Heard It All Before (5 page)

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Authors: Michele Grant

BOOK: Heard It All Before
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Roni Mae flipped that godawful mane of synthetic hair and snickered. “I told y'all I was gonna catch me a man with this hair.”
Jewel snorted. “That boy stood there for a full five minutes without so much as looking at your head, Ms. Jackson.”
She blinked. “You think it was the catsuit?”
I rolled my eyes. “Doubt it, doll.” I reached over and patted her hand. “Roni Mae, is it so difficult to believe that he's interested in
you
, not your hair, your eyes, or your nails?”
“This from Miss I-Can't-Leave-My-House-Without-Makeup?” Roni Mae asked. “You know that no man looks across a room and says, ‘Damn, that babe looks intelligent as hell. I gotta push up on that!'”
Here we go with this argument again. Every so often, we had to have a men-only-want-looks-versus-men-really-crave-intelligence debate. “Okay, that's true, but do you really want someone who only cares about that?”
Jewel stepped in. “They want a woman with everything, and we want a man with everything. Eventually we all get real and take what we can live with. That's all you can hope for.”
Roni Mae looked uncertain before shrugging it off. “Whatever. It was just a five-minute conversation and an invite to lunch; let's not whip out the wedding invitations.”
Jewel looked at me. “Speaking of weddings—were those bells I heard going off during that steamy liplock Mr. Samson walloped you with?”
No use pretending I didn't know what she was talking about; the boy
had
thrown me for a loop. I'd underestimated him. He was playing games, keeping me off balance. I never knew what to expect from him; I couldn't read him. I hated that. It's not like I wanted to get inside his mind; I just wanted to know what the hell I was up against. I mean, what were we building up here? Were we just going to be bed buddies, or were we heading toward a commitment? I knew without a doubt that if I told Jewel what I was thinking, she would say, “Why not just take it as it comes?” So I didn't tell her; instead I smiled and asked, “You see what I mean about him?” Meaning, do you think I can handle him?
She nodded. “Good luck outmaneuvering that one.” I guessed that meant no.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rome waltzing over. “Good luck to you too. Roni Mae, let's go wait outside.” I grabbed a reluctant-to-leave, nosy Roni Mae and headed outside.
 
 
Jewel—Saturday, May 19, 1:00 p.m.
He was coming over. Lord have mercy, here he comes. I wanted to be calm here. I just met the man, but then again, I didn't want to play games. I was definitely interested. Why didn't I follow my own advice and just go with the flow? I let out the breath I'd been holding and stood there with what I hoped was a nonchalant look. Was there a woman alive who didn't get slightly flustered around a really masculine specimen of manhood? If there was, I wasn't among her numbers.
“'Lo again, Miss Jewel.” I wondered why he kept calling me Miss Jewel. Did I look like an old maid?
“Hello.” Okay, so sue me for lack of originality; I couldn't think of anything else to say.
“Jewel short for Juliet?” He had a way of looking right at me that was really disturbing. Like he knew what I was thinking. Damn, what color were those eyes of his anyway, copper?
“Nope. Rome short for Romeo?” He smiled, full out, a damn dazzler it was too. There's a thing about great teeth, you know? Good teeth absolutely send me. And thighs. I forced myself not to look down at his. I felt like a tenth grader standing by the lockers when the new cute guy in school walked by. Kind of antsy, impressed, and really, really curious to know more.
“Nah.” He stood there for a minute before continuing. “It's Roman. Roman Montgomery.”
“Jewellen Capwell.” We stood there for another minute—not awkward, just silent. “You've got some good moves.” Oops, that was not how I meant to say that ... was it?
Jewellen, speak like an adult!
I checked myself.
He put his hands on his hips—big hands, narrow hips—and grinned. “Beg pardon?”
I nodded toward the court. “The game.” But my smile said “Any other moves you'd like to show me?” Might as well let a man know I was checking him out.
“Oh, yeah? Thanks.” He looked around for a second before pinning me with that look again. “Ah ... listen here. I'm just gonna come on out with it.”
With what? “Okay.” Whatever he said, I was ready.
“I'd like to give ya a call sometime, if that's all right with you?” I had the business card and the pen out before he finished the sentence. I scrawled my home number on the back and handed it to him. He pulled a card out of his wallet and reached for my pen. He scribbled across the back, and we handled the exchange solemnly. You take my card, I'll take yours. So different from the old days when you had a sweaty napkin that you penned your name and number on with an eyeliner pencil in a smoky club. Thank God for progress.
I looked down at his card. It was crisp and white, no-nonsense. Black block lettering proclaimed him to be Roman L. Montgomery of Montgomery Design, architect, specializing in lawn, gardens, golf courses and planned community development. Architect?!
Thank you, Lord. Thank you, thank you. I swear I'll go to church early Sunday and stay the whole time. Just let this man be normal. Please don't let him turn out to be a total flaky dog.
“Capwell Temporary Agency.” He looked up. “All yours?”
I tried to nod modestly but gave up and grinned. “All mine!” I waved his card. “All yours?”
He didn't even try for modesty. “Down to every last paper clip.” His own business too. God loved me. He would see me through this thing, whatever it was. I had that good feeling. Of course, I'd had that good feeling a time or two before, and that shit never panned out. But enough of that.
“Rome! Rome, you hear me talkin' to you, boy?” A little fly girl was standing near the entrance with one hand on her black-Lycra-clad hips and the other clutching the hand of a small boy.
He shut his eyes for a minute and looked to be in pain.
I looked over at her. “All yours?” I held my breath. Let him say no.
“Ya, half right,” he muttered. “That's my ex-wife, Jaquenetta, and my son, LaChayse, but we call him Chase.” He watched me closely for my reaction.
Damn, finally a man who interested me
and
made my mouth water, and wouldn't you know—a child
and
an ex-wife, named Jaquenetta no less. The baggage. I could feel it stacking up between us as I stood there. Resisting the urge to take the drama-free, easy way out and bail, I kept a neutral expression and struggled for diplomacy. “Oh, that's nice. LaChayse is an interesting name. How'd you pick it?” What I really wanted to ask was why a nice guy like him had to have an ex-wife like THAT?!
He searched my face before answering. “Old family name, my middle one.”
“Rome, I ain't gonna call you no mo'!” Jaquenetta was getter louder.
“You did say
ex
, didn't you?” I had to ask. I really needed to know. 'Cause sister-girl was already on my last nerve.
“I surely did, Miss Jewel, I surely did.” He looked at the pair by the door. “I gotta go.”
“Yes, you surely do,” I returned.
“I'll be in touch. Okay?”
I nodded halfheartedly. Did I want him in touch? He and his son and, damn, his ex-
wife
! God grant me tolerance. I studied him in silence. Ex-wife or no, child or no, there was something about him that clicked for me. “Okay,” I said in a wispy little voice, and looked away, praying I hadn't just done one of the stupidest things in the world.
Demetrius came out of the locker room looking pretty nice in jeans and a long-sleeve polo. He walked right up to me like we've known each other for ages. “Ready for lunch?” He shot a glance at Roman. “Hey, Ro.”
Roman looked from me to Demetrius and back. “What up, D?”
“Daddy!” Little Chase came running over. He was a cute little thing, the spitting image of his daddy. Roman reached down and picked up the child. “Can we go to McDonald's, Dad?”
“May we,” he corrected.
“May we, Daddy?” the little sweetie persisted.
“I don't know—what did you do to deserve to go to Micky D's?” Not one chopped syllable in there! Um-hmm, I liked this guy.
“I pick-ted”—he paused at his father's frown—“picked up all my toys and put 'em away.” This said, he turned in his daddy's big, muscled arms and looked right at me. He inherited that look for sure. Then he looked at Demetrius and grinned. “Hi, Demi.”
Demi put his hand up. “High five.” He slapped the child's hand.
Chase looked back at me. “Who's your pwetty gullfwiend, Demi?”
I beamed, so wise for one so young. “My name is Jewel, and I'm not his girlfriend.”
I'd like to be your daddy's; could you hook me up? Stop it, Jewel.
I reached out and shook his little hand. It was real hard to be upset about his existence. He couldn't help if his mama was ghetto.
“Joo-well is a pwetty name,” he said seriously.
“Pretty name for a pretty lady,” Roman said. The boy was smooth. He put Chase down. “Let's go get your mama and go to McDonald's. Later, D.” He turned to walk away before shooting me a lethal look over one shoulder. “I'll be seeing ya, Miss Jewel.” A challenging promise if ever I heard one. He and Chase walked hand and hand to the door. Rome walked right past a furious Jaquenetta, saying little else but, “Come on.” Then he was gone.
“So, what are you hungry for?” Demetrius asked in a friendly manner.
Something hot and Roman. I smiled at Demetrius. “Oh, anything. I'm starved.” In more ways than one.
5
From Ex to the Next
Roman—Sunday, May 20, 11:30 a.m.
 
 
D
amn, Jaquenetta was a pain in my ass. Not one to speak ill of no one else, especially not the mother of my only child, my
son,
but one day she was gonna push me too far. Always popping up like she got claims on me. I took care of my boy, spent time with my boy; it was her I had had enough of. More and more she has taken to turning up when it was my day for Chase. Used to be she'd just drop him off, and that suited me just fine. Now she wanna tag along, and I have to say, I didn't like it.
No need to pretty it up. I married Jaquenetta when and only when she turned up pregnant. Was no great love from the get-go. We were swinging an episode or two now and then. I was taking care of “thangs”; she
said
she was. But something must have ... um ... slipped, know what I'm saying? Yeah, seven months and fourteen days to the day I married her, along comes Chase. About a year after that, when I had my shit straight, my money tight, and my lawyer together, I bailed. Jaquenetta was a damn octopus and all eight of those arms clingy and money-hungry as hell. “Where you going? Who you seeing? Did you get paid? Did you buy me something? I want this, I want that.” Lord, it's enough to drive a man out his mind.
Here was the deal: Jaquenetta never had shit, not even her daddy's name or her mama's love. I came up hard, but at least I had family, ya know? Pop and Madere slaved to bring me, my younger sister Kat, and my older brother Beau up right so we could get somewhere. We didn't have a lot of money, but we had each other. We may not have been given a lot of material things, but we were always told to hold our heads up high, be smart, and walk with some pride about ourselves. What we were raised with was beyond the monetary: love, values, morals, ambition.
When I started out, I was all about playing ball. Not that I wasn't smart or anything, but the athletics just came easy to me. Got a b-ball scholarship to Southern Methodist University, but believe me, I majored in the female of the species. Guess I minored in 'em too. Flunked out my second year and started cutting lawns, sweeping yards, and planting trees for a living. Next thing I knew, I was designing backyards for folks. Then I got a call from Racine-Verstat Architects downtown; they wanted me to come and work. They basically told me, “Rome, take your poor ass back to school; we gonna pay and you can come work for us.” I was gone. Got out with the fresh degree, and after about a year or two doing time in corporate land, I struck out on my own. Brother was blessed at the right time with great opportunities and just enough smarts to take advantage of them. Started turning a little profit and building a real business.
I clearly remember my first big contract as an independent—a golf course community about ninety miles away. They wanted me to design the landscaping of the houses, the golf course, and the play area. Managed to clear a little profit and for the first time in my life, I had some change jingling.
Right about that time, yonder come Jaquenetta. I saw her and thought, “Yeah, I could work
that
for a li'l minute!” Can't be noble about it; I was just looking to hit it and quit it without too much pause in between. Reckon she saw me and thought, “Paycheck!” Guess I got what I deserved, huh? Player got played! Had to turn in the player's card and get serious with the swiftness. Fatherhood broke me down for real.
Now get this straight—I wasn't ashamed of Chase. The boy had my heart, for real, no playing. But when I met Miss Jewel, I wanted to wait a while before bringing up the fact that I had a child and an ex-wife. You didn't just say, “Hi, I'm Roman. I have my own company, a four-year-old boy, and an ex-wife.” So yesterday, when Jaquenetta came busting in like she was my mama sent to save my soul from the devil, I had no choice but to lay it all out on the line at once. I was watching Miss Jewel real close when I told her; she was cool, but for a second, she got that look in her eyes. That look women get sometimes that says, “Another shiftless brother.”
Black men got it hard these days. If he was over thirty, single, successful, no kids, whadaya hear? “Must be a dog or someone woulda caught his ass.” If he had kids: “Um, why every brother gotta have kids? Why can't a brother take care his business?” No job: “Why can't he hold no job?” Decent job: “Why don't he make mo' money?” No regular girl: “Must be gay!” Tried to play it cool: “Brother got an attitude.” Tried to come clean: “Uh-uh, girl, something about him I don't trust.” Either we're too short, too tall, too attitudish, too sometimey, too quiet, too poor, too ignorant, too nasty, or they thought they heard something about us from someone, somewhere. Had to drive the right car, live in the right place, say the right things, wear the right clothes, and always, always, do the right thang! Couldn't ask for sex too often but when you do, better make it last and make it good. Cook, clean, and wash clothes but don't make no mistakes; from now till doomsday, you'll be hearing about the time you turned her favorite bra gray or chipped her great-aunt's wineglass, for sure. Be proud, not arrogant. Sensitive, not wimpy. Good God Almighty, couldn't I just be me?
You always got the Jaquenettas trying to catch you and bleed you dry; then you got the ones who didn't wanna give you the time of the day. Lord, let a black woman make a little something of herself? Better not ask her to dance or buy her a drink. These were things she could now do for her damn self, and she will tell you about it with the swiftness. Those were the ones who just wanted a little bump and grind before they jet. But if you suggest a quick roll and run? BETTER NOT! Then you had the ones with PLANS (Plan to Land me a Negro Soon/Somehow). Date for two months, engaged for four months, married for two years, two kids in the next three, retire after twenty years ... WHAT? Just lemme get to know you! That's what I said. Poor black man couldn't get a damn word in! If he took too long going from step A to step B, he might throw off the whole schedule.
I suppose if I took a sec and looked at this from the sisters' view, I could see where it gets kinda rough. A lot of the fellas I came up with were either six feet under or behind bars. A lot of my boys who escaped that life still ain't doing shit. And those who are doing a little something are packing major 'tude. Or they trying to be top dog in the pound. Lord knew, every dog had his day. But sooner or later, ya had to move beyond all that shit.
Back in the day, if the girl was looking right, I was down. I'd roll out my best flow and play the role I needed to play to get in there. If we really got along in the horizontal mode, I let her hang out for a little minute, ya know. When it looked like she was turning serious on me, I cut her loose. Then I got some bank behind me, and it seemed like the game changed. I couldn't tell if I was on the hunt or on the menu. I knew better but sometimes it seemed that some of these sisters wanted a man only for his dick or his paycheck.
If I hadn't seen the way Pop and Madere still hang in there, I don't think I'd believe in love. I'd be one of those soulless brothers always talking about, “Just as long as I gets mine.” Or maybe I'd be one of the brothers who decide that the sisters are too much trouble and get me a white woman. And don't get me started on those brothers on the down low. Can't go out like that.
I wasn't looking for the fly girl or Superwoman! I just wanted get along with somebody and start settling down. Lookie here, regardless of those women crying to Oprah, there are good black men out there looking to settle down. Hello. With one woman. Shit, now I was getting too old for this freak-of-the-week mess. I like black women no matter what all they do; nobody in the world can understand a black man better than a black woman, straight up. That's why I was about to give Miss Jewel a jingle. She clearly wasn't nobody's hoochie. Maybe she'd like to try and understand me, hmm?
I picked up my phone and checked my watch. It was late enough that I might catch her between early service and lunch.
One ring. Come on and be there.
Two rings. Come on, come on!
Three rings, then a click. Damn, voice mail. “Hello, this is Jewel. Sorry I'm not in to accept your call. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message at the tone and I'll get back to you at my earliest convenience. Thanks for calling. Have a nice day.” Beep. Nice little uptown greeting.
Should I leave a message? Yeah, I'd better. “Hey, Miss Jewel. This is Rome. Rome Montgomery.” Damn, now it sounded like a business call. Lighten up! “Enjoyed meeting you yesterday. Look forward to seeing you soon. Peace.” Great, now I sounded like a rapper. I hung up and stared at the phone for a minute.
Chase came running out of his room with his hands full of Legos. That boy was something else, always into something. I didn't even know where he got the Legos from. The only time he wasn't on the move was when he's asleep. “Daddy, did you call the pwetty lady?”
I looked down into his face. Kids these days know too damn much. “What pretty lady?” Like I didn't know.
“That pillow lady, Joo-well, with Demi yesterday.”
“Pillow lady?” Where'd he get that from?
“She looked like she had little pillows wight here.” He pointed to his chest.
I burst out laughing, couldn't help it. Her chest did look like something I wanted to rest my head against for an evening or two at least. “Those are her breasts, champ.”
“They not like Mommy's.” Poor little thing looked confused.
“No, they are not,” I enunciated for him. “They come in all different shapes and sizes, son.” He stood there looking at me like he couldn't believe it for a minute. “Did you come out here to ask me something?”
His face cleared and he jumped into my lap. “Can we go to the movies?”
“Alright, whatcha wanna see?” No need to remind the child that his bed time was in a half hour.
“Let's see the scary movie, Dad. The one we saw the 'mercial on.” The one we saw the commercial on? Then I remembered. Almost five years old and my boy wanted to see the latest slasher film? Wasn't gonna happen.
“How 'bout the SpongeBob?” I bargained.
“How 'bout the scary movie?” Nothing if not persistent.
“How 'bout we watch the Disney Channel for a while?” He was about a half hour from falling out anyway. I had a pile of work to look over, and this could take the place of story time.
“Okay!” He jumped up and started running toward his room again. Halfway there, he stopped and looked back at me. “Is Joo-well going to watch too?”
In a roundabout way, the boy had a one-track mind. “Maybe next time, son.” I looked back at the phone. Yeah, maybe next time.

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