What a Sista Should Do (9 page)
Troy replies, “Yes, of course. And this is my wife, Pam.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
“Likewise.”
Shane sits forward in his chair and clasps his hands together. “Let’s get directly to business. I want Lisa. She’s going to be the next Mary J. Blige.”
“If you think she’s going to blow up, then why should I let her go?” Troy asks. “I’ve spent a lot of time grooming her into the artist that she is.”
“And we appreciate what you’ve done, and we’re willing to compensate you for that. How does two million sound? I can write the check out now.”
Troy’s eyes are open so wide they look about ready to fall out of his head. I place a hand in his. “It sounds like your first offer,” I respond smoothly.
Shane laughs. “So what is your counteroffer?”
Troy looks at me uncertainly. I take this as a cue to continue negotiating with Shane. “We’ll take four million, and you’ll have Lisa free and clear.”
“Three is as high as I’ll go.”
I can tell that Shane is bluffing. I’ve seen his particular game face in many a board meeting. He wants Lisa bad. If he didn’t, we wouldn’t even be talking. It seems to me that it would be much easier and cheaper to find another young singer than to purchase one already under contract.
“Then I guess we don’t have anything else to talk about. If you want her, I’m sure every other major record company will also.”
Troy looks nervous, and I can feel his palm sweating. I wish I could give him some of my confidence.
Shane smiles. “All right. Three point five. And that’s truly my limit.”
Troy relaxes, and I smile right back at Shane. “Troy, is three point five good for you?”
“Yes. I believe that’s sufficient.”
Shane and Troy shake hands, and we all laugh. For the next half hour we talk about details of the contract. Shane says we should see our first check within the next seven days.
“Listen, Troy,” Shane says, standing up. “You obviously have an ear for talent. We’re willing to have you come work for us in our main office in New York.”
Troy looks at me before he responds. “No. I can’t uproot my family like that. Plus, I’ve got other artists that are waiting on me to launch their careers.”
“It’s an open invitation. Give it some thought.” Shane reaches to shake Troy’s hand and then mine.
We walk out of the office on a cloud. We are silent on our way to the car, even though we’re both brimming with excitement. Troy fumbles with the keys to his Honda, but when he finally gets it open, we quickly fall into our seats.
I’m the first to shout. “Hallelujah!”
Troy laughs. “I know that’s right! This is enough to make me give God some glory.”
Normally, I would’ve said something to the effect of, “You should give Him glory because He woke you up this morning,” but somehow that does not seem quite appropriate for this conversation.
Troy continues, “I know one thing. I want a brand-new Benz. I’ve always wanted one.”
“Troy. Three and a half million is not a fortune. I mean, that has to last us for some years.”
“Woman, I’m getting me a car.”
“Troy, you haven’t even paid tithes and offerings off this money.”
“Ain’t a tithe off of three and a half million dollars like three hundred fifty thousand?”
“Yes.”
Troy just leans his head back and starts laughing. “Pam, I know you love your church, but ain’t no way I’m giving them no half million dollars.”
“You would be giving it back to God because He’s blessed you with an increase.”
“Yeah, but God wouldn’t be the one buying Himself a new house and a new car with the money.”
I always have problems with getting Troy to give offerings to the church. He thinks that every pastor is a crook and a con man. He doesn’t even hear when I tell him how Pastor Brown worked for twenty years and put a lot of his own money into starting the church. He pays no attention when I tell him that my pastor drove a beat-up Chevy Impala for years. Sure, Pastor Brown and First Lady Brown are living fine now, but most of that is coming from their fat pension checks.
“Troy, don’t you know that when you are faithful in your giving, God will continue to bless you? The church could use that money for so many things.”
“I ain’t never been faithful in giving before! I think God just blessed me because He likes me. It ain’t had nothing to do with putting no money in anybody’s offering.”
Troy obviously has no idea how many seed offerings, and how many prayers, I’ve sent before the Lord. I’ve been praying for financial freedom for years, and I believe I’ve shown God that I will be a good steward.
“Troy, don’t talk like that. You know better than to mock the Lord. Don’t play.”
“Okay, Pam, why don’t we do this?” He takes my hand. “I’ll give you half of this money. You do whatever you want—pay tithes, offerings and whatever. You and I will go half and half on a house, and then whatever you have left is yours to keep.”
I guess I can go for this. I’m going to give the Lord what’s His. Troy will find out when he looks up and he’s broke. When God allows your finances to be cursed, that’s a horrible thing. Troy better not come looking at me when his pockets are empty.
I can say that this money is the answer to my prayers, but the truth is, I never prayed to be rich. I always just asked the Lord to give us what we need. I’d trade this check to have Troy sitting next to me on Sunday morning.
Jesus, You’ve answered one of my prayers,
I pray silently to myself as I go upstairs to meditate.
But now could You work on my husband? You don’t have to make him a minister or anything like that, but would You please just make his heart right? All I want is for him to get saved. I want him to worship with me.
Yvonne
I
t took a lot out of me to come to our meeting tonight. How can I sit up here and even think about giving anybody any advice about anything?
Luke has already gone to take the paternity test, but we don’t get the results for another two weeks. We have to go to a family court session to find out. Luke’s been walking around nervous. He sure isn’t acting like someone who’s absolutely sure he’s not the father.
I haven’t slept much since I got that letter out of the mailbox. I haven’t been able to stop crying. I do it all day. Every time I think about all this, the tears start coming. I try to hold it in, especially when Luke walks in the room, but my body rebels against my wishes and does what it wants.
Sister Pam’s been doing most of the advising tonight. She’s feeling good because her husband got all those millions of dollars. Well, I’m happy for her and her family. She’s a good woman, and she’s put up with a lot of mess from that man of hers.
The two hours seem to fly by without me even noticing. It seems like every time Luke is out of my sight, I wonder if he’s off with Taylor and her son. I wonder if I’ll be able to handle it if the child is truly Luke’s. He finds out the results of the DNA test on December 20. Five days before Christmas. Maybe we’ll be fortunate and end up celebrating the fact that Luke is not the father of Taylor’s baby.
After the meeting is over, Pam and I hang around to clean up the refreshment table. I make a mistake and jam my thumb into the side of the table. I yell, “Ouch!” and then I start to cry. It feels like someone just opened a pressure valve, because I can’t stop the tears even after my thumb is no longer throbbing.
Pam asks, “Yvonne, are you okay?”
I sit down at the table. “No, Pam. I am not okay. I’m about to lose my mind.”
Pam sits down next to me and grabs both of my hands. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I open my mouth, and the entire sordid tale spills out. Telling someone else makes it feel more real. Pam looks horrified when she hears that Luke’s mistress is Taylor. I think that the two of them were becoming friends.
I turn around when I hear the door to the sanctuary open. Her head is wrapped in a scarf, but even from a distance that curvy figure is unmistakable. What does Taylor want with me now?
Taylor walks up to the table and stops directly in front of me. “Yvonne, I need to talk to you.”
“I have nothing to say to you.” I can’t believe she has the audacity to believe she can have a conversation with me.
“Well, you might not have anything to say, but I do. Pam, will you excuse us?”
Pam gets up from the table and pats me on the back as she walks away. I almost wish I’d asked her to stay. I don’t want Taylor to see me fall apart. She doesn’t have a right to know that she can make me cry.
“Taylor, what do you want?”
“I want you to stop trying to tell Luke that he is not my son’s father, because he is.”
“I haven’t tried to tell Luke anything, but how can you be so sure? Luke says that you’ve been quite promiscuous.”
Taylor laughs out loud. “He would say that! And, of course, you would believe him. Luke can be pretty convincing.”
“Why don’t we just let the test prove everything?”
Taylor responds coolly, “Luke knows that he was the only one, Yvonne. Does it make you feel better to think that I slept around?”
“Nothing in this entire situation makes me feel good. It would make me feel better if you just disappeared,” I reply, on the verge of tears. I wish she’d just go home and stop torturing me.
“Well, I’m not going anywhere, and neither is my son, Yvonne. I’m not out to hurt you, but please don’t get in the way of what belongs to my son.”
Taylor has tears streaming down her face. Her expression speaks pure rage, and it all seems to be directed at me. She needs to turn that mess back on herself. I didn’t make her sleep with a married man. She knew the chance she was taking, and if she didn’t, she should’ve.
When I don’t respond to Taylor’s last comment, she grabs her coat and storms out of the room. I don’t know what to think or feel. My chest is aching as if Taylor just came and snatched the wind from my lungs. I want to go home, but I feel glued to this very spot.
“Sister Yvonne?” It’s Pam, and she sounds worried.
“Yes?”
“I just want you to know that I’m here for you. You’re the innocent party in that whole little ugly scenario. I think Taylor ought to apologize to you.”
Pam’s concern is touching and unexpected. I feel the tears starting again, and Pam comes and puts her arms around my body and holds me tight. I feel trapped in her embrace. I hear her whispering. She’s praying for me.
Lord Jesus, help me
.
Taylor
M
ondays are usually my worst day of the week. It just seems like my brain doesn’t start working until about noon. Fortunately, nobody is doing much work this morning. The entire office is abuzz with the news of Pam’s sudden resignation. I knew something was up when she drove up to the church yesterday in a brand-new Benz. During service she was shouting so hard that the musicians kept going for at least forty-five minutes.
Pam canceled a play date with her girls and Joshua that we had planned for the weekend. I can bet I know why. She and Yvonne are pretty chummy, both being a part of Sister to Sister. I wouldn’t be surprised if Yvonne told everyone her story and had them praying for her. It would be just like her to paint a picture of me as a husband-stealing whore.
I finally get my personal computer booted up and logged in. There is already a stack of paperwork in my in-box. Lord, I am so not in the mood for this today.
As I’m reading my e-mail, the scent of men’s cologne finds its way into my nostrils. And not the cheap kind either. I love a man who smells good. Some women like a man who smells like he just came in from hunting. Personally, I prefer a clean-cut brother who cares enough about himself to smell nice.
I’m tempted to get up and follow my nose, but I restrain myself. I have entirely too much going on in my life to be looking for romance. Plus, I still have some men issues that I need to resolve.
I continue to read my e-mail. All I seem to get is junk anyway. Lunch menus from the cafeteria, employee discounts and, of course, the thirty or so inspirational notes from the church members. Some of the saints think that they’re evangelizing with their e-mail ministries. More power to them, but I hope they really don’t think Microsoft is going to send them a check for forwarding some chain e-mail fifty times.
I’m looking at an especially well made slide show about God’s goodness when I hear a deep ripple of laughter come across the room. The sound is too rich and full to be coming from a white man. That is definitely a brother.
Curiosity gets the best of me, and I take a peek over the top of my cubicle. When I see the specimen of man that uttered the musical laughter, I wish I hadn’t looked. He is just about the finest black man I’ve laid eyes on in a long time. He is dark-dark with skin like polished ebony. He kind of reminds me of Luke, but he’s taller. He turns in my direction, and I get a front view of his face. He has beautiful almond-shaped eyes. And his teeth—pretty and white. Dag. This man is fine—and yes, I can see all this from across the room. His mannerisms speak success, and Glenda is looking at him with such regard that he must be someone important.
I sit down and go back to my e-mail. I’m not even going to get excited. First of all, he’s probably married, and Lord knows I’m not going that route again. Second, I can almost guarantee that he’s not saved. So there is absolutely nothing to get excited about. Still, I wish I’d flat-ironed my hair this morning.
I try to concentrate on my first item of business, but I can’t, because the laughter continues. Actually, Glenda is giggling. I can’t stand the way some white women get around fine black men. It’s sickening. But the brothers love that ego-building attention. I think that’s the real reason why some of them are crossing over.
The voices start to get louder, and I realize that they’re coming over to my cubicle. I feel my heart rate rise, and I start to feel panicky. Okay, I need to calm down. Breathe in, breathe out. There is nothing to get excited about. It’s just a man.
Glenda leads the way to my desk with a big grin on her face. I try to return the gesture, but it feels like I’m grimacing. I hate this.
