Wouldn’t Change a Thing (2 page)

“Lamonte, please tell me what's going on,” I demand. I motion for him to come to the patio as I slide the door open.

“You haven't said anything, have you?”

“Said anything about what? Is there something you haven't told me? Is this about the Midtown project?”

Lamonte takes my left hand. I follow him, all towering six feet four inches of him, and sit on his lap at his favorite table in my house in the breakfast nook. We'd picked this one out together on a trip to St. Simons Island last year.

“Toni, baby,” he says, rubbing my left hand and massaging my right shoulder. “This has nothing to do with me. It's about you. Actually, your family.”

“Is Clay in trouble?”

“I think you should take a look for yourself, Toni.”

I take a seat across from him now as he unfolds the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
There I am on the front page beneath the caption, “Mother Longs for Reunion with Daughters.” Not only does the caption knock the wind out of me, but the accompanying photo leaves me momentarily speechless. It is a replica of the one I keep tucked in the bottom drawer of my home office desk. My sister, Willa, and I wear matching pink and black turtleneck sweaters. Mama had jumped up from her spot next to Willa and me at Olan Mills Studio that afternoon. She refused to pose with us when the photo was taken; she said the people in the camera lens were making fun of her.

Lamonte moves closer now, knowing I have to take in every word, examine the train wreck the
AJC
has created on what is supposed to be one of the most memorable days of my life. He waits for my full explanation. I can't offer one right now. His phone rings, startling us.

“Take it in the living room,” I whisper.

I continue reading, thankful I closed my shades last night. Even in this dimness, I feel naked. I look at the photo again and my heart aches for my mother.

Lamonte returns to comfort me again.

He sits back and rubs his clean-shaven face. “That was Richard on the phone. He said the paper will issue a formal apology to you by noon today. The picture was supposed to be in silhouette, but went to print with full exposure. Don't panic, baby. Not now. We'll get through this together.”

Richard Phelps, our mutual attorney, pokes fun at people so much we call it his side hustle.

“That's easy for you to say. The
AJC
's readership and my colleagues all think I'm a garden variety fruitcake.” I pause. “Did you say ‘together'? As in, we'll go through with this engagement party and wedding?”

“Toni, I made a commitment to you. This doesn't look good, but I want to give you a chance to respond to what I read this morning.” He holds up the article.

“How am I supposed to respond?”

“Start by telling me the truth. Please.”

“Lamonte, Clay has the answer for everything. But you and I both know he's in no position to answer right now.”

He motions for me to sit in his lap again and I enjoy resting there for a brief moment. I feel like a fraud in his arms. I'm trying to find the right words to justify my lies, but I can't. This wasn't a white lie; this was more like a pastel one, the kind you tell when you know the truth will get in the way of your happiness.

“Toni, this is awkward. I'll cook while we strategize.”

In Lamonte Dunlap fashion, he goes to the kitchen, raids the cabinets, and starts his usual Saturday morning ritual the two of us enjoy when life is simple and we're not talking business and politics. He pulls down the Krusteaz pancake mix, grabs bacon and eggs from the fridge, and finds my bag of oranges so he can squeeze the life out of them the way we like.

“We have to think of something to say to the reporters. I'll call the Blue Willow Inn to let them know we're still on for the engagement party,” he says as he plops eggs into the pancake mix.

“Light on the eggs, Lamonte.” His back is turned to me, but I know his mind is moving at lightning speed. He hunches his shoulders as he stirs the mix. “You're about to face more scrutiny than you have in your life. Are you ready?”

“I don't want to be bothered with this today.”

“I'll step out on the lawn after we eat and address the scavengers.”

“Yes, after we eat,” I say.

Lamonte prepares our plates and pours juice. “Everything will be fine. This will blow over before you know it.”

The elephant in the room grows. My hands tremble and my knees bounce as I think of an explanation. I've lied so long I'm not sure what the truth looks like.

I sigh and ask, “Aren't you curious about the article?”

His face slackens as he sips juice. “If you want to explain, that's your choice. I find it hard to believe the woman I've loved the last five years would keep a secret this huge from me. I'm waiting to hear what the mix-up is.”

Ouch
. I face the man I love. The one I've only allowed a tiny glimpse into my world.

“I meant to tell you before the wedding, Lamonte. The opportunity never presented itself.”

“You were willing to have a wedding without having your mother present?”

I nod.

“What else should I know about you? You told me your mother died.”

I shift in my seat. My cottony mouth offers, “I was young when I moved to Atlanta. My family thought it would be good for me to have a break from my mother's episodes.”

“Episodes?”

“She—”

Lamonte's phone rings again. The voice announces Brooklyn Lucille Dunlap. Lamonte answers on the second ring. He accidentally presses the speaker button—a knack I can't get him to shake—and his mother yells, “Where's the lunatic?”

Lamonte quickly takes the phone off speaker and steps away from me. I can't hear everything she says, but from her booming voice, I string together, “bad choice,” “not wife material,” and “crazy grandchildren.”

Lamonte holds up his hand and says to his mother, “I'm a grown man capable of making my own choices. Goodbye, Mother!”

He joins me at the table again, picks up the
AJC
, and re-reads the article. I see disappointment in his face and reach across the table to caress his hands. He pulls away.

“For twenty-three years, you've lived in this city without driving a few towns over to see your mother who's institutionalized in a mental facility?”

“Lamonte—”

He reads from the article. “My family decided it was better to parcel my children out like land just because I lose my grip on reality sometimes. My own baby girl is a big-time architect in Atlanta and she won't come to see about me.”

“Lamonte—”

He holds his hand up again and reads, “She is so ashamed of me she spells her business name like a man. She won't use the name me and her father gave her.”

“Lamonte.”

“Toni, you told me the reason you spelled your name
Tony
was because you didn't want to be discriminated against as a female architect.”

“That is true. When people see the name Tony Williamson, they assume I'm a man and are willing to do business with me. Tell me you haven't noticed the shock in men's faces when they meet me for the first time.”

“Toni, you've been in business five years. Everyone in Atlanta knows Tony Williamson. Your work defies gender. Even race. Who are you? Don't I deserve to know who I'm about to spend the rest of my life with?”

I've got nothing. There is nothing I can say to him to convince him how sorry I am.

“Did you ever try to reach out to your sister all these years?”

“I tried. No luck.” I'll fix this lie later.

Lamonte clears our plates from the table in silence. A die-hard penny-pincher, he rarely uses my dishwasher. Says it's too expensive. Instead, he fills my sink with hot water, Dawn, and a capful of bleach and cleans the dishes. As if his scrubbing will wash away what is going on between us.

I join him at the sink, but he shoos me away, tells me to get ready for tonight. I gaze out the front window at my lawn; a few reporters remain.

I walk to my front door, yank the door open, stand in my robe and slippers and yell, “You are trespassing. Please leave the premises.”

A
fter Lamonte leaves, I swipe a casual outfit from my closet and run to the office to pick up a few items I left last week. Most of my personal and household items are at a storage unit on Virginia Avenue. The drive from Atlanta to Conyers isn't far, but Lamonte and I decided it would be easier for me to move into his house before the wedding. I have a few items at his place, but next week, I'll move the bulk of my storage contents to his house. Our house.

My home is a management company's dream: hardwood floors, fresh paint, a new roof, stained-glass windows, and exotic tile. Nothing says 1930 meets 2007 like modern upgrades. After five unsuccessful attempts to find a renter, I struck gold with an Atlanta Art Institute student. After a credit check and three separate creep-ups on her current apartment, I presented Giovanna with a lease. I think of her as I enter the building. This is where I first met her.

My hope is no one notices me as I dart in and out. I'm down to five to-dos on my party checklist for tonight. I can't stop trembling, and my stomach is in knots over the party. How many people will show after reading the article? How will Lamonte react when someone brings up my mother?

Phillip, the doorman at my office building, opens the door for me and tips his hat, but averts his eyes, a first for him. I speed up, hoping to get this done and get out of the building ASAP.

I place a picture of Clay, Russell, and me in Cancun in a large box on my office chair. This will be one of the photos I place on the family portraits display at the Blue Willow Inn this evening. I gather up a few more items and check a few emails before leaving the office. I suspended work emails on my phone because I disconnect when I leave this place. Lamonte taught me how to unwind, kick up my feet once I step away from computer drafts. I log on and the first email I read takes my breath away.

Dear Ms. Williamson:

Due to recent findings, we regret to inform you that your donation to Daughters Alone will be returned to you within the week. Furthermore, your invitation as keynote speaker at our annual empowerment series has been rescinded. We cannot expose the girls to someone whose idea of motherhood is tainted and shrouded in lies. The girls looked up to you and even went out of their way to comfort you after learning your mother died in a plane crash when you were their age. We appreciate the time you've given the girls thus far—workshops, career day, tour of your firm—but the revelation that your mother is alive and well, albeit in horrific circumstances, makes it impossible to continue the mentorship agreement we have with you. I wish you well in your future endeavors.

Dr. Erin Crawford, CEO, Daughters Alone

I stare at the screen. Of all the work I've done in the community, mentoring with Daughters Alone has been the most rewarding. I pick up the phone to call Dr. Crawford and notice the email arrived at six o'clock this morning. She probably read the article after the paperboy tossed it on her porch around four-thirty. She boasted of being a zombie until her morning fix of coffee and the
AJC
kicked in.

As I hang the phone up, Kimmie Foster's face comes to mind. She was most smitten with me when I joined the girls for the Orange Hat Tea at Restaurant Eugene. I didn't get the orange hat reference until Dr. Crawford said orange represented the sunset, a new start. The girls, all left motherless by death, drugs, or abandonment, needed encouragement, hope for a better day. Kimmie sat next to me at the tea wearing a cream-colored Sunday-go-to-meeting suit that hung off her thin frame. I knew I'd purchase her new outfits with Dr. Crawford's permission. She pulled at the coffee-colored stockings that resembled elephant wrinkles and crossed and uncrossed her skinny legs. She tried to hide her scuffed, cream-colored shoes by keeping her feet planted under the table. She was silent during the tour of my office, but at the tea, she leaned in to me and said, “You're lucky your mama died. She couldn't help it. My mama didn't want me and I don't think my aunt does either.”

I sipped sweet tea, remembering Dr. Crawford told me Kimmie's mother couldn't handle child-rearing responsibilities and walked out. “Kimmie, she has to get herself together. I'm sure she'll be back when she's ready.”

“How did your mother die?”

Until Kimmie asked, I never offered specifics. I sipped again and said, “She died in a plane crash when I was nine.”

Kimmie's eyes locked with mine. “I'm sorry, Ms. Toni. I'm sure she's in a better place.”

The sad memory of Kimmie's eyes jolt me back to my emails. A string of emails from prospective clients inform me next month's meetings are canceled. All of them. They read the same. “Due to unforeseen circumstances.” “Decided to go in a different direction.” “Found a comparable price with another firm.” The last one started with the words “integrity” and “character.” I shut the messages down because I can't deal with this now.