Dream Girl Awakened (7 page)

First, it was the music. She knew he enjoyed old-school, but lately he'd been thumping the sounds of Anthony Hamilton, Urban Mystic, and John Legend throughout the house in heavy rotation. Add that to the silly mantras he'd been spewing out—accept the good; let's give thanks for what we already have; Victoria, when was the last time you counted your blessings and focused on someone other than yourself—and she was sure she'd lose it. Maybe he'd been working too many hours. The final insult was when she didn't get
the
Bentley last month for her birthday. He said it was too gaudy and that her Mercedes S600 would have to do for now. Her only consolation was the Harry Winston band she received. At least it was an upgrade from her Tiffany ring. Since he'd held out
on the Bentley, she'd decided to hold out on sex a little longer. That would teach him a lesson.

“Babe, what's wrong?” Winston stroked Victoria's face. She ignored the question and colored the poppy fields in one of Nicolette's
Wizard of Oz
activity books. Nicolette did the same thing in the backseat.

“Mommy, Daddy's talking to you.”

“Honey, I don't hear anything. Since no one hears me, why should I listen?”

Nicolette tapped Winston's shoulder from her booster seat. “Mommy's being a bad girl.”

“Yes, she is, Nicolette. What do you suppose we should do to her?”

Nicolette shrugged her shoulders and continued coloring.

“You still sulking over the car? Why is that so important to you, Tori?”

“Winston, I've had my car two years now. What happened to getting me a new car every two years?”

Winston tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “There's nothing wrong with your car.”

“Next, you'll tell me to drive it until it's paid for.”

“Victoria, when was the last time you—”

“Counted my blessings and focused on someone else other than myself.
I get it!”

She turned her attention to the window and watched the gas prices at each service station they passed. Why was everyone complaining about the prices? Who coined the phrase, “pain at the pump”? Doesn't every woman's husband keep the tank filled like Winston? He never allowed her gas hand to go below half full. More importantly, why didn't she get her dream car? It wasn't as if they couldn't afford a Bentley. She didn't want a yacht, a
private jet, or her own hangar at the airport. What was so wrong with wanting to drive a classic car that matched her beauty? She stared at her reflection in the mirror and hoped others at the cookout would find her stunning. The only reason she got excited about the party was the '80s theme. The invitation, emblazoned with painted red roses and a replica of the My-T-Sharp barbershop, blasted the song “Soul Glow.” The song brought back memories of living in L.A. with her aunt and all those auditions and rounds they made together. Marguerite had snagged the role of Lisa in
Coming to America
, but had come down with tuberculosis two weeks before shooting began. Too weak to work and quarantined by her doctor, she had bowed out of filming. Marguerite's agent's words popped in her mind again as he'd tried to make Marguerite feel better, his East Coast timbre filling their living room via speaker phone: “I know Eddie Murphy is headlining the film, but who's gonna take him seriously as an African prince? I bet the movie probably won't make big box-office sales anyway.” Victoria remembered Shari Headley coming by their rented apartment in Queens with chicken soup, Tylenol, and steamy gossip from the movie set. That's how Marguerite rolled in Hollywood and the Big Apple, acquaintance to all, friend to few. She taught Victoria that women were to be tolerated, not trusted. Victoria half listened to her aunt's rationale, though, because she knew there was no woman in the world who could wrest Winston from her grasp. He'd be a fool to leave someone so beautiful. Who else could spend his money, look good on his arm, and ride the ups and downs of his career as she had?

“Mommy, do you smell that food?” Nicolette asked. She scooted up in her booster seat and leaned forward to catch the sights and sounds emanating from Aruba's house.

“I love eating here,” Winston added.

“Mommy, promise me you'll eat a plate with me and Daddy. Meat this time. Not all the vegetables.”

“I'll think about it, Nicolette. I promise.”

Winston parked on the curb because cars crowded the driveway. They headed toward the front door. Winston felt silly wearing the Michael Jackson
Thriller
jacket and jeans, but he didn't want to disobey the invite. He passed on the Jheri Curl wig Victoria suggested. Victoria spied the license plates as she smoothed the carbon copy dress worn by singer Pebbles in the video
Mercedes Boy
and took note of how many friends and relatives had joined the party. They'd traveled from Georgia, Louisiana, California, Kentucky, North Carolina, and Maryland. Morris Day and the Time's “Jungle Love” floated from the backyard with a rousing “Oh-eee-Oh-eee-Oh” being yelled out by the crowd. Nicolette snapped her fingers, wondering if Jeremiah was eating a hot dog or playing his Wii.

Winston rang the doorbell, anticipating James. When the door swung open, Aruba took his breath away. Aruba, donning a V-cut dashiki that accented her sun-kissed skin, bopped her head to the music. She beamed when she saw Winston, then remembered he wasn't alone.

“Come on in!” She hugged them and stepped aside for them to enter.

“Miss Aruba, where's Jeremiah?” Nicolette asked.

Aruba motioned the Faulks to follow her to the kitchen. She peered around Winston.

“Where's Alva? I thought she'd get out the house today.”

“Rube, you know she doesn't get out that often.”

“Hey, it's not like we didn't offer,” Winston added. “She said she had reading to catch up on.” He continued to smile at her as if they were the only ones in the room.

They were interrupted by a clearing throat. “I have a name, too.”

Aruba looked at her mom, Darnella, who'd stopped dicing onions and bell peppers for the potato salad. “Mom, these are my friends, Winston, Victoria, and Nicolette.”

“You know I know Victoria from the last time I was here. Don't you dare ask for my cobbler recipe this time, either,” Darnella joked with Victoria. She hugged each of them, then sat back down at the island. “I'm almost done with this potato salad. I hope you all enjoy it.”

“I promise I'll try it this time,” said Victoria.

Aruba gathered Nicolette in her arms, kissed her. “May I offer you guys something to drink? James is manning the grill. We'll be eating in thirty minutes or less. Everybody else is out back. Come on.”

“I'll have some of your lemonade if you whipped up some.” Victoria couldn't deny that Aruba knew her way around the kitchen. She could take the simplest items and make a feast. In Aruba's presence, she wished she'd learned to cook when she was younger. Marguerite insisted she not learn to cook because she might burn her hands or ruin her back bending up and down near an oven. During those moments they hung out together, Aruba regaled her with tales of learning to cook when she was nine years old. The last time Darnella was in town, they'd tried in vain to show her how to prepare a soul food feast. Victoria cut her finger slicing tomatoes and got tired separating collard greens from the stems. She felt dizzy right now at the thought of cooking, taking care of a child, satisfying a husband, and staying sane.
Thank God for hired help.

The four of them stepped through the patio door, onto the deck, and into the backyard where three white tents were set up. Most of the crowd danced as others sat at tables decorated for the occasion. Instead of traditional red, white and blue Fourth of July
adornment, each table held a remnant of the movie
Coming to America
.

“Everyone, these are my friends Winston, Victoria, and lady Nicolette.”

“Hey,” the crowd sang in unison, returning to D.J. Cheese's spinning and scratching grooves.

A man rocking a Reverend Ike finger-waved 'do shouted to Victoria, “Marry me and come back to North Carolina! I'll take real good care of ya!”

The crowd laughed and his wife, Ida, seated next to him, jerked her neck around. “Shut up, Herbert!”

James slathered barbecue sauce on the ribs as he sized up Winston in his jacket and jeans. He still didn't understand why Aruba had invited them. It's one thing for a man to make a mistake in the heat of passion, it's another thing to be exposed. By someone like Winston no less. Now he had to step up his game, so he wouldn't look like the unemployed villain to this bourgeois muthafucka. Luckily for him, he'd been under doctor's care for the last two months. That was at least enough time for Aruba to stop riding him about finding work. She even had stopped talking divorce the last two months since the accident. Hell, she was almost like the woman he'd married. Running around, changing the gauze on his injuries, not bitching about the bills, at least letting a brother see her curves in those sexy negligees. His leg injury prevented him from being intimate, but he knew she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Her new attitude even made him forget about Tawatha for the time being. Maybe, just maybe this was what he needed to be faithful. He was even pleased that Aruba wasn't so uptight about money these days since the company salary cuts. Last year this time, she wouldn't have dreamed of throwing
a party for everyone, but this year, she must have seen the light and realized how good she had it at home.

“Hey, need some help with those ribs?” Winston interrupted James's thoughts.

“I got it. What's up, man?”

“It's good to see you up and about, James. I was a little worried about you at the hospital.”

Yeah, right.
“Staying off my feet has been good for me. I think this is what I needed. Spending time with Jerry and Aruba has been good for us.”

“I meant what I said at the hospital, James. If you need anything, just let me know.”

Like I'd fucking ask.
“Thanks, man. Good looking out.”

Victoria nursed lemonade spiked with vodka and wondered what James and Winston were talking about at the grill. Her slumped shoulders were not lost on the older women at the tables. They gossiped about their husbands, the presidential election, and why such a pretty girl was shrouded in that ugly don't-bother-me countenance. Victoria offered to help Aruba and Darnella in the kitchen, but she'd been shooed away, told to go mix and mingle with the crowd. She knew Aruba's friends Bria and Renae would be arriving later with their husbands. Since marrying and disappearing into Winston's world, she felt rusty and out of place in social settings. She shook off those thoughts, scanning the crowd for a familiar face, someone with whom she could trade barbs. When she turned right, a woman one table over looked up from a half-eaten tangerine and winked. She spat seeds in her hands and tossed them in the tangerine peels. She pointed a finger at Victoria. “Come here.”

“Me?” Victoria asked, touching her chest.

“Yeah, you, sugar.”

She joined the woman, hesitant and simultaneously amazed someone noticed her over the raucous card games, prattling, and dancing.

“I'm Maxine, Aruba's grandmother.” She patted the seat next to her.

“It's good to finally meet you. I've heard so much about everyone. Actually, Aruba talks about her family all the time. I'm her friend Victoria.”

Victoria remembered Aruba saying her grandmother was grown and sexy, but wasn't that every granddaughter's claim? Maxine's flawless skin, lightly dusted with powder and the color of teak wood, glowed. The warmest smile Victoria had ever seen set off Maxine's high cheekbones. Maxine wasn't trying to hide her age; her salt-and-pepper hair flowed past her shoulders in spiral curls. The smell of The One body oil drifted from her skin. Victoria's quick head-to-toe glance of Maxine's outfit yielded a well put-together summer outfit: diamond hoops, a flowing, peach-colored silk blouse, painted-on jeans, and peach stilettos. She ran peach-colored nails through her curls, and yelled to James, “Bring me one of those ribs. I'm starving! I need more than this fruit.”

Maxine had the body of a thirty-year-old and Victoria guessed she was at least sixty-five.
Damn good genes!

Maxine turned her attention back to Victoria. “That's good to know Aruba talks about us. We sure do miss her and that baby.”

“Don't you all miss James, too?”

Maxine discarded the tangerine peels in a plastic plate, ignoring the question and continuing,

“So, how many of our people do you know at this party?”

“Only a few,” said Victoria.

“You see the woman over there in the red halter top and jeans?
The one talking a mile a minute and probably won't come up for air?”

“Yes. She's quite the social butterfly.”

“That's James's sister, Teresa. She's probably drumming up business. They live down in Atlanta and, honey, she can plan weddings out of this world. She's the go-to person if you want an elegant affair.”

“Does she do only weddings?”

“That's her specialty, but she does it all. Even decorates cakes. Remember Toni Braxton's wedding? Teresa did most of it.”

“What about the guy who stood up when I walked in and asked me to marry him?”

“That's my brother, Herbert. Ida's been putting up with his roving eyes for years. But if she likes it, I love it. He lives in North Carolina, but my brother Walstine lives here in Indy. You can't get away from the Stantons, baby.”

Victoria chuckled at Maxine's wit. “I'm sure the guy near the grill is James's brother.”

“Yes, Lord. No one in that family will admit it, but those boys have a rift between them. I can sense it. Marvin, that's his brother's name, runs his mouth as much as Teresa. He has his own garage business. He said he's putting Overhead Garage Doors out of business or will die trying. I thought he was talking trash until our last family trip, but he's well respected in Atlanta. I think it riles James that Marvin, who's his baby brother, is so successful.”