P. G. County

by Connie Briscoe

  She focused back on her guests. She smiled broadly. Even though she had no doubt they knew. Every last one of them. Oh, they pretended not to, but they were laughing at her, pitying her. Barbara the scorned wife. Her husband cheated on her. He even allowed his mistress to crash their daughter’s wedding. And still Barbara stayed with him. Why?

  There was a time when she could have explained her reasons for staying. All one needed to do was look around, she would have said. Check out the husband and the lifestyle he provided. He was smart, successful, handsome.

  A man like Bradford landed in a black woman’s grasp about as often as a million-dollar lottery ticket did. And if he slipped up now and then, she was first in the pecking order. She was his wife, the one and only Barbara Bentley.

  That was what she would have told someone before today, if they dared to ask. But in all her life she’d never been so humiliated as she was earlier that afternoon. Certainly Bradford’s fooling around was nothing new, but he used to be discreet. He used to care how it would affect his family. There was a time when he would have had that woman arrested before she got anywhere near their property, especially on his daughter’s wedding day. He was either getting sloppy or far too brazen to suit Barbara. And that worried her more than anything.

  She smiled as Patrick Brown approached with his wife and daughter. Patrick was a programmer for Bradford. But for the life of her, Barbara couldn’t remember his wife’s name. Or the daughter’s. Barbara had seen the Browns at the Christmas party she and Bradford threw every year for his employees and their families. But lately she had become so forgetful. That was what middle age and menopause did to you.

  She extended a hand: “Patrick. So nice of you to come.” She smiled at his wife, willing the name to come back to her. Oh come on, Barbara Bentley. Think. How could anyone forget this woman’s name, with that ridiculous hair weave and those mile-long fingernails? Barbara couldn’t understand why Patrick’s wife was so over the top. She was a naturally pretty woman and didn’t need to wear all that fake nonsense.

  Barbara held her hand out. “Hello, it’s good to see you again.”

  The wife extended her hand. “And you, too, Barbara. Congratulations.”

  Barbara smiled. “Thank you.”

  How rude, Jolene thought. How insulting. It was so obvious that Barbara Bentley had forgotten her name. She started to remind Barbara—Jolene and Juliette, you rich idiot—but never mind. Let the woman suffer. Jolene smiled tightly. “You look lovely, Barbara. And so does Rebecca.”

  Bradford reached for Jolene’s hand and cupped it between his own. He smiled. “Real nice of you all to come, Jolene, Juliette.”

  Well, at least Bradford remembered their names, Jolene thought wryly. He was still très sexy, too. Maybe he was a little grayer around the ears since she’d last seen him at the annual Digitech Christmas bash, but he was just as poised and polished as ever. He radiated money. And to her, nothing was sexier than a man with money. Wasn’t Barbara the lucky one? The woman had everything a girl could want—a good-looking man who earned a pile of money. Jolene smiled seductively at Bradford.

  Barbara narrowed her eyes. So that was her name. Jolene. Well, it looked like Miss Jolene was flirting with Bradford. Honestly. It seemed all women wanted her husband. It wouldn’t be so embarrassing if Bradford didn’t have to flirt right back. She wanted to smack him on the spot.

  Instead she dabbed her forehead with her handkerchief. What she needed more than anything was a cigarette. She could get through all this a lot easier if she could break away and sneak a few puffs. But judging from the size of this receiving line, that wouldn’t be anytime soon. They probably had a hundred more guests to greet. Barbara sighed. At least in that sense the wedding was a smashing success.

  The Browns moved on to greet the bride and groom and Candice Jones and her family approached Barbara. “Candice, thank you for coming. It’s so good to see you again.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Barbara,” Candice said. “And you, Bradford. You both remember my husband, Jim, don’t you? You met him at our wedding last summer.”

  “Good to see you both again,” Jim said, smiling stiffly.

  Barbara shook Jim’s hand. “Why, yes, of course, I remember.” Barbara thought Jim looked a bit jumpy. He probably wasn’t used to being around so many black folks and no doubt felt out of place. Barbara patted his hand reassuringly. “How are you, Jim?”

  “Just fine, thank you.”

  “And you remember Caitlin?” Candice asked.

  Barbara nodded. “Hi, Caitlin. You’ve really grown.”

  Caitlin smiled and shifted on her feet the way teenagers often do around adults.

  Barbara thought Candice looked remarkably happy, although she still dressed like a hippie, in long flowered skirts and corny-looking ballet-type shoes. And she always had a crystal around her neck. Honestly. The least she could do was put on pumps at a wedding.

  But there was no denying that she looked so much better these days—her cheeks were rosy and she smiled more readily. And it was no wonder. Jim was a pretty good-looking man. He reminded her of that actor, the first one to play James Bond. She couldn’t think of his real name. This was getting ridiculous. She couldn’t remember much at all these days.

  From what she’d heard, anything was probably an improvement over Candice’s first husband, Ben. Supposedly he was a very successful dentist—and a cheat just like Bradford. Barbara had heard that Candice finally got fed up and kicked him out, and now she seemed to be doing just fine, thank you. That was encouraging. “You’re looking good, Candice.”

  “Thank you,” Candice said. “It’s a lovely wedding, Barbara.”

  “It’s been fun planning it and seeing how happy Rebecca and Ralph are, hasn’t it, Bradford?”

  “Oh yeah,” Bradford replied. “But I have to confess that I keep thinking. One down, one more to go.”

  Candice and Jim laughed.

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Jim said as he nodded with understanding. “I went through this with my daughter about two years ago. My ex-wife and I are still paying the bills.”

  “Aw shoot,” Bradford said. He slapped Jim on the back and chuckled. “Don’t even go there.”

  “You have an older daughter, don’t you, Candice?” Barbara asked.

  Candice nodded. “Yes, Ashley. She’s nineteen now. She’ll be coming later with a friend.” And when she does get here, what on earth will Bradford and Barbara think? Candice wondered. What will everyone think of her white daughter arriving with a black man?

  “So you’ll be doing this yourself someday soon,” Bradford teased.

  Candice forced a smile. “Hopefully, not too soon.”

  Bradford leaned over and whispered something in Candice’s ear, and Candice tossed her head back and laughed.

  Barbara fumed. Why did her husband have to flirt so shamelessly with every woman coming through the receiving line? Honestly. She stole a quick glance at Jim. He didn’t seem to be bothered at all by Bradford’s behavior. No doubt he too had been wowed by Bradford’s charms.

  The Jones family moved on through the receiving line and sat at an empty table under the tent. “Not too many other folks here look like us,” Jim said softly.

  Candice frowned for a moment, not understanding, then she nodded. What he really meant was that there weren’t many other white folks here. Jim was from Chicago and no stranger to black people, but this was probably his first time attending a function where whites were in the minority.

  Candice had gotten used to being one of only a handful of whites. Sort of, anyway. She doubted one ever got completely used to it, but she was comfortable with it. She had worked for Bradford for several years now, and probably seventy-five percent of his employees were black. She would never be as comfortable around them as she was around her own kind. But she had come to know that they all wanted the same things in life—to live with their families in peace and prosperity—and she could relate to that.r />
  She smiled sympathetically at Jim. “You’ll get used to it, honey, sooner or later.”

  Caitlin laughed. “Now you see how they feel when they’re around a bunch of white people.”

  Jim rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Well, I see something that will help me get accustomed to it right quick,” he said, trying to sound Southern. A big grin spread across his face as he stood and nodded in the direction of the bar. “The great equalizer. Can I get something for y’all beautiful ladies?”

  Caitlin giggled, and Candice rolled her eyes skyward. She had told Jim a million times that people living in the D.C. suburbs did not think of themselves as Southerners, and that they did not have Southern accents, at least not what she considered a Southern accent. Still, she had to smile at Jim’s poor imitation. It was worse than his singing in the shower. “A glass of red wine would be nice, honey.”

  “Yeah, that sounds good,” Caitlin chimed in. “I’ll take one, too.”

  “Not in this lifetime,” Candice said crisply. “At least not around me. A Coke for her, Jim.”

  Caitlin smacked her lips as Jim walked off toward the bar. “It’s just a glass of wine. I’m fifteen.”

  “That’s what I know,” Candice said.

  “I’m going to have to learn to drink sooner or later. Wouldn’t you rather I do it around you?”

  “Oh, so now I’m supposed to believe that you’ve never touched alcohol in your life.”

  Caitlin smiled guiltily and cast her eyes down.

  “Uh-huh.” Teenagers. They all seemed to try as hard as they could to keep their parents off-balance. Candice stretched her neck and scanned the crowd for Ashley.

  For the life of her, Jolene couldn’t figure out which designer Barbara was wearing. Knowing Barbara, it was just some expensive off-the-rack rag. Barbara could damn well afford to wear custom-made Armani or anything she pleased on special occasions like this. After all, the lieutenant governer was here, and she had spotted D.C. mayor Anthony Williams in his customary bow tie just outside the tent.

  The Bentleys had really done it up for this affair, gone all out, Jolene thought as she crossed the carpeted tent with Patrick and Juliette, noting one prominent face after another. She wouldn’t be surprised if they had dropped six figures on this classy shindig. Hell, they even had valet parking in front of the house and waiters serving drinks on trays. None of those cheap chrome fountains here.

  Even her folks would have approved. And the judge and his wife were not easy to please. They had definite ideas about what was proper and what wasn’t. This was how you entertained, Jolene thought as she looked across their linen-covered table. She hoped Patrick was soaking it all in so he’d be prepared when Juliette’s time came. Just to be sure, she tugged at his arm the minute they were seated.

  “Did you see the spread at that buffet?” she asked. “And that’s only hors d’oeuvres. Dinner will be served at the tables at five.”

  “I saw this huge bowl of caviar,” Juliette said with delight. “I’m out of here. See you all later.” She picked up her purse and walked off toward the buffet.

  Jolene chuckled. Her daughter was a girl after her own heart. Patrick was another story. No amount of coaching and needling would ever get him out of his working-class frame of mind.

  Patrick shook his head. He was obviously stunned by all the wealth on display. “Man, they spent a damn fortune.”

  Jolene smacked her lips. “The Bentleys have class. I’m loving every minute of it.”

  “Yeah, you would,” he said sarcastically. “Anyway, Bradford can afford all this. He owns the store.”

  “Well, you work for him,” Jolene retorted. “Listen and learn. You could do the same thing.”

  “Do you know how long it took him to get all this, Jo?”

  She shrugged. “So? You’re still young. You’re only thirty-eight. He’s got to be in his fifties.”

  Patrick shook his head in disbelief.

  Jolene nodded toward the house in the distance. “What do you think of the Spanish-tile roof? We could—”

  Patrick held up his hand to stop her before she got started. “I think they can afford it, and we can’t. That’s what I think.”

  “We could if you weren’t so damn cheap,” she snapped.

  “Spanish tile is out of the question. You saw the last bill from the contractor. Shit. The foundation was way over what Terrence told us to expect. Some architect he’s turning out to be. I told you to let me handle it. But no, you had to go hire some fancy architect to meddle with things. All he does is drive up the cost.”

  If Patrick knew what else the architect was meddling with, he’d be really pissed. “Terrence can only give us estimates as to what the builder is going to charge,” she said coolly. “Not a solid figure.”

  “Yeah, especially if you keep changing the floor plans at the last minute. You seem to forget that I’m just a programmer at Digitech, not a VP or even a director. And you work for the government.”

  Jolene rolled her eyes skyward. “Puh-leeze, Patrick. We’re not exactly poverty-stricken either. Which reminds me. You’re way overdue for a promotion, you know. Bradford’s company is obviously pulling in big bucks.”

  “I just got a raise.”

  “That’s not the same as a promotion. We could use the money. Why don’t you invite the Bentleys over for dinner? Butter them up some.”

  “Give it a rest, Jo. I’ll ask for a promotion when I think the time is right.”

  She sighed. This was all so Patrick. Always so damn reasonable and practical. That was what she needed in a man when she was young and pregnant and alone. And stupid. Now she wanted to get ahead, to climb out of the box.

  Marrying Patrick was the biggest mistake of her life, no doubt about it. He was a decent enough man, just not right for her anymore. The only good thing she’d gotten out of this marriage was Juliette. Her daughter was precious. But Jolene wanted so much more.

  * * *

  Pearl glanced up from her plate of spiced shrimp at the sound of her son’s voice.

  “Ma.” Kenyatta cleared his throat. “I want you to meet someone.”

  Pearl turned to see Kenyatta standing behind her. She was about to smile and stand up herself when she realized that he was holding the hand of a white woman. Pearl grabbed her napkin and covered her mouth. She had nearly lost her food.

  “Ma, this is Ashley. Ashley, this is my ma.”

  Ashley extended her hand, and Pearl stood up. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Jackson. Kenyatta talks about you all the time.”

  “Oh?” Pearl shook Ashley’s hand and smiled feebly. “Um, Kenyatta mentioned that he was bringing someone.” Only not that she was white. Pearl blinked. Was she dreaming? No, no. This white girl was real.

  Kenyatta had dated a couple of white girls in college, so it wasn’t like this had never happened. But every time it did, Pearl was so sure it would be the last. She was always careful to say nice, positive things about the black women he dated. She hadn’t raised her son to do things like this. She clasped her hands together at her waist.

  “Ashley lives here in Silver Lake, too, Ma,” Kenyatta explained as he reached over and took a shrimp from Pearl’s plate.

  “Oh really?” Pearl looked at the other guests seated at her table and smiled. She had been talking to them before Kenyatta showed up. They were employees of Bradford’s, and Pearl had been bragging about how smart and well rounded her son was. And then he shows up with this white girl. Pearl was sure the others at the table were sucking in every ounce of this. She would be on her best behavior if it killed her, but Kenyatta would get an earful in the morning. “Did you all go through the receiving line yet?”

  “No, not yet, Ma. We just got here. I wanted to hook you up with Ashley first.”

  Pearl looked at the girl and attempted a smile. She was pretty enough, with gorgeous green eyes and long brown hair. At least she didn’t have blond hair. But she was still white as a sheet. What was the ma
tter with that boy of hers? Couldn’t he find himself a pretty black girl?

  Kenyatta reached down to her plate for another shrimp and Pearl smacked his hand away. She regretted it the moment she did it, but he was annoying her.

  “Kenyatta tells me that you own a beauty shop, Mrs. Jackson,” Ashley said.

  “Hmm. Yes,” Pearl said. “A hair salon.” Please, now don’t tell me you’re going to ask me to do your hair. Lordy.

  “How long have you been in business?” Ashley asked.

  “Oh. I’ve been doing hair since Kenyatta was a baby. But I always worked for other people before. I ran a catering business on the side back then. I opened my own salon after he graduated from college. So it’s been about five years now.”

  “That’s amazing,” Ashley said. “Kenyatta, you never told me all that.”

  What was so amazing? That a black woman could run a business? Heck, did this child know who Madame C. J. Walker was? Most likely not. Pearl folded her arms across her chest.

  Kenyatta cleared his throat. “Well, Ma, I guess we’ll go get some grits.”

  Pearl nodded. “You be sure to say hi to Mrs. Bentley.”

  “We will.”

  “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Jackson.”

  “You too, Ashley.”

  Kenyatta took Ashley’s hand, and they walked toward the receiving line. Pearl sat back down and stared at her plate.

  “He seems like a nice young man,” someone at the table said.

  “Yes,” Pearl said. But she didn’t want to talk about him anymore.

  Chapter 9

  “I heard that a woman drove right up onto the lawn and wrecked the tent,” Candice said in a loud whisper.