PUBLISHED BY DOUBLEDAY
a division of Random House, Inc.
1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036
DOUBLE DAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are trademarks of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc.
All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
eISBN: 978-0-307-82869-9
Copyright © 1999 by Lori Bryant Woolridge
All Rights Reserved
v3.1
This book is lovingly dedicated to my family. Austin and Eva, in my attempt to leave a mark on this world, you have proven to be the greatest gifts I can give to those whose lives you touch. To my life partner and soulmate, Craig, whoever I am now, whoever I become in the future, it’s all because of you.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Self
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part 2
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part 3
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS FOR
Read Between the Lies
Numerous people, more than I can name here, have assisted in making this dream a reality. Spirit has blessed me with many lights who, with their love and support, have helped illuminate my search for self—both as a woman and as a writer. I am so thankful for you all. In particular, I would like to extend my heartfelt gratitude to:
My parents, Albert and Mable Bryant; my brothers, Albert, Kermit, Gregory; and especially my sister, Susan. You believed, so I did, too. Judy Jenkins, Joyce Gordon, and Jonathan Wafer, this marathon could not have been run without you.
Francesca Neilson and Cynthia Bagby, my “soul” sisters. Thank you both for being such a positive and spiritual force in my life. Saba and Branko, Lee and Lisa, you were there from the beginning. My wonderful friends in Mothers Off Duty: Heather, Angelique, Lynne, Dianna, Ruthanna, Benita, Jackie, Faith, Shelia, Rita, Gina, Mikki, Beverly, Trish, Sandy, Lisa, and Connie. Thanks for your love. You are truly fabulous women.
Benilde Little, thanks for all your advice and support. Patrik Henry Bass, you are an incredible writer and friend. Mark Ulrich, graphics designer extraordinaire, you’re always there when I need you. Pam Needles and Wanda Geddie, thank you for your insight into the modeling industry. Meredith Sue Willis, your encouragement made a difference. Rupert Hinds, musician, poet, friend, thanks for sharing your immense talent with me. Your words beg for reality.
Marie Dutton Brown, my literary guardian angel, how blessed I am to flourish under the caring wings of such a legendary agent. Janet Hill, my editor and friend, thank you for “getting it” and caring enough to make this the best book possible. Please know how much I appreciate the uphill climb you two trek daily for authors like me. Andy Elder, the man with the voice, thank you for all your help.
To the millions of new readers in this country, your courageous stories provided much of the inspiration for this book. I tried hard to capture the heart and dignity that shines through each of you. I hope that those of us who take our literacy for granted may read this novel and reap.
And to you, who so kindly purchased this book and gave a new author a chance, enjoy the journey with my best wishes. I trust this will be a long and rewarding relationship for both of us.
Self
What is self?
And what should I find
Do I seek a universal oneness or the mirror kind?
Alone unto itself with utter devotion
Or many, afraid, full of fragmented emotions
I live with a myriad of selves
They take space in my mind
Some easy to see, some hard to define
There is much of myself, some I keep, some I lose
But more important to me is the self I can use
There’s the self that is selfish—that one I deny
I don’t always win, but I always do try
To be self-fulfilled seems an honorable goal
Though I must achieve without selling my soul
To give thought, word, and deed is self-sacrifice
So that others may have I will pay the price
My heart guides my mind to the self I perceive
For the worse self of all is to be self-deceived
To live, love and laugh is a blessing on earth
To experience true joy you must have self worth
More precious than gold or material wealth
Is a prosperous soul with a true sense of self
RUPERT HINDS
1
March 11, 1994
Gabrielle stepped away from the curb and began to wave. Broadway, in midtown Manhattan, was a blur of activity. Up and down the street the sidewalks were crowded with native New Yorkers and visitors from around the world scurrying to their appointed destinations. Impatient pedestrians spilled over the curb waiting for a break in the traffic. Messengers on bikes, driving fast and recklessly, arrogantly wove in and out of traffic like piranhas swimming in a crowded sea of cabs, buses, and limousines.
As the light changed and the confusion momentarily ceased, Gabrielle glanced at her watch. It was five-twenty on a Friday afternoon, a bad time to find an empty cab. On the other side of the street she noticed a well-dressed black man carrying a briefcase and waving frantically. Gabrielle leaned farther into the street and saw the object of his attention—a vacant cab. Quickly she raised her arm again and whispered a silent prayer.
There was no need to pray. Ahmed Ali, spotting the gyrating hands immediately after rounding the corner of Fifty-third Street, had already made his decision. He instantly eliminated the businessman. Ali rarely picked up black or Hispanic men. During the day, maybe, and only if they wore suits because that made it a safe bet that they were staying in Manhattan. He avoided picking them up during rush hour or at night because a lot of them lived in Harlem or Brooklyn, buying up brownstones in dangerous areas that were classified as up-and-coming. Until they up and came, Ali stayed away.
Today he would pass by Gandhi to pick up the woman standing on the corner. Praise Allah! She was one of the most beautiful American women he’d ever seen. She
was tall, with enticing long legs accentuated by high-heeled pumps and a short black skirt. Her jacket was fitted, revealing an ample bust and a narrow waist.
The light changed, and Ali zoomed past the black man, who managed to hit the trunk of the cab with his fist while swearing at him for not stopping. Ali paid no attention as he carelessly maneuvered his cab to the other side of the street and pulled up near the curb. Gabrielle opened the door and slid into the backseat. The cabbie turned around and looked into the face of an angel. Her skin was flawless, with the kind of clean glow that clashed with the dirt and grit of New York City. Her long, bronze-colored hair was slightly disheveled and framed a perfectly oval face. The eyes that looked into his were the color of liquid blue lapis, the generous lips that spoke framed an impeccable porcelain smile. Ali felt a pleasant stirring in his pants.
“Thanks for stopping. The New York Hilton Hotel, please.”
After traveling ten feet, the cab came to a screeching halt.
“This a joke, lady?” Ali asked, his erection withering away. “One block to Hilton.”
Gabrielle cringed as she realized her error. She’d been walking around the West Side for hours and had gotten totally lost. After unsuccessfully trying to follow the directions given by passersby, she’d given up and hailed a cab.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, scurrying out of the cab.
“Dumb bitch,” Ali called out after her.
Gabrielle wandered back onto the sidewalk and was immediately absorbed into the sea of people hurrying home, eager to begin their weekend. How could I have been so stupid? she chastised herself. She inhaled deeply and held her breath long enough to keep from bursting into tears. Gabrielle was afraid that once she started crying she might never stop.
She disengaged herself from the crowd, walked to the nearest trash can, and discarded her latest batch of blank job applications. She expelled a deep breath, trying to rid herself of the tension that had invaded her body since today’s job hunt began.
She’d started early that morning, hitting all the little shops that populated Amsterdam and Columbus avenues and all the numbered streets in between, asking for work. But the answers were always the same. Either they weren’t hiring or they’d hand her an application to be filled out and filed away.
Why am I in New York? Gabrielle asked herself for the umpteenth time. She’d been in the city for less than a week, but each day the question seemed to surface. There were several answers: to bury the pain and secrets of her past, to start a new life, to fulfill her mother’s dreams. But the reason that loomed the largest, the one that terrified her the most, was that she had nowhere else to go.
It was a sad fact that on this, her nineteenth birthday, Gabrielle Donovan was completely alone. She had no family or friends, no home, no money, and was qualified to do nothing. It had been six weeks since her mother had died suddenly when a blood vessel burst in her brain. Gabrielle had moved to New York with $347.33 and her mother’s dream that she come to the city to find a life of fame and fortune.
Gabrielle’s childhood was spent preparing her for that life. She never took a formal dance lesson, never enrolled in charm school or entered any beauty pageants. She was never a cheerleader or homecoming queen, as her mother’s ever-changing marital status kept her from attending any one school long enough to become popular. According to her mother, Helene, there was no need for any of those things. Gabrielle had two of the best “stage mothers” in the business. As Mother Nature adeptly guided her transformation from a lovely baby into a stunning beauty, Helene stayed busy grooming her child’s mind. Throughout the years mother and daughter often talked late into the night about the fabulous life they would lead. They discussed this starstruck future so often that Gabrielle had no idea at what point her mother’s desires had become her own.
Prompted by the aggressive sales pitch of the homeless man panhandling for donations, Gabrielle decided to head back to the hotel. It was too early to retire, so she settled into one of the many plush sofas scattered around the elegant lobby of the New York Hilton. She loved the way the fluffy softness of the cushions engulfed her body. She loved everything about this hotel—the thick, luxurious carpets, the gleaming wood, and the low circular fountain that gurgled near the front doors, demanding attention like a spoiled mistress.
Out of the corner of her eye Gabrielle noticed an attractive young man approaching. She quickly picked up The Wall Street Journal from the coffee table and immediately became immersed in the front page. Gabrielle sat behind the newspaper daydreaming about baked chicken, candied yams, key-lime pie, and a hundred other favorite dishes she’d rather eat than the stale peanut-butter crackers in her pocketbook.
“Uh, pardon me. I, uh, I couldn’t help noticing—”
“Yes?”
“The paper. It’s upside down.”
“I confess. I was trying to get your attention,” she said, smiling and extending her hand. “I’m Gabrielle Donovan.”
“Doug Sixsmith,” he answered, taking her hand in his. “I have to admit that’s the most novel approach I’ve seen in a long while. Now that you’ve got my undivided attention, may I join you?” he asked, settling down beside her. “What brings you to New York?”
“I’m looking for a job.”
“What do you do?”
“Model—or at least I’d like to. If I have what it takes.”
“I’m no expert, but with your looks, what else could you need?” Doug said, hoping his compliment didn’t sound like some asinine pickup line.
“Well, for starters, two hands.” There was a pause as the meaning of her comment penetrated Doug’s brain.
“Sorry,” he said, releasing his grip.
“Do you live in New York?” she asked, eager to turn the subject away from herself.
“No. Boston. I’ve been here doing some interviewing myself.”
“What kind of job are you looking for?” Gabrielle asked.
“Not job interviews. I’m a reporter.”
“Really?”
“Why don’t I tell you the tricks of the trade over dinner?” Suddenly Doug was very glad he wasn’t a prisoner in some war-torn country. With Gabrielle interrogating him he’d take one look at that incredible face and spill his guts—name, rank, serial number, the secret ingredient in his red-hot chili—anything, everything.
Gabrielle hesitated only briefly. She was starving, and this stranger looked like the perfect meal ticket. Any misgivings she might have had about Doug Sixsmith were being eaten alive by the growling monster in her empty stomach.
“Please,” he prompted. “I hate eating by myself. It’s so lonely. What do you say? I buy dinner, you supply the company.”
What do you know about being lonely? I can keep you company at dinner, but can you keep me from being alone for the rest of my life? Can you take care of me and teach me how to live on my own? she thought.
“Why not?”
“Great.” Doug smiled, his excitement obvious. “Do you like Italian?”
By the time Gabrielle returned to the hotel, both her appetite and loneliness were temporarily satiated. Her birthday had been special after all, as Doug Sixsmith had turned out to be an entertaining and thoughtful dinner companion. He’d even arranged for a slice of cake complete with candle and a serenade by the waiters. Before stepping off the elevator on the seventeenth floor, he’d gallantly shaken her hand and thanked her for a great evening. He would have liked to prolong their evening together, but the shock and disappointment of learning just how young she was had not yet worn off. Though Doug could sense that Gabrielle was someone special and well past the age of consent, the word “teenager” wouldn’t stop echoing through his head.
The elevator doors closed, and Gabrielle rode back down to the third floor. It was quiet. A good sign. As she walked down the hall, she was confused by the mix of emotions she was feeling. She felt both disappointed and thankful that Doug had ended their evening together. She’d enjoyed his company, but at t
he same time was tired and wanted to get to sleep. Tomorrow she would have to get up and out early. Gabrielle opened the door and gingerly called out, “Anybody here?” No answer. She walked into the room and headed straight to the utility closet. She recognized the words OUT OF printed on the yellow plastic sign peeking from behind the cleaning supplies. Gabrielle pulled it out and placed it on the floor outside, closed the door and locked it behind her. Just as the sign announced, this bathroom was out of order until morning.
2
It was his warm breath on the back of her neck that woke her. Stephanie, too terrified to move, lay motionless, listening to the syncopated rhythm of his breathing.
Oh, shit, she thought, panicked. I can’t get caught—not here, not now.
Slowly, so not to disturb the slumbering body next to her, Stephanie turned to look at the clock. It was 6:47 A.M. Thank God Jack was still asleep. How had she let this happen? If he saw her now, everything would be over before it even began.
Jack stirred, releasing Stephanie from her paralysis. Gently, she lifted the sheet from her naked body and cautiously eased out of his bed. She pulled her jeans over her narrow hips and her shirt over her small breasts. She paused before retrieving her panties. Granted, black lace undies hanging daintily from the TV antenna were an interesting forget-me-not, but these were her Victoria’s Secret seduction panties. A brief note would suffice, Stephanie decided, and shoved them into her purse.
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