I Say a Little Prayer Page 15

  “So you’re seeing someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “Very. Never felt like this,” Basil said.

  I didn’t know if I believed him or not. I saw myself walking toward him with my sweats dragging around my ankles. I was going to press my body against his and take his large hands and have them cup my ass and then rub my chest. I would touch his beautiful full ass and lay my head on his massive chest as I grabbed his piece. I knew this man and how to make him beg.

  But then I looked at him and he looked like he was in another place. A smile lingered on his face and I knew I wanted what he had: somebody who loved me the way I loved him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Here it is,” Celia said as she handed me a leather folder. A huge smile covered her face and she twisted her body like a giddy schoolgirl.

  “I didn’t think I was ever going to get this. So this is going to make me rich,” I said. I pulled out the contract, read the first line, and then flipped to page seven, where I glanced at the signed names of two Wal-Mart executives. All that was missing was my signature.

  “When you sign it, I’ll fax a copy to Christy at Wal-Mart and make sure it goes out this evening via Federal Express,” Celia said, still grinning.

  “Cool. I’ll look it over and get it back to you.”

  “Fabulous.” As she headed toward the door, she twirled around as if a handsome young man was spinning her in an elegant ballroom.

  “You sure seem happy,” I said.

  “Why shouldn’t I be? This is a perfect day. I know it’s clickish, but has the sky ever been bluer?”

  “You mean cliché?”

  “Whatever.”

  “I hadn’t noticed. What did you do last night?”

  “I took your advice.”

  “What advice?”

  “To have a nice dinner on you—and that’s what I did. I went to Morton’s and threw down on a perfectly cooked rib-eye steak, baked potato, and creamed spinach. I even forgot about my diet and ordered this chocolate-cake-and-ice-cream thing they have. It was off the chain,” Celia said.

  “That’s great. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

  “It was a wonderful evening.” She almost sang the words.

  “Who’d you go with?” I asked as I placed the contract down on my desk. I thought about my evening with Basil and how it hadn’t turned out like I’d planned, and I hoped she’d had better luck.

  “Marvin,” Celia said quickly.

  I raised my eyebrows and gave her a did I hear you right? glance. Celia returned a sly yet unsure grin.

  “I thought you had a restraining order against him,” I said, my voice harsher than I planned.

  “I did, but he apologized,” Celia said quickly. “Then he sent me these beautiful red roses. Four dozen. Can you believe that? I had never seen that many roses at one time. Four dozen.”

  “So you feel safe with him now?” I asked, trying to keep the judgment out of my voice. How could a woman as smart as Celia be so dumb when it came to men?

  “Marvin is harmless, and I think he’s finally realized how much he loves me.” Celia leaned against my door with her arms behind her back in full swoon effect. She giggled like a preteen girl who has just received her first Will you go with me? note.

  “If you say so.” I’d had enough of this conversation. I opened my desk drawer, looking for my calculator. I wanted to see what the Wal-Mart deal was going to do for my monthly budget.

  “May I take the afternoon off?”

  “What?”

  “Marvin wants to take me to Piedmont Park for a picnic, and I don’t have much going on,” Celia explained.

  “What about Federal Express? Who’s going to call them? We need to get this back to Wal-Mart ASAP.”

  “If you get it signed before noon, then I can drop it off. Otherwise, there’s a drop box in the lobby of the building,” Celia said.

  “I don’t know if I can read the entire thing before lunch, and I need to have my lawyer look over it,” I said. I knew I was acting helpless, but it wasn’t just Federal Express I was worried about. I was concerned about Celia and how her new love life was going to affect her work. Already she was taking off early. I guess I took everything she did for granted.

  “Okay. If you need me, I’ll just tell him we can do it another time,” Celia said sadly.

  I felt guilty. “Go ahead. Take the afternoon off. I’ll manage somehow. Maybe I’ll get my lawyer’s assistant or Ms. Gladys to send it out.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Go ahead,” I said. When I saw her unsure expression, I added, “Have a great time.”

  “Thank you, Chauncey. Thank you so much.”

  Celia opened the door and I called her name. She turned around with a smile so big, it looked like she was wearing those candy lips I used to wear and eat when I was a kid.

  “Promise me you’ll be careful,” I said.

  “I promise.”

  Back in my office, I began to scan the contract but then stopped. I went into my wallet and pulled out the card Pastor Kenneth had given me. For a long moment, I stared at the name and phone number in the corner, then picked up the phone. After I dialed, the telephone rang a couple of times before a female voice answered.

  “Starting Over. Lucy Simpson.”

  “Lucy?”

  “Yes, this is Lucy.”

  “My name is Chauncey Greer. My minister, Kenneth Davis, gave me your number and suggested I give you a call.”

  “Oh, yes. The singer. You have a wonderful voice. I’m so glad I was there when you sang. You had that little church rocking.”

  I smiled and eased my shoulders into a relaxed position. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how stiff I’d been.

  “Thank you. That’s very nice of you to say.”

  “It’s the truth. Thanks for calling me. I think we might be able to help each other out.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Have you seen the show Starting Over?”

  I didn’t recognize the name of the show on her card, nor did it sound familiar when she said it. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

  Starting Over was a daytime reality show where real women, with the assistance of life coaches, tried to restart their lives in front of the camera. Lucy further explained that up to six women from different backgrounds lived in a house together and the life coaches worked to help them achieve their new goals. It sounded like an interesting show, but I didn’t know where I could fit in unless they were getting ready to go coed.

  “So how do you see us working together?” I asked.

  “We have a young lady entering the house next season, and her goal is to resume her recording career. She had a hit CD a couple of years back, and I was thinking that maybe you could write some songs for her, and perhaps the two of you could even do a duet. You would get a lot of publicity on the show, and we have some connections with the record company that will be producing her CD.”

  “Can she sing?” I was already thinking of a song I’d written that would be perfect for a female voice.

  “Yes, she’s pretty good. She’s been on Broadway, and her album went double platinum.”

  “Double platinum. That’s pretty impressive,” I said, wondering why someone like that would be on a reality show. “What’s her name? Maybe I’ve heard of her.”

  “Yancey Braxton. We call her the declining diva.” Lucy laughed.

  “Why?”

  “Well, she’s sort of a prima donna. No one has told her that she’s no longer a star.”

  “Oh, I see. Where’s the show taped?”

  “In Los Angeles this season. Last year we were in Chicago. We’re still scouting locations around Atlanta for next season.”

  I paused for a moment. It was not what I expected, but it could be fun, and help me start my recording career. I didn’t know how popular the show was, but if a couple hundred thousand watched it, that could he
lp me when my CD came out. “What do I need to do?”

  “Since I’m executive producer, all you have to say is you want to do it, and we’ll get started.”

  “Count me in,” I said, smiling at myself for being such a hypocrite. I’d told myself I would never do one of those reality shows like Survivor, American Idol, or The Apprentice. I had thought if I was ever in love again it might be nice to be on The Amazing Race. And if I was being totally honest, I would jump at the chance to be on American Idol, but I was much too old.

  “Cool. Let me get your contact information and I’ll set up a meeting with you and Yancey B.”

  I gave her what she needed and she promised to give me a call in a couple of days. I thanked her, and when I hung up, I smiled. I remembered Yancey B’s hit single Any Way the Wind Blows. Celia was right. Today was a perfect day.

  A couple of hours later, I placed the contract on my desk and rubbed my eyes. I’d reviewed each page twice. As I reached for the contract again, there was a knock on my door.

  “Come in.”

  Ms. Gladys stuck her head inside my door and whispered, “That lady is out here to see you. She dresses nice, but I get a bad vibe from this heifer.”

  “What?” I frowned.

  “Should I call security?”

  “I need to figure out who this woman is.”

  “She got that goon with her. Should I get my Mace out of my purse?”

  “No, I can handle this, Ms. Gladys.” I turned the contract facedown, got up from my desk, and walked out to the foyer. I noticed the back of a woman talking to a handsome, but mean-looking, bald-headed light-skinned brother.

  “May I help you?” I asked.

  The woman turned around, and sister’s face was beat. I mean, her makeup and hair were flawless on her toasted-croissant-brown skin. The petite woman stood no more than five feet and one or two inches, but her posture—shoulders back, head held high—gave her the stature of one much taller. I gave her a quick once-over. Her hair was perfectly coiffed into a French roll, an appropriate style for the navy blue knit suit she wore. The knee-length skirt and matching jacket fit as if it had been tailored to her slender body. From the gleam of her black pumps to the glitter of the diamond bracelet that graced her small wrist, this woman oozed money and confidence.

  “Are you Chauncey Greer?” she asked, but before I could answer she said, “But of course you are.”

  I squinted slightly as I stared at her face. She looked familiar. Then, suddenly, I remembered. It was the woman from the Web site. The woman sitting next to Damien in the picture. The woman who was identified as Damien’s wife.

  “I’m Chauncey,” I said.

  “I need to speak with you,” she said. It was a command, not a request.

  I crossed my arms in front of me. “Do you mind telling me what this is about?”

  “Not out here. Do you have a private office in here?” she asked as she looked around with disdain. The man standing next to her gave me a steely stare.

  “Who are you?” I asked, not letting on that I knew who she was.

  “I’m Grayson Upchurch, and it doesn’t matter who he is,” she said, motioning to the man behind her. “Let’s just call him protection. Now, can we go into your office?”

  “Not until you tell me what this is about,” I said.

  She half-grinned. “Oh, don’t be so coy. You people always try to be so clever,” she said.

  You people. I couldn’t remember ever being referred to as “you people” by a member of my own race.

  “Look, Ms. Upchurch, unless you can give me a reason why I should talk to you, then I’m going to ask you to leave,” I said forcefully. She looked sideways toward the big dummy. He opened the black leather jacket he was wearing and looked down. I could see the shiny silver head of what I was convinced was a gun. I didn’t want to panic, but I didn’t want to set myself up for harm, either. I could see the front page of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution with the headline “Preacher’s Wife Shoots and Kills Husband’s Ex-Boyfriend.”

  “I’ll speak with you, Ms. Upchurch, but your friend will have to stay out here,” I said. I was going to get that bitch in my office, lock the door, and call security.

  “That’s a very wise decision,” she said as she walked through my door and I followed. Once I got inside, I locked the door and said, “Tell me, just what was that little stunt with the bodyguard and the gun?”

  “Why in the hell are you calling my husband?” she asked, ignoring my words.

  I paused for a moment. “Are you talking about Damien?”

  “So you do know who I am.” She gave me a piercing stare, as if she thought I would back away. “I knew you were playing that clever queen thing. You gay boys can be so bitchy.” Without an invitation, she sat in one of the black-and-white chairs that was facing my desk. If the gun didn’t stun me, then certainly Grayson referring to me as a queen and gay boy did.

  “I recognized you from the Web site and I called because I needed to talk to Damien,” I said.

  “About what?”

  “That’s between the two of us.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “There is no us when it comes to Bishop Upchurch. I’m the only us in his life,” she said firmly as she crossed one of her very shapely legs over the other.

  “Did Damien get my message?” I asked, finally taking my seat.

  “Do you think I’m a fool? I know who you are and I know all about your little sordid events with my husband.”

  Sordid events, I thought. Obviously, Damien hadn’t told her everything about our relationship.

  “I guess you didn’t hear me. Did Damien—or should I say the bishop—get my message?” I asked in a tone that let her know I wasn’t backing down.

  “And I guess you didn’t hear me,” she responded, letting me know she was willing to go toe-to-toe. “I screen all of the bishop’s calls. I knew it was only a matter of time before you would pop up.”

  “I didn’t pop anywhere. I just thought Damien should know our paths might cross again when he shows up in Atlanta,” I said.

  Her eyes thinned to slits. “The bishop doesn’t have time for people like you from his past. He is busy doing the Lord’s work, helping our community, and being the head of our household. When he wins the seat in the Senate, it will only be a matter of time before we’ll be residing on Pennsylvania Avenue. All this talk about Bayrock Obba and his wife being next in line for the presidency is bullcrap.” Obba? I knew Grayson Upchurch was much too intelligent not to know the correct name of one of the fastest-rising black politicians, Barack Obama. She had to be just dissing the man. But I said nothing, allowing her rampage to continue. “I told Damien people from his past would start to pop up and halt our…I mean his dreams.”

  I glanced at her for a long time and wondered if she was for real. Frustration began to boil inside of me, and I wondered why I was even having a conversation with this crazy bitch. After a few moments of disorienting silence, I finally spoke.

  “The Damien I knew was never interested in politics,” I said. I started to say women also, but I resisted.

  “The Damien you knew is dead. Bishop Upchurch was called by the Lord to spread his word and to let people know that we must band together against the homosexual agenda—that sick agenda of asking for special rights against discrimination and getting married. I mean, how crazy is that?” Grayson said in a crisp voice that was both elegant and commanding. “Finally, the Republicans have an issue black folks can understand. We don’t believe in that gay crap.”

  I took a moment before I said, “Can you answer something for me?”

  “Maybe,” she said coolly.

  “Why the bodyguard with the gun? Are you trying to scare me?”

  “There is no need for that.” She shook her head. “I just wanted to find out what you want. Is it money, or are you delusional and think that Damien might still be interested in someone like you?”

  I smiled. “Sounds like you’re worried
, and I don’t need a dime from you or Damien.”

  Grayson looked around my office. “Well, it looks like you’re doing okay, but you could do better, I’m sure.” She directed her glance back at me. “The bishop and I have some supporters who might be willing to make a donation to you, your business, or to whomever, if we can get a signed document from you stating that you will never talk about Damien in public or private.”

  I laughed at her. Even if I’d been willing to go along with her pitiful scheme, that would never work. “In case you didn’t know, Damien and I grew up in a very small town. If you do make it to the White House, or wherever, I’m going to show up in any investigation. They will definitely do background checks. Everyone in Greenwood knows that Damien and I were good friends.”

  “But they don’t know about the sick relationship you talked him into,” she sneered.

  “I guess Damien didn’t tell you everything,” I said sarcastically.

  “Damien didn’t have to tell me. I’ve seen everything in the box he kept. All your letters and cards. I mean, if it wasn’t so against God’s will, I might even have reason to be a bit jealous.” Grayson pulled out a checkbook and an aqua-blue pen. “Now, how much will it take to make you disappear again?”

  My eyes widened at her audacity. “There is nothing about me that’s for sale, so if that’s what you came for, then I think this conversation is over.”

  She sighed as if she couldn’t believe my words, “You really need to think about what I’m offering you.”

  “This conversation is over,” I said as I stood and moved toward the door.

  Grayson stared at me for a moment, put the checkbook and pen back into her purse, and stood. She straightened her skirt. Creases formed in her forehead as she frowned and said, “This conversation may be over, but we’re not. If I were you, I’d be careful about where I went and who I talked to.”

  “So I should watch my back?” I said, remembering Griffin’s words.

  “You said it, not me.”

  And then Grayson walked out of my office, slipping past me like she was the Queen of Sheba.