“Cadence,” Malcolm says, “let me call you back.”
“Don’t forget the honey,” I hear Cadence say before Malcolm ends the call.
“Alright, Jasmine,” Malcolm says as he cruises along with the traffic down Tremont Street, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “I’m almost afraid to tell you this, but here goes. Danielle’s already been asked to join The Board.”
“What!” I snap my head around to look at Malcolm.
“And she’s declined.”
“No!”
“Relax Jas—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“To be honest, Jasmine, Danielle has never, and I do mean never, mentioned The Board to me before they asked her to join. It just isn’t a big deal for her. It’s the feminists she’s concerned about.”
“Wait, let’s back up here. When was she asked?”
“After we married. And she turned them down; she wasn’t ready to be seen as a sterling example of black society.” He turns and smiles at me. “Trust me on this. In the end, she said she needed to do some growing before she was considered among the ranks of her parents and yours.”
“Unbelievable,” I whisper as I turn to look out the window again. “Danielle has manifested her own dreams and mine. No wonder her son is Jesus. It all makes sense now.”
“Jasmine …”
“Why am I even alive?”
“I shouldn’t have told you.”
“To watch Danielle conquer the world?”
“Relax, Jasmine.”
“What next?”
“Here we go.”
“A documentary of her life?”
“Jasmine…”
“The Nobel Peace Prize?”
“Don’t go off the deep end, Jasmine.”
“Why me?” I lean my head against the head rest and close my eyes. This is a nightmare! Danielle doesn’t even want to be a good person—why does everything always happen for her? “Who asked her to become an official member?”
“Judge Carmichael and his wife. They asked us to come to dinner and explained that I couldn’t be a member, of course, but Danielle would be granted full association. They explained everything that comes along with being on The Board. Out of all the things they said, what I do remember is that it required us to take a two-hundred and fifty question test on Boston and America’s black history. They also mentioned that Danielle’s marriage to me would have no bearing on The Board’s political leanings and should not be used as influential leverage with the black community. I mean, the meeting was intense. There was zero mention of balls and galas. Trust me.”
“So what happened?”
“Well, even though I couldn’t be a part of The Board, as Red’s husband I still had to pass the test right along with her. So she and I studied Boston and America’s black history, memorized all the goddamn verses to Lift Every Voice and Sing, and passed our separate tests with flying colors. I don’t mean to brag, but I scored higher than her.”
“So you mean to tell me that she was almost a member of The Board?”
“In the end, Danielle knew her head wasn’t in the right place. She didn’t think at the age of twenty-nine that she was mature enough to handle the obligations of being an example of excellence.”
“So she turned them down!”
“She did. It’s been five years and they haven’t approached her since. But trust me, I live with the woman; she’s still not ready. Which is fine, because she’ll admit that herself. The two of us aren’t the best examples of polite society and we probably never will be, because frankly, I really don’t think we want to be.” He stops at a traffic light and then turns to me. “Jasmine, as my client I think you should know that you have a romanticized view of life. You see balls and galas when in reality it’s mostly service and donations. It seems to me that you have a tendency to look at life through rose-colored glasses and—”
“Ex-squeeze me?”
“No offense,” he says with a smirk. “But it’s because of those rose-colored glasses that you’re mad at Danielle for divorcing Jon and marrying a Blair.”
“Why do you think I’d be mad that she married a Blair? Because I didn’t? Is that what you’re trying to say?” I ask. I’m not the least bit upset that I didn’t end up with Marlon—I mean, Jacob.
“Of course not, Marlon’s a great guy and let me tell you, he had some badass cufflinks on the other day when I—”
“Malcolm Blair, let me tell you something.” I turn all the way around in my seat so that I can tell him off to his face. This only makes Attorney Malcolm Blair smile. I begin, “I’m married to the Trump of Boston—”
“Right there.”
“What?”
“Why does Marlon need a qualifier?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you consider him the Trump of Boston?”
“Because he sells a lot of property and he makes a heck of a lot of money doing it.”
“He does, but Marlon is no Trump.”
“Well, that’s rude.”
“It’s not rude.” The light changes to green and he begins to pull off. “The two of them have nothing in common. Your husband came from a wealthy Philadelphia family and claims it. Trump likes to brag that he’s self-made, when in actuality his father gave him a boost. Now, while most people would make a big deal out of a self-made man, I’m partial to the ones who were born with a silver spoon, own it and still worked their asses off to create a name for themselves. It’s easy to build an empire when you’re hungry. It’s tougher to build one when you’re full. Marlon had drive despite his privilege. He moved out of Philly to make his own way here, aside from his family.
“Not to mention that Trump sells properties in order to make money. Marlon sells properties in order to make connections; sometimes a deal won’t be as much as he hoped for, but what he didn’t make in money, he made in favors. It’s the favors that get you around in this town, not always your money. Marlon has the trust of damn near every politico in the city because he’s bipartisan and trustworthy. That’s something Trump will never have. So comparing Marlon to him doesn’t do Marlon justice.” He stops at another red light and looks at me. “Neither is comparing him to Jacob. I’m going to say this to you as my client: I don’t think you fully realize the husband you have in Marlon. You’re selling him short.”
“Who says I compare him to Jacob?” I whisper, my heart beating faster. “Do you think I want to be with Jacob, or something? Possibly have a life with him that Danielle has with you? You know what Malcolm, let me be the first to say that you aren’t all you’re cracked up to be. If anything, I pity Danielle. I mean, who in the world would want to be married to a 6’1” white politico from Boston who’s the personal law counsel to the president of the United States?”
“6’2”.”
“Danielle’s life is a cautionary tale if you ask me. It’s what my life could have been had I not married up. Because trust me, Jacob isn’t fit to shine Marlon’s shoes.” How dare Malcolm! Danielle is married to a Blair; a bunch of lying, cheating, no-good Boston Danes. Who in the world would want to be married to them?
“Jasmine, I’m not—”
“You know, it really hurt Jon when Danielle left him for you. He started calling Marlon every day to talk about it, asking what he could have done differently. Wondering if the divorce was all over sushi bars and dives and if things would have been different if he wore ties without complaining.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Malcolm lets out a deep breath and shakes his head. “This Jon character doesn’t have a clue; what in the hell did Danielle see in him?”
“Malcolm, Jon was a good guy, he just didn’t know how to love properly. That’s all. Can’t fault a man for never learning how to love.”
“You can’t. But you also can’t fault Danielle for wanting to be loved. Now, I’m not perfect, trust me. There’s tons of shit I struggle with, but loving Danielle has always come easy for me. I do it
without thinking about it.”
“Let me guess, you love her with every breath you take.” I roll my eyes and look out the window. “Another score for Danielle.”
“No, I don’t love her with every breath I take,” he says impassively.
“Huh?” I whip my head around to look at him. “What are you talking about? You adore her. It’s what makes me hate her even more.” He smiles and shakes his head.
“I don’t love Red with every breath I take.” He shrugs. “Because when you breathe you have the power to manipulate it: you can speed it up, slow it down or stop it all together. My love for Danielle is more like a heartbeat, I can’t completely control it. I can speed it up, I can slow it down, but never—no matter what I do—can I make it stop altogether. No matter what you’re feeling, no matter what’s going on, no matter what you try to do, your heart will continue beating until the day you die. That’s love.” The light turns green and he takes off slowly, pulling in front of Starbucks and then coming to a stop. “So do me favor?”
“What?” I whisper, wondering if I have that kind of love for Jacob, because I already know I have it for Marlon.
“For ten minutes, I want you to take your rose-colored glasses off because he’s waiting for you.” Who? Marlon? I look at Malcolm and watch him point towards the Starbucks on Tremont Street. And, as I turn my head, I lay eyes on him through the window.
Jacob.
Jacob
(Winnie.)
“Malcolm,” Laura says as she runs her hands up under Malcolm’s shirt and lands them on his chest.
“Yeah, baby,” he says as he looks off to the side, the Boston Globe in his hands turned to the Today in Politics section.
“I had fun in Hilton Head this summer but we should go back for Christmas.” Malcolm says nothing. He’s still reading the paper. Mac’s got a bad habit of doing that now; ignoring Laura when she speaks. I turn to watch cars glide down Chestnut Street as we stand outside of Cinemark 12, a nice cool autumn breeze in the air. I look up to the sky and catch a grey cloud slide over the moon.
“This shit would have never gotten out if I was her counsel,” Malcolm says. I’m sure he’s reading the news story that’s being broadcast on every news station in New England. Apparently, the governor of Massachusetts has accrued massive gambling debt and is now considered to have an addiction. This has Massachusetts up in arms; how can a woman with a gambling addiction run the state? “A gambling addiction? Who the hell cares, as long as she’s handling state finances appropriately? This shit would have easily disappeared if I was on her team.”
“Malcolm, are you listening to me?” Laura whines out. “Daddy heard you were in town and said he wants to have dinner with us.” I snap my head around to Mac and watch him dart his eyes over to Laura. Now she has his attention. We graduate law school in two years. We need clients. Big name clients.
“Absolutely.” He says as he tosses the paper in a recycle bin nearby. “Call him now, tell him to pick a time and place. Dinner on me.”
“There she is!” Laura screams out. We all turn and see a town car approaching us. It slides up to the curb before the driver steps out. “Oh you’re gonna love her, Jacob! She’s so fun and she plays the piano and I think that’s so romantic and she likes to drink dark liquor and she wears red lipstick which is super sexy and—” Before Laura can finish, the chauffeur opens the back door and out slides a brunette with a bob, red lips and a smirk. Flapper style. Nice. “Gwyneth! Jacob, this is Gwyneth Yates.”
“Gwyneth,” I say as I walk over to her town car. She drops her eyes to my mouth, jaw, shoulders, abs, dick …
“Nice,” Gwyneth says, her smirk still pasted on her face. “And call me Winnie.”
“Winnie,” I say as I walk closer to her, our eyes stuck on each other. “How about you and I go grab a drink alone?” She raises an eyebrow to me.
“Let’s roll.”
Jasmine
(christmas. present.)
“Babygirl,” Jacob says as he stands, dressed in what appears to be the day’s work clothes. He’s always so sharp these days; so different from the shirtless guy who was tatted up, listening to Slick Rick and eating Oreos at Yale. I walk slowly over to his table, coming face to face, with number five on my Hit List.
God, this man is beautiful. He’s still broad-shouldered—even more so now with a wife, four kids and a successful law firm. I’ve come to realize that the more accomplished a man is in his personal and professional life, the wider his shoulders become to carry the load. While I have deep dimples, Jacob has faint traces of them. Depending on the light, they look like slight indentations that add to the definition of his square jaw. God … Jacob.
No, I can’t. I can’t walk any further. I can’t come face to face with Jacob and sit at a table with the man whom I would have given my entire life for, only to stand by and watch him marry another woman. A woman he considered better than me. A woman my former best friend obviously considers better than me.
Gwyneth ‘Winnie’ Blair is better than me.
“I can’t do this, Jacob. I’m sorry,” I say before I quickly turn around and begin to head back towards Malcolm’s truck.
“Jazz.”
I stop dead in my tracks and close my eyes at the sound of that voice of his. Just hearing him say my name again makes my throat burn.
“What, Jacob?” I say, my voice cracking. I will not cry. I will not cry.
“I love you.”
My heart starts racing and my scalp gets all prickly.
I glance around the empty Starbucks and notice the only two baristas behind the counter are looking at their cell phones and laughing with each other while the sounds of God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman are filling the air.
Jacob and I are alone.
Jacob loves me.
“But I was never the one for you,” he says.
My heart sinks.
“I guess you were the one for Winnie?” I ask, my back still to him.
“I am.”
“Why?” I whisper through my burning throat.
“I didn’t deserve any better than Winnie.”
“You were always so hard on yourself,” I say before taking a long swallow to control an oncoming sob.
“No, I wasn’t. You were too easy on me.”
“I loved you. I wasn’t there to tear you down; I was there to build you up. Like any good girlfriend would have done.”
“I was a lost cause, Jazz. There was no helping me. I went into life knowing exactly what I wanted to do. And trust me, I didn’t want to be saved. I saw what it took to get to the top and I went hard. They say the climb can kill you and I was ready to die … I just wouldn’t let you die bedside me.”
“So you gave Winnie that privilege?”
“Is death a privilege or a penalty? Either way, yeah, I did. She’s carved from the same pile of coal as me. In the end, dead or alive, she and I are both going to the same place.”
“And I guess you couldn’t take me?”
“Hell is hot, baby.” I hear a smile in his voice. It takes all of my strength, every sinew in my legs, to keep myself firmly planted in this spot. Because right now all I want to do is turn around, run to Jacob and forget everything. I want to hop on the back of his bike, blaze down the streets of Boston, let the moon guide us anywhere but here and just have my chance with Jacob Blair. That’s my Christmas wish. Just one chance with this lump of coal.
“Coal … why do you always associate yourself with bad things?”
“Because that’s what I am, Jasmine.”
“Well, coal turns into diamonds.”
“No it doesn’t, Jazz. That’s just a legend made up by people who wanna believe the best in the worst. The truth is that coal is good for one thing and that’s burning.”
“Oh Jacob, please! Save me the metaphorical bull. Why don’t you just admit it—you didn’t want me because I was black.”
“I won’t lie, back then, that was a factor.”
�
��You bastard.” I give out a sardonic smile and shake my head.
“I was young; that’s my only excuse.”
“Well it’s insulting.”
“Tell me, Jasmine, do you believe that all of those dreams and aspirations of yours could have materialized with me by your side? And I’m not talking about your dreams of being married and having children because, let’s be honest, I’ve got three kids under my belt, and another one on the way. If there’s anything Jacob Blair can do it’s make a fucking baby. I’m talking about those dreams of balls and galas and black society you always talked about. Remember that?” I hear him moving closer to me. “You and I’d be in bed at Princeton after an exceptional night of rough-housing.” He lets out a small laugh. “I never could understand how someone so soft wanted it so hard.” He moves closer to me. “Do you remember that?”
“I remember everything about us, Jacob.” I feel my breathing picking up. I close my eyes to control it. Relax Jasmine; it’s just a memory.
“So you remember when we used to lie in bed afterwards? The window would be open, the crickets would be loud as hell, and the breeze would damn near chill us to the bone. But of course, when you’re dripping with sweat, a cool breeze feels like an artic chill.” He walks closer to me. “And you’d tell me stories about those Christmas balls at Danielle’s house and Easter egg hunts at Judge Carmichael’s home, who was just a civil rights attorney back then. Do you remember how you always talked about becoming part of that world, without your parents? Getting your own respect? Do you think you could have gotten there with me as your husband?”
Forever. (This. Is. Not. Over. Book 3) Page 6
