by E. N. Joy
“It’s time for the drawing,” Deborah said as she stood in the center of the room with a basket in her hand. Deborah looked stunning with her locks pulled up atop her head. She normally wore them down. The nice floral dress was a change from the pantsuits she usually wore to church.
Upon everyone’s arrival at the dinner, they were each given a raffle ticket. This was an idea Mother Doreen had come up with. Another member had suggested they charge one dollar for the tickets to raise money for the next singles event, but Mother Doreen considered it to be too close to just outright gambling. And after the years she had dealt with her deceased husband’s gambling addiction, she didn’t want to have nothing to do with anything remotely close to gambling.
Deborah pulled out the first ticket and read off the last three numbers on the ticket. “Seven seventy-seven.”
“That’s me!” a woman called out as she came forward to claim her prize. She wore a little black dress similar to the ones the all female group, En Vogue, used to wear.
“Congratulations, Sister Lorain,” Deborah said as she handed her an envelope. It was all Deborah could do to hide the expression on her face when she saw Lorain in such a revealing outfit. Perhaps some of the members of the Singles Ministry were right. Maybe if tight clothes, make-up wearing Lorain did join the Singles Ministry, then men would join as well. Deborah shook her head at the thought. God would have to have a crazy sense of humor to use Lorain in that capacity. Surely He had another purpose for Lorain in His kingdom. “Three fifty-seven,” Deborah called out after pulling the next, and last raffle ticket. There was no response. “Three fifty-seven,” Deborah called out again, still to no response.
People started to mumble, chatter, and look around. None of the guests had left yet, so they knew the owner of the ticket had to still be there.
Tamarra and Paige double checked their tickets, neither one of them having the number that had just been called.
“Going once . . .” Deborah called out.
Tamarra looked over at Maeyl who still had his face buried in his macaroni and cheese. She nudged him. “You might want to come up for air and check your ticket,” she told him.
“Huh?” Maeyl asked with a puzzled look on his face.
“Your raffle ticket.” Tamarra held up her own to show Maeyl what she was referring to.
“Going twice,” they heard Deborah say.
“Oh.” Maeyl pulled his ticket out and showed it to Tamarra.
“You’ve got it,” Tamarra told him, and then looked to Deborah. “Three fifty-seven! Brother Maeyl has it.”
There was applauds by some, and from those hoping they’d get another chance at winning, there were moans.
“Come on up, Brother Maeyl,” Deborah ordered, “and get your twenty-five dollar gift certificate to the Olive Garden.”
Maeyl got up from his plate and went to retrieve his winnings. He then returned back to the table where he finished off his macaroni and cheese.
Once the guests had gotten seconds, some even thirds, some of them began to leave, but not before Mother Doreen invited all who weren’t already members to join the New Day Singles Ministry. For those who were already members, she passed out the bylaws that she had finally managed to get typed, with the help of Deborah.
While several members began to clean up, others gathered their pots, pans, and containers.
“Let me get the door for you,” Maeyl said when he saw Tamarra heading toward the door in order to take her pans to her vehicle. “As a matter of fact, let me take those for you.”
“Oh thank you, Brother Maeyl.” Tamarra was happy to have her hands free as she gave him the pans and led him to her Jeep Cherokee.”
It’s my pleasure.”
Tamarra opened her back hatch, and Maeyl placed the pans inside. “Thanks again.” She closed the hatch.
“No problem, Sister Tamarra. After all, it’s the least I can do for the woman responsible for that delicious mac and cheese,” Maeyl said as he turned and headed to his own car. He then stopped in his tracks. “Actually, there is something else I can do.” He pulled out the envelope Deborah had given him that held the Olive Garden gift certificate, and handed it to Tamarra. “Here you go.”
“Are you serious?” Tamarra was excited to receive the gift certificate to her favorite restaurant. She graciously accepted it.
“Yes, I’m serious. It’s all yours,” he told her, and then paused. “Under one condition.”
“Let me guess.” Tamarra smiled. “I have to make you a pan of my macaroni and cheese?”
“No,” Maeyl said, “the condition is that you take me with you.”
Maeyl might not have been able, all night, to take his eyes off of his food long enough to look at Tamarra, but he was definitely looking at her now. And Tamarra was looking at him right back.
As she admired this six foot tall, medium build man with a bald head, goatee, and bronze colored skin, she wondered why she’d never noticed all of his appealing features before. Maybe because she had never really looked at him before. She’d never seen him outside of church service and Bible Study, and during those times, she’d always kept her eyes on Jesus. But now, as she gave Maeyl the once over, she prayed Jesus was nowhere near to discern the thoughts that were all of a sudden going through her mind. Thoughts she hadn’t felt about a man since her ex.
Before that spirit of lust that Mother Doreen had just prayed away a couple of hours ago could attack Tamarra right there in the parking lot, she replied to Maeyl, “Next Saturday. The Olive Garden. Me and You. I’ll meet you at seven.” She then jumped in her jeep and sped off. “I got away from you this time, ole spirit of lust,” she said out loud. “I just hope I can keep running fast enough.
Chapter Three
“Everything Literary, how may I help you?” Deborah asked as she answered her cell phone, which served as her business phone as well.
For the past three years, Deborah had run her own literary agency in which she was a one-woman show; editing, literary consulting, and some agenting. Deborah had learned a great deal about the literary industry during her own literary endeavors after writing a book of her own. She had contacted every publishing house editor she’d learned of in her library and Internet research. She’d also worked with a couple of professional, and very expensive, editors to perfect her writing. Even after taking some editing and grammar courses at Malvonia Community College, Deborah still never managed to get her book published. But as a result of her three-year endeavor, she learned enough information about the literary industry and the entire editing and publication process to start her own consulting business.
It started off with Deborah sharing the mistakes she’d made and the things she’d learned with online literary groups she had joined. The information she provided was priceless for those she shared it with, ultimately even landing a few of them book deals that launched very successful literary careers. One day, an author who had landed a book deal as a result of the information she had shared, sent Deborah a “thank you” card. Inside the card was a monetary token of her appreciation. That’s when Deborah realized her knowledge was worth something . . . money.
She registered the name “Everything Literary” and got a P.O. Box as the official mailing address. She had a Web site designed that listed the services she offered, and now three years later, she had worked with over one hundred writers and had at least a dozen authors who used her editing services on a permanent basis. In addition, she had five authors for whom she had agented lucrative book deals.
So even though her own manuscript was collecting dust in her home office file cabinet, all of the hard work she put into trying to get it published still benefited her, as well as a few others, in the end. She didn’t mind that she had made tons of mistakes and wasted tons of money so that other people didn’t have to. With the way business was booming, she was being paid back for her losses ten fold.
“Yes, I’m calling to speak with a Deborah Lucas please,” the male voice o
n the other end of the phone stated.
“This is she,” Deborah replied at the baritone voice that sounded as if it were intentionally trying, too hard as a matter of fact, to sound sexy and sophisticated.
“Hi, Deborah. My name is Chase. Lynox Chase.”
Deborah rolled her eyes up in her head. She hated when men tried to do the “Bond, James Bond” thing. It was such a turn off. She sniffed. “Hello, Mr. Chase. How can I be of service to you?”
“Well, I was referred to you by a fellow author. See I’ve written this wonderful erotic thriller, if I don’t say so myself,” he bragged. “It’s been edited and everything by a professional editor. Twice. Both my friend and the editor raved over the story and are certain major publishers would be fighting over adding it to their production schedule. But the thing is, as you know, most publishing houses won’t even look at my work without an agent representing it. And that’s where you come in. Now my friend tells me you are a Christian . . .” This guy wasn’t coming up for air. “So I hope the fact that my work is erotic won’t offend you and deter you from representing me.”
“Mr. Chase, I’m not that easily offended.”
“Great, because I’d love for you to represent me.”
“Not so fast, Mr. Chase. Before taking you on, I’d need for you to send me the first four chapters of your manuscript as well as a synopsis and cover page with all of your contact information,” Deborah told him. “You can send it to my attention at P.O. Box—”
“Well, actually, Deborah . . . you don’t mind if I call you Deborah, do you?”
Deborah huffed, and she didn’t remove the receiver away from her mouth when she did it. Game recognized game. And although this guy may have very well been interested in getting her to represent his manuscript, she could tell by his undertone that he might have been interested in a lot more. She sniffed as if she was sniffing out the scent of a dog . . . or in this case, a dawg.
“Deborah is fine, Mr. Chase.”
“Well, Deborah, I happen to live in Columbus, Ohio, which is only a few miles from Malvonia. So we’re sort of like neighbors. I thought it might be better if we met for lunch somewhere and had a sort of business lunch.”
“What do you mean by sort of?” It was time to call a timeout in Mr. Chase’s game. “Either it is or it isn’t.”
“Pardon me. I didn’t mean to imply that our meeting would be anything other than professional. I’m serious about my work, Mrs. Lucas.”
Who was this guy fooling? She’d just given him permission to call her by her first name. She knew he was now deliberately using her last name as a fishing expedition. “It’s Miss Lucas.” Deborah laughed inside at his attempt to find out whether she was married or single. But she had to be honest with herself; something about Mr. Chase was intriguing. And if being even more honest, she was somewhat flattered. Even still, she sniffed.
“My mistake, Miss Lucas. Nonetheless, I really think you would be interested in representing my work. Again, like I was saying, I’d love to meet you in person since I’m pretty much in the same city.” Now the more Mr. Chase spoke, the more serious he sounded, slightly toning down the deliberate charm. “It doesn’t have to be for lunch. It can be at the library, your office, you name it. I just want to pitch my vision and goals regarding my work to you. I’ve often been told that I do much better in person than on paper when it comes to pitching myself. Of course, my written work speaks for itself.”
Deborah appreciated the sincerity that she could now sense in Mr. Chase’s tone. Her timeout must have given him time to reconsider his next play and the team he was up against. With that being said, and letting her guard down just a dash, Deborah stated, “Lunch will be fine, Mr. Chase. I’m free Thursday and Friday of this week.”
“How about Thursday at noon?”
“That works for me, Mr. Chase. We can meet at Max and Erma’s on Pleasant Drive, if that’s not out of the way for you.”
“Trust me, I’ve come so far along now in this process, I’d drive a hundred miles if it meant getting my work published.”
“Then, Mr. Chase, I’ll see you in two days.” Deborah ended the call, and then wrote down her date . . . her meeting with Mr. Chase.
As she wrote, something inside of her told her that she should have insisted on him following her regular submission policy of mailing his work, but toward the end of her conversation with him, Mr. Chase seemed to be just as sincere about his work as some of her best clients. Perhaps she’d lowered her guard just a dash too much and too soon. She hoped that he really was as sincere and passionate about his work as he’d led her to believe, and for his sake, he’d better hope that he was too. Because many had come before him trying that same thing; pretending to be an author after seeing her attractive photo on her business Web site.
Her long eyelashes that many assumed were fake because they were so long, and her neatly weaved sisterlocks that graced her shoulders always called for a double take. She had a medium brown complexion like the singer, Chilli, in the group TLC. And for some reason, people always asked her what she was mixed with. She’d made a mental note several times to research her ancestral history, but had never gotten around to doing it as of yet.
Deborah sat at her desk replaying her conversation with Mr. Chase in her mind. After reevaluating the situation, she decided to pick up her cell phone to call Mr. Chase back to cancel their meeting. She’d follow protocol and just have him mail her the submission as she’d initially instructed him to do. She had failed to get his contact information and was disappointed when she looked down at her caller ID and saw that he had called her from a private number.
“Oh, well.” She harrumphed. Even though it went against her better judgment, she wouldn’t stand up the future self-proclaimed Pulitzer Prize winner. She’d show up at the so-called business lunch.
Deborah stared down at the phone and sniffed again. Yep, this time she could smell him, just like always, before she’d ever even see him. Dawg. Well groomed, though. Maybe too well groomed. Even to the point where, perhaps, this time, she could be wrong. “Nah,” she said out loud while scrunching her face.
Deborah stared at the meeting information she’d written down. “Mr. Chase, you’d better hope you really mean business. If not . . . let the games begin!”
Chapter Four
“Two tickets to The Family that Preys,” the gentleman said to Paige as she stood inside the ticket booth of Marcus theatres. “The eight o’clock show, please.” He must have noticed how Paige was gazing over his shoulder in an attempt to see why he was purchasing two tickets when he appeared to be alone. “She’s not here yet. The person I’m waiting for,” he answered her unasked question.
Paige smiled, thinking she’d better be careful and guard her thoughts, as this guy appeared to be a mind reader. “That will be fifteen dollars.” She handed him the two tickets.
“Thank you,” the gentleman replied after paying for the tickets with exact change. He then stepped aside to wait on the person whose ticket he was in possession of.
Ten minutes passed by when Paige looked at her watch. It was 7:45 P.M. Fifteen minutes and she would be off work, and as far as she was concerned, eight o’clock couldn’t get there soon enough. She hated working the ticket window, especially on a Tuesday evening, any weekday for that matter, when business was slow. Working the ticket window reminded her far too much of her earlier, non-management years with the theatre.
As the manager of the Marcus theatre Picker-ington location, which was about a forty minute commute from Malvonia, she often felt that those duties were now beneath her. Last week, to Paige’s dismay, an employee had quit. Paige had been forced to cover her ticket window duties until she could hire another employee in her place. In Paige’s one year of being a manager, this was the first time anyone had quit without the standard two-week notice.
Ordinarily Paige loved her position, but she’d been complaining about her recent duties to Tamarra since having to do them. Other than
that, Paige had no other complaints whatsoever about her job.
A few more patrons came to the window, and Paige painted on a smile as she served them. Once the small line disappeared, she groaned before looking at her watch again. “Yes!” she said in a hushed tone. “Just five more minutes, and I’m out of here.”
A smile crept across Paige’s face. At eight o’clock she would be a free woman. Free to go home, cook her a Lean Cuisine dinner while she took a shower and got nice and comfy in her PJ’s. After doing that, she’d sit down and watch some reality show re-runs. She looked out the ticket window, and her smile slowly evaporated. Although she was excited for eight o’clock to arrive, it looked as though the gentleman outside the window wasn’t.
The man who had purchased those two tickets a few minutes ago still stood outside, pacing as he repeatedly looked at his watch every few seconds. He looked as though he wished either eight o’clock would delay itself for a little longer, or his date would put a move on it.
Paige tried to play it off when he caught her staring at him. An embarrassed expression covered his face as his light skin cheeks reddened. Paige figured the poor man now wished that he had never even told her that he was expecting someone to show up and relieve him of that second ticket; especially now that it appeared as though this person was going to stand him up.
“Three tickets to the next viewing of The Women,” one of three young women who stood in front of the ticket booth requested.
Paige turned her attention to her task at hand. She had just completed the transaction when the door behind her opened.
“Hey, boss. You ready to break this joint?” Norman asked. She must have been too busy waiting on the women to see him enter the theatre.
Just then, Paige realized that there, in deed, was one other complaint she had about her job. One of her employees. Norman.
Norman entered the ticket booth appearing more than anxious to relieve Paige of her ticket counter duties. Paige should have counted that as a blessing, but she knew his anxiety was self-serving and had nothing to do with his desire to rescue her from the Lion’s Den. That was her nickname for the ticket booth. She knew that the real reason for his excitement lay in his readiness to flirt with the women who came to the ticket counter in hopes of getting a phone number or two.
