Read To Love a Stranger Online
Authors: Adrianne Byrd
To Love a Stranger
L
OVE
A
STRANGER
ADRIANNE BYRD
November 23, 2001
“T
he baby is still breached,” Dr. Roberts announced to his small crew in the obstetrical ward. “Let's get her prepped for an emergency C-section.”
An elevated Madeline Stone lay huffing and puffing on the delivery table wondering where in the hell was the epidural.
“Okay, Mrs. Stone. I need you to
stop
pushing for me.”
She would if she could, but in truth she had no control over what was going on in her lower extremities. It was all she could do to ride out the waves of muscle spasms, sharp stabs of back pain and the streams of sweat burning her eyes.
Madeline's best friend and second cousin, Lysandra Hobbs, burst into the delivery room in a pair of blue scrubs. “I'm here. I'm here. I made it!”
Madeline responded with a high-pitched scream followed by a low rabid growl. No doubt about it; the baby she carried was determined to split her in half.
What in the hell was she doing here? And why wasn't her ass of a husband there so she could rip his penis off for knocking her up for the second time.
Then again, why was she surprised? He wasn't around when she delivered their son two years ago, either. Madeline made a vow right then and there to shoot her husband if he ever came near her bed again. Better yet, maybe it was time to file for divorce. To hell with the prenuptial agreement.
“Breathe,” Lysandra coached, rushing to her side and taking Madeline's hand. However, with one mighty squeeze, Madeline crushed Lysandra's frail fingers and forced her cousin to her knees.
“I'm going to kill him,” Madeline snarled through yet another contraction. “I know he's with that hussy.”
All heads swiveled in Madeline's direction, but censuring her words was something else she couldn't manage at the moment.
The continued pain in Lysandra's hand rendered her speechless.
“I'm going to kill him,” Madeline declared. “And then I'm going to kill her.”
“Okay, Mrs. Stone,” Dr. Roberts returned to her side. “Try to relax.”
“Relax?” she barked, her head ready to twist in a complete circle. “Don't you
dare
tell me to relax when I know my husband is out screwing his big-booty, singing protégé while I'm trying to squeeze out this child alone.”
“You're not alone.” Lysandra snatched her hand from Madeline's death grip and waved her injured fingers in the air. “I'm here for you, cuz.”
Madeline rolled her eyes high, but then another spasm hit. “Drugs,” she roared. “I want drugs.”
“Mrs. Stone, please relax we're⦔
Madeline's snatched the doctor by the neck of his scrubs and jerked him down to eye level. “If you tell me to relax one more
damn
timeâ”
“Let him go, Maddie,” Lysandra urged trying to pry the doctor loose. “We need him to deliver the baby.”
It took a moment, mainly because of the unrelenting pain, but then Madeline released her grip and called on the Almighty to get her through this.
Less than an hour later, a seven pounds and three ounces Ariel Elisa Stone made her grand entrance into the world. The moment Madeline held her bundle of joy, the pain of the last nine hours vanished.
“Hello, Princess,” she cooed, pleased to see ten fingers and ten toes. “I've been waiting for you my whole life.”
Black, soft curls covered her precious baby girl's head and her eyes were as dark as midnight. Madeline would love this child to the end of time. Convinced Ariel smiled back before releasing a mighty wail, Madeline rode a wave of pride and contentment until her eyelids grew heavy.
Hours later, Madeline woke with a throbbing pain that covered one side of her body. She groaned, shifted and then regretted the action when the pain spread.
“Oh, Maddie. You're awake.”
Madeline recognized Lysandra's voice but didn't understand why it sounded like she was crying.
Something is wrong with the baby.
Her eyes flew open in search of Lysandra and found her petite cousin sobbing next to Madeline's bejeweled mother, Cecelia.
Again, Madeline pushed the pain aside and sat straight up in bed. “Lysandra, what is it? Why are you crying? Where's my baby?”
Lysandra lifted her head and her large brown eyes swam in a large pool of tears. “T-the baby is fine.” She sniffed and dropped her gaze again. Her entire five-foot-two-inches body trembled.
Madeline stared, confused. Her cousin must be lying. Lysandra always was a lousy liar. She picked up the red nurse's button and punched it repeatedly.
“What has happened? Why are you crying?” She stabbed the button again.
“May I help you?” A nurse's voice filtered through the intercom.
“I want my baby,” Madeline demanded hysterically.
“Never mind, nurse,” her mother interrupted in a cool, even voice.
“No,” Madeline barked. “I want to see my baby!”
Lysandra shook her head. “It's not the baby,” she said again, trying to pry the nurse's button from Madeline's fierce grip between sobs.
“You're lying,” Madeline said.
More tears spilled from Lysandra's sad brown eyes. “No, Maddie, I'm not. I-it's Russell.”
Madeline stopped struggling and Lysandra successfully pried the nurse's button from her hand. It didn't matter because two nurses rushed into the room wild-eyed.
“What's going on?” they asked in unison.
“Russell?” Madeline repeated dumbfounded. “What about him?”
Lysandra's cell phone chirped from the wooden stand next to the bed. Her cousin didn't reach for it.
Madeline looked to her mother, always the calm one during a storm. “What's going on? Just spit it out. What about Russell?”
“They believe he's dead,” Cecelia blurted without emotion. “His private plane disappeared somewhere over the Atlantic.” She nodded her head toward the television. “It's all over the news.”
Madeline followed her gaze to the muted television where a picture of her husband, music mogul, Russell Stone filled the screen. Beneath it, a red caption read: “Plane Crash.”
Lysandra shut off her phone while Madeline's hand scrambled around the bed to find the TV remote. In the next second, the blond reporter's voice filled the room.
Mr. Stone who had just acquired his flying license last year is reported to have logged more than three hundred hours of flying time. There is no word as of yet to what may have caused this accident. Some are suggesting pilot error, but those findings will be left to the International Transportation Safety Board to determine.
Madeline hit the mute button. “I-I think I want to be alone for a moment.”
Cecelia offered no further words of comfort, but turned toward the door.
Lysandra placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. “Maddieâ”
“Please,” Madeline added, looking up to Lysandra and then to the two stricken nurses. “I really need to be alone.”
The nurses bobbed their heads and ushered out of the room. Lysandra took up the rear but then cast a final glance over her shoulder. “I'll be just outside the door if you need anything.”
Lying back against the bed's pillows, Madeline soberly nodded and waited until the door swung closed behind her cousin. Alone, her gaze cut back toward the television.
She folded her arms as Russell's picture enlarged on the screen. A cold bitterness seeped into every pore of her body. No longer would she have to bear the humiliation of Russell's long string of affairs or pretend to be happy in a loveless marriage.
She was free.
She was rich.
She was happy.
A hard smile curved the corners of her lips. “Good riddance!”
Six years laterâ¦
“M
other, I'm
never
getting married again,” Madeline vowed with a roll of her eyes. “Now, will you just drop it?”
Cecelia Murray-Anderson-Farris-and a few more hyphenated names that currently ended at Howardâgave her daughter an arctic smile while she reached for her glass of wine. “Don't be silly, child. Of course you'll remarry. You're too beautiful to waste away on the shelf. We both are.” She looped a lock of hair behind her ears to give anyone who was looking, and there were quite a few, a good look at the sizable diamond-studded earrings she wore.
Madeline sighed instead of laughed even though nothing tickled her more than her mother's
bougie
vanity.
“Don't give me that look, little girl,” Cecelia snapped, reading her daughter like the open book she was. “With careful selection, marriage is nothing more than business contract and transaction. Men want something nice and pretty on their arms and a brat or two until the next showroom model turns eighteen. We simply provide a service. Nothing more,” she said.
“That might have been so once upon a time,” Madeline replied, “but I'm officially retired. Russell left me and the kids more than I'll ever need.”
“There's no such thing as enough,” her mother scolded without missing a beat. Cecelia's disappointment in Madeline radiated from her body like a nuclear missile. Another sip of her wine and then, “You can't tell me this little hobby of yours isn't going to cost a pretty penny, possibly even put your whole nest egg at risk?”
Hobby.
Madeline chomped down her salad so hard her teeth rattled.
“Now, don't get me wrongâ” Cecelia smiled, sensing she'd hit a nerve “âI've always thought you had talentâ¦but the fashion industry is like diving into a pool of piranhas. Why risk everything for aâ¦aâ”
“A dream?” Madeline supplied, her anger festering. “You ask why and I ask why not?” She leaned forward in her chair to hiss, “Pardon me if I want to be more than just a pretty face on some rich man's arm.”
Cecelia arched one delicately groomed eyebrow in reprimand at Madeline's tone.
Chastised, Madeline cleared her throat and apologized.
Silent, her mother sipped her wine while she stared at her.
Madeline shifted in her seat until she couldn't stand it anymore. “I appreciate everything you've taught me, Mother.”
“Apparently not,” Cecelia seethed. “But children have been known to rebel since the dawn of time. I guess you're entitled to your first temper-tantrum.”
Madeline longed to remind her mother that at thirty-one she was hardly a child. To do so would have been just as effective as trying to kill a lion with a fly swatter.
“Do your little fashion line,” her mother said. “And when you lose your butt, as well as your children's financial security, don't say I didn't warn you.”
“I knew I could count on you for your support.”
Her mother rolled her eyes at the barb. “You know, it scares me how alike we are,” she said.
Madeline nearly choked on her meal. She was
not
like her mother. She'd gone through great pains to make sure of that.
“Instead of fashion, I wanted to dabble in acting.”
“Really?” Madeline questioned, surprised.
“What? You think you're the only one who can dream?”
“No. It's justâ¦Well, what happened?”
Cecelia lowered her fork, having already digested her maximum allowance of six bites of food. She shrugged indifferently. “I was nineteen, thinking I knew better than my mother and struck out for the bright lights of Hollywood. There were more rich men interested in casting me on a couch than any film projects. I lasted six months, but managed to snag an engagement from an up-and-coming director. Of course, he died two months later from a drug overdose, but he came so close to being my second husband,” she said.
Madeline just shook her head. Her mother was a deep well of amazing stories. Getting an accurate count of Cecelia's husbands was just as hard as discovering her true age.
“Six months,” Cecelia said after another sip of her wine. “Six months and you'll be running back to me with your tail tucked between your legs.”
Madeline remained silent, praying that their weekly lunch date neared its end. “Are you coming to Russ and Ariel's Thanksgiving school play?”
Cecelia shuddered. No doubt the idea of spending an evening watching a bunch of tone-deaf children singing holiday tunes would be just as horrific as buying her winter wardrobe at Wal-Mart.
“Maybe next time,” she said with a painted on smile, and reached for her clutch bag. “I almost forgot. Guess who I saw the other day.”
“I give up. Who?” Madeline also reached for her purse.
“Toby McDaniel.”
The groan was out of her mouth before she could think, and Cecelia's eyes narrowed to half their size. “He's a good catch.”
“Mother, I'm not interested.”
“Made number forty-three on Forbes's richest entertainers.”
“Then you take him,” Madeline snapped. “I told you. I'm
not
getting married again.”
“He likes you. He makes a point of asking about you every time I see him,” Cecelia said.
“That's because he gets off thinking he can have something, or someone, that used to belong to Russell. You remember how competitive those two were.”
“Who care's about why? He's loaded.”
“My answer is still âno.' And if by some strange miracle I did decide to get married again, the last thing I'd do was marry a man who reminded me of Russell Stone.”
Hip-hop and fashion mogul, Christopher Stone nursed his third drink before noon. Some people needed a bowl of Wheaties, he needed a half a bottle of Crown Royal to get the creative juices flowing. In the evening time, his addictions required something much stronger.
He didn't care. He welcomed anything that numbed his emotions. The direct line on his office phone rang and despite his sluggish thoughts, his intuition told him the unwanted caller was his wifeâ¦or his new gold-digging playmate he'd met down in Atlanta last weekend.
Either one, undoubtedly, was calling for money.
Christopher drew a deep breath and picked up before the call went to voice mail. “Stone,” he said.
“Christopher Stone?” a man asked.
“Who else?” Christopher snapped, annoyed. What idiot didn't know his baby brother has been missing for six years? Missing,
not
dead, he emphasized. Russell was too good a pilot to go down in a storm
and
his body had never been found. In Christopher's book, that left the playing field wide-open.
“Sorry, Mr. Stone,” the unidentified caller said in an irritating gravel. “I wanted to make sure I was talking to the right man.”
“Talking or wasting my time?” Christopher drained the rest of his drink. “State your business. I'm a busy man.”
“Terry Shaw, private detective. We met about five years ago?”
Silence crackled over the line.
“You hired me to look for your brother,” Shaw went on.
Straightening in his chair, Christopher's alcohol-induced fog lifted. “What you got? You found something?” No, he didn't recall meeting the investigator. He'd hired so many, but if there'd been some break in the case, if Russell had been foundâ¦
“We've found, my assistant and I, someone we think you'll want to talk to.”
“You think or you know?” he tested, this thread of excitement already shredding. The last thing he needed was another private dick peddling false hope. It was painful enough getting rid of the last one that came snooping around last year.
Money brought out the worst in people and the ten million dollar reward he'd advertised for information that led to his brother's body or whereabouts had brought out every con artist and flimflam man east of the Mississippi.
Russell Stone sightings were only topped, narrowly, by sightings of Elvis Presley. Witnesses claimed to have spotted Russell in Manhattan, Albuquerque and even Kalamazoo. It all amounted to a pathetic game of âWhere in the world is Carmen Sandiego?' The wasted money wasn't important, but the time and pain had slowly transformed Christopher into a bitter man.
A man, most of the time, he didn't recognize.
“I know, Mr. Stone. I'd like to set a meeting up with you.”
Another wave of silence buzzed over the line while Christopher weighed whether he could ride another roller coaster of emotions that would eventually end in disappointment.
“Mr. Stone?”
Christopher sighed and reached for the bottle of whiskey again. “Yes, yes. When do you want to come in?”
“I can be on a plane first thing in the morning and in your officeâsay, about eleven?”
“Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I won't be in the office, but you can swing by my house,” he said, certain that it wouldn't take more than a few minutes to deal with Mr. Shaw. What difference did it make? The guy would, undoubtedly, be another waste of time.