Destiny's Daughters

by Gwynne Forster

  “Did this woman say where she was going when she left, by any chance?”

  “No. One night I came out to hear her sing in the little club about a mile away and she was gone. Owner said she simply left.”

  “The club, is it still there?”

  “Burned to the ground about two years ago. Owner took his wife and kids and moved away.”

  Leticia’s stomach was reeling.

  “Well, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Livie said, pushing herself to her feet. “It’s just that I thought you were her. You take care of yourself.”

  Leticia nodded. “Did she ever mention anywhere she might go?” she called out, almost in desperation.

  Slowly, Livie turned around, frowning, straining, trying to remember. “I think she might have mentioned New York or Chicago a few times. Can’t be sure.”

  Leticia released a breath of defeat. “Thanks.”

  Could it be possible that her sister had been there? That she was alive somewhere? Even more disturbing, they could very well have lived in the same city for years and never run across each other.

  She paid for her drink and dinner and returned to her room. The following morning she was on a plane to New York. She was taking a big chance going back, but it was one she was willing to take. Hopefully, the police had found someone more interesting than her to investigate. She had to start somewhere, and maybe the time to put the pieces of her life together was now.

  Chapter 14

  “What do you have for me, Wil?” Nathan paced the floors of his office as he listened to the P.I.’s answers. Leticia had been gone for almost four months. There hadn’t been a day that went by that he didn’t think about her, think about what Norman told him. But he needed his own answers, and he believed deep in his gut that there was so much more to Pam . . . Leticia . . . than either of them was aware of.

  “Are you sitting down?” Wil asked.

  “No. Should I be?”

  “You may want to. I don’t know how much you know about this Pamela Armstrong, aka Leticia Holmes, but it’s not a pretty picture.”

  “Just give it to me.”

  As he listened, Nathan did sit down. The information was not only enlightening but painful to hear. He couldn’t begin to imagine what Leticia had gone through all those years, what she was still going through. But at least now he understood how she became the woman she was.

  “I tracked her as far as the Bahamas. By the time I got there, she’d already left.”

  “Does anyone have any idea where she went?”

  “No. But from my experience in the biz, folks always return to what is familiar. My bet is New York.”

  “Thanks, Wil, for everything. I’ll put a little something extra in your check.”

  “All donations are appreciated.” He chuckled. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” He hung up, then buzzed his secretary. “Lisa, book me on the next available flight to New York.”

  Leticia sat in her new apartment with a stack of newspapers on the table. She searched every single entertainment section in the hope of finding something about a singer named C Holmes. It was a task she carried out every day since she’d been back. She’d even gone so far as to search the archives of the library for any clues.

  Frustrated that her search was pointless and insurmountable, she picked up a copy of the Village Voice. Page by page, she looked. Just when she was about to give up, a small photo and a column-length story caught her attention.

  Clarissa Holmes to debut at Radio City Music Hall. Her hands began to shake as she read on.

  Jazz stylist Clarissa Holmes will make her first New York appearance at the famed Radio City Music Hall.

  The words began to blur as she read on. But her eyes kept coming back to the smiling face of a woman who looked enough like her to be her. This must be her sister. It had to be.

  The concert will begin at eight P.M. on Friday night. Tickets are available . . .

  She jumped up from her seat, paced the floor, looked back at the photo, and paced some more. What should she do?

  Nathan walked the streets of midtown Manhattan, studying each and every face, hoping to find Leticia in one of them. He needed to tell her, make her understand, that nothing she had done in the past mattered to him. And that if she gave him the chance, they could make a life together, work together to find her family and build one of her own.

  Before he’d left Miami, he’d called Norman and told him everything, including the story of his relationship with Leticia. He told Norman that he was in love with her and that he was going to find her and tell her. For a long moment, Norman was totally silent.

  “We’ve been friends for a long time, Nate. I’ve never known you to be a man to stab another in the back.”

  “Norm, I—”

  “No, listen. I realized after all this time that it wasn’t real love that I had for Leticia. I did care about her deeply, but I was putting all the emotions I didn’t know what to do with into her.” He chuckled sadly. “I hate to admit this, but she never gave me an inkling that she felt the same way.” He paused a beat. “Go for it, man. If she is the one for you, go for it. Life is too short, so make the most of it.”

  “Thanks, Norm.”

  “Yeah. And don’t forget to send me an invitation to the wedding.”

  Nathan released a relieved laugh. “Will do.”

  That had been several weeks earlier. He was glad he’d come clean with Norman; he deserved as much, and he was equally as glad that there were no hard feelings between them.

  He continued his stroll down Sixth Avenue toward Forty-ninth Street when the marquee at Radio City Music Hall caught and held his attention.

  CLARISSA HOLMES, FRIDAY, 8 P.M.

  Nathan stopped dead in his tracks, then ran up to the ticket window. A big color picture of Clarissa, announcing her appearance, was posted on the glass doors. The resemblance to Leticia was stunning. They could easily be mistaken for twins. This had to be her missing sister. If Leticia was anywhere in the city, maybe, just maybe, she would find her way here.

  He went up to the window and purchased a ticket for Friday night.

  Chapter 15

  The crowd outside Radio City Music Hall swelled as the curtain time drew closer.

  Leticia had hired a car to take her to the event. It sat parked across the street as she watched the crowd file in. She gripped her ticket in her hand, tormented about the right or wrong of what she was doing.

  If she went inside, how would she even get to meet her? And if she did, there was no telling how Clarissa would respond. What if it wasn’t her sister, but just some freaky twist of nature that had two women looking so much alike?

  She felt ill with anxiety.

  The last of the concertgoers filed inside. She looked at her watch: 7:55. She drew in a long, deep breath, hoping to slow the erratic racing of her heart—to no avail.

  The white-gloved doorman stepped outside the theater, looked right and left, then stepped inside and pulled the glass doors closed behind him.

  “Um, driver, you can park somewhere—I’ll call you when I’m ready to be picked up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Drawing on the strength that had pulled her through many an adversity, she stepped out of the car and slowly crossed the street.

  She stood in front of the closed doors, suddenly unable to move, unable to think.

  The doorman came to the door and opened it.

  “Do you have a ticket, Miss? The show has begun.”

  Leticia blinked several times, bringing him into focus. No. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t risk being turned away. She simply could not.

  “Thank you. I—” She suddenly spun away, only to come face-to-face with Nathan.

  He reached out for her, bracing her shoulders. He looked steadily into her eyes as hers asked a million questions that her voice could not express.

  “I know everything, Leticia.”

  The sound of her name coming from his li
ps made her feel weak.

  “And I don’t give a damn.” His eyes ran over her face. “You can’t keep running. I love you, and I’m not going to let you run away from that. Your future, and your past, are on the other side of that door. If you choose to walk away now, you will always regret it.” He took a breath, then pulled the concert ticket out of his pocket and held it up. The only choice I’m giving you right now is to walk in there alone or with me. But in either case, I’ll be waiting for you.”

  At that, the tears that she’d been battling back spilled over her lids and down her cheeks.

  “Just like a man to make a woman ruin her makeup,” she choked out.

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

  She took his hand and pulled him to her side, then looked up at him, fear, hope, acceptance, and love in her eyes. “We’re going to miss everything if we don’t hurry.”

  The doorman stepped aside and let them in.

  LIFE’S LITTLE MYSTERIES

  Parry “EbonySatin” Brown

  Chapter 1

  “Ma Dear, this was such a fun birthday!” Jamilla clapped her hands together as she matched her mother step for step in the small but immaculate kitchen.

  Augusta Dixon turned her petite, round body to face her daughter and smiled broadly. “Baby girl, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Your daddy and I want so much for you to be happy.”

  “Oh,” Jamilla hugged her mother, “I am!”

  Johnny Dixon strolled into the kitchen carrying a large trash bag filled with the remnants of his daughter’s twelfth birthday celebration. “What’s an old man gotta do to get some of that?”

  Jamilla ran to her dad, reaching up to throw her arms around his neck. As he lifted her off the floor, he planted a kiss on her shelledpecan-colored cheek. “I love you, PopPop.”

  “I love you, too, sweetie.” Johnny set the bag close to the back door. “I’m really glad to hear that you had a good time today. Your friends seemed to have had a good time, too.”

  “Oh, they did!” Jamilla squealed. “They all told me so.”

  Augusta stole a glance at her husband of almost twenty-five years as her eyes shared her thoughts. When she and Johnny had decided today would be the day almost twelve years ago, it seemed an eternity away. A day so far in the future, there was never any need for her to be concerned with any of its details. Where had all the time gone? She had planned to tell Jamilla when she woke up on her special day, but then she seemed so happy and full of delight, she was afraid the news would steal her joy. Now, as Jamilla danced around the modest kitchen with appliances in need of updating, the time still didn’t seem right.

  As her daughter’s birthday drew near, an increased trepidation filled her heart with every beat. What will she think? Will she understand that we loved her in a way so special that we didn’t believe we could breathe without her?

  “MaDear,” Jamilla broke into her guarded thoughts, “what do you want me to do with the rest of the birthday cake? Cover it with aluminum foil?”

  Struggling to force the words over the lump in her throat, Augusta managed a smile. “No, baby girl, let’s put it in a plastic container so that good frosting doesn’t get all messed up.”

  Johnny cleared his throat to get his wife’s attention. “It’s time,” was all he could manage in his low, deep baritone voice.

  “Time for what?” Jamilla stopped with her hand in midair as she reached into the cupboard neatly filled with Tupperware containers that were older than she was. “Do I have more presents?”

  Augusta dried her hands on her yellow floral apron as she slowly said, “We truly hope you’ll think it’s a gift.”

  With her chore forgotten, Jamilla clapped her hands together and began jumping up and down. “What is it? Is it a new bike?”

  Augusta almost laughed as she thought of her tomboy daughter riding through the streets of Los Angeles to the baseball park where she’d play with boys two or three years her senior, beating them at their own game. “No, baby, it’s not a new bike.”

  Johnny rubbed his snow-white, perfectly manicured beard and sighed deeply. “Come sit in the living room with us.”

  Jamilla’s smile vanished. They never sat in the living room. The last time she had been told to come sit in the living room they had told her that her beloved grandma Rose had died. She wanted to ask who had died, but her words were held hostage by fear. The solemn look on her parents’ faces did little to comfort her. She grabbed her mother’s hand as they walked slowly in silence to the room filled with all things French Provincial.

  As Jamilla entered the room, she wondered why the off-white furniture was covered in plastic, since they never were allowed to sit in her mother’s showplace. On the few occasions she had sat on the sofa, the plastic had stuck to her skin, making her sweat. She looked at the two side chairs, realizing she had never sat in either one of them. Her mind had taken her on a journey through a child’s trivia rather than focus on the reason for the visit into the neatly cluttered sanctum.

  Johnny sat in the high-backed side chair and crossed his long legs. Augusta sat in the middle of the sofa and motioned for Jamilla to sit on the end between her mother and father. Jamilla obeyed silently, though she knew they could hear her heart pounding.

  Jamilla looked from one to the other as she impatiently waited for them to speak. Augusta toyed with the green zigzag border on her apron as she stared at the Oriental rug. Johnny picked up a small crystal object that didn’t serve any purpose but to gather dust. The silence choked the life out of Jamilla as she began rubbing her hands up and down her thighs until her hands burned.

  Johnny drew a deep breath and began to speak, each word more labored than the last. “Baby girl, you know we love you with all our hearts.”

  Augusta suddenly looked up as though she’d had an epiphany. “There’s nothing we wouldn’t do for you.”

  “I know, MaDear.” Jamilla’s heart pounded a little harder. “You’re scaring me.”

  Her mother placed her hand on Jamilla’s and turned to face her. “Johnny and I,” Augusta’s words rushed forth with the force of a ruptured dam after a torrential rain, “aren’t your real mother and father.”

  Looking rapidly from one to the other, Jamilla finally managed, “What do you mean?”

  “What your mother is trying to say is that we didn’t give you life.” Johnny leaned forward, resting his forearm on his knees. “You didn’t live in Augusta’s stomach for nine months.”

  Seconds ticked by like hours before Jamilla finally found her voice. “Whose stomach did I live in?”

  Augusta laughed nervously. “You’ve always gotten right to the point, haven’t you?”

  Jamilla only stared.

  “Minnie Lou Holmes.”

  “Holmes?”

  “Yes, baby girl,” Johnny answered. “We kept that part of your name when we adopted you.”

  “Who is she?”

  “I really can’t answer that.” Augusta spoke quietly, as though whispering would make this twelve-year-old secret easier to digest. “We don’t know anything about her.”

  “Where did I come from?”

  “You were born in a small town in Georgia,” Augusta answered laboriously.

  “How did you get me, then?”

  Augusta shot Johnny a glance and he nodded. She continued. “There was a lady down in Georgia who knew your people. She knew that I couldn’t have a baby naturally, and she told me about you. You were living with her cousin, but she couldn’t take care of you and my friend wanted you to have a good home.

  “Your daddy and I drove down there to see you and we fell in love with you instantly.” The tension around Augusta’s temple felt like a too-tight baseball cap. “You were so tiny.”

  “How old was I?” Jamilla whispered.

  “Seven weeks old.” Johnny’s eyes locked with his wife’s, though he spoke to Jamilla. “We need to tell her the rest.”

  Jamilla looked fr
om her mother to her father and back again. “What rest?”

  Augusta drew a long breath. “There were two other baby girls there that day.”

  Confusion clouded Jamilla’s big brown eyes. “Your friend’s cousin had other babies, too?”

  “Yes.” Anxiety robbed Johnny of a more eloquent response.

  “How many babies? How old were they?” Jamilla addressed her questions to whoever could give her the quickest answers.

  Augusta’s tongue lay paralyzed on the floor of her mouth. She had suddenly lost the confidence from twelve years ago when she was assured she and Johnny were making the right decision.

  She didn’t know how long she had been silent when Jamilla asked, “MaDear? Did you hear me?”

  Blinking as though she had been in a trance, Augusta hesitated before answering. “Yes, baby. I heard you.”

  Johnny rescued her. “Yes, she had other baby girls.” It wasn’t so easy for Johnny to continue, either.

  “How many?”

  “Two.” Augusta’s response was barely audible.

  “How old were they?” Jamilla’s curiosity fueled her enthusiasm.

  Neither parent wanted to answer.

  “MaDear, why won’t you answer me?”

  Johnny cleared his throat and sighed deeply. “They were seven weeks old.”

  “Wow! The same age as me?”

  Exchanging glances again with Johnny, Augusta answered this time. “Yes, baby. They were the same age as you because . . .”

  Time and space stood still. Augusta was suddenly standing in the tiny shack in the Georgia backwoods with outdoor plumbing. The old woman rocked back and forth, spitting into a Maxwell House coffee can occasionally.

  “This one has a humble spirit.” The lump in her left cheek shifted slightly. “She ain’t gon’ be much trouble.” Spit. “That one over there, she gon’ be a singer. She croons all day and night. Right fussy, though.” Chew. “That one,” the old woman pointed to the dresser-drawer-turnedbaby-cradle in the furthest corner, “gon’ be real trouble.”