Nappily Faithful Read online

  ALSO BY TRISHA R. THOMAS

  Roadrunner

  Would I Lie to You?

  Nappily Ever After

  Nappily Married

  N a p P i l y

  f a i T h fu l

  Trisha R. Thomas

  St. Martin’s Griffin

  New York

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  NAPPILY FAITHFUL. Copyright © 2008 by Trisha R. Thomas. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Thomas, Trisha R., 1964–

  Nappily faithful / Trisha R. Thomas. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-312-36131-0

  ISBN-10: 0-312-36131-9

  1. African American women—Fiction. 2. Women judges—Fiction.

  3. Divorced men—Fiction. 4. Atlanta (Ga.)—Fiction. 5. Marriage—Fiction. 6. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

  PS3570.H5917N374 2008

  813’. 54—dc22

  2007039756

  First Edition: February 2008

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  You are loved

  To the girlz:

  Tiffany, Hailey, Tracee,

  Shawn, Shannon, Monae, and Tahira

  Acknowledgments

  I thank God for family, friends, and fans, for without them none of this would be possible. A great deal of appreciation to Kelly Mason, for being patient with all my court and law questions. Any errors of course are mine. I’m grateful to my first readers, Cameron Thomas and Seraphine Kinlow. To Rena Logan, my mom, for letting me know it was the best thing I’d ever written.

  Glass Houses

  Delma Hawkins took in a deep breath and counted to ten while she slowly exhaled. Twenty-two years presiding over the municipal family court bench, only twice could she admit to making a mistake. The first was Latisha Barrow; fourteen and pregnant; she’d run away claiming her parents hated her but Delma ignored the child’s pleas. Didn’t all teenagers make the same claim? Her own daughter had played the hate card every time she didn’t get her way. If Delma refused to let her stay out past ten or wear too tight clothes, or listened in on a phone call or two, she was labeled the Evil Witch of the South. “You hate me, don’t you?” her daughter would accuse.

  Well, if parenting a child to a safe, happy life with a tough hand was considered hateful then Delma was guilty as charged. Her daughter had graduated cum laude with a degree in criminal psychology, following in her old mom’s footsteps, so she must’ve done something right.

  However, in Latisha Barrow’s case, the hate may have been real. A week after Delma remanded the girl to the custody of her mother and preacher father she was found dead in a bathtub filled with water and the bloody remnants of giving birth. The parents claimed they helped Latisha with a natural childbirth and only stepped away for a few minutes to tend to the newborn. When they came back, Latisha had drowned.

  Mrs. Barrow eventually told the truth. Latisha died fighting and struggling as her parents tried to force her baptism in the bloody bathwater. “The blood of the innocent would wash away the sins of the flesh. If she’d only given herself over to Jesus,” she professed while being led out of the courtroom in handcuffs. The baby was eventually adopted by a good family; Delma made sure of that. Mr. and Mrs. Barrow went to jail; she made sure of that, too.

  The second mistake was not quite as tragic. No one had died in the Higgins household. Mr. Higgins, a black lawyer, Mrs. Higgins, a white housewife, refused to share equal custody of their seven-year-old son, each determined to crush the other parent into oblivion. Four appeals came down to who was less vicious, a father who used the old southern discipline of a tree branch to beat his son, or a mother who refused to let her boy play sports or go outside for fear he’d get too dark and suffer harsh words like nigger or monkey from the other children in the all-white neighborhood in Suffix County.

  “You did know Mr. Higgins was a black man when you married him, did you not?” Judge Delma had asked the woman, with as little disdain as possible.

  “Well yes, but my ex-husband’s so much lighter. I didn’t know our son would get so ….”

  Ahuh, go ahead, say it. “So what, Mrs. Higgins?”

  “. …so dark,” Mrs. Higgins replied in between sniffs and wipes of her tissue.

  “Judgment for Mr. Higgins, full legal and physical custody.” The gavel slammed down hard and final. “Mrs. Higgins will have visitation two weekends a month,” Delma said through gritted teeth as she signed the order and nearly scratched a hole in the paper.

  “That’s not fair at all,” Mrs. Higgins whimpered. “He’s my son. Mine. I gave birth to him. This is so unfair.”

  A sly smile rose on Delma’s face. “Unfortunately, you’ve taught your son a sad misconception that the darkness of his skin would limit his happiness. That, Mrs. Higgins, is not fair. Court dismissed.” Delma considered herself an impartial judge, ignoring race, class, or pure ignorance, but that woman made her see red. Her decision in Mr. Higgins’s favor had nothing to do with facts, and all to do with personal fury. Judge Delma Hawkins took in another long deep breath. One, two, three ….

  Now there was this case, two sets of parents, one child. The little girl had eyes as big and bright as black pearls with dark satin lashes surrounding them. She reminded Delma of a living doll. An overused metaphor, but this child really was. Her round face and soft cheeks made for kisses and cuddles were no match for her spindly long arms and legs—like a baby giraffe not yet grown into her bones. Her hair was untamed curls in some parts and kinky tight in others, with a pretty bow across the center like a doll. Who wouldn’t love her? Who wouldn’t fight for a child so sweet?

  The tap at the door shook Delma from her thoughts.

  Hudson, her law clerk, stuck his head inside, then slipped his narrow chest past the door. “In here meditating or what?”

  When she hired him, he claimed he was finishing up a law degree of his own. Turned out Hudson had barely finished high school, a con man who’d been in and out of jail on various misdemeanors. Being locked up in a juvenile facility for the better part of his young life gave him plenty of time to read. His favorite, To Kill a Mockingbird, made him want to be a lawyer. Real books were in lockup those days, not the hustling trash lining the library shelves now. These days a child released from a detention center knew more about how to pimp and sell drugs than when he went in …. all courtesy of a good book.

  “I’ll be right out.” Delma eyed him over her reading glasses. “How they doin’ out there?”

  “The natives are restless. Might be some chair-throwing, a little eye-gouging, and definitely some name-calling.” He raised one brow. “Haven’t seen a good fight lately.”

  “Well there better not be one today. Five minutes,” she said with finality. “Keep an eye on them. I don’t want to put anyone in lockup today for acting silly.”

  The door closed gently. When Hudson’s footsteps disappeared she got up and stretched. The back pain came and went, but mostly came on days like this one, throbbing around the meaty thickness where her waistline used to be. Her doctor warned her to lose some weight; strike that, a lot of weight. The daily stress of her job along with her dedication to M&M’s Barbecue & Fried Fish on Berber and Fifteenth Street was a bad combination for her five-three frame.


  She picked up the paper with her statement typed out. She read the first sentence out loud. “In the case of Venus Johnston-Parson versus Airic P. Fisher regarding minor child Mya Fisher, the court has entered a decision.” Her voice cracked at the start of the next sentence. Delma balled up the paper, crushing it to its smallest form before throwing it in the trash. She walked to the wood-paneled wall and stared at nothing it seemed, until she slid aside a small circular disk. She pressed her face against the hole. There they were, both sets of parents. Poor Mya was somewhere else without a clue her life was about to be changed forever.

  “Father Lord, Jesus, give me strength.” Delma straightened her robe, picked up her gavel, and headed out to make what would be her third most regretful decision, the one that could end her career, her relationships, and all things as she knew them. People in glass houses should never throw stones, and here she was about to toss a boulder.

  1

  Venus

  Two thousand miles across the country in a quest to make a new start, I lay awake listening to the sounds of the new house. Jake slept on his side with his back to me. He wasn’t really sleeping. Wide awake, same as me. I took a chance and slid my thigh against his, scooting closer and curling myself around his body. I nuzzled against his ear. He stayed still. I slid my hand between his arm and waist until he clamped tighter, blocking entry.

  I whispered, “Jake.”

  He said nothing, his body refusing to give way.

  It was his idea to move, to get away. His choice was Atlanta, where a friend in the music industry had invited him to help produce a young unknown artist’s first album, so why not take the opportunity to make a fresh start. I agreed. I thought the change would be good for us both. We sold our house on the California coast and moved where the acreage was big but the price was small.

  Atlanta wasn’t all that different from Los Angeles, something I noticed right away. Women had their fair share of enhanced breasts, Botoxed foreheads, and collagen-filled lips. Women of color proudly wore heavy weaves though it was too hot to be carrying around five packages of hair. Men had their equal share of symbolism, shiny high-end vehicles, expensive bling, and too much time on their hands. The real difference was on a piece of paper called “deed of ownership.” It was probable that there were more home owners than renters in Atlanta even though the per capita incomes were the same. The guy idling in a nice Benzo most likely owned the garage to go with it. In L.A. the cost of home ownership equaled two limbs and one’s firstborn, their brother’s firstborn, and maybe sister’s, too. Living at home with your mama wasn’t a bad thing, just a reality like earthquakes, landslides, and smog.

  Our new home looked like the White House, only it was beige. Endless trees surrounded the land. It took three little brown men on riding mowers to cut the grass. Within a couple of days the grass grew back even taller. I had a theory about why the grass and trees grew so bountiful: slaves. I was sure my ancestors were buried under the ground where I slept, only adding to the many reasons I spent most nights with my eyes wide open.

  Jake told me to stop being ridiculous. Million-dollar homes were not built on cemeteries. Well, that would explain everything, seeing how our people were buried right next to the cotton they picked every day. No headstone. No markings.

  I was tired of the insomnia. I was tired of the loneliness. Before I could go into full-throttle whining mode, my cell phone buzzed and shook until it landed on the floor. Had to be my mother. The three-hour California–Georgia time difference had yet to sink in, resulting in a lot of midnight phone calls. She made her late-night calls after watching reruns of Magnum P.I. Tom Selleck was the only man my mother threatened to leave my father for. Twenty years after the last episode and she still had faith Tom could fit those tight-ass khaki short shorts.

  I crawled over Jake feeling for the phone where it’d fallen between a box labeled bathroom and another one that said kitchen. In fact boxes surrounded us wall to wall. Two months in the new house and unpacking seemed like a waste of time. Why bother, I thought every time I went to open a box, feeling I’d soon have to pack again.

  I answered with fake grogginess so my mother would get the hint it was late in our part of the country. The voice I heard in return was bad timing to say the least. “Venus.”

  “What?” I foolishly tried to whisper. Jake still lay unmoved, pretending to be asleep even after my elbow landed in his rib cage.

  “I want to see Mya,” the man’s voice answered back.

  “How nice of you.” I tried not to sound full of hatred, but the whisper came out in a hissing sound. “Please, I mean, really. Can I call you back during daylight hours, how about that? Or will you be sleeping?” Because as far as I was concerned Airic Fisher was a vampire who’d been asleep for the last three years and was suddenly awakening with a thirst for blood. Long-lost blood, namely our daughter. He hadn’t seen Mya since the day she was born but suddenly now he needed to see her. I’d briefly guessed, or hoped, he was dying and it was his one final wish. No such luck.

  I slammed the phone closed then jumped when Jake’s hand landed on my shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  My heart was racing. I was about to explain when I realized these were the most words Jake had spoken to me in months, causing my anger to swell. I shook my head. “Leave me alone.”

  His hand trailed down my back. “Tell me,” he said, sounding like the voice of comfort.

  “So now you want to be my friend?” I pulled my knees to my chest. “That was Airic. He wants to see Mya.”

  The comforting hand fell away.

  Jake said nothing. Shocked. Confused. Stunned back into silence. I knew the feeling. Airic’s messages, which I refused to answer, had started weeks before with a gentle Hello, how are you, wishing you well. Then shortly after, How’s Mya, I bet she’s beautiful just like her mother. Then came the real reason for the calls, I think it’s time I become a father to my daughter.

  But Mya already had the father position filled quite nicely. Didn’t matter if Jake and I weren’t getting along. Didn’t matter that we regularly said no more than three words to each other in a full day. There was a method to our madness and being responsible parents was the one thing we took seriously.

  I closed my eyes. “He wants to see Mya.”

  “What the hell does that nig—” He rethought his choice of noun. “Why out of the blue does he want to see Mya? Did you call him? Have you been talking to him?”

  “Are you serious?” I attempted to get up. Jake’s grip kept me from moving. “Excuse you.” I eyeballed his hand. He kissed my shoulder instead.

  “Look, I’m just saying, this makes no sense. Not one word, then all of a sudden he pops up out of thin air, calling here in the middle of the night like he’s got a right to. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Jake snatched the phone out of my hand.

  “No …. uh-uh.” I snatched it right back. “You are not calling him.”

  “Then tell me something. A simple answer. I’ll help you; you just fill in the blanks. Airic wants ….” he sang out and waited for my answer.

  “He started calling a few weeks ago. I ignored him and thought he’d go away. But I think he’s serious. He wants to see her.”

  “This is bullshit.” He leaned back against the pillows.

  “Jake, I’m just as upset as you are.”

  “I’m not playing this game. I’m not. He needs to put it on the table. I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

  And there it was.

  “What you’re dealing with?” The words danced and sputtered against my ears. “What you’re dealing with …. is that what you just said?” By this time I was standing, pacing back and forth. If Airic’s intrusion was what it took, the catalyst for the wall to come down, then so be it. “How is this all about you? Why is this only Jake’s problem? I’ll tell you—”

  “Keep your voice down.” That was Jake’s tactic when he was being out-talked or out-debated, usually followed by, My
a’s in the next room, only this time she wasn’t. She was five doors down, courtesy of our new southern manor with its nine bedrooms and four baths. I hadn’t thought about who was going to be scrubbing all those toilets when I signed on the dotted line. Space. Jake needed space. I needed space. Yet here we were with nothing between us but animosity.

  “No …. I will not keep my voice down. I’ve been walking on eggshells around you for months, and I’m sick of it. Now you want to know what’s going on. Well guess what, so do I.”

  Together four years, Jake and I had our share of ups and downs. The last half of the year registered as a definite downer. Back in Los Angeles, Jake had been charged and arrested for murdering a man. Byron Steeple had stolen millions and nearly bankrupted JP Wear right under Jake’s nose. After finding out about the embezzlement Jake fired him, but the damage was already done. JP Wear was left in a miserable spot forcing Jake to sell off half his company or lose it all. He sold it and eventually lost the other half out of sheer bitterness.

  The night Jake was taken away in handcuffs was the night a part of me died, a part of us both. Right then I knew what was meant by “hell on earth,” summed up in one word, fear. Constant unnerving fear. Jake hired a very expensive lawyer, Georgina Michaels, famous for celebrity cases including Guy Richardson, better known as Big Pimpin’, the music producer charged with racketeering, IRS fraud, and manslaughter, just to name a few. If she could get Big Pimpin’ off, Jake would be a cakewalk, especially since he was innocent. She happily took his case, not because he was still a celebrity but because he could afford to pay and in the land of bling, money is the answer to everything.

  The lawyer fees could have bought a midsize country, say, Paraguay.

  There was no proof, no physical evidence. There was no CSI smoking gun or eyewitness. Had it not been for Byron Steeple’s boyfriend, a prominent gay rights activist who accused the city of discrimination and threatened to bring a civil suit on behalf of his slain lover, charges would have never been filed against Jake at all.