Grown Folks Business (22 page)

J
ane Jones sauntered into the church bathroom, but the moment she saw Sheridan, she turned so fast, she bumped into the wall.

Sheridan bit her tongue to keep from laughing.

That’s what you get,
Sheridan thought as Jane rushed away. Then another quick thought followed:
Forgive me, Lord.

She’d just left church and admonished herself for laughing at Jane. But it felt delicious. The entire morning had been good—the best Sunday since Quentin had left. Sheridan was sure most people had heard something by now. Almost three months had passed and she was sure the rumor mill was churning. Although it still bothered her, she realized she couldn’t control it. So for weeks now she’d sat in the services, ignoring the real stares and the imagined whispers, and was simply grateful that God was using time to slowly heal her heart.

Sheridan wrapped her purse strap over her shoulder and rushed out of the bathroom. “Excuse me,” she said the moment she stepped into the hallway and collided with someone.

“No problem, Sheridan. I was hoping to bump into you.”

It took her a moment to recognize the voice, then the man. “Brock, right?” she said, surprised that she remembered his name. Weeks had passed since he’d stopped her on the street. “I didn’t recognize you—”

“Without my uniform,” he said, his lips moving into a one-sided smile.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” She laughed.

He put one hand above her and leaned against the wall. “I kinda like bumping into you.”

“Really?” Her tone left no doubt she was flirting too. “Why’s that?”
Sheridan, what is wrong with you?
“By the way, what are you doing here? I didn’t know you attended Hope Chapel.”

“You don’t know anything about me. I think we should change that.”

Sheridan smiled and then noticed Francesca gawking from a few feet away. She tightened the strap of her purse. “Well, Brock, it was good seeing you again.”

He looked over his shoulder, following her gaze. When he looked back at Sheridan, he said, “Why don’t we grab a cup of coffee…or something.”

Sheridan’s glance moved back to Francesca, who had not taken her eyes away from them. Right now she needed her children. But both had deserted her; Tori was with Sheridan’s parents and Christopher had run off as soon as services ended.

“No, I don’t think so,” she finally answered Brock.

“What are you afraid of, Ms. Sheridan?” he asked, lowering his voice. His question felt seductive.

“Not you,” she said softly, and wondered again what she was doing.

“Then let’s meet at Starbucks. The one in Ladera. Do you know it?”

“Sure. I’ll meet you there.”
Am I crazy?

“Do I have to follow you to make sure you get there?”

“Nope. I know the way.”

He nodded. “Just remember, if you don’t show up, I know where you go to church.”

She laughed and sauntered toward Francesca.

“Sheridan, good to see you.” Those were the first words Francesca had spoken to her since the biddy incident.

“Good to see you too,” Sheridan said, not stopping, even though Francesca tried to block her path.

“Ah, wait a minute. That gentleman you were talking to. He looks familiar…”

Sheridan walked away without responding.

During the five-minute ride to Starbucks, she continued to question her mental state. But another part of her felt as if it was being awakened from a long sleep. She was doing something she’d never done before. In the Starbucks parking lot she checked her makeup, fluffed her hair. “I’m just going to have a quick cup of coffee,” she told herself.

She slid from her SUV and noticed the men who made it their job to watch women enter the coffee shop. As she walked past the gawkers, she felt their eyes and she was pleased.

Sheridan walked in and looked around. No sign of Brock. She was surprised. She’d driven slowly and then stayed in the car for several minutes.

What if he doesn’t show up?

“This was stupid,” she whispered.

“Were you talking to me?”

Her smile was immediate when she looked up. “No, I was talking to myself.”

He laughed. “I think the two of us will make much better conversation.”

She loved his confidence—the way he asked what she wanted, then paid for her Frappuccino and carried her drink as he led the way to a table he chose.

“So, Mr. Goodman, what’s your story?” she asked, as she sat and pretended to be Kamora.

He shrugged. “I was born and raised in D.C., but my grandmother moved here, and a few years ago I followed her to make sure she was okay.”

“You came across the country to be with your grandmother?”

He sipped his coffee and shrugged. “Family is important to me.”

“Do you have one?” She twirled her cup in her hand.

“One what?”

“A family?”

“Yeah, my grandmother and my parents, who still live in D.C. I have a younger brother who visits every summer.” He paused. “But that’s not what you were asking. You wanna know if I have a wife and kids.”

“Do you?”

“No. Why didn’t you just ask me?”

“Obviously, I did. I got an answer, didn’t I?”

He nodded. “Yeah, you’re good. So what’s your story?”

She shrugged the same way he did. “I don’t have a wife.” She paused when he laughed. “But I have two children, neither old enough to vote.”

“Too bad. I’ve been working with the NAACP to register voters for this election. We’re going to need all the votes we can get to win this one.”

Sheridan put her drink down. “So you’re interested in politics?”

“Very much so. Every black person in this country should be. So much is at stake.”

As he continued to chat about what he thought about the president and the California election that recalled the governor, Sheridan sat amazed. This was not the conversation she expected from the man in the brown uniform with the shoulder-length locks and a body that looked like he spent as many hours working out as he did working. But she was engrossed in his words, sharing her opinion and debating whether one vote really counted.

“The two thousand election showed just how important each vote is. Barely five hundred votes put Bush in office.”

She nodded, but said nothing. She hadn’t known that. He said, “I like the fact that Pastor Ford mentioned the elections in her sermon today. I think churches need to take it up a notch. Become more useful to the community.”

“Pastor Ford believes in that. She’s made sure the church is more than a building.”

“I like her.”

“She’ll break it down for you and she’ll get down with you, if it’ll teach you how to stand on the word of God.” Sheridan took another sip. “So, was this your first time at Hope Chapel?”

He nodded. “I was hoping to bump into you.” She laughed. “I’m serious,” he said.

“Where do you attend church?”

“I don’t have a church home. I’ve visited a lot of the super-churches, but I can’t get into them. Too big.”

“They’re only too big if you don’t get involved.”

“That’s never been my problem. I taught Bible study to teens when I was in D.C.”

She didn’t know why that surprised her.

As he chatted about the time he spent with the teenagers, Sheridan watched his light brown eyes glow and his face beam. He kept smiling, that crooked smile that had captured her the first time.

How old are you?
she asked inside as she sipped and nodded in agreement with his words. And then she wondered why she’d asked herself that. Obviously, he was a bit younger than she was, but it didn’t matter. The last thing she wanted in her life was a man—young or old.

“What do you think about what I just said?”

“What?” She focused, bringing her mind back to the conversation.

“You weren’t listening to me.”

“Yes, I was. I heard every word you said about the teenagers. And I think what you do is terrific.”

“So you like what I said?”

She nodded.

He leaned forward, closing the gap between them. “So you agree with me? You know you are a beautiful woman?”

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She didn’t have one of Kamora’s ready quips. She lifted her hand to the edges of her hair. “Thank you.”

He grinned, and Sheridan was sure now: his smile was a trap, designed to capture her and make her do things she’d never dreamed of. It worked, because she said, “I think you are one fine man.”

He sat back in his chair. “Is that a physical assessment or are you talking about my socially redeeming characteristics?”

She laughed. “Both,” she said boldly.

“Then I thank you.”

“Let me ask you something.”

He leaned forward. “Anything,” he whispered in that voice.

“Why aren’t you married?”

“I haven’t found the woman to share my life with…yet,” he said.

“Are you gay?”

The words slapped away his smile and pushed him back in his chair. “Why would you ask me that?”

If only you knew.
She shrugged. “I’ve just been reading a lot…”

“Oh.” He nodded. “You’ve been reading those E. Lynn Harris books.” He shook his head. “I hate that stuff. It makes it bad for the rest of us heterosexual guys.”

“So are you gay?” She had no intention of letting the question go.

He leaned forward again. “No.” He said the word as if it had five syllables.

“And you’re not married.”

“No.”

She smiled but stayed silent even though everything about her said she didn’t believe him.

“Have I passed the test?”

“I thought we were just getting to know one another.”

He took a sip of his coffee. “Under getting to know each other, I want to explain.”

“You don’t have to.”

He held up his hand as if he were taking an oath. “I want to. It’s hard meeting women in a city that is filled with ladies who care more about what kind of car you drive than whether you even have a job.”

The way he spoke almost made Sheridan feel bad she’d asked.

“That’s one reason I like older women.” He returned to his flirting mode.

She chuckled. “You think I’m older.”

“I do. But it doesn’t matter. You’re just someone I’d like to get to know.”

“Why?”

He frowned. “That’s a strange question. Why wouldn’t I want to know you better?”

She lifted her self-esteem back up and asked, “So, how old do you think I am?”

He held up his hands and laughed. “You’re not going to get me. I’m not going to guess; I’m not going to ask. I told you, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“Okay, so how old are you?” she asked, taking the last sip of her coffee.

“I’m thirty,” he said, as if he were proud. Sheridan almost spit out her drink. “Actually, I’m almost thirty. I’ll be thirty in May.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re twenty-nine?”

“That’s what comes before thirty.”

Sheridan laughed and stood up. “It is definitely time to go.”

“My score just went down, huh?”

She laughed again. “You’re a nice man, Brock, but…”

He shrugged, pulled out his wallet, and handed her a card. “Call me anyway.”

“Thanks, but we won’t be getting together again.” She dropped the card inside her purse.

“I think we will.”

She wiggled her fingers in a wave, then almost ran to her car. She couldn’t stop laughing.
Twenty-nine. When he was in kindergarten, I was a teenager.

Her laugh became almost hysterical. And she didn’t stop laughing until she got home.

T
he din was almost melodic as Sheridan stepped down the stage stairs to join her parents and Kamora chatting by their front-row seats.

“Is Tori ready?” Cameron beamed as if his granddaughter was about to perform before the queen of England.

“I think so. The best part for her is wearing makeup. I put pink gloss on her lips and you would’ve thought I told her she didn’t have to go to school for a year.”

They laughed.

“I tried to watch her practice last week,” Beatrice said. “But she wouldn’t let me.”

“Tori’s been that way with me for months. In January she laid down the law. No one would see her dance until today.”

“Well, I understand,” Kamora interjected. “She’s about to be Cinderella.”

“Here comes Chris.” Cameron waved to get his grandson’s attention.

Christopher shuffled down the aisle as if his feet were shackled. When he walked up to her, Sheridan kissed him.

“Mom,” he whined, and backed away.

“Sorry, I forgot.” She wiped her lipstick from his cheek. “Did you get the balloons set up at home?”

He nodded, then scrunched his face as if he were in pain. “Why did I have to come? I don’t wanna see no little kids dancing around.”

Sheridan put her hands on her hips. “Too bad, because you’re going to stay. Tori goes to all your tournaments.”

“Yeah, but at least they’re good. This is—”

Sheridan held up her hand, stopping his protest. “Could you not be a teenager today?”

Christopher stuffed his hands into his pockets, tucked his chin into his neck, and turned away.

“Where are you going?”

He looked at Sheridan as if he wished she’d stop minding his business. “I’m going to sit in the back. Is that at least okay?”

This boy needs a spanking and a nap.

“Don’t you want to sit up here with your godmother?” Kamora asked.

His glare told her not to ask any more stupid questions.

“Go on,” Sheridan said, waving him away. “We want to have a good time. Just make sure you stay in the auditorium.” Sheridan sighed and turned to the three adults, who, with pity-filled eyes, told her they felt sorry that she was the mother of that young man. “Don’t say anything,” she said.

“He’s just a teenager,” Cameron said.

“He’ll come around,” Beatrice said.

“Quentin needs to realize what he’s done to that sweet young man,” Kamora said.

Cameron, Beatrice, and Sheridan stared at Kamora with expressions that asked why she had to go there.

Kamora’s eyes widened. “What? I’m just sayin’.”

Beatrice made a sound Sheridan could only decipher as annoyance, before she asked, “Is Quentin coming?”

Sheridan shrugged. “Tori told him. But she hasn’t mentioned him and I didn’t want to ask.”

“I’d be surprised if he didn’t make it,” Cameron said. “Let’s sit down.”

Sheridan’s glance wandered around the horseshoe-shaped auditorium. She smiled when Carlton Arrington waved.

“Who’s that?” Kamora whispered, and wiggled in her seat.

“The father of one of Tori’s classmates.”

“He’s cute, in a Danny Glover rugged kinda way. Is he married?”

“Divorced,” Sheridan said, praying Kamora wouldn’t ask for an introduction. Although Sheridan didn’t know Carlton well, she knew enough to protect him from her flighty friend.

“Divorced, huh? So are you.”

Sheridan twisted in her seat. “So?”

“You’re divorced, he’s divorced. What more do you need in common?”

Sheridan laughed. “A little bit more.”

“Look at him,” Kamora said, leaning in closer. “He can’t take his eyes off you.”

Sheridan tried to face forward but kept shifting to glance at Carlton.

“Look, he’s getting up,” Kamora said, sounding giddy. “He’s coming over here.”

Five seconds later Carlton said, “Hello, Sheridan,” with an inflection that left no doubt he’d been raised in the most prominent neighborhoods in Boston and had probably spent summers in Martha’s Vineyard.

Sheridan took his outstretched hand. “Hi, Carlton. Have you met my parents?”

“Yes, at last year’s recital.”

Beatrice and Cameron smiled and waved.

“And this is my friend, Kamora Johnson.”

He nodded and Kamora scanned Carlton in his silver-buttoned navy blazer. “Sheridan tells me you’re divorced.”

It was a reflex that made Sheridan stomp on Kamora’s foot.

“Ouch!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sheridan said, before she turned back to Carlton. “Well, it’s good to see you.”

“I was trying to help,” Kamora whispered, as she rubbed her wounded ankle.

Carlton said, “Sheridan, I heard…well, anyway, I’d love to give you a call sometime.”

Sheridan smiled; Kamora said, “That would be good…ouch!”

Sheridan kept her smile trained on Carlton. “I’ll call you.”

“Looking forward to it.” He took two steps and said over his shoulder, “By the way, you look terrific.”

He was barely out of earshot before Kamora said, “Why are you trying to spike me to death with your Manolos? I was trying to help you get your groove on.”

“First of all,” Sheridan hissed, “I don’t need any help, and second, my parents are sitting right next to you.”

Kamora glanced over her shoulder. “Your parents are hardly paying attention to us. Look at them holding hands. They’re planning how they’re going to get their groove on as soon as they leave this joint.”

“Do you want me to stomp on your foot again?”

“No.”

They laughed.

“Hi, Sheridan.” As Quentin interrupted their conversation, Sheridan smiled. She turned around. Quentin stood there. And next to him stood Jett.

Sheridan rose as if her seat were on fire. She could barely get her mouth open to return his greeting. While Quentin stepped over to greet her parents, Sheridan glared at Jett.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed.

“I was invited.” He paused. “I’m not trying to start anything, Sheridan,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I wanted to see Tori. Quentin said this was a big day for her.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” She turned her fury to Quentin. “I cannot believe you did this without telling me,” she whispered.

He kept his smile, although he fooled no one. “I didn’t know I had to get your approval.”

“How could you do this?” She felt the tears, and with a breath she shoved them back inside.

Cameron stood and urged Sheridan to take her seat. “We’ll see you later, Quentin,” he said, dismissing his son-in-law.

She followed her father because that was all she could do. She battled her tears and prayed for the auditorium lights to dim so she could release her anguish in private.

Beatrice leaned across Kamora. “Are you all right?”

Sheridan shook her head. “But there’s nothing I can do about it,” she sniffed. “He’s already embarrassed all of us.”

Beatrice handed Sheridan a tissue. “He didn’t embarrass us, sweetheart. He’s just trying to live his life.”

You’re supposed to be on my side.

“Well, I agree with Sheridan,” Kamora said, with her arms crossed and her lips poked out. “Quentin should be here, but he should have had the good sense to leave Jett in the car. Preferably in a closed garage. With the engine still running.”

Mercifully the lights dimmed, and a moment later Christopher was by her side, taking the aisle seat. The look of disdain he’d worn earlier was gone; in its place was concern.

“You okay, Mom?”

She nodded, afraid she’d be sorry later for any words she’d speak now.

Ms. Lott, the studio owner and an accomplished dancer, came onto the stage and gave thanks for everyone attending. Sheridan tried not to turn around. But curiosity won over good sense, and she twisted in her seat. It was difficult to see, with her view blocked by the darkness and the rows of people behind her.

“He’s on the other side,” Christopher whispered. “Where I was sitting.”

Sheridan turned around and pretended her eyes were following the performance. But she couldn’t see through the tears that blurred her vision. She sat through the series of dances, clapping when she heard others clap, cheering when she heard others cheer. It wasn’t her own strength that made her stand at the end. Kamora gently cupped her elbow and helped her to join the ovation.

When the lights came on, Sheridan rushed to the bathroom. It wasn’t until she stood at the mirror that she realized Kamora had followed her.

“I cannot believe he did that,” Kamora muttered.

Sheridan dabbed at the black tracks her mascara had left.

“I mean, to show up like that,” Kamora puffed.

Sheridan pulled a brush from her makeup pouch and dusted her face with powder.

“And to bring his lover,” Kamora exclaimed.

Sheridan banged the brush on the counter. “Are you trying to make me feel bad?” she asked her friend’s reflection in the mirror.

Kamora stepped backward. “Of course not.”

“Then let’s not talk about this,” she said with exaggerated calm.

Kamora returned her gaze. “I was trying to help,” she said, before she turned and left Sheridan alone.

Sheridan stayed at the mirror and smiled as women filled the restroom. She graciously accepted the compliments offered for Tori’s performance.

But as she smiled, inside she raged. And inside she cried. And inside the stalker returned, bringing his images—of Quentin and Jett, walking down the aisle together, sitting together, watching Tori together. The stalker returned, this time as a thief, stealing the peace she’d worked so hard over the last weeks to find.

It was a long, slow ride home.

Sheridan had tried, but she couldn’t find enough cheer to go out to dinner.

“Mom, Daddy, you guys take Tori out,” Sheridan had pleaded when Tori bounced off the stage and rushed to her family, ready to revel in their adoration. “I’m going home.”

“I’m going with you, Mom,” Christopher insisted.

Beatrice tried to encourage her, but Sheridan had been steadfast in her grief.

“Are you sick, Mom?” Tori had asked.

“I’m not feeling well,” Sheridan said, eyeing Quentin and Jett as they walked toward them.

“Daddy,” Tori had exclaimed, and jumped into his arms. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I wouldn’t have missed this. You were terrific, sweetheart.”

“Do you want to come to dinner with us?” Tori asked.

“Well,” Quentin paused, glancing at Sheridan.

“Mommy’s not going,” Tori said. “She’s not feeling well.”

Quentin looked at Sheridan and his eyes apologized. “Are you okay?”

“I think you make her sick.” Christopher scowled. Then he turned his visual rage to Jett.

Christopher’s words shocked them all, but only Kamora looked like she was ready to give the second standing ovation of the night.

Sheridan took Christopher’s hand. “Mom, Dad, we’re gonna get out of here.” She kissed Tori. “You were fabulous, sweetheart. Have a good time, okay?”

Tori grinned, then frowned at Christopher. But a moment later her hand was back inside her father’s, grasping him as if she couldn’t let go.

Sheridan kissed her parents, hugged Kamora, all the while holding Christopher—afraid of what he might do if she set him free.

“I’ll call you,” Kamora whispered. “And I’m sorry about…you know.”

Sheridan nodded, then rushed from the auditorium, keeping her eyes away from Quentin and Jett. Wondering how he could be so thoughtless.

Those questions stayed with her as she and Christopher got into her car.

He allowed her to be quiet as they drove, allowed her to stay inside her feelings. She was beyond the shock now. Only sadness remained as she realized this was another turning point.

For months she’d prayed that Jett would be little more than a name, that her children would never have to deal with him. But now Jett had invaded her whole life—her children, her parents, her friends, her acquaintances. Her humiliation was public.

She left the car in the driveway and followed Christopher into the house. The balloons he’d hung on the banister for Tori bounced with the breeze. When he started to untie the string, Sheridan stopped him.

“Leave them.”

“I’m going to take them to her room,” he said, as if he wanted to dispose of any reminder of the day.

“No, I want her to see them when she comes home.”

He nodded. “Are you okay?”

Why is everyone asking me that?

“Yes.” She plastered on a smile so fake, she knew not even Christopher would believe it.

“Let me know if you need anything,” he said as he moved up the stairs.