Authors: Rolonda Watts
Destiny Lingers
Destiny
Lingers
ROLONDA WATTS
“
Time moves on … but destiny lin
gers.”
What would you do for a second chance at your first
love?
DESTINY LINGERS
Copyright
© 2013, 2015 Rolonda Watts.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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ISBN: 978-1-4917-6862-4 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4917-6864-8 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4917-6863-1 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015909009
iUniverse rev. date: 12/11/2015
Table of Contents
I dedicate my novel to my beloved father, Roland Smith “Sonny” Watts
.
.. to my beloved great aunt, Florence “Flo” Smith, and my beloved grandparents, Maurice Love and Garnelle Smith Watts who all gave me their unconditional, unyielding, and undying love
-
- and Tranqui
lity.
T
he thought of another woman in my bed makes me want to vomit. But I cannot deny that my wrenching gut is screaming something’s afoul. I lie here on this glorious May morning, sun now streaming through my bedroom window, its sunbeams expecting to find happiness stretched across my face. But instead it finds me staring at another long strand of red hair—this one, at eye level, stretched across my husband’s bed pillow, as if it belongs here.
Against the backdrop of stark-white 800-count Egyptian cotton, this auspicious find is impossible to ignore and is quite shocking in itself. But my alarm and curiosity are only compounded by the fact that this is the third long strand of red hair that I have found in as many weeks right up here in my personal space—up in my husband’s and my special space, up in our very sacred space where no redhead has ever gone before. Not to my knowledge. Not until now.
The first strand of long red hair introduced itself to me on another recent bright spring morning from the hollows of my bathroom sink. I stared down at it in my sleepy haze as I brushed my teeth and leaned over to spit the minty toothpaste froth into the basin. How do you not notice long red hair in your white porcelain sink, especially when your own hair is short and chestnut brown? I spat and moved on. I was late for work.
The second strand of red hair caught my attention a couple of weeks later as I turned on the shower and waited for the water to heat up. I was in a melancholy mood that day, and my thoughts drifted as I watched little droplets of water racing down the sides of the tub in mad neck-to-neck dashes and darts to join the curling stream below. A little squiggle of red dancing for survival near the drain snapped me back to reality. “Another one?” I asked myself.
And just like that, it was gone, gulped up by the thirsty drain.
But it is still emblazoned here in my brain right now, racing like the little droplets of water.
These morning strands of long red hair seem to have taken root in our home—a home Garrett and I have cherished since we first found this beautiful Harlem brownstone three years ago, right after our wedding. It’s only a one-bedroom rented apartment, the second floor of a five-story brownstone, but to us, just starting out in our marriage and television careers, it is our mansion—the beautiful, stately, and historic home of Mr. and Mrs. Garrett Theodore Nelson. In one fleeting spring moment, dressed in a long, white lace gown, tears streaming down my face, and surrounded by a thousand people, I became Mrs. Garrett Nelson. I’m still getting used to it. Destiny Newell Nelson. A mouthful for TV, so I just keep my maiden name for the news.
Our living room is accented with twelve-foot ceilings and intricate crown molding running along the tops of the walls. Our favorite feature is the big bay window that overlooks Hamilton Terrace, with its rows of exquisite brownstones. The elderly couple across the street in this historic landmark district of Harlem always proudly keeps their window boxes flourishing with bright pink geraniums at this time of year, so there’s always a delightful view. You can actually forget you’re in New York.
On Saturday mornings, I have a ritual with our big bay window. While Garrett piddles around the apartment, reads the newspaper, or disappears for a game of golf, I grab a bottle of Windex, a roll of paper towels, and crank up Marvin Gaye as I sit on my big bay-window ledge, crooning to and escaping in my favorite hits, from “What’s Going On” to “Let’s Get It On.” Sometimes I play Marvin so loud that I draw a small crowd of Marvin-lovin’ neighbors outside my window. I caress her until she sparkles clean clear through.
But it doesn’t take a bottle of Windex to see through the dirt I seem to have uncovered this spring morning in our beautiful brownstone home.
I struggle to maintain my composure as a sordid rush of truth overcomes me. I know what I know, and I know things are not ever going to be the same at the end of this day that has not yet begun.
I lie here and ponder my morning shock, predicament, and rage. I shudder as I realize that the only person we know with long red hair is one of my best girlfriends, Eve Havaway. In fact, Eve is the only real redhead I have ever known. The only real redheaded black girl I have ever seen. Along with her smooth mocha skin, hazel eyes, freckles, dimples, and that brilliant red hair, Eve also sports the kind of body that makes the boys in Harlem yell, “B-
dam
!” It’s as though she casts a wicked spell on them as they shake their heads, lick their lips, lean to the side, and grab their hardening crotches, gawking in speechless awe at her curvy hips, her slender waist, and those big perky breasts—and, of course, her red hair.
“Hey, Red!” they catcall as she floats down the avenue. But she ignores them. Eve is a brick house on legs—the black Marilyn Monroe, conducting herself like a strategic tigress, using her poignant feminine power profusely.
I haven’t seen Eve in a while. She keeps canceling on our girls’ nights out, claiming that Fritz, her boyfriend of five years, is in one of his “Big Daddy” funks and doesn’t want her hanging out so much. I know how much free rent, fur coats, and lavish gifts of jewelry mean to Eve, so I haven’t questioned her a lot about it. I try to stay out of her business because I don’t understand why she doesn’t think more of herself than to be with a Harlem hustler.
On the surface, Fritz is a really nice guy, but he is also one of the biggest drug-dealing gangsters in Harlem and the Bronx, so who knows how nice Fritz
reall
y
is?
All I know is that Fast-Footed Fritz has spoiled the shit out of Eve over the past five years, keeping her latest Louis Vuitton full of cash. She is always donned in the top and most expensive fashions, from Gucci to Pucci to Fiorucci and a bunch of other haute couture names I can’t even pronounce. I figure most of her prize possessions could melt steel they’re so hot.
Eve is such a bright girl that it bothers me to see her settle for less than what I know she could achieve on her own. She has a college degree from Brown University and speaks fluent Spanish—even studied in Spain. She has dreams of a career in television, and I have promised to help her by seeing if I can arrange an internship in our news department.
Garrett says he’s disappointed in Eve too. He’s known her longer than I have. He also went to Brown, and he says that while she has always been smart, she also loves the fast life. He remembers that in college, they called her “the red-hot chick from Queens.”
“Eve wouldn’t give me the time of day back then,” Garrett scoffs. “I was a dumpy bookworm, and she was ‘big city.’ She gave me no play at all!”
They certainly are good friends now, thanks to my meeting Eve on my own. We actually met in the bathroom one ladies’ night out at Sweetwater’s, a popular westside jazz club. I was talking with my girlfriend Kat McCullough in the next stall about how Garrett and I wouldn’t be around over the weekend because we had planned a Connecticut bed-and-breakfast getaway with two other couples. I told her we’d probably also head up to Providence, Rhode Island, and visit Brown University, where all the guys had originally met in college.
“Girl, too bad your ass is married,” Kat teased, “’cause there are some f-i-i-ine men in here tonight!” Kat had dumped her husband a few months before and was now on the prowl.
“Go for it, girl,” I yelled back over the sounds of toilets flushing, faucets running, and women chattering. “Don’t hurt nobody now!”
Kat let out a loud hoot.
“Are you guys talking about Garrett Nelson?” A strange voice from outside the stalls suddenly interrupted our girls’ conversation.
“Who is that?” a defensive Kat wanted to know.
“Yeah, you know Garrett?” I chimed in.
Our toilets flushed at the same time as more women piled into the bathroom.
I moved my way out of the stall and into the crowd of restless women waiting for their turn. I squeezed my way to the sink … and there she was, decked out in a big red-fox coat, a charming dimpled smile, and a tube of Russian Red Mac lipstick in her hand, the one Madonna made famous. I could not help but notice her shiny, bouncy, red hair as she pointed a long red acrylic fingernail my way.
“You can’t be married to Garrett Nelson,” she exclaimed.
“And why not?” Kat demanded. She was always so protective of me and did not like, much less trust, most other women.
A couple of heavyset sisters waiting for a stall darted their eyes our way. They were grinning as if preparing for some fierce feline fireworks.
“I know Garrett,” Eve shot back. She turned to the mirror and started slowly applying her lipstick, carefully making sure to stay within the lines of her plump lips.
“And just how well do you know her husband?” For some reason Kat was going head-to-head with Eve.
One of the big sisters listening in couldn’t hold it any longer. “Ooooo!” she exclaimed. “I gotta hear this.” She moved her big body up to the sink.
“Me too, girl,” her friend said, moving in closer too. “How do you know her husband? Sound like you know him
well
!”
The big girls nudged each other and exploded into hearty laughter. Kat crossed her arms, scoping Eve’s big fur from top to bottom. I wanted to sink into the floor.
“Why don’t you ask Garrett? We knew each other at Brown.” Eve then turned, directing her dimpled smile at the two big girls. “We were just
fri
ends
.”
Eve turned back to the mirror and wiped any residual redness out of the corners of her mouth with her fingertips. So seductive in her mirrored movements, she seemed to be making love to herself.
“Then you must know his best friends, Reggie and Rick, too.” I had to know more about this startling woman.
“Ah … yes—those nuts? Of course! They were all runnin’ buddies back in school.”
“They were Garrett’s best men in our wedding. We had a thousand people.” I felt stupid adding that note.
“A thousand people!” wailed one of the big girls. “Gi-i-irl, you
good
and married!”
We all burst into laughter, finally breaking the ice.
“Why don’t you join us for a drink,” I offered Eve.
“Okay,” she replied with a bright smile.
We said our good-byes to the big loud girls and made our way through the bar crowd and back to our table where our girl, Hope Linton, was keeping an eye on our big down coats.
“Where have y’all been?” she demanded. “This fine brutha asked me to dance, and I said no cause I was watchin’ y’all’s coats! Now, he’s out there dancin’ with that crazy Wall Street girl. Ooo—I can’t stand her!”
“Easy, girlfriend.” Kat slid into her seat and swooped up the vodka martini she’d left waiting. “We got sidetracked meeting Miss Eve Havaway here, who says she knows Garrett.”
Kat took a long, dramatic, wide-eyed sip of her martini without taking her eyes off Hope, who, as if on cue, perked up with sudden interest and curiosity.
“Oh, it’s nice to meet you, Eve.” Hope extended her long arm across the table in a how-do-you-do shake and then asked, “How do you know Garrett?”
“School chums,” Kat blurted with a wry smile before Eve had a chance to speak.
“Ah, I see.” Hope knew Kat was up to no good. But perhaps, so was this Eve.
“So …” Eve abruptly eluded the conversation and turned to me, exuding a big smile. “What a small world. Now tell me, what is Mr. Garrett up to these days?”
“He’s an overnight producer at ABC network news,” I proudly explained. “He’s doing so well over there. We’re thrilled—”
“Oh, I bet you are! ABC network news? A big overnight producer!” I could almost see Eve salivating. “I had no idea! Oh, please tell Garrett I said hello.”
“I will,” I promised.
The four of us ended up having a ball on what turned out to be our first of many ladies’ nights. Kat filled our ears with jaw-dropping stories about some of the well-known celebrities she’d dealt with as an event planner. Hope held Eve’s hand and soothed her concerns about flying, as Hope’s a top flight attendant at a big airline and has a calming way about her anyway. I offered tons of details about murder, mobs, and mayhem from my many hours covering gruesome crime reports in New York City. Eve gushed about her growing collection of designer bags and shoes—she called them “make-up gifts” from her naughty boyfriend. I felt no need to rush home to our empty brownstone, as I had called Garrett, and he had already left for work on the overnight shift. He wouldn’t be home until the next morning, long after I had left for my day job as a reporter at NBC. So feeling free and adventurous and in love with New York City and the people one might meet along the way, I hung out with my girlfriends until about three in the morning. After exchanging hugs, numbers, and promises to hook up again, I made my way home, alone, up to Harlem in a big Yellow Cab.
But that was a year ago, and so much has happened since then.
I think of Eve now, and a shiver catches me off guard. A mixture of nausea and dizziness overwhelms me. My throat goes dry, and I begin to pant. “Get through this—you can get through this.”
My heart pounds against the walls of my chest like a big fist trying to break out. I struggle to breathe in the midst of this howling storm in my head and this pain in the pit of my stomach. I throw back the sheets and bound from bed to vomit.