What a Fool Believes

by Carmen Green

  “Good.”

  “Promise me you’re not going to leave here,” Byron said, trying to create some emotional distance, or else he wouldn’t leave Tia, tonight or any time soon.

  “Promise.”

  “You two aren’t going on a secret mission of seek and destroy?”

  “That’s ridiculous. I don’t even know where Dante is.”

  Byron was impressed and went three for three. “Promise you’re going to forget the past and look ahead.”

  She shrugged tentatively. “Promise, with a caveat.”

  He was on the porch as she stood in the doorway. Cold air brushed past him and scattered goose bumps across her arms, but she didn’t seem to notice. “He tried to destroy me. Break me down, humiliate me, and strip me of my self-esteem and all that I’ve worked for. I have to get him. It’s the principle. One good time—don’t worry, nothing fatal—then I’ll move on. Thanks for everything, Officer Rivers. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon. Good night.”

  For the second time that night, a door closed in his face, and Byron stood there, knowing the other shoe he’d been waiting to drop was firmly wedged up his butt.

  Chapter Sixteen

  All of Tia’s senses sprang to life as her eyes peeled open to off-key singing, the thin odor of oil-based paint and pancakes. Her gut did a bump and roll, peeved at the combination of stomach acid and the two bottles of Pinot Grigio she and Megan had consumed last night.

  Right now she just felt like the empty bottle that gaped at her from the floor. Sapped of its usefulness and discarded.

  She blotted out Megan’s singing, turning on the air mattress, when her hip hit wood. It seemed the bed had deflated some during the night. Pity shot through her nose to her eyes, making them water.

  Not only was she single and homeless, but she had a big butt, too. A dry sob tore from her throat, and a putrid cloud of bad breath filled the air around her face.

  Tia scrunched up her nose.

  What had her life come to? What had she done wrong in a past life to deserve this?

  She pushed to her hands and knees, her ears ringing. She eyed her swinging boobs beneath her pajama top and wondered if she and the girls would ever be happy again.

  When was the last time she’d been happy?

  Things with Dante hadn’t been great for a long time, Tia admitted to herself. She’d been holding out, hoping they’d return to the way they’d been accustomed to. To their various friends and associates, their relationship had been the one others aspired to achieve.

  They’d been the young, urban professionals, driving cute, fast cars, club-hopping through Midtown, with their place close enough to Atlanta that all they had to do was look out the window and gaze at the skyline, with the dawning sun.

  They’d had it all. It seemed.

  But Tia knew of the scars and the breaks in the double-paned glass of their false life. Yet she’d stayed, hoping things would get better. Waiting for her life to mirror the fairy tale she’d created.

  The truth was, she’d wanted it to work. She didn’t believe in abandoning relationships.

  She’d learned that from her mother. Her father gambled like he had the money of a sheik, but had Millicent Amberson left him? No. Every night, as her father slept, her mother did everything short of an exorcism, all to no avail. Lately, she’d joined the “if you can’t beat ’em” school of thought.

  Tia recognized that road as the one she’d lived on for over a year. She’d tried to wait out Dante’s run of bad luck and irresponsibility and to be there when he turned back into the man she’d fallen in love with.

  She pushed off her hands and stood, wrapping herself in an old summer dress, which would have to make do as a robe. This was her road now. This dead-end street. Humiliation seized her throat, anger drying the stale saliva on her tongue. She had to retaliate, if Dante ever turned up. On principle. Just as she’d told Byron last night.

  Thinking of their kiss, she peered out the window, expecting to see his squad car, but the lot was full of civilian vehicles waiting to be driven to work. She thought of her towed car but didn’t have the energy to get angry. The truth was she couldn’t afford gas or parking right now, so taking the bus was the cheaper option.

  Tia wouldn’t go so far as to thank ugly Ida Wilkes, but she had eliminated one decision for Tia to make every day. Now Tia would add that gas and parking money to the pot she was saving for an attorney.

  She searched for Byron’s car again but was disappointed.

  She was just feeling sorry for herself, and maybe the sad woman inside of her sought his attention because it was better than none at all. Tia understood these feelings. She knew she’d get stronger, and that eventually, Byron would be part of her past, as Dante was.

  Instead of her mood improving, her heart sank a little further. Tia watched as a lady scampered down the stairs of her town home and raced for the bus stop. The bus pulled away, reminding Tia that she needed to get ready for work.

  Energized, she hurried into the living room for her bags and stopped short.

  Megan was on the six-foot-high scaffolding, completing the k after f-u-c in lime green. She’d already drawn ugly depictions of Sonny below, while singing a bad rendition of Kelly Price’s “Heartbreak Hotel.” “Now I see that you’ve been doin’ wrong, played me all along... .”

  “Hey,” Tia said tentatively.

  “Hey. And made a fool of me,” Megan sang, staring at Tia, then slopping the brush onto the wall.

  Tia covered her hair with a sheet of newspaper. “Um, Sweetie, the workmen are coming in this morning. You’re not really helping them.”

  “I know.” Megan stabbed a period after the k.

  “Just working out a little aggression?”

  “Yep. Just a little,” Megan said in a tiny voice. “You did some nice work in the other room.”

  Tia’s rank mouth soured a bit more. She passed her bag on the floor, went into the living room, and couldn’t contain her laughter. “We’re crazy,” she exclaimed.

  She’d drawn a picture of the last time she’d seen Dante. Bad Jheri curl, too small suit, a five o’clock shadow that was just nasty, and yellow teeth. He looked like Shenaynay on crack.

  Shaking her head, Tia grabbed her bag. “I hope they tear this wall down first.”

  “They are. That’s why I painted it. The evidence will be gone by next Friday.”

  Megan had gotten down, and Tia patted her shoulder. “I’m glad to hear your voice returning to normal. I’ve got to get to work before I have no job to go back to.”

  “Want me to call in a bomb scare? That’ll buy you some time.”

  Tia blinked, a little scared. “Dang, Megan, step away from the detonator switch. People aren’t fond of desperate women doing stupid things if they’re not a size two and on TV. You’d better get ready for work, too. Aren’t you on days now?”

  “I got put on leave.”

  Megan walked into the other room, humming the chorus.

  “When did that happen?”

  “The day after I was at the airport. Apparently, Clayton County is concerned I might not be stable. Want me to pick up some male voodoo dolls later? We can drink wine, play with the Ouija board, and have fun.”

  The phone book balanced the lamp from the living room. Tia sat on the floor and leafed through it.

  “Sorry. No time for witchcraft, but you can call my cousin Leroy. I’ve got to get an attorney to get my house back.”

  “It’s a woman, right?” Megan said. “I can scare her out of there. Women are wimps.”

  While Tia entertained the thought, the last image of Ms. Wilkes holding her hair in her hand, a murderous look on her face, had convinced Tia to stay with her current plan. “Thanks, Sweetie, but I need to do this legally.”

  “... Heartbreak Hotel,” Megan sang. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  Tia glanced at the clock and scribbled several names of attorneys on the back of her Macy’s bill. Grimacing at
where she knew the balance hovered, she made a good list and put the phone book back under the lamp.

  Dialing one that promised twenty-four-hour service, she waited. “Cavitt and Savage. This is Rusty Cavitt.”

  Tia’s eyebrow itched. The man sounded like he’d sucked on one too many nails.

  “Hello. What is your retainer fee?” she asked.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I was granted my condo in a legal settlement against my boyfriend, who I lived with, but before the court date, he rented the condo. I own it. Judge Dunn granted it to me.”

  “So how’d he rent it?”

  Tia sighed, not wanting to relive the whole thing. “Before we got the order from the judge, he was living there and rented it. Then I got into a fight with Ms. Wilkes, the tenant, and the police were there ... It’s complicated. I just need to know how much you cost.”

  Rusty snorted. “I’m only guessing where this will go, so conservatively, seventy-five hundred dollars.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Now you listen up,” he said real friendly. “There’s two things I never joke about. God and money.”

  “Do you take a payment—”

  “Little sister, before you go on, let me tell you somethin’. I do my business like in the old days. Cash on the barrel. If you want me as your legal counsel, I cost seventy-five hundred dollars. If you don’t have that retainer, we can part friends now and hang up.”

  “Thank you,” she said belatedly and took his advice.

  Two additional calls resulted in chuckles, accompanied by the same fee or higher. Discouraged, Tia opened the phone book and got more names, staying away from the attorneys with ads. She flipped back a few pages, hoping the farther back in the book, the cheaper.

  Her logic wasn’t fail-safe, and she could feel her heart sinking with every no.

  Finally, she got up, kicking aside the fast-food containers from last night, and dragged her bag with her.

  “Meg, I’m going to shower. Are you sure you don’t want to stop that and maybe talk to somebody?”

  A fist-sized circle emerged as Megan stroked white paint over Sonny’s crotch in the latest depiction of him. “That’s a little like the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it? If you want to stay here, don’t judge me, and I won’t throw you out. Agreed?”

  Megan never once turned from her painting, but the low-grade undercurrent of anger resonated all the way to the bathroom. “Okay,” Tia said.

  “When you get home, we can finish the one of Dante. Maybe add fire to his hair. It is combustible. Wouldn’t that be fun to see in person?”

  A gurgle erupted in Tia’s throat. “Yeah. No, definitely not.”

  Would the three-day hold down at Grady’s mental hospital apply here? “I have to think about a part-time job. The attorney is going to be expensive,” Tia added.

  Megan made gray tears on Sonny’s face, with a thin brush, then neatened them with her pinky finger. Tia watched her facial features and how they softened as she caressed the paint into position. She still loved him. Enough to hate him.

  “Part-time job? You can hardly keep up with the job you have now. Sell those purses. You have so many, you won’t miss a few.”

  Tia regarded the beloved box of bags that sat discarded in the crowded hallway. Had there been enough room in her temporary bedroom, in the midst of Megan’s forgotten drum set, the AB Scissor, and the sewing machine, Tia would have slept with her purses. Besides losing the man she’d been committed to, she’d lost her lifestyle. With nothing to hold on to but the bags as reminders of better days, Tia felt a lonely panic climb her body.

  “I can’t,” she said, knowing the whisper in her voice magnified her weakness.

  She needed Kate Spade, Louis Vuitton, Prada, and her coveted Charles David, which she bought off a wild-eyed woman last New Year’s Eve at the Hilton for fifty dollars. Her bags were handpicked. And worth thousands.

  Tia stroked the handle of her Marc Jacobs, then settled on the Baby Phat green vinyl tote, pushing through the box for her Gucci and Coach bags.

  “I can’t sell them. Hey, they’re not all here.”

  “She must have kept some. Probably didn’t know the ones she kept weren’t the most valuable. People sure are stupid.”

  Anger flamed in Tia’s stomach as weariness surrounded her. “I’m so tired of fighting for everything.”

  “You can’t give up. We can just go over there and get them back.”

  “I can’t right now. I have to focus on getting my place back. Besides, Byron wasn’t kidding about taking me back to jail.” Tia unwrapped two Tums and chewed. “Jail just isn’t my thing. I’m going to shower, then get out of here.”

  “Suit yourself.” Megan started singing “Heartbreak Hotel” in an off-key soprano.

  Tia hurried into the bathroom, taking two additional bags with her. Sell them?

  Megan was high on paint fumes.

  Resolve strengthened Tia. She’d find another job today. If she just opened up her mind and put good thoughts into the universe, good things would happen. She did a modified meditation as she hopped into the shower.

  When she was finally dressed and headed out the door, she could feel the good vibes all the way to the bus stop.

  Her head high, Tia knew her life was about to change. Not even the sight of Byron’s patrol car trailing the bus to her job could dampen her spirits.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Tia, can I see you outside, please?”

  The photos of purses in Tia’s hands confirmed Byron’s suspicions, but he didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. He’d done that before, with disastrous consequences.

  Today’s break-in at her condo could be a coincidence. The only thing was that he didn’t believe in coincidences and neither did his captain.

  Byron believed that happenstance incidents were the mechanics of women, orchestrated to trick men into doing what they wanted. He’d heard it numerous times from his cop buddies.

  “Yo, I met her in the meat section of the grocery store. She was just standing there, and I helped her pick out beef tips. How’d she know those were my favorites? It’s like she knew everything about me.”

  It wasn’t until later that his friend found out that his new woman and the cashier were cousins, and they’d scoped out his shopping habits and had set a trap.

  Now, one year after they first met, his friend had two jobs to support baby twins, her son from a prior relationship, an SUV, a minivan—which he drove—and an expensive house in Cascade, which they couldn’t afford. The wife couldn’t work and help with the bills. She had postpartum depression and had to get two massages a week—so he was pulling the whole load.

  Byron shrugged. No way was a woman sticking it to him like that. He wasn’t a fool.

  Byron believed what his eyes could see, and the evidence was in Tia’s pretty little hands.

  She stopped outside the room. “What’s on your mind?”

  “What have you got there?”

  Her eyes darted from side to side, as if she didn’t know what he was talking about. “Nothing?” she said sarcastically.

  “May I?” Byron slid the pictures from her hands. “Nice,” he murmured, counting thirteen in all. Just the number of purses Ms. Wilkes had reported stolen while she’d been at work today.

  “What are you planning to do with these?” Byron asked.

  “You interested in carrying a purse? Might be a little over the top for the down low, but, hey, to each his own. Ronnie/Rhonda will be glad. You might free your mind and rid yourself of all your stress up in here.” She made a sweeping gesture from his head to his feet.

  He took her insult in stride. “I’m a straight man, sweetheart. You know that for a fact, so you’re not going to distract me. I got a call from the precinct. Somebody broke into Ms. Wilkes’s place and relieved her of about thirteen purses, but left all the credit cards and other valuables alone.”

  “First of all”—Tia snat
ched the photos from him—“she has valuables? I doubt that. Second, the condo is mine. Third, I can’t steal my own stuff.”

  “Ms. Wilkes seems to think so.”

  Byron stared at her furious eyes, and he wanted her like crazy. One day wanting her would get him into trouble. He felt that inside. But Byron couldn’t help himself.

  “Why would I steal my own purses, then take pictures of them? That’s just idiotic for anyone to even think that.”

  “Are you calling me an idiot?”

  She didn’t open her mouth, but her look said, What do you think?

  “What?” he demanded.

  “You’re a terrible detective.”

  “Hey!”

  “Hey, hell.” The smooth column of her neck worked, swallowing what he assumed was a profanity. “I know you don’t think much of me, but I’m selling my purses on the Internet so I can raise money to get an attorney so I can get my house back. I’m already registered on eBay. And, Mr. Police Detective, these are the same bags you brought into the house last night. Satisfied?”

  Byron glanced at the photos again. He had carried boxes, and there had been purses, but he hadn’t bothered to inspect the contents of each box. Damn. She had him again.

  He stood in the hallway, where he’d been made a fool of too many times to count, and old resentment shot through him.

  He should have done better detective work before coming to her. She was stressed out, and she had a right to be.

  There was one thing about Tia, and that was she was definitely transparent. She didn’t bother to try to deceive him or anyone. And, on the other hand, Ms. Wilkes had everything to lose.

  Why hadn’t he thought of all this before approaching Tia? Because he wanted to categorize her, and as he was learning, Tia Amberson didn’t fit the mold. “I can’t hold you,” he conceded.

  “Brilliant deduction,” she said, deceptively calm. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I really need anger management class tonight.” Her voice dropped. “All day I’ve been wanting to get something long, thick, and soft or hard in the palm of my hand and then snap it in half !” She exhaled sharply. “Ever get that urge, Officer?”