Sinful Too (21 page)

“You’d have to ask him,” he answered plainly, as if not interested in speaking on it any further.

“No, I’m asking you!” she shouted, failing to keep her voice down. “You are my husband and what I deserve is to know why you don’t need Phillip to be there for you anymore. And . . . and what lies are you tired of telling me?” Nadeen felt sick when she imagined him in Phillip’s arms and their legs intertwined. “I heard you talking about bones and skeletons and alibis, Richard. Tell me what happened and how long it’s been going on and everything you did to have Phillip talking about being turned into something he didn’t want to be!” Amid Nadeen’s hysterical rants, Richard turned a deaf ear. He was overwhelmingly concerned at how the brief skirmish would play out once the congregation got hold of the news.

“I can’t talk about this right now,” he said, too calmly for Nadeen to comprehend.

“You’re going to walk out while we’re in the middle of an important conversation?”

Richard felt his pants pockets for car keys then headed for the closed door. “This is not the place to discuss it,” he mumbled.

“The heck it isn’t. This is where it went down.”

“I’ve got to get some air,” he said, showing traces of remorse for the first time since she began interrogating him. “I’m done. We’ll discuss it when I get home.”

Nadeen huffed furiously. She stood alone in the conference room, ashamed for thinking what she did about Richard and Phillip while drowning in a sea of indecision. Change had always been a strange bedfellow. Having to confront the idea of living with a husband on the down low, as far as she knew, made her shudder. She pondered where she had gone wrong or if his homosexual relationship had anything to do with her. There were far too many questions she wouldn’t get answered until she cornered Richard and demanded them. Nadeen almost laughed at how ludicrous it sounded when hearing her inner voice questioning her husband’s sexuality.

A soft knock at the door pulled Nadeen away from her muted thoughts where nothing stood to reason, absolutely nothing at all. She sauntered to the door, breathed deeply, then opened it with all of the life drained from her face. Bearing a tentative smile was Richard’s personal secretary, Dawn Beverly. She kept to herself more than most, but was quite amicable when the need arose. Dawn was a shade over five-four with a slight frame. Blessed with a smooth medium-brown complexion and soft facial features, she could have presented herself in a more attractive light but didn’t feel the need to overdo anything. The hairstyle she wore rarely varied. She liked it low-maintenance and manageable, like her life. A penchant for modest dresses and quality leather flats served her well, as did her determination to raise two grown children by herself.

Dawn Beverly was good people, without making a big deal about it. Nadeen was reminded of that when she saw the secretary’s hesitant stance underscored by her subtle and almost apologetic eyes. Dawn offered a sorrowful smile then followed it up with a heartfelt embrace. Both women avoided words initially. None seemed suitable at the time. Since Dawn had worked closely with Richard over the past five years, answering his personal and private calls, Nadeen assumed she was aware of his secret life and thereby merely offering confirmation that she had expected it would come to this. Dawn, on the other hand, held on to various assumptions too. She felt uncomfortable when the pastor’s credit card bill arrived with a number of peculiarly intriguing purchases. His spending habits were all over the place. After scanning the charges, an assortment of undergarments from women’s boutiques, popular perfumes, outlandishly overpriced designer jeans, and expensive trinkets from a department store jewelry case, Dawn easily presumed the wayward pastor had strayed from home. Furthermore, the woman he showered with fine gifts was holding something over him he couldn’t see himself doing without. But it wasn’t her place to question her boss about his brief encounter with a shapely lunch date that fell short in front of the Tex-Mex restaurant, or pages of charges from his church-sponsored expense account. Dawn paid the bill, although it was sufficiently higher than in any previous month, and she left it at that. Now, taking in Nadeen’s apparent frustration commingled with an obvious case of embarrassment, it wasn’t a stretch to further presume recent changes in Richard’s behavior also caused uneasy speculation at home as well.

“I can’t tell you how much that meant to me, Dawn,” Nadeen whispered once she’d let go. “I’m sure you’ve heard that Richard and Phillip finally had a fight. I guess it couldn’t have been anything but ugly when it came out. He won’t even tell me what drove him to it or anything about it.” Dawn fought off a frown. She wasn’t certain how much Nadeen knew about the other woman so she reserved her comments. It was a good thing she did, totally oblivious to the true meaning of Nadeen’s supposed revelation. “You think living with a man for eighteen years gives you an inside track to who he really is. I’m sorry to be laying this at your feet. Just talking myself through it. Thanks for listening.”

“It’s the least I could do. Christians got to stand up for one another, even when we make hurtful mistakes.” Of course she was referring to Richard’s. Nadeen chuckled when she caught the hint to keep that in mind when traveling the difficult road ahead. “If He brought you to it, He’ll bring you through it. Everything in its time, my mama used to say.”

“Was she right about it?” Nadeen asked, honestly wanting to know.

Dawn smiled while nodding her head assertively. “Enough for me to share it with you.”

“And I’m glad you did.”

Twenty

See-you-bye

D
ior was unaware how interesting Richard’s life had just become. Contrarily, she zoomed down the expressway heading south, thinking how her life wasn’t interesting enough. She decided to make the best of her day off by mapping out her moves over the next week and setting a few traps along the way. Dior’s plan to wedge herself solidly in the middle of Richard’s marriage was faring on course. However, it hadn’t moved with the speed she’d hoped. Sure, Richard loved being with her, but he didn’t love her. She had a number of ideas up her sleeves to remedy that.

Dooney Does It, the barbershop owned by Dior’s twin brother, was situated on the south end of town in a building once abandoned by the neighborhood, tenants, and the city of Dallas alike. After Dooney’s release from prison four years earlier, he made a deal to rehab the property. Then he convinced big shots on the city council to sell it for pennies on the dollar. Imprisoned for malicious activities, including petty larceny and assault, Dooney walked away from the state correctional facility with his freedom and a new lease on life. While not entirely able to give up his street connections, he steered clear of the most unlawful enterprises. Tight fades and close shaves provided his primary income stream; keeping his hands clean assured him a chance to build more profitable avenues and increase the flow.

When Dior entered the shop looking to see the one man who knew her better than she did herself, she found one of the barbers fiddling with the television remote control instead. “Hey, Tiny, is Dooney in the back?” she asked of the enormously stout assistant manager. He clicked over to a daytime talk show before answering.

“Uh-uh, ain’t nobody here but me and Jerry Springer,” he joked, eyeing the screen until he caught a glimpse of the show’s topic. “Who’s yo baby daddy week?
Again
?” He quickly turned the television off disappointedly. Turning his attention toward Dior, who was dressed in a tightly fitting powder-blue Juicy sweatsuit and running shoes, Tiny knew better than to spend too much time admiring her curves. Despite Dior’s troublesome past, her brother wouldn’t stand for anyone disrespecting her, whether she invited it or not. “What’s been up with you? Ain’t seen you in a minute.”

“Little of this and that. You know where I’m at,” she said playfully.

“Yeah, I remember, stuck somewhere in the middle.”

“Hahhh, you do remember. It looks like Dooney forgot I was supposed to slide by today.”

“He said something about going by the house for lunch. Hit him up on the cell and see if he’s still there.”

Dior eyed the closed storeroom door when she heard a noise coming from the other side of it. Tiny threw his hands up wearily as she marched toward it. “Just you and Jerry Springer, huh? Then what’s with the audience in the back room?” She jiggled on the knob suspiciously, smirking at Tiny’s failed attempt at putting one over on her. “Dooney?” she called out when the door finally popped open. To her surprise, there were rows of neatly stacked boxes where old loungewear had previously been kept. “Tiny!”

“Don’t even ask, Dior,” the giant barber discouraged. “Dooney don’t feel too good about holding boosted gear as it is. I am not getting into it with you. Uh-uh. Close the door, let it go, and walk away.”

“Ooh, are all of these ladies shoes?” she shrieked, bolting into the room. “Dooney done did it, for real.” Against Tiny’s persistent pleading, Dior opened several boxes at random, hoping to find something to fit her taste and size.

“Doggoneit, girl, you sho’ is hardheaded. Nobody is supposed to be in there. If word gets out we have those, it could be hell to pay. I’m a call Dooney.”

“
Call Dooney
,” she smarted off. “I’m not gonna tell anybody he’s babysitting top choice stolen goods.”

Tiny paced outside the room. “Hey, Doo’, this Tiny at the shop. Garrard ’n’em ain’t come through yet but I’ll give you one guess who did and then done sniffed her way into the storeroom goodies. Man, yeah! What was I supposed to do? One of the boxes must’ve fell down or something.” He glared at Dior, riffling through several more pairs of shoes at once. “I told her they were on lock. Uh-uh, you talk to her. She ain’t tryna listen to me or I wouldn’t have had to call you.” Tiny waddled sideways through the door and quickly handed the cell phone to Dior. “Here, now let’s see you talk your way out of this.”

“Hey, Dooney, I didn’t know you were fencing boosted gear. I could have been shopping here all along. You got some good stuff too,” she said, painstakingly shoving her foot into a knee-high leather riding boot. “Huh? I heard what Tiny said. He’s not running anything but his mouth,” she added, goading the big man to his face. “Don’t you yell at me. Don’t yell!” she hollered into the receiver. “I got
money.
Enough to get me these boots before you and your fat friend go to jail. Okaaay, okay. You know I’m just playing. Yeah, I’m on the way there now. Bye,” she spat hastily, while shoving the phone at Tiny in the same rude manner he’d done to her. “Here, Dooney wants to get at you, big boy.”

Tiny, annoyed by the game Dior initiated, listened and muttered quiet responses. “Yeah, I know she’s your twin. Yeah, I been knowing that too. Alright, I’ll do it only ’cause you said so. Bet.” Tiny flipped his handheld closed, sighed mightily, and stepped toward the box of boots Dior was about to carry off. Tiny frowned at her then swiftly snatched it from her hands. “Ahh-ha, who’s laughing now? Dooney said for me to confiscate whatever you was tryna take and get to puttin’ you out the shop.” He wasted no time before relishing in his victory. “Well, get to moving. The exit door is that-a-way. It must be getting kinda hard, living right there, stuck in the middle.”

“Whatever,” she hissed halfheartedly. “I’ll take this up with Dooney when I see him. You just make sure to hold those back for me. I don’t want to see nobody in my boots.”

“See-you-bye,” he said, motioning toward the door with a satisfied grin.

“I’m serious, Tiny! And don’t eat ’em,” she teased. “Not everything dark chocolate
is
chocolate.” Dior sashayed to the head of the shop, slinging her behind to further aggravate matters. She threw a glance back over her shoulder and laughed at his sex starved expression. “Uh-uh, you can’t eat this either.”

“You wrong for that, Dior!” he shouted after her as she exited the shop. “Wrong! Why she got to be so fine, fine and hardheaded.” Dior had shaken off their interaction in the time it took to drive twenty miles to Dooney’s home just north of downtown. Tiny never quite managed to get over it.

Dior hummed along with a song on her car stereo when exiting off the tollway. She hit a left then traveled west until she reached one of the oldest African American communities in the city. What once had been block after block of quiet residential districts had morphed into a busy lower-class neighborhood where adult grandchildren never left the homes where their parents had been raised. Although it wasn’t exactly clear why new Mercedes Benzes and broken-down hoopdies often shared the same small driveway, she didn’t think it made any sense for three generations of family to live cramped in the same house. Dooney was one of the exceptions. He lived alone, kept his vehicle in the garage, and his house was immaculate. Dior eyed the sidewalk suspiciously then armed her car alarm. Not that thieves would have taken a particular interest in a three-year-old 3-Series BMW but she didn’t want to go through the trouble of being wrong.

She walked past one of very few lush green lawns in sight as she ascended the pathway toward the one-story ranch-style house, which was constructed with considerably more wood than brick. The reason why a man who owned a lucrative business, the building it operated in, and four other rental properties would actually choose to reside in the smallest and least appealing of them escaped her. There’s no way she would think of living in that neighborhood or in that house, if other options were available. The difference was, Dooney had risen from the ashes of his checkered past with his self-esteem intact. What people thought about him didn’t matter nearly as much as what he knew about his own successes. Unfortunately, Dior hadn’t begun to realize she wasn’t the designer outfits she wore or the secondhand car she lied about buying off the showroom floor. She was still reaching for the lifestyle she wanted others to believe she’d already captured. Dooney had his grasped firmly by the neck.

When Dior rang the doorbell, she followed it with rapid thumps on the front door. Dooney whipped it open with his right hand carefully hidden behind his back. Dior recognized the pose he took. She threw her hands up in a defensive posture. “Don’t shoot, it’s just me,” she said, annoyed by the hostile manner with which he greeted her.