Joy (7 page)
The waitress returned with the pasta. With downcast eyes, they both silently swirled the fettucine through the red sauce.
After a few minutes, Sasha dropped her fork. “Anya, I'm sorry. I've been here for less than an hour and you're ready to ship me back. But I can't go back to that lion's den with Gordon and his new wife, and their new baby—please forgive me and let me stay, pretty-please?” She contorted her face, like a lost puppy.
Anya couldn't hold back her laughter. She didn't blame Sasha. All she'd done was ask good questions. “You can stay,” Anya said playfully.
Sasha exhaled, feigning relief “Thank goodness. I couldn't face the new Mrs. Clarke.”
“Isn't it too late to say that? How did they get her on
Jerry Springer?”
“I have no idea.” Sasha shook her head fiercely. “I couldn't believe it when she walked onto the stage. That woman is lying-down-horizontal-on-the~couch-telling-all-of-your-thoughts-to-a-man-in- a-white-jacket crazy! Showing up pregnant and getting all in my face when
she
got pregnant while I was still married to Gordon. She's lucky I didn't beat her down on national TV. With her eighteen-year-old self.”
Anya's mouth opened into a wide O. “Isn't Gordon my age?”
“He wishes. He saw forty a long time ago. Maybe I'm exaggerating—but she's barely twenty-one. Her mother probably had to sign the papers.”
Anya pursed her lips. “Weren't you twenty-one when you married Gordon?”
“Yeah and he was ten years older than me. So now he's old enough to be this hussy's grandfather,” she said. “His child won't know whether to call him Pappy or Granddaddy.”
“Well, I'm glad you're away from that madness.”
“I'm not thinking about Gordon. I got my money,” she said, holding one finger in the air and moving her neck in her best sistergirl imitation. “And that will keep me happy for quite a while.”
They laughed and chatted while the waitress removed their plates. For the first time in days, Anya took flight from what weighed heavily on her. For now, she was going to enjoy these harmonic moments, before she faced the real music.
T
he plush white towel fell and, as Braxton leaned over, he caught his naked reflection in the mirrored wall. He stood, flexed his muscles, then turned sideways, focusing on his legs. Time to hit the bike again.
He tucked the towel around his waist, then, with his electric shaver in one hand, he brushed the other across his facial stubble. Good thing the summer months are coming, he thought. He needed some color. Maybe for the honeymoon, he and Anya could jet off to someplace warm where he could revel in the sun and roast his tan skin to a deeper brown.
The razor's whirring snapped his daydream. He opened the bathroom door and glanced at the answering machine on the nightstand. No blinking light—no calls, no messages.
He wanted to check anyway. One push of the button: “The time is two twenty-seven. You have … no messages,” the mechanical voice announced.
Braxton threw a pillow across the room, then sank into the bed. “How could she not call? She can't still be mad.” But, even as he spoke, he knew she was.
Last night, he had stayed out as late as possible. It didn't matter that he'd been thinking about Anya all night—the point was to teach her a lesson. She was supposed to return home, call him repeatedly, and be overcome with worry … or jealousy. Either would have worked.
But when the taxi dropped him home after four this morning, there were no calls from his fiancée. Growling, he had crawled into bed. With all the wine he'd consumed, he'd fallen asleep instantaneously.
This morning, he'd awakened to the percussion symphony in his head, and he'd spent the last few hours in the soothing, bubbling heat of his Jacuzzi. He had taken his time, knowing that, once he'd finished, Anya's call would be waiting.
Braxton sighed. This was not the time to let pride get in the way. His plan would never come to fruition if they weren't speaking.
Still clad only in the towel, he shivered as he traipsed down the hall to his office, his toes gripping the warmth of the deep pile carpet. Before he entered, he heard the clicking of his fax machine. He knew it was from his agent; his latest contract. As the machine spewed forth pages, he sat back in the chair and smiled. Seven years since his first book—his third contract—his first seven-figure advance. He looked at the pages and whispered, “Thank you, Lord.”
When he was growing up in Oakland, moving from one foster home to the next, he never imagined this. This was a long way from Oakland, and from his first advance of thirty-five hundred dollars. He couldn't buy a believer in those lean years. Even his wife, Roxanne, had walked away. When she'd told him she was returning to Oakland, Braxton had strongly protested and seriously considered giving up his dream. But he'd stayed his ground, birthed his novel, and never looked back. Success was bittersweet, though. It cost him his family; but that was going to change.
He tossed the contract aside and searched his desk. Within minutes, he had the information. It took a few phone calls and more money than he'd expected, but finally everything was arranged.
Braxton leaned into his chair and his towel fell open, but he made no moves to cover himself. Instead, he allowed his mind to drift. After Roxanne, he was sure he would never expose himself to love again. And having a traditional family—he'd given up on that too. But like a blessing from God, Anya had changed all that. Not only did he love her more than he thought possible, but she was the key to building his future.
He rubbed his hands along his face. Anya had to understand what he needed to do and tonight would be a start. Tonight, Anya Mitchell would be like clay, and he would be the master sculptor.
T
he man was parked a few feet away, but when he saw her car, he slouched into his seat. Only the top of his head, covered with a New York Yankees cap, was visible. He watched as she pulled into the garage and closed the door. Then, he lifted himself up. It seemed that she had company and this might take a bit longer. But that didn't bother him. It was the chase that had always thrilled him.
From the first time until now, he'd always enjoyed the hunt. Stalking the prey was exhilarating, though he knew his teacher would disagree.
“You're such a sissy,” he could hear Sean saying.
His friend had never thought much of him. From his first day in school, Sean had taunted him, first with his words, then with his fists.
“Mama's boy, mama's boy!” Sean had chased the six-year-old around the playground.
He had been horrified. “Why are you doing this to me?” he cried.
“Because you're nothin’ but a mama's boy.”
He hadn't known what to do. It was the first time he'd been away from home and his mother at the same time. They had both shed inconsolable tears as she dressed him for school that morning. As he cried, “Why?” his mother had explained that it wasn't her choice, the law made her do it. Their tears had continued as they left the house, and his mother walked him down the blocks, past abandoned buildings to the school that looked as if it should have long ago been condemned.
From the moment his mother left him, the taunting began. He'd endured countless days of terror as he ducked and dodged, trying to escape the wrath of Sean. He was no contest for the older, bigger boy and went home daily with bloody lips and fresh cuts. It didn't help when his mother went to school to complain. He would never identify his assailant, fearing that the beatings would worsen.
Desperate, he finally found his own way to make peace.
“If you leave me alone, I'll do your homework.” His lips had trembled as he spoke.
Sean's fist stopped mid air. “You'll do my homework … every day?”
He'd nodded quickly.
“But, I'm in the fourth grade. You're only in the second.”
“That's okay, I'm very smart.” The words quivered from his mouth.
A slow smile came across Sean's face. “What about mathematics?”
“That's my best subject,” he'd replied, his confidence suddenly building.
His life changed that day. No longer did he live with the fear that had consumed him for over a year. Instead, the seven-year-old became “the scholar” in one of the most notorious neighborhood gangs, led by Sean Thomas's sixteen-year-old brother—the Bedford Boys. “The scholar” now had an automatic ticket for protection from anyone in one of the toughest areas of the city.
A car pulled up next to him, and honked. “Are you coming out, buddy?”
The man quickly turned on the ignition and pulled the car away from the curb. Careless, he thought as he shook his head. No one should see him outside of her home.
He slowly drove up the street and looked at her townhouse in his rearview mirror. It didn't matter that he had to leave—if today wasn't the day, so be it. Patience was what he had to practice. Everyone said that was a virtue.
“How poor are they that have not patience,” he recited Shakespeare's line aloud.
His favorite writer was correct. It didn't matter if he showed her today, tomorrow, the next day, or the next. He would have his chance, and when he finished, she would know for sure that he was a man.
G
irl, this place is laid!” Sasha exclaimed, as she bounded up the stairs to the living room of Anya's tri-level townhouse. She dropped her bag, and raised her head, looking up at the fifteen-foot ceiling. “Wow!”
“This is the main level. The family room is downstairs,” Anya said, as Sasha followed her through the dining room and kitchen, which were decorated in the same black-and-white décor as the living room.
“The bedrooms are up here.” Anya led Sasha upstairs. “There are three of them. One I use as an office, and this one”—Anya swung open the double doors—“is your room.”
“You have got it going on.” Sasha tossed her garment bag onto the wrought-iron bed, then went to the window and pushed aside the sheer white curtains, allowing the late afternoon sun to shine freely into the room. Sasha looked onto the patio, which was trimmed with colorful mums and impatiens that bloomed even in the middle of the California winter. “I love this. I could stay for a year!”
“How long do you plan on staying?” Anya asked.
Sasha shrugged. “I haven't decided. But don't worry, if I get in your way I'll go to Madear's. She'd love to have me stay with her so she could lecture me on all the things I've done wrong.”
“You should call Madear and let her know you arrived safely. We could go over there this evening.”
Sasha sat in the cotton-damask chair that faced the window. “Not today. Give me a chance to get settled.”
“Okay …” Anya dragged the word out. “You sound like you're mad at Madear.”
“Our grandmother doesn't like me.” She put up her hands before Anya could protest. “Save your breath, it's true. You just don't know the whole story.”
“What story?”
Sasha went to the window and stared at the blooming flowers. “You remember Miss Mattie?”
Anya nodded. “She's still Madear's best friend.”
“One summer when I was visiting, Miss Mattie brought some pictures that she'd taken of us to Madear.” Sasha took a deep breath. “Madear looked at a picture of me and said, ‘That chil’ sure is black and ugly.’ “ Sasha paused, shaking her head. “My own grandmother said that.”
Anya frowned. “I can't imagine Madear saying anything like that.”
“I heard her. I had just walked into the kitchen. There was Madear holding the picture, and shaking her head like she was disgusted.”
Anya was silent for a moment. “Do you think you could have misunderstood?”
Sasha shook her head strongly. “I understand English.”
“It doesn't make sense. You look more like Madear than any of us.”
“Only ten shades darker. That's the part she hates.” When Sasha turned to Anya she was smiling. “For a lot of years, it hurt. But I don't trip anymore. Haven't you heard, Black is beautiful. And I am
so
comfortable in my skin now. My dark-chocolate lovely skin,” Sasha said, with her hand on her hip.
Anya hugged her cousin. “I love the way that sounds.” She leaned away from Sasha and playfully rubbed her head. “So it's only your hair that's a challenge now, huh?” Anya teased, anxious to change the subject.
Sasha turned to the mirror and smiled at her reflection. “Do you like it?”
“It looks good on you.”
“It was the final page of my life with Gordon. He liked my hair long, so when I cut it, it was my sign of complete freedom. I cut that man right out of my hair!”
Anya giggled. “Why don't we go out to celebrate the new Sasha Mitchell Clarke Mitchell?”
Sasha sighed. “I'd rather stay in tonight.”
“I thought you were eager to become part of the L.A. scenery. You've got to experience L.A. on a Saturday night.”
“Tonight I'd love to crash.”
Anya shrugged. “Okay, I just want you to have a good time.” She turned to the window and let her eyes drift along the parked cars. There wasn't a person in sight. Still, she pulled the curtains closed.
“Don't worry about me,” Sasha said, as she looked at the business card she'd just taken from her purse. She stared at the name—HUNTER BLAINE—printed in bright red on the white linen paper. “I plan on nothing but good times. Anyway, what about you and the writer? Don't you have plans?”
“I haven't spoken to him today,” Anya said, and resisted the urge to run and check her messages.
“Call him. I can't wait to meet the world-famous author.”
Before she could respond, chimes echoed through the house.
Sasha's eyes scatted around the room. “What's that?”
Through the curtains, Anya saw the cream-colored Land Cruiser in the visitor's spot. “That's Braxton.”
“Whoa, this man is strange. What other sounds does he make?”
Anya laughed. “That's the door.” She bounded down the stairs and tried to hold her smile when she opened the door.
