Searching for Tina Turner (10 page)

“This is why I adore your parties, Lena.” Lynne nudges her husband, who is almost done before the others have barely started.
He shoves food in his mouth and tells them he can’t stop this habit—six sisters and brothers who all ate fast in order to
get seconds—even though it’s been forty years since he sat with them at his parents’ table.

Lynne dismisses him with a wave of her hand. “Your food is so creative, like one of those TV shows. Artsy.”

The dark wood is the perfect backdrop for the food arranged in the middle of the round African mahogany table Lena commissioned
for the square dining room. The rich wood is striated with tiny rings that testify to its age. Frilly paper caps on the standing
rib roast, garnishes of purple cabbage, parsley, and finger-sized fruits; presentation and taste are important to her. She
cannot brag about well-earned promotions or increased corporate profits or the next big takeover like Randall, but she can
outdo most with her food.

Candace, her politically incorrect, six-carat diamond, and her dimpled husband, Byron, sit to Lena’s right and left. Candace
catches his eye as her tongue drags creamy potatoes across her fork.

The bimbette joins in. “Oh, everybody’s life seems much more exciting than Charles’s.” She bats her obviously false eyelashes
in Randall’s face.

“I make money, baby,” Charles says through his second helping of garlic mashed potatoes. “That’s exciting enough.”

Randall slaps his buddy’s back and winks at Lena: I told you so. The bimbette hasn’t been and probably won’t be around long
enough to understand she should keep her mouth shut. Or perhaps, Lena muses, this one gets a “get out of jail free” card,
because she is young enough to be the daughter of any one of them or, as her neckline creeps farther down between her full,
taut breasts, no man pays attention to what she says.

The housekeeper brings in a silver tray with two dessert choices—a thinly slivered chocolate ganache cake and an orange-scented
brioche bread pudding with amaretto cream—paired with Dolce, Randall’s most expensive dessert wine. Every man, save for Byron,
whose mouth twitches in anticipation of Candace’s next suggestive move, engages in a segregated conversation with Randall.
They natter raucously over sports and bullshit in that way men do: disjointed hyperbolic statements that mean nothing, but
their laughter says they’re having fun.

“Why is it…?” Lena straightens so that her voice projects across the table. “That the men talk. The women talk. But we never
talk together?”

The beads of the crystal chandelier tinkle from laughter’s vibration, Randall’s being the loudest. “Because we men never have
time to get together.” To a person, except for Lena, all heads dip in agreement as if Randall is their leader and it is his
right to voice the group’s opinion. Lena is unsure if this is because he is or because they’re in his house, eating his wife’s
good food, drinking his expensive wine. “We work hard to support your habits.” All eyes follow Randall’s finger as he thumps
it against his chest on the spot where the yellow diamond rests on Lena’s.

“Whatever happened to what attracted you to us in the first place: politics, race, music, art, last summer’s bestseller… fucking?”
Lena snaps and watches Randall’s eyebrows arc in dismay at the same time that the doorbell chimes.

“That must be Sharon.” Randall grimaces and shoves his chair back from the table. “I told her to drop by for dessert.”

“Why?” Lena asks.

He looks at Charles. “You’ll get a kick out of her. She’s sharp.”

Lena brushes crumbs from her now crumpled outfit and watches Randall guide Sharon into the dining room by the elbow and make
introductions. Randall has told Lena on more than one occasion that in corporate America, like other places, black folks have
to look out for one another—Sharon needs a mentor, and he needs someone to keep him abreast of what goes on in middle management.
The not so subtle hints that Lena has watched Sharon toss in his direction for the three years she has been with TIDA are
not the kind of loyalty Lena appreciates.

“Why, don’t you look cute.” Sharon bends to greet Lena with a hug. The skinny spaghetti straps of her sleek black cocktail
dress have fallen off her angular shoulders and she looks Lena over again. “That’s the same get-up Randall gave his secretary.
I told him I’d have to teach him a thing or two about presents. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh, I think he does quite well.” Lena fingers her diamond. “When he sets his mind to it.”

Randall squeezes an extra chair in the space between him and Charles and immediately launches into a recap of how he fired
his associate. Sharon chimes in. Together, the two make the dismissal seem like a lively event.

“You should have seen Thompson’s face.” Sharon pantomimes a dejected look. “When he came to clean out his office, he never
looked me in the eye. He was in and out so fast that he left a picture of his kids and dog on his desk.”

“Mess with me once you’re on my shit list,” Randall says. “Twice, and you’re out. You were great, Sharon. I won’t forget that.”
Randall lifts his glass. “To Sharon.”

“And thank you for letting me barge in.” Sharon clinks her glass against Randall’s.

“I bought three chunks each of Novo, Quadra, and IntelligNT.” Randall changes the subject. “Got them all for a steal when
they split.” His voice drops when he reveals the stiff three-figure price per share. Lena watches Sharon’s eyes grow wider
every time his chest puffs higher and higher with each stock description. Lena has told him a thousand times that the men
don’t like to hear him brag. They suffer from financial penis envy, his portfolio is bigger than theirs, but right now she
is unsure for whose benefit the boasts are.

For the second time in less than ten days, Lena has an attack of fantasy violence. This time Sharon is the object of her desire,
only unlike Candace’s comical recovery, Lena imagines Randall would push her away and gallantly rush to Sharon’s side. If
she had the guts to be a bad girl, Lena thinks, she might loosen this damn, scratchy tunic, drop the baggy pants to the floor,
unhook her bra with one hand, and push her lacy bikinis down her legs to get her husband’s attention. She could sidle up to
Randall, press herself against him, moan until he apologized for inviting Sharon.

“You’re a better woman than I am. I wouldn’t have let her in my house.” Candace’s look says you better show that woman whose
man Randall is. “What’s the matter with you? Why did Randall invite her? What was he thinking when he gave you that outfit?”

“He meant for her to have it.” Lena wonders if this is the expensive meal he promised Sharon.

“Randall says you’re quite the decorator, Lena.” Sharon redirects sections of her chocolate dessert to the edge of her plate.
“I’d love a tour of the house. Maybe you can give me a few pointers. I don’t have an eye for that sort of thing.” She pats
Randall’s arm. “And this one keeps me busy.”

“Show her my office and the master bedroom. Take the ladies with you. She just finished redecorating.” Randall rises from
the table and holds an invisible cigar to his mouth—his signal for a smoke on the front porch.

“I think we’ll skip the tour and go into the sunroom. Upstairs is a mess,” Lena lies.

“In that case, I think I’ll join the boys on the porch. I’m sure Randall won’t mind.” Sharon glances at the front door, and
her smile conveys more than friendliness or amusement.

“I’m sure I have a cigarillo you could handle,” Randall says.

“Oh, I can handle that, and more,” Sharon says, standing to follow Randall to the porch.

Lena knows Sharon isn’t the first woman at TIDA to hit on Randall. The CFO’s second wife cornered him at last year’s Christmas
party and told him in no uncertain terms, which Lena could plainly hear, that she always wanted to fuck a powerful, sexy black
man. That woman was not this determined.

With two measured steps, Candace puts herself between Randall and Sharon, separating them with her wide designer skirt and
the woody-amber scent of Hermès perfume. Lena watches her take Sharon’s arm in a firm girlfriend grip, and with that one motion
she forgives Candace for each and every bragging word, for each and every bit of raunchy gossip; this one action endears Candace
to Lena forever.

“Let the boys tell their dirty jokes and smoke their stinky cigars. It’s the one vice we wives allow.” Candace steers Sharon
to the sunroom, leaving Lena and Charles alone beside the table.

“Is she fucking him?”

“Ask him. But Randall’s no fool. You don’t mess around in your own backyard, especially when you’re trying to be the head
of your company.” Charles feigns a slight bow. “I, on the other hand, wouldn’t let my head be turned by some overambitious
twit. If you weren’t married to my best friend, I’d seduce you into having a torrid affair with me and fuck you all over the
kitchen between all the lovely meals you’d cook for me.”

“Drop dead, Charles. If Randall is your best friend, why do you say things like that to his wife?” Lena empties the last of
a bottle of aged cabernet into her glass. “Why don’t you go fuck Sharon? She seems to want to give it up pretty badly, and
you’ve got enough money.”

“Because you know I’m not serious. Because she’s not my type. Because everyone knows you’d never leave the son of a bitch.”
Charles winks and saunters to the porch.

The hint of cigar smoke wafts between the threshold and the door as Lena walks past. Tonight the smell does not remind her
of John Henry or the night Randall gave her the yellow diamond. It reminds her that Randall has his own agenda. That once
she shared that agenda with him. As she nears the sunroom the bimbette’s shrill voice reaches Lena before she sets foot there.

“Does she always go to this much trouble? I mean, that meal was fabulous.”

“For what you ate of it, dear,” Lynne says, her back to the sunroom’s double doors. “We call Lena the black Martha Stewart.
She got away with that off-the-wall comment, though. I thought Randall was going to lose it.”

“Randall? He’s a big, cuddly bear,” Sharon says.

“Yeah, a grizzly,” Lynne retorts.

“Got to give the girl credit,” Candace says. “She
is
talented.”

“Would Lena be nearly as inspired without Randall’s… resources?” Sharon asks.

“Look at these orchids. And who uses their best dishes and silverware, and those tiny veggie dealies, for a casual ‘get together’?
Please.” In one soundless step, Lena traverses the sunroom’s threshold before Lynne realizes her hostess is in the room. “She’s
such a hypocrite. You see that diamond? For all she complains about being tired of material stuff, she flaunts the hell out
of it and everything else. Lena married well.”

“And what the hell does that mean?” Lena’s voice is hard, her enunciation perfect. She knows that Randall can take down a
company, make managers tremble with a simple request, control millions of dollars; he reeks of power—apparently, she is just
the woman attached to the powerful man. “If this is what you say when you
think
I’m not around, what do you say when I’m not?”

The bimbette slinks through the side door. Lena gives the young woman credit for having more smarts than she thought. Unlike
Sharon, who approaches Lena, arms extended, with concern that her face does not show.

“And you. I have no idea why you’re here.” Lena sways—from wine or words, it makes no difference to her—the wineglass slips
from her hand, sending teardrops of red wine onto the now wrinkled sabuk and across the tiled floor.

“I’m here because Randall asked me, Lena. I had no idea you’d object.”

“You need to leave. Now.” Lena points to the door through which Lynne and the bimbette exited seconds before and watches Sharon
take her time to collect her purse and pashmina and strut out of the room.

“Don’t mind her,” Candace says. Lena is unsure which
her
she refers to. “And don’t be a fool. Follow her, and I mean Sharon, and act like nothing happened. I’m telling you.” Candace
pushes a lacy handkerchief into Lena’s balled fist. “She’ll tell Randall that you asked her to leave. If you stay here, she
wins.”

f   f   f

The “everything is okay” smile disappears from Lena’s lips after she pays the housekeeper and turns off the lights. Within
five minutes of closing the door on their last guest, Randall lounges on the cushy chaise beyond their bed. He takes up the
entire space wide and deep enough for two. One leg stretches onto the dark hardwood floor and the Persian rug with a provenance.
He pokes between the cushions for the remote control while Lena paces, full of the energy she needed earlier.

“I told you I didn’t want to have a stupid party.”

“Lynne is too dense to have been serious. She’s jealous. More importantly, you embarrassed me in front of our friends and
my colleague.”

“I embarrassed you, Randall? You invite that… woman to my home. You don’t bother to tell me. She shows up looking like she’s
ready to eat you while I’m dressed in this”—Lena waves her hands up and down her body—“this clown suit, and you’re embarrassed?”

“You were crude. You told Sharon to leave. You owe her an apology.” Randall’s expression is somber and without a hint of sympathy.
He curls his fingers beneath his chin and looks at her in a way that says no further discussion is necessary.

“You get Charles drunk. I have to put up with his lechery. You toast someone I suspect you’re having an affair with, and you
want
me
to apologize?” Lena stands in front of Randall, looking at him looking at her like she is crazy. His eyes say he doesn’t
get it, doesn’t get her.

The only way Lena had been able to fend off her tears was with the handkerchief Candace thrust into her hand. Now, Lena twists
that handkerchief into a tight, skinny spiral and marches into the walk-in closet big enough to be another bedroom. Gucci,
Vuitton, Prada, Armani, and more surround her. She grabs on to the built-in dresser to balance herself and gasps for air.
Left foot then right, she kicks off her high heels and slips into her fuzzy slippers. Eyes blurry, she feels for the corner
shelf full of carry-on totes and yanks at a black travel bag. She needs panties; one pair goes in. She needs a bra; five go
in. The charger for her cell phone, a candle, jogging bra, sweats, jasmine perfume, a sweater, a cocktail dress Randall gave
her two years ago.