More to Life

by ReShonda Tate Billingsley

  “What you need to do,” I continued, vowing that she wasn’t going to reduce me to a sniffling basket case, “is get you some business and stay out of mine. Here’s a thought. Go get a man of your own. And release the hold on your son.”

  She wasn’t moved. “Trash like you can come and go. Mothers are forever.”

  “You know, it’s a good thing that I’m leaving because I would hate to have to put your ass out on the street,” I told her.

  “My son would never allow that to happen,” she protested.

  I managed a laugh. “Then you don’t know your son as well as you think,” I said. “The only reason you’ve been here is because I allowed you to be. And we were already talking about ways to get rid of you. But it’s a moot point now. You’ve made your feelings known. I didn’t want to hurt my husband. And I pray every day that he forgives me.”

  “And I pray every day that he doesn’t.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter because I’ve forgiven myself.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  My laugh this time was real. I was done. “Whatever. You can take your sanctified hate and go somewhere because I’m done.”

  She literally followed me up the stairs. “My son cared for you when you were on your deathbed.”

  I turned around at the top of the staircase, sorrow filling my face. “And I will be forever grateful for that, Judy.” I took a deep breath, then released it. “I will be grateful to you. To everyone who helped me, but it doesn’t change the situation that was at hand before my accident.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this to your family. God forgive me, but I wish you had died in that accident.”

  I just stared at her before shrugging. “But I didn’t. Not only did I not die, coming close made me want to live. And that’s what I’m going to do. Charles may not understand it. You may not understand it. My kids may not understand it, but I’m saving me.”

  I walked into the bedroom to pack my things, slamming my bedroom door on my mother-in-law. Twenty minutes later, I had my suitcase and a duffel bag slung over my shoulder as I stood at my front door. I paused and looked back over my shoulder, knowing this time, my departure was for good. At some point I’d have to come back, get the rest of my things and clear up all my loose ends. But something told me it would be a while before that happened. Charles had to heal and I had to get to happy.

  Chapter 33

  I sat across from the Quiet Quilt as tears streamed down my face. How had my dream been so completely derailed?

  The Quiet Quilt was no more. The awning had been painted. The sign had been removed and a Coming Soon sign placed in the window. I peered over my steering wheel but I couldn’t make out what the name of the business was.

  Curiosity got the best of me so I eased open my car door and stepped out.

  As the sign came into focus, my heart dropped to my stomach. “Coming Soon: We Work It.” I leaned in closer to read the tagline—“a work space designed to help creatives reach their dreams.”

  Not only had I lost my building but the new tenants were opening a business to help people live their dreams. What kind of cruel joke was God playing on me?

  “Excuse me, may I help you?”

  I turned toward the voice and saw a pretty doe-eyed woman with long blond hair.

  I pulled myself together. “Umm, I . . . I’m sorry, I was just reading your sign.”

  She smiled. “Yes, We Work It. We open next week. You ever heard of us?”

  I shook my head.

  “We have offices all over the country. Basically, we provide shared workspaces for entrepreneurs, freelancers, artists, start-ups, small businesses, stuff like that,” she said. She sounded like she was reciting a pitch straight off a postcard. She extended her hand. “I’m Ruth, by the way.”

  “Hi, Ruth.” I contemplated telling her I had planned to use this space, but if I said much more, I would probably break out into tears. “I came here when this was a quilting shop and just wanted to see what was here now.”

  “Yes, I actually bought it from the owner of that shop. She wanted to move to be near her grandkids. My husband and I had been looking at this area for a while. We bought the franchise and thought this was a perfect spot.” She laughed. “When we first inquired about it, the owner had just leased it out then something happened and voilà! it opened up for us. Isn’t God good?”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. Thankfully, she didn’t wait for me to reply.

  “When we first found out the place had been leased, I told George, that’s my husband, what God has for us is for us.”

  I managed a smile. “I guess this was for you, then.”

  She stood back and admired the building. “It sure is. Well, I would ask you to come in, but the place is a mess. I’m trying to get it ready for our grand opening next week. If you know any creative types, let them know we’re here.”

  “I will,” I replied. I pushed down the queasiness in my stomach. “Well, I’ll let you go. Goodbye.”

  I turned and scurried back to my car. I’d expected to get inside my car and burst into tears. But when I set foot in my car, no tears would come.

  “This was a detour, not a derailment.”

  The words of that old lady from the DR continued to follow me. But this time, I knew exactly what she meant. My mother once told me that my name meant “fighter.” My brother, Eric, had laughed and said that Mama made that up to make me sound important. But I’d fought my way back to mobility. I could fight my way back from this.

  Yes, this was a detour, not a derailment. Now I just needed to figure out how to get my dreams back on track.

  Epilogue

  Nine months later

  My dream had come to fruition.

  I glanced around the room and a smile not only filled my face, it filled my heart. This was the culmination of months of hard work, of nonstop painting, and what Roxie called “sweat equity.”

  But looking around the room, I knew that it was all worth it.

  “So, is this all the drinks you’re going to have at this shindig? Wine?” Nichelle approached me as I stood in the back of the room, overlooking the small crowd that had started to gather for my grand opening. “You got us all the way out here in the boonies and we can’t even get the good stuff?” She held up the bottle of wine. “And you’re buying stuff we can’t even pronounce?”

  “Yes. First of all, Katy isn’t the boonies. I moved out here because the area doesn’t have a place like this. Secondly, that is eiswein. It’s from Germany.” I snatched the bottle back. “It’s an art and wine gallery, not art and chug-a-lug, Chug-A-Lug Queen. If you want real liquor, go down the street.”

  “Or to my purse,” she said with a wink.

  “Nichelle Shavonne Humphrey, if you pull some liquor out of your purse at my grand opening—” I warned.

  Simone stepped up and draped her arm through Nichelle’s. “Don’t worry. We’re going to make her behave.”

  The two of them giggled as Eric approached us. He’d come home for my event. Anika had been unable to make it. Or rather, she decided against making it.

  “Yo, Mom. This is really nice and all, but can I bounce? Jason an ’nem are getting together.”

  I smiled at my son and patted his cheek. He’d been here longer than I ever thought he would be able to take it. “Yes, son, thank you for coming out to support. Make sure you tell Jason an ’nem hello.”

  I was just happy that Eric had shown up. When Charles and I sat Anika and Eric down and told them we were divorcing, it had been harder than I imagined. Anika had taken it the hardest, refusing to speak to me for weeks. I knew she was upset that her father had nursed me back to health and I was still leaving him. I echoed Jewel’s words and told her it would have been unfair to stay. She didn’t get it. But I knew at some point my daughter would come around. Eric took the news better, but I could tell he was hurt. Ultimately, he told me that he just wanted me to be happy.

  I was gratefu
l that Charles had taken the high road, not once bashing me to our children. And in fact, he was helping Anika work through her anger with me, which I knew was difficult since he still harbored some anger and resentment.

  I didn’t expect Judy to be here because in the four months since my divorce had been finalized, she was the one person I had never spoken to. Charles made it a point to have her out of the house when I officially moved all my stuff out. And when Anika and Eric came to visit me, they came to my loft overlooking downtown Houston. I hadn’t gotten a Roxie-level apartment, but my place was good enough for me.

  “Your first VIP guest is here,” Roxie said, motioning toward the front door as the leggy woman who looked more like a fashion model than an art critic walked in. “Is that the reporter from the newspaper?”

  “Art critic, not reporter.” I nodded. “She goes to my church. I didn’t know if she was going to show.”

  “Well, do your thing,” Roxie said as I inhaled, brushed down my silk African skirt that I’d had made just for this event, and went to greet my guest.

  “Hi, Joy,” I said. “Welcome. I’m so glad you could make it.” I extended my hand.

  She shook it. “Thanks for the invitations. All six of them.” She winked.

  I smiled. “Just wanted to make sure you got it.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t miss this, especially with your huge ‘get.’ ” She glanced around, taking in the artwork. I’d prided myself on taking my time to make sure the gallery was set up just right. I’d decided to feature art primarily from Nigeria and West Africa, along with original paintings from U.S. painters of African descent, including my work, of course. I was so proud of my paintings, which covered an entire wall.

  I’d finally taken them out of the closet.

  I’d lined another wall with wine from various parts of the country.

  “This is really nice,” Joy said, looking around. “I will admit, I didn’t know what to expect.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll be pleased. Not only with my work,” I pointed to a large painting that hung over the bar, “but all of the artists featured here.”

  I could tell she was impressed because she nodded her approval. “Well, you must tell me how you snagged a LaTerus original. That’s all of the buzz of the art conference at the convention center. How this small upstart Katy gallery snagged one of the hottest artists in the industry.”

  That made me smile. “A wise woman once told me that when you walk in your purpose, you’d be amazed at all the doors that would open up,” I said.

  “Is it true that you reached out to him on Twitter and told him that you were a small gallery owner starting over in life and requested to showcase his newest piece?”

  I nodded. “I knew the art convention was coming to town, so I figured, what did I have to lose. I sent him a direct message, told him about our shared passion, and was shocked when he replied and said he was looking to do something different for his newest work and he believed in giving back, so here we are.” That had been an unexpected blessing. I never in a million years dreamed an internationally known painter would agree to my request, but I chanced it and asked anyway.

  “Talk about amazing.” Joy shook her head in awe. “The little gallery that could.”

  I smiled my appreciation. My new life had given me a new outlook. I wasn’t afraid to take chances. I didn’t hesitate to step outside the box. And the only opinion that mattered to me now was mine.

  It was an exhilarating feeling.

  “If you don’t mind, before I leave, I’d really like to talk to you about stepping out on faith and following your dreams,” Joy said. “My photographer will be here later and we’d love to get some pictures of you in your element.”

  I beamed. “Of course.”

  “I love that you are following your passion.” She leaned in. “Between you and me, I’ve been thinking of writing a book of all the things I’ve collected that bring me joy this past year.”

  “A year of Joy,” I said. “I love that.”

  “And that sounds like a perfect title,” she replied. “You’re inspiring me to do just that.” She glanced around. “Well, I’m going to take a look around and I’ll talk to you a little later.”

  I smiled just as the door chimed and some more VIP guests came in.

  “King, Tiffany, Osayer.” I beamed. These were three of the top art reviewers in the country and they were here in my gallery. I figured Tiffany would come since we went to school together at Texas Southern University and had taken some art history classes together. When I found out they’d be in town for the art convention, I’d personally invited them as well. Tiffany had agreed to drop by if she could squeeze it in. Of course, King and Osayer had blown me off—until they found out about the LaTerus piece.

  “Aja,” Tiffany hugged me. “You look marvelous. Girl, how do you go from being a social worker to this?”

  “You just do it,” I replied. “Your desire to follow your passion has to become greater than your resistance,” I said, echoing my seat mate from the airplane. “I’m so glad you all could make it.”

  “Well, we just had to see the little shop that snagged a LaTerus original,” Osayer said, looking around. “I take it that’s it?” she said, pointing to the covered piece by the front entrance.

  “It is,” I said with a proud smile.

  King added, “You know you’ve generated quite the buzz at the conference. The Houston Art Gallery had been trying to get this piece for a year but he turned them down.”

  “I guess I’m just blessed,” I said. “Please come on in, enjoy our wine, look around. LaTerus will be here in about thirty minutes.”

  I eased to the back of the room and marveled at the magnificence of seeing my dream come to fruition. After soaking it all in, I walked around and mingled with more guests.

  “Um,” Roxie eased up behind me, “don’t act surprised, but Charles just walked in.”

  I looked up, and for a moment, I had a nostalgic flutter. My ex-husband was, and always would be, fine.

  “Hi,” he said, stepping toward me. He’d cut his hair and now wore a close-cropped fade. The haircut, along with his paisley shirt, dark blue blazer, and khaki pants gave him a youthful appearance.

  “Hi.”

  He paused, like he wanted to make sure it was okay, then he hugged me. “This is really nice, Aja.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I would say I can’t believe you did it, but I can.” He paused, then added, “I’m just really sorry that I didn’t help you achieve this dream.”

  Charles had sat through our divorce proceedings in a daze. At one point, he’d told me that he was stunned because he thought that we had a good life.

  “Where did I go wrong?” he’d asked through tears as we sat with the mediators.

  Though I’d told him about my biggest issues, I could tell he still didn’t get it. I didn’t know if he got it yet. I could no longer be focused on that.

  I snapped out of the past. I wanted to leave all those thoughts in the past and focus solely on my future.

  “I would never belittle all that you did. I am grateful for everything we had and everything we built,” I told him.

  He looked around the room and we stood in an awkward silence for a moment.

  Finally, I said, “Where’s Sunnie?”

  His eyes bucked and I couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “You might want to get an Instagram account so you can monitor how much your girlfriend is posting your business,” I told him.

  “I-I . . .” He stammered like he didn’t know what to say.

  The first time I’d seen the picture of Sunnie and my ex-husband, I have to admit, I felt a pain in my stomach. My immediate reaction was to get mad, wonder if that had been Judy’s goal all along. If that had been Sunnie’s goal. But then I decided it didn’t matter. Sunnie had helped me heal, and for that I would be eternally grateful. Maybe she was brought into my life to heal my body and heal Charles’s heart, be
cause he definitely looked happy in the pictures she posted last weekend.

  “I promise I’m not stalking you. I just happened to see them because one of your fans shared it.”

  “I, uh—”

  I cut him off. “It’s okay. I do want you to be happy. Though between me and you, Anika will never call someone less than ten years older than her, mom.”

  “It’s not that serious. I wouldn’t . . .”

  “I’m kidding, Charles. I really do want you to be happy.” I meant that. I knew that some couples divorced and had contentious relationships, but I hoped we could be mature enough to want nothing but the best for one another.

  “I want the same for you,” he said and I could tell he meant it, too.

  We hugged, then broke away for the last time—and went our separate ways.

  “LaTerus is pulling up,” the party planner I’d hired to help with the event whispered just as I stepped away.

  I took a deep breath and prepared to corral the crowd to welcome my favorite painter.

  I grabbed a glass of wine off the bar and turned to my guests. “Hello, everyone! May I have your attention.” The chatter subsided and all eyes were on me at the front of the room. “While we wait on LaTerus, I wanted to thank you all for coming out this evening and to welcome you to Utopia Art and Wine . . . I am grateful to each of you for being here this evening and sharing in what is truly a dream come true. I am proof of what can happen when you find your passion . . .”

  A Note from the Author

  They say writing is therapeutic. Because I love the craft of storytelling, I never understood how true that statement was—until I began writing this book. When I sat down to write this story, life as I knew it had been turned upside down. Many people don’t know it, but I was in the midst of a storm while writing this book. No, bump that, I was in the middle of a full-fledged hurricane.

  My perfectly constructed life had come toppling down.

  I probably should’ve called this book The Devil Sure Is Busy. That didn’t really have anything to do with this storyline, but that’s the life I was living. From the outside, it looked like I had a dream life. And publicly, I kept a smile, even as I cried inside. Behind closed doors, I was dying. I call it my on-the-sofa time because I literally and figuratively was on the sofa. Life had knocked me down and I just didn’t want to get up. I found myself facing a divorce after twenty-plus years, a stalker tried to ruin my life, my children—my heartbeats—were suffering, falling apart, and I felt helpless. I was also dealing with some medical issues, helping my sister take care of our disabled mother, and then, my career—one ripe with forty-plus books and two movies—had become stagnant and eventually, hit rock bottom. My bank account was drained dry and I lost virtually everything—including a book deal I’d had for nearly twenty years.