“What was that all about?”
“Just a married man who conjured up some chocolate fantasy,” Sasha said. “And don't look so shocked. I've decided to live a little differently. Instead of being walked on and tossed away, I'm going to do the walking and tossing. It's all about me. If it feels good, I'm going to do it.”
Anya sighed. Maybe she should drop Sasha off at Madear's and let her grandmother handle this rebel.
“Do you have any other bags?” Anya asked, as Sasha pulled the garment bag from the carousel.
“Nope, just one. I'm gonna do some serious shopping while I'm here.” She slapped her sunglasses on her face. “Let's go. I'm ready to become a California girl!”
Anya followed her cousin who acted as if she knew where she was going. When they got to the car, Sasha threw her bag into the trunk.
“Well, you go, cuz.” Sasha pranced around the BMW. “I knew things were going good, but I didn't realize how well. Madear said your business is thriving.”
“I have been blessed and give all the glory to God.”
Sasha glanced sideways as she wiggled into the seat. “Madear has finally gotten to you, huh? Got you talking all that God stuff and she probably has you going to church.”
Anya paused. One reason she'd insisted that Sasha stay with her was so she could share her faith with her cousin. She knew that Madear would witness to Sasha but Madear pushed, and that would shut Sasha down. “I go to church, although I don't go to Madear's church,” Anya finally responded. “But I do love the Lord.”
“You haven't become a Jesus freak, have you?” When Anya frowned, Sasha continued. “You know, one of those people on the corner who yells that everyone is going to hell?”
“I haven't stood on a corner in a long time.” Anya chuckled. “I just rededicated my life to the Lord many years ago, and everything has been different since then.”
“How?”
“I have a peace and joy in my life that I can't fully explain. All I know is that I'm saved and I'm happy.”
Sasha was silent for a moment. “I never understood that God stuff. And in Madear's church, I didn't stand a chance. I never got beyond all that whooping and hollering.”
“So you don't go to church at home?”
Sasha shook her head. “Only for the normal things—weddings and funerals.”
“I'm surprised. The way Uncle Jake and Dad were raised.”
“Maybe that has something to do with it.”
They were silent as Anya paid the parking attendant, then maneuvered through the crowd of cars that filled the airport.
“It's not that I don't believe in God,” Sasha said suddenly. “It's all of that other stuff that I can't deal with. Like praying to someone that you can't see and believing that God controls everything. It doesn't make sense to me.”
“It will never make sense if you try to understand God with your mind. You can't do that. God is a Spirit and has to be approached on that level. The Bible says, God is a Spirit and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth.”
The cackle of Sasha's laughter startled Anya.
“Do you actually go around quoting scripture to people?” Sasha laughed.
Anya's shoulders tightened, but she kept her tone light. “Only if they need to hear it. I was trying to explain it to you.”
“I didn't mean to laugh.” Sasha was still chuckling. “I just didn't realize. What made you so religious?”
Anya hated when people called her that. They didn't understand that she wasn't practicing rituals, she had a personal relationship with God.
“I went through a tough time and it brought me to the Lord in a real way.”
“Something bad happened to you? What happened?”
They were at a stoplight and Anya tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. Should she tell Sasha? Only Maria Covington, her college roommate, and Braxton knew her secret.
“It was something that made me rethink my life.”
Sasha nodded her head slowly. “I understand. That's what's going on with me. I'm changing everything in my life.”
Anya picked up speed as she turned onto LaCienega. “Well, any time you want, we can talk about what I found in my life with God.”
“You're sounding like a street-preacher. Can we talk about something else?”
“Sure.” Anya backed down. “Are you hungry?”
“Yeah, but take me to one of those famous L.A. restaurants where I can see and be seen. I'm dying to see someone famous.”
Anya chuckled. The request of every L.A. visitor—to see a celebrity. As if they hung out on every corner. “Well, cuz,” Anya said, mimicking Sasha, “I know just the place.”
Serendipity's parking lot was only half-full with the usual Mercedes, Jaguars, and Lexuses. Anya expected a larger Saturday crowd, and was relieved when they didn't have to endure the normal thirty-minute wait. They both squinted in the dim light as they followed the hostess past the mirrored bar to the back of the room. The low lights and the oak furniture always made Serendipity seem darker than it was.
Customers were sprinkled throughout the restaurant, but the bar was completely surrounded by people chatting and drinking, even at this early hour.
“The food is good, and you'll probably see someone …” Anya leaned across the table so that she could be heard above the din.
Sasha fanned her face. “I already did! Didn't you see Rick Fox and Vanessa Williams?” Anya picked up the menu, making Sasha frown. “Don't you want to see them?”
Anya looked up. “No, I want to eat.” She returned to the menu. “Unless Rick and Vanessa are going to pay for our lunch.”
“Well, if they won't, I will,” a masculine voice said.
Anya didn't even have to look up. She recognized the deep, hoarse voice. Hunter Blaine. Hollywood's African-American flavor-of-the-month. He kissed Anya's cheek.
Hunter had just completed his first major film, Secret Lovers. The audience had swooned, panted, and then demanded to see more of Mr. Blaine. The surprise box-office hit led to a bigger surprise: Hunter's Academy Award nomination. And although he didn't win, mainstays like Denzel, Wesley, and Will were already being pushed aside by the name of Hunter Blaine.
“How are you?” Hunter asked in his bedroom voice.
“Hunter, good to see you.” Anya forced a smile to her face. “I heard you were in London working on a film.”
“Baby, I'm back.” His eyes wandered to Sasha. “And who is this vision?”
As Sasha stood, Hunter scrutinized her body and his grin told Anya that he liked what he saw. Anya knew that Hunter had been with a lot of beautiful women—he fancied himself a Hollywood player. She didn't want her cousin added to his list.
“Whatever you want me to do, I'll do it,” Hunter said as he lifted Sasha's hand and kissed it.
Anya wanted to stick her fingers down her throat. She hoped her cousin felt the same way, but the giddy grin on Sasha's face told Anya that Hunter's magical powers were in full force. “Hunter, this is my cousin, Sasha Clarke. Sasha, this is Hunter Blaine.”
Still holding his hand, she gushed, “I am such a big fan. By the way, my name is Sasha Mitchell now. I'm divorced.”
“Ah, the first thing we have in common.”
Anya closed her eyes and said a quick prayer.
“I knew you were related. You are as beautiful as your cousin. Has she told you that she broke my heart?”
“What did she do?” Sasha sat down and looked from Anya to Hunter.
Anya waved her hand in the air. “Don't listen to a word he says.”
Hunter leaned over Sasha as if he were about to divulge a top secret. His lips were close to her ears. “After my divorce, I tried to get your cousin to go out with me, but she always refused. And now”—he lifted Anya's left hand—”she has given herself to another man. Have you seen this rock?”
Sasha laughed. “That was the first thing I noticed at the airport.”
“You're from out of
town?” Hunter took a chair from the next table, then straddled it.
As Anya watched Hunter, she tried to determine why she'd never liked him. Maybe it was because he was just a little too smooth.
But Sasha seemed to be taken with this man who had been calculatingly designed by his agent; from the sheen of his bald head to his perfectly capped teeth that hid a gap in front. Many people mistook him for the model Tyson, and Anya could definitely see the resemblance.
Anya watched Sasha fall further into Hunter's web, and she had to stop it. “Hunter, I'm so sorry you won't be able to join us.”
Hunter chuckled. “You're so subtle, Anya.” He took Sasha's hand again. “Your cousin doesn't like me.”
“That's not true, you're one of my best clients.” Anya smiled.
He chuckled again. “One of these days, Anya …” He stood and turned to Sasha. “Since you're new in town, I'd love to show you off—I mean, show you around.” Staring at Sasha, he reached into his jeans and then handed her a card. “Give me a call. I'll make sure you have good times while you're here.”
He was barely out of hearing range, when Sasha slouched in her chair. “Girlfriend, I am im-pressed! I didn't know you knew him. Did he really ask you to go out? Did you really turn him down? Are you crazy?”
“Which question do you want me to answer first?”
“How do you know him?”
“I met his wife at church and became their financial planner when he was on that sitcom. He wasn't anybody then.”
“He's somebody now. Did he really ask you to go out?”
“He asks every woman he meets to go out. That's why Cynthia divorced him.”
“He'll only have to ask me once.” Sasha flicked the business card against the tablecloth, then tucked it inside her purse.
The waitress told them the specials, and they agreed to share the crab cakes and then the barbecue pasta.
Sasha took a sip of water. “If Hunter Blaine doesn't fan your flames, tell me about the man who does.”
Anya glanced at her hand. Even in the dull light, the diamond's colors danced. “Braxton. He's wonderful,” she said flatly, her eyes still on her finger.
Sasha frowned. “Mom and Madear told me you had this incredible man and were totally in love.”
“I am.” Anya finally looked up from her ring.
“So what's wrong? And don't bother to tell me that everything is fine. I just escaped from a nightmarish relationship and know the signs.”
Anya leaned her elbows on the table. “Recently I've been feeling like this may not be right.”
Sasha frowned. “He's not suffering from the Gordon Clarke syndrome, is he?”
“I'm afraid to ask …”
“A man with a hyperactive zipper. You know, a zipper that constantly goes down around other women.”
Anya laughed so hard she had to take a sip of water. Finally she said, “Another woman is not the problem.”
The waitress placed the crab cakes in front of them and, just as Sasha was ready to dive in, Anya took her hand.
“Would you mind if I blessed the food?”
Sasha's brows knitted together, but she shrugged. “Fine with me.”
Anya bowed her head, and Sasha followed suit. When Anya finished, she heard Sasha sigh. “Thank you,” she said as she patted Sasha's hand.
They ate in silence for a few moments, before Sasha returned to her questioning. “So what is going on with you and Braxton?”
“I have a feeling that we're not going to make it, we may be too different.”
“That should be a good thing,” Sasha said, swinging her fork in the air.
“Differences are good as long as they're not fundamental differences.”
Sasha's eyes narrowed, then opened wide in understanding. “Oh, fundamental differences. He's not into God like you are.”
“That's not it at all,” Anya snapped.
“Hey, girl!” Sasha put her hands up as if to block an attack. “Don't go to war with me. I'm not the enemy.”
“Braxton's not the enemy either.”
“I never said he was.”
“And Braxton is a Christian.”
Sasha raised her eyebrows. “Who are you trying to convince?”
Anya pursed her lips and picked at her crab cake. But her favorite dish had lost its savor.
The waitress returned with the pasta. With downcast eyes, they both silently swirled the fettucine through the red sauce.
After a few minutes, Sasha dropped her fork. “Anya, I'm sorry. I've been here for less than an hour and you're ready to ship me back. But I can't go back to that lion's den with Gordon and his new wife, and their new baby—please forgive me and let me stay, pretty-please?” She contorted her face, like a lost puppy.
Anya couldn't hold back her laughter. She didn't blame Sasha. All she'd done was ask good questions. “You can stay,” Anya said playfully.
Sasha exhaled, feigning relief “Thank goodness. I couldn't face the new Mrs. Clarke.”
“Isn't it too late to say that? How did they get her on Jerry Springer?”
“I have no idea.” Sasha shook her head fiercely. “I couldn't believe it when she walked onto the stage. That woman is lying-down-horizontal-on-the~couch-telling-all-of-your-thoughts-to-a-man-in- a-white-jacket crazy! Showing up pregnant and getting all in my face when she got pregnant while I was still married to Gordon. She's lucky I didn't beat her down on national TV. With her eighteen-year-old self.”
Anya's mouth opened into a wide O. “Isn't Gordon my age?”
“He wishes. He saw forty a long time ago. Maybe I'm exaggerating—but she's barely twenty-one. Her mother probably had to sign the papers.”
Anya pursed her lips. “Weren't you twenty-one when you married Gordon?”
“Yeah and he was ten years older than me. So now he's old enough to be this hussy's grandfather,” she said. “His child won't know whether to call him Pappy or Granddaddy.”
“Well, I'm glad you're away from that madness.”
“I'm not thinking about Gordon. I got my money,” she said, holding one finger in the air and moving her neck in her best sistergirl imitation. “And that will keep me happy for quite a while.”
They laughed and chatted while the waitress removed their plates. For the first time in days, Anya took flight from what weighed heavily on her. For now, she was going to enjoy these harmonic moments, before she faced the real music.
Chapter 7
The plush white towel fell and, as Braxton leaned over, he caught his naked reflection in the mirrored wall. He stood, flexed his muscles, then turned sideways, focusing on his legs. Time to hit the bike again.
He tucked the towel around his waist, then, with his electric shaver in one hand, he brushed the other across his facial stubble. Good thing the summer months are coming, he thought. He needed some color. Maybe for the honeymoon, he and Anya could jet off to someplace warm where he could revel in the sun and roast his tan skin to a deeper brown.
The razor's whirring snapped his daydream. He opened the bathroom door and glanced at the answering machine on the nightstand. No blinking light—no calls, no messages.
He wanted to check anyway. One push of the button: “The time is two twenty-seven. You have … no messages,” the mechanical voice announced.
Braxton threw a pillow across the room, then sank into the bed. “How could she not call? She can't still be mad.” But, even as he spoke, he knew she was.
Last night, he had stayed out as late as possible. It didn't matter that he'd been thinking about Anya all night—the point was to teach her a lesson. She was supposed to return home, call him repeatedly, and be overcome with worry … or jealousy. Either would have worked.
But when the taxi dropped him home after four this morning, there were no calls from his fiancée. Growling, he had crawled into bed. With all the wine he'd consumed, he'd fallen asleep instantaneously.
This morning, he'd awakened to the percussion symphony in his he
ad, and he'd spent the last few hours in the soothing, bubbling heat of his Jacuzzi. He had taken his time, knowing that, once he'd finished, Anya's call would be waiting.
Braxton sighed. This was not the time to let pride get in the way. His plan would never come to fruition if they weren't speaking.
Still clad only in the towel, he shivered as he traipsed down the hall to his office, his toes gripping the warmth of the deep pile carpet. Before he entered, he heard the clicking of his fax machine. He knew it was from his agent; his latest contract. As the machine spewed forth pages, he sat back in the chair and smiled. Seven years since his first book—his third contract—his first seven-figure advance. He looked at the pages and whispered, “Thank you, Lord.”
When he was growing up in Oakland, moving from one foster home to the next, he never imagined this. This was a long way from Oakland, and from his first advance of thirty-five hundred dollars. He couldn't buy a believer in those lean years. Even his wife, Roxanne, had walked away. When she'd told him she was returning to Oakland, Braxton had strongly protested and seriously considered giving up his dream. But he'd stayed his ground, birthed his novel, and never looked back. Success was bittersweet, though. It cost him his family; but that was going to change.
He tossed the contract aside and searched his desk. Within minutes, he had the information. It took a few phone calls and more money than he'd expected, but finally everything was arranged.
Braxton leaned into his chair and his towel fell open, but he made no moves to cover himself. Instead, he allowed his mind to drift. After Roxanne, he was sure he would never expose himself to love again. And having a traditional family—he'd given up on that too. But like a blessing from God, Anya had changed all that. Not only did he love her more than he thought possible, but she was the key to building his future.
He rubbed his hands along his face. Anya had to understand what he needed to do and tonight would be a start. Tonight, Anya Mitchell would be like clay, and he would be the master sculptor.
Chapter 8
The man was parked a few feet away, but when he saw her car, he slouched into his seat. Only the top of his head, covered with a New York Yankees cap, was visible. He watched as she pulled into the garage and closed the door. Then, he lifted himself up. It seemed that she had company and this might take a bit longer. But that didn't bother him. It was the chase that had always thrilled him.
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