War (25 page)

But Danielle was his dream girl. I know this because I overheard him and Marlon talking in their dorm room one day. I was about to knock and beg Jon to come back to me, thinking that Marlon was in study hall at that moment. But he wasn’t. He was in his dorm with Jon and they were talking about Danielle Rouge.

“If I don’t marry Danny, I won’t marry at all.” That was all Jon said. Nearly twenty years later, he still means that.

              Danielle married him. Dressed him in Tom Ford. Moved him into a million-dollar home in Houston. Had his son. Got bored. Summered in Hilton Head. Met an East Coast aristocrat. Divorced Jon. Moved from that million-dollar home. Married her lover. Had two of his children. And yet…Jon still loves her. Today was the proof I needed. Jon came back to me after Danielle left him and I foolishly thought his heart was with me. But no. It couldn’t have been.

              He and I will never have children.

              I drag two suitcases, a carry-on bag and a toiletry bag out of the bedroom and into the living room. Jon’s standing in the kitchen doorway, slowing drinking a glass of water. He raises his eyes when he sees me walk past. I get as far at the front door when I hear him clearing throat.

              “Marla.” I stop and turn around. He stares at me and says nothing.
Don’t ask me where I’m going Jon because I don’t know. I only have the money you give me. I only have the friends I met from you. Sure, I have some soccer moms that I go to lunch dates with, Trish and Janice. But those friendships are thanks to Nicky. I don’t have anywhere to go but I know I’m not staying here.
I turn around and open the door and head out.

              I’m walking. I’m on the elevator. I’m trying not to cry. My arms hurt from my bags. My head hurts from this evening. The
bing
lets me know that the elevator is on the ground floor and now I’m walking towards the front doors. I don’t know where I’m going. I have absolutely nowhere to go. I could be pathetic and ask Dan to stay with her. I can ask the East Coast aristocrat to save me. But my pride won’t let me. She already sent me to college. Must she give me a home too? Should I go to a hotel? I can go there but what about next week? What about the rest of my life? I have no job. My art history degree isn’t ushering in the offers. I was an assistant at an art gallery when I moved in with Jon. I could get a job but how long will that take? Will I have enough money to live on until I find one? Will Jon cut my credit cards off tomorrow? Will I just go back to Philly? What about Nicky? I pick him up from school. I take him to soccer practice. I have lunch dates with the moms of his teammates.

I stand outside in the cold and look around. It’s too cold to cry. I could cry but it’s much too cold. I close my eyes instead to keep the tears away. I breathe in deeply. The air sends a sharp pain through my nose. I breathe out. I breathe in again and that’s when I smell it
—
something expensive and European. Something French. I open my eyes and see Dan standing there. Another bored look on her face. She says nothing as she brings a leather-gloved hand out of her coat pocket and holds out a key. I lock eyes with her as I take it. She points off to the side. I see a cab on the curb, the cabbie, freezing, blowing on his hands, standing by the back door, waiting for me to enter. She turns around quickly and heads to her town car. Her chauffeur closes the door tightly once she’s safely inside. And then she’s gone. So I head for the waiting cab.

“Ms. Rouge has already paid me,
m
iss,” he says to me with a smile as he points to my bags. “Please, just leave them there.” I nod, drop my bags and head towards the back of the cab, still trying not to cry. The cabbie packs my bags in the trunk and I instinctively look up towards Jon and my condo. I wish he were standing on the condo’s kitchen balcony, watching me leave. So strong. So silent. So proud. And so heartbroken over my departure.

He’s not there.

I get in the cab.

“Did you see her leave?” I hear a voice ask. I look towards the front doors of the building and see Jacob standing there. Frazzled, flustered, his coat unbuttoned. He’s standing next to the valet, darting his head from side to side. Now he’s run onto the curb, looking around confused, nervous, anxious. What happened? My cabbie hops in the car, slams the door and starts to slowly pull away from the curb.

              “She left, Attorney Blair,” the valet calls out from the doorway. “She, Mrs. Blair and Mrs. Beauvais. Just pulled off.” Valet points to Dan’s towncar. Jacob runs a hand over his face and closes his eyes. Is he looking for Winnie?

MALCOLM

              “Mr. Fulton.”

              “Now, Malcolm?”

              “Yes sir.”

              “I know it’s late but I had to call you on this.”

              “Okay…”

              “There’s a woman here—medium build, average height, a lot of hair on her head. Don’t know if it’s hers or mine, but she’s got it and looks like she’s not giving it back. Anyway, she’s here with luggage and a key.”

              “At Danielle’s.”

              “Right. Now I would hope that you all wouldn’t go and sell that place without consulting Mrs. Fulton and I first. We don’t plan on living next to just
anybody
now. This girl seems pleasant enough…said hello, smiled, but still. I’d rather just buy Danielle out of her condo if she plans on giving it away. My brother and sister-in-law would be interested. Willing to pay you top dollar for it.”

              “No worries, Mr. Fulton. She’s just a guest of Danielle’s.”

              “Oh, okay now.”

              “I’m not sure how long she’ll be there but she’s a good friend of ours.”

              “Alright, just checking. How’s that redhead of yours?”

              “Sleeping right now.”

              “On your chest?”

              “Of course.”

              “Uh-huh, that’s what I thought. You give her a kiss for me and Mabel and I’ll come visit you and Danielle tomorrow.”

              “Yes sir.”

WINNIE

              “Winnie? Please, baby.”

              “Jacob!” his mother hisses. “You’ll wake the children.”

              “Jake,” his father says. “Relax, son.”

              “I just wanna talk to her, okay?” I can hear Jacob say.

              “Jake, it’s one in the morning, son.”

I’m sitting at the top the winding staircase inside the mayor’s mansion in Cambridge. Jacob’s mom picked our kids up from Aunt Angie and brought them here. Figured I’d come here, too. I damn sure wasn’t going home.

              Who the fuck does Jacob Blair think he is? Let me tell you a little something about me: I am
thorough
. Bobbed hair, cherry lips, bounced back after four goddamn kids…I keep my shit tight. And this muthafucka wants to fuck around on me? Gwendolyn Yates? His ass must be stupid. Do you know how many men come up to me on a daily basis? Do you know how many drinks get sent to my table at a bar? Do you know how many men would risk death by a Blair just to fuck me one time? And then you tell me that Jacob had the nerve to act like I wouldn’t find out about him and Jasmine? Now, that’s what I call the audacity of hope. Somebody should
write
a biography about that shit.

              Let me get you up to speed about who I am.

I was born an army brat, the only girl of three kids. My father is a beast, in fact, that’s what the soldiers around the base call him. The Beast. He’s been through four wars and came out all of them kicking. My mother is His Woman. That’s what she’s called around the army bases. The Beast and His Woman. She’s perfect: red lips, small waist, Blanicks on her feet, diamonds on her wrist. She’d dare any woman to fuck with her man and she’d dare any man to fuck with
her
. She doesn’t play that shit. No one is, was, or will ever come between her and my dad.

These are the people I grew up with. So imagine how hard it was for me to find my own Beast; someone remotely similar to my dad. Someone who can handle me like my dad can handle my mom. Boston is home to some weak muthafuckas and to be honest, I’ve searched this world over and no one comes quite as close to being a Beast as Jacob Blair.

              But he’s prideful.

He’s arrogant.

He’s much too confident.

              I, Winnie Yates, will bring him down to his knees. I’m going to make that son-of-a-bitch wish he was never born. How dare he fuck with Jasmine’s tired ass? Those pearls. Those A-line dresses. Those phony ass smiles. That high-pitched laugh. Get the fuck out of here. I will
destroy
Jasmine Kyles! And I mean
destroy
her.

              “Winnie,” I hear Jacob saying. “All I need is five minutes. Just five minutes to talk to you. Please, Winnie.” Nope. Beat it, bitch. I don’t have shit to say to you. You were with Jasmine after I left the bar? Are you serious? Are you that bold? Are you that seduced by her? Are you that in love with her? And now the rage is hitting. I’ve been feeling sorry for myself all day but now, at the thought of Jacob loving Jasmine, the rage hits.
Do you know you would be nothing without me! Do you know that if you married Jasmine, you’d be an average Joe? You’d be sitting around the dinner table, calling her dear and watching her A-line dresses twist as she turns to get her casserole out of the oven? Is that what the hell you want! Then go get her!

              “Jacob, I swear before God, if you wake my babies,” his mother, Pammy, says.

              “Ma,
please
. Okay? Please. Please just go get Winnie.” Beg, bitch.
Beg
.

              “Jake, give it day, alright?” I hear his father say. “Come on. Let Winnie have a day to calm down.”

              “Dad-”

              “No, Jake!” his mother snaps. “I’m not about to let you run Winnie and the kids out of here. You got that? She could have gone to anyone in her family, but she came here. And rightfully so. Those are Blair kids. All she asked was that your father and I keep you away from her and dammit, that’s what we’re going to do. We won’t risk losing those kids!”

              “God, Jake…” his father says, his voice low.

              Silence fills the room as Jacob swallows this information. Swallowing it, Jacob? Good. Because I came here on purpose. I’d like to be close but yet so far away. I’d like you to think that your parents are on my side. I’d like for you to feel alone. I’d like to be the one to sit here with your family, by the fireplace, enjoying hot tea and scones while you stand at the front door and beg to come in, like a fucking dog. I’d like to hear them tell you
no
. You’re a daddy’s boy aren’t you? I’d like for your father to tell you that you can’t come in his house. I’d like for you to feel as fucked up as I feel right now, you goddamn bastard. And then when it’s all over, when you’re walking around Boston with a five o’clock shadow, half turned-up collar, and wrinkled suit, I’d like to divorce your ass. I’d like to take you for the rest of what you’re worth. I’d like to show you the files I found in your office safe tonight. The files copied to a memory card off of your hard drive. The ones that mention cover-ups and mistresses and politicians. I’d like to blackmail you with them:
Give me sole custody of the kids or I bring the entire city of Boston to its knees.

I’d like to see the sick look on your face. I’d like to hear your begging turn into threats.

              I’d like to call your bluff.

              “I’ve got evidence, Winnie,” I hear Jacob say.

Huh?

              “What are you talking about, Jacob?” his mother says.

              “I have evidence. Proof that Jasmine was texting me nonstop. Proof that Jon was the one who called the cops on us that night.”

“The cops? What in the world!”

“Proof that I wrote and told Jasmine that I couldn’t see her the night she knocked on our door. I’ve got video footage from the limo company that shows me in the car and then Jasmine coming in, uninvited. I’ve got proof, right here. Please, just let me show you the proof.”

              Silence.

              Wait, is he saying that Jasmine was harassing him? I slide down one step, lean forward and sneak a glimpse of him. He’s standing in the doorway, holding several manila envelopes. His face is blotchy, his eyes are rimmed red and he’s holding the envelopes so hard, his knuckles are red. He has proof? He has proof that he actually…didn’t cheat on me? I don’t believe it. He’s a Blair; he’s good. I don’t believe a stitch of evidence he has in his hands. He’s lying. All of that shit is fabricated. I inch back up on the stairs.