Click.
She turned at the sound of the lock.
Patrice, her showroom manager, entered. “I thought I turned off the lights,” she said to herself.
Desdemona remained quiet, cloaked by the dresses.
Patrice was a middle-aged woman with short hair with silver flecks and a tall figure that was thick and shapely. A full-figured goddess with a good sense of style. Desdemona liked the crimson off-the-shoulder sweater she wore with a wide leather belt and wide-legged wool crepe pants.
When she bent to plug in the Christmas tree, Desdemona stepped forward. “Good job on the display models,” she said.
Patrice jumped back, startled, and clutched at her chest with her eyes wide.
“Are you going to join Elizabeth?” she asked, referencing reruns of the 1970s sitcom Sanford and Son where Fred would fake a heart attack and say, “Elizabeth, I’m coming to join you, honey!”
Patrice chuckled. “You scared me, Ms. Smith,” she said, placing her hands on her hips.
“A holdover from Halloween,” she said dryly. “Boo!”
Patrice released a nervous laugh that was more of a high-pitched shrill that increased in pitch as her mouth became wider, for a pretty horrific looking facial expression.
“Ooooo-kay,” Desdemona said, rubbing her hands together as she walked past her employee, giving her a chance to regain her composure. “So, I actually came to—”
Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.
She eyed her black alligator Hermès bag. “Excuse me a sec, Patrice,” she said, walking over to where she had set it in one of the club chairs in the center of the showroom.
“Number one,” she mouthed, surprised by his call.
Desdemona gave Patrice a quick eye as she moved to the door and stepped into the hall.
Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha—
“Hello, Champ,” she said, holding the iPhone with one hand and pressing the other to her back as she paced a bit.
He chuckled. “Maybe this season,” he said.
“So, what’s up?” she asked, stopping her pacing to lean back against the wall and cross one arm over her chest.
“I need my family to stop pressing me to get married.”
She arched a brow. “To anyone?” she asked. “Or do they have bait?”
“High school sweetheart patiently waiting for my return,” he said.
“For love or money?”
He paused. “Probably a little of both.”
“But?” she asked, guiding him.
“I’m not ready to settle down. With her or anybody,” he added, before she had a chance to ask.
“And if you loved her you would be ready.”
“Right.”
“So where do I fall in all of this?” she asked, although she had an idea of what his request would be.
But I could be wrong.
“I need the non-homosexual version of a beard.”
I was so right.
Desdemona pinched the bridge of her nose. “I can’t—”
“Just fly in for dinner, kiss a few babies, hug my mama, and then fly out with some to-go plates,” he said.
“When?” she asked, squinting her eyes.
“Thanksgiving Day and then Christmas Day.”
“Excusemesaywhatnow?”
“I’m willing to pay you extra,” he said.
“You would have no choice,” Desdemona scoffed. “It’s the holidays and everyone wants to be with their family, open gifts, eat food, and pretend like their world is perfect because there’s a turkey on the table or a decorated pine tree in the corner.”
“You still hate holidays?” he drawled. “Maybe helping me out could change your mind.”
“Who?” she asked in surprise.
“You,” he responded.
“Uh . . . nah.” Desdemona looked through the glass wall of the showroom at Patrice plugging in the tree.
“Triple rate. Think of it as a holiday bonus.”
Desdemona felt conflicted. Not because of the money. She could easily pass on that. It was her awareness that Number One had introduced her to the world of wealthy and prominent tricks. He helped change her list from johns and tricks to her high-paying consorts.
And to think when I first caught his eye I didn’t even know who he was. Only charged him a hundred. Who knew hot sex in a bathroom stall of a popular club would change everything?
“Listen, let me see if one of the girls can do it. It’s last-minute. It’s the holidays, but the extra money should sway one of them,” she said, closing her eyes as she ran her fingers through her hair which was sleekly pressed. “And only double rate. Cool?”
“That’s why you’re the best, Mademoiselle,” he said, his happiness clear in his deep voice.
“We’ll see,” she said before ending the call.
I hate the holidays.
Desdemona crossed the hall and walked into the showroom. “Patrice, go home with pay,” she said. “Enjoy the rest of the week. You can get to this inventory after the Thanksgiving holiday.”
“Really?” Patrice asked, clasping her hands.
Desdemona nodded, her mind already going through her list of paramours who were sans children.
“My husband wanted to drive to his parents in Georgia but I told him we had to wait because I didn’t want to short my check by missing days,” she said, already pulling on her wool coat and sliding the strap of her purse on her shoulder.
Missing days?
Desdemona could relate. There was a time being too sick to turn tricks had meant hunger.
“Enjoy your trip,” she said, moving across the room to take the seat behind the large wooden desk.
“Thank you so much. I will,” she said. “Bye, Ms. Smith.”
Desdemona. Desdemona Dean.
“And Patrice, maybe we’ll think about expanding your role here. If you want?” she asked, picking up a pen. “With a pay increase, of course.”
Patrice paused in the doorway, her face filled with surprise and some other emotion Desdemona couldn’t place. “I really, really need a chance,” she said, her eyes filling with tears.
I’ve been there before.
Desdemona blinked to keep her own emotions from rising. “You’ve earned it,” she said, giving her a reassuring smile.
“Now go. Enjoy.”
Patrice nodded and pressed her hands together under her chin in thanks before leaving.
Desdemona released a breath as she picked up her iPhone and scrolled through the contacts, deciding to try Olivie.
She placed the call. It rang twice.
“Mademoiselle,” she said, her voice warm.
“Hello, Blue,” she said, using her moniker. “Listen, I know this is last minute but are you available on Thanksgiving?”
“On Thanksgiving?” she asked.
“And Christmas Day,” she added, raising her brows as she sat back in the chair and crossed her legs.
Desdemona explained the consort wanted a pretend girlfriend for the holidays. “Double rate for a weekend session for both days,” she added.
“I don’t know, Mademoiselle,” she said, sounding doubtful.
Desdemona remained quiet. The decision was hers and she wasn’t going to persuade her into it.
Olivie was tough about her money. She was a hair-stylist looking to save enough money to not just open her own salon/day spa but to own everything outright and do it debt-free. She also could be whatever she needed to be and, in this case, it was an adoring girlfriend.
Her silence continued.
“Hey, no pressure. Think about it and let me know within the hour. Okay? Okay,” Desdemona said, ending the call.
Her eyes fell on the tree and its bright white lights. Never had she felt so lonely. “Shit,” she swore.
Life was all about choices and hopes for no regrets.
She’d chosen not to have children and until lately she’d had no regrets. All she could think of was getting arrested and leaving a chil
d behind without a mother.
Like I was.
She closed her eyes, hating just such moments when she wondered if she had made the right choices in life. With everything. Or had she been given a choice at all with the life her parents left her behind to live? Her world was not created for softness and love to reign.
I can hardly remember not being on guard.
“Shit,” she swore again as tears rose and the pain she avoided was there to face.
She closed her eyes and released a shaky breath. “I was a kid. I was just a kid,” she said in a harsh whisper. “So alone. I was so alone.”
Desdemona covered her face with her hand and released a small cry that only hinted at the pain seeming to drown her very soul.
No child should know how it feels to be hated.
And she had.
Her shoulders dropped under the weight of her memories of being ignored and neglected. Living in a beautiful home and made to feel every day that she was a bother. Made to carry the shame of her parents’ betrayal toward one woman.
Physical pain? No. Never. That would have left scars that people could see.
Desdemona tried to smile through the tears but failed as she took a gasp of breath and felt her tears roll down her cheeks. “I hate the fucking holidays,” she said, sniffing back more tears as she used the sides of her hands to wipe away the wetness from her cheeks.
Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.
She cleared her throat and picked up her phone as she released a long and steady stream of breath through pursed lips.
A text. She opened it.
BLUE: I’m in. Send deets.
BLUE: $$$$$$$$$$$$$!
And just like that. Like many times before, more than she could count, Desdemona pushed aside her feelings and focused on work. On other. On forgetting. On not feeling.
Once the details were set and Number One purchased her costliest dress with the knowledge that the dress wouldn’t be shipped until after Thanksgiving and he was to give the remaining cash balance to Olivie, the feelings resurfaced.
Even without formal education, stupidity had never been Desdemona’s problem. She knew there was so much she had to face. Some painful truths and long-buried hurts. She’d seen enough of Iyanla Vanzant fixing lives to be aware that her past was imprinted on every aspect of her life. Every decision. Every viewpoint.
She was no fool.
The reasons behind avoiding love and being a mother were linked to her parents’ deaths, her upbringing, and every horrible thing she thought she had to do just to survive.
She turned in her chair and faced her reflection in the full-length mirror lining the wall. Beneath the pretty face, expensive clothes, luxurious lifestyle, and organized businesses, she knew she was a catastrophe.
I am a beautiful mess.
She turned away from the mirror.
The truth is hard to face.
Desdemona pulled on her fox and picked up her tote. Her heels sounded like taps against the wood as she slowly walked to the door. She turned off the lights and looked back over her shoulder at the lit tree. She couldn’t deny its beauty with its brilliant glow in the darkness.
She winced at a vision of a little girl of four sitting before the tree in her pink princess pajamas waiting for the strike of twelve to open one present as her mother looked on sipping from a cup of hot chocolate.
“O Christmas tree,” Desdemona mouthed along with the vision of herself singing the carol in a sweet high-pitched voice.
It was a memory of the last Christmas she shared with her mother.
“I hate the dang on holidays.”
With long strides, she crossed the room and unplugged the tree, casting the showroom into total darkness and causing the vision to, thankfully, disappear.
* * *
Knock-knock-knock.
Desdemona looked up from the book she was reading as she lay on her belly on the soft plush rug before her lit fireplace. She pressed the button on her iPhone to check the time. It was a little after seven.
Loren? Couldn’t be.
She assumed their normal tutoring session was canceled for the holidays.
Room service? No. She’d gotten so lost in the book she’d forgotten to order dinner.
Who knew I was a reader?
Rolling over, she softly closed the book on her finger, marking her place as she rose from the floor and padded barefoot across the living room to the foyer. She checked the peephole, and her breath caught at the sight of Loren.
She leaned back from the peephole with her free hand still splayed on the door as she fought to recover from her surprise. She caught herself touching her curls to make sure they weren’t too wild, but shook her head and smiled away her concern. With Loren—her friend Lo—she could always be herself. No pretense.
Desdemona opened the door, leaning against it as she eyed him. “Something other than kicks? Surprise, surprise,” she teased, taking in his bright orange V-neck sweater worn with a camel leather bomber, denims, and Timberland boots. His hair was braided and hidden beneath an army green skull cap. Spectacles ever in place.
He looked down at the book in her hand as he stepped inside the apartment. “Colson Whitehead’s Underground Railroad. Surprise, surprise,” he said, tapping the hardcover with his finger before he swung his designer book bag from his shoulder.
Desdemona clutched the book to her chest as she closed the door. “I have to look up some of the words but... I’m enjoying it,” she said, ever surprised at how bashful she felt around him concerning her lack of education. “If our tutoring sessions weren’t coming to an end I would ask you to read along with me like we did the Bradbury book.”
Loren removed his coat. “You’ve come a long way,” he said. “You don’t need me. Plus, I’ve already read it.”
“Figures,” she said, reaching for his coat to hang in the closet before leading him into the living room.
“Well, this book of his, in particular, is exactly what I imagined myself writing when I got my undergrad history degree and then an MFA in creative writing,” he said, removing papers from his book bag. “Now I’m pursing my doctorate.”
Impressive.
“How do you jump from history to writing?” she asked, glancing back over her shoulder as she tucked the book under her arm and walked into the kitchen to grab two bottles of sparkling water from the fridge.
“I’ve always loved history,” he said, taking both bottles from her to twist the caps off before handing her one back.
“Thanks,” she said, sitting down on the couch.
“When most of my friends were reading comic books or playing video games, my head was stuck in books,” Loren said, chuckling at the memory. “I loved books about history— especially ancient Egypt and Africa. But a part of respecting history is being aware of it all—the good and the horrific.”
She watched him, loving the conviction on his face as he spoke.
“But along with history my love for reading and books never wavered,” he said, coming to sit down at the table. “In time I envisioned using my knowledge of history and layering it within a really well-written fictional story—entertaining and teaching all at once.”
Desdemona sat back among the pillows on the sofa and eyed him, struck by the exuberance on his face and how he seemed to have an inner light of happiness and calm that was infectious. An urge to cross the room to be near him filled her, surprising her.
“You’re a good person, Lo,” she said.
He nodded in thanks. “I try to be,” he said.
“You’re so young, but you seem to have it all figured out,” she said.
“Nah, definitely not,” he said.
He turned from the dining room table and walked over to the window to look out at the New York night. His jaw was tight and his face troubled, unlike his normal self.
She continued to eye him.
With his hair braided back from his face, it was hard to deny his high cheekbones and fierce
looks like a warrior.
“What?” she asked.
He glanced back over his shoulder at her. His face filled with questions.
“What don’t you have figured out, Lo?” she asked, stroking her bottom lip as she assessed him and came to her own conclusion.
Am I right?
“Nothing,” he muttered, before turning and walking back to the table to open his book bag. “Your test is coming up, and with the holidays we will lose a lot of time—”
“Lo,” she said, interrupting him with ease.
He paused in his movements but didn’t look to her.
She rose from the sofa and went over to him, covering one of his hands with her own. “You can talk to me. I’m a good listener,” she said. “And I owe you so much more than you know for helping me start to see the world differently.”
He raised his head. “Just trying to figure out what to get my girl for Christmas,” he said.
Well, I was wrong.
Desdemona laughed. “That’s all? That’s easy. Jewelry,” she said, moving away from him and dropping down on her sofa before she straightened the skirt of the kelly green long-sleeved wrap dress she wore. “And of course, sex along with the jewelry, especially while wearing the jewelry.”
Loren remained quiet.
She looked up as she crossed her legs.
His eyes shifted away from hers. His discomfort was clear. Her mouthed formed a little “O” in illumination.
Well, I’ll be damned. I was right.
She rose from the sofa again and rushed over to his side. “Loren, are you a virgin?” she asked.
He cleared his throat and shifted away from the light hand she had rested on his upper arm. “Man, come on. Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.
She didn’t believe him.
He was easily in his mid-twenties, handsome, with a tall and sinewy physique like a basketball player. Nerdy? Yes. Lacking boldness and confidence or the cocky swagger of most twenty-somethings whose penis got hard with the simple blow of the wind against their crotch. Sure. But a virgin?
“Can we just get to your lessons, Ms. Smith?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, respecting that he felt ill at ease and not wanting to embarrass him any more than she already had.
Madam, May I Page 11
