited.
“You moved into 5C,” Camille said knowingly. “Are you renting or staying for free until you can find a place?”
It was none of her business so I didn’t answer.
“We’re next door neighbors, Camille Lewis, remember? I live across the hall in 5D.”
“Umm, hmm.”
I’d avoided her like the plague because I knew her mouth had no cover. I’d seen her coming down the hallway a couple of times and hid.
I flopped onto my chest and closed my eyes, pretending to go to sleep.
Something ice cold ran the length of my spine and I rolled over.
“What the hell…”
“Hey, sugar,” Quen said. “I didn’t expect to find you out catching some rays.”
My tongue felt heavy and my stomach fluttered. The man was a walking talking billboard for sex. His muscles rippled and his ebony skin shone; oiled and sweaty he glistened under the afternoon sun.
I couldn’t take my eyes off his body. How was it possible for anyone not to have a spare ounce of flesh on him? I was used to seeing Quen in shorts and a T-shirt not bare chested, wearing swimming trunks that stopped midthigh. Now all I could think about was jumping his bones and the fact that it might have been a mistake to wear a bikini when you had as many rolls of flesh as I did.
“Hey, Quen,” Camille Lewis said, leaning into us. She acted as if they were the best of friends.
I sat upright positioning my towel over my bulging middle. Quen was not alone, a bunch of skinny groupies trailed him; at least I assumed they were groupies. There were four of them, an entire United Nations. One was Asian, the other Latino, and the other Caucasian. The last, wearing a thong that barely covered her privates, was African American. All were rail-thin and well proportioned. I despised them on sight especially since they were staring at me as if I were a beached whale.
But at least I knew my boobs were real and not pumped up with some filler. I forgot about my tummy and sat up straight, sticking my 40 triple Ds practically in Quen’s face.
“We’ve got good news, babe,” I said.
You should have seen the Latino woman’s face as she tried to figure out what was going down.
“I could use good news, sugar.” Quen dropped down onto a spare lounger next to me. The four women remained standing unsure what to do next. Quen waved them off.
“Catch up with you ladies later. Chere and I need to talk.”
Quen picked up my bottle of sunscreen and poured it in his palms. He began rubbing my arms and legs. A delicious scent of oranges filled my nostrils and it wasn’t my sunscreen causing that smell. It took everything I had not to throw my arms around his neck and let him feel the crush of a woman with real flesh.
Camille Lewis, sick of being ignored had gotten up and walked away. She was on the far side of the pool keeping an eye on us while yakking on her cell phone. I took a deep breath so as to clear my head and repeated what Manny had told me.
Right in front of all of those people, Quen leaned over and laid one right on me. It was a big smackaroo right on the lips, and it left me cross-eyed and feeling as if I was floating. Things around me were moving in slow motion and wavering in and out.
“That’s for renting my apartment,” he said.
“And I’ll rent the other soon,” I promised, when I was able to catch my breath.
Quen continued to massage liquid into my flesh. His touch left me aching to get out of that suit. “I want to talk to you about something else,” he said.
“I’m listening.”
Quen’s smile, a flash of white against black, left me breathless.
“How would you feel about being on the D’Dawg show?”
I bolted upright and clutched that towel to me. “Me! I don’t have anything to say.”
“Sure you do. You’re my poster child. D’Dawg’s invited me on to promote my nutritionist business. This is huge. I can’t turn down free publicity. So I was thinking if you and I partnered it might make it more interesting for the listening audience.”
“What would we tell them?”
“Well I could talk about our exercise program, and that eating right combined with healthy exercise helps burn calories. I could discuss menu plans guaranteed to make people lose weight. You’d be my walking, talking example of a person who’s followed my plan and seen results.”
Heaven help me if he knew I was cheating on his diet.
“I can go you one better,” I said.
“Talk to me, sugar.”
“How about you prepare meals for me. I mean you cooked them from scratch. You can cook, can’t you?”
Smiling, he nodded. “My momma raised a full-service brotha.”
“Okay. So we go on the talk show and I tell the peoples that I went to you for help because I wanted to lose weight. Then I tell them we work out together, and you designed a menu plan exclusively for me, and that you can do the same for them. We talk about how much weight I’ve lost and how under your supervision I’ll lose even more. We set it up so that we’ll be back on the program to discuss my progress in a few weeks.”
“You’re a genius,” Quen said. “I’d be like that Jenny woman.”
“Yeah, she makes big bucks, and I’ll be your spokesperson. I can be Kirstie or Fergie. Name it.”
“How about just being Chere?” Quen kissed me on the lips again; a nice juicy one. By then I was so hot I wanted to dive into the deep end of that pool. I could feel everyone looking, especially the women. They were all probably wondering what I had and they didn’t. I just knew Camille’s phone had to be smoking.
I knew how to be Chere. She was comfortable. What I didn’t know how to be was one of those skinny-minny high-maintenance women.
Quen now spoke as if he was talking to himself. “And if I cook up these dishes and feed them to you, we can figure out what works and what doesn’t. So who’s buying the groceries, me or you?” He chuckled.
I cut my eyes at him. “Me, of course.”
“When should we start?”
“This evening.” Hey, my mother didn’t give birth to no fool, jump on opportunity when it’s there.
“Let’s shoot for tomorrow. How about you come to my place?” Quen stood and stretched. “Tonight I have dinner plans.”
I wanted to scream, “With who?” By then those rippling muscles had me close to orgasmic. Like a horny dog my tongue practically hung out as I watched him strut away. Lucky woman whoever she was.
The minute Quen was out of range, Camille swooped down like a vulture. She was still clutching that damn cell phone.
“You two have something going?”
“We’re friends.” I rolled over onto my stomach and closed my eyes again.
“Define friends. I saw him kiss you.”
“Read into it what you want.” I made my voice sound groggy and bit my tongue. What I really wanted to tell her was to stuff the cell phone where the sun don’t shine.
Camille sucked her teeth. “Lucky that I like you. That’s why I’m telling you this. That man has plenty of women so you may not want to take him seriously.”
“And that’s supposed to have me worried?”
I wished she would leave me the hell alone. All I wanted to do was close my eyes and think about Quen’s kisses. That and the meals he was going to cook for me. I didn’t need Camille messing with my fantasies.
“I’d be,” Camille said. “Take a look at you and take a look at him.”
With that she walked away. Nasty bitch!
Later, I was seated in a chair at the beauty shop where everybody went to get their hair done; everyone in town who was black, anyway. I’d decided it was time to get the weave off. It was costing me too much money in maintenance and Jen said it made me look heavier.
La Veronique the woman who’d done my hair for years was cutting the weave out.
“What you looking to get, hon?” she asked.
I stabbed a flamingo-colored acrylic nail at a pi
cture in the magazine I was flipping through. “What about this?”
“Nah, that ain’t you.” La Veronique snapped her gum. “Pick another.”
I stabbed at another photo. “This is me.”
The model had the Missy Elliott thing going on, tendrils of hair partially covering one eye.
“You can’t pull that off,” La Veronique said. “You need to be realistic.”
Shoot. And so it went. Ten minutes later we settled on something that worked for both of us but La Veronique thought I should color my hair blonde. I thought about it for a moment, and was actually tempted, then I shook my head. I needed to keep it professional.
“I got this new job. Clients might be put off,” I said.
“People wasn’t put off by Shari Belafonte. Why should they be put off by you?”
“Shari can pull it off. I might not be able to.” Now that’s realism for you.
My self confidence was beginning to take a beating. I’d never before set my sights on men like Quen and the truth was I still wasn’t sure how to read him. He seemed to go for the slim, classy types, like his ex-wife, Joya, and the women I had seen trailing him earlier today; women with perfect bodies and perfect faces. Face it, I had neither.
I’d gotten used to the way that I looked, but now I felt lacking. It might have something to do with volunteering to be the spokesperson for Quen’s nutrition business. If I was going to be in the public eye I didn’t want to look like no freak, and I didn’t want people feeling sorry for me.
“Let’s stick to dark brown,” I told La Veronique. “You can throw in highlights or something.”
“You sure?”
“Sure as my name is Chere.”
Then I sat back and let her do her thing.
Around me hair dryers droned, and fragrances of frying oil mingled with hairspray. There was the usual smell of burning hair coming from hot combs and curling irons. I tuned into the conversations around me. If you wanted to know anything, the Curl and Weave was the place to go and served multiple purposes. While getting your hair done the stylist listened to your woes, and anyone who had a worse story than yours put their two cents in. Call it cheap therapy for black folks.
All About Me Page 7