Deep breaths filled Monet’s lungs. Slowly she exhaled out of her nostrils. She picked a ripe mango from the bowl, then squeezed it hard. Juice splattered onto her mother’s arm and onto the perfectly squared crystal-blue island’s tiles.
Her seven-year-old, Nairobi, slowly approached her. “If Daddy doesn’t send you anything, you can have my backpack.” Nairobi was four feet, nine inches. She was a foot shorter than Monet, and she resembled her. Light complexion, almond-shaped eyes, and moderately plump lips. Nairobi wrapped her short arms around Monet’s curvaceous hips and smiled. “But I’m going to need my phone. Please, Mommy.”
Monet uncurled her fingers, letting the mango fall onto the island, then dampened a paper towel. Slowly she wiped the crystals.
Israel handed her grandmother a paper towel. Three feet of separation across the island, Monet wanted her mother to say something. Anything. But Trinity remained silent as she wiped the juice off of her arm.
This time her children deserved to see the outburst Monet often hid, like the lonely nights she wept on his pillow. Bracing her forearms on the tiles, tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Don’t cry, Mommy.” Nairobi dried Monet’s face using the cotton of her mother’s orange maxidress.
Monet firmly spoke. “Brunch is over, girls. Put your plates in the sink. Go to your room and pack an overnight bag. We are going to Atlanta to visit your father.”
She retrieved her phone, then texted her travel agent: I need 3 round-trip airline tickets from BWI to ATL leaving after 6pm today returning tomorrow evening for me and the girls and a hotel suite where you booked my husband. Drivers on both ends.
Monet’s impromptu decision was based on her gut instinct that something was wrong. That, and she was fed up with Kingston’s procrastination of finding their family a new home. And she needed to meet their Realtor, Lilly, eye-to-eye.
Nairobi skipped to the table, stood next to her sister. Israel’s eyes filled with sadness. She shook her head.
They lived south of Baltimore, north of Washington, D.C., where her husband had played professionally. Columbia was ideal for family living, when she thought Kingston would finally become a full-time father. Six bedrooms. Eight bathrooms. Six thousand square feet of living without him was depressing.
Sunrays beamed in her direction through the vertical ceiling-to-floor patio blinds. Shimmering crystals danced along the tiles.
“What about my friends in Jack and Jill? And the Girl Scouts, Mother?” Israel enunciated every syllable. “My perfect attendance at school will be ruined for an overnighter.” She nudged her sister.
“Mine too,” Nairobi blurted.
Israel added, “Daddy is always gone.”
“And he always comes back.” Nairobi’s eyes were wide.
True. They’d primarily grown up without their father around, but damn, it was only for one day. Basketball practice, games, constantly on the road. Monet looked forward to her husband being home when he could. That had changed after he’d recovered from his injury. For the first time—for four consecutive months—Monet was no longer parenting alone. Two months ago, Kingston reverted to the familiar. But why?
“One day from school won’t keep you from getting into a new private school, where both of you will have a clean record.” Undoubtedly, it would ruin the girls’ perfect attendance in Columbia, but no educational institution in Atlanta would care.
Nairobi didn’t move from the dining area. Israel poured homemade lemonade in four glasses, then handed one to her sister, mother, and grandmother.
“Thank you, baby,” the grandmother said.
As she placed her glass on the counter, Monet’s eyes drooped as she looked to her mother, Trinity Baptiste, and pleaded for help.
Her mother stood. “You girls go to your library and read a book. Do not choose one you’ve already read . . . and I want an oral report when I come upstairs.”
“Yes, Grandma,” Israel and Nairobi said simultaneously. Both of Monet’s daughters hugged her, then their grandmother, before racing up the steps.
Waiting until the girls were out of sight, Monet waved her hand over the trash can. When the lid opened, she slammed the mango inside, washed her hands, then cleared the serving dishes from the table for six, which had two empty seats, sometimes three when her mother wasn’t dining with them.
Her mom sat tall on the barstool, arched her back, then crossed her legs. “When did you become so selfish, Monet Baptiste-Royale? Have you ever stopped to think that maybe Kingston needs alone time? He didn’t leave the game because he wanted to. He’s dealing with a lot and you need to give him space.”
Whoa. Wait. “Mother, time and distance? My husband being in Atlanta for two months straight without as much as a visit from his family is dangerous. He hasn’t even come home for a few days.” Her voice escalated as she slapped the tiles. “Anywhere but Atlanta. He wasn’t gone that many consecutive days when he was in the league. You’ve seen the reality shows. Those famished whores will stop at nothing to get at a tall, dark, and handsome man. Especially a celebrity with money.”
Monet had decorated their home with original paintings throughout. The finest imported furnishings. High-end fashion was the norm for her and the girls. Kingston was more fanatical about his clothes. Her husband wouldn’t die in a pair of tennis shoes, unless he was on the court.
Her mother had no comparative basis for love or marriage. Monet missed her husband. He was her truest best friend.
“I’m telling you what I know. Keep acting up. Don’t be surprised if your husband begins to pull away from you. Kingston has given you everything you’ve wanted—and two beautiful children. He could’ve walked away and not married you when you got pregnant in college. Give—”
Monet interrupted, “You told me to trap him before he graduated from high school. I could’ve gotten locked up for having sex with a—”
“He was seventeen going on eighteen, and every university was courting him, Monet. You were twenty-three, single, and looking like a teenager yourself. And his parents were Christians from a small Southern town. I told you that boy was going pro and that the odds were in your favor, and I was right, just like I’m right, right now. My son-in-law earned credit for loving us unconditionally. He could’ve said no to making an honest woman of you when you intentionally got pregnant with Nairobi right before he was drafted from college—”
Interrupting her mother again, Monet said, “You told me to have his second and get the ring that counts!”
“Show respect, Monet. Haven’t I proven Mother knows best? That boy put that rock on your finger. He let you choose every house you’ve lived in. Bought me my own mansion. Let the man exhale, Monet, damn,” Trinity said with disdain. “He’s never lived alone. Let him get it out of his system.”
As she wept in disbelief, Monet’s tears fell onto the tiles. “I can’t replace him. If I lose him, Mother, I’ll die. My husband is my best friend.”
“Stop being dramatic,” her mother replied.
Having Kingston’s babies was strategic, but Monet wouldn’t have wanted to nurture any other man’s seeds. Every cell in her body loved Kingston. He was the only man she’d ever had sex with.