Destination Wedding

by Jacqueline J. Holness

  “So read along with me, church. Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper.

  “Am I the only one who finds it fascinating that the Lord came in a whisper? The Lord is the creator of the universe, and He wasn’t in the wind, He wasn’t in the earthquake, He wasn’t in the fire… And then came a ‘gentle whisper.’ And there He was! I’ve been meditating on this all week, and the Lord wants me to tell you, church, that some of you are looking for God to show up and smack you over the head. And He will do that sometimes, because some of you are so hardheaded! But sometimes you need to get real quiet so that you can hear God’s whisper. And if some of you don’t start spending time with the Lord outside of church, you will never hear from Him.”

  I couldn’t believe it. The night that the Nightline episode aired, I had read in my devotional book that God’s voice was sometimes as quiet as a whisper. I didn’t know that passage was particularly special when I read it, but the pastor’s words confirmed that it was just what I needed to get my New Year started on the right track.

  I looked over at Percy, now back with his family, and beamed. The devil thought he was going to take my word from me, but he didn’t. His wife smiled a nondescript smile that let me know that she didn’t know me but wanted to be pleasant. Instead of looking away as I expected, Percy smiled broadly with his teeth showing and even winked as his wife leaned over to speak to their daughters. Something in my heart flickered, but I let my lips fall into a frown. I guess if the tempter could be in the Garden of Eden, he could be in Cascade Baptist Church. But right then, I claimed this year was going to be the year that married men or anything else that tempted me in the past wouldn’t be blocking my blessings anymore.

  Mimi

  I’ma get dat bitch, I said to myself while smiling and holding a microphone in front of the stars of As the Peach Drops, the latest reality show filmed in Atlanta. I was one of two radio personalities from KISS 103 co-hosting the official viewing party at Opera Nightclub, and I had to interview the five-person cast. As each one of them chicks blabbered on and on ’bout fake conflicts on their stupid show, I asked questions because I was paid to. But when Jovan walked in the club, I had to stop myself from throwing down my mic, running up to him and kissing him in front of erebody. I loved how he wore his baseball cap to the side and how his sagging jeans hung from his slim frame. He was like a thirty-three-year-old vampire because he could pass for ten years younger or more. Sexy ta def.

  Last night, erethang was perfect between us. I met him at his spot in Buckhead after he had a late-night session with one of his artists. We watched TV and killed our IHOP breakfast in his bed. As we chilled, eatin’ pancakes, I realized I loved dis nigga. So I looked at him, with his curly black hair, copper-colored skin and slanted brown eyes, and said, “You know I love you, right?” I looked back at the television actin’ like what I said didn’t mean that much. He took a bite of his pancakes before replying. “I got love for you too.”

  He kept staring at the television, but my heart wanted to bust out of my chest! In the three years that we had been dating on and off, he had never mentioned the word “love” to me. I tried to be cool around him because he told me he didn’t believe in monogamous relationships when we first met, but I could tell he was changing his mind FINALLY.

  I couldn’t help myself so I moved my long dreads from around my face and kissed him even though my mouth was sticky with syrup. I hoped my kiss said what I couldn’t. He was the only man for me, and this was our year to make dis shit happen. He returned my kiss and much more. My body got warm all over again thinking ’bout it.

  He came in the club tonight with Corazón “Chula” Ramirez, the artist he was with last night before we got together. Chula was the latest artist on his record label, A Shawty Records. He wanted her to be Atlanta’s younger version of Mary J. Blige with a Puerto Rican twist, he told me. Since he was a record-label owner and music producer, I was used to seeing him around town with his artists, but as I checked them out while doing my interview, I got a crazy feeling. The way he was whispering in Chula’s ear, I just knew he was sleeping with her. His lips touched her ear as he whispered, and she didn’t even move away from him. She actually lifted her ear up like she wanted him to kiss it. Since me and Jovan were the same height—five-foot nine—she looked like an elf next to him. I guessed she was no taller than five feet. Her caramel-colored skin matched her hair, which she wore over one shoulder underneath an Atlanta Braves baseball cap she also wore on the side. How cute. Their caps are both cocked to da side.

  As soon as my interviews were over, I left my bodyguard’s side, walked up to Jovan and thumped him on his chest.

  “Are you sleeping with dis chick?” I sputtered, knowing my face was probably all red but not caring.

  “Mimi, calm down,” Jovan said as his slanted eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “This is what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” I said, pointing to the two of them. “Y’all got your caps cocked to da side like y’all twins or something.”

  “I know you need to get yo hand out of my face,” Chula said as she turned her cap backward.

  “Heffa,” I said, facing her and positioning myself between the two of them, “I wasn’t talkin’ to you, but now that I am, you betta learn how to keep your professional life separate from your personal life or you won’t survive in this business.”

  I noticed then that the noise in the club had reduced by a few decibels as people started to crowd around and look at us like we were on stage. My program director, Angela Preston Locke, one of the few people in the club wearing a suit, walked over to the three of us.

  “Mimi, may I speak with you for a moment?” she said with a strained smile. “Follow me over here.”

  I reluctantly followed her to the opposite end of the club. But I made sure I strutted, since I wanted to give erebody a show, especially since I had on my favorite ass-tight jeans.

  “I don’t know what that was about, but it needs to be squashed immediately,” she said, her shoulder-length bob swinging from side to side. “I don’t want the station to have to deal with another one of your fights.”

  “If you’re talking about that last fight, I only told that woman that I would pull every strand of her hair out of her head because she backslapped me,” I countered. “It wasn’t my fault that woman’s husband is one of my biggest fans.”

  “I didn’t see the beginning of that fight, but I know that after your bodyguard grabbed the woman, you still went after her.”

  “Because she was still hollering at me,” I replied, but inside, just the word “bodyguard” was all Angela had to say to get me straight. When I worked at another radio station, my bodyguard was shot and killed by an irate listener who was aiming at another radio personality and hit him instead.

  “I repeat: this needs to be squashed immediately.”

  “It is.”

  “Well, maybe it’s time for you to go home since all of your interviews are done, right?”

  “Yes, Angela, they are.”

  “I will see you in the morning, then.” She motioned for my bodyguard to come over to us.

  “Yes, you will,” I said. “Goodnight.”

  As my bodyguard escorted me out of the club, Dee Daisy, an Atlanta gossip blogger, smiled at me. Only her evil smile didn’t mean anythang good. I was sho she was going to blast what happened on her blog tonight.

  Damn, I said to myself as I got to the door. It seems I wasn’t the only one leaving the scene. Jovan and Chula had disappeared too. Why did Jovan make being with him so hard?

  “Da fuck you staring at, Rambo?” My bodyguard stuffed a tissue in my hand and waited while I sopped up my hot tears.

  Senalda

  I had been
reviewing my strategy for my appearance at the National Black MBA Association Atlanta Chapter’s New Year’s Mixer all day. I was the chapter vice president, but by year’s end, I was going to be president. Next year, I planned to run for president of the National Black MBA Association, but I forced myself to focus on my immediate goal for the evening: greeting each and every person at the mixer with a firm handshake and a self-assured yet not stuck-up demeanor.

  Just before I opened the doors to the hotel ballroom, I looked down at my navy pantsuit and ran my fingers through my short hair. I straightened my back to rise to my full height of five feet two inches and swung open the door. I scanned the room, estimating that at least one hundred fifty people were there. It’s going to be a late night, I said to myself. All of the chattering and clinking of glasses would probably have intimidated some people, but I cut through the noise and power-walked toward the largest gathering in the room. About fifteen women had formed a circle around one tall, light-skinned, well-groomed man. I could smell the competition as each woman tried to talk over the woman next to her. Atlanta men and Atlanta women. I shook my head from side to side.

  As I inched in the group, I looked up and locked eyes with the man the women had encircled.

  “Dexter Bailey?” I said, my voice rising. His face looked the same as it did when were in college: model handsome.

  “Senalda Warner,” he replied with a smile.

  I pushed past the woman who was standing directly in front of him and reached up to hug him. I love a tall man, and he has to be at least six feet. The woman scowled but moved to the side.

  “What are you doing here?” I squealed. “Are you back in Atlanta?”

  “Yes, I am.” His doe eyes focused on me despite all of the other eyes on him. “Moved back from Miami in December.”

  “Wow, I haven’t seen you since graduation,” I said, putting my right hand on my hip.

  I didn’t wear a lot of makeup, but I hoped that my foundation still enhanced my chestnut-colored skin and that my chintz lipstick still looked fresh.

  “I worked at Ryder for a few years in Miami, but now I’m a vice president at UPS. You know the headquarters is here, so I moved back. Plus I missed my family. And my hometown too.”

  While Dexter recapped the last ten years of his life, my mind wandered. I’d had a crush on Dexter when he was at Morehouse and I was at Spelman, but for whatever reason, we never got together. I tried to listen to what he was saying, but I was mostly examining him from head to toe. He really did look as good as he did then. Even better, actually. He was still slim, but now he had an extra layer of muscle, like a dancer. I suddenly realized that he had stopped talking.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, shifting my gaze. “What did you just say?”

  He smiled.

  “What’s been up with you?”

  “I’m a client manager at Wachovia,” I said. “And I’m vice president of this chapter.” I looked around the room like it was my domain.

  “Impressed, but not surprised—so do you still keep in touch with the crew?”

  “Here and there,” I replied. “Whitney is still my girl. Did you know Richie Brannon? He was at Morehouse too.”

  “He was in one of my classes, but I really didn’t know him that well. Why?”

  “Whitney married Richie, and they have twins—a boy and a girl.”

  “That’s nice,” he said, nodding. “Whatever happened to Harley Whitaker? You know, the dude from Cali?”

  “Well, I heard through the SpelHouse grapevine that he left his wife for a man!”

  “What?!” Richie exclaimed. “I would have never thought he was gay.”

  “I guess his wife didn’t either,” I said with a laugh. “So speaking of marriage, what’s your status?”

  “Oh, me?”

  “Really? Yes, you, Dexter,” I said, while punching him in his chest. “Don’t act!”

  “I’m single, but I was engaged a couple of years ago. Obviously, things didn’t work out.”

  His words were sad, but he didn’t seem to be, so I forged ahead. “Awww, well, I won’t get into all of your business tonight,” I said, moving my hand from my hip and reaching into my purse. “We’ve got to catch up some other time. Here is my card.”

  I wrote my cell number on the back before pushing it into his hand. He slipped it in his pants pocket.

  “Do you have your new business cards yet?”

  “Yes, I do,” he said while reaching inside of his jacket. “I just got them last week.”

  “I guess I should feel special since I’m one of the first to get one, huh?” I said with a grin while punching him in the chest again.

  “I guess so,” was all he said with a half-smile while moving back from my fist.

  “Well, I hope to hear from you soon, but I’ve got to mingle and meet everyone tonight.” I wondered if my prompt would elicit the response I wanted: he was going to call me and soon.

  “I understand,” he said. “It was nice to see you again after all this time.”

  “Yeah, it was,” I said. “See you later.”

  Even after I moved on to another group and another, I was still thinking about Dexter. I sneaked a look at him to see if he was looking at me too. Another circle of women had gathered around him, and he was smiling over them like a celebrity. I decided then that Dexter was going to be mine. He was not going to be like other Atlanta men who couldn’t decide on one woman because of all of the other women in Atlanta who wanted him. I made that decision for him.

  Destination Wedding Meeting #1

  The last Saturday of January, the single ladies gathered for their inaugural Destination Wedding meeting at Senalda’s new home, in one of the new black upper-middle-class developments off of Camp Creek Parkway. Since she hadn’t bought all of her furniture yet, they situated themselves on the living room floor.

  “I love your home,” Jarena cooed, surveying her surroundings. Senalda’s dark-red-brick home was on a hill in a neighborhood oasis in the center of dense woods. The glistening crystal and gold chandelier in the foyer could be seen from down the street through a high bay window.

  “It’s a mansion, Bossy,” Jarena noted.

  “Really? This is so not a mansion,” Senalda said. “It’s—”

  “Excuse me, you have five bedrooms and four and a half bathrooms for one person,” Jarena interrupted her. “Ask someone in the Bluff if this is a mansion. I bet you they would agree with me. Shoot, ask someone who lives in Buckhead. This is a nice home, girl. If you didn’t know, let me tell you. You have arrived.”

  “Okay, yes, I have arrived. But I want more,” Senalda said with a laugh as she got up and sauntered to her kitchen. “I have red wine and white wine. Also, I have some brie, crackers and fruit if you guys want to nosh.”

  “Guurl, you shoulda tol me ’bout the wine when we first walked in,” Mimi piped, loosening her multicolored wool scarf and matching knit cap and following Senalda to the kitchen. “What’s up with that? I definitely need a drink or three.”

  “Something wrong?” Senalda turned and faced Mimi.

  “Nothing she didn’t cause herself,” Jarena hollered from the floor.

  “What did you do now?” Senalda said as she gestured for Mimi to pick red or white.

  “Should I tell her or do you need to tell her?” Jarena said, meeting them in the kitchen.

  “You know erethang as usual, so you tell her,” Mimi spat back while pointing to the red wine.

  “You need to be glad I’m even talkin’ to you since you’ve got me doing work that was so unnecessary,” Jarena said. She pulled her phone from her purse and clicked on the internet. “Here’s what I was looking for. Right here on lowdownatl.com. ‘KISS 103 Deejay Nearly Squares Off With Newcomer Chula Ramirez Over A Shawty Records’ Jovan Parker.’”

  Jovan Parker was one of Jarena’s top clients. She didn’t mean to introduce Mimi, Jarena’s best friend since ninth grade, to Jovan, a known playa, a few years ago. But local media
had been invited to a big dinner she’d hosted for Jovan and his artists at Shout in Midtown, and Mimi had been on the list. She had since told herself that they would have met anyway, since Atlanta was still a small town despite its big-city reputation.

  Jarena read the story out loud.

  “Really, Mimi?” Senalda said, eyeing Mimi as she handed her a glass of red. “You were about to start another fight while you were on your job? They must love you at KISS 103 if you haven’t been fired by now.”

  Mimi chugged the liquid before responding.

  “Dee Daisy is a crab,” she stated, while staring at the wall ahead of her.

  “Dee Daisy was just doing her job. Spreading gossip,” Jarena said. “You created the news, and she had to report it. And then she had to call me to get a statement from Jovan. You could have at least warned me. It was almost midnight when she called.”

  “I really don need to be punished twice, Jarena,” Mimi said. “My boss already wrote me up behind dat shit.”

  “Over a man that’s not your man,” Senalda said as she shook her head back and forth.

  “Scuuuse me,” Mimi said, “I don’t see no man livin’ with you in this big ole house. I was with Jovan last night. Who were you with?”

  “Ladies, let’s calm this down,” Jarena said. “We came here to work on our man situation, not fight each other.”

  Senalda’s scowl softened. “You’re right. That is why we are meeting.”

  She momentarily disappeared into another room and then reappeared with three black binders, magazines, and poster boards. “Okay, ladies, let’s get started. I made three binders; one for each of us. And we can make vision boards after we go through our binders.”