Just Too Good to Be True

by E. Lynn Harris

  Raquel picked the large envelope off the dresser and spilled the contents onto the bed. There was a driver’s license and credit card, both with her new name, Barrett Elizabeth Manning, a cell phone, a Black-Berry, and pictures and newspaper articles about her next job.

  Maybe the fifth time would be the charm and this would be her last assignment, she thought as she picked up her purse. It wasn’t like she really enjoyed her work. But how could she turn away from the lifestyle that the money she earned afforded her? She would have never been able to live in a lavish condo near the University of Washington near downtown Seattle. Neither would she be able to drive the expensive Mercedes sports car she rolled around town in. She’d come a long way from how she grew up, but that had been no way to live.

  With that thought, Raquel took a deep breath, swung her purse over her shoulder, and took one last look around. There would be another condo like this waiting for her—maybe a better one. That’s what had been promised.

  Just before she got ready to leave the condo, the phone rang. She assumed it was someone making sure that she’d gotten the information for her flight and was on time.

  “Hello,” Raquel said.

  “Bitch, where is my shit?” The loud male voice boomed over the telephone line. “I’m gonna get your ass, Bethany, when I get back to Seattle. Watch your back, bitch!”

  Raquel didn’t respond to the voice and with characteristic calmness hung up the phone, mouthed Stupid asshole, then laughed and thought, Bethany Lewis doesn’t live here anymore.

  She pulled the suitcase into the carpeted hallway. As she pressed the button for the elevator, she thought about all that awaited her. This next gig would be easy but would have a big payoff—if the notes she’d just received were any indication.

  The elevator door opened.

  “Hey, Bethany.”

  She stepped back, startled by the voice, stepped into the elevator, and then smiled at her neighbor, Jenna.

  “Hey.”

  Jenna eyed Raquel’s suitcase and asked if she was going on a trip.

  “Yes.”

  “Vacation?” Jenna quizzed.

  “Business.”

  “Gone for long?”

  “Back in a couple of weeks,” Raquel lied as she thought that she wasn’t going to miss this nosy bitch one bit.

  “Is your handsome boyfriend going with you?”

  “Is that any of your business?” Raquel asked as she shot Jenna an evil look.

  “I’m sorry. Are you flying or driving?”

  “What part of mind your own damn business don’t you understand?”

  “Just trying to start my day with a little conversation. Wow, what a beautiful watch that is,” Jenna said, changing the subject, as she eyed Raquel’s wrist. “I wish I was dating a professional athlete or somebody rich enough to buy me gifts like that. You’re one lucky girl.”

  “Well, this is your lucky day, Jenna. I’m your fairy godmother,” Raquel said as she slipped off the expensive watch layered in diamonds and put it in her surprised neighbor’s hand.

  “You’re giving this to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I know if anybody around here is looking for me you’re going to tell them nothing,” Raquel said. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Oh, yeah. Loud and clear. But who would be looking for you?”

  “There you go with those pesky questions. You want to keep that watch, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but are you in some kind of trouble? Maybe I can help.”

  “All my trouble is behind me,” Raquel said as the elevator stopped.

  “Thanks and good luck, Bethany,” Jenna said. Raquel didn’t respond and dismissed Jenna with a simple wave of her hand.

  She wouldn’t see Jenna again.

  As she walked through the lobby, the doorman smiled, nodded, and then held the large glass doors open for her. A fine mist had settled over the city, and Raquel told herself she wouldn’t miss Seattle’s rainy days.

  A limousine driver took Raquel’s bag and opened the door for her. She looked up at the high-rise building, smiled slightly, and stepped gently into the car. Moments later, the driver took his place behind the steering wheel and Raquel slid on large, dark sunglasses, even though the sun was nowhere to be found.

  It was time to go to work.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Carmyn’s Trick Play

  My son looked over and noticed the tears streaming down my face, momentarily taking his eyes off the road. I had warned him not to do that ever since I first taught him to drive in the Kroger parking lot close to our home.

  “Watch the road,” I said.

  “What’s with the waterworks, Mom?” Brady asked as he came to a stop sign. He looked in the rearview mirror and noticed another car pulling up. He drove slowly for a couple of blocks, then pulled to the side of the road and turned the engine off.

  “Brady, what are you doing? You know I’ve got to get back to Atlanta tonight. Why are you stopping?” I asked. I had surprised Brady by driving the 150 miles from Atlanta to take him to lunch after his morning football practice. When school started, there wouldn’t be time for such midday adventures.

  “Ms. Carmyn Bledsoe, we got plenty of time. I need to know what’s up with my main lady,” Brady said as he looked into my swollen eyes. He took my left hand and stroked it gently. “Tell me what’s wrong, Ma.”

  “I know it’s silly, but it just hit me that this is your last season of college football. It seems like yesterday we were driving up for the first time. I can’t believe four years have passed.” I gazed at my son and realized how much his face had filled out and matured. The cute little junior-high-school boy with skin that looked like butter and brown sugar combined, who had once had knock-knees and braces, was now a very handsome twenty-year-old. Wide shouldered, Brady had bright copper eyes with chestnut-orange interiors set deep beneath heavy brows. His gentle smile revealed perfectly aligned teeth and deep dimples that I knew would one day bring some young lady total happiness. The braces he’d hated had been worth every penny. My baby is a great-looking young man, and that’s not just a proud mom talking.

  “Is that what you’re crying ’bout? Look on the bright side. This time next year, you’ll be flying first class to who-knows-where to see me start my first professional football game. I’ll finally be able to take care of you.”

  “Stop that,” I said. “How many times have I told you I don’t need you to take care of me? I have my own money. I’ll get to wherever you’re playing on my own, and I’m not wasting money on first class.”

  “Whatever you say.” Brady sighed and flashed that easy grin I couldn’t resist. He started the car and we headed toward his off-campus apartment.

  Moments later, we reached the parking lot and I directed Brady to pull up next to a sparkling silver Navigator. The car salesman had kept his word. It had the new-car sticker on the back window, and I had to keep myself from laughing out loud.

  “Nice-looking truck,” I said.

  “Yep, it is,” Brady said.

  “Do you like the color?” I asked, and dug inside my large brown leather purse.

  “Yeah, I do. When I go to the league, I’m gonna buy you and me one of those.”

  “Why wait?” I said as I tossed a ring of car keys to Brady. His mouth flew open and his eyes bulged. Tears stained my cheeks, but my face was now covered with a huge boy-did-I-pull-one-over-on-you smile.

  “Damn, Mom,” Brady said, catching himself. “I mean dang. These keys are mine? That truck is mine?” Brady said in disbelief.

  “It’s all yours, baby. You’ve earned it.”

  “Can you afford this? I mean, I thought you wanted to open another shop. I can wait for a truck until the season is over. I’ve made it all this time without wheels.”

  “You don’t have to wait, Brady. Your football scholarship got you through college. Do you know how much money that’s saved me? You
’re the best son in the world, and this is the very least I can do. Let’s call it an early birthday present. Now you don’t have to depend on your teammates to get you around.”

  “Wait until my boys see this. This is tight,” Brady said. He turned and looked at his new SUV and then suddenly bolted from my car.

  As I stepped out from the passenger side, he was gazing at the beautiful and awesome piece of machinery, at the headlights that glared from the front of the large hood. This was by far the most expensive gift I’d ever given my now speechless and sometimes spoiled son. He gave me a bear hug that made up for his loss for words. Before he inserted the key in the lock, he touched the door as if making sure it was real.

  “Go ahead, get in. Let’s test it out,” I said.

  “Okay, but how did you pull this off without me knowing?” Brady asked.

  “That’s my secret,” I teased. “But you ought to know by now your mom’s got skills.” I walked toward the SUV’s passenger side. Brady walked around the SUV and opened the door for me, and I eased into the car, relishing the firm leather seats and the new-car smell. He climbed into the driver’s seat and caressed the steering wheel as though it was the sweetest thing he had ever laid hands on.

  About two hours later, I drove away from Brady’s apartment and pulled my cell phone from my purse. I speed-dialed Lowell Washington Jr., my best male friend and Brady’s godfather. Lowell was a tenured professor in the Andrew Young College of Arts and Science at Central Georgia University. I first met him when he was young and handsome and poised to become the first African American United States senator from the South since Reconstruction. That is, until a jilted male lover set him up with steamy man-on-man sex tapes that were played over and over on BET and CNN. The revelation of the affair ended the political aspirations of Lowell, the son of one of Atlanta’s first black multimillionaires. I had worked diligently on Lowell’s campaign when Brady was a toddler. I knew Lowell to be a wonderful human being, whatever his sexual orientation, and I wanted him to always be a part of Brady’s life. I was ecstatic when he agreed to be Brady’s godfather and male role model.

  It was tough being a single mom, so it was great to have Lowell around for those father-son Cub Scout meetings. And even though I had never missed one of Brady’s sporting events, sometimes he wanted me in the background and Lowell front and center when he registered for Little League and Pee Wee football because all of the other boys had their fathers with them.

  When Brady’s little friends would ask if Lowell was his father, Brady would tell them no, but that he was his godfather, which was more special than a real father because God had chosen Lowell to look over him since his real father was in heaven with God.

  Lowell’s answering machine picked up, and when I heard the beep I began speaking. “Hey, Professor, I just dropped off the big surprise I was telling you about. He loved it. So thanks for your help in deciding what to get. Why don’t you check on him later this evening or first thing tomorrow? Oh yeah, don’t forget to keep those little hoochies away from our baby. Love ya. Mean it.”

  I savored the last sip of my warm spiced-tea as I glanced around the empty beauty salon. It was Monday morning; the shop was closed but life still traveled forward as people returned to their weekly routines. Sometimes I would come in and do a little business, like balancing the books, ordering supplies, or taking care of that special customer who didn’t like the hustle and bustle of a crowded beauty shop.

  Back to My Roots had been in business for more than fifteen years in the Cascade area of Atlanta, the middle-class bedroom community where Brady and I lived until he reached the seventh grade. When I opened the salon, it had two stations, but it now had five regular stations and two for manicures. It was a cozy community business that had all kinds of customers, including welfare mothers, high school girls, as well as judges and local television anchors. I treasured them all, and they were one of the main reasons I had turned down offers to move the salon to the newly renovated historic downtown College Park. Every business day around noon, I would head across town and walk through the doors of the very exclusive Buckhead Day Spa and Salon, where the clientele was a little different from that of Back to My Roots. The customer base included Atlanta’s socialites, mostly white, but a few blacks, as well as the wives of any celebrities who decided to visit the city. I had formed close relationships with several of the concierges at the nearby Ritz-Carlton, and they sent new clients almost daily. The menu of services was drastically different at the day spa. Patrons could receive everything from turning mousy brown hair to brilliant shades of blond, to the popular oxygen facials and Brazilian bikini waxes. At the day spa, I would put on a lilac smock with my name embroidered in white and Spa Manager directly under it. Even though that was not an accurate description of my current position, I saw no reason to let the world know that I was highly favored when a golden opportunity to become the owner landed in the pocket of my smock.

  My start in Atlanta wasn’t a good one. I didn’t want to be here but had little choice in the matter. No one wanted to take a chance on me, a single mother, still a teenager. I finally got a few jobs: One was at a day care center, which gave me a discount so Brady could attend. I also had a job in the gift-wrap department at Rich’s department store downtown.

  One day, when I walked into the upscale day spa in affluent Buckhead by mistake, my life took a positive turn. There wasn’t a black face to be found in the sleek white and chrome interior. When I decided to ask for an application, I figured I’d get turned down yet again. But then I met Jean-Claude, the owner, and he hired me on the spot.

  “I see something in you,” Jean-Claude said after twenty minutes of interviewing me. “I know you’ll work hard.”

  I was offered the position of appointment clerk, which seemed easy enough, but after I had been on the job for only two hours, I realized there was nothing simple about what I had been hired to do. I was taking calls and arranging appointments for southern beauties who were convinced that being pampered was a fact of life, like housekeepers and rich husbands. But it didn’t take me long to become a natural with the women, finding a way to make each person feel as if I were doing them a special favor. I quickly became everyone’s favorite.

  Months later when Jean-Claude’s longtime prep girl left, he immediately promoted me. Within two years, I was managing the Buckhead Day Spa.

  “I love you, Carmyn,” Jean-Claude would always say to me. “I couldn’t run this shop without you.”

  I still get misty when I think about Jean-Claude, a boss who became my friend, and whom I miss dearly. He was the first man who loved me unconditionally. I had no clue he had AIDS until the final stages, which he spent in a hospice in midtown Atlanta. When I found out, I invited him to move in with me and Brady, but he declined, saying children didn’t need to be in a house with death hovering.

  “I’ve got to stop thinking these old thoughts,” I said to the walls of the empty shop.

  A few moments later, my ringing cell phone broke the silence of the salon. Unknown flashed across the tiny screen, but I answered anyway.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Is this Ms. Bledsoe?” a somewhat familiar male voice asked.

  “Yes. With whom am I speaking?”

  “I see you forgot my voice, but that’s cool. This is Nico Benson, CEO of The Great Ones Sports Agency. We talked last spring,” he said.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked, wondering what it was going to take for this man to get the message that Brady and I were not interested in him or his agency. I thought I’d made it perfectly clear last spring when he tried to convince Brady to forgo his senior year and enter the NFL Draft early.

  “I was hoping, now that your son is entering his senior year, that I could sit down with the two of you and go over my firm’s services. It still looks like Brady will be a first-round draft pick, and we can make sure he gets what he deserves.”

  “Mr. Benson,” I said sternly, “Brady is busy get
ting ready for his final season and isn’t talking with agents. I’m already familiar with what your firm offers, and we’re not interested.”

  “Ms. Bledsoe, I apologized last year for contacting Brady without your permission. This year I hoped we could start with a clean slate. I thought all was forgiven,” he said.

  “Yes, but I’m still not interested. You need to stay away from my son, or else I will have to report you to the NCAA again. Have a good day, Mr. Benson,” I said, and then I clicked off the phone before giving him a chance to respond.

  I made sure that everything was in its proper place, and then I turned off the lights and locked the salon. I walked out to my car, and I was about to get into my beige E-class Mercedes when a hand grabbed my shoulder from behind.

  I immediately dropped my purse, afraid that someone was trying to jack my car.

  When I turned around, standing in front of me was a brown-skinned man, 6'4" tall, broad shouldered, and well built. He wore khaki pants, casual shoes, and a knit shirt.

  “I’m sorry I scared you,” he said, looking disappointed.

  “What are you doing here, Sylvester?” I asked as I bent down to pick up my purse.

  Sylvester Monroe was handsome, with a strong jaw, beautiful straight white teeth (I have a weakness for men with nice teeth), and wavy black hair with a little gray at the temples. His only flaw was that he worked in a sandwich shop. Actually, a croissant bar called the Croissant Corner. It was a chain that had started in Macon, Georgia, and had expanded across the country.

  When the shop first opened two years ago, I’d gone in for a croissant and a cup of soup, and there he was, smiling brightly, being helpful, telling me to have a wonderful day and he hoped to see me soon.

  Every week or so I would go back, not knowing if it was the freshness of the croissants or Sylvester that had me continually walking through those doors.