Gold Diggers

by Tracie Howard

  ALSO BY TRACIE HOWARD

  Never Kiss and Tell

  Why Sleeping Dogs Lie

  (with Danita Carter)

  Success Is the Best Revenge

  Talk of the Town

  Revenge Is Best Served Cold

  PUBLISHED BY HARLEM MOON

  Copyright © 2007 by Tracie Howard

  All Rights Reserved

  Published in the United States by Harlem Moon, an imprint of The Doubleday Broadway Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  www.harlemmoon.com

  HARLEM MOON, BROADWAY BOOKS, and the HARLEM MOON logo, depicting a moon and a woman, are trademarks of Random House, Inc. The figure in the Harlem Moon logo is inspired by a graphic design by Aaron Douglas (1899–1979).

  Broadway Books and its logo, B D W Y, are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Howard, Tracie.

  Gold diggers / by Tracie Howard.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  1. African American women—Fiction. 2. Public relations consultants—Fiction. 3. Manhattan (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3608.O94G65 2007

  813'.6—dc22 2006025269

  eISBN: 978-0-385-52160-4

  v3.0_r1

  CONTENTS

  ALSO BY TRACIE HOWARD

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  BOOK ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  BOOK TWO

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  BOOK THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  READING GROUP COMPANION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  I dedicate this novel to my beautiful family for their unconditional love and support; to my friends for their inspiration and never-ending generosity of spirit; and to God our Father, for his divine wisdom, of which I hope I’ve lived long enough to begin to scratch the surface.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to acknowledge those few companies in the publishing industry (including retailers) that help bring stories to readers without first editing the integrity of the work or infringing upon it misconceived racial notions (and you know who you are!). We all have stories to tell, and often—regardless of race—those stories are a lot more similar than they are different. Like many problems that we face in today’s world, if race could just be set aside, it would be easier for us all to understand and appreciate one another.

  As for me personally, there are many people whose help, support, and encouragement I deeply appreciate. First and foremost, at a time when I’d decided to put away my pen and paper forever, my agent and attorney, Denise Brown, forced my hand, encouraging me to finish writing Gold Diggers (which I started over four years ago, two years before Kanye’s hot song!). But it wasn’t until I met Janet Hill at Random House/Broadway/Harlem Moon Books that I felt totally comfortable bringing this wonderful book to life; I knew that she would “get it.” It’s a painful and heart-wrenching experience for a creative person who puts his or her work up for public scrutiny to realize that those who are supposed to support the process don’t “get it” at all.

  Next, I’d like to thank my family for reading and helping to promote everything I write (this includes Katherine Wimbley and Margaret Mroz!); my mother, Gloria Freeman, for passing on such creative DNA, and my sisters for sharing it (Alison Howard-Smith is a renowned contemporary African quilt maker: www.Quiltograph.com, and Jennifer Freeman is a very popular vocalist in Atlanta: www.JenniferFree.com). My nieces Chelsea Smith and Korian Young have inherited great genes and have much to look forward to! I was also smart enough to marry great genes—my husband, Scott Folks, is one of the most brilliant (and sweetest) men I’ve ever met (though my sister could argue the same for my brother-in-law, Donny Smith).

  I also have to thank my crazy friends. I must say that I have the most eclectic assortment of friends, who are constantly feeding my fertile imagination. I’m often asked by some if they represent a character in my novels. Just for the record, the answer is almost always yes! It’s rarely (except in the case of CoAnne Wilshire in Why Sleeping Dogs Lie) a one-to-one comparison, but more often, quirky idiosyncrasies are filed away and dredged up to add additional flavor and spice to the characters in my books. This cast of characters include: Karen, my partner in our fashion company Ethos (ExperienceEthos.com), and her husband Oswald Morgan, Sharon Bowen and Larry Morse, Alicia and Danny Bythewood, Vikki Palmer, Baidy Agne, Omar Sow, Imara Canady, Judith and Juan Montier, Jocelyn Taylor, Vanessa and Bill Johnson, Lorri King and Edbert Morales, Pam Frederick and Monroe Bowden, Julie Borders, Len Burnett, my cousins April and Ted Phillips, Mario Rinaldi, Ken Taylor, OJ Simpson (no, not that one!), and Anne Simmons. There are others, like Eric Omores, Harold Dawson, and Michael Dortch, who also offer their friendship and support, both of which I appreciate greatly. I’m happy to say that I don’t count any gold diggers among my friends, though there are many among my acquaintances (and you know who you are, too!). After all, this is New York! For an incomplete list of famous and infamous gold diggers, both contemporary and the more legendary (provided by readers), please visit www.GoldDiggersTheNovel.com.

  I also owe major thanks to Carol Mackey at Black Expressions for her continued support of my work, and to the hundreds of African American bookstores that we must support, lest our stories become history!

  Furthermore, and above the rest, I thank God for all things large and small, and for each additional day I’m given to experience them all.

  ONE

  Paulette’s bedsheets had barely cooled down when her telephone rang, erasing the lazy smile that curled the corners of her mouth, and interrupting the fresh memory of her lover’s recent visit. Though he’d been gone fifteen minutes now, she still smelled a trace of his Hermès cologne on her pillow.

  The phone’s shrill ring was like someone else’s wailing child—a complete annoyance. When she saw the name displayed on caller ID, Paulette smirked and rolled her eyes. It occurred to her not to answer it, but her curiosity got the best of her, so she reached over to the nightstand and picked up the receiver.


  “Hello.” She was careful to cover the irritation she felt. Paulette was the owner of one of New York’s premier boutique public relations firms, and thus was a pro at covering a multitude of things she didn’t want exposed. She was a master of positioning, whether it was between the sheets or in the gossip pages.

  “Are you still up?” the caller asked.

  Paulette’s alarm clock said it was a quarter past midnight. She twisted her lips into a tight, pinched sneer, sighing lightly out of earshot of the phone’s receiver. “Yeah, girl, I’m still up. What’s going on?” It was her cousin Lauren, the absolute last person on earth she wanted to talk to. Only the spoiled-rotten Lauren would feel no compunction whatsoever for calling this late at night. Paulette, unlike Lauren, the pampered princess, had to work for a living.

  “I’m sorry to call so late, but I didn’t have anyone else to talk to.” Lauren was choking back tears. She’d always worn her emotions on her designer sleeves, a luxury not possible for Paulette, who’d grown up always fending for herself.

  Gillian must be out of town, Paulette thought as she pulled herself up in bed, resting on one elbow while cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder. Those prima donnas were like two peas in a pod. “What’s wrong? You sound awful.” Instantly, a perfect pitch of concern and sympathy warmed Paulette’s voice. Working actresses in Hollywood—Ms. Berry included—had nothing on her; Paulette could summon fake emotion the way other people drew a breath.

  “It’s Max,” Lauren croaked. “I think he’s having an affair.” Just saying those dreadful words out loud somehow made Lauren’s sneaking suspicions feel even more real than seconds before, bringing life to thoughts she hadn’t dared to speak.

  “Calm down, Lauren,” Paulette cooed, though she was actually unmoved by the tears and sat idly drumming her fingers on the nightstand through the chorus of sobs as she processed Lauren’s alarming—if not surprising—revelation.

  When Lauren finally calmed down enough to speak, she said, “I’m sorry; I just don’t know what to do.”

  “Are you positive he’s having an affair?”

  “Definitely.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Paulette asked. She needed as much information from Lauren as possible to properly deal with this sticky situation.

  What little strength Lauren had returned to her voice, her anger supplanting her hurt feelings. “Well, for example, tonight he told me he was having dinner with Rob, one of his business partners, but Rob just called and left a message for Max saying that he’s still out of town and has to reschedule their breakfast meeting.”

  Oops. “Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation,” Paulette offered.

  “A wife knows these things.” Lauren made her proclamation sound intuitive, as though she’d read mystic marital tea leaves, when in fact the clues were as concrete and tangible as Mount Everest. For starters there were his countless late nights, the pungent aroma of another woman’s essence on his shirts and soiled boxers, and the cavernous gulf that had spread between Lauren and her husband when they lay in bed. Lauren and Max hadn’t made love in over two months, and whenever they did, the act was about as passionate as two cells merging in a petri dish. Though he always had a handy excuse ready to serve up, she realized—as any wife should—that he had to be getting it somewhere else, since celibacy was not a part of Maximillian Neuman’s DNA.

  Paulette took Lauren’s all-knowing proclamation and her familiar haughty tone as personal digs devised to mock her own perpetual-bridesmaid status. By comparison, Paulette felt like such a loser for not having the fairy-tale life that Lauren had been handed on a platinum platter: wealthy and successful parents, natural beauty, a handsome and successful husband, and a grand town house on the Upper East Side. Even worse than all of these unforgivable sins was the fact that Lauren was completely impervious to the ill effect her life had had on Paulette’s.

  Paulette managed to hide her simmering hatred for her cousin under another layer of fake concern. “So, who is it?”

  Lauren took a deep breath, searching bravely for composure. “That I don’t know. At least, not yet.”

  There was a soft beep on Paulette’s line, indicating that another call was waiting. “Hold on a minute.” Paulette pressed the flash button after scanning the LCD to identify the waiting caller. “Hey, baby,” she purred after switching calls.

  “Are you still naked?” a husky voice oozed into her ear. He was ready for a round of phone sex, even though he’d been gone only twenty-five minutes. His insatiable appetite for her was one of the many things that she loved about him.

  “Do you miss me?” she cooed.

  “Of course I do,” he answered. At the very least there were certainly parts of her that he missed.

  “I miss you, too,” she crooned back at him. “And so does your wife.” A sly smile crept across her face as she dropped this bombshell.

  “My wife?” Maximillian’s deep, sexy bedroom voice quickly scaled an octave higher.

  “Lauren’s on the other line,” Paulette announced offhandedly. She managed to keep the coyness from her voice, realizing he wouldn’t find the situation nearly as amusing as she did.

  “What does she want? And why did she call you?” Panic flashed a shade of red over his high-yellow complexion like high tide washing up at sunset.

  “Let’s just say she called to tell me something I already know.” Paulette twirled a lock of her thick, coarse hair. Its brittleness and frayed ends were the result of the constant perming and coloring it took for her to achieve the light brown Barbie-doll look that she preferred. It had also taken a nose job, skin bleaching, and a lifetime gym membership, the latter needed to fight off those pesky pounds that were always one french fry away.

  “What’s that?”

  “That you’re having an affair.” She barely stifled a giggle. The irony of the situation was rich as whipped cream; her lover’s wife was calling in the middle of the night for sympathy, when his wet spot on her sheets had barely begun to dry.

  “Oh, shit! She knows?”

  Paulette heard the panic well up in his voice. It was nauseating. “She at least suspects,” she offered him.

  “Wh-what did you tell her?”

  Of course, his only concern was for himself, and worse, his tone seemed to imply that Paulette had done something wrong. Hell, she wasn’t the one married! She chose to ignore all of this for now. She’d deal with him later. “I didn’t tell her anything. I’m just listening.” Paulette got up from the bed with her bedsheet wrapped around her naked body, letting it trail the floor. She soon calculated the best position to assume while in the tight spot wedged between husband and wife.

  “You have to convince her that I’m not having an affair,” he pleaded.

  Yeah, right. “Okay,” she said. What nerve!

  “Call me when you’re off the other line.” He didn’t even wait for a good-bye before he hung up.

  She thought for a second, then clicked back over to Lauren’s call. “I’m back. Sorry about that.” She sat on the side of the bed and resumed twirling her hair, a sure sign that a scheme was moving from concept to implementation. “It was a client who needed consoling.”

  “It’s okay. I appreciate your listening. I’m just so upset.” Lauren sounded close to releasing another tide of tears.

  “And you should be. If my husband were having an affair, I would be too. In fact, I wouldn’t stand for that shit! Have you confronted him?” Paulette was working Lauren up, building the head of steam needed to blow the lid off of her sad little domestic problem.

  “No,” Lauren admitted. In fact, the thought had never even occurred to her.

  “Girl, if you don’t put that Negro in check he’ll walk all over you.”

  Lauren was quiet for a moment. “You really think I should?” As was her way, Lauren would rather ignore the problem and
hope that it went away. Besides, what if she confronted him and he admitted to an affair? Then what? Or worse, what if he left her? Her mother would have a fit!

  “Lauren, if you want to save your marriage, you’re going to have to nip this situation in the bud,” Paulette counseled.

  Ten minutes later, Lauren was more than sure that her husband was a lying, cheating son of a bitch who had to be dealt with accordingly. Though she would have preferred to talk to her best friend, Gillian, who was out of the country, there was still nothing like a conversation with her no-nonsense cousin to help clarify things. The girls had practically grown up together, albeit on different sides of the same track.

  After Paulette was finished working Lauren into a frothy lather, she ended the call and dialed Max back. By now he was parked a block from his house, anxiously awaiting her call so he could sufficiently arm himself before walking into the waiting ambush.

  “What happened?” he asked anxiously.

  “Nothing, really. I did what you asked. I told her there was no way you could be having an affair. That you loved her way too much, and that it was all in her mind.” Paulette lied like the seasoned pro she was.

  “Did she believe you?” He was already breathing a bit easier.

  “Of course she did.”

  “Good. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Good night.” She placed the phone back on the hook and reclined on the four-poster bed, cradling the masculine-scented pillow while vividly imagining the drama that would soon unfold in the Neuman household.

  Paulette only wished that she had an orchestra seat and a bag of popcorn.

  Lauren paced the floor in her bedroom suite, nearly wearing a circular swath into the rich, plush carpeting. She was glad that she’d called Paulette, who always made her feel so much stronger. Her cousin’s gritty survival skills had somehow magically rubbed off on Lauren and empowered her, at least momentarily. Paulette, unlike Lauren, had been forced to hone such skills her entire life, because her mother, Lauren’s mother’s sister, had married poorly and been promptly disinherited by the Baines family matriarch, Priscilla Baines-Reynolds.