Authors: Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy
She
stepped out, adjusted her designer sunglasses, and shook her head to settle her
shoulder-length cornrowed hair.
Her
black leather Gucci riding pants hugged her ass tight and the black sleeveless
crossover blouse offered a discreet peek at her cleavage.
Until the divorce, she’d worn ladylike soft
pastel shades or severe tailored outfits as Mrs. Willard Bradford VI, and her hair
had been relaxed until it rippled over her shoulders smooth as satin.
She’d worn low heeled pumps, not boots,
too.
The first thing she did after
becoming Cecily Brown again had been to buy the GTO and shop for the kind of
clothing she coveted.
With
the kind of confidence she wasn’t born possessing, Cecily strolled into the lobby
and booked a leisure suite.
Any qualms
she had about respect ended when the smiling desk clerk ran her debit card, to
her brand new account, without any trouble. After living on Willard’s millions
for a decade, she might have to budget on her settlement but only by rich bitch
terms, not Cecily’s.
At the hotel, she rejected the offer to help
tote her luggage up to the suite and used one of the guest trolleys
instead.
Once in the suite, she admired
the spacious rooms, the living space with an easy chair, a table and chairs for
four, the large bedroom, and the big bath with enclosed commode, whirlpool tub,
and shower.
Before
she unpacked, she stepped out onto the balcony to overlook Branson, her
soon-to-be-home.
Traffic noises filtered
upward accompanied by a variety of smells, mingling exhaust from multiple
vehicles with barbecue aromas, the cinnamon scent of something baked, and a
faint hint of something fresh and green.
Despite her mixed feelings, Cecily sensed possibilities here.
I still don’t know about this
shit.
Back
inside, she sat down and removed her boots.
Then she pulled her Galaxy phone from a pocket and as promised called
Nia.
Her cousin answered on the second
ring, and Cecily reverted to the street language of her youth.
“Hey, bitch,” she drawled.
“It’s me.
I made it to Branson in one piece, but I don’t know about this place.”
“Don’t
you like it?” Nia’s brown sugar voice trickled into her ear, familiar and
sweet. “I thought it was a pretty cool place.”
“It
might be except it’s so full of hillbilly bullshit,” Cecily said as she peeled
off her socks. “And I kind of stand out, don’t you think?”
Nia giggled. “Aw, now, all kinds of people go
to Branson for vacation.
They like to
see the shows, go to the amusement parks, and all of it.
What you got to gripe about? You’ve been
hanging with the rich folks for years.
You’re the one told me ‘bout all the dinners and events where the only
other women of color were serving or cleaning up.”
True.
Cecily couldn’t dispute it. “Okay, so it’s not the first time.
I’m here.
What do I do now?”
“You
put the plan in action, girl,” Nia said. “We’ve talked about this since we were
thirteen.
You got sidetracked with
Mister Money, but you can do it now.
How
much did he give you?”
“I
asked for two hundred and fifty grand and I got it, too,” Cecily said.
“You
could have had more,” her cousin said. “You’re crazy. I would’ve taken him for
all I could get.
Weren’t you tempted?”
“No.” And she hadn’t been, not at all.
All Cecily wanted was to get away.
After what happened, she had Will by his
balls and he yielded to her demands.
After a decade of marriage to a man she didn’t love, never wanted, and
longed to escape, she gained back freedom.
If she couldn’t find anything else positive about Branson, it was a
place Willard Bradford VI had never been. “I’ll give it a shot.”
“So
you’ll open your boutique, like we’ve always talked about?”
“I
think so.”
“Good
girl! Go get some rest,
then
tomorrow you can go out
and find a place to buy.”
Fatigue
crashed down around her, heavy as a blanket, thick as mud. “Sounds like a
plan.”
“Call
me tomorrow. Talk to you later.”
Twenty
minutes later, soaking in the whirlpool tub, Cecily dared to revive her
dream.
Her mind drifted as her body
relaxed, returning back over the years to when she was an awkward
teenager.
Summer heat baked streets until the asphalt melted and the old tired
houses became too hot to endure.
Cecily
and her same age cousin from next door settled down on the wide front porch of
the Brown’s duplex.
They spent the
afternoons out there listening to WGCI, evenings watching to see who went where
and did what, and nights talking, pouring out their hearts.
“I’m gonna have me a boutique,” Cecily
told Nia. “I want to sell pretty things to the ladies.”
“What kind of stuff you talking?”
“Jewelry, perfume, beautiful
scarves, sunglasses, maybe even make-up,” Cecily answered. She dreamed of
owning such things and the few she did, she treasured.
“Inside, I’ll paint the place pink and
decorate it cool.”
“Where you going to have a place
like that?
Downtown?”
“I don’t know, but I will.
Someday.”
“Never
happened, though,” Cecily said aloud. “But it will.”
And so will the lover I dreamed
about.
Until
the last six months or so, when her bitter marriage unraveled and she surfaced
to breathe, really breathe, for the first time in years, Cecily had almost
forgotten her old dreams.
In addition to
the boutique, she yearned for a lover, a tough man who wasn’t afraid to do
whatever he found necessary.
She needed
a man who would listen to her heartbeat in the still of night but who would
fuck her every which way but loose when she needed it.
Cecily’s teen boyfriends were a sorry bunch
but the few times she let Walker Thomas, her first steady date, get intimate,
his fumbling hands disappointed her, left her needing more.
Willard Bradford hadn’t done much better.
Her
hand slipped beneath the warm scented water and found her mound.
Cecily fingered her clit, working until she
felt the pea-sized nodule grow larger as sweet sensations rippled through her
body.
Then she reached deeper to find
her g-spot.
In a familiar rhythm born of
long practice, she increased pressure,
then
went
gentle.
Each variation increased the
erotic sensations and she savored each one.
Cecily raked her hand against her clit as she rubbed her g-spot for
ultimate delight.
By design she brought
her body to the edge of orgasm, then drew back to prolong the intense
need.
To finish, she put her head back
against the edge of the tub and thrust her body upward into her hand.
She imagined a man’s hands stroking her body,
dreamed of a stiff cock without conscience stabbing into her throbbing cunt, as
she inhaled the masculine rich aroma of his musk.
Sweet Jesus, waves of pleasure washed over
her with force, her body a beach and the orgasm the incoming tide.
She gloried in it as she shuddered and after,
she sank deeper into the now tepid water.
Languid
and sated, Cecily wondered how damn fine sex might be with the kind of man she
fantasized about.
If she accomplished
nothing else in Branson, she vowed she’d find out—and soon.
Chapter Two
Four weeks later….
On
the day before her new shop opened, Cecily stood in the center of the store
with both hands planted on her hips.
Her
faded jeans, discount and not designer, hugged her curves and the hot pink
scoop necked tee she wore came from a discount rack, not Bloomingdale’s on the
Magnificent Mile.
Three days after her
arrival in vacationland, Cecily spent an entire day looking at properties with
a local realtor.
As soon as the realtor
figured out money wasn’t an issue, she narrowed down the choices to six.
The moment Cecily saw the building, a small
cinder block structure tucked in between an old-fashioned ice cream shop and a
small theater, she wanted it.
Although
far from pretentious, the building boasted bright pink neon trim around the
edges of the roof and Cecily liked it.
She imagined the drab beige exterior painted a light blush shade and a
new sign, also neon.
“What
was in here before?” she asked the realtor, a friendly but nervous woman named
Constance.
“I
don’t remember for sure, an ice cream parlor maybe or it could’ve been a small
taco place,” she said. “Things change so fast out here on the Strip and
businesses come and go so often I can’t keep track unless they stay
awhile.
I think it might’ve been a smoke
shop for a bit, too but I wouldn’t swear to it.
I could research it, though, if it’s important.”
“It’s
not.” Cecily had her mind made up.
The
location offered potential and she liked it a hundred times more than the
hole-in-the-wall strip mall vacancies or the faux log cabin the realtor offered.
She’d driven around town enough to decide
she’d rather not locate downtown where the narrow streets tended to be clogged
and businesses had to compete with the glitzier Branson Landing nearby.
Some of the properties on the short list were
too far out of the popular areas.
The
building sat on the uphill side heading south, just past Dolly Parton’s Dixie
Stampede.
It should be a high traffic
area and the pink neon wasn’t just a plus, it equaled the final deciding
point.
“I’ll rent it for now.” If the
boutique did well, maybe she would buy it.
She
signed the papers a few days later and took possession.
In between those events, the same realtor
found her a small two-bedroom house to rent near North Branson Park.
The ranch style home on Woodridge Drive faced
one side of the neighborhood park and sat under large trees. To her Chicago
tuned mind, the rent appeared to be cheap.
By the time Cecily drove to her new business for the first time, keys in
hand, she’d moved into the house, minimally furnished it with functional items,
and bought a wardrobe of inexpensive clothing.
At discount retailers and a couple of used
shops, she picked up some dishes, a few pots and pans, and some glasses.
She bought silverware for one at a dollar
shop,
then
picked out some basic kitchen
utensils.
At her boutique, Cecily
replaced the dark brown interior carpeting with light pink carpet boasting
cream-colored roses, painted the inside walls a deep, rich vanilla and
installed shelves.
Cecily named the
place ‘Pink Neon’ and to complement the existing lighting, she ordered a new
sign with the name in script to put up above the door, gaudy and large.
Over
the next week, she filled the shelves with lovely things, silk scarves, purses,
fragrances, some cosmetics, sunglasses, and a shelf of adorable
knick-knacks.
She added a section with
gourmet foods, coffees, and teas.
Along
one wall, she put up a rack with feather boas, satin jackets, and some funky
hats.
She added some coffee mugs she
liked, ones shaped like full-bellied green and red peppers, others in the form
of a formal top hat.
She put out a few
plates and cake stands, even added a tiny section of unusual music CDs.
A few books written by favorite authors took
up space on a shelf along with some exotic fragrances, scented candles, potpourri
and incense.
Within
the glass cases she placed near the front door and cash register, Cecily added
costume jewelry, exquisite pieces with low price tags.
Until her divorce, she’d worn nothing but
genuine gems, expected as the wife of one of Chicagoland’s major jewelry
dealers.
Her ears displayed diamonds,
expensive pearls circled her bronze throat, and her fingers erupted with
precious stones of every flavor.
Her
walk-in closet at the Canal street house, one she’d shared with Willard Bradford
the Fourth featured built in jewelry drawers and each area brimmed with
expensive creations.
Downstairs in his
study, Will kept higher quality items within a safe, although no one else knew
the combination to open it.
Now she wore
some of the same costume jewelry she sold with pleasure.
She didn’t have to worry about insurance,
loss, or theft with her current choices.