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Authors: E.N. Joy

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BOOK: She Who Finds a Husband
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“Yes, I'm serious. It's all yours,” he told her, and then paused. “Under one condition.”
“Let me guess.” Tamarra smiled. “I have to make you a pan of my macaroni and cheese?”
“No,” Maeyl said, “the condition is that you take me with you.”
Maeyl might not have been able, all night, to take his eyes off of his food long enough to look at Tamarra, but he was definitely looking at her now. And Tamarra was looking at him right back.
As she admired this six foot tall, medium build man with a bald head, goatee, and bronze colored skin, she wondered why she'd never noticed all of his appealing features before. Maybe because she had never really looked at him before. She'd never seen him outside of church service and Bible Study, and during those times, she'd always kept her eyes on Jesus. But now, as she gave Maeyl the once over, she prayed Jesus was nowhere near to discern the thoughts that were all of a sudden going through her mind. Thoughts she hadn't felt about a man since her ex.
Before that spirit of lust that Mother Doreen had just prayed away a couple of hours ago could attack Tamarra right there in the parking lot, she replied to Maeyl, “Next Saturday. The Olive Garden. Me and You. I'll meet you at seven.” She then jumped in her jeep and sped off. “I got away from you this time, ole spirit of lust,” she said out loud. “I just hope I can keep running fast enough.
Chapter Three
“Everything Literary, how may I help you?” Deborah asked as she answered her cell phone, which served as her business phone as well.
For the past three years, Deborah had run her own literary agency in which she was a one-woman show; editing, literary consulting, and some agenting. Deborah had learned a great deal about the literary industry during her own literary endeavors after writing a book of her own. She had contacted every publishing house editor she'd learned of in her library and Internet research. She'd also worked with a couple of professional, and very expensive, editors to perfect her writing. Even after taking some editing and grammar courses at Malvonia Community College, Deborah still never managed to get her book published. But as a result of her three-year endeavor, she learned enough information about the literary industry and the entire editing and publication process to start her own consulting business.
It started off with Deborah sharing the mistakes she'd made and the things she'd learned with online literary groups she had joined. The information she provided was priceless for those she shared it with, ultimately even landing a few of them book deals that launched very successful literary careers. One day, an author who had landed a book deal as a result of the information she had shared, sent Deborah a “thank you” card. Inside the card was a monetary token of her appreciation. That's when Deborah realized her knowledge was worth something . . . money.
She registered the name “Everything Literary” and got a P.O. Box as the official mailing address. She had a Web site designed that listed the services she offered, and now three years later, she had worked with over one hundred writers and had at least a dozen authors who used her editing services on a permanent basis. In addition, she had five authors for whom she had agented lucrative book deals.
So even though her own manuscript was collecting dust in her home office file cabinet, all of the hard work she put into trying to get it published still benefited her, as well as a few others, in the end. She didn't mind that she had made tons of mistakes and wasted tons of money so that other people didn't have to. With the way business was booming, she was being paid back for her losses ten fold.
“Yes, I'm calling to speak with a Deborah Lucas please,” the male voice on the other end of the phone stated.
“This is she,” Deborah replied at the baritone voice that sounded as if it were intentionally trying, too hard as a matter of fact, to sound sexy and sophisticated.
“Hi, Deborah. My name is Chase. Lynox Chase.”
Deborah rolled her eyes up in her head. She hated when men tried to do the
“Bond, James Bond”
thing. It was such a turn off. She sniffed. “Hello, Mr. Chase. How can I be of service to you?”
“Well, I was referred to you by a fellow author. See I've written this wonderful erotic thriller, if I don't say so myself,” he bragged. “It's been edited and everything by a professional editor. Twice. Both my friend and the editor raved over the story and are certain major publishers would be fighting over adding it to their production schedule. But the thing is, as you know, most publishing houses won't even look at my work without an agent representing it. And that's where you come in. Now my friend tells me you are a Christian . . .” This guy wasn't coming up for air. “So I hope the fact that my work is erotic won't offend you and deter you from representing me.”
“Mr. Chase, I'm not that easily offended.”
“Great, because I'd love for you to represent me.”
“Not so fast, Mr. Chase. Before taking you on, I'd need for you to send me the first four chapters of your manuscript as well as a synopsis and cover page with all of your contact information,” Deborah told him. “You can send it to my attention at P.O. Box—”
“Well, actually, Deborah . . . you don't mind if I call you Deborah, do you?”
Deborah huffed, and she didn't remove the receiver away from her mouth when she did it. Game recognized game. And although this guy may have very well been interested in getting her to represent his manuscript, she could tell by his undertone that he might have been interested in a lot more. She sniffed as if she was sniffing out the scent of a dog . . . or in this case, a dawg.
“Deborah is fine, Mr. Chase.”
“Well, Deborah, I happen to live in Columbus, Ohio, which is only a few miles from Malvonia. So we're sort of like neighbors. I thought it might be better if we met for lunch somewhere and had a sort of business lunch.”
“What do you mean by
sort of
?” It was time to call a timeout in Mr. Chase's game. “Either it is or it isn't.”
“Pardon me. I didn't mean to imply that our meeting would be anything other than professional. I'm serious about my work,
Mrs.
Lucas.”
Who was this guy fooling? She'd just given him permission to call her by her first name. She knew he was now deliberately using her last name as a fishing expedition. “It's
Miss
Lucas.” Deborah laughed inside at his attempt to find out whether she was married or single. But she had to be honest with herself; something about Mr. Chase was intriguing. And if being even more honest, she was somewhat flattered. Even still, she sniffed.
“My mistake, Miss Lucas. Nonetheless, I really think you would be interested in representing my work. Again, like I was saying, I'd love to meet you in person since I'm pretty much in the same city.” Now the more Mr. Chase spoke, the more serious he sounded, slightly toning down the deliberate charm. “It doesn't have to be for lunch. It can be at the library, your office, you name it. I just want to pitch my vision and goals regarding my work to you. I've often been told that I do much better in person than on paper when it comes to pitching myself. Of course, my written work speaks for itself.”
Deborah appreciated the sincerity that she could now sense in Mr. Chase's tone. Her timeout must have given him time to reconsider his next play and the team he was up against. With that being said, and letting her guard down just a dash, Deborah stated, “Lunch will be fine, Mr. Chase. I'm free Thursday and Friday of this week.”
“How about Thursday at noon?”
“That works for me, Mr. Chase. We can meet at Max and Erma's on Pleasant Drive, if that's not out of the way for you.”
“Trust me, I've come so far along now in this process, I'd drive a hundred miles if it meant getting my work published.”
“Then, Mr. Chase, I'll see you in two days.” Deborah ended the call, and then wrote down her date . . . her meeting with Mr. Chase.
As she wrote, something inside of her told her that she should have insisted on him following her regular submission policy of mailing his work, but toward the end of her conversation with him, Mr. Chase seemed to be just as sincere about his work as some of her best clients. Perhaps she'd lowered her guard just a dash too much and too soon. She hoped that he really was as sincere and passionate about his work as he'd led her to believe, and for his sake, he'd better hope that he was too. Because many had come before him trying that same thing; pretending to be an author after seeing her attractive photo on her business Web site.
Her long eyelashes that many assumed were fake because they were so long, and her neatly weaved sisterlocks that graced her shoulders always called for a double take. She had a medium brown complexion like the singer, Chilli, in the group TLC. And for some reason, people always asked her what she was mixed with. She'd made a mental note several times to research her ancestral history, but had never gotten around to doing it as of yet.
Deborah sat at her desk replaying her conversation with Mr. Chase in her mind. After reevaluating the situation, she decided to pick up her cell phone to call Mr. Chase back to cancel their meeting. She'd follow protocol and just have him mail her the submission as she'd initially instructed him to do. She had failed to get his contact information and was disappointed when she looked down at her caller ID and saw that he had called her from a private number.
“Oh, well.” She harrumphed. Even though it went against her better judgment, she wouldn't stand up the future self-proclaimed Pulitzer Prize winner. She'd show up at the so-called business lunch.
Deborah stared down at the phone and sniffed again. Yep, this time she could smell him, just like always, before she'd ever even see him. Dawg. Well groomed, though. Maybe too well groomed. Even to the point where, perhaps, this time, she could be wrong. “Nah,” she said out loud while scrunching her face.
Deborah stared at the meeting information she'd written down. “Mr. Chase, you'd better hope you really mean business. If not . . . let the games begin!”
Chapter Four
“Two tickets to
The Family that Preys
,” the gentleman said to Paige as she stood inside the ticket booth of Marcus theatres. “The eight o'clock show, please.” He must have noticed how Paige was gazing over his shoulder in an attempt to see why he was purchasing two tickets when he appeared to be alone. “She's not here yet. The person I'm waiting for,” he answered her unasked question.
Paige smiled, thinking she'd better be careful and guard her thoughts, as this guy appeared to be a mind reader. “That will be fifteen dollars.” She handed him the two tickets.
“Thank you,” the gentleman replied after paying for the tickets with exact change. He then stepped aside to wait on the person whose ticket he was in possession of.
Ten minutes passed by when Paige looked at her watch. It was 7:45
P.M.
Fifteen minutes and she would be off work, and as far as she was concerned, eight o'clock couldn't get there soon enough. She hated working the ticket window, especially on a Tuesday evening, any weekday for that matter, when business was slow. Working the ticket window reminded her far too much of her earlier, non-management years with the theatre.
As the manager of the Marcus theatre Picker-ington location, which was about a forty minute commute from Malvonia, she often felt that those duties were now beneath her. Last week, to Paige's dismay, an employee had quit. Paige had been forced to cover her ticket window duties until she could hire another employee in her place. In Paige's one year of being a manager, this was the first time anyone had quit without the standard two-week notice.
Ordinarily Paige loved her position, but she'd been complaining about her recent duties to Tamarra since having to do them. Other than that, Paige had no other complaints whatsoever about her job.
A few more patrons came to the window, and Paige painted on a smile as she served them. Once the small line disappeared, she groaned before looking at her watch again. “Yes!” she said in a hushed tone. “Just five more minutes, and I'm out of here.”
A smile crept across Paige's face. At eight o'clock she would be a free woman. Free to go home, cook her a Lean Cuisine dinner while she took a shower and got nice and comfy in her PJ's. After doing that, she'd sit down and watch some reality show re-runs. She looked out the ticket window, and her smile slowly evaporated. Although she was excited for eight o'clock to arrive, it looked as though the gentleman outside the window wasn't.
The man who had purchased those two tickets a few minutes ago still stood outside, pacing as he repeatedly looked at his watch every few seconds. He looked as though he wished either eight o'clock would delay itself for a little longer, or his date would put a move on it.
Paige tried to play it off when he caught her staring at him. An embarrassed expression covered his face as his light skin cheeks reddened. Paige figured the poor man now wished that he had never even told her that he was expecting someone to show up and relieve him of that second ticket; especially now that it appeared as though this person was going to stand him up.
“Three tickets to the next viewing of
The Women
,” one of three young women who stood in front of the ticket booth requested.
Paige turned her attention to her task at hand. She had just completed the transaction when the door behind her opened.
“Hey, boss. You ready to break this joint?” Norman asked. She must have been too busy waiting on the women to see him enter the theatre.
Just then, Paige realized that there, in deed, was one other complaint she had about her job. One of her employees. Norman.
Norman entered the ticket booth appearing more than anxious to relieve Paige of her ticket counter duties. Paige should have counted that as a blessing, but she knew his anxiety was self-serving and had nothing to do with his desire to rescue her from the Lion's Den. That was her nickname for the ticket booth. She knew that the real reason for his excitement lay in his readiness to flirt with the women who came to the ticket counter in hopes of getting a phone number or two.
Norman loved when what he called “chick movies” were playing at the theatre. That meant chicks would be coming in droves. He'd never gotten more phone numbers in his life than when the movie
Sex and the City
was playing. Now he was aiming to beat his personal best with the movie,
The Women
, starring Jada Pinkett-Smith.
Norman had worked for the theatre for four years, which was one year longer than Paige had. But when the manager position became available, Paige's skills and dedication paid off more so than Norman's length of time with the company. Norman didn't make a stink about it because he knew that he could sometimes be a slacker. Besides, managerial duties would take him away from all the action that he so looked forward to as he worked the ticket booth.
Fortunately, there had never been any complaints from the customers regarding Norman's flirtatious antics. Actually, some women made it a point to return to the theatre because of Norman. They hoped he would be the one to wait on them and perhaps shower them with a compliment or two that might lift their moods and make their day. Sometimes women needed that type of thing to boost their self-esteem, and a few were even willing to pay $7.50 just to get it.
“I've been ready to get out of here,” Paige replied to Norman. No one had to tell Paige twice to get to gettin' as she keyed her code into the cash register that logged her out. She moved aside so that her subordinate could key in his.
“Why are you so ready to get out of here? Got a hot date tonight or something?” Norman teased, bumping Paige's shoulder as he winked.
Paige hated when Norman did that; assumed that just because she was single, she couldn't enjoy the alone time that the single life enabled her. For some reason he thought she had to always be up under some man, and his frequent comments confirmed such. He would often say things to Paige like, “Have a good evening, and don't do anything I haven't done already. Wink-wink.” And then there was the most offensive one of them all: “So what did you get into last night, or should I ask who did you let get into you? Wink-wink. ”
When Paige first started working for the theatre, she had enjoyed chatting it up with Norman over their lunch period and breaks. And his little comments like that had never seemed to bother her back then. She'd simply wink back or smile. With her being single as well as he, they would often laugh until their bellies hurt, sharing their date from the pits of hell stories. Ironically, Norman nor Paige ever even thought twice about dating each other. The two had nothing in common besides being single, and it was painfully obvious that they weren't attracted to each other the least bit.
Norman was a tall, skinny, slinky white guy; not that Paige hadn't dated a few Caucasian men before. But she'd always preferred a man who had plenty of meat on his bones, considering she was a thick girl herself; size sixteen. Norman, too, had dated outside of his race. But they had been blind dates or someone he'd met over the Internet without the benefit of seeing a picture of them first.
That's something Paige didn't do; blind dates or Internet dates. Not even when Tamarra tried to set her up on a blind date with some man she'd met at one of her catering events. Tamarra had sworn to Paige that her spirit was telling her this man was the one for Paige. She based it on everything Paige had shared with her regarding what she didn't want in a man. As much as Paige trusted Tamarra and valued her opinion, a blind date she would not do, especially after Tamarra had only spent a couple of hours at best with the stranger.
But Norman drew the line nowhere. He did the blind date and Internet dating thing on the regular. So Paige didn't know if he otherwise would have willingly dated a minority woman or not. Either way, there was no chemistry or even the slightest interest between them.
“Who's the lucky fella that's got you so anxious to get out of here tonight?” Norman pressed. “Or should I say who is the soon to be lucky fella?” He nudged her with his elbow a couple of times, and then winked.
Paige shot Norman a forced smile, but what she really wanted to do was roll her eyes, exit the booth, and ignore him completely. Maybe then he'd get the hint that the old days were long gone. Not because she was now his superior, but because now she was saved. Her walk had changed, so her talk had changed.
In times like these, she regretted discussing her multiple dates and encounters with Norman. And although she never told Norman that she had slept with any of these men, she never told him that she hadn't. As experienced as Norman was when it came to sex, which he had boasted about on many occasions in their past conversations, Paige couldn't dare allow him to believe that she wasn't just as equally experienced. So she let him assume and insinuate things about her without correcting him. Now she wished she hadn't.
Paige had been saved thirteen months now, and as hard as it sometimes was for her to walk her Christian walk, it seemed even harder for Norman to remember that she even had a Christian walk. She always felt like she was the one to blame for Norman not being mindful of her Christianity. The words from one of her pastor's past messages would often bring about this doubt.
“You shouldn't have to wear Christianity on your sleeve. You shouldn't have to run around telling people you are a Christian. People should be able to look at you and know that you are a Christian. God said He made us in His image. Well, do you look like your Father?”
It was obvious that Paige didn't look like a Christian or Norman wouldn't be so forgetful about it. She made a mental note to call up Mother Doreen and ask for some guidance about that. She'd been a Christian longer than anybody she knew. Surely she'd encountered her share of Normans.
Paige grabbed her purse and keys and instead of the normal, “Enjoy your shift,” she'd usually give Norman, this time she said, “Have a blessed evening,” leaving Norman standing there looking as though she was speaking a foreign language.
“Yeah, okay.” He snickered. “Hopefully God will bless me by putting it on one of these beautiful women's hearts who are heading this way to give me their phone number. Umm, umm, umm.” Norman licked his lips.
Paige shook her head as Norman went to work with his smooth operator skills on the two women that approached the ticket window. “God help him,” she said under her breath as she closed the door behind her.
Before heading to her car, Paige stopped off into the ladies room after contemplating whether or not she could control her bladder until she got home. Not. Exiting one set of the glass double doors, Paige waved at Norman as she walked by the ticket booth on her way to her car. He replied by tapping his top shirt pocket, which meant it held one of those women's phone number, if not both knowing Norman.
“Oh, excuse me. I'm so sorry. I was too busy waving at my co-worker, and I didn't see you,” Paige apologized to the gentleman she'd just run smack into.
“Don't worry about it. I guess you're not the only one who doesn't realize I'm standing out here.” The gentleman exhaled, then looked down at the two tickets he held in his hand. He then looked down at his watch as if catching that movie with the person he was waiting for was a lost cause.
“No-show, huh? Your date that you've been waiting for is a no-show?” Paige rubbed it in unintentionally.
“Looks that way.” He looked down at his watch for the hundredth time, and then scanned the parking lot.
“Maybe you should try calling her,” Paige suggested.
“Nah. It's getting late. Besides, I guess I should be used to this by now.” He shook his head and let out a deep, exasperated breath. “Have a blessed one,” he told Paige as he headed toward the parking lot.
“You have a blessed one too.” As Paige watched the man walk away, she wondered how in the world any woman could stand up such a fine specimen as himself. Sizing him up to be about six foot tall, two hundred thirty pounds of muscle with wavy hair that made him look as though he had Indian in his family, Paige thought this man had to be God sent.
She thought about stopping him in his tracks and offering to view the movie with him, as Paige had hardly been one to shy away from men. Bold and no shame in her game, she was always the aggressor when it came to getting her man. If she was ever going to finally give up the dating game, find her a husband, and settle down, she couldn't just sit back and wait for one to show up on her doorstep. Otherwise, she'd be a member of New Day's Singles Ministry until her hair grayed.
By the time Paige figured she'd go for what she knew and offer to be this gentleman's date for the evening, he was already in his car. “Now chasing a man down, tapping on his window and all that. Desperate, I'm not,” Paige told herself, then walked a few cars down to her own vehicle.
Once inside her car, Paige started the engine and turned on her Jill Scott Live CD. In addition to gospel music, she loved neo soul, jazz, and some R&B artists like Maxwell. She put the car in reverse and backed out as she sang along with Jill. All of a sudden, Paige slammed on her brakes when she noticed a shiny, black Escalade behind her. “Oh no,” she mumbled. She realized that she was so busy singing to the CD that she hadn't even looked out of her rearview mirror to make sure no cars were coming before backing out.
BOOK: She Who Finds a Husband
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