Love Triangle: Three Sides to the Story (8 page)

They were gathered at the private basic school in St. Elizabeth for George Junior’s graduation from kindergarten. Marie was sitting beside her husband, her hands clutching his. She glanced at the five-year-old boy who looked so much like her husband. He was heading towards them with a big smile on his face.

He spent all his weekends and holidays with her family and called her aunty Marie. They had all made adjustments for him. She especially had to be careful to treat him like she did her children. Marie hugged him as he put his little arms around her. He was a very affectionate little boy. He then turned to his father and showed him his colourful certificate.

George nodded and made much over the paper. Marie glanced over their heads and her eyes collided with Karen’s in the next aisle—they had steadily built up a fragile relationship over the years.

Karen smiled tentatively at Marie and then looked at her son and his father longingly. She had to school her expression to repress the longing that she was sure Marie would see in her eyes. She was still in love with George and events like these drove her crazy.

She sighed and looked away and sat up a bit straighter. The previous year, she had gotten her nursing degree and was about to follow in Shauna’s footsteps and go abroad to work.

Her family thought that it was a great idea to get away from the situation. She was planning to take her son with her and send him to his father for the holidays. Hopefully, she would meet somebody that will make her forget George.

Marie watched as Karen swallowed convulsively and glanced at her husband with undeniable yearning. Marie laced her fingers through George’s and squeezed his hand.

What’s that for? George asked quietly.

“Just reaffirming that this link in the triangle is still alive,” Marie said staring into his eyes.

“What triangle?” George asked, puzzled.

Marie just smiled.

OTHER BOOKS BY BRENDA BARRETT

Contemporary Romance

Private Sins (Three Rivers Series
)-
Kelly was in deep trouble, her husband was a pastor and she his loyal first lady. Well she was…until she had an affair with Chris; the first elder of their church. And now she was pregnant with his child. Could she keep the secret from her husband and pretend that all was well? Or should she confess her private sin and let the chips fall where they may?

The Preacher And
T
h
e
Prostitut
e
-
Prostitution and the clergy don't mix. Tell that to ex-prostitute Maribel who finds herself in love with the Pastor at her church. Can an ex-prostitute and a pastor have a future together?

New Beginni
n
gs
-
When self-styled ‘ghetto queen,’ Geneva, was contacted by lawyers who claimed that Stanley Walters, the deceased uptown financier, was her father she was told that his will stipulated that she had to live with her sister uptown to forge sisterly bonds. Leaving Froggie, her ‘ghetto don,’ behind she found herself battling with Pamela her stepmother and battling her emotions for Justin a suave up-towner.

Full
C
ircle
-
After Diana graduated from school, she had a couple of things to do, returning to Jamaica to find her siblings was top priority. Additionally, she needed to take a well-earned vacation. What she didn’t foresee was that she would meet Robert Cassidy and that both their pasts would be so intertwined that disturbing questions would pop up about their parentage, just when they were getting close.

Historical Fiction/Romance

The Emp
t
y Hammock
-
Workaholic, Ana Mendez, was certain that her mother was getting senile, when she said she found a treasure chest in the back yard. After unsuccessfully trying to open the old treasure chest, Ana fell asleep in a hammock, and woke up in the year 1494 in Jamaica! It was the time of the Tainos, a time when life seemed simpler, but Ana knew that all of that was about to change.

The Pull O
f
Freedom
-
Even in bondage the people freshly arrived from Africa considered themselves free. Led by Nanny and Cudjoe the slaves escaped the Simmonds’ plantation and went in different directions to forge their destiny in the new country called Jamaica.

Jamaican Comedy (Material contains Jamaican dialect)

Di Taxi Ride And Ot
h
er Stories
-
Di Taxi Ride and Other Stories is a collection of twelve witty and fast paced short stories. Each story tells of a unique slice of Jamaican life.

Here's a peek at The Preacher and The Prostitute

“Flash up yuh lighter,” the selector yelled over the microphone.

It was early Sunday morning and the dance, which had begun at eleven the night before, was just heating up.

Several persons, mostly male, milled about the street; most of them were clutching drinks in their hands and smoking. The air was redolent with the scent of tobacco and marijuana mixed with the aroma of spicy jerk chicken.

The pulsating beats of heavy dancehall music rocked the early morning air as paid dancers and other partygoers writhed to the heavy beat. Some dancers were spurred on by the obscene commands of the selector and they attempted gravity defying dance moves to the pleasure of their street side audience.

Maribel loved the freedom of it all. There was no time to self examine and to feel pain at a party like this; she flung a hunk of her blonde wig over her shoulders and licked her lips suggestively at the selector.

He grinned at her; she was a regular dancer, one of the local girls from Negril that they hired to dance at local street dance sessions that they held in small communities across Jamaica.

Her eyes were slightly glazed and she swished her hips seductively in his direction. He felt in his pockets to see if he had any loose change and then shrugged his shoulders at Maribel, pulling out his empty pockets for her to see.

She smirked at him and then turned away disinterestedly, looking in another direction—she never spoke to guys who had no money, and he knew this well.

He laughed and shouted into the mike, “big up to Peaches di hottest gal in di dance tonight.”

Maribel turned around and smiled at him holding up her empty plastic cup. He winked and indicated to the bartender at the makeshift bar to fill up her cup.

Maribel headed toward the bartender feeling slightly tipsy, she had to fight off several groping hands as she made her way to the bar. Her sheer-top and boy shorts, both in hot pink, proved to be too much of a temptation for the drunken party goers scattered throughout the street they groped her exposed body every chance they got and whistled and hollered at her to give them some attention.

It gave her a rush to know that whenever she came to street dances she was generally the focus of the male attention. Her honey-gold skin, paired with her usually outlandish wigs were a real eye-catcher, and if her current patron was to be believed, her eyes were brown orbs of seductive mischief.

She laughed out loud lost in her inner musings and danced up to the bar, happy that her work for the night was finished, and that she could just enjoy herself at the party.

“Peaches, yuh is a real sexy woman,” said the bartender admiringly, his black eyes gleamed with rampant lust.

Maribel hissed her teeth and held up her cup, “you can’t afford me.”

She watched him as he poured the liquor in the cup and then a soft drink, just the way she liked it.

“I used to know yuh from before … ” the bartender grinned, “back when yuh used to sell yuh body for $500, on the side street at West End in front of Pete’s shop. I could afford yuh then.”

Maribel inhaled sharply her hands trembling; she hated being reminded about the last two years. She thought of it as ancient history, when she bothered to think of it at all–the things she used to do didn’t make good memories.

The music sounded like it was coming from afar and she shook her head as she stumbled away from the bar.

“Peaches yuh alright?” asked the bartender as she retreated. The drinks sloshed over the rim of the cup as she used one hand to steady the other.

She staggered to an empty spot near a couple that were grinding and gyrating on a wall. The female, who is in a short tight green dress, was trying to emulate a new sexual position that was gleefully suggested by the sound selector.

She closed her eyes and tried to block out the couple beside her and the memories from her past. Every time she thought that the past was truly behind her it seemed to rear its ugly head again. She rested her drink on top of a concrete block and sat beside it gingerly.

She had to remind herself that she was better off now than back in the days when she was forced to leave home by her abusive father, whose disciplinary measures involved beating her until she could not walk. Her sister had been unable to take the abuse and had run away from home leaving everything behind, and at sixteen, after being the sole recipient of her father's brand of abuse, she had followed.

She hadn’t dared to go back because she knew that her father would have killed her for sure. He had gotten more violent in the last days leading to her escape. At one time a neighbour had to hide her under a bed until he had calmed down sufficiently to listen to reason—her infraction that day was that she had reached home from school five minutes late.

Her father’s main mission in life, after her mother and sister had run away, was to turn her into a true lady of upstanding character. He often said he wanted to eradicate any lingering character traits of her sister and mother that could be found in her and his favourite weapon of eradication was his half-pound belt. The ugly thing had blunt studs fashioned in the centre of the worn black leather and would leave bruises and scars on her body for months.

After leaving home she had survived for a while by living with a man, but his wife soon found out and she was kicked out on the streets once more. For a time she was lost and lonely in Negril, with no one to turn to, but then she met Felicia whose street savvy had rescued them both from one scrape after another.

When Felicia had suggested that she take up a street name for her seventeenth birthday, she had agreed and from then she was called Peaches. It was also Felicia who had determined that they were both too pretty to be street-side whores.

“We should be earning much more from better looking men," Felicia had announced seriously. The next day she signed up Maribel to star alongside her in a porn video. One video became two and before she knew it she had starred in a grand total of fifteen videos.

Maribel jerked out of her reverie as she heard the selector screech, “all di woman dem who know seh them have them owna man put up yuh han’ inna di air.”

Women were waving their hands all over the place and shouting. Maribel got up shakily and accidentally upended her drinks. She looked at it dazedly, wondering how on earth she was so happy just fifteen minutes ago and was now so unnerved by the blasted bartender’s comments.

Felicia had always insisted that she should grow a backbone. Well, Felicia wasn’t here right now, was she?

Tears were welling up in Maribel’s eyes as she took off her shoes and walked pass the selector and the sound boxes onto the warm asphalted road. The music was loud and she could feel the pulsating beat of it in her own heart rate, the sound boxes were stacked so high, they looked like hulking black spectres in the night.

She winced as she passed the little groups of men standing at the side of the road leering at her suggestively; she ignored the catcalls and whistles and went toward the taxi that she had earmarked to take her home.

It was a fifteen-minute drive to Negril’s West End where she lived with an American national called Jim. She only saw him for four months of the year when he visited Jamaica—she fondly referred to him as her sugar daddy. A role he was quite happy to fill, he didn’t ask her many questions and she did not ask him any. She lived in his cottage and was ostensibly his house sitter; he trusted her enough with the responsibility to pay the housekeeper and gardener, and basically keep his house in one piece. In return, he had a bed partner when he was in Jamaica.

She tiredly grabbed the handle of one of the car's doors and the taxi man, who had been snoring lightly around the wheel, jumped up confusedly. He saw her shrugging on the sweater that she had left on the back seat and sat up coughing.

“Yuh ready?”

“Mmmm.” She muttered non-committally. She wanted to leave but at home there were only memories and emptiness.

“Weh yuh a bawl fah?” The taxi man asked, looking at her glassy eyes through the rear-view mirror.

She sniffed, “today is my twentieth birthday and the anniversary of my best friend’s death.”

The taxi man looked slightly taken aback pulled out of the cul-de-sac where he had parked and slowly pulled out onto the main road.

“Well, erm…happy birthday I guess.”

“Thanks,” she said impatiently, she didn’t want anybody to feel sorry for her.

“How come yuh friend dead pon yuh birthday?”

“Got shot at a party.”

“Oh,” the taxi man looked thoughtfully back at her. “I would feel afraid of parties after that.”

Maribel hissed her teeth, “without parties what do I have? I am a dancer, I have to dance; partying is my job.”

“Well … there must be something else you can do,” the taxi man snorted, “most people have more than one skill. I can cook, so I used to own a cook shop.”

“I have other skills,” Maribel snapped, “I was good with mathematics and accounts, but that was before I left school.”

After Felicia died, she had to take responsibility for tidying up her accounts and paying her bills. A chore which had revealed that Felicia was not the poor street urchin she had pretended to be, instead she was a wealthy young woman in her own right, she had left all her money to Maribel. Money that Maribel still had difficulty using. Maybe, someday, when she was not as raw with emotions from Felicia’s sudden death she would consider it, but for now she drifted from party to party feeling empty and alone.

“Yuh shouldn’t have left school,” the taxi man mumbled, “men like good looking women for a while, but they prefer the intelligent ones who can challenge them for long term.”

He guffawed when Maribel shot him a dirty look.

“Men are not interested in me for anything else but my looks and how I can please them in bed.”

“Sometimes you have to do something other than pleasing men.” The taxi man said philosophically. “You should probably make an effort to do something to enhance those brain cells that God gave you, and go back to school! Perhaps you should go get some peace at church … now that would be something.”

He grinned as Maribel screwed up her face and cringed. “I am not into no God business.” She rebutted quickly, pleased to see her house in the car’s headlamps. “God has never done anything for me yet.”

The taxi man took the money she shoved at him and watched as she scrambled out of the car.

She hobbled in her pink high-heeled shoes toward her gate; her short clothes and daring hairstyle made her look so vulnerable to him—like a lost little girl just turned twenty and probably lived a lifetime already, he shook his grey head.

The morning was clearing up as he glanced at the dashboard clock; it was five thirty and a cool breeze was blowing from the sea in the distance.

“Listen Miss,” he shouted from the taxi as she turned around to close the gate, her mascara running as tears fell freely down her face.

“You might not think you need God now, but my granny used to say, that it’s the people who think that they don’t need him, that really do.”

She gave him the finger and strolled up her walkway and slammed the front door behind her.