STRINGS of COLOR (4 page)

"You seem to know a lot about her."

"You mean Jazzmyne, your mother?"

"I mean Naya."

"I don't have the sort of relationship that warrants calling her that. To me, she will always be Jazzmyne the full of flavor, R&B and Jazz singer who blows the hearts and minds of all those who listen to her."

"Wow, you really are a fan."

"I guess you could call me that."

"So then why are you trying to destroy her?"

They both stopped.

The sun, it seemed, took the opportunity to focus harder on each of them.

"Is that how you see it?"

"Yes, that's how I see it. I see you as being just what you are—a man trying to prove to the world that he is more than just 'some empty columnist' who only writes about things that really don't matter much to those who read it."

"This book that you are writing is not for her, it's for you. It's so that you can finally have a 'real' career."

Jake didn't respond.

Simone smiled. She knew she had been right.

He reached out for her hand. She took a step away from him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean anything by that; I was simply trying to get your attention. There is a bench over here that I thought we could sit down on. It has a huge tree over it and it just might provide us some needed shade."

A few minutes later a man with an ice cream trailer came up to them. He had a smile on his face as wide as a day that never seemed to end.

They sat and enjoyed their ice cream. This time the silence had been welcomed.

As Simone watched the people pass by them, she wondered how they would feel if they found out that the only reason they were in this world, was because their mother was raped?

Her eyes caught sight of a woman standing on the bridge looking at the geese in the water, she wondered how the womanmight feel if she found out that the person she had called 'mother' for over thirty years really wasn't.

Lies,
she thought to herself.
My whole life has been nothing but lies.

Simone hadn't spoken to her mother in a month. It pained her, even now, to contemplate the reality of it. She knew she needed to speak with both of them. The once-upon-a-time mother, and the mother who has never been.

She felt a tear forming on the corner of her right eye and she reached up quickly to catch it before being noticed.

Were the tears out of anger, sadness, or both? She didn't want to know the answer.

Jake watched a father play with his son in the kiddy park directly across from them. He wondered what it would have been like to have a father that took the time to 'play' with you. He seriously doubted that the man he was staring at would ever tell his son that he would never amount to anything "real."

In fact, as Jake watched them, he was confident that the father would never say ugly words to his son like "you will never be anything more than some silly columnist." The more Jake stared at them, the more he became certain that the man he was watching would be proud of his son, no matter what he became, as long as it made him happy.

Jake reached out and grabbed a tiny piece of his hair. His twirled it in-between his fingers out of anger, frustration, and even a speck of sadness.

His thoughts traveled back to the ice cream man. He remembered the big smile upon his face as he gave them the cones of their choice. What was it like to make someone happy?

Does the ice cream man even care what his father thinks of him
?
Should I care what my father thinks of me?
Jake longed to find the answer to that one.

Finally, he turned his attention back to Simone. He knew he was going to have to say two words that rarely came out of his mouth.

She beat him to it.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to say that you're sorry. I know you really meant it."

"I did, but not the way that it came out."

"What, that you think that I'm some sort of career hungry dirt bag just looking to use anybody to get ahead."

They both smiled.

"It did sound like that, didn't it?" Simone asked as she crossed her legs and looked up into the sky. The day she thought was beyond beautiful.

"Yeah it did, but I know that I am not that person. I thought long and hard about my decision to write this book. Yes, I do want people to see that I'm a real writer. Yes, I do want a better career. I want to see my name on the bestsellers list, but most importantly I want to finally hear my father say 'I am proud of you son.' To be honest, that is the real reason why I want to write this book, but there are others. Jazzmyne has a real story. It's a story, which I believe will cross social boundaries, sink deep into hearts, and give women the strength to tell their own story."

"The way I see it, hers is a story of being a survivor. Do you know how many women have gone through life with the ugliness of sexual abuse as a color in their box of life? They still see themselves as victims. Do you know how many have never spoken about it? Woman will listen to her and identify with her."

"Here's another hint of honesty for you, I'm glad that I am going to be a part of it. I'm glad she said yes."

Jake smiled. He watched her for a moment.

"Cute, taking lyrics from my song, you know I could sue you for that?"

They both laughed. Finally the wall between them seemed to be coming down.

"Can I ask you a question?" Jake asked. He watched as she uncrossed her legs.

"I thought that's what we were here for."

She was still smiling.

"How did it feel to ask a man to marry you?"

"It was refreshing and a little nerve-wrecking."

"The nerve-wrecking I get, but how was it refreshing?

"For two years it seemed as if neither of us had been willing to put our feelings out there. I knew he was wondering if I loved him and I wanted him to know how much."

"Don't you think he would have asked you eventually? Wouldn't it have been better to wait?"

"What difference does it make, who asks who, as long as it happens?"

Simone looked at a woman reading a newspaper. She looked at the confidence of her smile, the way she sat, and even the way she held the paper.

She noticed one thing—it wasn't about independence. It was about being comfortable in your own skin.

Simone spoke in a clear, simple, and to the point voice.

"Look, I'm okay in my skin. I'm okay with asking the man I love to marry me. It doesn't mean that I'm taking the lead, it just means that I'm leading him to me forever."

She didn't flinch. She didn't cross her legs.

"Wow, that's something. I mean, I don't know how I would react if a woman asked me to marry her."

"All you would have say is… yes, if you really loved her. It's not rocket science."

"I think the whole idea of marriage is."

"The whole idea of marriage is what?"

"Rocket Science."   

They both laughed again and Jake felt like now he could get the story he came for.

He watched as she displayed a look of seriousness. He could tell she was about to ask him something.

"My turn," she said.

"Your turn for what?" He asked.

"My turn to ask a question."

"Ask away."

"Is she going to read this?"

He knew what she meant by that.

"Yes, she has to approve every chapter. Why?"

"I guess I asked because, while I want her to know about me, I'm not sure if I'm ready to tell her directly."

"Why is that?"

"It just is, for now.

Jake waited.

"I know that in the end, when it is all said and done, she'll be waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"Waiting for me to call her mother."

Jake looked at her. "Simone."

"Yes."

"I think that maybe we need to try this a different way."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I think that maybe it would be better for you to take this."

"You're giving me your tape recorder? What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Talk into it as if you were talking directly to me. Tell me all about you."

Simone hesitated, but then after a few minutes she reached out her hand.

If he listened carefully, Jake was sure he heard a sigh of relief.

Watching her walk away, he caught sight of the ice cream man again.

Every boy wants their father to be proud of them. Even when you're grown and the gray starts to come in, that feeling doesn't go away. The only difference is that now you're a man still waiting for your father to say that he's proud of you.

I'm still waiting.

Just before he opened his car door, he reached into his jacket pocket and produced another tape recorder. He checked it to be sure it had recorded everything and placed it back in his pocket.

"I am going to be a bestseller, no matters what it takes. Finally, I am going to give my Father something to boast about."

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he said those words out loud.

He started the car up
.

As he drove along he realized that he left his notebook at the coffee shop.

Jake pulled up behind a black Lexus and parked his car. He caught a glimpse of the driver. She was staring at the coffee shop window.

Shoulder length hair, smooth caramel complexion. He guessed she had to be somewhere in her late forties, maybe even crossing the fifty year starting line.

He watched her turn as she reached for something in her back seat.

It's her.

It was the woman he had seen at The Clue a month ago. The same woman he had listened to on the phone as he hid in a stall next to hers in the woman's bathroom that night. She had been calling her attorney, ordering some contracts to be sent to Carl for Simone. She had sounded upset. No, she had sounded angry and he remembered how sharp her tone had been.

He had liked that about her, it told him that she had some spunk about herself.

That night at The Clue, he learned two things about her. The first being that she wanted Simone awfully bad and the second, was that she didn't take kindly to losing.

He really liked that about her.

A week later, Jake read in the papers that she lost her record label.

Jake went back to watching her as his mental check list for women emerged inside his head.

She's mature. I'll give her a check.

She's pretty. She gets double check marks for that.

She's got a nice car. Never really mattered to me, but it doesn't hurt either. I'll give her half-a-check.

She's fierce. She is that and then some, another check.

She's fabulous in every way imaginable, check.

Should I? Absolutely!

Jake got out of his car and walked up to her passenger side window and gave it a light tap.

Misty wondered who this white man was, knocking on her car window. When he bent over, she recognized his cocky smile. She had seen it in the paper every Thursday.

It's that columnist, the one who wrote that stupid article on the 'return of Jazzmyne.' What was his name? Jake, that's it, Jake the fan of Jazzmyne.

She smiled at him as she started up her car.

Jake took a step back and watched as Misty pulled off like a race car driver. He waived.

He knew she was looking.

"The only thing that keeps me sane is the love I have for one man. A love I pray will last for an eternity."

S
imone walked into her small apartment, kicked off her four-inch silver stilettos, and placed her purse and keys on the long narrow table, which sat against the wall of her hallway.

Those shoes were not made for parks
, she thought to herself.

Down the short hallway, in what was called her den—she could hear her phone ringing. She knew it could only be one of two people, Carl or…her Mother.

Can I still call her that?

Her body found its way onto the cold and worn-out hardwood floor.