(christmas. past.)
We’re at Danielle’s parents’ place. Tonight’s their annual Christmas party!
“I have such magical memories of the Annual Rouge Holiday Party.” I say to Malcolm as we walk up to the front door of Baton Hall, the official (and historic) name of the Rouge manor. One can never forget the elegance of such an event that was temporarily suspended once Danielle’s parents moved to Texas. The first year they left, we here in Boston wondered if we should even celebrate Christmas at all. Without the Rouge’s holiday party, what was the point of it?
“I figured you’d appreciate coming back here.” Malcolm says. Security at the front doors doesn’t bother to check for Malcolm’s name on the guest list. With a smile and a nod, they simply let us both in. Within an instant, as we step through the French doors and over the threshold, we’re bombarded by the sounds of Christmas jazz and drunken laughter. And, as it appears, Malcolm and I seem to have walked into a scene in which we are all but invisible; not a soul acknowledged our entrance. And why would they? The jazz girl is crooning, the ensemble band is rocking, everyone’s drunk and there are more important people here than Malcolm and me. This is, of course, my worst nightmare. For so long I’ve longed to be an active member of this set and yet here I am, a former Queen of Massachusetts, still considered one of the most unimportant people in the room—second only to the help.
These elites here, dressed in ball gowns and tuxedos are informally known as The Boston Board of Blacks around the political arena. Or simply, The Board: black professionals and politicos that mayors and governors and presidents turn to in order to reach the entire Black population of Greater Boston. These elites here are the group I am destined to be a part of.
“So this is the annual Christmas party that we aren’t invited to, huh?” Malcolm says as he looks around. Waiters walk around, their arms raised with sterling silver trays; swan ice sculptures dot the room; white and black marble floors run throughout the Rouge home; a grand crystal chandelier hangs right above us, and framed paintings of Thomas Kinkade hang along the walls.
“You see these paintings?” I ask Malcolm as I look around at the walls.
“Kinkade, right?” he answers immediately.
“Yeah, you’re definitely Danielle’s second husband. The Rouges love Thomas Kinkade and they bring his holiday paintings out each year.” I point to my right. “That one is called The Lights of Christmastown and the one next to it is called A Victorian Christmas Carol.” I look around. “There are tons of other ones but those are my favorites.”
“He was decent painter,” Malcolm says as he nods his head at the paintings. “Danielle has Flags Over the Capital hanging up in our living room.”
“Yes, well I bought that for her,” I say while giving him a snide look. “I gave it to her as a birthday present since her second husband is a politico. It remains to be seen which painting I will give her once she marries her third.” Malcolm lets out a light laugh but says nothing. As we stand between the double French doors and the winding staircase, I glance around and see my mom and dad, Zara and Leo, laughing and falling drunkenly, blissfully all over each other near the grand piano, off in the corner. My mom is dressed in her azure blue ball gown, my father in his tuxedo. Flirty. Festive. Happy. Must be nice …
“Senator Roy,” I say as I point to Senator Sandra Roy and her husband Gene who are standing near my parents, clinking their glasses of champagne together.
“I noticed them. And there’s Judge Carmichael.” Malcolm points to Grayson Carmichael who’s standing by his wife Paula near the meat carving station.
“Danielle’s parents,” I say as I point to Elise and Jax who are kissing in front of the seafood buffet.
“I’ve got a feeling Jax is going to stiff me on the Celtics game next week and take my father instead.” Malcolm concentrates on Jax. “That leaves me with two options: I can either buy my own ticket or knock my father off.”
“Buy your own ticket. Much easier that way.”
“You’re probably right.” He says as he begins to check his cell phone. “Damn, I need to call her back.” He says to himself.
“Workaholic?” I say as I cut my eyes at him. I forbid Marlon to even glance at a work message after nine p.m.
“Of course not.” He says with that smile of his. “Just trying to make it happen.” He slides his phone back in his pocket before looking around at The Board again.
“I’m not sure how it is with Boston’s white elite, but it’s not easy to gain entrance into The Board here in the city. You have to be invited in. My society is very select,” I inform Malcolm. Just in case he thought my society wasn’t up to par with his.
“It’s damn near impossible to get an official invitation to an event like this.” He looks at me. “And I’m not a part of Boston’s white elite. I’m with the politicos and it consists of everyone.” He looks out into the crowd. “Just ask Judge Carmichael, I run into him often.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you.” I did.
“You didn’t.” Damn.
“It’s just that I always wanted to get my own invitation to enter this group; but alas, I’m still riding on the coattails of my parents.”
“I did that for a while. No shame in using what you’ve got. And what you have is a mother and father who are top Boston doctors. Use them—that’s what they’re there for.”
“But I always wanted to get respect in my own right. You know?”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
“Marlon’s almost there.” I nod as I look into the crowd. “Pretty soon, he and I will be invited in because we deserve it, not because of my parents. Or should I say, we would have been invited in.”
“It’ll happen. Marlon’s the go-to guy for property. You know that when you deal with him it’ll all be fair and confidential.” Speaking of confidential …
“Rumor has it he sells homes to politicos to stash their girlfriends in.”
“He does.” He turns to look at me and we both smile at each other. Surely, Malcolm has used Marlon’s services to stash the girlfriend of a client or two. (Or possibly his own girlfriend. Poor Danielle. And to think she’s seven months pregnant.) “And I’m sure he tells you some of the stories.”
“Alright, I’ll admit it, he does. Oh wait, should I have said anything?”
“To anyone else?” He laughs. “No.”
“Well, I hope you don’t think any differently of him because he tells me things. I wouldn’t want you to stop referring people to him … or using him yourself.”
“I don’t use him myself,” he says with a smile. “And you’re his wife. I tell Red shit all the time. When you’ve got a good woman, you trust that she’ll keep her mouth closed and vice versa. And you’re a good woman, Jasmine.” Wow, Malcolm considers me a good woman? After I just told his beloved Red off?
“Well, um, thanks.” I shift uncomfortably on one leg. “And I, um, don’t want you to think I’m being petty by not going to this play. I would never miss a church play out of pettiness. That wouldn’t be very Catholic of me at all. It’s just that I hate your wife.”
“I get it.” He nods at me with a little smirk, those brown eyes of his scanning mine, seemingly trying to read what’s going on in my very mind before he drifts them away and towards the crowd. Goodness, Malcolm’s really … unnerving. I’ve known him since he was the forward on St. Bernadette’s basketball team. I’ve known him since he was walking down the hallways of school, winking at girls and trying to make eye contact with Danielle. So why in the world am I nervous standing here next to him? I inch away from him.
“What’s wrong?” He says to me, his eyes still focused on The Board, his voice low and steady … his cologne intoxicating. (Did I just think that?)
“Nothing.” I whisper. Why am I nervous?
“You sure?” He turns to look at me, his eyes more relaxed now.
“Yeah.” I say quickly while I fidget with an earring. He nods slowly and looks
away.
“So what’s going on with you and Red?” Ugh. Danielle.
“It’s complicated.” I breathe out with a sigh.
“Jasmine, I’m married to Red; I live in Complicated. It’s that far off place where you never quite know what’s going on or how much Fed time you’re liable to accrue. Try me.”
“I just don’t approve of the life that she’s living,” I shake my head and roll my eyes. “I just don’t agree with it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s dangerous.” I say as Malcolm and I lock eyes. “Point blank.”
“You think so?”
“The feminist rallies, this high-profile she has now because she’s a Blair, her living in the fortress of Brookshire Condominiums, all of that extra security they have there because of you all, her affair with you … your obsessed ex-girlfriend.” I lift an eyebrow to him. “Your lifestyle and past should be enough to make a sane woman run for cover. Instead Danielle is having baby after baby by you.” He lets out a small smirk and flashes his eyebrows at me.
“Ready to go to our next stop?” he asks without skipping a beat. He reaches out and places a hand on my back to escort me back through the French doors.
“Wait, you aren’t going to respond to that? I accuse you of ruining my best friend’s life and you have no rebuttal?”
“What’s there to say?” He asks as he opens the front door, freezing Boston air crashing into us. I notice the spot on my back, where Malcolm has his hand, is still warm. “You’re nothing if not observant.”
“Well at least respond to the ex-girlfriend comment.”
“I will,” he says matter-of-factly, unruffled by my accusations. “But let’s go grab a cup of coffee first. Then we can talk.”
Jacob
(no.)
“You want coffee, Queen Jasmine?” I’m trying to be myself tonight, but it’s hard as hell.
“Don’t mind if I do,” she says to me as I turn around and look for the waitress. After making eye contact, I point to the coffee pots behind the counter. Full of energy, the waitress nods and heads over to the pots. I turn back around and watch Jasmine cut into her pancakes; whole wheat, gluten free, a splatter of fresh maple sugar. I just took a bite out of my French toast; wonder bread and sugar doused in Mrs. Butterworth. Tonight we’re celebrating Jasmine’s victory at her favorite café here in Boston, The Coffee Bar Café. She has no idea that I watched her walk across the pageant stage last night and wave to us peasants as she strutted past with her crown on her head and a rose bouquet in her arms. She thinks I flew up to Boston this evening, after she called and told me of her coronation. I picked her up from her condo at around midnight and we headed straight to our favorite spot in the city: The Coffee Bar Café, seated in a booth right beside a window. I watch her lick maple syrup from a fingertip.
“Mmm. That was rude.” She says as she cuts into her pancakes again. “But so good.”
“So tell me about last night,” I say to her as I take a sip of my orange juice. “Who came out?”
“Everyone. Naturally.” She gives me an eye lash flutter. “I was, what you would call, the queen of the ball. All of society was there. Black society, I mean. Of course my friends came up from New Orleans, Danny and Rena.” She gives me a smile before taking a bite out of her pancake.
“Danny, huh?” I ask as I cut into my French toast. “Did she bring Jon?”
“She did, in fact. And I have to admit, I really like him. He’s all strong and silent, something Danny needs because she can be a bit of a loose cannon.” She looks out the window and smiles into the Boston night. And I know why. I look out of the window and across the street at Brookshire Condominiums.
“You still want to move into those condos?” I ask her as she watches a doorman help a woman out of her town car.
“I do,” She has a faraway smile on her face. “Don’t you?”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind.” I look down into my plate and cut into my French toast.
“What’s wrong?” By the time I look back up, she’s staring at me. “You haven’t been yourself tonight. Is it school?” The waitress walks over with a tray holding a cup of creamer, sugar cubes and two cups of coffee, white smoke steaming up from them. “Thank you so much.” Jasmine says to her. “It’s after midnight, you must be exhausted. How long is your shift?” This is typical Jasmine, engaging with the plebeians, or regular people as she calls them. It builds their moral, when you speak with them, she once told me.
“Three more hours to go,” the waitress says with a look of mock exhaustion.
“Oh dear,” Jasmine gives a look of regret. “I’m sorry.” The waitress smiles and slowly walks away.
“Why didn’t you ask me to come to the pageant?” I ask coolly as Jasmine reaches for the creamer. “Not that I mind but I’m just wondering.”
“I knew you’d be mad at that.” She says without even looking at me. I watch her as she pours her creamer into her coffee.
“Who’s mad?”
“You.”
“Why didn’t you ask?” I watch her grab a sugar cube with a set of silver prongs.
“It wasn’t your crowd.”
“Oh no?”
“It was black society, Jacob.”
“And your parents.” I reach for my coffee cup.
“I was fighting to be the black queen of Massachusetts. It just wasn’t the time to introduce my electors to my white boyfriend.”
“So who did you introduce them to?” She looks up at me as she stirs her coffee.
“I guess you have eyes and ears around the entire city, huh?” She says without skipping a beat. “I’m impressed.”
“Who was the guy with Jon?”
“His friend.” She takes a sip of her coffee.
“And his name?” It’s Marlon Kyles, I’ve already looked him up.
“Marlon Kyles. And before you say anything, there’s nothing going on between the two of us. Marlon’s from an old Philadelphia family, the Philadelphia Kyles, the ones that opened the first stop of the city’s Underground Railroad. Have you heard of them?”
“Of course.” The Kyles are Philly’s black royalty. They run the damn city just off of legacy alone.
“Well he’s a super nice guy and he’s thinking about moving to Boston after college. He thought it would be a great opportunity to come to the pageant to network. So, no, he and I are not an item.” She’s lying. “Honest.” She smiles at me before drifting her eyes back out of the window. “Now about that condo across the street. I can see being married to you, having about three kids and ascending from a town car looking svelte and carefree. The wife of a lawyer. Three kids. And a member of the Blair clan. Not bad.” She looks back at me. “I say we go see what the asking price is. Ya know, just for fun.”
“Whatever it is, I can afford it.” I say as I cut into my French toast. She’s lying. I know she is.
“Jacob, stop.” I let my fork fall to my plate, creating a small clank at it hits the porcelain.
“Jasmine, if you’re fucking with a Kyle, just tell me. Alright? I’ll understand if you are. He has the shit that you want.”
“What I want is Jacob Blair, what I’ve got is a bunch of promises that may or may not come true.” I watch her cross her arms. “I didn’t see you rushing to introduce me to your family at your graduation. But you want me to rush and introduce you to my entire society?” I push my plate away from me. For the first time, in years, I’m too pissed off to eat a stack of sugar.
“Are you fucking with him, Jasmine?” I ask slowly as I lean into the table. “Are you fucking with Marlon Kyles?” We lock eyes; Queen Jasmine Harlow and future Attorney Jacob Blair.
“No.” The defendant says.
She’s lying.
Jasmine
(heart. beat. love.)
“It’s like Shakespeare says,” I hear Cadence say through the phone, “if music be the food of love, then play on.”
“Cadence,” Malcolm says as he makes a right
hand turn onto Tremont Street. “What the fuck is this call about?”
“It’s about the bridge to Nicky’s song. Now, I heard it just now and I’m growing worried. I understand that you’ve put a lot of effort into this piece but I’m just not sure it’s up to the Jesus standard.”
“Listen, this is a church play, not a Broadway revival.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure it’s this attitude of yours that has caused Nicky’s rendition of Little Drummer Boy to be subpar.” Cadence says in an exasperated tone. “You never did take any interest in the arts, which is why you’ve allowed Nicky to practice the song in the key of G when clearly Jesus would have sung it in the Key of D. Normally, I wouldn’t be so dedicated to a children’s play but there’s going to be a lot of big names there and Nicholai is playing Christ. He can’t fuck up the bridge.”
“Cadence, I’ve practiced that song with Nicky for four weeks now and he sounds fine. All he needs is a little tea, some lemon—”
“You do realize that he’s contemplating a more feministic approach to the song and using ‘girl’ instead of ‘boy’ in the second verse?”
“The hell he is. Listen, I’m about to call Red.”
“But what bothers me along with the bridge is his pitch, which, of course, goes back to the key you’ve suggested he sing in. He needs to change that key, wouldn’t you agree? I have a reasonably good ear for music and I’m thinking—”
“Cadence, I don’t have time for this shit. Is everyone here for the play?”
“Mom and Dad should be landing from London in a moment, Lola and I are at their home now, and Carlo and Eva are flying in from DC as we speak.” Excuse me, but did Cadence just say Carlo and Eva, as in the President of the United States and the First Lady are flying into Boston for Nicky?
“President Rossi and Eva Rossi are attending Nicky’s play?” I ask Malcolm. “I thought they were coming back for a religious ceremony. That’s what the news said last week.”
“Yeah, it’s for the play,” Malcolm whispers to me as Cadence continues on about some woman named Cynthia.
“So, you mean to tell me that Danielle has the President and his wife coming into town to listen to her son sing off key? Wow! Looks like she’s working overtime to make you all members of The Board if you ask me!” I throw my arms up, flabbergasted. “Why not invite the President and the First Lady to see her son play Jesus when Boston’s black elite is planning on coming to his Christmas play? You being personal friends with the President is one thing, but her having the President’s ear is another. I bet she plans on scooting her, Rena and Matt right into The Board without even considering taking Marlon and me along. And she plans on doing that right after her son headlines as Jesus. That bitch.”
Forever. (This. Is. Not. Over. Book 3) Page 5
