Don't Tell A Soul (12 page)

PAM

 

 

 

 

I
don't know what Troy and I were thinking when we bought this gigantic house! Cleaning it is more than a notion, especially since we had to let the housekeeper go because we couldn't afford her anymore. The kids help out some, but Troy does absolutely nothing, even though his studio-study area is the worst part of the house.

I haven't given this room a good cleaning since Troy moved all of his equipment in here two years ago. When I almost choked on a dust ball the other day while trying to listen to Troy's new song, I decided to clean it as soon as Troy was gone for an extended amount of time. Aria has a show in Cincinnati, at Kings Island amusement park, for their opening weekend, and Troy tagged along. I would've complained about the trip, except Troy took the kids with him, giving me a couple of quiet days to write.

But first, I have to get this place clean. Just knowing that those dust bunnies are hiding under my furniture and on top of the ceiling fan is messing with my creative process.

I start by removing the first layer of dust from everything. The keyboards, speakers, amps, computer stands, and underneath the couch. Then I remove the couch cushions and get all the candy, chicken nuggets, and spare change—which I should probably put in ajar somewhere for a rainy day. Last but not least, I tackle Troy's desk. His stacks of papers are so heinous that even they're dusty.

I want to throw everything away, but then I hesitate. It would be just my luck if I threw away a contract or receipt or something he actually needs in the midst of his candy wrappers and fast-food bags.

There are three stacks, one for bills—that he probably hasn't paid—one for things that look important, which I'm unsure about, and one for trash. Of course, the trash pile is the largest of the three.

I'm almost done straightening the desk when I find a cream-colored envelope with Troy's name written on the front of it. It's too small to be a greeting card, and the handwriting is curly and pretty—a woman's writing.

I turn the envelope over and over in my hand, wanting to open it, but at the same time wanting to shred it without knowing what's on the inside. Then the scent hits my nose. It's a musky and sexy scent. A familiar scent. I've smelled it for the last eight years.

After swallowing a few times, I carefully open the envelope. I have no idea why I'm trying to preserve it, but something tells me not to rip into it like I want. Involuntary tears roll down my face as I read the words on the page.

I drop the letter to the floor when my trembling hands can no longer hold it. I don't know if I should cry or jump for joy. It's obvious that Troy didn't return all her affections, but did he return any of them? Did they sleep together? Is this why he's worked so hard for her career to take off? Is he planning to leave me once she blows up so that they can be together?

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to calm myself down, but there's no calm way to deal with the fact that your husband might have had a mistress. Might still have a mistress.

The
nerve
of Troy! Even if he doesn't want her, how dare he have my children around this woman, who obviously is hopelessly in love with him? How dare he have her in my home? I had thought when Troy and I had our rough patch with his drinking and driving that it would be the biggest challenge of our marriage.

But this is worse.

I remember lying on my face, praying for Troy. Praying for his life and his salvation. Praying that he'd get up out of that hospital bed and be okay.

And while I was praying, that ho was scheming on my man.

I take my cell phone out of my pocket and call Taylor, but her phone goes directly to voice mail. She's got enough going on right now, anyway, without this to add to it. I think of calling Yvonne, but she is too much of a prayer warrior. Right now I need my ride-or-die friend. I don't want to pray about this right now. I want to drive to Cincinnati and pull out every strand of weave on Aria's head and put my entire foot up Troy's behind.

The clock on Troy's desk says three o'clock. I could be in Cincinnati by seven, and Aria's butt could be beat by five after seven. If only my kids weren't there. I can't let my children see me acting like a fool, no matter how much I want to handle this the street way.

I wonder if Aria's
love
for Troy is what made him take the kids with him to Cincinnati. Maybe he's trying to keep her from making a move. Maybe he thinks having the children there will keep him honest.

No. He's not getting a pass. If Troy really wanted to be kept honest, he would've told me about this and found himself a new artist.

I call Taylor's cell phone again. It goes to voice mail again. Then I call Troy. He answers.

“Hey, sweetie. Me and the kids are in line for a roller coaster.”

“For real? My son doesn't like roller coasters.”

“Well, he's gonna ride today! He's tall enough. It's time for him to man up.”

“Where's Aria?”

“Oh, I don't know. Somewhere with her fiancé, I think. We won't meet up until it's time for the show.”

He doesn't sound like he's cheating on me. As a matter of fact, I've never been surer of anything else. I will interrogate him about Aria, but it can wait. The children haven't had fun time with Troy in a very long time.

“Okay, well, call me later and let me know how the show went.”

“I will definitely call you later. I was thinking maybe we could get on Skype and, you know . . .”

I close my eyes and shake my head. I just found a letter from my husband's possible mistress, and he's asking for an Internet peep show. Only in my world does this type of thing happen.

“Maybe, Troy.”

“What maybe? I'm your husband, or are you entertaining some other brotha at my house?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, then, you better be in front of that laptop in some lingerie as soon as I get those kids to sleep. That's the only reason I got a two bedroom suite.”

“Can the kids hear you?”

“No! They ran ahead. I'm for real, Pam. Don't play me out.”

“Call me later.”

“Okay, babe.”

If I'm not going to Cincinnati, I've got to do something to kill the time until Troy gets home. I pick up the letter off the floor, put it back in the envelope, and place the envelope deep in the stack of important papers. Maybe if it's out of my sight, it'll stay out of my mind for a while.

Writing is the only thing that can help move this mess to the back of my mind. I'd rather sort out the lives of my characters than this mess.

I pack up my laptop and drive to Starbucks, looking like someone hit me with the ugly stick. My thick curls are pushed back with a headband, and I'm not wearing a stitch of makeup. My clothes don't even match. These black-and-white zebra pants really don't go with anything, but especially not an orange and pink Aéropostale T-shirt.

And of course, as soon as I take a seat at my favorite table and get set up, I run into someone I know. And not just anyone. It's Logan.

He smiles and waves at me before I can make an escape, so I just sigh and take a gulp of my coffee. Hopefully, this conversation will take only a moment and won't be too painful.

“We keep meeting here, Pam. What does that tell you?” Logan says as he approaches my table.

I watch him sit, uninvited, but not before I take in how his snug T-shirt clings to his abdominal region and shows a hint of the tattoo on his bicep. Good grief, God made this man fine.

“It tells me that you are stalking me.”

“I was coming here first.”

“I've been coming to this Starbucks for years, man!”

“Okay, I admit it. Ever since I ran into you last week, I've been stopping in, hoping to see you again.”

“And that doesn't sound stalkerish to you?”

“No . . . well, yes, but only from your perspective. I call it trying to link up with a friend.”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“How's the book coming? Have you gotten much work done since our last encounter?”

Encounter?
Logan is tripping. We bumped into each other quite accidentally while both of us were getting coffee. That does not constitute an encounter.

“I've gotten some done. About twenty pages.”

“And this is the second book, right? When does the first one come out?”

“January of next year. It was already written when I signed the deal. The one I'm working on isn't due until December.”

“So we've got months to keep meeting each other here.”

I narrow my eyes at him and frown. “I am going to find a new,
secret
writing spot.”

Logan snatches his shirt near his heart and gasps. “What? Why would you do that?”

“Because I am a married woman, Logan. You know the rest.”

“Why do you think I'm trying to take you from Troy? Do you want to know the real reason I've been trying to meet you here again?”

I nod. “Yes, and it better be good.”

Logan reaches into his inner jacket pocket and pulls out a stack of folded-up pages. He hands them over to me.

“I wanted to ask you to read my writing. I've been writing a novel for about ten years, and you're the only person I know with a book deal.”

I smooth the browned and dog-eared pages out on the table. Clearly, he's had these for a long time. From the looks of them, they definitely predate our meeting, so maybe he is being sincere.

Immediately, I'm captivated by his writing style. The passage is about a young woman who works in her grandmother's soul food restaurant and meets a wealthy entrepreneur who shows interest, but he's unattractive. At the end of the seven pages, I want more. I'm already rooting for the characters, and I want them together. How he managed to do that in seven pages leaves me dumbfounded.

“This is really good, Logan. So good that I have no idea what feedback I could give you. I wouldn't even want you to read my writing. I'm embarrassed that I have a book deal and you don't.”

“Maybe I would if I ever finished the book.”

“You have to! I have to know what happens to Jewel and Rafael.”

“It's a romance, so I'm pretty sure they live happily ever after.”

“Yes, but it's all about the ride.”

Logan grins suggestively. “You want me to take you for a ride?”

“I want you to take readers for a ride. Your writing is incredible.”

“You're going to make me blush, Pam. As dark as I am, that's going to be a sight.”

“I'm just being honest.”

I hand him the pages back, and he refolds them and puts them in his jacket again. “You've inspired me to finish. I never really thought I was that good.”

“I can't wait to read it.”

“I guess I have some time to work on it since Troy is out of town for a couple of days. We're almost done with Aria's CD, you know?”

The mention of her name turns my mood sour. Why did he have to bring her up? “I know all about
that
project.”

“I'm sorry. Did I upset you? I thought you'd want to know since you were calculating how much money Troy is going to make from royalties.”

“I guess it's not the project. It's Aria. I've never liked her, so I don't like to talk about her project if I don't have to.”

Logan seems genuinely surprised. “Are you serious? Aria is a sweet girl. Why don't you like her?”

I shake my head and take another sip of coffee. Of course he has no idea why anyone wouldn't like Aria. She's too gorgeous for me to dislike. He sounds as enchanted with Aria as Troy is.

“Look at me, and then think about her. Why would I want her around my husband?”

Logan looks confused. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Are you kidding me? She looks like a model! She's sexy as all get out, and she sings like Beyoncé, Toni Braxton, and Chanté Moore all wrapped up in one. And plus, she wants my husband!”

“Yes, she's a great singer, and she's gorgeous, but so what? Troy isn't stupid. He knows he has a good woman. And I think all of your worry is in vain. She doesn't want Troy. She's engaged.”

“She does! I found a letter that she wrote him!”

Now, why did I tell him that? I wish I could make those words fly right back into my mouth. Speaking of wide-open mouths, Logan's mouth is hanging open in utter shock.

“What did it say?” he asks.

Men are just as bad as women when wanting to know the scoop! “Nothing, really. I hate that I brought it up. Please don't tell Troy I said anything.”

“I won't, but what did he say? How did he explain it?”