Until I Saw Your Smile

 

 

 

“In this deceptively light but ocean-deep sendup of dating and reality television, Murray takes a fun, reflective look at interracial relationships.... The religious elements are always uplifting and never overbearing, and readers should brace for a three-hanky finale.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

“Murray orchestrates another smart, entertaining interracial romance.... Murray's wonderful characters, caring perspective, humor, and the story's fabulous ending make this a winning read.”

—
Booklist

 

“J. J. Murray uses the reality TV show and the behind-the-scenes machinations to launch a romantic comedy between well-developed characters with a unique introspective style. The burdens of interracial love are interwoven without a squeamish approach. On the flip side, the blessings of interracial love are celebrated with a masterful touch that rings true with genuine respect and consideration.
A Good Man
earns a place at the top of the to-be-read pile.”

 

 

 

“A sexy story of love, romance, and getting even.”

—
Upscale Magazine

 

 

 

“Murray tells a sexy story of interracial love that's long on charm, romance, and humor.”

 

 

 

“Thoughtful and well done.”

—
Library Journal

 

 

 

“
Something Real
is about a woman finding herself and finding her voice in a community too quick to judge.
Renee and Jay
was a promising debut.
Something Real,
which is a more mature and richer work, is even better.”

—
The Roanoke Times

 

“Delightful! Sexy! Touching!
Something Real
is like a burst of sunshine. This release is definitely something special and something real! This is a story that readers must experience for themselves.”

—
Romance in Color

Books by J. J. Murray

 

 

RENEE AND JAY

 

SOMETHING REAL

 

ORIGINAL LOVE

 

I'M YOUR GIRL

 

CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF YOUR LOVE

 

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING

 

THE REAL THING

 

SHE'S THE ONE

 

I'LL BE YOUR EVERYTHING

 

A GOOD MAN

 

YOU GIVE GOOD LOVE

 

UNTIL I SAW YOUR SMILE

 

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

until I saw your smile

J.J. Murray

KENSINGTON BOOKS

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

For Amy

Chapter 1

M
atthew Mark McConnell, self-employed Internet lawyer, opened the door of his apartment above Mittman's Pharmacy and Jesse's Plastic Covers at South 3rd and Havemeyer Street in the shadow of the Williamsburg Bridge in Brooklyn, and he didn't smell
baleadas
cooking, nor did he get his usual spicy kiss from his girlfriend, Joy.

He stepped inside and sniffed the air.
Oranges? I haven't had an orange in months. I wonder where Joy found them.

“Joy, did you get us some oranges? Where'd you find them? Santos? Alegria? I was just at Melo's and didn't see any.” He had seen grapefruits in abundance but only because someone had decided February should be National Grapefruit Month.
The shortest month for a sour fruit.

He opened the closet door and hung up his dripping trench coat, its lining loose and flapping. He then set his laptop case and a plastic bag containing microwave popcorn on the pockmarked walnut kitchen table.

“I got the popcorn,” he said in the direction of the apartment's only bedroom. “Are we eating out tonight?”

He heard the usual buzzing of the refrigerator, the drip at the sink, the steady hum of traffic on 3rd Street, the hiss of the radiator in the living room, and the ticking of the clock above the stove.

Perhaps Joy is hiding under the covers,
he thought
. So my sweet Honduran
princesita
wants to cook in bed tonight instead. This week is going to end in style.

“
Tu eres muy sexy,
” he called out. “
Tengo ganas.
”

And that was almost the extent of Matthew's grasp of Spanish. Joy was
very
sexy, and he was horny.
What else is necessary to know on a Friday night?

Before he joined his
belleza chiquita
warming up in the bedroom, a flash of pale yellow paper caught his eye. Affixed to the refrigerator, just below the “World's No. 1 Teacher” magnet Joy's elementary students had made for her, was a Post-it:

 

 

Matthew blinked at the Post-it.

He reread the Post-it.

He continued to blink.

He looked at the kitchen counter, an empty space crawling with dust and bread crumbs.
Where's the microwave? Did it die already? It serves me right for buying a used microwave with a thirty-day warranty—

He read the Post-it a third time.

Anciano
? I'm not an old man. I'm not ancient. Thirty-five isn't old. Joy says it doesn't matter that I am ten years older than she is. She says she likes a man with a little extra mileage on him. And she says she's sorry? Doubtful. I have never heard her say, “I'm sorry.” I have never heard either of us say “I love you” either, but we're working on that. And what's with the smiley face? Who puts a smiley face—

He closed his eyes.

Matthew briefly wondered if “the DR” was a new restaurant somewhere in somewhat trendy, hip Williamsburg.

Only briefly did he wonder this. He knew his hometown and all its eateries like the back of his now shaking hand.

He tried valiantly to take stock of his situation.

Joy has
left
me for Carlo while I sat at the Atlas Café all day sponging off their free Wi-Fi and electricity, trying to solicit clients. Okay, okay. I only played marathon games of Internet spades, ate pear chocolate turnovers, and drank sour coffee.

Oh, right. The short, hairy guy I met at Tabaré a few weeks ago. “You just
have
to meet him,” Joy had said. “Carlo is
so
amazing. He has
so
many stories to tell about his beautiful country.”

Matthew reread the Post-it.

It still ended with the smiley face.

An exchange teacher. Carlo di Ponti or di Pointy or something like that. Joy has run off with an exchange teacher. He's only here for a few months with his students from the Dominican Republic. “I love your country,” Carlo said to me. “It has so many possibilities.” I suppose that's Dominican code for “I'm taking your smoking hot girlfriend back to my country, ha ha, you stupid
anciano
!”

An exchange teacher. Who runs off with an exchange teacher? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? Isn't Carlo supposed to get Joy to marry him here so he can get his green card and stay here? What color card will Joy get down
there
?

Out of habit and not knowing what to do with the breakup Post-it now crumpling in his hand, he opened the refrigerator door and looked inside.

It was empty.

Except for a smattering of spills and congealed, red blobs clinging to the wire metal shelves, it was completely empty.

He opened the bottom right drawer of the refrigerator, the one usually reserved for alcohol.
She took the bottle of Krug Grande Cuvee, the champagne we had been saving for a special occasion. I guess today was a special occasion for her.

He looked at the top of the refrigerator and saw more emptiness.
She took the box of stale Ritz crackers
and
the last bag of Bachman's pretzels. She and Carlo must be flying coach. I hope those pretzels are so salty she has to drink Caribbean water and gets the runs while she's in the air! Maybe the blue water in the plane's bathroom will splash up on her—

He checked the freezer compartment. All the Lean Cuisines and even the last Trader Joe's Chicken Tandoori and Celentano lasagna were gone, too.

Joy left one ice cube tray containing half of one crusty, frostbitten cube of ice.

He left the kitchen for the bedroom and looked at his bed, now a collection of rumpled bed sheets, the comforter thrown back to the headboard, the pillows mounded suggestively in the middle.

He cracked a window and considered tossing the Post-it into the night. He shoved it into his pocket instead before gathering the pillows and bedding carefully, rolling it all off the bed and onto the floor.

Burn them or wash them? Wash them,
then
burn them? Joy picked out the comforter and the oversized pillows, but I paid for them. Yeah, I'm paying for it, all right. Michael warned me not to date a younger woman. He warned me not to hook up with a woman who smiled at me while cursing in a language I didn't completely understand. Joy taught me a great deal of Spanish, but I have enough trouble with English. “She'll cost you in the end, my friend,” Michael had said. “There's something about her eyes. She has crazy eyes, Matthew. They don't ever quite focus. Never trust a woman with crazy, unfocused eyes.”

He stared at the bedroom floor, the hardwood scuffed and bruised, and for the first time he missed Joy's ratty slippers, slippers he tripped over nearly every night getting into and out of bed.

Matthew sighed.

He tried to remember Joy's last words to him that morning. Was it “This isn't working out, Matthew”? Or “I'm going to work out, Matthew”? It might have been “I'll give you a workout when you get home.”

He had been hoping for the last one. Joy was good at working him out.

He looked again at the mound of sheets, pillows, and comforter.

He sighed again.

Joy
could
have said, “Matthew, I think we should see other people,” that reasonably mature though trite and trusted way to break up with someone without saying the actual words.
I
didn't see other people.
I
only saw Joy.
I
thought Joy was The One.
I
thought we were on the same page.
I
thought we were two hearts beating as one.
I
thought . . .

He looked again at the heap of bedding on the floor.
So while
I
wasn't seeing other people, Joy was on the prowl. And what do I see now as a result? I see soiled bedding crawling with Carlo's and Joy's DNA.

I also see my immediate future. I have the joy of reliving the last year of a relationship that
I
took seriously while my only bottle of champagne, the entire contents of my refrigerator, and a bag of pretzels flies off to the Dominican Republic!

He kicked the bedding into the hallway.

A short exchange teacher with chest hair, a thin moustache, and an accent. “I love how
tall
you are,
mi macho
Matthew,” Joy had said. “I love how
smooth
your face is,
mi amorcito
,” she had said. “I love your accent,
mi cariño,
” she had said.
Joy had even called Matthew
quequito,
her “little cupcake,” even though he was twice her size.

Hairy. Joy evidently liked hairy, which is ironic. She always told me to shave and “tidy up down there,
por favor
” and “ooh, there's a
cabello
in the sink” and—

He didn't see the key on the nightstand.