Destiny's Daughters

by Gwynne Forster

  Now she wondered if all along she was only trying to replace her sisters with girlfriends. She had come to the realization that she was forcing what didn’t fit.

  She’d dated off and on during and since college, but nothing ever seemed to click—until Maxwell.

  Maxwell had been the police officer who’d taken the report after one of her parolees had taken a shot at her that came so close to killing her, she heard the bullet whiz past her ear. He’d worked hard to try to smooth out her frayed nerves and to convince her not to quit a department so short on quality officers, especially those with heart. He’d made it his mission to find the woman who’d caused her so many sleepless nights.

  One evening more than six weeks after the incident and a month after she left the employ of the County of Los Angeles, Maxwell had shown up on her doorstep unannounced, bearing tropical flowers and a brown envelope.

  “Are you going to leave me out here all night?” Maxwell stood back from the door, wearing a confident smile.

  “What are you doing here?” Jamilla asked, stunned. “How did you get my address?”

  Maxwell looked disappointed. “Do I have to answer all your questions before you ask me in?”

  Jamilla stepped to one side to allow him entry. Maxwell looked around and nodded with approval. “Very nice.”

  “Thank you. I was lucky enough to buy before Rancho became the place to be. I couldn’t even afford to buy this place now.” Jamilla was confused yet intrigued by her unexpected guest. “Please have a seat.” She pointed to the green faux suede sofa. She took a seat in the matching side chair.

  Maxwell suddenly handed the flowers to Jamilla, startling her. “These are for you,” he said awkwardly.

  “Thanks.” Jamilla laid the flowers across her lap after she took a whiff. The scent of the flowers made her think of piña coladas. She turned her attention back to the average looking man with the extraordinary eyes and asked pointedly, “Maxwell, why are you here?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” He handed her the brown envelope that had her name neatly printed on it with a felt marker.

  Jamilla slowly turned the envelope over and opened it. She couldn’t control the tremble in her hands as she removed the single sheet of neatly folded white paper. It vibrated slightly as she unfolded it. She looked once again at Maxwell before she began reading. He smiled.

  Jamilla read quickly, and when she’d finished she leapt up moved to the sofa and hugged Maxwell. “You didn’t have to bring this all the way out here. You could have called me.”

  “But then I wouldn’t have gotten that hug, now would I?” Maxwell winked.

  Despite herself, Jamilla smiled. She looked down again at the arrest report of Shaniqua Aleze’ Johnson, the woman who’d shot at her. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

  Jamilla had offered Maxwell a glass of wine, but he’d refused and had asked for a rain check. They stood in the doorway for a long moment while Maxwell searched her eyes before he asked, “Now will you come back?”

  A little stunned, Jamilla asked, “Come back where?”

  “To work. We need you.”

  “We?”

  “Okay, I need to see you more often.”

  “You know where I live.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “My mother introduced me to a literary agent friend of hers who liked my manuscript. She sold it. I signed the contract earlier this week. I’m going to write full time. So the answer is no. I won’t be coming back to the department, but I’d like it . . .” Jamilla hesitated.

  “You’d like what?” Maxwell toyed with her.

  “I’d like it a lot if you’d come back here again.”

  Maxwell beamed. “I think I can do that.”

  That night had been the beginning of a friendship that had blossomed into true love. Maxwell was patient with her emotional ups and downs, all while he encouraged her to find her sisters. Jamilla was amazed at his insistence when she was discouraged about the possibility of ever finding them. It was Maxwell who made her believe that a private investigator could help her cause. Fear of failure, or perhaps it was success, seemed to always get in the way, and she’d put off moving forward until last week when she’d seen the babies during her waking hours. She was anxious to share the good news about the investigator.

  She ran her hand across the soft leather seat as she thought of the last time Maxwell had sat there. Her heart and soul longed to see him, hear his voice. She touched the button on the hands-free device for her cell phone and spoke the command, “Max at work.”

  He picked up on the first ring. “Maxwell.”

  Jamilla liked the sound of his baritone voice—smooth as warm butterscotch. She smiled whenever she thought of how much he hated his first name. She thought “Habakkuk” had unique style. He definitely was one of a very few. “Well, hey, Detective Maxwell,” Jamilla cooed.

  She could feel him smiling. “Hey yourself.” Maxwell lost the official tone in his voice. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot this afternoon. How’d it go?”

  “He was a nice enough man,” Jamilla began. “He made no promises, but he did give me a glimmer of hope.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Maxwell leaned back in the rickety chair, placing his leg on the desk. “But I don’t want you to get your hopes up too high. This is little more than a crapshoot. I had him checked out. He’s strictly legit, like I told you. But it’s still not going to be easy.”

  “Since I gave him a ten-thousand-dollar check,” Jamilla faked a laugh, “I surely hope it’s better than that.” Her voice wavered slightly as she continued, “It just has to be.”

  “I know how important it is to you to find your sisters, so you know whatever you need, it’s yours. And I do mean anything.”

  “I know.” Jamilla needed to change her focus. Finding her sisters had occupied so much of her thoughts, it had gotten in the way of her writing. “What time are you getting off? I thought maybe we could meet for dinner.”

  “Looks like it’ll be around eight or so.” There was an apology in Maxwell’s voice. “How about I pick up some Chinese and come by around nine?”

  As much as Jamilla wanted to see him, she hated the late-night drop-bys when he was so tired he often fell asleep before she’d cleared the table. “How about we do it another night—I need to get some writing done anyway, and you know the nighttime is the right time.”

  Maxwell sighed his disappointment but also knew she was right. He wouldn’t be the best company. “How about we shoot for Sunday afternoon?”

  “It’s a date.” Jamilla almost said I love you, but caught the words in her throat. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “You can count on that.” Maxwell hung up and Jamilla’s cell phone disconnected. He’d come to care so much for this woman who seemed so elusive. As he’d watched her at work, he knew there was something fresh and different about her from the other parole officers. It was more than her idealism—it was her passion. She wanted to show those put in her charge that things could be different if they’d only put feet to their faith and wings to their dreams. No matter what others around her said, she refused to give up. Which made Maxwell know she wouldn’t give up until she was face-to-face with her past.

  Traffic still crept along, and Jamilla took a deep breath, shifted her hips in the well-padded seat, and did some breathing exercises she’d learned in yoga to help her relax. The technique must have worked, because before she knew it she was making the exit onto Vineyard, and home was only a few short minutes away.

  With newfound determination to meet her daily writing quota, Jamilla pulled into the garage and quickly closed the door. She removed her white blouse and blue slacks, tossing them into the hamper next to the washer. As she stepped into the kitchen she opened the refrigerator, grabbed a bottle of water, removed the cap, and guzzled half of it before she took a breath.

  Opening the freezer and peering inside, she decided a TV dinner wouldn’t do tonight. Jamilla removed a
seasoned chicken breast and placed it in a bowl of cold water before she ran up the stairs to her bedroom. Once inside, she grabbed her sweatpants and baggy t-shirt off the chaise. She was now uniformed for work.

  As Jamilla descended the stairs, she let her mind wander again to the backwoods of Georgia. This time she wondered what it must have been like for her birth mother. With little or no medical attention, no husband, and way too young to deal with any of it. How old was her mother when she conceived not just one, but three babies? And who was her father? Was he still alive, and why hadn’t he stepped up and taken on his responsibility like a man? Despite her determination and good intentions, the questions moved her creative thoughts out of the way, and she felt hopelessly at a loss for the words she needed to fill five hundred pages. She touched the power button on the stereo and Luther Vandross’s voice filled the air around her.

  Luther’s music always soothed her soul. She’d cried real tears when he died. The thought of never hearing a new song from him put a hole in the pit of her soul. There wasn’t one romantic scene in her books that hadn’t been inspired by the late crooner’s unmistakable style. But today the words to “Dance with My Father Again” made her yearn even more for her sisters.

  What would it feel like to laugh and cry with women who shared so much of who she is? Were the three of them identical or fraternal? Were they as anxious to know her as she them? Did they even know she existed? If her MaDear and PopPop had been selfish and kept this all a secret, she might have never known. That thought made her wonder if perhaps not knowing would have been even better.

  Chapter 4

  Jamilla pulled her long, thick hair up, wiping her neck with a napkin. She picked up the coffee cup and put it down before she blurted, “I’m going to cut my hair for the summer.”

  Maxwell turned his head and stared into the blue waters of the Pacific instead of commenting. Jamilla’s thick tresses were one of the many things that attracted him to her. In a time when those who couldn’t achieve, weaved, her long, dark hair made her even more beautiful.

  “You’re not going to say anything?”

  “What is there for me to say?” Maxwell turned to stare at her. “It’s your hair—do as you please with it.”

  Maxwell had refused to bite. Jamilla didn’t understand why she always tried to pick a fight with him. She cared for him—a lot. She wasn’t sure if she was in love, but she was in serious like. “You just don’t understand how hot this hair is on my neck.”

  The waiter interrupted them with a spinach salad for her and chicken wild rice soup for him. Although Pedals was the casual-dining restaurant at the Shutters on the Beach Hotel, the service was only surpassed by the food. The warm May sun kissed Jamilla’s skin, making it tingle slightly. She hated the heat, and the direct sun was what had started this whole conversation.

  “Can I get you anything else?” Joel, the young waiter who, like most of his contemporaries, was doing this only until his big break in Hollywood came, asked.

  Maxwell looked at Jamilla’s coffee cup before he replied, “No, I think we’re good for now.”

  Joel disappeared inside the restaurant and Jamilla began again to plead her case. “I know how much you love my hair—it’s the only reason I even bring it up.”

  “You know, Milla,” Maxwell blew on his soup between words, “you’re a big girl. Do as you wish.”

  Uh-oh. He called me Milla. This discussion is over. “Thank you for understanding.”

  Maxwell stared at her with a yeah, whatever look before he smiled and said, “I know it’s a little soon, but has there been any word from the P.I.?”

  Disappointed that Maxwell had changed the subject, Jamilla reluctantly shared her news. She loathed always seeming to vent her frustrations on the one person who believed she could do anything she set her mind to do. Fear of angering him outweighed her need for conflict. “He’s actually started working on the case.” She picked at the salad. “He said he thinks he was able to locate my mother’s obituary in the newspaper. So that’s a good start. We’re going to have a phone meeting tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That is great news.” Maxwell dipped Italian bread into the olive oil and pesto mixture in front of them. “If your sisters weren’t legally adopted, then they’ll be easier to find with that information.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I’m really hoping so, for your sake.”

  Jamilla smiled and leaned back from her salad as she gave Maxwell a piercing look.

  He returned her stare, and then said, “What?”

  “I don’t know,” Jamilla hesitated, “but at this moment I think I . . .”

  With all interest lost in the delectable concoction, Maxwell dropped his spoon and said, “Go on.”

  Panic constricted Jamilla’s throat. She couldn’t force herself to finish the sentence. She’d looked into the swimming pool after stepping off the diving board, only to find it was the shallow end. She’d purposely avoided uttering those three little words. It was always safer to keep him guessing. “I like you . . . a lot.”

  Maxwell scooted to the edge of his seat as he leaned forward onto the table. “That’s not what you were going to say, and you know it!”

  Blinking to fight back panic, Jamilla stammered, “I guess, I, well . . .”

  Maxwell touched her hand this time as he whispered, “I just want to hear you say it.”

  There was something in his eyes that told her it was safe. That perhaps there was more water in the pool than she had first perceived. “Say what?” She pretended not to know what he meant.

  “Come on Jamilla, you can say it,” Maxwell almost pleaded. “Say the words I’ve longed to hear.”

  Jamilla dropped her head just as the waiter appeared with salmon and chicken plates. “The chicken for the lady,” a server other than Joel said, presenting the platter-sized dishes. “And for you, sir. Will there be anything else?”

  Maxwell impatiently dismissed the pleasant-enough young woman. “No, no. We’re fine,” he said as he stared at Jamilla.

  Jamilla looked briefly at the brunette with olive skin and green eyes and smiled. “May I have some hot water with lemon?”

  “Certainly.”

  Jamilla turned sharply as the server disappeared. “Please don’t speak for me.”

  “Don’t even try it,” Maxwell mused. “I’m not going to let you start an argument trying to weasel your way out of this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  This time he laughed out loud. “You look for any distraction available whenever I start to talk to you about us.”

  Jamilla started blinking rapidly again as she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She breathed a sigh of relief when her hot water arrived. “Thank you.”

  This time the server looked directly at Jamilla as she asked, “May I get you anything else?”

  Before she answered, she looked at Maxwell deliberately before asking, “Would you like something else?”

  Maxwell just smiled.

  “That’ll be all for now, thank you.” Jamilla took “polite” to new heights.

  Unfazed, Maxwell continued, “As I was trying to say, you need to stop running from this.”

  Jamilla picked up her fork and began eating. “From what?”

  With feelings of exasperation, Maxwell sighed, “You know what?”

  Jamilla looked up from her plate.

  “I’m done.” Maxwell stabbed his fork into the salmon. “You going to let this good man get away.” Chew. “Then you go right ahead.” Chew. Chew. “I’m tired of chasing you.”

  Jamilla moved the garlic-mashed potatoes around with her fork, refusing to look at Maxwell. She wanted so much to love him with abandonment, but what if he left her, too?

  Too? Who else had left her? Surely she wasn’t talking about her birth mother. She had died! She wouldn’t have left her otherwise. Jamilla’s mind took her back to what it must have been like for her. She was hot and felt sweat beg
inning to form on the bridge of her nose. Then suddenly she saw them in her plate, two babies with her adult face. She leapt from her seat, tossing the plate as she moved. Chicken and potatoes rained down on the Hollywood-looking couple seated across from them. All eyes, including Maxwell’s, were on her. She wanted to break and run, but her feet felt bolted to the ground. She was fighting for air but she couldn’t seem to get any. Panic began to consume her. The more she struggled for air, the less she seem to have.

  Maxwell was on his feet, standing next to Jamilla, when he asked in a low voice, “What the hell is wrong with you?” As he placed his arm around her, he could feel her trembling. The slight tremors gave way to the shakes.

  Jamilla felt totally out of control as she stood, stunned, looking at the mess she’d caused. She looked at the blond woman and her companion, who seemed almost hysterical as she cleaned chicken and potatoes from her hair and lap. “I don’t . . .”

  Before she could answer, the manager had joined them. “Is there a problem here?” he asked in a stern yet concerned tone.

  “I’m so sorry.” Jamilla had moved to where the woman sat, visibly angry. “I . . .” Words abandoned her. She wanted to tell Maxwell, the woman, the manager, and the world that she’d seen two babies smiling with her face in her plate, but who’d believe her?

  “My girlfriend has been under a tremendous strain lately.” Maxwell reached into his breast pocket and removed his badge. “Please let me pay for this couple’s meal and any damages.”

  The manager examined the badge closely before looking at Maxwell, then at Jamilla. “Are you sure you’re all right, Miss?”

  Jamilla managed to nod her head.

  The manager moved to the table where the other couple sat, the woman still brushing food from her hair with the assistance of the waitstaff. The manager spoke too softly for Maxwell and Jamilla to hear, but the couple looked in their direction several times before the man nodded his head yes.