Can't Stand the Heat (19 page)

L
auren had told Phillip she was going to take a slight detour, but she had no idea how much of a detour it would be. She pulled to a stop in front of her mother's home, her delicate features now marred by a deep frown. She opened her car door and walked up the stone pathway, for the first time noticing that the landscaping along the front of the house looked a little shoddier than usual. Some of the bushes were badly in need of a trim. The dahlias had started to wilt and should have been pruned days ago. Crabgrass and dandelions were starting to peek between blades of grass on the once-perfect lawn.

Lauren rang the doorbell and waited patiently for one of her mother's many maids to answer. When she did not see a silhouette darken the windowpane along the front door, she rang again. Several seconds later, the door finally opened. Lauren gawked in surprise when she saw her mother standing in the doorway. Her mother
never
answered her own door.

Though Yolanda Gibbons looked as flawless as usual, her glamorous clothes, hair, and makeup could not mask the fact that she looked resigned and weary.

“Mama?” Lauren asked, the confusion apparent in her voice. “Where's . . . where's Esmerelda?”

“She doesn't work for me anymore,” Yolanda said quietly, stepping back from the door, ushering Lauren inside with an unfussy wave of the hand.

“Doesn't work for you?”
She stepped into the entryway.

“Yes,” Yolanda said casually, adjusting the cuffs of her blouse. “I had to let her go.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I didn't know you had such an attachment to my employees, Laurie.” She turned and started to walk down the hallway. “I could give you her home address if you'd like to send her flowers.”

Lauren rolled her eyes at her mother's sarcasm. “Mama, what's going on?” She trailed behind her. She glanced into the open doorways as they walked down the corridor and saw that each room was glaringly empty. In fact, the whole mansion felt vacant. Their voices seemed to echo in the darkened rooms. “Where
is
everybody? You didn't just let go of Esmerelda. You got rid of all the other maids, too, didn't you?”

Her mother didn't answer her but instead continued with unhurried strides into the sitting room.

“And I went to the antique shop on Main Street today,” Lauren continued, raising her voice so that Yolanda could no longer ignore her. “I saw your writing desk, grandfather clock, and sofa in there. The store owner said you promised him you would bring even more pieces next week. Is something wrong, Mama? Are . . . are you in some kind of trouble?”

Lauren watched as her mother slowly lowered herself onto her settee. “Nothing's wrong. I just needed to tighten my budget, that's all.”

“I wouldn't call letting go of all the help and hocking your stuff at an antique store ‘tightening your budget'!”

Yolanda's lips tightened. “Lauren, I shouldn't have to remind you, but I am a grown woman. I'm your mother. The last time I checked, I didn't have to explain myself to you or anyone else. Am I wrong?”

“Mama, I'm only trying to help! If you don't tell me what's—”

“And how exactly could you help me?” Yolanda shouted as she sprung from the settee, again catching Lauren by surprise. She raised her eyebrows mockingly. “Can you pay my mortgage, Laurie? Can you pay off my debts? You're in the same position I'm in, honey. You don't have anything! The only money you
had
was the money that James gave you and that's all gone! Maybe that's why he's come to me to collect. He can't get the money from you, so he thinks he can hold it over my head.” Yolanda shook her head ruefully. “But the joke's on him. I don't
have
any more money to give!”

Lauren stilled. “James came to you asking for money?”

“Oh yes, and he was ever so helpful in providing me a final tally on paper of how much I owe.” She sighed. “He threatened legal action if I don't pay him back according to his terms. He wanted to draw up a repayment contract. I told him to give me time to think about it.”

Lauren lowered her eyes and stared at the Persian rug beneath her feet. Every time she thought she couldn't hate James any more than she did, he did something that made her hatred for him ten times worse.

“I'm really sorry about that, Mama. I'm sorry that he would—”

“Don't apologize. As far as I'm concerned, James Sayers can get in line.”

“Maybe . . .” Lauren swallowed. “Maybe Cynthia can help you with money, Mama, or . . . or Dawn can.”

“They can't help.” Her mother turned away from Lauren, crossing her arms over her chest. “They don't have enough.”

“But why not at least ask?” Lauren suddenly remembered something. “What . . . what about the money Grandmother Althea left behind? Why can't you use that?”

“The money she left behind?”
Yolanda gave a cynical laugh. She turned back around to face Lauren. “Oh, Laurie, whatever money your grandmother left was gone by the time her creditors got their grubby hands on it. I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but my dear mama, rest her soul, liked to spend money more than she liked to invest or save it. And I guess I'm more like my mama than I thought.”

“So am I,” Lauren muttered quietly.

So Lauren
and
her mother were both broke and in debt. How was that possible? Her mother had been married five times and had received at least a million dollars in divorce settlements. She had gotten money and gifts from her boyfriends for decades. Yet now she was selling off her furniture piece by piece to raise badly needed funds. Now she was alone in a seventeen-room mansion after firing her waitstaff and groundskeeper because she could no longer afford to pay their salaries. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous and so sad.

Lauren sank into the chair behind her. “So . . . what . . . what are you going to do now?”

“I don't know. If worse comes to worst, I might have to sell the house.” She looked around the room forlornly, rubbing her shoulders. “But hopefully it won't come to that. After all, I've been researching new sources of funding.”

“Sources?
What sources?”

Yolanda's face suddenly brightened. “Oh, it's a good one, Laurie. I've heard that a
very
rich man in his midsixties—a widower—moved into an estate two towns over. They say he's very charming, though I haven't met him myself.” She wrinkled her nose. “I heard he's not much to look at, but that's never mattered much to me. I just hope—”

“Wait,” Lauren said, interrupting her mother. She held up a hand. “Wait! You mean you want to get a new man?
That's
your new source of funding?”

“Of course. What else would I be talking about?”

Lauren stared at her mother in disbelief.
She's actually serious.

Even though Yolanda's life was now in complete disarray because of the poor decisions she had made in the past, her answer to all her problems was to do the same thing all over again.

“Mama, I don't . . . I don't think another sugar daddy is the answer to all your prayers.”

Yolanda's smile disappeared.

“I just think . . .” Lauren tried to consider her words carefully. “I just feel that getting involved with a man right now just for money—just to take care of your debts—will only make the situation worse.”

“And as you told me, Laurie, I understand
you
feel that way, but I'll take my chances.”

Lauren closed her eyes. “Mama, please hear me out. I—” “Don't you have to get back to your restaurant?” her mother asked, scowling as she walked toward the doorway. “I don't want to keep you. I understand how busy you are.”

Lauren could tell as she gazed at her mother's stern face that she was being shut out, that she would have a better chance of holding a conversation with a brick wall. Her mother was set in her ways. She believed in the holy book of gold digging.
Nothing
would shake her faith.

With a heavy heart, Lauren rose to her feet.

“You're right. I should go. Phillip's probably expecting me back soon.”

Her mother gave a curt nod. “Thank you for the visit.” Lauren walked toward her mother. Just as she stepped into the corridor, she paused and turned to gaze at Yolanda.

“Look, I'm . . . I'm sorry I can't help you, Mama,” Lauren muttered, hoping that her mother would get her true meaning, because Lauren was talking about more than money. The kind of help her mother needed couldn't be done with just a checkbook. “You know I would if I could. We may have our differences, but . . . you know I would do almost anything for you guys, right?”

Yolanda's scowl instantly disappeared. “I know, sweetheart. But it will be all right.” She pushed back her shoulders. “I am Yolanda Gibbons, honey. If anyone can find a way out of this, I certainly can.”

Lauren hesitated, forced a smile, and nodded. She slowly walked down the corridor to the front door, hoping that her mother was right.

J
amal typed a few keys on his keyboard before gazing at an open case file on his desk. He was flipping a few pages when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and saw that it was the front desk calling him.

“Yeah?” he asked distractedly, raising the receiver to his ear, still staring down at the text on the page. It was a muddled deposition. He would definitely have to take lots of notes.

“Mr. Simmons, you have a gentleman at the front desk who says he'd like to speak to you,” the receptionist droned into the phone. “He says he doesn't have an appointment.”

“Did he tell you his name?”

The receptionist paused. The phone line went silent. She returned seconds later with a loud sigh. “He said his name is
Mr. Uptight.
I don't know if he's joking or what.”

Jamal slowly shook his head, knowing instantly who it was.

“Should I tell him he needs to make an appointment?” the receptionist asked.

“No. No, tell him I'll be down in a sec.”

 

Cris stood anxiously by the black lacquer receptionist desk, leaning against it as he waited for Jamal.

“He said he'll be downstairs soon,” the older white woman drawled, adjusting her headset on her gray hair helmet. She then pointed to the leather couch on the other side of the carpeted waiting room. “You can have a seat.”

“I'm fine standing. Thanks,” he muttered, making her narrow her eyes at him. She loudly huffed, then haughtily faced her computer flat screen.

Cris didn't care if he was annoying her. He had too much nervous energy to sit on a couch right now. He had taken Lauren's advice to heart and decided to try to talk to Jamal. She was right. He and Jamal had been friends since college. A friendship that had lasted that long was worth salvaging. Lauren had made the suggestion to send Jamal a note if he couldn't work up the will to call him. But Cris thought against it. That was a “woman” thing to do. No, if he was going to make up with his longtime friend, he would do it
his
way.

A few minutes passed before the elevator doors opened. Jamal stepped out into the waiting room, looking tired and irritated.

“What's up, Cris?”

“Hey.” Cris pushed himself away from the receptionist desk.

“Have you had lunch yet? Want to grab something to eat?”

Jamal shook his head. “I'm really busy, man. I've got this big case coming up in court in a few days and I was—”

“Come on, take a break,” Cris insisted, nudging his friend's shoulder. “It might do you some good. Just an hour. Eat some buffalo wings, have a beer.” He paused. “Plus, we should . . . we should talk.”

Jamal gazed at Cris for several seconds, his face solemn as he considered his friend's words. For a moment, Cris wondered if his longtime friend was going to refuse him. He watched Jamal with bated breath until Jamal finally said, “OK, I guess I can step out for lunch, but
you're
paying.”

The two men kept the conversation light as they walked down Main Street to a sports bar three blocks away from Jamal's law offices. They talked about the baseball season, the weather predictions that said this week's temperatures would reach at least one hundred degrees, and the new Mazda Jamal was thinking about buying. As they stepped inside, they were instantly met by the sound of an Angels vs. Orioles game playing on the flat-screen television over the bar and the sound of bawdy conversation and laughter. The room was filled with plenty of men and a few women. A light haze of smoke hung in the air along with the heavy smell of greasy, fried food.

The hostess sat them at a highboy table with a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. It was near the front of the bar room, adjacent to the floor-to-ceiling windows where both men could people watch as they talked. Soon after a waiter took their order—two beers, fire engine hot Buffalo wings for Jamal, and an Angus burger and waffle fries for Cris—they fell into an awkward silence, waiting for the other to speak first. They had exhausted all casual conversation. It was time to get to the nitty-gritty, the reason why they both were here.

Cris loudly cleared his throat. “So . . . uh . . . I wanted to explain to you . . . you know . . . what happened at the country club.”

Jamal's facial expression instantly became sullen. He leaned back on his barstool as he ate from the sports bar's complimentary nacho basket at the center of the table. “You don't have to explain,” he said between chews. “
Lauren Gibbons
happened. She screwed with your head and you acted accordingly, making an ass out of yourself.”

“I didn't make an ass out of myself! I had to stand up for Lauren, especially in front of that asshole!” He took a calming breath. “Look, Jay, you've got it all wrong about her. She's really a—”

“—scheming, heartless gold digger,” Jamal said drolly. “Yeah, I know. Everyone in town knows. You're just too damn blind to see it, brothah.”

“Look, I'll admit her past isn't the prettiest. I'll admit she's done some dirty things! She's taken advantage of men. She's used them for their money. But she was taught to be that way. She's trying to change!”

“So she says. But it's probably just some game she's running. She's a great con artist, Cris. Like you said, she was taught to be that way.”

Cris clenched his jaw. He closed his eyes and thought for a second, trying to figure out a way to reach his friend, trying to break down that mental wall Jamal had erected around himself. He opened his eyes again.

“Do you remember sophomore year in college?” Cris suddenly asked. “You remember Portia Stanley?”

Jamal put down his nacho and perked up. “Hell, yeah, I remember her! She was gorgeous and she had those great . . .” He cupped his hands over his chest and grinned, mimicking her bountiful breasts that still stood out in his memory, almost two decades later.

“She used to drop by our dorm room all the time,” Cris continued. “She'd always just
happen
to show up at the student union when we were having lunch. She went to all my games.”

“Yeah, she was crazy about you, man!”

“No, she wasn't,” Cris said bluntly, making his friend frown again. “She didn't give a shit about me. I could have been
anybody.
Any star player on the football team would have sufficed. That's why I never asked her out. She was a groupie . . . and I saw her from a mile away. My dad taught me to be on the lookout for that type of woman just as early as Lauren's mom started teaching her to be a gold digger. My spider senses have
never
failed me, Jay. They aren't failing me now, either.”

The waiter returned with their beers and their orders. Jamal sat silently for several seconds, not touching his food. Cris could see his resolve starting to wane.

“You
really
think she's changed, Cris?”

“I'd bet my life on it,” Cris answered firmly.

“But why? Why the big turnaround? Those women have been the same damn way for the past fifty years!”

“I think a lot of things played a role in it. She's been questioning her whole lifestyle for years, even if she was too scared to ask those questions out loud. But she blames James. He was the big push she needed. He beat her up badly. She had to run away from him and ended up running away from that life, too.”

“Now that's what
definitely
makes me think she's full of it! I don't believe that shit for one second! James is a good guy. I've known him for the past seven years. He would never,
ever
do that! He would never hit a woman!”

“She said she knew no one would believe her,” Cris said, sampling his fries. “It was her word against his and no one would take the word of a Gibbons over James Sayers.” He paused. “I guess she was right.”

Jamal angrily shoved aside his plate of Buffalo wings. “OK, fine, I'll play along then. She's changed. James is the biggest asshole in the world. But even if it's all true, even if she isn't a gold digger anymore because James beat the crap out of her, why are you even bothering with her? You hate drama! You always have, and this girl is knee-deep in it. Either way, it's not worth it! She's got too much damn baggage, Cris!”

“I know, but trust me . . . it's worth it.
She's
worth it!”

“Oh, she is?” Jamal asked sarcastically. “And that reason would be?”

“Well, because . . . because . . .” Cris thought for a second. “Because . . . she makes me feel emotions I haven't felt in a long time. I mean . . . I love her, Jay.”

“You love her?”
Jamal stared at Cris, completely stunned. “How the hell can you love her? You've only known her for less than two months!”

“I didn't know there was a time line requirement for this sort of thing.”

“You know what I mean! It's just . . . well . . . kind of sudden. You're a dude who takes things slowly. Saying you're in love with her already, seems . . . kind of fast.”

“What can I tell you? People change. Lauren's changed. I guess I have, too. She changed me.”

Jamal let out a low whistle. “Seriously, Cris, I don't understand the voodoo that this girl does to you. But I guess I don't have to understand it.” He tilted his head and smiled. “She must be
really
good in bed.”

“I wouldn't know.” Cris took a sip from his beer. “We haven't had sex yet.”

Jamal's eyes widened comically.
“What?
Oh, hell, no! If you're going to put up with all this drama, you better get in those panties, posthaste! You should be knocking it out every night! I know
I
would.”

“Of course you would, Jay.”

Jamal finally started to eat his Buffalo wings, spiting particles of food as he spoke. “Hey, did I ever tell you about the chick in Miami that I met five years ago?” He licked the red tangy sauce off his fingers. “I mean, that girl always had some shit going on. She had a crazy-ass mother, a stalker ex-boyfriend, and this killer yappy Chihuahua who wore a diamond collar. But, man, let me tell you! She could do things to my dick that could make a brothah sing! I mean, she could . . .”

Cris grinned as he bit into his burger while Jamal spoke. It seemed like things with his friend were back to normal.