When Valentines Collide (14 page)

“I
needed to hear that us being childless would be okay—that I could be enough for you,” she'd said.

Matthew tossed and turned on his pillowless cot, trying to outrun his demons of guilt, but he couldn't seem to move fast enough. Once again, he abandoned hope of a peaceful night's sleep and kicked off the covers. He couldn't go on like this, constantly second-guessing himself and being ruled by his emotions.

Every day he threw himself into his work, trying not to give his hurt or sense of betrayal breathing room to fester. But there were days when it felt like a cancer and other days when he thought he was blowing things way out of proportion.

It was a damn if you do and damn if you don't situation.

However, one question remained.
Can I give up my dream of children?

The moment he posed the question, his heart rejected it. Why should he have to give up his dream of children when they haven't exhausted all possible avenues—including adoption?

Matthew groaned. Had he just inadvertently proved Chanté's point? He pushed himself up from the cot and paced the room. God, he missed her.

But could he ever forgive her?

He needed to, wanted to, but…

Exhaling a long breath, Matthew realized he needed a longer walk. He slipped out of his dressing room and took a stroll around the studio.

In the last three months, he'd taken this walk around the building's perimeter too many times to count. Each time, he made a mental journey through his life.

Born to a wealthy African-American family was no guarantee of success. His father, an entrepreneurial jack-of-all-trades had just a high school degree and Matthew, the middle child, was not the first to go to college, but he was the first to make it into Princeton. Even after obtaining his Ph.D. in psychology, postdoctoral certification and licensing in marriage and family therapy; Matthew's life didn't truly begin until the day he broke down on a lonely stretch of highway outside Karankawa, Texas, and he walked three miles to Sam's café and met his future wife.

Matthew chuckled aloud at the memory.

After such a long walk, he'd been annoyed the small café didn't have a public phone. The sassy waitress promptly informed him they were a café and not AT&T. A few more witty banters were exchanged and Matthew found himself trying harder to impress the waitress than obtaining roadside assistance. He'd even gone so far as to pay for a sixty-cent cup of coffee with a platinum card.

Chanté was not impressed.

He never did make it to that conference, instead he rented a room in a Norman Bate-ish hotel and returned to Sam's café every day until Chanté agreed to go out with him. To this day, he loved how Chanté never took any crap and could dish out whatever he shoveled her way.

Lord, he missed her.

He took a seat in one of the empty audience chairs and stared up at the stage. In reality, his job was more Hollywood than psychology. Yes, he believed in the advice he pedaled to his guests, but problems couldn't be solved in a fifty-minute show—or during a two-month hibernation.

He stood and circled the studio once again. When he finally returned to his dressing room, it was close to midnight and he was nowhere near ready to try falling asleep. Matthew's gaze fell to the small radio on the dressing table and, despite his vow to stop listening, he turned it on and tuned in to WLUV.

“Hello, it's now midnight, this is Dr. Chanté Valentine and you're listening to
The Open Heart Forum.
Thad, who's our next caller?”

“We have Nicole on line four,” Thad said. “She's having relationship problems.”

“Hello, Nicole. What's on your heart tonight?”

“Hi, Dr. Valentine.” A high, almost childlike voice filtered through the radio. “I'm calling because I'm ready to give up on finding a good man. I swear all the good ones are taken and the ones running around here now are brothers looking either for a sugar momma or their momma period.”

Matthew's heart squeezed at the sound of Chanté's soft chuckle.

“I'm sure it's not as bad as all of that.”

“Humph! I can tell you ain't been out here in a while. Every man I meet wants to run me through a five-point inspection—my weight, my size, can I cook, clean, be a freak in the bedroom, and a good girl in public? Do I have a good job, a nice car? Will I treat him like a king and not question his authority? If I pass all of that, then he'll move his tired butt into my house, prop his feet up on my coffee table, hog the remote and tell me half a million lies as to why he can't get a job.”

Matthew laughed along with his wife at the woman's theatrics.

“Nicole,” Chanté began. “Let me guess, you're meeting these men at a club or perhaps online, am I right?”

“How else are you going meet guys nowadays?”

“The good, ole-fashion way. Friends, neighbors, women at your church—people you can rely on to give you good, solid information on a man's character. I'm not saying that you can't meet any good men from the clubs or even online, but you can swing the odds in your favor by shopping for man like you would shop for anything else. Put him through a five-point inspection. If he fails, move on, don't reward him with a key to your apartment.” Chanté sighed. “We'll be back after this.”

While the show went to commercial, Matthew grabbed his cell phone from its charger. He held the phone for a moment, contemplating whether he should do this or not, but his fingers dialed before he'd arrived at a decision.

The line rang for a full minute and he was just about to hang up when Chanté's producer, Thad, answered the line.

“Yes, I have a relationship problem I'd like to talk to Dr. Valentine about,” he said.

“What sort of problem are you experiencing, sir?” Thad asked, putting him through the screening process.

 

Chanté kept her eyes on the clock. Tonight's shift seemed to drag on forever and her empathy for her callers was at an all-time low. Maybe she needed a little break—finally take Edie up on that book tour she'd promised or something.

Maybe even go home for a visit. Let her parents kiss her boo-boos and make her hot chocolate.

Thad waved and gave a five-second countdown and then the On Air light lit up.

“Welcome back to
The Open Heart Forum.
As you know, I'm your host, Dr. Chanté Valentine. Thad, who's our next caller?”

“On line two, we have Buddy. He's experiencing marital woes.”

“Hello, Buddy. You're our first male caller tonight. What's on your heart?”

“I'm having trouble forgiving my wife.”

Chanté stiffened. “Uhm, I, uh, see.” Her gaze flew to Thad who looked up from his terminal with a question in his expression.

“See, my wife and I have been together for eleven years. Nine and a half were pretty damn good. Wonderful, really. And then just when I thought we were heading to splitsville we had this…reconnection.”

Chanté closed her eyes, remembering that connection all too well.

“But then I found out that she was keeping a secret from me.”

Swallowing the growing lump in her throat, Chanté managed to croak, “All women have secrets. Was her secret meant to protect you or hurt you?”

Matthew didn't answer.

“There is a difference, you know.”

“But one can cause the other,” he said gravely.

“Intentions have to count for something.” At his continued silence, she added, “My husband used to say that forgiving was a process. Maybe you just haven't processed this long enough?” Chanté held her breath.

“I wish that was true. The worst part is…the thing she accused me of…the possibility of living without…something—may in fact be true.”

A tear trickled down Chanté's face. He finally said it. He couldn't live in a childless marriage. She could never be enough for him.

There was a light click over the line.

“Ma—Buddy? Are you still there, Buddy?”

“He hung up,” Thad informed her and then addressed the radio audience. “We'll be back after these messages.” He cut to commercial.

Chanté snatched off her headset and grabbed her things.

“Where are you going?” Thad asked. “Was that who I think it was?”

“I have to get out of here. Stuff the rest of the hour with a repeat broadcast. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep fighting him. I can't keep begging for forgiveness. If he hasn't filed for a divorce, then I will.”

T
rue to her word, the very next day, Chanté filed for divorce. A few hours later, she packed her things, grabbed Buddy and took a flight back home to Texas. Yes, she was running away from a problem—mainly Page Six of the
New York Post—
but she needed a break and she needed family.

Years ago, when Chanté “married up,” as her mother called it, she bought her mom and dad a nice western ranch home—which was a considerable step up from the dilapidated shotgun house Chanté had grown up in.

The moment Chanté pulled her rented Camry into the driveway and saw her mother relaxing on the front porch swing, tears she hadn't known had built up poured down her face.

Within minutes, she was folded snugly in her mother's arms and recounting every detail of the past year.

Alice Morris listened to her only child with a loving patience only a mother had. When Chanté was through, she just continued to hold her until the tears ran dry.

Hours later, at sunset, Leonard Morris pulled his old Chevy pickup truck behind the Camry and found the women still on the porch swing with Buddy curled at their feet.

He lumbered up the stairs with a wide smile. “Is that my baby girl?” After a close-up look at Chanté's red, swollen eyes, his mood took a one hundred and eighty degree turn. “I'll kill him.”

“Ain't nobody gonna kill nobody,” Alice declared, and gave her daughter's shoulders an encouraging squeeze. “What you're going to do is get Chanté's bags out of the car and take them to the guest room. Chanté, go lie down for a spell while I get supper started.” She kissed her daughter's temple and helped her up.

Leonard remained rooted on the porch while he watched the women enter the house. When it became clear that he wasn't going to be filled in on what was going on, he glanced down at the strange dog. “And who the hell are you?”

Buddy barked.

“Well, I guess that's about the only answer I'm going to get tonight.” He turned and meandered back down the steps to get his daughter's luggage.

 

Matthew and the staff had just completed taping. He knew he'd made a mistake in calling into Chanté's radio show. Numerous staffers had recognized his voice and noticed Chanté's emotional response to the caller. The set hummed with rumors and speculation.

Though none of that mattered once he received a call from Chanté's attorney.

Divorce. To separate, divide—permanently.

“All right.” Seth breezed into the room. “I just finished the meeting with the producers and I think you're going to like their offer for another five-year contract.” He stopped and looked over at Matthew. “Are you all right? You don't look so good.”

Matthew gave him a half-chuckle, half-groan response.

“You need to go to a doctor or something?”

“Chanté's attorney called.”

Seth straightened.

“She filed.”

The small dressing room fell silent while Matthew studied his reflection in the mirror.

“I'm sorry, Matt.” Seth placed a hand on his shoulder. “I was really hoping you two would work it out.”

“Yeah. I know. Kidnapping the dog was a little over the top though.”

“What?” His hand fell from his shoulder.

Matthew's lips sloped unevenly. “Cookie told me this morning. She felt guilty about our fight yesterday.”

Seth dropped his gaze and shuffled his feet. “Sorry. I just figured—”

“Don't worry about it. Thanks for caring so much.”

“Well, it was either that or slice your car in half.”

Matthew laughed. “That might have worked better.”

Seth smiled, but remained silent by his friend's side until Matthew stood from his chair and reached for his jacket.

“I gotta get out of here,” Matthew said. “Do you mind if we go over that offer another time?”

“Yeah. Sure. Not a problem.”

“Thanks, man.” He rushed out of the door and made it to his car in record time. The objective was to just drive, clear his head, and wait for the pain in his heart to ease. Instead, he found himself pulling up into his own driveway.

“Oh, hello there, Mr. Valentine.”

Matthew glanced down the yard to see old man Roger lumbering up to him.

“Long time since I seen you here,” he said candidly. “My wife said that she'd come up here with me tomorrow to help get more of the furniture covered, like Mrs. Valentine asked.”

“What? Why would she ask you to do that?”

Roger stared at him strangely. “She said that she was going to be out of town for a few months. 'Course, I just assumed you were going to be with her.”

“A few months?” The words hit Matthew like a ton of bricks. “Did she say where she was going?”

Roger blinked. “Nah, it's none of my business. 'Course I did find it strange that most of your stuff was glued to the furniture, and the amount of duct tape everywhere.”

“It was, uh, just a little experiment we used to do.”

Roger scratched his head as his disbelieving eyes studied Matthew. “Uh-huh. Well, like I said, it's none of my business.” He turned and headed back to finish trimming the hedges.

Matthew glanced up at the house for a long time, but then decided not to go in. What was the point? That part of his life was over now.

He slid back behind the wheel of his car. Again, his objective was to just drive, clear his head, and wait for the pain in his heart to ease. Seven hours later, he arrived in Rochester and on the doorstep of his oldest brother.

“Matthew?” Scott stepped out of his palatial redbrick Colonial. The brothers were the same height and build, despite the ten-year difference between them. “What are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?”

Actually, he didn't. He glanced down at his watch and couldn't believe it was midnight. “I'm sorry. I guess I should have called.”

“Are you all right?” Scott glanced over his brother's shoulder to peer at the car. “Is Chanté with you?”

Matthew's heart squeezed as if it was encased in a steel vise. “No. Chanté isn't with me.” He couldn't bring himself to meet Scott's gaze.

“Oh.” Scott fell silent and then seemed to remember they still stood on the front porch. “I'm sorry. Come on in.” He stepped back and allowed Matthew entry and then closed the door behind him.

“Daddy?”

Matthew turned and lit up when he spotted his five-year-old nephew, Bobby, standing in the center of the staircase in his pajamas. “Oh, I'm sorry, li'l man. I didn't mean to wake you up.”

“Uncle Matt!” Bobby flew down the rest of the stairs and launched into Matthew's arms.

Matthew spun his nephew around and enjoyed the soft scent of baby powder.

“All right, Mini-Me. Time to go back to bed,” Scott said. “It's late.”

“But I want to play with Uncle Matt.”

“C'mon. You know the rules. I'd already let you stay up an extra half hour to play another game of Deadly Dragons. So say good-night.”

Bobby poked out his bottom lip and looked as if he wanted to cry.

“How about if I tuck you in?” Matt said, but shot a questioning gaze over at his brother.

“Yeah! Can he, Daddy?”

Scott drew a deep breath and pretended like his son was asking for a huge favor. “All right, but you have to promise to go straight to sleep.”

“I promise!”

“He's all yours.” Scott slapped Matthew on the back. “I'll go start us some coffee. Something tells me we're going to need it.”

“Black, no sugar,” Matthew reminded him and then held Bobby over his head and pretended he was rocket blasting up the stairs.

Bobby giggled the entire way and when tucked securely into his Spider-Man sheets, he used his big, puppy dog brown eyes to get his favorite uncle to read him a story. “Are you going to be here when I wake up?” Bobby asked, yawning.

“That's looking to be a strong possibility.”

“So we can play race cars?”

“Yes. We can play race cars. Now go to sleep.” He leaned down and kissed Bobby's forehead. “Good night.”

“'Night.” Bobby yawned, rolled over and went to sleep.

At the door, Matthew stalled and cast another glance over at the bed. He sighed at the curled bundle and slid on an effortless smile.

When he finally returned downstairs, his brother awaited him at the kitchen island.

“I started without you,” Scott said, lifting his half cup of coffee. “Which story did he get you to read?”

“Harold and the Purple Crayon.”
Matthew smiled. “You know your son well.”

Scott smiled. “It's not hard. PlayStation, race cars and bedtime stories are his favorites.”

“You're a lucky man, bro,” Matthew said, reaching for his coffee cup.

“I used to be luckier,” Scott said solemnly.

Witnessing his brother's faraway look, Matthew knew Scott was remembering his deceased wife, Barbara. It'd been nearly four years since she was killed in a car accident.

“So tell me what brings you into my neck of the woods at this ungodly hour.”

Matthew drew a deep breath, wondering where he should begin.

“Maybe I should ask what you did? Forget an anniversary or a birthday?”

“I wish it were that simple.” He sighed and took another sip of coffee.

“I know that sigh. This must be serious.” After another beat of silence, Scott added, “C'mon. Spit it out. It's not good for us psychologists to keep things bottled up. Do you know we have the highest rate of suicides?”

“Yeah, my wife brought that to my attention.” Taking a deep breath, Matthew finally spilled his guts. Scott had been aware of Matthew and Chanté's attempts to have a child, but his expression reflected his shock at hearing the shenanigans that transpired between the couple in the passing months.

When Matthew finished, Scott remained rooted on his stool, staring at his brother.

“Are you crazy?”

Matthew sighed, wondering what made him think Scott would ever understand his point of view.

“You mean to tell me that you walked out on your marriage because you couldn't have it all? The wife and the two point five children?”

“I know it sounds bad.”

“You damn right it does.”

“Look, Scott. It's complicated.” Matthew jumped to his feet and paced. “Chanté and I planned every detail of our lives—careers, family and retirement. Then suddenly she starts making decisions without me and the next thing I know, all the plans are flying out the window.”

“Plans? You want to talk to me about plans?” Scott stood and met his brother's direct gaze. “Barbara and I planned to grow old together. We planned for Bobby to have brothers and sisters and to raise them together.”

Matthew dropped his gaze and returned to his stool.

“What are you doing, Matt? You love Chanté. I can hear it in your voice when you say her name. It's in your eyes when you're thinking about her. Fine, she should have told you about the pills, but given what you told me, you didn't exactly create an environment where she could tell you.

“So you and Chanté may never have biological children. Adopt. There are plenty of children in the world who need good, stable homes with parents who'll shower them with love. If that doesn't work out then fine—it's just you and Chanté. Would that really be so bad—to be condemned to a life with the woman you love?

“I envy you. I lost my soul mate. I can't believe that you're so willing to walk away from yours.”

Matthew hung his head—ashamed that that was exactly what he was about to do. There was no other woman like Chanté. No one excited his passion, or drove him up the wall like she did. For the last few months he'd tried to purge her out of his system, but nothing had worked. He had waited years to start his family when he had all he needed in Chanté. “I've been a fool.”

“Damn right you have,” Scott grumbled.

Matthew was on his feet again, pacing. “But what am I going to do? She's filed for a divorce. I don't know where she is. She probably won't ever speak to me again.”

“You know, whenever Barbara and I had a bad fight, she would always take off to her parents', her second comfort zone.”

“Texas,” Matthew said, and then glanced up at his brother. “You know, I think you may be a better psychologist than I am.”

“I like to think so.” Scott clapped his hand across Matthew's back. “Now stop being an egotistical, self-righteous son of a bitch and go get your wife.”