By six o’clock that evening we’re finished. We clean up the kitchen and prepare to leave. I ask Moses to check inside of my car for me. He does and says that it’s fine. I told my crew about the rat incident. They were all appalled.
I go home and change. I have to pick up Lynzee at the airport at eight. I arrive at Memphis International Airport at seven forty-five. I listen to Alicia Keys’ CD again while I wait.
Around eight-twenty Lynzee comes out with a man. I’m almost positive it’s Michael.
I hop out of my car and greet them. “Hello, guys. Welcome to Memphis.” Lynzee makes the introductions. Michael is just like I pictured him: a mirror image of Cuba Gooding Jr.
Michael puts their luggage in the trunk. Then we’re on the road, chatting and laughing like sisters should be doing. I’m happy, once again, that Lynzee decided to drop the lawsuit. There’s no telling where either one of us would be right now.
I’ve learned that when siblings truly love each other, there’s no such thing as sibling rivalry. Love trumps the negative every time.
By the time we park the car and unload the luggage, it’s nine-thirty. I’m going to have to do an all-nighter. The crew and I have to be at the bakery at midnight, so we can have all the fresh-baked confections ready by six A.M.
I introduce Michael to Jett who shows them where they’ll be sleeping. Jett helps Michael with the luggage. You’d think they were staying a week instead of three days.
While they’re upstairs talking man talk, Lynzee and I get out the games. We play Boggle first. While I’m kicking her ass, Michael comes down.
“Can I play?”
“Sure,” I say. “Have a seat.” Jett says good night. He has to get up early for work tomorrow.
It turns out that Michael whips my natural ass at Boggle. I’m pissed and amazed at the same time. When we play Scrabble, Michael once again leads everyone in points. By eleven forty-five he’s the clear winner.
“The twins are going to pick you two up tomorrow and bring you down to the shop.”
“What time?”
“Around nine.”
“We’ll be ready.”
After showering and dressing, I head out to the garage. I do my usual checking around the car. Satisfied, I get in. I exit the garage and drive the twenty-five minute trek to the bakery. When I walk in, it smells like success. I get to work.
There’s plenty of space, but every now and then we bump into one another. We laugh and continue on about our business. Our baking is being done as professionally as I’ve seen it done on the Food Network.
By five forty-five, we’re all finished. We remove our bakery aprons and put on our embroidered ones. It’s still dark out, but Moses unlocks the door at six sharp.
A few customers are waiting. “Good morning,” one woman says. “How much for a dozen donuts?”
I give her the price.
“Oh, that’s cheap. I’ll take a full dozen.”
I put each of her selections inside a silk screened pastry bag. She thanks me and says she’ll be back tomorrow.
Customers stream in like ducks on a pond. I say cha-ching to myself every time someone makes a purchase.
By eight o’clock, the place is packed. When Lynzee, Michael, and the twins arrive at nine, they can barely get inside. I make an announcement about Lynzee being my featured guest. A horde of customers make a line to get her autograph.
When the shop is less busy, Lynzee and Michael come into the kitchen and look around. They like what they see. Heidi and Enrique are busy baking fresh pastry, and Moses is writing away on the books.
After Lynzee autographs dozens of books, I give Michael, Lynzee, and the twins samples of some of the desserts. They stuff themselves and applaud the chefs.
Jett stops in around noon. He says hello to everyone and gives me a kiss. He stays and eats a donut before he leaves and goes back to work. He drops Michael and Lynzee off at home.
At three, I’m getting tired. We’ve turned off the ovens, finished baking for the day. By five, I can hardly wait until closing. My eyes are beginning to stick together.
At five forty-five, we begin storing the unsold items to be sold as day-old baked goods tomorrow.
It’s pitch dark outside, and I don’t notice that the twins are missing. As Moses is tabulating the receipts for today, Javed runs into the shop. He has April by the neck.
He slams the door, huffing and puffing. “This bitch was ready to throw a Molotov cocktail into the shop! I told you that this bitch was the perpetrator all along.”
Jamone comes in. “Yeah, we caught that ho. I already called the police on my cell phone. They should be here any minute.”
I look at April’s filthy face. “Why’d you do it, honey? I never did anything to hurt you.” Her tattered clothes reek of gasoline and smoke.
She almost spits in my face. “You took my daddy away from me, bitch. I hope you die.”
Javed shoves her thin body down into a chair. “You’re the one who should worry about dying. You’re going to spend some time in prison, girl. There ain’t no telling what them crazy freaks gonna do to you in there.”
“Fuck all of y’all,” April sneers. Then she turns to me. “How’d you like that shit on your seats? And that rat?” She laughs. “Priceless.”
I’m so shocked I can’t speak. I call Jett and tell him what’s happened. He’s on his way.
Sirens are blaring outside the bakery. Two patrol cars pull up. People are looking inside the bakery and wondering what’s going on. After they put April in handcuffs, I ask the twins to go outside and make a statement.
A reporter shows up and puts the event on Channel Thirteen News. It’ll be shown at nine.
Then Jett drives up. I go outside. They’re putting April in the squad car. He says, “April, I trusted you. Now you’ve broken that trust. You need help. I’m willing to take you to see a psychiatrist when you are released from jail, but then you and I are going to part ways. It’s going to take some time before I can trust you with my family again.”
“I’m not seeing no fucking shrink.” She spits on the floor. “Fuck you, then,” she snarls.
The officer slams the door. A few minutes later, the squad car drives off. Jett comes to give me a hug. “You told me that you thought it was April. I didn’t believe you. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just be glad that our life is richer and our sons are happier than they’ve ever been. We’ve got a successful business, I’ve got a successful writing career, and you’re doing well at King Ford. What more can any human ask for?”
“Sex.”
56
I’m tired as a mule when I get home from the bakery, but I feel energized about my man’s upcoming presence. Lynzee and Michael have turned in early, and I’m thankful that I don’t have to keep them occupied. If they’re lucky, they’ll be entertained by each other.
I think about my sons. I hope they’ve learned something from Lynzee and me. Money doesn’t guarantee happiness, and lies have a way of catching up with you. It’s best to be honest with the one you love, no matter what the cost. And most importantly, don’t sell your soul for a house. Like Jett said, it’s just mortar and brick. A mansion doesn’t make a home. A home is where your heart is, and mine is here with my husband.
Before Jett gets home, I rush into the bathroom and take a shower. By the time I finish, Jett comes into the bedroom and shuts the door.
“Baby?” he calls out.
“I’ll be right there, sweetie,” I tell him.
I drop the towel on the bathroom floor and walk into the bedroom naked. I stand before him.
Jett spins me around and shakes his head. “Your ass still looks like you’ve been sitting on a pile of rocks.”
I tap him on his nose. “I don’t know when the last time you checked, but your butt looks like you’ve been sitting right beside me.”
We both laugh.
“Seriously, I need you, baby,” he says.
“And I
need you.” I help remove his clothing. My eyes hold his as we cast off every item of clothing. Nude, he takes my hand and guides me between the sheets.
I think of Alicia Keys’ song, “Love is My Disease.” She tells her lover that when he’s gone, it feels like her whole world is gone with him. She says that she thought love would be her antidote, but now it’s her disease.
I don’t know how I can ever get used to being without you. Baby, I’m addicted to your love.
I wish that Jett would say those words to me. I’d melt like butter in a hot skillet. But my man isn’t as romantic as I would like him to be, so I had the forethought to turn on “Hang On in There, Baby,” one of my favorite songs by Johnny Bristol while we’re making love.
He kisses me deeply, and massages the small passage between my legs. I sigh in anticipation of what I know I’m about to receive.
In an insane rush, we come together. We require no further arousal, no additional petting or caressing to incite the fires of our sexuality. Our two bodies are so inflamed and eager that in an instant, we are joined in a fiery union. It isn’t sweet. It isn’t pretty. It isn’t like any first time before. But it is explosive, somewhat dangerous, and something that neither one of us will soon forget.
Bliss.
“More,” I say, unable to disengage myself from him for even a second. “More,” I whisper in his ear, biting his neck and licking his ear. Then I feel him enter me again. To hear him whispering my name and feel him fill me so pleasurably with an emotion so powerful, it can only be described as religious. For me, this is the climax, the reason that I’m alive, to experience that special capitulation when I feel loved and complete.
“I love you, Charity. Always, forever.”
“And I love you, Jett. Forevermore.”
We fall asleep in each other’s arms, tenderly entangled, not willing to let go of the sweetness of our union.
The windblown raindrops splattering on the window merge and flow downward. I feel Jett stir, and place my arm protectively around him. “Baby,” he utters so softly I can barely hear him. To my ears, it’s an aria. I’m in his arms once again, and all that is carnal, and material, and tangible evaporates into an intoxicating mist of emotions.
I regret not trusting my man’s love for me. I am ashamed that I kept truths from him that affected his life and future. I had no right to keep him from his blood daughter. It was his decision to make, not mine. Knowing that, I believe that our marriage can survive any problems in the future, because our future is one of togetherness and trust.
There is no reality to my sensations, and the peace I feel is incarnate. There are no nerve endings to feel cold or heat or pain or pressure. It’s as if Jett and I stepped inside an illusion, leaving time and truth behind. We are no longer two individual souls. We are a single, inseparable presence that can never be broken.
I’ve learned that nothing is stronger than real love. “Commitment” is a word that seems overused, but is ultimately the key to having a good marriage or relationship. When you make that commitment to your spouse at the wedding ceremony and say, “Till death do us part,” mean it. Mean it for the rest of your natural lives and God will bless you. I know he blessed Jett and me, and we couldn’t be happier. The product of that love lies in the future of our sons, Jamone and Javed.
Urban Books, LLC
78 East Industry Court
Deer Park, NY 11729
We Ain’t the Brontës Copyright © 2011 Rosalyn McMillan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-59983-176-3
We Ain’t the Brontës Page 28
