Joy (3 page)

Anya looked directly at Braxton. “We're celebrating our love.” She laid the flowers on the table.

“Hey, now, that's a good reason. Would you like something to drink?” the waitress asked Anya.

“An iced tea.” The waitress nodded and left them alone. Anya picked up the menu again. “I think we should order.”

“I already ordered, honey,” Braxton said, taking her hand. “When I realized you were running late, I thought I'd better. That's okay, isnt it?

It was a moment before Anya responded. “What are we having?”

“I ordered the Georgia salad for you. I didn't think you'd want anything heavier.”

Her smile drooped, and she pulled her hand away. From a nearby table, the aroma of the crawfish stew drifted over to her. She inhaled, then picked up her glass of water and took a long sip.

Braxton took her hand into his once again. “Anya, there is something we need to talk about.”

She chewed on a piece of ice. “What is it?”

He sighed and dropped his head, dropping her hand at the same time. “I've been thinking about this marriage counseling.”

It was Anya's turn to sigh. “Braxton, not again.”

“I don't want to fight,” he said, holding up his hands. “But I think we should really think about this before we start. It will be harder to get out once we begin.”

Anya shook her head, but remained silent.

“Counseling is going to be a waste of time,” Braxton continued. “You haven't gone through this before, but I have.”

Anya closed her eyes and held her head in her hands. Around her, glasses and silverware clanked and laughter rose. But all she could hear were the words of the many discussions they'd already had on this subject. Some time passed before she opened her eyes.

“Braxton, just because you think counseling didn't work for you before, it doesn't mean it won't work now. If that were true, then you shouldn't even be thinking about getting married again, because your first marriage didn't work out.”

He shook his head. “I'm not saying that. I'm saying that counseling is for kids just starting out.”

“This has nothing to do with age. This is about taking time with our pastor to discuss all of those issues that come up in marriage. It's about being prepared, Braxton.”

“We don't need outside help with our relationship.”

“Obviously you could have used some help before.” She softened her tone when he winced. “Braxton, just look at this for what it is—a way for us to learn how to keep God in the center of our lives. Why are you so against this?”

“Honey, I'm not against anything. I'm just saying that we already have God in our lives. We're two born-again, spirit-filled, committed-to-God people. That's all we need. We don't
need
counseling.” He paused. “But if you're going to force the issue …”

She sat straighter in her chair. Her voice went up an octave. “You do remember that Pastor Ford requires this counseling if we want her to marry us.”

He nodded.

“So, maybe you're saying something else.” She twisted her ring with her words. “Maybe you don't want to get married at all.”

Braxton shook his head. “That's ridiculous. We don't agree, but you know that I want to marry you. All I'm saying is that we can tell Pastor Ford that we're too busy right now, get out of counseling, and she'll
still
marry us.”

“I can't believe you are actually willing to lie to Pastor,” she said through clenched teeth. “We keep talking about this—going over the same thing. How can taking one hour a week, talking about putting God in the center of our lives, be a bad thing?”

“Here we go,” the waitress sang, silencing their argument. The plate in front of Anya was filled with lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, and carrots, while an overflowing dish of pasta topped with peppered jumbo shrimp sat in front of Braxton. Her eyes darted between her plate and Braxton's, and her stomach growled.

Braxton took Anya's hand, and they bowed their heads while he blessed their food. When he lifted his head, his smile had reappeared.

“Okay,” Braxton said, motioning with his fork, “if I have to live with counseling, then I want you to do something for me.”

Anya stabbed at a plump cherry tomato.

“I want to set our wedding date,” Braxton continued, not noticing Anya's silence. “Let's go in there tonight with an announcement. I think we've put off setting the date long enough, don't you?”

Anya swirled a piece of lettuce in the vinaigrette dressing. Ever since their engagement, Braxton had been pushing to set a date. But she had continually put him off, saying that there was no need to rush. She was just too busy with her business and he was too busy with his writing.

She looked up at him. Now, as Braxton looked into her eyes, Anya knew there were no more excuses. What was she waiting for anyway? “Do you have a date in mind?”

“Tomorrow,” Braxton chuckled.

Anya flinched. “Can't do it that fast.”

“Just kidding—and hoping. How much time do you think we'll need? It's not going to be a big affair.”

“It will still take time to plan, Braxton,” she said coolly.

“Let's do June. That gives us six months, and Junior will be out of school so he could spend some extra time with us.” Braxton smiled widely as he mentioned his son.

Anya hesitated. “That's fine,” she replied, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

Braxton leaned over and kissed her, leaving the savory taste of the peppered shrimp on her lips. “Great! We'll tell Pastor tonight and then we can tell Madear.”

Anya couldn't help but smile when he mentioned her grandmother, the woman who had raised her since she was thirteen. Madear was so happy that Anya had found herself “a good Christian man.”

“You do know how much I love you?” Braxton ran his palm across her cheek.

“I know,” Anya said honestly. She never doubted his love.

Braxton talked throughout dinner, while Anya smiled and nodded. She watched as Braxton swept the last shrimp through the sauce on his plate and popped it into his mouth.

He smiled at her. “Are you finished?”

She munched on one last piece of flavorless lettuce. “I've had just about enough.”

“Great, let's get to church!”

Anya wasn't surprised at Braxton's newfound eagerness. After all, she had given in. Well, she thought, as she backed away from the table, isn't that what a relationship was about … compromise?

The wheels of the metal cart creaked along the carpet. The cleaning lady paused outside David's door.

“Good night, Mr. Montgomery.” With her thick Spanish accent, she always spoke slowly, drawing out every word to make sure she was understood.

David raised his head and squinted through tired eyes. “Good night, Gina.”

Since he'd joined this firm, it had been this way—even the late-night cleaning people came and left before he did.

“I will lock the doors.” The older woman gave David a toothy grin, then ambled toward the front of the office.

David knew what would come next. He waited, counting the seconds and her steps, and then heard her voice.

“Don't work too late, Mr. Montgomery. It's not normal for a handsome young man like you to be working so late. You should be home right now, taking care of a wife and some children. You shouldn't be alone.” Gina tisked and continued mumbling indecipherable words.

David massaged his temples, trying to relieve the headache that had taken up permanent residency there. He waited to hear the office doors close and lock, the signal that Gina had completed her nocturnal soliloquy. Finally, he leaned his tall, ex-tight-end football player frame back in his chair, as Gina's words played in his head.

She'd said he was young and handsome. Young—that was hard to believe because he felt well beyond his thirty-two years. He moved forward so that he could glance at his reflection in his oversized glass-and-chrome desk. Many people said that he was good-looking, at least in recent years. When he was younger, girls preferred the fair-skinned boys. With his dark skin, he was the last one anyone looked at. But times had certainly changed. He was one of the handsome Black men of the new millennium. Chocolate brothers were in demand, and his smooth dark complexion was disturbed only by the close-cut beard that he'd recently started wearing. He guessed he could be considered good-looking, if the way women now reacted was any indication.

But Gina was right about one thing: He was alone. And going home to his Huntington Beach condo served only to remind him of decisions he'd made. It was there that he seemed to remember all the things he tried so hard to forget.

Mitchell and Associates was another attempt for him to start anew. But though he had been in Los Angeles for more than a month, he felt like he was still in the middle of Manhattan.

He glanced at the Linden presentation laid out before him. Seven-day weeks filled with fourteen-hour days had delivered what he knew was a flawless proposal. The office's atmosphere had been electric today, charged with expectation as everyone felt this million-dollar account was about to become part of Mitchell and Associates.

He had brought Linden Communications to Anya the first week he was here. He remembered her face when he told her the numbers this account would bring. She'd shaken her head and called him Mr. Boy Wonder. David exhaled loudly. “Mr. Boy Wonder.” If she only knew.

The miniature walnut grandfather clock chimed softly eleven times. He didn't have to raise his head to know that, finally, it was time to go home.

Slowly, he stuffed papers into his briefcase. He never looked at anything he took home. He was always too tired. But he took them just in case he awakened in the middle of the night.

He stood, closed his eyes, and released a long sigh. He couldn't wait to fall asleep; unconsciousness was his relief.

He turned off the lights and walked through the capacious office, stylishly decorated with glass desks and black lacquer furniture. Moving silently along the rich mauve carpet that Anya had installed when she'd rented this space, he paused in front of one of the positive affirmation posters she had hung throughout the office. DON'T QUIT, he read silently. That was the only thing he hadn't done.

It would be midnight by the time he got home. He would sleep for a few hours, then be up at five for his normal hour run on the beach, before returning to the office by eight—always before anyone else. He knew he was pushing himself, but it was the only way for him to survive.

Chapter 2

I
t felt like it was one hundred degrees in the conference room. The sun wasn't even shining through the paneled windows, but Anya knew if she didn't get relief soon, her satin blouse would be permanently affixed to her skin. She sat stiffly at the head of the long cherrywood table with her hands folded, waiting for Jon Green, the president of Linden Communications, to complete his perusal of the proposal.

Anya took a deep breath, hoping that would provide some ease, but the longer Mr. Greene kept his head lowered, the higher the temperature in the room seemed to rise. With just the slightest nod of her chin, she motioned toward the wall panel and Alaister, her manager for Group Accounts, stood and adjusted the air controls.

Alaister's movement made Jon Greene lift his head. “Anya, this looks good, but I want a few minutes to review these numbers with Charles. Is there an empty room we can use?”

Although surprised by his request, Anya said, “Of course, we can leave you alone in here.” She looked at David and Alaister, and they nodded.

“No, let us go to another office.”

As Alaister led them from the conference room, Anya removed her suit jacket, hoping that the perspiration lines on her blouse weren't noticeable.

“Is it hot or is it just me?”

David smiled and folded his hands behind his head, looking as cool as if he were on a Jamaican beach. “What're you stressing about? We've already won.”

Anya squinted at David's grin. “Cocky, aren't we?”

He shrugged and unfastened the single button on his jacket. “I just know this business and I know the signs.”

A bit too eagerly, Anya leaned toward David. “Signs? What are they? How do you know? Are you sure?”

David chuckled. “The first sign is that they are very impressed with
you!”

Anya stood and paced the long length of the room. She stopped in front of the mahogany panels, which hid the large-screen television they often used for presentations. “Usually I can read body language,” Anya started. “But Mr. Greene never even blinked his eyes.”

“Because he was staring at you.”

She ignored his comment. “And his sidekick—it's amazing to me that Charles is one of the partners. He's barely out of high school. I don't think he understood any of the numbers.”

“It is a curious team, but Jon's the numbers-and-decision man. There's nothing to worry about. They'll come back, tell us they want a few hours to compare our proposal to the others, and they will get back to us tomorrow or the next day—”

Anya jumped as the door of the conference room opened and Alaister returned. His normally put-together facade had melted in the heat. His tie was loosened and his blond hair stuck to his neck.

“Did they say anything?” Anya asked.

Alaister hunched his shoulders. “They hardly said a word. Just thanked me for the room, then closed the door in my face. I put them in Matthew's office.”

Anya sighed deeply. Suddenly she felt drained by the anxiety. She wanted this account. Her business had grown steadily every year since she'd opened, but Linden would bring in an annual premium of more than a million dollars. Winning this account would be the perfect celebration of her tenth year in business.

“We'd better start thinking about hiring at least two associates to execute this business,” David said, breaking the silence.

Anya shook her head. “I wish you would stop—”

A quick knock on the door interrupted her, and the three stood as Mr. Greene reentered the room.

“I thought I might have some questions, but you did such a good job, it's all clear.” Mr. Greene took Anya's hand. “It's about the numbers for me, so let me compare yours to the others and I'll get back to you tomorrow or the next day.”