Destiny's Daughters

by Gwynne Forster

  As she hoped and prayed, the band’s rendition of “Flying Home” brought prolonged applause and cheers. Thank God. If they have to, they can make it on their own.

  “Don’t forget to get your tickets now for Clarissa Holmes and the New Jazz Trio’s May thirty-first performance at Carnegie Hall,” the show’s host said at the end of the applause, cheers, and shouts following Clarissa’s rendition of “When Your Lover Has Gone.”

  “Well, what do you think?” Clarissa asked her band members as they rode back to the Park Lane in the network’s limousine.

  “We’ve got a whole week of these dates,” Oscar replied. “How can we miss?”

  “By getting cocky,” Raymond said. “But, man, it sure felt good up there with those cameras worshipping us. You’re a first-class human being, Clarissa. Not many singers would have done that.”

  Her left shoulder rose in a quick shrug, as if his words didn’t matter, but she cherished every syllable. “You’re my family.”

  May thirty-first arrived at last and, for the first time in a long while, sleep hadn’t come all night. But she knew that once her fingers wrapped around that microphone, her nerves would settle and her jitters disappear.

  I should have spent the night with Brock, she said to herself. By the time he pulled out of me, I’d have been too drugged, too exhausted, and too besotted with him to stay awake. She vocalized for half an hour, showered, dressed, and phoned Brock, who had offered to take care of the details.

  “Mama, Sam, and Jack Helbrose are here, and Kenny said Cindy will arrive this afternoon,” Brock told her. “Your friend, Jessie Mae, in Low Point can’t make it, but she thanks you for thinking of her.”

  At precisely eight o’clock that evening, the lights dimmed in Carnegie Hall and the New Jazz Trio hit the first note of “Back Home In Indiana.” Lord, let there be some people out there. She stood near the wings, praying, her eyes closed and her body tense. Encouraged by the loud, prolonged applause that followed, she laid back her shoulders and strode toward center stage. The rousing cheers forced her to look out at the packed house, and her gaze captured her friends seated in the front row directly below her. Brock smiled and made his thumbs-up sign simultaneously with Oscar’s first note introducing “Fever.”

  She forgot concern that her red dress exposed over half of her bosom, forgot that she stood where some of the greatest singers rose to fame, forgot everything but the words and the music and her joy in making them live.

  In her dressing room at intermission, Brock told her, “You’ve never sung like this.”

  “I know. I feel like I have to open up. It’s as if everything in me wants to come out, to make room for something new and better. Oh, Brock, something good’s gonna happen—otherwise I wouldn’t feel so . . . so wonderful.

  “Why shouldn’t you feel good? You’ve made it to the top, and your friends are here to rejoice with you.”

  “Yes.” She shuddered as what seemed like a chill shot through her. Something was in the air. She wouldn’t call it a premonition, but she’d better beware.

  “You have five minutes, Miss Holmes,” an usher called to her.

  “Give ‘em your best,” Brock said, kissed her cheek, and left.

  She began the last half of her program with a rollicking version of “Any Old Time You Want Me” and ended with “Help Me Make It Through the Night,” her fifth encore. An usher brought her a bouquet of red roses from Brock, and patrons threw flowers on the stage as they applauded and cheered, unwilling to let her go,

  “I love every one of you,” she said, “but I have no voice left. Please come back next time.” Exhausted but happy, she rushed to her dressing room and dropped down on the sofa. Brock arrived as she knew he would, but seconds later, the usher attending her door knocked.

  “Miss Holmes, a lady to see you.”

  She got up, went to the door, and opened it. “Oh, my Lord!” She grabbed her chest and fought for breath. “It can’t be! It can’t be!”

  Brock rushed to her. “What is it?” His arm went around her, steadying her. After a minute of silence, he said, “It’s all right, love.” Still holding Clarissa in his arms, he stepped back. “Come on in—we’ve been looking for you.”

  With tears gushing down her cheeks, Clarissa opened her arms to the woman. “It can’t be, but I know it is. I’ve looked and looked for so long. How did you find me?” she asked as they hugged each other.

  “I saw you on The Tonight Show, and I knew you had to be one of us.”

  Clarissa could hardly contain herself. “Do you know where our sister is?”

  The woman, who bore a strong resemblance to Clarissa and had her height and figure, shook her head. “I’d give anything if I did. I’m Leticia.”

  “And this is Brock Stanton. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if—”

  “Someone else to see you, Miss Holmes,” the usher called.

  Clarissa and Leticia bolted for the door and opened it to find their sister standing there. “I’m Jamilla, and I’ve looked everywhere for you. Thank goodness for TV.” This time, no tears came, only joyous shouts of laughter as they hugged and inspected each other with a happiness that bordered on hysteria.

  Clarissa dabbed at her eyes. “Lord, how I’ve prayed for this moment.” They looked at each other, hugged each other, and didn’t bother wiping the tears that glistened through their smiles.

  They cried and hugged each other again and again. Suddenly, Leticia flung her arms wide and laughed. Laughed until, seemingly weakened by the experience, she dropped into the nearest chair, cradled her lowered head in her arms, and let the tears flow.

  Jamilla’s gaze wandered to Brock. “Only God knows how I prayed for this, dreamed of it, imagined it. It’s happened, and it’s almost more than I can bear.”

  Clarissa bowed her head. “I got so carried away, Lord, that I forgot to thank you. I knew you would answer my prayers. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for bringing us together.”

  At the touch of Brock’s finger on her arm, Clarissa turned to him, and he handed her and each of her sisters a glass of champagne. Then, holding his own glass, he said, “Here’s to the happiest day of our lives.”

  They drained their glasses and, with one eyebrow arched, Jamilla looked at Clarissa. “Who’s he?”

  “Oh. ’scuse me. This is Brock Stanton, my fiancé. We’ve found each other just in time for you to be bridesmaids at my wedding three weeks from now.”

  “I’ll be there,” each of them assured her.

  “It’s a miracle,” Brock said to Clarissa.

  “Yes. A modern-day miracle.”

  EPILOGUE

  With an arm around each of her sisters, Clarissa gazed up at Brock through the tears that streamed down her face. “It can’t be real. Tell me it isn’t just another one of those nights when I’ll wake up and find that I’ve been dreaming.”

  “Our prayers have been answered, sweetheart. Why don’t I call for the limousine and the three of you go to your room at the Park Lane. After your fantastic success tonight, I hate not celebrating with you, but this night is for you and your sisters.”

  “But what about Mrs. Stanton, Sam, Cindy, and Mr. Helbrose?”

  “They’ll understand.”

  “Do you have time to go with me to my hotel room so we can talk?” she asked Leticia and Jamilla.. “I can’t let you get away from me so soon.”

  “Right on,” Leticia said. “This calls for more champagne.”

  “And champagne it will be,” Brock assured them. “I’ll phone you in the morning,” he promised Clarissa.

  “We could have walked these three blocks,” Jamilla said when the limousine stopped at the Park Lane.

  “Not with my public face,” Clarissa said. “The last time I tried it after a concert was the night I finally met Brock when he rescued me from a stampeding crowd. No, thank you.”

  Once inside Clarissa’s suite, it was as if reality dawned on them simultaneously, and they began to hug each other, thei
r faces tear-streaked and mottled with powder and mascara.

  As if weakened by the shock of the experience, Jamilla dropped to the nearest chair. “I’ve had so many nightmares about the two of you in some miserable place calling for me. It’s as if this is just the beginning of my life. Tell me, what have the two of you been doing all these years? How did you grow up? Where have you lived?”

  “I grew up in foster homes—five of them, in fact,” Clarissa said, “and only one of my foster mothers was a real mother to me. She died last year. Three of the others were downright cruel. I left the fostercare system at eighteen and married the first man who asked me. I just got rid of that jerk. This time last year, I was living in the rural slums of Low Point, North Carolina, using an outdoor toilet and pumping water at an iron pump that sat on the back porch. I got sick of my husband’s fornicating with a teenager, kicked him out, and hit the road. I never looked back. I worked for nothing on my first singing job in order to make a name for myself, and it paid off.”

  Leticia pulled out a cigarette, crossed her long legs at the knee, and leaned back in the soft leather lounge chair. Anyone could see that she was accustomed to comfort and elegance. She looked at Clarissa. “If you don’t want me to smoke, say so.” She lit the cigarette, took a drag, and blew out the smoke in big, floating rings.” I’m not sure my story will do for your refined ears. You two sound pretty tame to me. You name it, I’ve done it. Of course, I haven’t committed murder, stolen anything, or been in jail, though it’s by my own smarts that I avoided the latter.”

  Jamilla’s laugh reminded Clarissa and Leticia of their own. It was deep and throaty, right from the gut. “You did what you had to do, Sis,” she said. “I have a law degree, but I don’t judge. I write mysteries. Where’d you grow up?”

  “In a succession of group homes in and around New Orleans, and you don’t want to know what that was like. You could say I was miseducated, and all I learned about social graces, I picked up myself. Street smarts? By the time I was fourteen, I had plenty of that. I’ve been a madam, an entertainment director on a cruise ship, and an entertainer—not for the public, mind you, just one client at a time.”

  Jamilla got up and sat on the arm of Leticia’s chair. Understanding Jamilla’s move as one of support for her errant sister, Clarissa walked over and sat on the other arm of the chair.

  “We’ve all had it tough in some way,” Jamilla said. “I grew up in comfort in the suburbs of Los Angeles with adoptive parents who treated me as if I had been born to them, and they educated me and gave me every advantage, but there was always a part of me missing, and I think that’s one of the reasons why I’m a mystery writer. Not a day has passed when I didn’t wonder where you two were and what you were doing, and I was always on the lookout for a female who looked like me. It’s been debilitating in many ways. Still, I fared better than either of you.”

  Clarissa raced to answer a knock on the door, opened it, and gasped as a waiter wheeled in a table laden with champagne, hors d’oeuvres, petit fours, and three bouquets of yellow roses. The waiter refused a tip, saying that he’d been generously taken care of.

  Leticia jumped up from the chair and surveyed the table. “Girl, that brother you’ve got is a class act. He knows how to operate. In my book, this speaks elegance.”

  The waiter opened the two bottles of Moet and Chandon champagne, poured a glass full for each of them, and left. “I don’t know about the rest of y’all,” Clarissa said, “but I have to thank the Lord before I drink this. “Lord, I thank you again and forever for answering my prayers.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to the hundred telephone books I’ve searched and the hundreds of telephone calls I’ve made to strangers whose last name was Holmes.”

  “This seems so unreal,” Jamilla said. “I used to wonder why MaDear and PopPop hadn’t chosen to take all of us or at least one other so I’d have you for company, but they didn’t have that option. Anyway, that’s behind us now. I want us to stay in close touch.”

  “Yes,” Clarissa said, “and let’s be there for each other. All these years not knowing who I am has been a drain. Now, at least I have this feeling that I’m somehow complete.” She got a tablet and handed it to Leticia.” Put your address and phone number there.” They exchanged the information and busied themselves telling tall tales, drinking champagne, and eating the delicacies that Brock sent them.

  I’m heading back to California tomorrow,” Jamilla told them. “I have a book deadline, and that means I have to get to work. I’ll send each of you a copy of a couple of my books.”

  “I’ve got a job lined up as a cruise director,” Leticia said, “and I’ll let you know when and where. I guarantee you a generous deduction anytime you want to cruise, and I promise to stay in touch.”

  “Not so fast,” Clarissa said. “I’m getting married in a month, and you have to stand up with me. It’s a formal wedding, because Brock’s never been married, and I might as well not have been,” she winked with a signifying look, “so I’m wearing a white bridal gown. Bridesmaids’ dresses are on me. We’re the same height and size, so I can do the first fitting. The colors are lilac and dusty rose. Who wants which?”

  “Lilac,” Jamilla said as her sister answered “Dusty rose” simultaneously. Clarissa laughed the laugh of one cleansed of all discomfort. She refilled their glasses, opened her mouth, and began to sing “Amazing Grace.”

  “I’d join you if I could carry a tune,” Jamilla said.

  “So would I, if I knew the words,” Leticia said.

  As Clarissa’s dulcet tones caressed the words of the great hymn, the three of them sobered and looked at each other as if in awe.

  Leticia’s gaze shifted from one to the other of her sisters. “I still can’t believe it, and the wonderful thing is that I like both of you and want to be with you. She gathered them to her. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy.”

  “It’s the greatest day of my life,” Clarissa said.

  “Mine, too. Let’s get together often, but I suggest we always meet on May thirty-first,” Jamilla said.

  “Yes, but don’t forget, we meet next in Washington on June twenty-eighth at my wedding. ”

  They agreed, and set about consuming the remainder of the fare before them, including the second bottle of champagne. Leticia sank into the deeply cushioned, silk-damask sofa, held up her glass as far as her long arm would reach, and kicked up her heels. “Way to go.”

  Precisely at six o’clock on the twenty-eighth of June, Counsel “Konny” Patterson, Jr. sent forth the first peals of the great organ at the All Souls Unitarian Church on Sixteenth Street in Washington, D. C., and Leticia and Jamilla stepped into the aisle, side by side. Carrying bouquets of lavender and pink calla lilies, the sisters took their places at the altar facing Brock and his best man, a favored cousin. When Konny struck the first notes of “Here Comes the Bride,” the congregation turned to see Clarissa, radiant in white and carrying white calla lilies, as she walked between Raymond and Oscar to meet her groom. Half an hour later, Brock’s arms encircled his wife and his sisters-in-law, their tearstained faces wreathed in smiles. Lydia Stanton sat on the third row, nodding her approval as tears of joy streaked her face.

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  DESTINY’S DAUGHTERS

  DONNA HILL

  PARRY “EBONYSATIN” BROWN

  GWYNNE FOSTER

  ABOUT THIS GUIDE

  The suggested questions are intended to enhance your group’s reading of this book.

  Discussion Questions

  More Than This by Donna Hill

  1. Leticia has some ambivalence about her choice of profession. Knowing that, why do you believe she stayed in it so long? What were her options?

  2. After meeting her sisters, would she return to “the life?” Why or why not?

  3. Was family really important to Leticia or simply something she needed to fill in some gaps?

  4. Do you think that Leticia felt less worthy than her siblin
gs? If so why; if not, why not?

  5. Leticia is worldly in ways her sisters are not. Discuss what those ways are and how it will impact her relationship with her sisters in the future.

  Life’s Little Mysteries by Parry “EbonySatin” Brown

  1. How would you have felt toward your adoptive parents if they had separated you from your siblings, who then grew up in foster care?

  2. Was Jamilla right in her feelings of rejection though her adoptive parents loved her dearly? How do you think this affected her ability to maintain a romantic relationship?

  3. Jamilla is obsessed with finding her sisters, though she has literally no information. Would you have continued this quest with such fervor or just let it die?

  4. How realistic do you feel the ending was?

  5. Now that Jamilla has found her sisters, do you think her physical pain and nightmares will stop?

  The Journey by Gwynne Forster

  1. When we meet Clarissa, she is a humble and uncomplicated person. In what respects does she remain this way throughout the story? What are some instances in which she shows loyalty and support for others?

  2. What, apart from loneliness, prompted Lydia Stanton to “adopt” Clarissa? As much as she needed Clarissa, why did she promote her career, in effect encouraging Clarissa to leave her?

  3. How does Brock weave a place for himself in Clarissa’s heart, and why does it seem so right when they are finally together? In what ways does he demonstrate his loyalty to and love to her?

  4. Clarissa bears some marks of a rootless, rejected person. What are some of these traits?

  5. Throughout her life, Clarissa tried to find her sisters. What was her principal method of searching? Why do you think she failed to find them? How did Clarissa’s sisters find her?

  DAFINA BOOKS are published by