A Good Thing

by Stacey Evans Morgan

  I admired my beautiful engagement ring. Glancing at my ring triggered a thought to a week ago and I blurted out, “You know, it’s funny how once you get a ring on your finger, folks come out of the wood works stepping to you... hard.” And as soon as I said that out loud, the interrogation from Sunny began.

  Sunny, hand on hip, staring deep into my eyes wanted to know what “folks” had been stepping to me. I brushed it off as nothing because it was nothing, but they drilled me for details.

  “It’s no big deal. I was at lunch last week, and locked eyes with a man who just happened to be checking me out. The vibe was weird.”

  All Karma wanted to know was if he was fine and I told her he looked good but that it was nothing.

  “Yeah, nothing usually means something,” Sunny chimed in as Karma leaned forward with expectation of juicy details. I recapped the story and told them that I let him down easy.

  “Did you at least get his phone number?” Sunny asked and when I reminded her that I was engaged, her only response was, “So, you’re getting married not buried. Lunch is lunch.”

  “A hot lunch if followed by a quick nooner-tuner,” Karma offered as the two ladies high fived.

  I wasn’t amused and continued my story. I really did think it was sweet and reminded them that more men needed to step correct to amazing, got-it-going-on women like us. Well them, ‘cause I was taken.

  Karma was curious why I didn’t get his number to pass on to her girls. “First of all, I wasn’t about to take the man’s number to give to a woman he’s never met. I just kept the moment moving, but it was strange. I wondered if it was a test, like God was trying to see if I would fall for the forbidden fruit,” I said.

  Sunny, in a maternally warm tone responded, “Honey, God doesn’t tempt us like that. He gives us free will and if it’s our will to take a bite out of that juicy fruit, well then that’s on us.”

  I agreed with her and I guess all the talk about Mr. Juicy Fruit was enough for Karma who chimed in, “If it was a test, you passed. Now, pay for the dress and let’s get out of here. We’ve got some hard bodies waiting for us to make it rain later.” Off my look, she continued her rant, “Hell, I’ll make it rain while you sit under your little umbrella, honey!”

  My girls... gotta love ‘em!

  CHAPTER THREE

  The entire day was a spectacular blur. After leaving the bridal shop in Beverly Hills, our next stop was Blissful Spa in nearby Santa Monica where we enjoyed amazing hot stone massages, true spa manicures and pedicures, the REAL kind where they spend forty-five minutes per leg and foot! Later, we gathered at the home of my childhood friend, Melanie Logan- Parks who hosted an exquisite bridal shower. Melanie welcomed my guests at her sprawling View Park, ranch style residence atop a hill that offered a fabulous view of Los Angeles. From the Pacific Ocean in the distance to the left, Hollywood to the north, and looking eastward was downtown L.A., which on a clear day looked like the city of Oz.

  It was a typical southern California autumn day... a blustery 70 degrees, warm enough to enjoy the festivities being held in her backyard that showcased a sparkling Olympic-style pool, outdoor kitchen area and sprawling lawn. Most of the homes that lined the north side of Mount Vernon Drive in View Park enjoyed unobstructed views of the city and this was one of those homes. Melanie, a sought-after entertainment attorney was the consummate hostess with the mostess. We called her home the party house because you could always count on both her and her retired pro-basketball player husband, Leland, to throw a grand pool party, BBQ, Super Bowl party, and in my case, a shower of epic proportion.

  Mel showed out in grand style for her girl. It was a catered affair complete with uniformed servers passing endless trays of delectable bite sized hors d’oeuvres, exotic finger foods, desserts and designer cocktails. My friends, my mother (and a few of her girlfriends) along with family members showered me with exquisite gifts including several sexy lingerie items.

  One item that came in an L’Agent Provocateur box from the actual boutique located on Melrose Avenue, was a barely- there, burgundy silk teddy that had my Aunt Gloria blurting out, “Honey, you won’t be wearing that for long!”

  As the ladies laughed and continued to enjoy my celebration, a bouquet of flowers that consisted of roses, peonies and tulips in every shade of pink imaginable, were delivered just in time for all of the women to envy. They were from my soon-to-be husband, Jonathan Bradshaw III, Esq. I loved this man with every fiber of my being! Of course, the thought of him timing the delivery of my favorite assortment of flowers to arrive during my special celebration made my heart swoon. Not because of the outward exhibition of his love for me from three thousand miles away, but because it was nice to know that I was on his mind and he wanted to do something special for me. I didn’t care how accomplished and independent today’s woman was, admitted or not, we all liked our men to spontaneously do special gestures that shouted to anyone listening, “I love this woman!” This trumped flowers at the office on Valentine’s Day, any day.

  I didn’t make a huge deal of the special delivery. Just your requisite squealing with surprise and delight, getting a little misty, letting the women get a whiff of the spectacular arrangement that symbolized love was in the air. He sent a text that read:

  I hope you love the flowers. Don’t stop your celebration to call, this is your girls’ weekend and we can talk later. Love, Jonathan.

  I texted back:

  Thank you baby! I may have to send a pic of me giving you a little preview of one of my shower gifts later.

  What man could resist a sexy reminder of his woman appearing on his phone in poses meant for his eyes only? He responded:

  “Yes, please!”

  Sunny caught me off guard by snatching my phone and telling me I had the rest of my life to send lovey-dovey texts to my future hubby, but for now, it was time to get back to the shower.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The day wore me tired and I could have called it a wrap after that amazing shower, but Sunny, Karma and the other ladies set to switch gears wouldn’t hear of it. After resting for barely an hour, it was time to roll out for the final destination of the weekend, my bachelorette party.

  Unlike the shower crowd earlier, this was an intimate group of eight single women, all old friends who were ready to party. In addition to Karma and Sunny, joining us were Janine, Krysta, Charmaine and the twins Angie and Aneesa. These ladies, all successful career professionals, were always down for a good time, ready to blow off steam from their career lives. Whether it was an impromptu road trip to Vegas for the weekend, a party cruise from Miami to Jamaica, or a planned excursion all the way across the globe, this was my crew.

  Unfortunately, I missed out on the last romp to Italy to join up for the Bella Italia excursion presented by Fleace “Bella Italia” Weaver and her brilliant enterprise, BlackGirlTravel.com. Ms. Weaver, affectionately known as “Che”, an L.A. native had been hosting travel groups for American women to Europe for years and eventually took up residence in Italy herself. I thought we had lost Karma to Rome a few years ago when she joined Che and a group of Bellas (Bella means “beautiful” and you become an official Bella after your initial maiden voyage) during that trip I missed. Apparently, the Italian men loved them some black women and Karma was no exception. With her milk chocolate complexion, supermodel, 5’10 physically fit frame, curly kinky hair and a smile that lit up a room, I didn’t blame those Italians for drooling over her. Karma found herself caught up in the rapture of love with a handsome business owner, Vicente D’Agostini. She was this close to sending for the rest of her personal belongings until Signore (Mister) D’Agostini developed an attraction for yet another chocolate Bella visiting from Boston and that pretty much snapped Karma back into reality. “It was fun while it lasted,” she would always defend her almost throw-caution-to-the-wind decision.

  As we all boarded the VIP Party Limo Bus, I was looking around at all these gorgeous, gregarious girls who were ready to turn up in a
real way. I wasted no time grabbing the shot glass of tequila handed to me because that was the only way I was going to survive the night with these wild women without being a stick in the mud. Besides, we had a very capable designated driver, Calvin who was not only our driver, but he was Sunny’s cousin and a former club bouncer, so we were safe. I had no idea where they were taking me but once we hit the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue, I knew we were headed to The Hollywood Men review. Male strippers, no matter how chiseled their bodies, always made me laugh. There was something a little cheesy about watching men in corny costumes thrust, bump and grind to the beat of music. Yep, I would definitely need another shot of tequila to relax and have good time.

  The Men of Hollywood gave a fun, sexy round of interactive performances and soon I found myself reluctantly enjoying a lap dance from a hard body brother named Thunder. How original is that? Anyway, I guess ol’ Thunder earned the showers of money my friends decided to tip him as they made it rain.

  As the evening continued and my buzz wore off, I found myself picking up stray ten and twenty dollar bills from the ground and other obscure places in the dimly lit club, under tables, near the bar and in the cracks of chairs. We finally exited the club and Calvin was waiting dutifully standing at the door of our limo bus. One by one, he lent his hand to help each woman as we entered the bus. Almost immediately, shoes were removed and the sounds of smooth jazz, and naughty girl chatter about the fun from the evening, filled the air. Krysta was clearly amped up and aroused from the evening’s activities and was far from ready to go home. Someone was about to benefit from her hot and bothered state of mind. After making a quick booty call to her unidentified friend on the other end of the phone, our limo made an unexpected drop off in Lemiert Park in front of a classic Spanish-style house where a black BMW 750i sat in the driveway. Krysta, checked her make up in the black MAC makeup compact mirror, slipped on her heels, and said her goodbyes as she exited the bus and sashayed up a flower-lined walkway toward the house. A bright porch light suddenly lit up greeting her as soon as her pump hit the step and a tall man scooped her up and out of our sight. None of us had any idea who he was but we all agreed, the stripper who had bumped and grinded our girl into erotic oblivion with his rhythmic and pulsating moves was the foreplay and booty call brother was about to have his world seriously rocked. As we drove off, we directed Calvin to make one last stop at Fat Burger, an

  L.A. classic burger joint perfect for late night munchies, before heading to Sunny’s condo, where I crashed for what was left of the evening.

  As much as I enjoyed my fun filled weekend at home, it was time to head back to D.C., where my life and love were waiting for me. My plants were probably eager for my return also because I knew Jonathan didn’t take the time to stop by my place to water and give them some TLC.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Exhausted from my trip, I somehow made it back to work on time and that evening couldn’t arrive soon enough because I was having dinner with my man. As the cool autumn evening air fell on the capital city, my fine fiancé and I rushed into FIOLA, our favorite Italian restaurant located on Pennsylvania Avenue in short proximity of the White House, in North West D.C.

  As usual, Jonathan carried a pensive, pre-occupied look on his face, the kind that usually came as a result of a big case he was working on. As we were escorted to a table, I felt his eyes checking me out. Removing the heather grey Pashmina shawl, I wore his favorite dress, a deep purple Diane von Furstenberg wrap that hugged all my curves yet maintained a conservative essence at the same time. The wrap feature was a bonus, as it was easy to adjust the neckline of the dress to completely cover up or show a little or a lot of cleavage. The best part of a wrap dress for him was getting the chance to unwrap and enjoy what was reserved for his eyes and touch only.

  He was extremely stylish. I mean this brother could wear a suit, from Tom Ford to Brooks Brothers and look like he just stepped off the pages of GQ Magazine, or better yet, from the bespoke tailoring district of Savile Row in London. There’s an old saying: Clothes don’t make the man, but they can make the man look great, and my man always looked so handsome. He maintained his college football physique well after retiring his jersey at the University of Maryland and heading off to law school at Georgetown. Till this day, working out four to five times a week was a priority to him and it was the reason his physique was still fabulous. Occasionally, we would get the chance to hit the gym together, he, making a detour over to the free weights and me in the opposite direction for an intense spin class or the elliptical machines.

  As we were seated at our regular cozy window table for two, Jonathan glanced at me with a sincere smile and in an almost school boy, complimentary tone said, “You look incredible this evening.”

  He always knew how to make me blush. “So do you, baby,” I responded.

  The waiter came to get our drink order started and without even looking at the menu, my future husband ordered a bottle of Davina Malbec, my absolute favorite red wine. As the waiter agreed that it was a good choice, then exited, I leaned in and whispered, “You know me so well.”

  He smiled and began to look at the menu. Glancing up, Jonathan asked, “So, you had a good weekend in Cali?”

  “No,” I responded shocking him to the point of him asking, “Really?”

  I cleared that up quickly telling him that I had a great time and that my girls really laid it out for me.

  “Cool,” he said with a cool demeanor.

  “Baby, can you believe our life is about to change in two weeks?” Before he could answer, I noticed a reminder on my phone and reminded him that I needed his revised guest list as soon as possible so the calligrapher could finalize name cards, and the wedd...

  “Pilar” he interrupted. I continued to babble on. “Pilar,” he called out again.

  I continued to update him on the caterer who’d finally been secured, then shifted the subject to my dress. “Oh honey, wait till you see the dress. It is...”

  “Pilar, slow down!” Jonathan snapped through clenched teeth. The waiter returned to pour glasses of wine.

  I raised my glass to toast and he followed suit. “Cheers,” I said glancing into his eyes.

  “Cheers,” he responded and after we clinked our glasses, I sipped the wine, but he did not, choosing to just sit his glass down.

  I reminded him that it was bad luck to toast and not sip. He nodded and took a sip of wine and I apologized for just gabbing away.

  “How are you, baby?” I asked.

  Without hesitation, he responded “Nervous.”

  “That’s to be expected. I’m a little jittery, too,” I said as he grabbed my hand.

  “No, I can’t do this, Pilar.”

  Was the wine affecting my hearing? “I’m sorry, what did you just say?” I asked as I pulled my hand back from his grasp.

  “I can’t do this. I can’t marry you.”

  I sat in that chair speechless as I tried to gather my thoughts. Although my mouth was open as I tried to let those jarring words register, it took a moment to respond. “Oh, okay wait. You mean you can’t marry me right now? Did a major case at work develop out of town or something?” I asked, concerned.

  His voice quivered as he said, “Look, I don’t want to get married, baby.”

  Baby? Did this fool have the nerve to use the word “baby” in the context of what was the most devastating seven words I had heard in my life? As if that was supposed to soften the blow... negro please! “Don’t you dare ‘baby’ me. Are you kidding me?” I asked through clenched teeth.

  “Please, let me explain,” he pleaded.

  “Oh I’m all ears,” I said as I took a big swig from my wine glass. Before he could say another word, I asked him, “Who was she?”

  And he answered, “There’s no other woman, Pilar,” in a tone that sounded like he was shocked at the thought of me asking if there was a woman who had arrested his attention during our relationship.

  My mind
really began to wander now as I blurted out, “Oh my God, you’re on the down low?”

  “Hell no!” he yelled out getting the attention of nearby restaurant patrons. “Believe me when I say this is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life. The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you. You are amazing, Pilar. You are beautiful inside and out.”

  “Then why are we having this crazy-ass conversation? For three years, you’ve told me how much you wanted me to be Mrs. Jonathan Bradshaw, Esquire. How good we are together, the quintessential power couple. How could you do this to me, Jonathan?” The tears began to flow. He even got a little misty eyed as he said in a quiet tone, “Because, I love you enough to tell you the truth. I love you, Pilar, I’m just not in love with you.” He went on explaining how he took some time to stop and assess the situation, that he’d been on auto pilot when it came to us and a bunch of other ramblings that started to sound unintelligible like the teacher on all of the old Charlie Brown cartoon specials. “Oh, okay. Now you’re on some ol’ movie cliché shit!” I yelled unconcerned who heard me. “You love me, love everything about me, love making love to me at least from what I could tell, but you’re not IN love with me. Got it.” At that moment, I took another sip of wine, then grabbed my purse, my wrap and stood up from the table. My inner hood-chick was screaming, “Yo, it’s time to bounce!” and I agreed.