Message from a Mistress (3 page)

She picked up her designer reading glasses and opened her laptop before she sat in her comfy brown leather chair behind her desk. She checked some e-mails, thought twice about updating her blog, In this Life, about her writing adventures, and then allowed herself to get lost in her research notes. She had to finish up her weekly column and finish an interview she had completed with Tyler Perry for
Essence
.

For the next hour, there was nothing but the steady click-click of her laptop keys as she worked.

Brrrnnnggg
.

“Shit,” Aria swore in immediate frustration, fighting the irrational urge to throw her laptop across the room.

When she was in a writing groove, she absolutely hated to be interrupted by someone calling. When a deadline was breathing down her neck, she wasn’t in the mood for random phone calls about shit she considered unimportant to her life.

Brrrnnnggg
.

Aria snatched up the hot pink cordless on the edge of her leather-topped desk. “Hello,” she said, just short of snapping.

“Hey, girl, you busy?”

Aria leaned back in her chair at the sound of her cousin Lola’s voice. “I’m working right now,” she said, hoping she caught the hint.

“You got a job?” she shrieked like Aria gave her good news.

Aria rolled her eyes. Her family could not grasp the concept that she was not just at home watching the soaps and chilling like a villain. “Yes, it’s called working for myself. I have a deadline, so unless this is an emergency there will be a dial tone coming in five, four, three, two…”

“Ooh, girl, you don’t have to be rude.”

Aria pulled the phone away from her face to stare at it incredulously before putting it back. “Yes, I do, because I told you I would be tied up with work when you called me last night to fill me in on the argument Grandma had with Uncle One-Eye over using old fish grease.”

“Wasn’t that a mess?” Lola said with a laugh. “You
know
I had to call and tell you about that.”

Aria felt like she could literally strangle her flamboyant and loud first cousin, who usually was the comic relief in her life…when she wasn’t busy working on a project. “Listen, Lola, when you’re at Wendy’s taking them orders, I don’t get on the phone and call your job, effing up Wendy’s hamburger flow, to tell you something.”

Lola just laughed. “Aria, you a mess.”

“Bye, Lola,” Aria stressed.

“Call me, girl,” she said in a singsong fashion.

Aria gladly ended the call, but as soon as she sat the phone back on its base it rang again. She dropped her head in her hands in frustration. This time she checked the caller ID. It was one of those 1–800 numbers.

“Ignore,” she said pointedly, waving her hand dismissively.

She caught sight of the bifold frame she kept of Kingston on her desk. On one side was a photo of Aria and Kingston at an outdoor jazz concert, and the other side was a photo of a cuddly tear bear.

Kingston was so anxious to fill the frame and their lives with a baby. And the fact that he was so ready to be a family man made Aria love her loving, sexy, strong, and confident man all the more.

F
or Jaime, image was everything, and in her world, the image was all about perfection. It was a must. The right look. The right hairstyle. The right clothes. The right associates and friends—love them or hate them. The right business contacts. The right thing to say. The right place to be. The right husband, house, and finances. This was all she knew. It was her comfort zone, and in her life she
must
find comfort wherever she could.

Jaime pulled her silver convertible Volvo C70 in front of the valet stand of the renovated 1930s Georgian cottage that served as the day spa Serenity. She double-checked her appearance in her Chanel compact. Her bone-straight jet-black hair—the best complement to her cinnamon bronzed skin—was evenly parted down the middle and lying better than Pocahontas’s, thanks to a celebrity hairstylist who catered to East Coast celebrities.

Her MAC make-up perfectly in place on high cheekbones that screamed of her father’s African heritage and deep-set feline eyes that were all about her mother’s Asian legacy. It was that mixed exotic look that first drew her husband to her. Once upon a time, she thought he would never be able to deny her anything because of her beauty. She thought her seat on his pedestal was unshakable. A constant. ’Til death.

She focused her vision on her reflection and tried to avoid the sadness filling her eyes.
I was so wrong
. She snapped the compact closed and dropped it into her oversized woven straw Coach tote. The diamonds of her two-carat wedding band twinkled brighter than the summer sun, but it was mocking her and so she quickly shifted her gaze away from it.

Literally shaking it off, Jaime slid on her Bottega Veneta shades and climbed from the vehicle, rivaling the sun in a bright lemon Nanette Lepore silk scoop-neck tank and matching flowing pants. If she felt as good as she looked, her walk of confidence into the building would’ve been more than just a front.

“Hello, Mrs. Hall. The ladies are waiting for you in the Heaven Room,” Hannah, the tall and slim receptionist told her as soon as Jaime stepped in front of the solid mahogany desk of Serenity’s foyer. “I have you all set up in changing room number one.”

“Thank you, Hannah,” she told the well-tanned and toned redhead as she passed the desk on the right to reach the changing rooms. Sure enough, a plush white robe and slippers sat folded and awaiting her on the suede chair. The warm décor, plush carpeting, and soft lighting certainly made her feel serene.

A spa day with her friends was just what she needed to forget that the shambles of her marriage was all her own doing. Guilt was a damn hard pill to swallow. Some drinks, pampering, and gossip with her friends would make her forget…hopefully.

Jaime hung up her clothes and slid her undergarments into one of the net bags supplied in the small closet. She sighed at the feel of the silk against her nude skin. Her nipples tingled and goose bumps raced across her flesh. Eric’s emotional sabbatical from sex had her horny as hell. She tried to ignore the steady pulsing of her clit as she left the room and walked down the wide private hall in search of her friends.

“Hello, Mrs. Hall.”

She smiled at the male attendant standing outside the double doors in his all-white attire. He was there to service any of their requests for the day. She gave him a nod and a fake smile as he opened the double doors leading into the private room. Her smile became genuine as she eyed Aria and Renee already comfortably seated in two of the four plush leather massage chairs situated in the center of the all-white room. Jaime knew without asking that they were having chocolate pedicures. She couldn’t wait to join them.

Aria was young and pretty with the kind of laid-back, no fuss / no muss style that Jaime had long ago lost and sometimes yearned for. There was no denying that Aria and Kingston were in love. Jaime always fought hard not to let her jealousy of their marriage taunt her. She’d made the bed of her marriage and now she was lying in it.

Renee was the senior of their group, but looks would never reveal it. The woman was thick and solid with more curves than a roller-coaster ride. Forty looked damn good on her, and that eighty-hours-a-week corporate job wasn’t putting a hurting on her either.
Just too bad Jackson doesn’t appreciate her
, Jaime thought as she sat her purse on the floor and slid onto her leather club chair.

“Girl, your ass is gonna be late to your own funeral,” Aria teased before taking a sip from some frosty red concoction in a crystal goblet.

“And looking good as ever, baby. Believe that,” Jaime teased back, stepping up on the platform to take a seat beside Aria.

Renee snuggled down deeper in her chair and closed her eyes. “Better late than never.”

Aria cocked a thick but well-shaped brow. “We talkin’ ’bout Jaime or a period?”

“Shee-it…
both
.” Renee opened one eye to peer at them as she laughed and reached for her BlackBerry.

“I know that’s right,” Jaime added as she accepted the slender suede menu the attendant offered her on a small silver tray. “I was hoping Jessa would show today because I had to ask her about Olivia’s husband getting caught in the wine cellar…
with
a man…
without
a stitch of clothes.”

“What?” Aria and Renee gasped in unison as they both leaned in close.

Jaime nodded. “Yup yup.”

“Confirmed?” Aria asked, her bright eyes wide.

Jaime shook her head and studied her hands. “Can’t confirm it. That’s why I was hoping to see Jessa. She knows everything about everything.”

Aria nodded in agreement. “That’s true. Jessa always has the best gossip. Our girl does not play. Humph. Wendy Williams don’t have shit on her.”

“Who?” Renee and Jaime asked in unison with confusion on their faces.

“Never mind,” Aria muttered, casting them both the side eye as she reached for her drink.

Jaime just shrugged and waved her hand dismissively. She was sure they had missed one of Aria’s ghetto colloquialisms. “You have to admit that Jessa is easy to talk to, and that puts her ear to a lot of mouths telling their business in Richmond Hills.”

“Call her,” Renee suggested as she sat her BlackBerry down on her lap. “She was supposed to meet us here by now.”

“I tried and she didn’t answer.” Jaime paused as the tall and muscular attendant came to quietly stand by them. Briefly, she eyed him and she couldn’t help but appreciate his lean but athletic frame. Her clit throbbed to life. She pressed her thighs together just to get
any
type of feeling in her pussy. Even more than their sex of the past with wild and wicked strokes of his dick, she would take more than the one- or two-word responses to her constant attempts to talk to him. Reconnect with him. She was so sick of wondering if he would ever forgive her.

Jaime quickly placed her order for a mimosa, anxious to get right back to the juice. Anyone’s business but her own was always interesting and…distracting. “I feel for Olivia. Can you imagine not only the embarrassment of your husband screwing a man, but walking in on them? Thank God I’m not her.”

Renee placed her right elbow on the arm of the chair and held her chin in her hand. “I don’t know what I would do if…if it were me. I mean, Jackson and I have problems, but I never figured infidelity was one of them.”

Aria leaned forward and placed a “don’t fuck with me” expression on her face. “Well, if I walked in on Kingston cheating on me, I would walk right on outta there and come back with nine reasons why both of they ass shoulda been more careful.”

Jaime and Renee both laughed at their young friend as she used her hand to mimic a gun. Aria was a chameleon and could change her demeanor to meet the situation. It was mostly the dignified wife of a doctor, but at times the little girl raised in Newark and not taking any shit came out with much too much ease.

Jaime waved her hand dismissively again as the manicurist entered the room quietly and stooped to prepare the chocolate concoction for her feet. “Well, things couldn’t be better between Eric and me. Marriage is tough, but thankfully we have a strong one and I feel blessed. I really do,” she lied, hiding the truth behind a bright and continually fake smile as she slid her feet into the marble bowl.

Aria looked down to study her freshly polished toes as they walked down the short hall to their private room for coconut massages. As soon as they stepped inside, the sweet but subtle scent of the coconut milk that would be drizzled over their bodies was intoxicating. She allowed herself a deep inhale as they all removed their robes and laid their naked bodies down on their individual massage tables. The feel of the crisp cotton pressed against her skin made her sigh as her masseur covered her to the waist with another sheet.

Aria bit her bottom lip as she thought of Jaime’s declaration of her terrific marriage during their mani-pedis. Something about it irked her. Something about their constant perfection always irked her. “Jaime. Question. If a marriage is good, does that mean a wife should sit and act like the other shoe might not fall?”

“Where’s the trust in that?” Jaime asked.

Aria lifted her head from the table and looked over at Jaime on her left. “There’s a thin line between trust and stupidity,” she said as the masseur gently guided her head back down with one hand as he began the firm massage to her back, neck, and shoulders with heated stones.
God, this shit feel soooo good.

“Well, without trust, the line between being married and being divorced is even thinner,” Jaime shot back in a holier-than-thou tone.

“I think you’re both right,” Renee joined in from Aria’s right.

Aria rolled her eyes. “I am married to a prominent, wealthy black doctor who is fine…matter of fact, fine as hell. Single women stay on the prowl for those endangered species,” she said matter-of-factly, with her eyes closed as she fought to find the relaxation of the massage. “God forbid the wrong bitch with tits and ass for days puts him in a corner, his ass
just
might come out. Y’all feel me?”

“So you don’t trust your husband around
any
single woman?”

That
came floating over from her right.

Aria cocked a shaped eyebrow. “I don’t trust him around
anything
that pees sitting down.”

Jaime coughed as if to clear her throat. “What about Jessa?” she asked slyly.

Aria tensed at the question. “What about her?”

“She’s got tits and ass for days. How you know she’s not fucking your man?” Jaime asked calmly.

Now watch me fix her ass
, Aria thought as the hot stones were pressed deeply into her lower back with just the right amount of firmness. “I guess the same way you know she ain’t fucking yours,” she said with equal calm.

Renee moaned in disapproval. “Ladies, Jessa Bell is our friend—our best friend—and she’s not sleeping with
any
of our men.”

Aria opened her eyes and playfully turned her nose up at Jaime, who in turn winked. “Jessa knows better.”

Jaime nodded. “I was just playing.”

“Aaaaah…” Renee let out a long, drawn-out sigh of pleasure that was more erotic than therapeutic.

Aria whipped her head over to eye her friend. Her sheet was down around the top of her buttocks as the tall and muscular masseur placed heated towels over her smooth back. “You all right over there?” she asked with a teasing tone.

The masseur’s face remained stoic even as Renee began to giggle. “Girl, I’m
good
,” she stressed with another soft smile.

Aria closed her eyes and tried to get focused on the goodness of her massage. This spa day, which she knew would cost her close to five hundred dollars, was a long way from her days back in Newark. That was a time when shit like a manicure wasn’t on the radar of things to spend money on. Food, rent, light bills, bus fare were the first, the last, and the only priorities.

The big-time career as a freelance writer, the big car, and the husband with the big bank account and a big dick were all good, but sometimes she missed the heat and the unique beat of the hood. Sometimes, if she kept it real, Jaime and Renee were too white picket fence for her.

Aria felt out of place from the ladies’ upper-middle-class upbringing and private-school educations. The same background as Kingston’s. Sometimes, Aria felt like she wasn’t good enough for her husband, his life, or his family and friends. Still, she made it her business not to embarrass him or remind him that she was just a poor kid on full scholarship at Columbia with a caseload of Salvation Army clothes when they met.

Aria knew that he loved her—or at least he loved what all he knew about her. She bit the gloss from her bottom lip as secrets she tried to keep buried nudged at her.

Even once the massage drew to an end thirty minutes later and she rose from the table to don her robe, Aria caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the mirrors on the wall. Her eyes were filled with the secrecy of her past.

“I am so ready for my coconut and sugar body scrub,” Jaime said as she swung her hair behind her back.

“Me too,” Renee joined in as she stretched and then pulled her BlackBerry from the pocket of her robe.

Aria barely heard them as she studied her reflection.

The thick and smooth texture of her trendy Rihanna asymmetrical cut.

The slender, almost African beauty of her dark-skinned face with its just-barely-there make-up.

She thought of the clothes awaiting her in the changing room. The hip and stylish dark Rock & Republic jeans paired with a bright red Biba ruffled shirt of sheer silk—an outfit that retailed for more than one year’s rent in the low-income projects where she was raised.

She wondered how much of the woman she was today was Aria Livewell the doctor’s wife, living up to her surname, and how much was Aria Johnson, who was just a ghetto girl at heart.

Their spa treatments were over. They had been massaged, exfoliated, and bathed to perfection. The scent of the coconut milk used throughout each treatment still subtly clung to their soft and supple skin. Now it was time for a light lunch at their favorite restaurant, the Terrace Room, to cap off their relaxing morning. Nothing went better with good friends and good food than a damn good conversation. Renee was more than game.