One side of Jen’s lips curled up. “I thought you were bored opening mailing and cataloguing it.”
“Who said I was bored?”
She cut her eyes at me. I didn’t have her fooled.
I wasn’t exactly bored, but I did have a short attention span. I hated sitting for hours. Plus much of the advice Jen dished out came from me. I knew everything there was to know in Flamingo Beach. And even if the people who wrote in didn’t sign their real names, it was easy to figure. Nothing but nothing escaped me.
I dug into a drawer and found a letter opener, no point ruining my nails. Manicures were expensive. Especially those that had fancy artwork and sequins on them. This week mine had dolphins jumping. I’d turned into a Florida girl through and through.
“You set a date for the wedding?” I asked, my stomach rumbling thinking of that wedding cake with strawberries, fresh cream and icing.
“Tre and I will do that this weekend.”
It sounded to me like Tre Monroe was delaying committing. Not that I would tell Jen that. He’d been the beach’s most eligible bachelor up until missy here, from Ashton snatched him up. They’d hated each other on sight. Then somewhere along the way that hatred had turned to love. Now the buzz was they were living together.
“What’s going to happen to your apartment?” I asked, partially because I was curious, and partially because I needed to find out if she wanted to rent. Heck I was a Realtor plus I had my own ulterior motive.
“I’m thinking about renting.”
I wound a lock of weaved auburn hair around a jeweled fingernail and thought about how to play this. I needed a place to live. My landlady claimed her daughter and her kid were moving back to Flamingo Beach. She’d given me notice to start looking.
If I put my stuff in storage, and moved into Jen’s fancy apartment, it might work. Flamingo Place was the type of upscale complex that could do wonders for my new image. And Jen’s waterfront digs were to die for. I just couldn’t afford to pay what she was paying.
“When are you thinking of leasing?” I asked.
She crossed one skinny leg over the other. Jen had that polished look I was striving for but couldn’t quite pull off. If you weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds and squeezed into a midthigh skirt and three-inch stilettos, you looked like a hooker. You got lots of attention but for all the wrong reasons.
“Do you know someone who might be interested?” Jen asked, “I could make the apartment available immediately. I’m spending more and more time at Tre’s place and an empty apartment isn’t a good thing.”
She’d confirmed they were more or less living together. Opportunity only knocked once. I took a deep breath and stepped through the door.
“I might be interested.”
“You?”
Jen sounded like she didn’t think I was serious.
I explained what had happened with my landlady.
“Hmm,” she said, stroking her chin. “But what would you do with all of your stuff?”
“Put it in storage. It would only be for a couple of months. I don’t even know if I can afford the rent.” I played my ace card. “There is a plus to having me live there.”
“And what is that?”
“Being that I’m officially in the real estate business, and I know a lot of people, I could keep an eye out for a tenant. You’d be my very first client.”
“Hmm.”
All these “hmms” were beginning to annoy me. I might be a lowly peon at the Chronicle but I was well connected. Jen knew exactly who’d gotten me this job; Ian Pendergrass himself. She also knew I’d introduced her to a lot of important people.
“Could you manage to pay say six hundred dollars a month?” Jen asked. “That would be half of my mortgage. I’ll pick up the other half until you find me a tenant.”
“I could pay five,” I countered, crossing my fingers behind my back. Five hundred would be a steal for Jen’s two-bedroom water-view apartment, and I would be able to put aside a few hundred per month. She didn’t have to know the rattrap I lived in was costing me close to a thousand.
I’d slaved to make the place pretty. The toilets leaked and the pictures on the walls hid holes and flaking plaster. Even the partitions were thin. During the late hours you could hear the neighbors’ bedsprings squeak. I’m sparing you the graphics. You don’t want to know.
“Okay, we’ll agree on five.”
I squealed loudly and moved in to hug her.
The phone rang and we both reached for it.
“This is Dear Jenna,” Jen said in her professional voice. I was surprised when she handed the receiver to me.
“New boyfriend? He’s got a sexy voice.”
I wish.
“Hello, this is Chere,” I said, the elocution classes I attended one night a week finally kicking in. Plus I remembered the reprimand I’d received from Jen for saying, “Hey.”
“Just a reminder, tomorrow morning at seven. Don’t mess up.” It was Quen Abrahams again. I’d missed one session two weeks ago and trust me I’d heard about it. I’d needed my beauty sleep and I’d overslept.
I groaned. I’d forgotten all about making that appointment. Plus I didn’t have the extra sixty dollars to pay him even though he was giving me a break.
Quen was not only Flamingo Place’s health club manager and on-site nutritionist, but was doing me a favor personally training me.
“My legs are killing me. Every bone hurts,” I whined.
“It’ll get better,” Quen said in that voice that reminded me of nights when the temperature in Florida dipped into the fifties and you broke out the wine and Barry White. “Did you weigh in today?”
I grunted something. I’d totally forgotten.
I could feel Jen’s eyes on me and sensed the wheels turning. Everyone thought I was easy and had a string of men. They should only know what it took for me to sleep with a man. Courage. Ian and I hadn’t exactly slept together. The old geezer liked to look and touch.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at the club then. Seven o’clock sharp, remember,” Quen said.
“I’ll be there.” I blew a kiss through the mouthpiece. “Love you, too.”
Under my breath I muttered, “slave driver,” and slammed down the phone.
Chapter 2
Crabby because I was still hungry, I clomped home and had a salad for dinner. I was starving. I stuck my head in the refrigerator, found a turkey leg in one of those Ziploc bags and yanked it out.
I zapped that leg in the microwave and quickly wolfed it down. Food never tasted so good. Afterward I sat down and made a list of what I needed to do to improve myself.
The phone rang just as I was thinking how much all this reinventing was going to cost.
“Talk to me,” I said, picking up the receiver.
“Chere?” Sheena, one of my girls greeted in her usual high-pitched squeak. She didn’t wait for me to acknowledge her but began babbling away. Meanwhile my stomach was still rumbling. I considered having another piece of turkey just to quiet things down.
“So did I hear right?” Sheena yakked. “Your boss is taking a stroll down the aisle with our favorite disk jockey?” That girl didn’t miss a thing.
“You heard right.”
“When’s the wedding?”
“I don’t know.” I didn’t want to talk about any wedding unless it was mine.
My short answers didn’t bother Sheena one bit. She was off and running. “What’s happening with your real estate? You selling any houses yet?”
“I just passed the test a week ago. Cut me some slack,” I said irritably. I wasn’t going to say one word about my two clients. That news would be all over town in a Flamingo Beach minute and I didn’t want to be jinxed.
“Then you must not have sold anything,” she said. Sheena could be a bitch at times. “I hear they’re looking for part time help selling or renting properties at Flamingo Place. Manny Varela is the property manager. You want me to put in a good word for
you?”
“No, thanks. I know Manny. I can speak for myself.”
Sheena had been sleeping off and on with Manny for over a year. Sleeping with men that weren’t hers was Sheena’s favorite pastime. It was an ego thing. True, Manny with his jet-black hair, olive complexion and expensive designer suits wasn’t bad. But it was the Benz he drove that made him a catch.
“Well let me know if you change your mind,” Sheena said, “And call me the minute you hear something.” She hung up.
These next few months were going to be devoted to me. I planned on losing weight, getting my man and starting a new career, and not necessarily in that order. Earlier, I’d placed a big toe on the bathroom scale and was pleasantly surprised to see the number was lower. Growing braver, I’d given the scale my whole weight. I still had eighty-three pounds to go, but losing two pounds for me was a big deal and should be celebrated.
Over the years I’d pretty much convinced myself that being big worked for me. I hadn’t lacked admirers. What you don’t know is there’s a slew of “chubby chasers” out there; men who think being full figured is hot. They weren’t necessarily what I was looking for but what I got. My expectations were set way high. This year I’d made resolutions; one being to get Quen Abrahams.
Quen with the corded arms and strong thigh muscles also came with a degree and ambition, and he could string two sentences together while flashing you a gut-wrenching smile. Since I had a degree and had worked damn hard to get it, I needed a man who was my equal, especially if he was going to father my child.
Tomorrow we were working out of Jen’s condo; a good thing, too, because I’d probably be dead after my session with Quen. During lunch I had an interview with Manny Varela, the property manager Sheena mentioned earlier. Like she said, his sales and leasing office was looking for part-timers. I needed a second job and I needed it quickly. These personal training sessions were pricey and diet food cost money.
Now I had just fifteen minutes to get to my elocution class. The class had been advertised in one of those inserts you get in the Sunday paper. It was a continuing education course given by one of the neighboring high schools and aimed at a certain type of person. Although it cost $150, I whipped out my credit card and paid. I was investing in myself. I couldn’t think of anyone better.
Deep down I’d always known if I wanted to be somebody I’d need to walk the walk and talk the talk. Not that I was turning my back on my roots, mind you. Like I said I knew who I was and I didn’t need to prove anything to anybody.
I made the ten-minute drive in five. And yes, I admit I have a lead foot. Class had just started when I tromped in and with a “hey” to the homies sitting next to me, I plopped onto a seat at the back of the room.
“You didn’t miss much,” the woman who’d told me she was an administrative assistant, but thought she was a CEO whispered to me.
“Good.”
The instructor, a proper-looking man who still wore a bow tie, and who had to be gay, was in the middle of taking attendance. He gave us a stern look. Since Adams was at the beginning of the alphabet he’d already passed over me.
I had nothing else to do so I looked around the room to see if there were any dropouts. Yup. This was the third session and the group was a lot smaller than I remembered. The class was supposedly aimed at foreigners and business types; people needing to learn to speak right.
The first two sessions had been jam-packed; now the only people I recognized were the married couple and the immigrants from Cuba, who barely spoke English, and in my opinion required more than “elocution.” Then there was the freckled guy from New “Joisey” who wanted to be friends. I called him, “Dese, Dems and Dose,” but not to his face of course. I wasn’t that stupid. Not that I was in a position to make fun of anybody.
The two homeboys who’d greeted me were still hanging in. They looked out of place in their oversize jeans riding low on the hips, with their undershorts sticking out over the top. In this case something big was at stake here, like money.
I grew up with the language of the street, which meant you said what you thought and punctuated with some well chosen cuss words to get your point across loud and clear. Jen, my boss had been forever after me to clean up my act. And I was trying. Talking like you had marbles in your mouth worked for her so why not me? It had landed her a cushy job. I’d decided if I was going to be selling real estate to all kinds of people no one needed to know I was black, at least not right off.
“Ms. Adams,” the instructor called, pulling me back to reality. I didn’t know the man even knew my name.
“Wassup, Mr. Cummings?”
He peered at me over ridiculous half-moon glasses and sniffed.
“Yes, Mr. Cummings?” he corrected.
“Yes, Mr. Cummings,” I obediently repeated.
A finger beckoned me to join him up front. As I plodded toward him, he turned to write on the blackboard. I was starting to feel like I was back in fourth grade when “the fat girl” was being singled out.
“Please translate these phrases in the queen’s English for the rest of the class,” Cummings said, handing me his chalk.
“Say what?”
Shoot, queen’s English? The United States did not have a queen, at least not the last time I looked. I scrunched up my nose and stared at the strange little man. The homeboys cracked up. People were howling and holding their sides.
Cummings sniffed loudly and wagged a finger. “This is exactly what I mean. Those types of expressions have no place in everyday language. You are here to learn to speak English, and that includes the use of proper grammar. You are here to articulate.”
“Yo, man. You trying to teach us to conversate,” one of the homeboy’s in the back shouted.
That produced another round of laughter.
Mr. Cummings gave him his stern look.
“You must eliminate all urban slang from your vocabulary, Ms. Adams. Now please continue.”
Yup. I was being made an example of. Lucky for me, I was wearing one of my hot little J Lo outfits, well maybe not so little. It was size 3X. I was working it. Rather than writing, I repeated out loud what I thought Cummings wanted to hear. He corrected me in his snotty manner and I slunk back to my chair.
The remainder of the two-hour class passed quickly. The homeboys had their turn, as did the Cuban couple. Cummings was mean. I’d almost decided I wasn’t being singled out. I knew people judged you by both your appearance and the way you spoke. They assumed if you were a big girl you were a slow, stupid ox. But being big had always been advantageous for me. My sense of humor and big mouth had made me popular in school and gotten me through.
The way I saw it, Cummings’s class was keeping me off the street these days. Before that I’d spent one night a week at the Haul Out. Not because I was a big drinker, but because it was a sure way of catching up on who was doing who. All that time hanging out got me a big fat nothing except the occasional pickup, then when he found out I was on lockdown I promptly got dumped. This elocution class would at least help me build a future.
I left thinking that even though Mr. Cummings had a stick up his ass, he might be onto something.
I’d only been home about fifteen minutes, and was thinking about going to bed when my telephone rang.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, sweet thang.”
Who the hell was this?
“Do I know you?”
The man chuckled. “Baby, how could you forget the best lover you’ve ever had? This is Richard.”
“Richard who?”
Why was he acting like I knew him, like we were close?
A long pause followed as he tried to pick up his ego from the floor. “Richard Dyson, baby, the owner of Dyson Luxury Limousines.”
Oh, that Dick! Rich Richard. Obnoxious Richard. Richie Rich who thought his Platinum American Express card bought him any woman. The last time he’d phoned was months ago. It had been late at night, he’d been drunk and on a booty-call spree
. “What do you want, Dickie?”
“Can’t a man touch base with a beautiful woman just to see how she’s doing?”
“It’s been three months since you and I spoke.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you, sweetness. What are you doing now? I’d like to come over.”
“Going to bed,” I answered. “Without you. Good night, Dick.”
“Wait! Wait! How about dinner tomorrow night? You pick the place.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
I hung up while he was still talking.
I used Dyson’s Luxury Limousines when I was out to make an impression or didn’t want to drive. Like the time I attended my cousin’s wedding and knew that the sight of her in a white wedding dress, complete with trailing veil, would make me drink. Richard owed me because if it hadn’t been for my contacts, he’d never have gotten the Flamingo Beach Chronicle’s account. Then Jen got Richard the WARP account through Tre, her fiancé, who now used Dyson’s exclusively to pick up the people he hosted.
Richard and I had gone out a time or two when I was lonely, and being with him seemed better than being alone. He’d dropped big money on those dinners. Now I’m starting to sound like I’m a gold digger. Fast-talking Dickie isn’t too bad to look at and he liked his women big. Since the way to my heart is definitely through my stomach I thought I’d give him a shot. Feed me and I’ll listen to you bray on any topic. Richard’s gold card had taken a beating on those meals.
I yawned. My bed waited. I had to be up at the crack of dawn and I needed my beauty sleep. I was already planning tomorrow’s outfit in my head. As my grandmother used to say, “fat does not have to mean sloppy.” She was one smart old lady.
After I’d left class, I stopped at a discount store and splurged on a new workout outfit. The peanuts I got paid didn’t get me into Macy’s. I hadn’t gone hog wild with the colors and although it killed me, I passed on zebra stripes and polka dots, sticking to black. Black was slimming. I bought two pairs of capris and an oversized T-shirt and spiced up the outfit with hot pink socks and a matching cap that said, Love Handles All.
I was doing this for Quen Abrahams. I’d noticed the types of women he went for. They were fit, trim and looked like they stepped off magazine covers. I was going to be one of those women soon.
All About Me Page 2
