And now it had come to this. The Holiday Inn.
Terrence came out of the bathroom fully dressed and sat in a chair across the room to put on his shoes without so much as looking in her direction. Her heart sank. There was a time when he could barely keep his hands off her whenever they were alone together. Instead of sitting as far away as he could get, he would have sat on the edge of the bed to be near her.
She sat up against the headboard and pulled the sheet over her bare breasts, nearly up to her chin. It felt like she was in the room with a stranger.
“Did I do something wrong, Terrence?” she asked softly.
“No. You’re just being you, Jolene.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Don’t tell me nothing. You seem so … so distant lately. It’s got to be something.”
He shrugged. “I’ve got some things on my mind.”
“Us?”
“No. Work, mainly. Clients.”
She nodded grimly. “Figures.”
He looked up from his shoes. “What does that mean?”
“There was a time when you would have told me you were thinking of us. Of me.”
He looked back down at his shoes. “Look, everything is not about you, Jolene. Running an architectural firm takes a lot of work. I do have other things to think about besides us.”
His voice was cold and aloof. Bitter even. She was losing him. She knew it. Tears welled up in her eyes. Damn. This was not like her. She didn’t get emotional about men, not since high school. Not since Jonathan Parker. If Terrence didn’t want her, so be it. She took a deep breath as if she could suck in her feelings.
“You’re not crying, are you?” he asked with annoyance.
She stood up, taking the bedsheet with her. A few weeks ago, she would have gotten up and paraded around the room naked, knowing he loved to see her that way. Now she wasn’t sure how he would feel about it. She went into the bathroom and slammed the door. She splashed cold water on her face, then picked up a towel and buried her head in it.
She couldn’t believe this was happening. She had let herself get too wrapped up in Terrence and she should have known better. After all, he was married, and even if Laura was a lame bitch, she was a Spelman graduate. And he was an architect, a prominent businessman. Why would he want somebody like her?
“Have you told the boy yet, Jolene?”
“He doesn’t want to marry me, Daddy.”
“No other decent boy will want to marry you either, now, Jolene.”
“Why not, Daddy?”
Look at you. Pregnant and so black. Missed the brown-bag rule by a mile.
Shame on you, child, for shaming the family like this.
Jolene looked up and stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Stupid bitch. Ugly fool. She felt like slapping herself. When would she learn?
There was a knock at the door. She jumped.
“Jolene? How long are you going to be in there? I have to go to the office now.”
She didn’t want him to see her face. Not like this. Cheeks puffy, eyes rimmed with black mascara. Ugly.
She grabbed a face cloth. “Give me a minute. I’ll be right out.”
“I really should go, Jolene. I have to prepare for a big client tomorrow. I’ll call you later this week.”
Is she younger? And prettier? Are you screwing her, too? Jolene yanked the door open, black-rimmed eyes and all. He was standing at the foot of the bed buttoning his overcoat. “Damn you, bastard. Don’t bother. OK?”
He jumped back. “What?”
“I said, don’t bother to call me. You can’t even wait a fucking couple of minutes for me anymore.”
“What’s gotten into you? All I said was, I’ll call you next week.”
“And all I said was, Don’t bother.”
“Meaning?”
“Figure it out for yourself, asshole.” She slammed the door shut.
He knocked again immediately. “Jolene. Open up.”
She stared at the door. Should she open it? Did he really care about her the way she did about him? Did she still stand a chance to win him?
No, no and no. “Good-bye, Terrence. It was nice knowing you.”
“C’mon, Jolene. Open the door.”
“I mean it,” she said. “I’m tired of being your mistress. Call me when you’re ready to leave your wife.”
Silence. A cold, hard silence. Still she waited and hoped to hear his voice. She prayed. She held her breath.
She opened the door. The room was empty.
Pearl sat Barbara down in her salon chair. “So you had a nice trip?” she asked, removing the rollers from her client’s hair, one by one. “Was it romantic?”
Barbara smiled. The trip to the Greenbrier was everything Barbara had hoped for, and it had probably saved her marriage. “It was very romantic. And Bradford gave me the most beautiful sapphire and diamond ring for our thirtieth wedding anniversary.”
“Oh!” Pearl exclaimed. “Where is it, girl?”
Barbara chuckled. “I’m saving it for special occasions.”
“So, you’ve been married thirty years? Mmm-umph. I didn’t know it had been that long. What’s your secret?”
Looking the other way, Barbara wanted to say, but she never talked about Bradford’s indiscretions, not to anyone. She shrugged. “Patience, I guess. So, how about you? Got a man in your life?” She had become an expert at quickly changing the topic of conversation whenever her marriage came up.
“Humph! I work so hard I don’t have time to meet them.”
“Any single men at your church? That could be a good way to meet someone.”
“Oh, girl. I’ve been single for so long, I’ve gotten used to it. How’s Rebecca? No grandbabies coming yet?”
“I wish, but not that I know of. Not yet.”
“It’s still early in the marriage.”
“For them, yes, although never too early for the hopeful grandparents. How about Kenyatta? Is he still seeing that young woman he was with at the wedding?” Barbara frowned. “Oh shoot. I’m having a senior moment. I can’t remember her name. I swear, sometimes it feels like my brain is turning into mush.”
“Tell me about it, girl,” Pearl said with a chuckle. “After I turned forty-five …” She paused and shook her head. “Whoo. I have to write everything down or I’ll forget it as soon as I turn around. The other day I forgot I had already done the beds. Went back up twenty minutes later to make them. Now is that dumb or what?”
Barbara smiled in recognition. “I keep a notepad on my nightstand.”
“And I have that.” Pearl pointed to a stuffed Day-Timer sitting on the shelf in front of the mirror amid combs, brushes and hair picks, bottles of hair oil and cans of hair spray. “It goes everywhere with me. Even to bed.”
Barbara laughed. She had always felt comfortable around Pearl. Their lifestyles were different, but they had similar roots since both of their fathers had deserted the family and left their mothers to raise their daughters alone. Pearl was a welcome relief from her society friends, like Marilyn and Jolene, who all grew up in two-parent middle-class black families.
“But really, how is Kenyatta?” Barbara asked.
“Oh, he’s doing just fine. And yes, he’s still seeing Ashley. Thanks for warning me that her mother is calling around checking up on us.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Jolene Brown called and said Candice called her and asked about Kenyatta. That’s all I know. I thought it was nice of Jolene to call me, though.”
Pearl nodded. “Do you know Candice?”
“Not that well. She works for Bradford, and I’ve seen her at some of the annual Digitech Christmas parties and the summer picnics. I’ve seen Ashley and her sister once or twice. They all seem nice enough.”
“Humph. I’m sure they are, but that girl is not right for my son. I mean, I know they say love is color-blind and all that,” Pearl continued as she combed Ba
rbara’s curls out, “but society isn’t. I try to explain that to him, but he won’t listen. He’s been asking for weeks to have her over for dinner so we can all get to know each other.”
“That’s not as serious as it was in our day. I can’t count the number of guys Rebecca and Robin brought home to meet us.”
“Yes, but for dinner?”
“Hmm. Maybe not for dinner,” Barbara conceded. “What did you tell him?”
“At first I said, No way. I ain’t cooking for one of his white girlfriends.”
“No, you didn’t!” Barbara said incredulously.
“Heck, yeah. Why not? We’ve always had an open relationship. We both say what we think. I encouraged that. So he throws it up in my face that I’m always complaining that he never introduces me to his girlfriends. Humph. So I had to give in and … well.”
Barbara smiled. “You finally said yes, didn’t you?”
Pearl grunted. “She’s coming next week.”
“It’s probably nothing to worry about,” Barbara said. “They’re both so young. And it will give you a chance to check her out.”
“I pray you’re right, Barbara. This Ashley is not what I imagined for Kenyatta. Not by a long shot.”
“For what it’s worth, I’ve always liked Candice. Some of Bradford’s white employees never seem comfortable with us in social situations, but Candice does. Have you talked to her about how she feels about all of this?”
“No, I haven’t. And after she went around snooping on me, I don’t intend to,” Pearl said indignantly. “She didn’t need to go and do that.”
“Maybe not, but try not to take it out on Ashley when she comes to dinner. They’re young and in love.”
“Humph.” Pearl smacked her lips defiantly. As far as she was concerned it was impossible to be too tough when it came to her son.
Candice lifted a gray cardboard box from the top shelf of her closet and placed it on the bed. She had no idea how old the box was. It was torn and obviously a mere fragment of its original self. But it had been in the family for as long as she could remember—first in her grandmother’s home, then in her mother’s. Now it was in her care.
She removed the top gently and looked inside. The box contained the only information she had about her distant past, about a time long ago before her mother and grandmother were born.
There wasn’t much to go on—a few letters written to her great-grandfather George and several black-and-white photos of his second wife and their children.
There was only one photo of George, and it was faded and tattered and had the look of a picture that had been handled many times over the years. You could barely make out George’s face, but he was dressed like a farmer and posing with his horse.
She turned the photo over in her hand. She knew so little about him, except that he was born just before the Civil War to Andrew and Sara Blair. He had a sister named Rose, and the family lived on a plantation outside Richmond, Virginia.
Candice also knew that George had first married when he was very young, but that that wife died a couple of years later and he moved to Massachusetts, where he met and married Candice’s great-grandmother. It seemed that George remained close to his sister Rose even after he moved to Massachusetts, for they kept in touch by mail for several years.
Candice picked up a small white envelope. It was one of the letters from Rose to George and it was postmarked Richmond, Virginia, 1906. The handwriting had faded over the years, but it always surprised Candice to realize that it was so old.
She removed the letter and glanced at Rose’s neat penmanship. As in most of her letters, Rose talked about how much she missed George and couldn’t wait until he would visit Richmond again. She never asked after George’s new family in Massachusetts, even though by this time George and his second wife had several children.
This was the strangeness that Ashley often spoke of. In her more defiant moments, Ashley would suggest that perhaps George was a bigamist, leading a double life in Richmond and Massachusetts. To Ashley that would explain why Rose seemed to be unaware of his family in Massachusetts. Caitlin thought that maybe George was a crook.
Candice thought her daughters had vivid imaginations. Too vivid. Only a few letters from Rose had survived, hardly enough to make such wild judgments about someone’s life.
Ashley was right about one thing, though. The family background was vague. Candice realized that she knew next to nothing about her heritage beyond her grandmother. But that was her own fault, since she hadn’t bothered to dig into the past.
Well, it was time to change that and put a stop to all this nonsense about bigamy and crooks. If Ashley and Caitlin knew more about their heritage, they would have more pride in it and not be so suspicious about the gaps.
But where should she start? It seemed like a daunting task. Her grandmother had died two years ago at age ninety-five and taken much of the family history with her. Candice’s mother and father had moved to a retirement community in Florida a year ago, but Candice didn’t think her mom would know much more than she did. She really regretted not listening more closely when her grandmother talked about their ancestors.
Well, no point crying over spilled milk, as her grandmother used to say. Her mom seemed as good a place to start as any. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to try her. Candice placed the photo of her great-grandfather down on the bed and picked up the telephone.
“Mom?”
“Hi, Candice,” Mom said cheerfully. “How are you? And how are Jim and the girls?”
“I’m fine. We’re all fine. How’s Dad?”
“He’s well. A little arthritis now and then, but that’s about it.”
Candice nodded into the phone. “Is he using the heating pad I sent?”
“Yes, it helps some.”
“Good. Mom, I wanted to ask you some questions about our ancestors.”
“Well, there’s not much I can tell you that I haven’t already. What do you want to know?”
“What do you remember about George’s mom and dad?” Candice asked.
“Oh, you mean Andrew and Sara? All I know about them is that they owned some land down there near Richmond, Virginia.”
“Do you know what happened to it?” Candice asked.
“My mother used to say that they sold a lot of their land after the Civil War, but I don’t know who they sold it to. I never knew Grandpa George, you know. He and his folks all died before I was born.”
“I know. Did Grandma Helen ever say much about Rose DuPree, George’s sister?”
“She’s the one who kept in touch with Grandpa George after he moved to Massachusetts. Mama used to say that George would sometimes go to Virginia to visit a sister named Rose. He would take the train down to Richmond every now and then and stay a few weeks.”
“Did he ever take his family down to Richmond with him?” Candice asked.
“I don’t think so. Mama used to say that he would go alone once or twice a year until he died.”
Candice frowned into the phone. “Does that seem strange to you?”
“No. Not really. It was different back then,” Mom explained. “It was a lot harder to get around. And Grandpa George died fairly young. Maybe he died before he had a chance to take his family down to Richmond.”
That was exactly the point Candice always stressed to Ashley. You couldn’t hop on a plane back then, or even a bus. “That’s what I always assumed. Do you know if there are any other photos of George or his first wife besides that one of George standing with his horse?”
“That’s the only one I know of. Mama used to say that he didn’t like getting his picture taken.”
“Oh? I wonder why,” Candice said.
Mom laughed lightly. “Beats me.”
Candice studied the photo in her hands. “He looks Italian or something, with that dark hair and the thick mustache.”
“Italian? Goodness, no. They were Scottish,” Mom said firmly. “I don’t know of anyone ever saying we have any
Italian ancestry.”
“His complexion looks a little swarthy in the picture.”
“Oh, honey,” Mom said. “I wouldn’t read too much into that. I think that may be the old photo process that they used back then.”
“That could be it,” Candice said. Obviously, her mom wasn’t going to be of much help. If she wanted to learn more about George and the others, she was going to have to look elsewhere.
Chapter 19
Jolene pulled her Mercedes-Benz C240 onto the driveway in front of the big Tudor house on Sixteenth Street in Northwest D.C. She always had mixed feelings about visiting her folks, especially when her sister was up from Atlanta with her husband and two children. They were all so damn perfect—Paul Cooper, the top-flight chemical engineer husband; Jackie, the housewife who worked part-time for Atlanta’s mayor for self-fulfillment, not because she needed the money; and Paul Jr. and Pamela, the twelve-year-old twins, both geniuses and angels wrapped in tidy little packages.
“Looks like they got a new car,” Juliette said with admiration as she shut the passenger-side door to the C240.
“So it does,” Jolene said, trying to keep the jealousy out of her voice as they walked past a brand-new black Mercedes S500 with Georgia license plates. The big thing made her own puny C-class Benz look like a damn Toyota Tercel. One of these days, she thought, eyeing the big car with envy. The right house, the right car, the right husband. That’s all she asked for.
Terrence immediately came to mind and her heart sank. They hadn’t spoken to each other since that dreadful Sunday afternoon at the Holiday Inn last month. She had called him twice and left messages. He hadn’t called back. It was just as well, she finally reasoned. He would never leave his wife and children. She was better off getting over him and moving on.
“That’s a bad car,” Juliette said as she rang the front doorbell.
“Mm-hmm. I wouldn’t have gotten it in black, but it is nice.”
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