When Somebody Loves You Back

by Mary B. Morrison

  Huffing, Simone took her last turn into Jada’s driveway. The spinning tires skidded to a smoky stop. “Over five hundred miles I had to drive to handle my business. Oh, she’d better not piss me off ta-day! Get out, Wellington.” Simone’s wide hips swung hard as she marched to Jada’s front door.

  Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

  Yanking the door open, Jazzmyne complained, “Hey, lean off the doorbell. We heard you the first fifty times.”

  “Hmph.” Just because she was Wellington’s only sibling didn’t mean Simone wouldn’t whup her ass. Simone stormed into the house, tugging Wellington the Second along. “Where is she?”

  Scanning the living room, Simone decided she was going to get Wellington’s framed jazz pictures, his decorative jazz rug with Billy Holiday on it. Wellington the Second wanted his daddy’s pictures of them together.

  “Well, hello, Simone. Is there a problem?” Jazzmyne asked, closing the door.

  “Baby, cover your ears,” Simone told her son, then said, “Ya damn right there’s a problem. I wanna know, why did I have to call the hospital to find out about my son’s father’s situation? And to find out where his remains were sent? Huh, why?”

  Placing both hands on her hips, Jazzmyne said, “Look, sit your ass down. You’re not running anything up in here. Now if you had come when Jada called you, you would’ve known like everybody else. You come marchin’ in here like a madwoman—”

  Madwoman wasn’t the proper word. Demon was more like what Simone had turned into, holding an invisible pitchfork, waiting to stick the first person that made the wrong move.

  “I don’t have to kiss her ass! That’s my baby’s daddy. Wellington’s only biological child. At least I didn’t go around lying to him for twenty years. Jada, Jada, Jada. Every other word out of his mouth was Jada. Wellington thought that bitch could walk on water and do no wrong until she surprised his ass. Then he still forgave her. Hmph.”

  What was up with men overlooking women who treated them wrong, marrying these women, and at the same time trying to hold onto the women who treated them right? Who was at the top of love triangles?

  Shaking her head, Jazzmyne asked, “Simone, what does that have to do with anything? My brother is dead.”

  Wellington the Second ran toward Simone, screaming, “My daddy is dead?”

  Opening her arms, Simone picked up her son. “No, baby. He’s okay.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Mommy’s talking right now. Be quiet.”

  Tilting her head sideways, Jazzmyne frowned at Simone, deliberately saying, “Jada isn’t feeling well. You need to show some respect. Maybe Jada will talk to you tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Oh, hell no.” Lowering her son to his feet, Simone hollered, “She’s going to talk to me today. Right here! Right now! Jada! Oh, Jada!”

  Darius stood at the top of the stairs. “What’s your damn problem?” Almost skiing down the steps, he stopped two inches from Simone’s face, staring down at her. “What’s your problem, disrespecting my mother’s house?”

  Damn, he was fine. Simone’s heart raced as she said, “News flash. This is just as much Wellington the Second’s home as it is yours. Even more so if you ask me. What I need to know is, when is yo’ mama going to make the funeral arrangements? And I want a copy of my son’s father’s will.”

  Shunning Simone, Darius nodded. “So that’s the real reason you’re here, trick. Well, you’ll have to wait until my mother is ready to deal with this. You’ll get what’s yours. And not a penny more.”

  “Jada!” Simone yelled over Darius’s head.

  Darius covered Simone’s mouth, then harshly said, pointing, “You have three choices. You walk out that door, get carried out the door, or crawl your fat ass out the door, but whichever way, you got to get the hell out of here.” He steered Simone toward the door Jazzmyne held open.

  “Don’t you talk to my mama like that,” Wellington the Second shouted, kicking Darius in the shin.

  “You little…” Darius swung, grazing his behind.

  As hard as she could, Simone slapped Darius’s face while he was bent to her level. “Stay away from my baby, you murderer.”

  Darius’s hand rose high into space above her head, descending inches from Simone’s face. “Oh, I oughtta,” he grunted, balling his fist.

  Jazzmyne yelled, “Darius, don’t! She’s not worth it.”

  Darryl walked through the door, looked at Darius, then raced and grabbed Darius’s arm, pulling his fist to his side. “Son, what the hell are you doing?”

  Launching her face forward, Simone said, “Oh, let him hit me so I can get more money. He’ll be signing those NBA checks over to me.”

  “What’s going on here?” Darryl asked, looking at Simone, Jazzmyne, and finally Darius.

  Grinding his teeth, Darius said, “I’m going upstairs to check on my mother, and all I know is she’d”—Darius pointed his finger in Simone’s face—“better be gone when I come back or I’m calling the police.”

  Darryl motioned for Darius to go upstairs. “I’ll handle this. Simone, have a seat.”

  Darius stood at the top of the stairs listening as Simone sat with Darryl and Jazzmyne. “What’s the problem?”

  “All I wanna know is, what’s taking Jada so long to make the funeral arrangements?” Simone answered, staring at the top of the stairs. Darius had taken a seat on the steps, intensely watching her.

  “Wellington, baby, come with me,” Jazzmyne said, escorting the child out of the room. “He doesn’t need to hear this.”

  “Simone, have you ever lost a loved one?” Darryl asked.

  “Yes, Wellington. Don’t you think I loved him too? But what does that have to do with what I’m talking about?”

  “Jada is grieving the death of her husband.”

  “Yeah, I can see. Is that why you’re here? To console her? Or are you trying to steal the money Wellington left for me and my son, huh? How clever, lover man. You can have her ass, and I mean that literally, but you ain’t taking shit that’s mine.”

  Simone wasn’t stupid. She could tell Darryl was plotting to be Jada’s next husband. Where was his ass the twenty-plus years Wellington raised his son? If Jada did turn around and marry Darryl she was a bigger whore than Simone imagined.

  “Simone, I’m not here to argue, or debate, or see who can yell the loudest. Jada is depressed. She’s not mentally ready to deal with anything. Funeral arrangements, work, probate, nothing. So you’ll have to wait until she is. We’ll notify you.”

  Simone mimicked, “‘We’ll notify you.’ You ain’t got shit to do with this. This is between me and Jada. If it weren’t for her, Wellington would’ve been married to me. Why does everyone always protect and take up for her triflin’ ass?”

  Darryl politely replied, “Because we love her.”

  Darius echoed from the top of the stairs, “Yeah, we love her, not you.”

  Simone stared at Darius, then at Darryl, wishing she had someone to feel that way about her. Jada had one man dead less than a week and another man obviously waiting to take his place. What did Jada have that Simone didn’t? What made some women so lucky at love and others so unlucky?

  “Well, I’m not gonna wait for her to get better. I’ll have my attorney proceed and I’ll make my son’s father’s funeral arrangements myself.”

  “There’s no getting through to you.” Darryl called out, “Jazzmyne, bring Simone her son. They’re leaving.”

  “No, we’re not. I’ll be right here in L.A. until everything’s settled.”

  “Good luck. But I wouldn’t waste money on a lawyer just yet. Only Wellington’s wife can legally make any decisions, and I’ve seen the will and unless there’s another one that I haven’t seen, you’re not getting as much as you probably think.”

  Narrowing her eyes to a sliver, Simone said, “We’ll see about that. Come on, Wellington.”

  Driving directly to the funeral home, Simone requested, “I’d
like to view my son’s father’s body.”

  A man dressed in a suit and tie replied, “Sorry, but we’ll have to contact Mrs. Tanner for approval.”

  Simone drove to Wellington’s attorney’s office and demanded a copy of the will.

  “Sorry, but that’s confidential. You’ll have to wait for the probate hearing. Maybe Mrs. Tanner can give you a copy,” the petite secretary suggested.

  Simone drove to Wellington’s bank. He’d wired her money on countless occasions. “Yes, I’d like to know if my son is the beneficiary on his father’s account.”

  “You have identification for your son?” the teller asked.

  Simone exhaled, then handed the woman Wellington the Second’s passport.

  The clerk asked a few more questions, tapped on several keys, and replied, “Yes, he sure is.”

  “Great, I’d like to close this account.”

  “I’m sorry, we can’t do that.”

  Simone whispered, “His father is dead. I’m his mother. And I’d like to close this account right now. How much is in it?”

  “We can’t disclose that information to you. Nor can you close this account. First we have to wait until the bank receives a death certificate. And your son is not the only beneficiary on this account.”

  “Who else is on the account?”

  “We can’t disclose that information to you either. You’ll have to wait until probate settles, and depending on how fast the primary beneficiary closes this account, if she closes the account, that could take a while. Sorry.” The clerk looked at the line and said, “Next.”

  Simone repeated in her mind, If she closes the account. That bitch had control of everything.

  Simone had problems that only money could solve. The IRS had placed a tax lien against her house, threatening a forced sale, and they’d already repossessed her cars. And did the government care how much they got in exchange for her personal property? Hell no. She would’ve been better off selling the car, but she couldn’t diminish her image. Compound interest, penalties, and fees were multiplying daily.

  Simone should’ve allowed Wellington’s accountant to do her taxes when Wellington offered years ago, but she didn’t want Jada in her business. Figured Wellington would stop giving her money if Jada saw how frivolously she’d spent his generous child support, traveling around the world with her girlfriends.

  Her lifestyle went from driving two expensive foreign cars, to leasing a midsize rental. Simone deserved to live the life Jada and Wellington had, even if she was single. Unless Simone got her hands on thirty-five grand quick, they’d have to move in with her mother. Maybe she should’ve visited her baby’s daddy while he was alive.

  Why did Wellington have to be the one who died?

  CHAPTER 36

  Melanie

  Money. The root of all evil.

  People who hadn’t spoken in years traveled miles praying that their old rich relative, distant friend, ex or estranged lover was generous enough to leave something in the will for them. Not a pet, or a stamp collection; most people wanted what they hadn’t earned and probably didn’t deserve, OPM, other people’s money.

  Melanie had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Wellington had died, making her the multimillionaire she’d dreamt of being all her life. Morgan wasn’t his biological daughter, but Melanie had convinced Wellington that since he’d taken care of Darius for more than twenty years and Darius wasn’t his, the least he could do, since they were lovers and in love, was financially provide for her and Morgan.

  Any woman could open her legs to fuck or open her mouth to suck a dick for free, but not Melanie Marie Thompson. She knew her self-worth. Knew what she wanted and exactly how to get it. Wellington was her security blanket and now that he was dead, she was getting paid.

  Ringing Jada’s doorbell, Melanie fussed with a few out-of-place strands of hair on Morgan’s head. “Keep still.”

  “That’s enough, Mama, I look pretty. Can’t I be a tad messy sometimes?”

  “No, you cannot. The best-kept ladies get the richest men. Remember that.”

  Morgan shook her head, singing, “I ain’t sayin’ I’m a gold digger, but I ain’t messin’ with no broke niggas.”

  Melanie scolded, “Didn’t I tell you to take the word nigga out of our theme song?”

  Morgan rebutted, “But it’s in the song and it sounds better.”

  “I don’t care what sounds better. You are forbidden to use that word.”

  Shaking her head, Melanie thought, My God, why does my child have to have the last word every single time?

  “Okay, if it makes you feel better, I won’t use it in your presence.”

  Melanie was thankful the double door opened on one side, because it took all the strength she had not to pop Morgan in the mouth.

  “May I help you?” the man asked.

  “Yes, I’m looking for Jada Tanner,” Melanie said, admiring the handsome hunk of a man standing before her.

  “And you are?” he questioned.

  She knew exactly who he was, and answered, “Melanie Marie Thompson, and you?”

  Darius slammed the door in her face.

  Melanie rang the doorbell repeatedly. This time an older but similar-looking man opened the door. “Yes?”

  “Before you slam the door in my face too, this is Wellington’s daughter, Morgan, and I’m her mother, Melanie Marie Thompson.”

  “I’m Darryl Williams, the man of this house, and Wellington doesn’t have a daughter.”

  “Yes, he does,” an old familiar voice resonated in the background. Jada still sounded the same, but she looked despicable.

  Darryl responded to Jada, “Sweetheart, you should be in bed. I can handle this for us. Go back upstairs.”

  “Yeah, Ma. You don’t know what you’re saying. Wellington didn’t have any other children. All of these leeches are trying to get paid and I ain’t havin’ it. Especially not from her nasty ass—”

  “Darius Jones,” Jada said.

  Both Darryl and Darius stared at Jada.

  “Whateva,” Jada said, squeezing between them.

  Sweetheart? What was this? Wellington was barely dead and Darryl was being ultrafriendly with Jada and awfully comfortable like they were one big happy family.

  Morgan pinched her nose. “Mommy, she looks and smells funny.”

  Ignoring Morgan’s truth, Melanie guessed girlfriend had her thang going on too. Melanie said, “We’re not leaving,” trying to muscle her way between them.

  Darius was the first to grab her arm, shoving her three steps back.

  “Mommy, you can’t intimidate everybody. He’s stronger than you.”

  Jada stood face-to-face with Melanie.

  Yeah, Jada was big and bad because she had backup. If her stank booty was home alone, she probably wouldn’t have opened the door ’cause Jada knew who was more dominant.

  “At least the child has common sense. Melanie, you have a lot of nerve knocking on my front door.”

  “I didn’t knock. I rang the bell.”

  “I don’t have the energy to argue. If you want to know if Wellington left you and Morgan anything, he didn’t.” Jada disappeared inside.

  “Wait, that’s a lie! You liar! I know he did because he told me he had his attorney revise his will to include us before he died.”

  Reappearing, Jada coldly said, “The papers were never signed.”

  “Mama, why are you bothering this woman?” Morgan asked, then pointed behind them. “What are you talking about? My daddy isn’t dead. He’s waiting for us in the car.”

  Raising her eyebrows, Jada slammed the door.

  Melanie covered Morgan’s mouth, pushing her toward the car.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to say anything? You’d better hope you haven’t ruined my chances of getting that money.”

  “Or?” Morgan asked, being shoved into the backseat.

  “You don’t wanna find out the answer to that question.”

  “Why not?
”

  “Sit your smart ass down and shut up!”

  “If you say so.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Fancy

  There was no place like home.

  Fancy could’ve stayed in her Oakland penthouse, but it didn’t compare to waking up to an ocean view’s sunrise. In time, she’d spend more time in Oakland, but only if her mother refused to stay with her in Malibu after having the baby.

  SaVoy’s wedding was beautiful, and by now SaVoy should be in Honolulu in her honeymoon suite sharing her sacred virginity with her husband, Tyronne. Fancy cared not to count the times or number of men she’d sexed, including Desmond, who was eagerly waiting naked in her bed. Being with Dez was okay because Fancy needed to know if she was making the right decision. Gradually, Fancy understood what Caroline meant by thinking with your heart. Marriage was easy to get into, hard to get out of, especially when the relationship wasn’t equally yoked and equally stroked.

  Sex was one thing. Making love was another. As estranged as her relationship was with Darius their chemistry blended like the milk and honey she’d just added to her bathwater. The Jacuzzi was filled with ultrawarm water to blend the sweetness and softness into her skin.

  The loofa sponge lightly rotated in tiny circular motions from her foot, up her leg, pausing, giving her knee special attention. Moving up her thigh, Fancy abandoned the loofa, watching it float as she caressed her body. It’d been too long since she’d shared herself with anyone. Tonight, she’d try her best to give her all to Desmond: mind, body, and soul.

  Closing her eyes, Fancy moaned, “Ummm,” touching her breasts, her lips, her neck. Every nerve ending tingled with aliveness, reminding her she’d survived. Fancy whispered, “Thank you, Lord,” grateful she wasn’t pregnant by a man she wasn’t with. Her head lay on the white inflated pillow.

  Who was Darius loving? Fucking? Why was he so unforgettable?