by Deidre Berry
Responsible, mature, employed . . . everything Avery Beauregard Montgomery is not. Instead, Beau is a natural born charmer. He has breezed through life on his dazzling looks, six-pack abs, and sparkling personality. But this pretty boy’s luck has run out....
In stores August 2012
“Jesu Cristo what a day!” I muttered under my breath as I slid behind the wheel of my black convertible Porsche. With a sigh, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. Here we go again. This was getting old. By this, I meant having to start over from ground zero and rebuild.
I mean, merde! One of these days, I was going to do the right thing just because it’s the right thing to do. Thirty-eight years old and not a lot of tangible achievement to show for it. No home, no job . . . no life to speak of.
This wasn’t my plan when I started out years ago. As the firstborn of Avery and Alanna Montgomery, I had planned to blaze a trail for my younger brother Roman and younger sister Katrina to follow. My childhood was golden; I had no recollection of Pops and Madere struggling to make ends meet. When we moved from Louisiana to Dallas, it was an easy transition for the whole family.
After years of civil servant jobs, Pops had opened a trucking company. Madere worked as his operations manager. They worked hard and the company remained successful until the day they sold it a little over five years ago.
I grew up as an athlete, a scholar, and was generally known as “that nice Montgomery boy” around the neighborhood. Sometime in junior high, I sprung up eight inches, all arms and legs. My ass was gangly. My head was too big, nose too prominent, lips too wide for my face.
Thankfully, by the time I reached high school, I had grown into both my features and six-foot-four frame. It seemed like overnight I went from being the smart nice boy with quiet manners to “that dude” that guys envied and girls wanted. I liked the feeling, I liked it a lot.
I excelled in sports without very much effort and excelled in my classes with very little studying. Apparently, I looked good doing both. Vividly, I can recall the day that I realized the full advantage of attractiveness. I had stayed out with a friend enjoying a lil female companionship the night before a major project was due. For the first time, I skipped turning in a homework assignment.
When I got to class the next day, my teacher asked me why I hadn’t turned in my assignment. I had no valid answer so I decided to wing it. On a whim, I walked up to Miss Whisler’s desk and knelt beside her looking into her eyes. In a soft voice, I apologized swearing it would never happen again. After a slight pause, she blushed. Then she told me it was okay, just this once.
My friend who was just as nice, held the same grade point average but wasn’t quite as easy on the eyes was given an incomplete and an afternoon in detention. It was a turning point for me. I got it. In an illuminating moment it was all clear to me. Beyond brains, beyond brawn, beyond brown skin and whisky gold eyes . . . I had “it”—that indefinable charisma that drew people.
You can call it charm, maybe it’s second nature, I don’t know. But I realized I had it and I was going to make it work for me. Having “it” meant that sure, I could work hard for extra credit or I could spend that time in a more entertaining pursuit and charm my way to the grade I wanted anyway.
Yeah, yeah—I realized that the day I decided to use my looks, wit and smile was the day I stopped trailblazing. It was the day I got comfortable. But I’m not sure that if I had to do it all again, I wouldn’t do it exactly the same way.
I had a combination of academic and athletic scholarship offers. Baseball was the sport I loved. I played short stop, I could run, hit, throw and jump with minimal contact. I chose Tulane because it was back home (still considered Louisiana home) and I knew I could be a big fish in a little pond there. Baseball paid for my first two years of college. Officially, I majored in marketing. Unofficially, I majored in women. I received high marks for both pursuits.
Right before my junior year, a talent scout from a modeling agency “discovered” me in Café du Monde late one summer night and sent me to New York. Modeling part time paid for the last two years of college when I transferred to LSU. Once I graduated, I moved to New York and modeled full-time.
What they don’t tell you about modeling? It’s boring as hell. The majority of your time is spent waiting around or running to catch a flight. You are treated like a commodity and not a very smart one at that. But tell me what else I could do that paid me $5000 plus expenses for two day’s work?
I lasted for ten years, that’s five times the average male model’s career. I earned a decent nest egg which contrary to popular belief, I have not blown through. I buy myself a new car every two years and pick up jobs here and there as I see fit.
At thirty eight years of age, I was a man still waiting for my purpose in life to reveal itself. I wished it would hurry the hell up. There had to be more than this. Forty was just around the corner. I had no intention of becoming “that guy”—the one who had all the potential and pissed it away? The one still chasing twenty-year-old tail in his forties? I couldn’t be that guy. If I knew nothing else, I knew I was better than that.
But for right now, this instant? I needed a place to lay my head for a minute. Wiping my hand down my face, I started the engine and made a ten minute drive south along Central Expressway.
That’s how I found myself, fresh off a firing by my brother and an eviction by my sister-in-law, standing outside my sister’s high-rise condo in downtown Dallas hoping (praying) she was out of town.
Kat was a model as well and frequently jetted off for days at a time. I was pretty sure that’s she was doing a beach shoot on the other side of the planet and would be there for a week or so. At least I hoped so. If Kat was home, she would want explanations, she would want chatter and explanations and I wasn’t in the mood for anymore soul searching.
With my laptop case slung over my left shoulder and a garment bag in my hand, I leaned on the doorbell. After a few minutes with no response, I dug into my pocket for the spare key I had made for emergency situations such as the one I found myself in now.
“Kat?” I called out as I stepped in the door. “Katrina? It’s Beau.”
Still no answer. With a relieved sigh, I set the bags down in the entryway and ventured deeper into the unit. I strolled past the open great room with kitchen and living area attached, ignored the guest rooms and bath for now and headed for the master suite.
It wasn’t until I was outside the master bath door that I heard the shower running and Maxwell crooning.
I sighed. A brother cannot catch a break today, I thought as I pushed open the door. Fog and the strong scents of ginger and peaches wafted heavy throughout the area. I stepped deeper into the room, Kat’s shower was a huge glass and tile enclosed box on the far side of the room. Without pausing, I yanked open the shower doors and dove into my explanations, “Kit-Kat, it’s Beau. I’m staying a few nights. No lectures, okay?”
A startled scream came from the wet woman under the hot stream at the exact moment I realized it wasn’t my sister Katrina in the shower. No indeed, it was not. Instead, I allowed my eyes to roam up and down the lovely frame of a tall sister around 5’ 10”, with short hair a la Halle Berry, curves for days, high cheekbones, lush lips and widely set big brown eyes currently widened with alarm.
“What in the entire hell is this?” The sudsy, angry and gloriously naked vision before me spoke.
Now you know, I considered myself to be quite a connoisseur of the female form; and this right here was a mighty fine specimen. Taking my time, I leaned against the tile wall and looked my fill in blatant appreciation. “Well now . . . you’re not Kit-Kat.”
Regaining her composure, the young woman turned the water off and reached for her towel. “A gentleman would have averted his eyes.” She spoke with a decidedly deep Southern drawl all warm and whiskey-laden. Something about her struck me as familiar. I rarely forgot a face or a figure like hers.
“I never claimed to be a gentleman.” I answered honestly. I
took a step back to allow her to pass. She was a cool one, seemingly unfazed to find herself near naked in my sister’s bathroom with a strange man.
She tucked the towel around her chest tightly and shot me a look. “You must be Beau.”
He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Mais oui, in the flesh and at your service.”
“Well, Beau, I’m Belle. Your sister and I are designing a clothing line together. She invited me to stay here until I find a place of my own. She didn’t mention anything about additional houseguests.” Her tone, though pleasant, was stern. She wanted me gone. I needed to stay. So here we stood.
I gave a quick shrug. “She didn’t know. I’m an unexpected drop in. Just here for a day or two. Are you going to send me out into the hot Texas evening with no place to go, chérie?”
“How is it that you have an accent and she doesn’t?” Belle inquired as she perched on the edge of the vanity chair and reached for some lotion.
“Some of us cling tighter to our roots than others.” Truthfully, I liked to let a lil Louisiana roll off my tongue from time to time. The fact that ladies seemed to love it was all the more reason to sprinkle it in the mix. I flashed my most charming smile and headed for the door. “So what’s it gonna be, Belle? Shall I start dinner or head for the elevator?”
Belle tilted her head to the side and assessed me with serious consideration. Long moments passed as she eyed me up and down. Finally she shrugged, “You have the weekend and then I talk to Kat. I’m partial to fish on Fridays.”
Score! My smile spread. There was never a deal Beau Montgomery couldn’t close given forty-eight hours, a set agenda and a beautiful woman. “Seafood it is.” I slipped out the door and closed it behind me. I laughed softly when I heard the click of the lock. She might be a cool one but she was no fool.
If you enjoyed All About Eva, don’t miss
Deidre Berry’s debut novel
The Next Best Thing
Available now wherever books are sold.
Turn the page for an excerpt from
The Next Best Thing. . . .
Prologue
The Bride Is Coming! The Bride Is Coming!
Finally. After three years of shacking up, Roland and I were jumping the broom—and baby we were doing it in style!
The invitations were beautiful. Burgundy suede covers opened to reveal embossed roses and elegant fourteen-karat gold calligraphy. Each one of our three hundred guests received these invites via Federal Express along with a gift basket packed with François Payard praline truffles, a magnum of Laurent-Perrier Rose Champagne, and Cuban stogies from Le Comptoir du Cigar.
Pure Opulence. That was the theme, and “my day, my way” had been my mantra from the minute Roland whispered, Marry me in my ear, then collapsed on his side of the bed in a sweaty heap. Two minutes later, he was snoring.
And that was it.
No ring, no loving words of endearment, and nowhere near the romantic marriage proposal that I had been fantasizing about since I was eleven years old.
Afterward, I pulled the bedsheets up to my chest, shocked, elated, and just a skosh disappointed that Roland had asked for my hand in marriage in such a half-ass manner.
Men were supposed to plan these things out, weren’t they? I mean, seriously—come onnn! I can’t one day tell my grandbabies that Paw-Paw proposed while he was banging Grandma.
If we could rewind the tape and do it all over again, Roland would have gotten down on both knees and proposed to me on Christmas night in front of my entire family. Of course I would have said yes! and the Christmas party would have instantly turned into this big, emotional affair with everyone hugging and crying, happy that Roland was finally going to make an honest woman of me.
Barring that scenario, a hot air balloon ride in the countryside would have been memorable; and atop the Eiffel Tower would have been most impressive. Hell, now that I think about it, the very least Roland could have done was the old ring-in-the-dessert trick.
But, half-ass as it was, it was a marriage proposal.
I sprang into action the next morning, giving myself a one-year deadline to plan the wedding of the century.
And to think. This long, crazy journey to the altar began four years ago when the two of us met at a wedding. Courtney Adams, my old roommate from Kansas University, was marrying Aaron Graves, a fraternity brother of Roland’s.
Ironically, I hadn’t even wanted to go to that wedding.
Not because I disliked Courtney so much, but because I was going through the breakup blues, and just was not feeling very sociable that day.
The source of my doldrums was Joseph.
A wonderful man with whom I had spent eleven wonderful months, only to find out that this fool had umpteen kids by umpteen different women.
Ooh! The breakup was nasty.
It almost got to the point where I had to put a restraining order out on his black ass, because the brother just refused to accept that I was breaking off the relationship.
This is about me and you, Joseph had said with tears in his eyes. What do my kids have to do with us?
Hello! Who in their right mind would unnecessarily invite all of that baby mama drama into their life? I’m sure as hell not the one. I don’t care how good the sex is.
Besides, if Joseph and I had gotten married his financial obligations would have become my financial obligations, and I just can’t see myself handing over my entire paycheck for someone else’s child support payments.
Don’t get me wrong, Tori loves the kids.
However, when those kids number close to double digits, baby, that’s where I have to draw the line. Hasta la vista, baby. See ya next lifetime.
So, there I was at my old college roommate’s wedding, single, and cynical as hell.
Roland may have been tall, dark, and Tyrese Gibson–fine, but as he confidently strolled over and introduced himself, I was certain he was just another well-dressed loser who would promise everything, expect everything, and give absolutely nothing in return.
But Roland proved me wrong.
Right off the bat, he struck me as being warm and sincere. By the end of the night, he had won me over enough for me to give him my phone number; and we proceeded to fall for each other fast and hard.
After just a few months of dating, I was already marveling at my good fortune in landing such an outstanding catch. This man was the ultimate romantic. He cooked for me (okay, so the meals weren’t always that great but the point is, he tried), wrote me poetry (he’s no Langston Hughes, but the effort was sweet), and handled his business in the bedroom like no man before him ever had (well, except for Vincent, but that’s a whole ’nother story).
As far as I was concerned, I had finally found the one.
In spite of my mother’s adamant warnings about giving the milk away for free, I allowed Roland to move into my two-bedroom condo on the Plaza, and all was blissfully right with the world.
Fast-forward four years and here we were, about to become man and wife, with a wedding tab of $202,536.24, and counting. My friend, Simone, jokingly compared the out-of-control budget to one of those telethon tote boards with the numbers rising rapidly by the second, but seeing as how I had an image and a reputation to maintain, I didn’t give a damn about the cost. Being a senior event coordinator with over a decade in the business, I’m known for throwing ridiculously extravagant soirees, so naturally, it was expected that my own nuptials be over-the-top fabu-lous. It was a lot of work, but it was truly a labor of love, and in the end, the stage that I had so painstakingly set, conveyed over-the-top opulence that had to be seen in order to be believed.
Tori’s Big, Beautiful, Fantasy Wedding
ORDER OF EVENTS
The Ceremony
Built in 1873, Mount Zion is the oldest African-American church in the Kansas City area. The massive gothic-style structure boasts a bell tower and magnificent stained-glass windows.
Inside the church, the heavenly scent of seven thousand gard
enias fills the sanctuary, which is the size of a football field. Uniformed ushers seat our guests, while an eighteen-piece orchestra plays an assortment of contemporary and classical music.
The wedding party enters to “Ava Maria.”
Seven groomsmen escort seven bridesmaids down the aisle. My cousin Cookie is among them, as well as my best girlfriends Simone, Nadia, and Yvette. My bridal court ranges from sizes zero to eighteen, but they are all equally stunning in strapless, burgundy gowns with matching chiffon scarves.
The orchestra segues from “Ava Maria” to the “Wedding March.” The chapel doors open and here it is: the big moment I have spent the last year orchestrating, and my whole life waiting for.
Entering on the arm of my father, I am a life-size version of Grand Entrance Barbie in a silk, halter-style Badgley Mischka gown with a hand-beaded bodice, crystal-beaded seventeen-foot train, and satin Manolo Blahnik high-heel sandals. My bridal jewelry includes a gorgeous double strand of Mikimoto pearls and matching pearl earrings encircled with diamonds. I smile at my guests through a nine-foot-long tulle veil, held in place by an antique diamond tiara. Even my bridal bouquet is spectacular, with four-dozen full-bloom red roses interwoven with Swarovski crystals.
Looking up ahead, I see that Roland has tears in his eyes as he waits for me at the altar under an enormous canopy of red roses and sweet-pea blossoms. My man looks so handsome and dapper in his Giorgio Armani Black Label tuxedo that I am already thinking about the honeymoon.
Reverend L. C. Thompson, the man who christened me at birth, leads us all in prayer before Roland and I light a unity candle and exchange traditional vows.
The Wedding Reception
To quote Shug Avery from The Color Purple, “I’s married now!” A Maybach limousine whisks my husband and me to the Roseville Country Club Mansion where we are greeted by our guests, and so many photographers that it looks like an army of paparazzi.(There’s no such thing as too many wedding pictures.)
