Sheridan paused. Saturday was her anniversary. The beginning of what would have been the eighteenth year of her marriage. She didn’t want to spend that day with Christopher’s new friend. “Let’s do Friday.”
“Okay.” Anything was fine with Christopher.
Now Sheridan had spent the entire morning planning with Kamora, who tried to finagle her own invitation to this dinner.
“Girl, I just want to see what she’s like. With a name like Déjà, you know she’s ghetto,” Kamora had said when she dropped Sheridan back home after they’d shopped.
Sheridan laughed; Kamora had expressed what she was too polite to say aloud.
“Let me come,” Kamora had continued begging. “He’s my godson, and I need some entertainment after the week I’ve had. You know I broke up with Clark.” After none of her protests worked, Kamora said, “Well, call me the moment the thugette leaves.”
Sheridan had to make that solemn promise before Kamora drove away.
“Okay, Mom.” Tori’s whining invaded her thoughts. “Then can Lara and Joy sleep over next weekend?”
“We’ll see.”
Christopher barreled down the stairs. “She’s here. She’s here, Mom.”
“Oh, brother,” Tori said, rolling her eyes. “Why does she have to come to our house anyway?”
My thoughts exactly. “Tori, be nice to your brother’s friend.”
“He’s never nice to mine. Ask Lara and Joy. He always calls them names and…”
Sheridan never heard Tori’s complete complaint. She waited in the hallway as Christopher opened the door. Her eyes widened as the girl pushed up on her toes and kissed Christopher as if his mother were not standing there.
Sheridan cleared her throat.
“Oh. Mom.” Sheridan hadn’t ever seen a grin so wide on her son’s face. Christopher entwined his fingers with the girl’s. “Mom, this is Déjà.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Hart.”
Sheridan wondered how she could talk with a wad of gum in her mouth so large that it stretched her cheek. “You too, Déjà.” For the first time she noticed her son’s shirt—a white T-shirt with a huge red heart in the center. It was identical to the shirt Déjà wore, only while Christopher’s was two sizes too big, Déjà’s was at least two sizes too small.
“Let’s go inside,” Sheridan said.
Following Christopher and Déjà, Sheridan stared at their hands, clasped together as if they’d been bonded by industrial-strength glue. And she wondered if they’d purchased the glue at the same place where they bought the paint to cover Déjà’s ample hips and thighs with what looked to be painted-on jeans.
They sat on the couch, and Sheridan parked herself across from them. Tori was already sitting Indian-style on the floor.
“Hi, I’m Tori.”
“Nice to meet you, Tori. I’m Déjà.”
“Hi, Deejay.”
“No, it’s Day…zha,” she said, pronouncing her name slowly.
Tori frowned.
“That’s okay, people mispronounce my name all the time.” She turned to Sheridan. “Thank you for inviting me to dinner, Ms. Hart.”
At least she’s polite, Sheridan thought, a moment before Déjà blew a bubble so large, Sheridan was sure the gum would pop over her entire face. But Déjà sucked in the air and returned the gum to her mouth as if she were a bubble-blowing professional, never smearing the violet-colored gloss that shined her lips.
Sheridan said, “Christopher never told me, where did you two meet?”
“Well,” Déjà began, as she hooked her arm through Christopher’s, “Chris and I met when I was at the park watching my cousin Brendan play basketball.” She smiled into his eyes.
“His name is Christopher,” Tori interjected.
Déjà grinned. “I know his real name, but I love calling him Chris. It’s okay with you, isn’t it, baby?” Déjà purred.
Who are you calling baby?
“And look.” Déjà held up her hand showing fuchsia-colored inch-long nails with a letter painted in gold glitter on each finger. C-H-R-I-S. “I have my baby’s name on my nails. Just so everyone knows he’s mine.”
Tori laughed as if she had never seen anything so ridiculous.
Surely this is a joke. But when Sheridan glanced at Christopher, he was gazing at Déjà, showing no signs of humor.
She cringed as Déjà squeezed even closer to Christopher, and Sheridan knew at any moment the girl would be on his lap. Or worse, he’d be sitting on hers.
“What school do you go to?” Tori asked, taking her place in the inquisition.
“I graduated,” Déjà said proudly.
“Aren’t you going to college?” Tori continued, as if she were the mother.
Déjà waved her other hand in the air, and Sheridan noticed all ten fingers claimed her son. “No, I’m going to beauty school in the summer.”
Tori scrunched her face. “Beauty school? What’s that?”
“None of your business,” Christopher said. He looked at Sheridan. “Mom, make her stop.”
“Tori, that’s enough.” Sheridan’s words had never been truer. She didn’t need to hear another thing.
But it wasn’t until they sat at the table that she was convinced she’d have to break this duo up. Déjà chatted about her life goals: having babies, getting married, and if her husband made enough money, maybe one day buying a house.
Only Déjà spoke. Tori sulked because she knew dinner would have been much more uplifting if her friends had been invited. And Christopher couldn’t speak. His eyes were glazed; he was hypnotized.
“Your son is wonderful,” Déjà gushed, as Sheridan picked at her pasta.
Déjà spoke with the confidence of a woman who knew she had her man. And throughout dinner, the way she touched Christopher’s hand, his arm, his cheek, let Sheridan know that Déjà was familiar with Christopher in ways that weren’t obvious.
Oh, my baby. Sheridan shuddered. Are they having sex?
“Ms. Hart, you should see my baby play basketball.”
He’s my baby.
“He told me he used to play golf, and he wanted to teach me, but I don’t wanna run around in the sun chasing a little ball.” Déjà laughed.
So why are you running around in the sun chasing a sixteen-year-old?
“Plus, I told Chris he’d develop his body more by playing basketball.” She rubbed his arm. “He’s already developed more muscles.”
Oh, my God.
“Ms. Hart, haven’t you noticed the changes in his body?”
“No!” Sheridan asked, “Déjà, what time are you leaving?”
Christopher’s eyes widened, horrified.
“I mean,” Sheridan began again, “Christopher told me your cousin was picking you up. I just want to make sure we have enough time for dessert.”
“Oh, we do,” Déjà said. “My father doesn’t care what time I get home.”
“What about your mom?” Tori asked, and Sheridan almost smiled. One day her little girl was going to make every overprotective mother in America proud.
“My mother is dead.”
Those words, spoken softly, covered the room with a blanket of sadness.
Oh, no. Well, that explains it. “I’m sorry, Déjà,” Sheridan said. Her thoughts about the girl had been harsh. Déjà was doing the best she could without a female figure to guide her.
“It’s not too sad anymore,” Déjà said. “My mother died when I was four, and I have six older sisters. They helped my father raise me.”
Sheridan wondered what her sisters were like if it took six of them to come up with Déjà.
It was still another painful ninety minutes filled with chocolate-chip cheesecake and endless, meaningless chatter. By the time Déjà called her cousin, Sheridan was ready to drive the girl home herself.
“Thank you for a wonderful evening, Ms. Hart,” Déjà said, as Brendan’s Navigator waited in front of the house. He’d been honking for almost five minutes, and Sh
eridan wanted to run outside and ask him if Déjà’s sisters had raised him too.
“I hope we get to do this again,” Déjà said.
Sheridan marveled at the girl. At times she spoke so maturely, so politely.
Sheridan walked Christopher and Déjà to the door and stood there as if they needed a chaperone. When Christopher glared, Sheridan turned to the kitchen. It didn’t matter anyway. Not much could happen at their front door, and Christopher would be on punishment for another week. In that time she could come up with something to keep them apart. And if she couldn’t, she knew Kamora had a trick or two. No matter what it took, Christopher and Déjà were not going to be.
Chapter Twenty-nine
It was 1993 and their first marriage retreat.
“We’re going to Vail,” Quentin had said when the marriage retreat had been announced at the new church she and Quentin had just joined.
For weeks she had counted down the days to their trip. It would be their first vacation. She knew they would have a wonderful time, especially since the weekend happened to fall on their anniversary.
Sheridan was beyond happy with her life as Quentin’s wife. Her world was filled with the best of everything—a designer-decorated home, closets packed with expensive clothes, and every toy imaginable for their children. Quentin tried to pack her days with leisure, insisting they have a nanny and a housekeeper. But Sheridan wouldn’t allow that.
“The reason I’m a stay-at-home mom is because I don’t want anyone else raising our children.” Quentin had acquiesced but insisted upon the three-times-a-week housekeeper who kept their home looking as if two children didn’t live there.
But although her life overflowed with material possesions, they were secondary to Quentin’s expressions of love. From cards to flowers to the words he spoke, not a day passed when she didn’t know how much she was adored. Even in the midst of one of their rare arguments, he would declare his devotion.
“We can agree to disagree,” Quentin would say. “But never doubt how much I love you.”
It was his passion that she loved most. He worked hard but loved harder. So there was no doubt their first marriage retreat would be one of their most romantic times.
And she’d been correct. He’d held her hand in their workshops, pulled her chair close as they ate meals. And when they were alone in their suite, he made love to her as if his survival depended on their union.
On the last night of the retreat, Quentin had stood and recited a poem for her that thanked her for not only making him fall in love, but grow in love.
There was no doubt in her mind. Quentin Hart loved her and always would.
The alarm clock chirped, dragging her from the memories. Sheridan slapped the off button and then lay back in bed. Today was her anniversary. Eighteen years of marriage. The beginning of her first year as a single woman.
She waited for the feelings to come. The hopelessness. The despair. The tears.
But nothing. All she felt was peace.
She wondered if she had actually reached that place where there was no backward, only forward.
Sheridan rose, but before she could make it into the shower, the telephone rang. She smiled as she checked the caller ID.
“Hey, girl, what’s up?” Kamora shouted.
“Nothing much. What are you doing?”
Kamora sighed. “Absolutely nothing. Just wondering what I’m going to be doing tonight. Looks like I might be spending my Saturday night alone watching Columbo.”
“What’s up with that? I can’t imagine you without a hot date.”
“Well, I told you I broke up with Clark, right?”
That lasted all of two weeks. What was there to break up? “Yeah, you told me.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if maybe I just need a hiatus. Some me time, you know. But that’s not why I called. Tell me—was she a ghetto chick or what?”
Sheridan leaned back on the bed. “I cannot begin to tell you.” She replayed the evening for Kamora, having to stop and repeat the part about Déjà’s fingernails. Sheridan was sure Kamora was going to pass out from laughter.
“Well, girl, one thing I can say—she’s a smart cookie. Home-chick wants a good husband who can give her a house and babies. Chris is perfect. She knows how to pick ’em.”
“Well, she’s not pickin’ nothin’ over here,” Sheridan exclaimed. “I may need you to help me come up with a plan to break my son away from ghetto chick.”
“Sheridan!” Kamora feigned surprise. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those bourgeois mothers who doesn’t think any ghetto chick is good enough for her son.”
They laughed.
Kamora said, “Just tell me what you want me to do.” A beep interrupted their talk. “Girl,” Kamora dragged out the word. “That’s Spencer.”
“Who’s…never mind,” Sheridan said, knowing she’d heard this story before. Only the names changed when Kamora was talking.
They hung up and Sheridan rushed into the shower. By the time she was out, the phone was ringing again.
“Hello, sweetheart,” her mother and father sang when she answered.
“Is something wrong?”
“Now is that any way to greet your parents?” her father asked. “We were thinking about you and wondering if you wanted to come over for dinner tonight.”
“That sounds good, but what’s the occasion?”
“Well, it’s Saturday and you know I’m a party animal,” Cameron said. “But your mother won’t let me go out and do my thing. So, I thought I’d ask you to bring the kids over instead.”
“Sheridan, your father hasn’t been out doing his thing since eighteen forty-two.”
“Eighteen forty-two? What are you talking about? I ain’t that old.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. It was eighteen forty-three.”
They all laughed.
“So, what about it?” Beatrice asked. “We’ll see you and the kids tonight?”
“Okay,” she agreed. “But let me bring the food. I’ll pick up something.”
“Fine with me,” Beatrice said.
“I know it’s fine with you,” Cameron interjected. “You can’t find the kitchen.”
“Now you know the devil has gotten ahold of your tongue. Sheridan, ask your father who made the lasagna he ate last night.”
“You know you didn’t make any lasagna. That came from that restaurant on Pico Boulevard.”
“Bye, you guys. I’ll call you when we’re on our way.”
“Bye, sweetheart,” they said in unison. Sheridan could still hear them laughing as they hung up. She stepped into the hallway and heard the sound of television coming from both bedrooms. It was a leisurely Saturday; there was no need to disturb the children.
As soon as she reached the bottom of the stairs, the telephone rang again.
“Hey, sis,” her brother bellowed.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Not much. Just checkin’ on you. How’re you doing?”
“Great. Just spoke to Mom and Dad.” She paused, knowing why her brother had called. Knowing why her mother and father and Kamora had called. No one wanted her to spend this first anniversary alone. “I’m going to Mom and Dad’s for dinner tonight, so I’ll be fine.”
“That’s great. How’s Dad doing?”
“You know Dad. He’s healed already. He’s just waiting for the doctors to catch up with what God has already told him.”
“In the name of Jesus. Well, sis, I gotta run.” He paused. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m better than that.”
“That’s my sister. Just let me know if you need anything.”
When Sheridan hung up, she thought about what she’d said to her brother. “I’m better than that.” It was true. Two months after Quentin had declared he was a different man, she was a different woman—stronger, wiser, and finding a way to be happy.
Christopher held Tori’s arm as she staggered to the door. It was almost midnight, an
d Sheridan couldn’t believe they’d stayed at her parents’ this late. They’d feasted on specialties from P. F. Chang’s, then played what seemed to be every board game in America, and then cheered when Cameron pulled her aside and declared that his treatments were over and in a few weeks he’d know if he was cancer free.
“Thanks for helping your sister,” Sheridan said.
Sheridan locked the door, and just as she lifted her hand to switch off the lights, she saw them—the bright red roses. There had to be at least three dozen; their fragrance filled the air.
Who…
She picked up the oversized card and read the inside: “You were my first love. Thank you for the best years of my life. Q.”
She dropped the card onto the table. He could still pull her heartstrings. But she didn’t understand it. They were no longer husband and wife. No longer celebrating their union. Why would he send her roses?
What do you want from me, Quentin?
Sheridan was too tired to figure it out, but there were two things she knew for sure. One, she would have to set up some rules for Quentin’s use of his key, and two, the roses would smell wonderful in her bedroom. She lifted the oversized vase and marched up the stairs.
Chapter Thirty
“Pastor, I really appreciate this, but I don’t want to see you on your days off. Isn’t there another time?”
This was their third meeting.
“Sheridan,” Pastor Ford said, “it’s fine. And I don’t see these as real counseling sessions. It just gives us a chance to talk. So, how’re you doing?”
Sheridan smiled. “Two months ago, if you had told me I would still be alive today, I wouldn’t have believed it. I really thought my life was over.”
“Not over, just altered. A new normal.” Pastor Ford beamed. “You’re a trooper. It’s clear God is carrying you through.”
“I still have lots of moments.”
“Did you think you wouldn’t?”
“No, but I’m looking forward to the day when Quentin Hart is totally behind me.”
“That will never happen…not completely.”
“I know. Because of the children. But I want our life as man and wife behind us. I think we’re getting to the point where we could be friends.”
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