“What?”
“She’d want to take the test unless she’s running some kind of scam.”
I opened my eyes so wide, I feared they might pop from their sockets. “Are you hearing yourself? This could be a scam? That began over twenty years ago? A scam where someone from a little town in Arkansas spent money to have plastic surgery to look just like my father so that she could scam him because”—I paused, just for the drama—“she will certainly become rich by scamming a man who owns a trucking company in Los Angeles.” I shook my head. “Unbelievable.”
And what effect did all of that have on my husband? All Mauricio did was shrug. “Say what you want, but I have to protect my family.”
Okay, so how could I be mad at that?
He said, “I just want us to have a plan. For you and your dad to think this through.”
“Okay, let me think . . .” I paused. “Father. Daughter. Sister. Sister. Thought completed.”
He tilted his head and for the first time, he smiled. “I’m just trying to do my part. To play the . . .”
“Skeptic?”
“Whatever you want to call it, I know these relationships can be complicated, and I want you to be prepared in every way.”
“Do you know what I’m prepared for?” I didn’t give him a chance to answer. “I’m prepared for the love Keisha is going to give to us and we’re going to give to her. She’s going to adore us.”
“Oh, really?”
“Of course. What’s not to love? Between you and me and Bella.”
He nodded a little. “Yeah, everyone loves Bella.”
“Exactly. And then there’s Daddy. The best dad in the world.”
“You may think that, and I would agree. But she may not since she’s an adult meeting him for the first time.”
“That’s not his fault,” I pressed. “He just found out about her.”
He gave me a small nod. “This is really important to you, isn’t it?”
I scooted so I was fully facing my husband. “It really is, Mauricio. I don’t know what it is, but I’m excited about meeting her. Excited about the possibility of her being part of our lives. Not only have I always wanted a sister, but I think this will be so good for Dad. Since Mom died, he just can’t seem to find his way, except for work. Keisha will give him something else to do, someone else to love. She’ll be good for him.”
My words hung in the air as, once again, my husband was pensive. He said, “I hope this works out well for you, for all of us. I hope your childhood dreams don’t turn into an adult nightmare.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand why you’re so negative.”
Mauricio parted his lips as if he had a ready response, but then he pressed his lips together as if he were trading the words he’d wanted to speak for new ones. He said, “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
I tilted my head. “Why not? You’re making these statements as if everything is going to turn out . . .”
Before I could finish, his lips were on mine, and then his tongue danced with mine, and then that naked torso connected to mine. When he pulled his lips away, I wanted to demand that he come back. But he was gone just long enough to click off the television and then to blanket our bedroom in darkness.
When Mauricio kissed me again, I had no more thoughts about my father, my sister—I hardly had a memory of our daughter. My mind and my body were full and complete. I was filled with all of my love for my husband.
8
Keisha
My eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, I didn’t remember my life. I tried to stretch, but then, when my leg hit the truck’s door, my memory of who I was, where I was, what I was, all rushed back.
I moaned, feeling so stiff, and in my head, I added it up. Friday. Morning. That meant this was the third day I was waking up in my truck.
I scooted up off the back seat, then yawned as I peeked through the windows and scanned the Walmart parking lot. I’d been moving around, making a different spot my home every night, thinking that was the best way to make sure no one noticed me. I’d been thinking about this parking lot since the first night because it was well lit, so if anything jumped off, the light would have my back.
But the problem was Buck worked here and they always changed his hours and I didn’t need him seeing me. He was already mad since I hadn’t answered his calls or returned his texts. I knew he would want me to stay with him; it was just that I had enough drama of my own to figure out—I didn’t want to deal with all that stuff going on in his house, too.
From the floor, I grabbed my cell phone. It wasn’t even seven, but that was okay. Now I’d have an early start and make it over to Beryl’s by nine. Today was going to be a big day. Friday mornings led to Friday afternoons, when folks got paid, and that led to Friday nights, when the ladies had to look good for their Friday night hookup. So they’d be packing the seats at Beryl’s, and I needed that money. I needed the money for the plan—that I hadn’t quite figured out yet.
Climbing into the front seat, I stretched once again, then revved up the engine. At least there was one thing I didn’t have to worry about for a few days—I’d made enough in tips over the last few days to have a full tank of gas.
As I rolled out of the lot, a couple of cars were rolling in—the early-morning employees, I guessed. Maybe I needed to give up my dream of being a hairstylist and grab an application from here. I might make more money, and there was another plus to working at a superstore like this. I saw a movie once where a girl lived in a Walmart for a whole week or month, or maybe it was even a year. If I could live in the store and save some money, that would be dope.
There was only one problem with that, though. Buck worked here, and if he found out, he’d drag me home to his house, even with his daddy.
I made a left turn onto Central and then rode up three streets to the McDonald’s parking lot, pulling into the same spot where I’d parked the last couple of mornings. I grabbed my backpack, then slid from my car. As I crossed the parking lot, I had to break through the cars already lined up for the drive-through. Inside, there were fewer people and I walked right up to the counter.
“Hey,” the girl said to me as if we were friends. Maybe she thought we were since she’d seen me three mornings in a row. “You want your usual?”
I nodded. “A sausage biscuit and orange juice.” Then I gave her three dollars and she gave me my change.
I paused, and before I could ask, she offered me the key. “Do you need this?”
“Yeah,” I said and wondered if she knew why I needed the key every morning.
But I didn’t have any time to think about it or care about it. I was the town whore’s daughter; I was used to people whispering in front of my face and talking about me behind my back. There was little left to embarrass me.
Inside the bathroom, I went into the handicapped stall, locked the door, and turned on the water in the sink. Then I stripped, lined up my toiletries on the counter as if I were home, and took a hoe bath, using my perfumed shower gel to cover all the hot spots, just like my mama taught me.
After that, I brushed my teeth, brushed my hair, keeping it in my ponytail, before I pulled my jeans and top from my backpack. Once I was dressed, I cleaned up my mess (another thing that my mama taught me) and then walked out of the bathroom, ready for my new day.
I glanced at my phone again—only about twelve minutes. I was getting better every day, knocking off eight whole minutes from when I’d first done this on Wednesday morning.
At the counter, I gave back the key and the girl gave me my order. And then I sat at the same corner table and like I did every morning, I rested. Not the sleep kind of rest, but the mind kind of rest where I wasn’t thinking about anything except for how good this biscuit tasted.
But my rest only lasted about three minutes, because I really did have to think. I had to figure out a way not to sleep in my car for the rest of my life.
Pulling out my cell, I hit Instagram and
then Gabrielle’s page. She hadn’t added anything since last night, but I loved that new picture. It was of Justus—and an announcement that he was going to be on The View.
Usually, I would spend all of my time looking at Justus’s pictures, or any of the other celebrities. But today I scrolled through the photos, stopping only on the personal ones, especially of Gabrielle and her husband. They were always out, everywhere. And every time, they looked like they’d found their happily-ever-after, always holding hands, often kissing. Sometimes they looked more glamorous than her clients.
She was living some kind of life. A life that should have been mine, too.
I scrolled some more, back through what felt like hundreds of pictures (but was only three months) to the one Gabrielle had with her father taken on Father’s Day. I clicked on the photo, then made the photo larger until Gabrielle’s face was out of the screen and all I could see was her father’s.
Her father.
My father.
Elijah Wilson.
I stared at his picture and in so many ways I felt like I was looking in a special mirror. The kind of mirror that kept the same face, just changed your gender. It was crazy how much I looked like him. I was the same brown like him, had eyebrows like him, and then we each had that mole right on the edge of our lips.
Gabrielle was closer to butterscotch than chocolate, had eyebrows that had to be penciled on, and then . . . where was her mole? She didn’t get any of her looks from him. But I guess that didn’t matter because what she got . . . was him. She was the one he claimed.
I stared and stared and stared until a tear trickled from my eye and I swiped it away with my fingertips. No, I would not cry. I just had to figure this out. This man was my father, and he needed to step up to that responsibility. Even if I was already twenty-two. He owed me; he owed me everything he had given to Gabrielle.
All I had to do was figure out how I was going to tell him that he had a daughter, then figure out how I was going to get him to believe me, then figure out how I was going to make him pay.
9
Keisha
The shop was poppin’ like it was prom weekend or something. It wasn’t even noon, and I’d already washed eight heads. And with one of the biggest tippers up as my next client, I was sure I was going to have a one-hundred-dollar-plus day.
“Okay, come on, Mrs. Whittle,” I said to Beryl’s oldest client. “I’m gonna get you started.”
“Thank you, baby,” Mrs. Whittle said as she rolled her walker down the center of the shop. When she got close to me, she whispered, “I was so sorry to hear about your mama, baby.”
I stiffened.
She said, “I’m gonna give you a little extra today, okay?”
I nodded, not saying a word and not having any idea how Mrs. Whittle had found out about my mama. Yeah, some folks knew she’d been in the hospital and then in hospice. Not that anyone cared. The town’s whore had no friends, ’cause even other whores were the enemy.
Mrs. Whittle took slow steps past me, and just as I turned to follow her, the bell over the front door rang. It was only reflex that made me check out who was walking in.
Then I stopped. Just so I could get a better look at the woman. I’d been working with Beryl for just a little more than a year, so I knew all of her regulars. Sure, she took walk-ins, but even then, I recognized most folks. There weren’t but about fifteen hundred people who lived in White Haven. And I knew this woman wasn’t one in that number.
But even if I didn’t know just about everyone by at least recognition, I’d know this woman wasn’t from White Haven. It started with her dress—it was one of those knits that I saw in the designer magazines. A dress that I wouldn’t ever be able to afford, not even with a year’s worth of tips. And her hair—neither Beryl nor anyone else in White Haven had anything to do with the way her curls bounced when she walked. Her hair even moved when she lowered her head and spoke.
But what was best? That big ole red bag she had on her shoulder. I’d seen that bag in all the magazines, and a lot of celebrities had it on Instagram. With the two Gs on the outside, it was the kind of bag that let everybody know you had money—no, that you had lots of money. It was the kind of bag I hoped to carry one day.
So why would a woman who was wearing all of that, who looked like a movie star, be coming into Beryl’s House of Beauty?
I had to get to Mrs. Whittle, especially if I wanted that tip. But if I could get just a little bit closer—I just wanted to hear what was going on. I pretended to be straightening out the magazines in the rack, but I still couldn’t hear what the woman was saying to Adriana, the receptionist.
Then all of a sudden, both of them looked up and at me. Adriana pointed, then called out, “Hey, Keisha.” Then she added a wave for me to come to her.
Even though she had called my name and was looking straight at me, I still kinda glanced over my shoulder to see if she was talking to someone else. Because there was no reason why that woman would want to see me. But Adriana kept waving. And the woman was looking up and at me, and now she was smiling.
What the hell?
But it was more than curiosity that made me move toward the front of the shop. It was that when the woman smiled, I thought I knew her.
Then for a moment, I almost stopped. Because suppose this had something to do with my mama. Suppose my mama owed somebody some money. Or worse, suppose this lady was somebody’s wife.
But it was too late for me to cut and run since I was just about all up on this woman. And she was still smiling . . .
“Did you want me, Adriana?” I asked the receptionist, even though I was looking this woman right in her eyes. Why in the heck did she look so familiar to me?
“Yeah,” Adriana said. “This lady is looking for you.”
The woman reached out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Keisha.”
The way she smiled, I could check one thing off my list—this didn’t have anything to do with my mama. I shook her hand and gave her a side-eye at the same time. “Yeah.”
She said, “I’d like to talk to you. Would you mind . . .” She paused and looked over my shoulder as if she were scoping out the shop. “Can we go outside to chat for a moment?”
Now my side-eye became a direct glare. “I don’t know you; I’m not going anywhere with you.”
My words, my attitude didn’t faze her. She said, “I understand, but I have something important to talk to you about, and this”—again, she did that pause and that little glance around the shop—“might not be the best place.”
I wanted to tell her she was wrong . . . except Adriana was sitting right here staring in my face, trying to get all in my business.
And I had a feeling that if I turned around, every single one of these heffas within ear- and eyeshot would be doing the same thing.
Plus, since this didn’t have anything to do with my mama, I was starting to wonder something. This chick smelled like money, and with my current situation, there had to be a way I could use this to my advantage.
But I couldn’t turn this into a pay-to-play in front of everyone. I couldn’t tell her she’d have to pay for whatever information she needed from me within the range of any of these heffas’ ears.
So I nodded, though I kept my arms folded as I stomped past this designer-wearing woman and marched straight to the door. I didn’t even turn around to make sure that she was following me. She was.
When I stepped outside, I stopped right there on the sidewalk, faced her, and was ready to figure out a way to take her money when she said, “I’m Regan Givens.”
Instagram. Gabrielle. Gabrielle’s best friend. Regan.
She had no idea that telling me her name almost shut me down. I almost told her to get the hell outta here. But instead, I said, “So?”
She repeated her name and added, “I have to speak to you about something important.”
It was a good thing I was Daisy Jones’s daughter and I knew how to play poker, I knew how to t
urn the emotions on and off, even when my heart was pounding like it was giving me its final beats. But even with all that I’d been taught, it was hard to keep what I knew from my face. Hard to hide my question: What the hell was Gabrielle’s best friend doing in White Haven talking to me?
She said, “I’m an attorney, and I have some information that may be important to you.”
“Okay,” I said, and I wanted to give myself a fist bump at the same time. Because I still stood as if her words didn’t matter to me. “Just tell me what information you got.”
She shook her head. “I’d like for us to go somewhere a little more private than”—she looked at the glass etching on the window—“Beryl’s House of Beauty.” Turning back to me, she added, “And this sidewalk.”
I was ready to tell her that I’d go wherever she wanted. She had to know about my connection to Gabrielle.
But I kept silent, like I was thinking hard. Finally, I said, “There’s a diner right down the road there.” I was so cool, and I was more than collected.
Regan said, “Okay, do you want to jump in my car?”
I hadn’t even noticed the car Regan pointed to and I had to do another one of those straight-faced moments. Because I sure did want to ride in a Mercedes.
But when I turned back to Regan, she would never have known that was my thought. “Nah, I got my truck right here. I’ll meet you there. Since I know where it is, you wanna follow me?”
She said, “Are you talking about the Sizzlin’ Griddle?”
I nodded, a little surprised that she’d heard of it.
“I had a cup of tea there yesterday,” she explained.
Yesterday? How long had Regan been here? Had she been looking for me?
She said, “But I’ll follow you.”
“Okay, I have to run back in there and get my purse.”
She nodded, then moved to her car, and I kept my steps slow and steady. My nonchalance continued, even when I walked into the shop. Even when Beryl asked me, “What did that siddity chick want?” all I did was shrug, grab my purse from the cubicle beneath Beryl’s station, and turn back toward the door.
Envy Page 6
