Losing to Win (2 page)

“This next contestant says she knows many of Carissa's secrets from college but is sworn to secrecy through their bonds of sisterhood. Let's see how long that lasts! Niecy Tibbs, come on out!”

My eyes went wide as my line sister from Howard strolled out on the stage. She was one of my best friends from college, though we didn't see each other often. She had stayed in DC when I moved back home after college. Niecy had been a size 22 for as long as I'd known her and was, as she said with two snaps, “Fabu-lustrous, darling!” With a squeal, I ran over to her and gave her a hug. It was great to see a friendly face. “What in the world are you doing here?” I asked under my breath.

“Thought I'd spend the summer hanging out with you; obviously skipped some of the fine print.”

“Oh damn,” I commiserated.

“You got that right. We'll talk later; you're in for a ride,” she murmured as the host pointed me back to my spot on the stage.

I rolled my eyes and walked back near my assigned spot, avoiding the area where I knew the scale was hidden. No need to step on that again if I could help it.

“Next up, another blast from your past. This man said he tried courting you in graduate school, but you only saw him as a friend. He's here to change all that. Jordy Little, come on out.” My study partner from grad school, a generally nice, light-skinned guy with whom I had zero chemistry came out on stage. He was handsome, congenial, and completely non-confrontational. Jordy looked pretty much the same. A shade over six foot, curly dark brown hair a touch too long, and a paunch belly that had grown into more of a spare tire since I'd seen him last. He sent a grin my way and stepped next to Niecy.

I smiled back at him before I turned to the camera and put my hands on my hips. “Jim, what is this? ‘
This Is Your Life
, Carissa Wayne'?”

The audience laughed and Jim gave me another insincere toothy grin. “Well, we have to keep it interesting. You would know that if you ever watched the show.”

“Oooooo” from the audience again. I decided to play along so we could get this over with. I nodded with false cheer. “You got me on that one, Jim.” I scanned the stage. “We're one contestant short and do I get to pick my partner?” I was picking Niecy. Hands down. No contest.

But Jim was already shaking his head and giving me the look that meant more shiggity was up his overstarched sleeve. “We've already picked someone for you. It's someone you know well. Someone we all know well. Born right here. The pride of Belle Haven.”

I went completely still. They couldn't . . . they wouldn't . . .

“Your former high school sweetheart. The man you referred to as ‘the love of your life' not so very long ago. Your former fiancé, in fact. Former homecoming king, former Heisman runner-up, and former All-Pro NFL wide receiver, known as the Bayou Blue Streak. The one, the only Malachi Knight.”

Strolling onto the stage with that familiar rolling gait was the
former
love of my life. Though heavier than I'd ever seen him, he still possessed more charisma, star power, and magnetism than one man needed. As the audience roared and clapped, I saw him flash the smile that sold Gatorade, gym shoes, and thousands of
Sports Illustrated
copies. I'd heard about his career-ending knee injury two years ago, but at that time we were way past the point of solicitous phone calls or e-mails. When the last words you say to somebody are, “I hope that football keeps you warm at night,” you're not entitled to call when that career ends abruptly.

Mal was the color of burnished walnut with jet black wavy hair and features that whispered of both Indian and African heritage. He was the classic kind of Sidney Poitier/Denzel Washington handsome with personality to spare. He was the kind of guy that men wanted to have a drink with and women wanted to get naked with. He was That Guy. Always had been and he knew it.

I noticed he had let his hair grow past his customary low cut and it was trending toward curly. At six foot four he carried his weight well, but I could tell he was at least thirty to forty pounds over his normal weight. It didn't detract from his overall attractiveness. I found that patently unfair, adding insult to injury. As he walked toward me, his dark chocolate eyes raked over me from the tip of my head to the toe of my shoe. That look used to make me melt; now it made me more irritated than I already was. He raised a brow as I glared at him. This was definitely not how I wanted to look and act when our paths crossed again. We had studiously avoided crossing each other's paths for years. My dream of meeting up with him while looking fabulous with my gorgeous rich husband on my arm was shot all to hell and back. I was not at my best. Oh, whatever, this was what it was. I raised my chin up a notch and raised my brow to match.

He stopped in front of me and said one word. “Rissa.” His voice was still a deep rumble of Southern goodness.

“Mal,” I responded, not giving an inch.

“This should be interesting,” he acknowledged.

“No doubt,” I snapped out shortly

We both knew instinctively that Jim, the cameras, and the audience were looking for us to create some kind of dramatic, messy scene. We weren't going to give it to them. We turned in silence to look at Jim.

“That's all you two have to say to each other?” Jim prodded.

“Yep,” Malachi answered.

“I'm good,” I responded.

With a deep sigh, Jim continued, “Niecy and Jordy will be partners. Suzette and Xavier will be partners. Of course, Malachi and Carissa will be working together. Tonight you can eat what you want, drink what you want, sleep where you want. But tomorrow . . .” He paused dramatically. “Let the games begin! You are the season six contestants on
Losing to Win
!”

As the audience applause rolled again, a petite blonde came bounding out on stage and made a slashing motion with her hand. “And cut! We got it! It's going to be perfect. Great work, everybody!”

She bounced over to me. “Carissa, I'm Bliss, and I'm the producer and director of the show, great to meet you. Sorry about all the shock and awe, but it makes for great TV, don't you think?” She continued on without waiting for my response. “Since you were the last person added, you still need to go over your contracts and get your check. My production assistant, Ren, will be by to get you squared away. Also, Marcy, our associate producer, will meet up with you and Malachi tonight to review the taping schedule. We can do it separately or together, doesn't matter. You'll meet your training team in the morning. Okay? You good? All set? Okay. Call me if you need me, Ren has the phone list.” Before waiting for an answer to any of her statements, she bounced away.

“Bliss, Ren, Marcy?” I repeated with a glance at Malachi.

He smirked. “We should have expected no less.”

“I wasn't expecting anything at all.”

“So it seems. But here we are. Welcome to Hollywood . . . South Bayou Edition.”

I started to grin back and then I remembered that he was the man who broke me. My face settled into a neutral mask. “This day continues to suck,” I said and turned away. He reached out to touch my arm and a treacherous sizzle shot through my veins. We both froze in place. I dropped my eyes down to his hand and looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. He raised one in return.

“We're in this together, Cari.”

“I've heard that before from you. This time I'm smart enough not to believe it.”

With a sigh, Mal leaned down and said quietly into my ear, “We need to talk. We can get through this together.”

I snatched my arm away. “
Together
? That's rich, coming from you. But you are right about one thing. We do need to talk. Fortunately for you, I have people higher up on my list to deal with right now.” I stalked a few feet away before pausing. It was better to get this over with sooner rather than later. “I'll be home this afternoon. Come see me and we'll talk. I bought the old Somers house.”

He looked at me in bemusement. “So you really did it, huh? Moved back home, bought the house... the whole nine?”

My mouth twisted. “There are a few pieces to the puzzle still missing.” I marched down the stairs with my head held high and approached my backstabbing family.

“Carissa Melody Wayne,” Malachi called out.

Since the whole auditorium fell silent to listen, I answered him. “Malachi Henry Knight?”

“It's good to see you, even under these circumstances.”

“I wish I could say the same.” I pointed to my family and toward the side exit door in an unmistakable gesture. I reached the door first and held it open as they filed past one at a time, heads down and wordlessly. After the last one exited, I looked over my shoulder to find Mal standing in the same spot watching me. I felt no remorse for stepping outside and letting the door slam closed behind me with a loud reverberating bang.

 

 

I
pasted what I hoped passed for a smile on my face. Nodding at the fine folks of Belle Haven, I marched my family toward the tiny closet I called my office on the Havenwood campus. Across the main pavilion, up a short flight of stairs, and down a hallway, we progressed in charged silence. Reaching the office, I stomped toward my desk and took two deep breaths. Relax. Relate. Release. Woo and sah.

When I thought I could speak without screeching, I twirled to glare meaningfully at the assembled motley crew of co-conspirators. In the front of the group huddled on the opposite wall was my older sister, Ruby Ann. She stood in all her five-foot-ten, size-16 Creole glory rocking a bright paisley maxidress with her ebony hair streaming down her back in waves. Right next to her in a dramatic hot-pink suit, looking half her age, was her partner in crime, my mother, Eloise.

Behind them hid my cousin Sharon, whom we all called “Sugar,” and her brother “Middle Mike” (aptly named so as not to be confused with his father, “Big Mike,” or his younger cousin on my dad's side, “Little Mike”). Sugar barely reached five foot tall and looked like a light wind could bowl her over. She was olive skinned with short curly hair and wide expressive eyes. She appeared almost doll-like. When she opened her mouth, however, all similarity to sweetness and light fled. Sugar swore like a sailor and had colorful (if not lewd) commentary for all occasions.

Mike was her complete opposite in every way. He topped six foot, possessed skin the color of deep mahogany, and weighed in at over two hundred and fifty pounds, yet he spoke quietly and politely in a gentle Southern drawl. He never had an unkind word to say about anyone. I couldn't imagine how he'd gotten embroiled in this plot.

Even farther away, the only two looking the least bit chagrined were my best friends from childhood, Taylor Rhone and Mac Bisset. I should have known something was up from the looks of them. Taylor was an artist. She was the kind of girl who never met a headband and ratty jeans she didn't love, yet here she was dressed to the nines in a silky wrap dress with dangly earrings and wedge sandals. Her hazelnut-hued skin gleamed and I detected mascara on her lashes. Her normally untamed curly fro was pulled into a complicated upsweep. Mac was a contractor and real estate developer in a company he ran with his brother, Burke. He stood five foot ten, a light-skinned, whip-thin guy, not the least bit aware of his attractiveness. And he generally spent his days in cargo pants and faded T-shirts. Today he was in a perfectly pressed and tailored linen suit that I'd never seen him wear before.

I shook my head at the lot of them. “Look at y'all, all dandied up for TV. Some Hollywood folks wave a few dollars at you and you throw me under the bus? No warning, no nothing? Really?! I mean, look at me!” I held my hands out to the side, took another deep breath, and exhaled shakily. I felt more than a little bit betrayed.

“Cari, baby . . . now listen,” my mother, the normally sensible Eloise Wayne, started in. When I held up my hand and sent her a look she had used on me countless times, she subsided.

“Mom, no. I don't care what they promised all of you; this was too much. That . . . shebacle you just witnessed is going to be televised nationally! People I've never met know how much I weigh! And Mal?! After all I've been through to get over him? There's no excuse for this. None. What. So. Ever. Someone better start explaining. And I mean right the hell now.” I ended my mini-rant by crossing my arms and tapping my foot.

Sugar slapped her hands on her nonexistent hips and stepped forward on her five-inch stilettos. “Before we start yammering on, I got one quick question for you, Carissa Melody.”

“What?” I frowned at her.

“What is a shebacle?”

“Oh. It's a combination of bullshiggity and debacle.”

Middle Mike covered up a laugh with a cough and turned his head to the side.

Ruby Ann spoke up. “You hate us all you want. You'll get over it. You always do.” I tried to interrupt and she put her hand up. “Nuh-uh, you wanted an explanation. You gotta let me get through it.” She paused and I shrugged to indicate that she could continue. “All right, then. This here is a win-win for everybody. So what you got a little embarrassed, Rissa. It's not like you don't know you could stand to lose a pound or two. Before you start squawking again, listen: these Hollywood folks are going to be here for at least three months or so, not counting postproduction. This town needs that cash influx, not to mention the exposure.”

Taylor added, “As you know, we're a distant suburb of New Orleans; people may or may not find us even when they are looking. This is not just a few dollars, Ris. This show can single-handedly revitalize the Belle Haven economy. You know how tough it's been around here since the flood, the oil spill, and the economy crashing. This is an opportunity to get people into Ruby Ann's restaurant, Sugar's bed-and-breakfast, my gallery. Mac might actually have a few people hand over cash for their house repairs instead of paying him with gumbo and homemade biscuits.”

“Great. So everyone profits from my humiliation?” I was far from mollified.

My mother stepped right in front of me. “Carissa Melody Wayne. How many times have you said you wished you could do something more to boost the economy around here?”

“Yeah, but—”

“But nothing. This is something more. So what if you have to run on a treadmill thingy for the world to see and actually spend some time with the man you used to adore? Who cares what the rest of the world thinks? You have always carried yourself with class and dignity. A few cameras are not going to change that.”

I sighed. My mother had a way of breaking things down in such simplistic terms that I felt foolish for bringing it up in the first place. And then I remembered standing on that damn scale with my weight flashing on a huge screen and bright lights blinding me. And I asked the one question I really needed an answer to. “What about Dad?”

Eloise's face took on the resigned, pinched look associated with any mention of her ex-husband. “What about him?”

“C'mon, Mom! Cameras, publicity, money? How long until he rolls back into town from whatever misadventure he's been on and makes this situation even worse than it already is?” My father, Stacy Wayne, known to all as “Blue,” was the quintessential rolling stone. Blue was a talented musician and entertainer but a lousy father and husband. He wanted to be wherever the action was and the spotlight shone brightest, preferably on him. He met my mother when she was singing and playing piano in a New Orleans lounge. One year later they were married with Ruby Ann on the way.

The first time Blue Wayne was forced to come home to a tired wife and a screaming baby, he announced that he was going out for formula. He didn't come back for three years. Swearing to do right by Eloise, he talked his way back in. A year after that, I arrived. Six months later a talent scout offered Blue an opportunity to do session work in Nashville. He was packed and gone before sunset. The first time I spent more than twenty-four hours in a row with him, I was three years old. And I could count on one hand the number of times we'd spent significant quality time together since.

His visits home had been both infrequent and insincere. Finally, one hot summer night when he was sneaking out the back door with his suitcase, his guitar, and that month's rent money, my mother decided she'd had enough. She told him to leave an address where she could forward the divorce papers and bolted the normally unlocked door behind him. I was five years old at the time.

Since then, Blue tended to visit when his funds got low or he was looking for some sort of an ego stroke. Most of the town thought that Blue had hit the big time in Nashville, playing on records for B. B. King and Bobby Bland. What they didn't know was that he usually spent more than he made. Blue Wayne spent the majority of his adult life on the road playing gig after gig just to make ends meet. As far as I knew, he'd never remarried, owned a home, or settled down. Just imagining his reaction to actual Hollywood camera crews in Belle Haven and an opportunity for a payday was enough to make me want to scrap the whole thing.

Eloise tilted her chin upward with dignity. “Don't you worry about Stacy Wayne. If he shows up, I'm ready for him.”

Ruby Ann and I exchanged glances. That could mean anything. And none of it good. I changed the subject. “Fine. But really
no
one could tell me? I look a hot mess and I would have appreciated a little heads-up before seeing Mal again.” What I really could've used was a four-day head start to get the hell out of town, but that was neither here nor there.

Mac shot me a look. “Say I came to you two days ago and told you about all this? Where would you be right now?”

“As far away as my Visa balance would allow,” I snapped.

“I believe you answered your own question,” Mac finished.

Ruby Ann rolled her eyes. “It's a few months of your life. Suck it up.”

Middle Mike added quietly, “Sorry, cuz. We couldn't think of any other way. You didn't do bad up there, though.”

I shrugged. “What options did I have?” They all fell silent. I shook my head. “Well, what's next? I'm sure you all have plotted and schemed how you want the next few months to go? I assume visits to each of your establishments with camera crews following? Basically be a walking commercial for the great town of Belle Haven?”

Sugar clapped her hands. “See now? That's the kind of love I'm looking for.”

They all looked at me expectantly. After a deep sigh, I gave in. “Fine.”

A collective sigh of relief was heard.

Taylor stepped forward and gave me a hug. “Sorry about springing Mal on you. But maybe this is for the best. Give you a chance to get some closure. Put the past in the past?”

My mother snorted. “Or to pick things back up again and put them right, if you ask me.”

I crossed my arms and tapped my foot. “Respectfully, Mama—did I ask you?” Sometimes my mother drove me crazy with her unsolicited remarks.

“No.” Eloise sniffed and smoothed her hands down her silk and linen suit. “But I'm telling it anyway.”

“Mama, don't start in on her,” Ruby Ann admonished, with another roll of the eyes.

“Since when is telling the truth not allowed? Carissa Melody Wayne and Malachi Henry Knight belong together. Everybody in this town has known that since they were in junior high school!”

“I don't think Malachi got that memo, Mother,” I said in a quiet voice that indicated I was done talking about it. In fact, the whole wretched morning was starting to catch up with me.

Mac caught my eye and nodded. “Why don't we clear out and let you, uh . . . marinate on the morning?”

The door to the office swung open and a tall skinny kid with thick-rimmed glasses, skinny jeans, and a nervous expression stepped inside. “Hey, Carissa, I'm Ren, your production assistant. Is now a good time?”

“For what?” I said in not my friendliest tone.

“Er. Uh. Well. To go over your paperwork and the filming schedule?”

This was it. I was about to sign my life away . . . literally for the foreseeable future. Opening up parts of my life I had no interest in dissecting on film. For all to see. It was a nightmare. Ren slid a folder in front of me with the
Losing to Win
logo on it. Flipping it open, the first thing I noticed was a check made out to me in the amount of ten thousand dollars. I picked up the check and studied it. It was drawn from a local bank. With this check, I could afford to pay Mac to finish the upgrades on my house and maybe get Ruby Ann the new grill top she wanted for her restaurant. With a few more checks, I could restore the backyard jungle into presentable gardens. Buy my mama the grand piano she'd always wanted. Maybe I'd finally lease some space for the youth center I was to open someday. I could set aside a nest egg. I could travel.

Suddenly, I got it. My miserable existence for the next few months equated to business and money for my hometown and those I cared about. It was a chance to get out from under, a chance to get ahead. This is what they called “taking one for the team,” and I could walk away in a better place physically and financially. I mean, how bad could it really be? I closed my eyes briefly and nodded slowly.

“Sure, Ren. Now's a great time. Come on in.” I pretended not to see the relieved looks my friends and family exchanged as they filed out the door.