A Woman's Worth

by Nikita Lynnette Nichols

  Please call me, Boris.

  She placed the card back into the envelope and sat down. Theresa looked at her. “Let me guess. He’s missing you something terrible, and he can’t wait to see you.”

  “Guess again, Theresa. They’re not from Adonis.”

  “Whaaat? You are just sowing your wild oats all over the place, huh?”

  When Monique did not answer, Theresa had snatched the envelope from her hand and read the card. “Oh, heck to the no. Boris is trying to worm his way back in. I know you’re not going to call him, Monique. You want me to throw this bouquet away?”

  “No. Call the florist to have these roses picked up.”

  Theresa wrote ‘Return To Sender’ on the front of the envelope and followed Monique’s instructions.

  An hour later, Monique’s cellular phone rang. She recognized Boris’s work number and allowed his call to go to her voicemail. The intercom on her desk buzzed.

  “Yes, Theresa?”

  “Boris is on line two.”

  “How ever many times he calls, I’ll be in a meeting.”

  At ten minutes to six, as Monique was leaving for the day, her cellular telephone rang again. Myrtle Cortland’s name appeared on the caller ID. “Hey, Gravy. How are you? “ Monique answered.

  “This is Boris.”

  Monique felt her stomach drop. Her first instinct was to disconnect the call, but she knew she couldn’t avoid him forever.

  “Hello? Monique, are you there?”

  “What is it, Boris?”

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  Boris paused. Apparently he was waiting for Monique to inquire about his well-being but she said nothing. “I’m doing good too.”

  “Is there a particular reason you called?”

  “If you’re busy, I could call you back.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Just tell me what you want.”

  “I wanna know why you sent the flowers back.”

  “I didn’t want them.”

  “You love roses, Monique.”

  “How would you know? You’ve never sent me any before.”

  He exhaled into the telephone. “I can see you’re not gonna make this easy for me.”

  “Make what easy?” she asked.

  “My apology.”

  “Oh, is that what the roses represented? An apology?”

  “Well, I was kinda hoping they would be an ice breaker.”

  Monique chuckled sarcastically. “Well, you kinda hoped wrong. After all that you put me through, those flowers didn’t impress me, Boris. And from what I hear, you’re getting ready to be a daddy. I know doggone well you don’t think we’re getting back together so I can raise an illegitimate baby.”

  “Kita told me that the baby wasn’t mine.”

  “You know what, Boris? I don’t even care. As far as I’m concerned, both you and Kita deserve each other.” She disconnected the call and shut the power off.

  She saw the huge baby blue box sitting on her desk first thing Wednesday morning. ‘Blessed Events Consulting’ stared back at her in big bold black letters. Monique knew the wedding invitations were due to arrive any day. They were supposed to be addressed and mailed in two more weeks, just six weeks prior to the wedding.

  Monique knew she should just tell Theresa to shred the contents in the box, but since the invitations were sitting on her desk, she couldn’t help but open the box to read one.

  Monique remembered sparing no expense when it came to selecting the ivory invitations with the glossy front. She was very choosy with the Lucida Calligraphy type font in gold letters.

  Monique and Boris On this day we dedicate our love to one another Monique Lynnette Morrison And Boris Dexter Cortland Invite you to share in the ceremony in which their hearts and souls will be joined in holy matrimony Saturday, September 16th, 2010 at 3 o’clock in the afternoon Morning Glory Church of God In Christ 17 Rockway Lane Chicago, Il Wishing Well Reception Immediately Following Ceremony

  It was halftime at the Dodger Stadium and the Los Angeles Lakers were ahead of the Boston Celtics by eight points. The cheerleaders were on the court shaking what their mothers had given them. It was the playoffs and game number seven. If the Lakers continued to play hard, they would win their 15th NBA Finals Championship. The team’s starting line-up would open up the fourth quarter. Boris and Monique had flown from Chicago to the west coast for this special event. They sat courtside directly beneath the south side net.

  The cheerleaders finished their routine with a Chinese split and pompoms in the air. The lights dimmed and the display board lit up showing the exact words the announcer said. Monique looked up and saw her name.

  MONIQUE MORRISON, YOU’RE ALL I EVER WANTED AND SO MUCH MORE THAN I DESERVE. I LOVE YOU WITH ALL OF MY HEART. WILL YOU MARRY ME? FROM BORIS

  The spotlight was on Monique’s face. The roaring rumbling through the stadium sounded as though the Lakers had just scored the winning point with less than a second to go. Boris was down on bended knee with a diamond ring in his hand. Monique smiled at him and nodded her head. The crowd cheered louder as Boris stood with Monique and embraced her. Fifty minutes later, the Lakers jumped and danced around the court because they had earned their rings. Monique was just as excited and danced on the sideline; she got her ring too.

  Theresa snapped her fingers twice in Monique’s face. “Hello, is anyone home?”

  Monique blinked her eyes, sat up in her chair, and placed the invitation back in the box. “Good morning, Theresa.”

  “According to the smile on your face, I’ll say it’s a very good morning or maybe it was a very good night.”

  Monique shook her head at Theresa. “Is getting freaky all you ever think about?”

  “Basically, yeah. What’s in the box?”

  “My wedding invitations.”

  “Wedding invitations? Are you still marrying Boris?”

  “I forgot to cancel the order.”

  “That didn’t answer my question, Monique. I thought the wedding was off.”

  Monique became agitated at Theresa’s interrogation. She cocked her head to the side and looked at her secretary. “Did I tell you that?”

  “No, but I just assumed.”

  “You should never assume anything, Theresa.”

  “So, what are you saying?”

  Monique leaned back and crossed her left leg over her right knee. “I’m saying that I need you to get me the number of calls from last night’s show.”

  Theresa knew that was Monique’s way of dismissing her without bluntly telling her to mind her own business.

  On her way back into her office, after an hourlong meeting, Monique stopped at Theresa’s desk. “Any messages?”

  Theresa didn’t look up from the spreadsheet she was working on. “No.”

  Monique proceeded to her office. “If Boris calls, put him through.”

  “What?”

  Monique stopped dead in her tracks and turned around to look at Theresa. It wasn’t the question that stunned Monique, but the high-pitched tone that accompanied it. She was sure Theresa meant the what to be a why. “Did you not hear what I said?”

  “Oh, I heard you, Monique, but I don’t understand it.”

  Monique came and stood directly in front of Theresa’s desk. “Let’s get something straight here. You work for me. I give the orders, and I ask the questions. It’s not the other way around. When I give you a direct order to do something, I expect it to be done without an interrogation. If you can’t handle that, let me know and I’ll find a secretary that won’t involve herself in my personal life. You’re not privileged to know my business. I’ll tell you what I want you to know. Never again are you to second guess or inquire about anything that I do or what I tell you to do. I’m the boss. Is that understood?”

  A pregnant pause presented itself before Theresa spoke. “Yes . . . Miss Morrison.”

  “Oh, so I’m Miss Morrison now, huh?”

  There
sa didn’t respond. She brought her attention back to the spreadsheet. Without another word, Monique went into her office and slammed the door.

  Monique exited her office at ten minutes to six and found Theresa gone. Her usual ‘Goodnight, Boss Lady’ didn’t flow from her lips that evening.

  As Monique drove toward the Loop, she thought what an excellent secretary Theresa was. What happened that day was partly Monique’s fault. If she hadn’t shared her personal issues with Theresa, the disagreement wouldn’t have occurred. How could she expect Theresa not to have an opinion on what she’d been told? She knew Theresa was only looking out for her best interest. Just like everyone else who loved Monique, Theresa was tired of the way Boris treated her. It really wasn’t the fact that Theresa was in her business that had set Monique off. Monique was frustrated because of the situation she was in. She didn’t want to be a victim of a broken engagement, and she didn’t want to be in love with her exfiancé’s cousin. Monique knew that God loved her. But if Adonis was the better man for her, why hadn’t God allowed her to meet him before meeting Boris?

  Before Monique got to the hotel, she stopped at a party store and bought three ‘I’m Sorry’ helium balloons for Theresa. Tomorrow morning at work, Monique would call a truce. After securing the balloons in her car, Monique proceeded to her hotel. Had she taken Arykah’s advice to glance in her rearview mirror every now and then, Monique would have noticed Boris’s Navigator, weaving and bobbing in and out of traffic, exactly two cars behind her.

  From across the street, Boris watched the valet drive Monique’s car into the garage of the Chicago Hilton. He read the balloons she carried inside. Instantly he became enraged with jealousy, wondering what man she was there to see with make-up balloons. Just the thought of another man touching her the way he was no longer entitled to infuriated Boris. He sat in his SUV for over three hours waiting for Monique to emerge from the hotel. At precisely 9:30 p.m., Boris had given up waiting. He started his engine and burned rubber when he sped away from the curb.

  Upstairs in her suite, Monique lay across her bed watching the nightly news. She listened intently as the anchorwoman gave the latest details of the clean-up and rescue mission in Detroit.

  “There are still over sixty people who are unaccounted for, and the death toll is rising by the hour. Reporting live from Detroit, I’m Latricia Collins.”

  Not only had Monique prayed for Adonis’s and the other rescue workers’ strength, she prayed for the anchorwoman’s strength as well. It seemed Latricia Collins was on duty in Detroit twenty four hours a day. Monique pressed the power button on her remote control, turned onto her side and exhaled loudly. If she could just touch Adonis’s face or wrap her arms around his forty-eight inch chest and inhale his natural masculine scent, she would be satisfied.

  She reached for her cellular telephone on the night-stand. Maybe God would have special mercy on her when she dialed Adonis’s number. When she turned her telephone on, the small envelope showed she had a voicemail. She keyed in her security code and brought the telephone to her ear. She was almost positive the message would be from Boris.

  “Hello, beautiful.”

  At the sound of Adonis’s voice, Monique quickly sat up on the bed to listen to the rest.

  “I’ve been trying to call you for the past two days. The phone lines are down all over Detroit. My cell phone couldn’t reach Chicago, but I guess I got lucky tonight. I’m so tired; I’ve only had about five hours of sleep since I got here. What you see on the news is nothing compared to the devastation and destruction here. Today, I lifted a pile of two by fours and found an unresponsive year old baby girl. It tore me up real bad. I didn’t know what I was getting into when I agreed to come here. I know for a fact that I will never volunteer for anything like this again. I don’t know when I’ll be able to call you back. I hope all is well with you. Bye.”

  Monique saved his message and quickly dialed Adonis’s number. She heard an operator say, “Your call cannot be connec . . .”

  Disappointed that she couldn’t speak with him, Monique pressed the power button and sat the cellular phone on the nightstand. She then lay down and snuggled her pillow. “Adonis, please come home.”

  Chapter 12

  On Thursday morning, Arykah sat in her car. She glanced at her wristwatch and exhaled. Her client was twenty minutes late, and she was pressed for time. She had another house showing on the other side of town in an hour. It was a good thing for Mr. Powell or Howell or whatever his name was, that Arykah had had her morning cappuccino. Without her early morning cup of joe, she wasn’t the easiest person to get along with.

  In her rearview mirror, Arykah saw a shiny, black, late model Lincoln Town car drive up behind her. She moved her eyeballs to her driver’s side mirror. She got a glimpse of perfect size twelve, burgundy Stacy Adams stepping onto the pavement. Arykah couldn’t see the face of the man wearing the tailor made charcoal gray, single-breasted Bill Blass suit with burgundy stripes walking her way. She did, however, see the newly manicured nails on the tips of long dark fingers.

  Diamond cufflinks glittered in the sunlight. The wind blew in the direction he was walking, and Arykah got a whiff of Tiffany’s Man before he got to her car door. She did a quick make-up check in the rearview mirror.

  Suddenly, the man was at her car door. “Miss Miles?”

  Oh, God, that voice. If Arykah didn’t know any better, she’d swear that Barry White was alive and standing next to her car, speaking to her right then. She looked up at a bald, chocolate colored man with even toned skin. She got caught up in his dimples even though he wasn’t smiling. The reason he was late had to be because he’d just left his barber’s chair getting his beard and goatee trimmed. He was absolutely gorgeous.

  Hershey’s must pay him top dollar to sell his skin and put their name on it, Arykah thought. “Can I lick you?” The words flowed from her lips beyond her control.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Arykah could’ve died at that exact moment. That was the most humiliating thing she had ever done. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe I said that, Mr. . . . ”

  “Howell, Lance Howell,” he answered, displaying a huge grin.

  Arykah opened her car door and stepped out. “I apologize, Mr. Howell. I was thinking out loud.”

  Lance gently grabbed her hand and kissed her open palm. “No apology is necessary, and the answer is yes.”

  Arykah’s equilibrium was off. He smelled delicious, sounded heavenly, and was more handsome than all of her past boyfriends put together. And did he just kiss her open palm? She looked at him confusingly. “To what?”

  “Your question.”

  Arykah’s entire face got heated. She stood in the street not knowing what to do or say.

  Lance sensed her embarrassment and chose to change the subject. “So, this is Oakbrook?”

  “Yes. Oakbrook Terrace actually.” She guided him toward the estate he had called about. “There is an excellent country club on the grounds that I’m sure you and the Mrs. will enjoy.”

  “There isn’t a Mrs.,” Lance said.

  Arykah almost did a two-step but she kept her professional composure. “Oh? You mean a man of your caliber who owns a construction company and can afford this house isn’t married?”

  “Nope, not yet.”

  Arykah turned the key in the lock and opened the door to a two-story foyer. “Just as you requested, this home has five bedrooms and six baths. The master suite is on the first level and takes up the entire left side of the estate.”

  Lance walked through the great room and stood looking out of the floor to ceiling windows at the backyard. Arykah came and stood next to him. “There’s plenty of room for children to run and play.”

  “Yes there is, but unfortunately, I have no children.”

  I’m gonna double my tithes and offerings on Sunday for this, Lord. Arykah was becoming more and more impressed with Lance.

  Lance followed Arykah into the oversized kitchen that
had two islands. “With no wife or children, I doubt this room will get much use. I know how finicky you bachelors are.”

  “Oh, it will definitely get used. I’m also a chef.”

  Don’t play with me, Jesus. “Are you really? What’s your specialty?”

  “Whatever is requested. I can master anything.”

  I bet you can. “Would you like to see the rooms upstairs?”

  Going up the winding staircase, Arykah pointed out the Berber carpet and cherry oak railing. Lance couldn’t care less about the railing or anything else Arykah was talking about. Walking up behind her, he focused on her plus size smooth calves and metallic ankle strap three-inch stilettos she wore. Arykah opened the door to a room at the top of the stairs. “This room can be used as a gym or home-office.”

  She allowed Lance to enter the room first. He took off his suit jacket and swung it over his right shoulder. His muscles protruded through his silk, burgundy shirt.

  My, my, my. Arykah thought.

  After the tour of the house, Lance turned to Arykah. “Miss Miles, I love it. It has everything I want.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. The asking price is six hundred thousand dollars. Will that work for you?”

  “Let’s discuss it over dinner this evening. Will that work for you?”

  “Are you asking me out on a date?” She prayed that he was.

  “Only to discuss business.”

  Okay, Lord. I’ll take that. Of course she’d break bread with a man who’s contemplating on blessing her bank account with an enormous commission. She smiled.

  “Sure, I’d like that. Where should we meet?”

  “Here,” Lance said.

  Her eyebrows rose.”Why here?”

  “Because I’m going to cook for you.”

  Her smile grew wider. “Mr. Howell, that—”

  “Lance,” he interrupted.

  “Okay then. Lance, that would be wonderful, but I can’t allow you to use the kitchen if this house doesn’t belong to you.”

  Lance wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. “Well, then let’s make it happen.”