Playing the Hand You're Dealt (11 page)

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Authors: Trice Hickman

BOOK: Playing the Hand You're Dealt
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Even though I had ended things with Carl, I couldn't tell Tyme that my ex was blowing up my phone like a bill collector. If I did, I'd have to explain that I slept with him again, and trust me, I wasn't owning up to that. Normally, I didn't have a problem telling a brother straight up that he wasn't the only one, that I had dick on standby. But with Tyme, I didn't feel right disclosing that to him. And I didn't know why because it wasn't like we were in a committed relationship. Hell, we'd just started seeing each other. Yet there was a part of me that wanted to guard myself.
Right in the middle of my complicated thoughts,Tyme's pager buzzed. “That's the hospital. Please excuse me for a minute,” he said as he dialed his phone.
I looked around the restaurant, trying to keep myself busy while he made his call. Just then I heard the vibrating buzz of my cell phone calling out from my bag. This was getting ridiculous. If it was Carl again, so help me I was going to march straight over to the fourth district police station after lunch and file a harassment complaint. I was sick of his shit. I retrieved my phone and looked at the caller ID. Thank goodness it was Emily. “Hey girl, what's up?” I asked with a relieved smile.
“Not much, I'm on my break and I wanted to call and make sure you got into town all right. Are you having lunch with Tyme?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“You better hold on to him.” She grinned through the phone. “And please thank him again for agreeing to help with my move.”
I had told Tyme that Emily was going to move into her new house next weekend, and he graciously offered his assistance. He even said he'd get a few friends to help so we could complete the job in half the time. “Make sure they're single. I'm trying to hook Emily up,” I told him.
“Samantha, he seems like a really nice guy,” Emily continued. “Give him a chance.”
I had also told her about my reservations, which I knew sounded crazy. Maybe I was trying to sabotage a good thing again? The last time I did that I lost the only man I'd ever loved.
“What's next on your docket for today?” Emily asked, breaking my thoughts of Tyler.
“I have to pay a sales call to a new customer, but after that I'm free.You still want to meet up at the house this afternoon?”
“Sure, but I won't get there until a little later. After I leave school I'm going to drop CJ off at Ray's.”
“Drop him off at Ray's . . . for what?” I asked.
There was a brief silence on the other end.
“CJ is sleeping over at Ray's tonight, remember?”
I didn't remember at all. I knew I needed to be more involved in my son's life, but honestly, he was better off with Gerti, my parents, and Emily. The only thing I could add to his world was confusion. I quickly wrapped up our call and slid my phone back into my bag. When I looked up, Tyme was staring at me, smiling. “What?” I asked.
“I like you, Samantha,” he said in a soft, romantic voice.
I didn't know how to respond so I didn't say a word.
Tyme reached across the small table and put his hand over mine. “I hate to run, but I've got to get over to the hospital.”
“I've got to run, too. Customers I need to see.” I suddenly felt anxious to leave.
“I know you'll be hanging with your girlfriend this weekend and spending time with your son, but I'd like to see you again before you go back to New York. Do you think you can carve out a little time?”
Part of me wanted to run away from Tyme and the other part wanted to kiss his soft-looking lips. I told him that I'd call him later tonight so we could make plans. Even though I wasn't sure about where things were going, I knew the only way to quiet my reservations was to get to know him better.
After we finished our lunch, Tyme hailed me a cab. I gave the driver the address to where I was going, while Tyme handed him a crisp twenty. I tried to figure out why I was tripping so hard. This man was into me, so why was I stressing like this? I should be happy . . . right? Tyme could see the slightly confused look on my face.
“Don't worry, Sam. I feel it, too, and it's all right.” He smiled gently, then kissed me softly on my lips before shutting the door.
I looked at him through the window as my cab pulled away. I knew he couldn't have been feeling the same emotions that were running through my body and my mind; otherwise, he wouldn't have been standing on the curb, smiling.
My visit to the Lancôme counter at Bloomingdale's was quick. Sasha and Carmen were no muss, no fuss. After giving them several bags of samples and some information about the launch party for a new product we were introducing this December, I hailed a cab and headed to my parents' house.
When I walked through the door I knew I was in for some bullshit. Mother was there. She was usually out shopping, lunching, or giving someone a headache, but she was rarely ever home this time of day.
“Samantha, is that you?” she called out from the kitchen, of all places. “Come here, please, I need to speak with you.”
I sighed, then sat my bag down at the edge of the staircase and walked into the kitchen. The aroma of Gerti's homemade brownies made my stomach jump, but as soon as I saw Mother sitting at the table the sensation turned to nausea. “Hey, Gerti,” I said. I walked over and gave her a quick kiss on her cheek. “Hello, Mother,” I forced myself to say. “What do you want to talk to me about?”
She wrinkled her nose and looked down at my feet. “Are those Chanel?” she asked with a frown.
I couldn't believe she was turning her nose up at my red patent leather Chanel pumps. My shoes were fierce and she knew it. I immediately got an attitude. “Yes,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “And they're fly. Why you askin'?”
Mother bristled because she hated bad grammar.
“I am asking,”
she enunciated to make her point, “because I just bought the same pair in black last week.”
Now see, why couldn't she just say, “Sam, nice shoes. I bought a pair just like them.” But
noooooo
, she had to act like I'd just walked in with shit smeared on the bottom of my feet. That was the reason why she didn't have any friends, because of petty bullshit like this. People tolerated her, but they didn't like her. Some people were even afraid of my mother and only dealt with her because they had to, or out of respect for Daddy.
My mother was a bitch. It's a terrible thing to say about your own mother, but it was true. She'd been this way all my life. I was ten years old when I came to that realization. We had been shopping at Nordstrom one Saturday afternoon, looking for shoes . . . for her, of course. As we browsed, several sales associates came over to help us. I remember noticing that even though Mother had hardly spoken a word to those ladies, they were extremely nice and friendly to her.They went to the stockroom several times to check on different items of her choosing, all done with happy smiles and enthusiasm. But when I went to the back of the department to inspect a shiny pendant that had caught my eye, I found out what the real deal was.
“Mrs. Baldwin is such a bitch. She's going to make me scream,” the plump blonde who'd been helping my mother said to her coworker. “She's rude and insufferable. If it weren't for the fact that she spends a small fortune every time she comes in here, I would walk away from her right now. She's so nerve-wracking!”
“Yeah,” the other woman said. “But a big spender equals a big commission.”
Those women didn't like my mother because she was notorious for coming in and treating people like shit. Before that day, I thought she only treated our family that way, but standing in the back of the department store that afternoon, I learned that my mother cast her darkness on everyone around her, unless she wanted something from them.
I didn't have time for her bullshit today, so again, I asked her, “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“I need to know when you'll be available to go to Saks Jandel with me.”
Saks Jandel was one of Mother's favorite boutiques. I was starting to smell a rat. “Why do you want me to go there with you?”
She looked at me like I'd just asked her how to spell my own name, like I was asking her a stupid question or something.
“Because,”
she paused, “we have to pick out your outfit for the party. It's only two weeks away.”
I let out a big huff and rolled my eyes.
Gerti looked at me. “You better get those eyes straight,” she warned. “Don't look at your mother like that.”
Even though I learned how to roll my eyes by watching her, I knew better than to disobey Gerti, so I looked away. I had a lot on my plate, and Mother's demands were the least of my concerns. “I already have an outfit for the party, so don't stress me. I know how to dress,” I said in a hostile tone.
Mother sat in silence. She knew I was right and that there was no point in arguing. She and I had similar taste in fashion, hence the Chanel shoes. Brenda Baldwin was a fashion tour de force, and even though she was in her fifties, she didn't look it. I gave credit when it was due, and the truth was that my mother was a good-looking woman. And sadly, that was another reason why she had always been disappointed in me. I wasn't pretty enough by her standards. I knew how to spruce myself up, but I definitely wasn't a natural beauty like she was. Physical looks were very important to her.
As I stood near the counter looking at her and thinking about what she'd just said, I started to get angry. Mother knew I had great taste, yet she wanted to take me shopping, as if I couldn't pick out my own clothes. She had called me in here just to mess with my head because she knew I wasn't thrilled about the birthday party in the first place. She was also probably afraid that I'd show up in something ridiculous just to make her look bad, which I had to admit was something I'd done in the past. But that was when I was in high school. I was an adult now, and I didn't play childish games anymore. I left that foolishness to her.
“If you think what you're going to wear will be appropriate, I guess that's that.” Mother sighed, then planted her eyes squarely on mine. “But, Samantha, I do hope you'll be on your best behavior. This is a very important party. Try not to mess it up, for Emily's sake.”
I wanted to curse her out so badly. Gerti knew it, too, and she gave me a
calm the hell down
look. I hated that I felt this way about the woman who gave birth to me, but I couldn't help it. She was such a hypocrite. She had the nerve to sit there and tell me how important this birthday party was for Emily, when she knew that she didn't give a damn about Emily or me, for that matter. It was our birthday, but it was her party.
I knew I shouldn't let her stress me out. I reminded myself to chill, “for Emily's sake,” as Mother had just said. I looked at her and smiled. “Don't worry, Mother. I'll be on such good behavior, it'll blow your muthafuckin' mind.”
Before she or Gerti could say a word I turned on my Chanel heels and marched upstairs.
“She burns me up,” I said to Emily as I reached for another Q–Tip to dab off the excess color that had settled on the side of my pinky.We were lying across my bed, polishing our nails. Emily's looked good, but mine looked terrible. I was used to having someone else do the dirty work for me. I had made appointments for us at my salon, but Emily convinced me to cancel. She said it would be fun to stay in, do our nails, order pizza, and talk all night like we used to when we were roommates in college. She was right, as usual. CJ was at his sleepover, mother was out with Aunt Dorothy, thank God, Gerti had turned in early, and Daddy was still at the office, so we had the house all to ourselves.

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