My Mail Order Wife (The Value of a Man Book 1) (2 page)

Thurston awoke at 6:30 am feeling more like he had been ridden hard, put away wet, and pulled back out to be spanked for good measure. He smelled like he had been doing something illegal and his mouth tasted like a bad weekend in Tijuana. Quietly, he made his way to the bathroom to relieve himself, wash his face, and brush he gunk off his teeth; a very empty stomach growled loudly enough to wake the people in the next room. Luckily, there was a phone in the bathroom and he dialed room service to request breakfast for two.

In the dimly lit room, his angel slept on the settee at a very uncomfortable angle. 
Her leg and arm are going to be asleep when she wakes up
. Based on the position that she slept in, he could not get a good look at her face.  He pulled one of the extra blankets from the bed to cover her up, since the position in which she slept afforded her very little modesty in the skirt she wore. It made him feel pervy for even noticing the hot pink undies she had on. He called back to room service and ordered her a toothbrush.  Whoever she was, he was in her debt.

While he waited for the food to arrive, he checked his messages.  One was from his boss, who praised whatever he did last night and spoke of the staggering contributions that were made. Funny.  He could not recall even half of what he said, which was even funnier, because the conversation he was about to have with his rescuer, he would recall every minute of for the next two months.

Thurston made quick work of showering and brushing his teeth, hoping to give room service ample time to deliver breakfast. He dressed comfortably in a tee and loose-fitting slacks, and then he entered the main suite to find her awake and directing the room service attendant.  He was surprised when she gave the young man a tip.  Thurston leaned against the wall as he watched her pour a cup of coffee for herself, then arrange the food on the table for them both to enjoy.  He still had not gotten a full look at her face.

She was African American, with blondish-colored hair, and from what he could see, a good figure.  As she turned to face him, her large brown eyes danced when she started walking quickly towards him saying, “Thank goodness!  If you didn’t come out of there soon, I was going to be rude and come on in to use the bathroom.”

He was shocked when she physically shoved him out of the doorway so she could close the door.  He could hear the flow of her bladder being released along with a very audible, “Ahhhhhh!”

She returned from the bath to join him at the table, “I can’t stay long, I have to get home. If I can get to the Metro, I can get home in about an hour.”

“Where do you live?”

“Compton,” she told him as she lowered her head, mumbled a few words, and grabbed a croissant.

This was really weird for him.  He was a staunch conservative and having a woman whose name he didn’t even know spend the night with him was unusual to say the least, even under regular circumstances. “I cannot thank you enough for your help last night…”

He left it open, hoping she would say her name but instead she replied, “Yeah, you were in a bad way there, man.  You are so lucky I just happened to come along.”

She said this as she shoveled eggs in her mouth while looking down at her watch.  He watched her with interest.

“I am thankful.  My name is Thurston Crom…”

“Yeah, I heard, Thurston Cromwell the fourth, great mouthpiece of the GOP political message machine… saves the middle class, no more free stuff, you grubby poor people, send Obama packing… yes, I heard,” she told him as she rolled her eyes upwards. “You gonna eat that bacon?”

He slid his plate over to her, “Thanks.  I am starved.  I missed dinner last night, trying to be on time for work.  I never even got a chance to clock in last night…” she told him as she also scraped his eggs off his plate and onto hers.  “Usually after one of the functions, there is always a plate left over that I can bag up to take home…”

She stopped talking as he rose to grab his wallet.  “Please allow me to compensate you for your time in assisting me,” he said as he removed several bills from his wallet.

The lady sprang to her feet, “Hold up Mouthpiece; it ain’t that kind of party!”

“I simply wish to pay you for your missed wages last night, and of course, your time…” he quit talking.  “Yes, you are right, that does sound bad.”

“Can I at least get your name?”

She was nibbling on the other croissant, “You can call me Tae-Tay,” she said as she waggled an acrylic-covered nail at him.

Thurston’s eyebrows went up, “And that is short for what, if I may ask?”

She looked at him as if he had done something wrong, “TataLavisha.”

“Who?” he asked before he could catch his social faux pas.

“I said,” and he was surprised when she actually rolled her neck with the words, “TataLavisha.  You can call me Tay-Tay.”

It was difficult, but he swallowed his laughter, “Do you have a last name TakaLav…”

“Ta-ta-La-Vee-Sha! And the last name is Brown,” she added as she rolled her neck back in the other direction.

He wasn’t expecting anything as simple as Brown to be her surname. His face must have said so.  “My mama thought the last name was too boring, so she jazzed up the first. I guess she wanted to make sure I would only have minimum wage jobs for the rest of my life.”

Thurston could not help but smile.  There was something about this woman that spoke to him. “If I can’t compensate you, what can I do to repay you for helping me?”

She sat down her cup and exhaled.  Her next words he was not prepared to hear. “Unlike your message last night, not everyone is out for a free handout, Mr. Communicator.  There are some people who do the right thing simply because it is the right thing to do.  You were in trouble.  I helped. Nothing more.”

He leaned forward, eyeing his empty coffee cup.  She noticed and picked up the carafe and poured him a cup of the hot black brew. He spoke softly, “Understood.  May I ask why you stayed?”

“Because you needed me and you asked me to,” she said.

Her stare was flat, but there was something behind her eyes.  Something deep, complex, and engaging. “Do you always do what is asked of you?”

A perfectly arched eyebrow shot up, “Do you?”

Thurston found himself smiling at her. “I try to make a difference.”

“For who, rich white folks?”

He shook his head, “No, for all Americans.”

She literally blew air between her lips creating a raspberry. “That is not what you said in your speech last night.  Your message didn’t include all of anybody.  Last night, your message was geared towards those checkbooks.”  She was frowning at him with disgust as she leaned forward on the table. “Having money doesn’t make you better than anybody else; it only gives you more opportunities.  Unfortunately, with that money, you don’t do anything good with it.  The next year and a half, the only thing that money is going to be used for is to pay off people and buy billions in negative ads.”

“You seem to have this whole thing figured out, don’t you?” Thurston said with equal disdain.

“No, I just have you figured out,” she told him as she gulped down the glass of orange juice.

“And what have you figured out about me?” He truly wanted to hear her view.

“You are bidding your time.  You are waiting for someone to die,” she said flatly.

“What?  Taka-tay-veesha—you have some nerve. You don’t know me!”

She stood and gathered her few belongings. “Oh yes I do.  Men like you have no real value.  You only become valuable by either the needs of a child or the needs of a woman.  Your own self-value you won’t discover because circumstance defines you.  Your circumstance will be defined by either your father dying and leaving you his wealth, or a senator dying and giving you an opportunity to fill his seat.  In the meantime, you just take up space, being paid to rehash someone else’s ideas, with none of your own. You are waiting for someone to make you relevant.”

Thurston was offended by her words and struck out at her with harsh words, “And what are you doing that is so magnificent in Compton for your fellow man?”

“You may be surprised, Mr. GOP.  I came to your rescue, didn’t I?” she said as she grabbed her purse.  “Thanks for breakfast.”

“I’m not through talking to you Takaveesha!”

“But I am done talking to you.  Glad you feel better,” she told him as she opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

He wanted to run after her but the coffee hit his stomach like a rock and he realized she had eaten all of the food.  He scrambled to get back to the bathroom.
To hell with her… she didn’t know what she was talking about
.

Thurston returned to his New York office on Friday morning, no worse for the wear, but still not quite one hundred percent. He received a few welcome backs from people he had never noticed before.  Congrats was shouted at him for the record number of donations received from his visit to Los Angeles, yet the trip had left a hole in him.  The hole only grew larger when his assistant rushed into his office asking, “Did you hear?  Did you hear?”

“Hear what?” he asked as he settled, or at least attempted to get comfortable, behind his desk.  Since returning from LA, he had been restless and uneasy, feeling as if something big was coming his way.

“Congressman Owens is in the middle of a horrible scandal.  His girlfriend has gone public with all sorts of documents and details about his financial misconduct, and the poor man has had a heart attack. It is uncertain if he is going to make it,” Vickie, his assistant said, sounding as if she had just won the lottery.

“Vickie, you make this seem like good news,” he stated drolly.

“It is.  This means there is an open seat in Congress and it is your turn,” she said. There must have been something in the air because suddenly, everything became more intense. The air was electrified and every staff member was flitting about, whispering his name.

Finally Vickie turned back to him, “Aren’t you excited?  This is great news!” 
To you maybe
. His value as a member of the party increased, but maybe that Takavesha woman was right; did he have any real value as a man in this party? He wasn’t even sure what platform he would run on if called upon to seek the vacant seat. Even if it was his turn.

It is a common misconception that all African Americans or Negros arrived in America the same way, on a slave ship. The Cromwell’s, like John Pedro and others arrived at the shores of Virginia like many whites, as indentured servants. After working hard as a skilled tradesman, many of these servants earned their freedom and entered into a different class of socioeconomics that held no ideology of racial inequality.  Many of these men were free and owned land, voted and testified in courts. Others were teachers of industry and farming, instructing land and plantation owners how to grow rice and tobacco as they did in their own countries.

The Cromwell’s were learned and skilled craftsmen who worked hand-in-hand with White landowners and businessmen.  Well-spoken and well respected, Elijah Cromwell opened one of the first trading posts in upper New York, selling grains and apple seeds to farmers as far west as Vermont. Since 1622, a Cromwell was a leader of the community.

Fast-forward to the new millennia, and times had not changed.  Thurston Cromwell, a Harvard educated lawyer, teacher and political advocate for conservatism, married well.  He understood that there was new money, old money, and even older black money. His son, and namesake, also married well, although she was more new money than he would have preferred; they also produced fine sons and several daughters who married well.

Thurston Cromwell the third was a different sort of bird who loved power.  The more he could muster, the better he felt.  Unlike his father and grandfather, he was not content to have his fair share; he wanted the lion’s share.  Under his direction, the family fortune quadrupled, which brought with it a different kind of power—political power. He was never one to stand in the limelight; he preferred to pull the strings from the background. He married a quiet woman of impeccable breeding and high station who had the personality of a wet noodle.  With no real presence nor a real voice of her own, she did as her husband instructed and even bore him three well-mannered children. Veronica, their daughter was married off to man of equal standing who had the disposition of a sad clown.  This led the way to the birth of four little sad puppets that continued the family line of following instructions.

The second son, born with a high functioning form of autism, did not earn the moniker of Thurston the fourth and was often seen poking about the gardens on the estate of the upper New York home. In the winter months, he poked about the greenhouse, caring for his plants and flowers. Now in his mid-thirties, many in the family often envied Lawrence because he did not know any better, which made him the one true happy person in the whole clan.

The younger son, now approaching 32 years of age, was a mover and shaker.  A man with his own mind, but tied to tradition and family. He followed instructions like those before him, whether he wanted to or not.  Thurston Cromwell the fourth was educated at Princeton and held an undergraduate degree in communication and advanced degrees in public administration and a Juris Doctorate from the Harvard School of Law. In him, his father saw opportunity. His father wanted him in Congress.

With careful finesse and structuring, an internship was acquired for a young Thurston at the Republic National Committee.  With an impressive educational background and former editor of the Harvard Journal of Law and Public Policy, he was pulled into the fold with giddy anticipation.  In less than a year he had climbed in the ranks and in two years, he was the Head of Communications for the party. A political future was on the rise for him.  The scandal that loomed overhead for Congressman Owen was ideal for him to make his move.

His phone rang.  It was his father, “Son, that Congressional seat is yours.  We just have to get your married before the campaigning starts.”