Mama Dearest (6 page)

A
FEW HOURS LATER
, I wake up in soft, apple-green Egyptian cotton sheets, sunlight slicing thinly through long vertical bedroom blinds.
S. Marcus is standing bare-chested at the foot of the bed, holding a silver tray with a single rose, bacon, eggs, sliced fruit and a glass of cranberry juice on it.

“After last night, I thought you might be hungry, so I got some breakfast for you.”

I ran my hands through my hair, trying to compose myself. “You cooked for me?”

“Well, not really,” he said, setting the tray across my lap and giving me a gentle kiss on my forehead. “My chef, Danni, made this. And then I gave her the day off. I hope you don’t have plans. I want to spend the day with you.”

I smile wider than I want and say, “I wish I could, but I leave today.” I don’t know what makes me happier, the breakfast or the fact that my dream boy has his own personal chef.

“Where are you going?”

“Tallahassee, then North Carolina. Raleigh-Durham, to be exact.”

“For what?”

“I told you I’m an actress. I’m in a show and we open there tomorrow. I wish I could stay in Miami. I really do.”

“Then I will come to Raleigh-Durham in a couple of days to see you.”

“That would be nice,” I said.

“How long is this tour thing?”

“Right now I don’t know. The producers are talking about adding some cities, but quite honestly I’d just as soon go back to my home in New York.”

S. Marcus sits down beside me and takes my hand tenderly. “Does it pay you a lot of money?”

“I do okay,” I say with a sip of juice.

“How long have you been acting?”

Not willing to give up my age until I find out how old S. Marcus is, I say, “Not long. I’m looking for a big break.”

“Have you ever thought about doing a reality show?” S. Marcus asks.

“Yeah, I have. Why do you ask?” Could this man be more perfect?

“I think a show about the life of a not-so-well-known actress might be interesting. They could follow you on the road with cameras. I have some investors trying to break into television and this might be the way in. They invested in some young singer a couple of years ago, but when she made it big, her daddy and stepmom cut them out.”

“How do you know I’m not famous? I had a hit record a few years ago,” I said proudly.

“So did that chick Sparkle. But now the only gig she’s got is testifying in the R. Kelly trial.” He paused, cupping my chin in his large hand. “I think we could make this happen.”

“Really?” I said, thinking that if this man is as good in business as he is in bed, I might be on the verge of that comeback. But before I can say another word, he leans in and starts kissing me all over again.

Maybe my luck is changing.

Ava Parker Middlebrooks stood before her daughter Yancey’s Upper East Side town-house door, holding the gold key in her hand. She said a little prayer before attempting to slip the key into the lock. She hoped it would fit, hoped her daughter had not changed the locks in the seven years that Ava had been away.

Ava was given a fifteen-year sentence for attempted murder, but had been released yesterday morning on the condition that she stay in New York during the first two years of her probation. Ava practically had to beg Yancey to write a letter stating that her mother could stay with her. The clothes she had been dragged to prison in had been given back to her—a violet St. John’s pantsuit. She was sure only the shoes, a pair of open-toed pumps, would now fit, she’d gained so much weight. The pantsuit sat on the prison’s discharge counter, crudely folded, waiting for her to pick it up. Not that she wanted it, considering how terribly out of style it was now. Who said a St. John’s purchase would never get old? She was also given back her two-tone Philippe Patek watch, a gold ring, a necklace and the small
amount of cash she had on her, which totaled over four hundred dollars. This was a long way from the days of villas and yachts in Europe, where Ava had spent many of her adult years.

Standing in the drab gray release room, after counting all the money she had in the world, Ava realized that she didn’t have enough to fly back to New York City. At least not first class, and there was no way in hell she was flying anything but.

“Is it all there, Ava?” asked a burly older corrections officer with broad shoulders and salt-and-pepper, close-cropped hair. He had been working there all seven years that Ava had been incarcerated, but this was the first time she had given him a second look. He was actually quite handsome. He appeared to be five years or so younger than Ava, so he was really the right age. But she figured even if he received a bonus or overtime, he only made fifty grand tops. For Ava to even consider him, he’d have to add at least two more zeros to the end of that figure. Besides, wealthy men would be lining up once they heard that Ava was free and single again. She still saw herself as a traffic-stopping beauty with big doe-brown eyes and long, thick lashes. The country girl called Miss Brickhouse by boys in her hometown when she strolled down the street in Jackson, Tennessee. The girl who had become a woman and lived her life large with few regrets and fewer attachments. Ava had dined with Moroccan royalty, partied with rich Frenchmen, married a count and been pursued by wealthy men all over the world. But her fall from grace was a long, hard fall because of how high she had climbed so fast.

“Yes,” Ava smiled, batting her eyes at the muscular man. “Everything is here.”

After five hours of freedom, Ava found herself in seemingly the most disgusting place on earth—a small-town Greyhound bus station, wearing her outdated, too-tight fashions at that.

She had landed there after countless failed attempts at reaching her daughter to have her wire money for clothes, a first-class plane
ticket, and some extra cash to get her nails, hair and eyebrows done. Ava couldn’t even think about stepping on a plane looking the way she did. What if she were seated next to an eligible, aging man on her flight to New York City? A man with, let’s say, millions in the bank. A generous man with a failing heart, who knew he had only a limited time left on this earth, but wanted to marry a beautiful, incredibly fabulous, middle-aged woman and leave her his fortune.

After standing around next to pay phones for hours, waiting for Yancey to call her back, Ava finally accepted the fact that she would have to use the bus ticket provided by the state to get back to New York.

Why hadn’t Yancey returned her calls? Ava wondered. The two had called a truce over their mother-daughter battles while Ava was in jail. Yancey had accepted her collect calls during the seven years Ava was away and had even visited her mother at least twice a year. Maybe Yancey didn’t know that Ava was being released early.

With ticket in hand and the bus in sight, Ava made one final attempt to get in touch with Yancey. When she couldn’t, Ava lowered her head and sadly boarded the bus as if its destination was not New York, but back to the prison she was released from.

The ride was a horrible nine-hour affair, filled with the noise of a screaming infant, a quarreling couple and a group of immigrants arguing in a language that Ava didn’t understand.

Ava huddled in a window seat, staring out at the darkened, star-filled sky as the countless miles sped past her. This was the lowest she had ever felt. Lower than when she was convicted and sent to jail. At least there she was considered a diva among her fellow inmates, passing out makeup tips and sharing stories of life among the rich and famous. At that moment on that speeding dark bus, with the portable bathroom only three seats down from her, smelling so bad it made her stomach do somersaults, Ava vowed she would never sink this low again.

When Ava reached the Port Authority on 42nd Street in New York, she quickly hailed a cab and was taken to more familiar, appropriate surroundings—Yancey’s fancy East Side town house.

And that is where Ava stands now, staring down at the key in her hand. She exhales, points the key in the direction of the lock and then pushes it into the tiny slit. The tumblers flip and Ava looks toward the sky and smiles as she pushes open the door.

“Yancey, sweetheart,” Ava calls into the vast space that was Yancey’s town house. “Your darling mother is home. Free at last.” There is no response.

Closing the door behind her, Ava steps down the three stairs that lead into the sunken living room. She turns in a circle looking around at the apartment she helped her daughter purchase. Yancey had done nothing with the place in seven years. Ava thought the child would’ve at least updated the furniture, had the place repainted, something.

“Yancey, darling,” Ava calls again, walking toward the kitchen. Still not receiving a response, she opens the refrigerator door, pulls out a quart of skim milk and twists off the top. She brings the plastic container to her nose and, as expected, it is spoiled. Ava doesn’t notice any fresh flowers in the house, which Yancey always loves to keep. This makes her suspect that her daughter hasn’t been home for some time.

Ava examines the stamped date on the plastic bottle and notices that the milk expired almost two months ago.

Suddenly, the phone rings, startling Ava. She walks quickly across the thick Persian living room rug to answer it.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” a somewhat high-pitched, girlish voice says. “Is this Ms. Yancey Braxton?”

Ava thought for a moment, figuring that maybe this call could give her information as to where her daughter is. “Yes. This is Ms. Braxton. How may I help you?”

“This is Sharon Dale, Mrs. Weeks your real estate agent’s assistant.”

“Oh, yes, hello, Sharon.”

“I have a very wealthy couple from Russia who are extremely interested in your apartment. They saw it online and Mrs. Weeks thinks they’re ready to make an offer. I have even more good news. If they like it, and I know they will, it will be a cash sale.”

“Really?” Ava said, wondering why Yancey would want to sell this prime property. Yancey had purchased this exclusive 2,700-square-foot town house with Ava’s help. At least that’s what she led Yancey to believe, but the money actually came from a life insurance policy her own mother had left Yancey. Essie Dean had left everything to Yancey to spite Ava, whom she never forgave for getting pregnant in high school and leaving Jackson, Tennessee, soon after to pursue a career on Broadway. But Yancey never knew this and Ava had her attorney do a quick deed shortly after the purchase converting the property to herself. Now was as good a time as any to stake her claim.

“They want to come by this afternoon and see it. Can we bring them by?”

If they were to buy it, where would Ava stay? She’d be homeless, and although she never thought it possible, that would be a worse situation than being in prison. The husband who’d divorced her while she was incarcerated had made it quite clear Ava wouldn’t be welcome at his door. Thinking fast, she answered, “No. This afternoon isn’t good.”

“May I ask why?” The assistant sounded annoyed.

“Because I’m stepping out,” Ava said quickly.

“That’s no problem, we have a key.”

“No. Let’s just schedule it for another day, shall we?”

“Ms. Braxton, we’re talking over two million dollars. This is a tough
market. The Povliks are only in town for another two days. If we can’t see your apartment today, I’m going to have to show them something similar in the area.”

“Then maybe that’s what you should do. Besides, I’m seriously considering taking it off the market,” Ava said.

“Are you sure?” the woman asked in disbelief.

“What part of that don’t you understand? Good day, Sharon.”

About an hour later, Ava found herself on the corner of 86th and Lexington Avenue at the boutique grocer Euperican. It feels good to be back, Ava thought as she strolled the aisles of the store that carried the freshest fruit, seafood, breads and fine wines—in short, everything Ava was accustomed to and missed.

As she slowly and carefully walks down the narrow aisle of well-stocked domestic and imported food from all over the world, Ava doesn’t know what to put into her cart first. She decides on a nice bottle of Pinot Noir and a box of crackers.

By the time she reaches the checkout counter, there are two bottles of wine, champagne, a jar of inexpensive caviar, block chocolate, strawberries, fresh prawns, two very lean medium-size filets and a chocolate truffle that Ava knows will melt on her tongue like butter on a warm biscuit.

Ava takes each item from her cart and places it carefully on the conveyor belt as the smooth-faced checkout girl scans the items.

“That will be $282.95, ma’am,” the girl said with a smile.

Ava pulls money out of one of Yancey’s designer handbags she’s borrowed. She starts counting the bills, laying them flat on the counter’s surface. “That’s two hundred and ten, two hundred and twenty,” and then Ava lays her last bill down. “Two hundred and twenty-five dollars.” She looks up at the girl. “How much did you say it was again?”

“It’s 282.95, ma’am.”

“I see,” Ava said, more embarrassed than she’d ever been on New York’s East Side.

“You want to put this on a credit card?” the cashier asked.

“Don’t you think that if I had a credit card I would have given it to you?” Ava snapped.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that …”

“Yes, you are—very sorry,” Ava said as she sank her hand back into her purse, fishing around for more money. When she found nothing, she became friendly once more. “Just put back one of the bottles of wine, hon.”