by Tina Martin
“I beg your pardon,” she says, stirring the soup.
“I want to know how many women have stayed in this house and how many has he gotten pregnant. How many?”
“Shiloh—”
“How many?” I persist, intent on getting my question answered.
“You have to give me your word you won’t say anything to Magnus about it, and you can’t leave, Shiloh.”
Leave? Like I have some place to go…
“Okay. I won’t say anything.”
“Okay.” She takes a napkin, wipes her mouth and says, “You’re number three.”
“Three?” I say. I imagine the way I’m feeling right now is akin to the feeling of a jilted wife who’d just found out her longtime husband had a secret life with a woman who lived on the other side of the lake. “So—so he has kids by two other women?”
“No. They couldn’t conceive.”
“How long ago was the last one here?”
“I want to say almost two years ago. The other woman was the year before that.”
“And neither got pregnant?” I ask, still trying to grasp everything she’s telling me. I’m woman number three. Woman number one didn’t get pregnant. Woman number two didn’t get pregnant. Now, it’s my turn.
“No. The first one left after four months. I’m sure he introduced you to the four-month rule.”
“Yes, he did. It was all in the contract.”
She nods. “The second one stayed a bit longer. Begged him for another month. She’d fallen for him and had hoped he would fall for her, but he didn’t. He can’t—can’t fall for anyone.”
“Why can’t he?”
“It’s not in him. Not anymore.”
She’s withholding information. Doesn’t want to give me too much.
She says, “Eventually, she left, heartbroken. He wasn’t heartbroken, but he was upset for a while about not having a child. Said it was a waste of time. He told me he’d never try to do it again, but then he saw you. Said something about you spoke to him. He came home that day, three and a half months ago, and told me all about you. I’m glad I’m able to put a face to a name, finally.”
“But Magnus didn’t know me back then.”
She grins. “Could’ve fooled me. He talked about you like you two were old friends. You work at a coffee shop or something, right?’
“A bistro...”
“Yes! I remember him saying something about a bistro. Nice place I imagine.”
“It’s a high-end restaurant that sells tapas.”
“Tapas. What in the world is that?”
“A fancy way of saying you’re getting food on a small plate. It’s kind of like an appetizer, except the tapas is the meal and not the meal before the meal. The plates are small. Prices, big. It’s a rip-off if you ask me, and I work there…”
“Is that right?” She chuckles. “All I know is, he was excited about you, more so than the other two. I think it’s because you’re number three. He has faith he won’t strike out this time. With conceiving, that is. He truly believes you gon’ give him a baby. That it’ll work this time.”
“Okay, but has he ever considered there may be something wrong with him? He couldn’t get two women pregnant. Chances are it’s not them. It’s him.”
“It’s not him. I’ve seen the results—his health screenings and his count. All of it. He’s about as healthy as healthy can get. He takes good care of himself.”
I’ve noticed.
“But why do it this way?” I ask her. “He has other options. He could hire a surrogate. Why does he want this connection with me when it’s not necessary?”
“He wants it done the old-fashioned way is all I can tell you, Shiloh. Less room for error.”
I take a sip of water and think this over. I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into.
“Where you from, Shiloh? You from ‘round here?”
“Yep. Born and raised in Charlotte. My father lives off The Plaza. My mother passed when I was seventeen.”
“What’s your maiden name? I might know some of your peoples.”
“My maiden name is Winston. My papa’s name is Albert. They used to call him Big Al back in the day.”
“Nah…I don’t know no Big Al.”
“I’m not surprised. Charlotte’s a big city.”
“You’re right about that. It’s not one of those lil’ towns where everybody knows everybody. You got the rich folk neighborhoods—Providence, South Park, Ballantyne, Elizabeth, Chantilly and Midtown. Then you got the blacks huddled up in the West, the Mexicans are calling the Eastside their home and the middle-easterners are flocking to the Northside like prosperity awaits anyone who lives near a university. Charlotte is diverse and has grown tremendously over the last few years, but nah, I ain’t heard of no Big Al.”
I smile. “I never knew why they called him Big Al. He’s not a big guy. He does have a big personality. Maybe that’s why.”
“Maybe so.” She smiles. “You seem like a nice girl. I like you.”
“Did you like the last two?” I inquire. I can’t help it. It’s in my nature.
“Not so much. They were a little on the uppity side. Don’t know where he found them, chile. And they wouldn’t eat my soup. Looked at me like I wasn’t good enough to give them soup or anything else. I can’t tell you how hard I prayed he didn’t have no baby by those women.”
“They were that bad?”
“Yes, indeed, especially the first girl. Lord, help her. But let me get back to my advice for you, Mrs. Shiloh.”
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“Don’t get too attached to Magnus. He’s a wealthy man and with wealth comes power. To add to that, he’s handsome. That combination drives women wild. Makes them imagine things like the last woman did. She thought they would have a life together just because he tried to make a baby with her. He wasn’t having it. Magnus won’t get attached to you so ain’t no need in you getting attached to him and thinking you two will have a future together. Let me be the first to tell you, honey, this ain’t no fairytale. If you’re looking for happily ever after, you best to set your TV on the Hallmark Channel.”
“Okay. I get the picture. In so many words, he’s already told me that. What else?”
“Oh. The rules. Your life will be a lot easier if you follow his rules. Whatever schedule he’s given you, you need to make sure you’re available and not somewhere else. Magnus doesn’t do a lot of talking. He has to expend a lot of energy talking at work—meetings and conference calls. When he’s home, he prefers silence.”
“Complete silence?”
“Yes. Complete silence.”
“He doesn’t listen to the radio, because he sure bumps a lot of rap music in his car?”
She giggles. “Maybe so, but he ain’t playing none of that hootin’ and hollerin’ ‘round the house. That’s for sure.”
“What about TV? Does he watch TV?”
“No.”
“Then what does he do when he’s home?”
“He likes long runs. Saturday and Sunday are his running days. If he ain’t running, he’s lifting weights. If he ain’t doing that, he’s studying. He studies a lot. Does a lot of reading. Sometimes he falls asleep in his office with an opened book resting on his chest.”
“Sounds boring.”
“Hey…different strokes for different folks. That’s what he likes.”
“What about friends? People he can play ball with. I saw a volleyball and basketball court in the backyard.”
“Magnus doesn’t have friends. Well, he does, but he calls them associates. They’re the people he works with. They never come by the house.”
“I see. Um, well, is there anything else I should know?”
“Yes, honey. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but it’s going to get difficult to separate your heart from this, but you have to. Don’t allow yourself to yearn for him, or wish he’s something he’s not. With Magnus, what you see is what you get. Remember that.�
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“I will,” I tell her, unable to finish the soup now because she has me puzzled and a bit nervous. She’s been working with Magnus for ten years. She knows him. She’s warning me.
She stands, cleans up her area of the table. “I’m going to head on back over there. I have plenty of work to get to.”
She rubs her hands across her apron, straightening it. “Make sure you take your vitamins. He’s strict about that.”
“I will, Lucille. Thanks for the soup, the advice and the company. I can see it’s going to be boring back here all by myself.”
She releases a short laugh. “Honey, you’re a millionaire now. You can go all around this city and do whatever you want. You don’t have to hunker down back here. Just make sure you text Magnus whenever you leave.”
She’s right about me being a millionaire and doing whatever I want. But I’ve never had any substantial amount of money, so I don’t really know how to spend it. And who am I supposed to spend it with? My papa? Selah? Shelby, with her stuck-up, pretentious self?
“I’ll see you later, Shiloh,” Lucille says right before she exits, not waiting for me to say bye.
Chapter Fourteen
Magnus
After a few meetings, I leave my office, something I rarely do during the workday. I don’t even leave to get lunch. Usually Hilda, my secretary, will bring it to me. She plans a four-week schedule of meals from different restaurants around here and I approve it a month in advance. The system works flawlessly. She follows it to a tee.
Today, I leave the office because it feels stuffy in here. Like I needed air. I have a desire to be productive but lack the enthusiasm. That’s out of the norm for me. I know it’s because of her – Shiloh. She’s having difficulty understanding this concept of making a baby with me. She thinks we should be, at the very least, friends.
I don’t need friends.
Don’t want friends.
There’s no need to cause another person to suffer because of my actions. My plans. If I died today, there would be a handful of people who’ll grieve my death. I don’t want to add to the count.
“Mag, what’s up, man?”
I blink and look up at Bransen sitting behind his desk. I hadn’t realized I’d drifted to his office, standing at the door with my arms crossed. That’s how much this Shiloh situation has my mind gone.
“Come on in. Take the weight of the world off of your shoulders.”
Bransen has been one of my consultants for years. He’s good at what he does. In fact, he’s so good I stole him from the company he used to work for, hire him as my personal consultant and double is salary. He’s a master at analytics. Unfortunately, that skill migrates from the job to my personal life. He’s as equally good at analyzing people as he is at numbers and money moves.
I take a few steps into his office and sit on one of the leather chairs, cross my arms and think. Bransen was one of the few people from MJS Communications to attend Nicoletta and MJ’s funeral. They were buried on the same day – the same, cold, rainy day in January. He’s probably not aware of this because I don’t share my pain with people but he kept me from ending it all back then. He was the person who’d call constantly until I picked up, who would come to the house and talk via the doorbell camera when I didn’t feel like letting him in. He kept me busy with activities – would invite me to Superbowl parties, to the gym to shoot hoops with his boys, to get drinks – all activities I despised but did anyway because he was the one asking.
Now that I think about it, I probably should’ve went ahead and got it all over with back then. If I had, I wouldn’t have come up with this idea of leaving a child behind. Of securing my legacy. I could’ve left this company to Bransen while throwing the bulk of my money at a charity.
“I know you didn’t just come in here to sit down and stare at your Louis Vuitton’s,” Bransen says. He pops his knuckles, a habit I’ve come to despise. “What’s up, Mag?”
I leave the chair’s edge and pace the office when I say, “I decided to do it again.”
“Do what again? Not the baby thing…”
“Yes. The baby thing.”
Bransen shakes his head. He remembers the disorganization surrounding my first two attempts and can probably recall how upset I was when neither situation resulted in pregnancy.
“After the last attempt, you said you were done.”
“I know, but I think I found the right one this time. I have a gut feeling I’m finally on the right track.”
“Who’s the girl?”
Who’s the girl? She’s a beautiful mess. Full lips. Ample breasts. Figure eight. Petite waist. Nice hips. Round bottom. Gorgeous hair, but keeps it hidden. She’s five-five. A bad waitress. Spilled water on me twice. She likes to talk. Likes to figure things out. Likes her independence although she’s never been independent. She’s never been touched. Never been kissed. She’s pristine. She’s beautiful. A mess. She’s too good for a man like me.
Instead of telling him all those things, I go with, “She’s the girl from the bistro.”
“Oh—the one you were smitten with.”
“Smitten?” I repeat like I didn’t hear him correctly. “I’ve only been that far gone with one woman and she’s dead.”
“Dang, Mag—you ain’t got to say it like that, man.”
“Well, she is,” I respond, staring down into the street from the twenty-second floor that houses my operation, sounding more bitter than sad. Over the years, the sadness has slowly been replaced by anger and I could feel it happening, almost like I can feel when I’m getting a cold or some other illness where the body lets you know when something’s wrong. I still miss Nicoletta, still love her. She and my son were taken away from me. I’ll never be able to get over that. So what does a person do when something like that happens? When they can’t get over a traumatic, unexpected loss? When the heart has no more room to absorb the pain?
“Mag, you alright, man?”
I look at Bransen and respond “Yes. Fine. Back to what I was saying, yes, it’s the girl from the bistro and I’m not smitten with her. I just think she’s a good person.”
“And she’s agreed to your terms?”
“Somewhat. She’s different from the last two.”
“How so?”
“She doesn’t care about the money and she wants to be friends with me.”
He grins. “What’s so bad about that?”
“I don’t want to be her friend.”
“Right. You just want to screw her, get a baby out of the deal and dump her. Mag, look at this from her perspective—you’re going to be making attempts to create a life with this woman. It’s her body. Women are emotional creatures. It’s difficult for them to separate sex from love—well, difficult for the good ones to do that. At the very least, you should be a friend to her. What harm could come out of being somebody’s friend?”
I ponder his thoughts. He doesn’t know about my life-ending plans. No one does. There’s no use in advertising one’s demise so I say nothing. I don’t need any one talking me out of my destiny. So I respond, “I don’t want to mislead her into thinking I want a relationship with her because I don’t. If she thinks we’re friends, then we’ll be friends with benefits and from there, she’ll want a relationship and I’m not with it.”
“If she’s the mother of your child, you’ll need to have some kind of relationship with her.”
“Yes. We’ll be parents of a child. That’s it.”
“That sounds confusing, man. Instead of playing with her emotions—”
“How am I playing with her emotions, Bransen?” I ask. “I compensated her. She signed an agreement. I even agreed to marry her because it’s what she wanted.”
Bransen’s face contorts into something I’ve never seen before. He stands up and asks, “You married her?”
“I did.”
He shakes his head and goes into analyzing mode. I can anticipate the questions that have permeated his thoughts:
&nb
sp; Why would you marry a woman you don’t want to be friends with? Why marry a woman you hardly know? When did this happen? How long have you been married? How long will you be married?
But when he opens his mouth, I don’t get a question. I get judgment.
“You’re playing with fire, Mag.”
“Now you sound like Irving.”
“I can’t believe you married her.”
“I had to make a concession to get her.”
“Would you have done the same for the other two?”
“No, but I told you, I have a better feeling with this girl. It’s going to be different this time.”
Bransen sighs, returns to his chair and holds his head.
I pace the office, remembering when I had it renovated for him. I remember when he picked out the furniture he wanted. Remember I was willing to do whatever he wanted to secure him as my consultant. He’s the best in the game. Best around Charlotte. And he’s been loyal. He’s smart. I trust his words and his unsolicited advice. That’s why I found myself drifting down the hallway. I needed this chat with him.
“Whatever you have to say, Bransen, just say it,” I tell him.
My skin is as thick as leather. He knows I can handle his opinions. What I can’t handle is condemnatory silence.
“Okay, um…I think you’re losing it. Boom,” he says, slapping his desk. “I said it.”
“Losing what?”
“Your mind. Your sanity. You’re losing it, Magnus. You married some chick you don’t know and you’re trying to get her pregnant.”
“I haven’t tried anything yet.”
“But you will. I think you need to take a step back and come to terms with what happened to your family. To Nicoletta and MJ.”
“I’m in therapy. You know this. I’ve been in therapy for three years.”
“And yet, you’re still grieving. Still angry.”
“Is there a time limit to grief!” I snap. “When am I supposed to stop grieving? When am I supposed to stop hurting, Bransen? I lost my wife! My son! I lost everything! You tell me—when should the hurt stop? You have all the answers, right? Tell me.”
