The Ex Files (31 page)

K
ENDALL

The room was small, but it still looked like a telemarketing call center with the computers, telephones, and the two part-time workers Janet hired.

“You have three messages, Kendall,” Janet said as she strolled into the conference room with a tray of pastries.

Kendall took the pink slips, but waved the food away. She shuffled through the messages—another one from Asia, another one from Sheridan. It was only the one from Gilbert Aniston with the National Marrow Donor Program that she planned to return.

“Okay,” she said to Janet. “So, we have everything?”

Janet nodded, her eyes bright. “This is going to work. Mr. Aniston is as positive as I am about this.”

Kendall turned back to the computer screen to review the e-mail that would be sent out. The letter was a request, explaining the situation of a young woman who needed a bone marrow transplant to survive, and encouraging people to become registered donors with the national registry to help either this woman or one of the tens of thousands of patients on the waiting list.

Gilbert Aniston, the director of the national program, had given Kendall this idea when she called his office right after seeing her sister.

“I know the statistics, the chances, the probabilities,” Kendall had said, “but I’m not interested in the challenges, I want to pursue the opportunities. How can I find a donor for my sister?”

“The key is finding that donor,” Mr. Aniston responded. “If there isn’t a match in the registry now, we need to get one for your sister. We can help you put together a campaign, a drive.”

He’d gone on to explain how that could be done and it had only taken Kendall a week—working during the day on her business, and then spending almost the same number of hours at night—to put together this mini-headquarters right in The Woman’s Place, where e-mails and phones calls would go out and people could call in with questions.

On more than one occasion, Mr. Aniston had tried to say, “Please, Kendall, I’m positive, but cautiously so. I don’t want to get your hopes too high.”

But her response was always the same. “My hopes are already high.” And she always added, “My hopes are as high as my faith.” She wasn’t sure why she said that. She wasn’t sure if she had faith anymore. But she knew her father’s faith was real. She figured with his prayers, her efforts, this had to work.

From one of the temporary lines, Kendall dialed the national registry and connected to Mr. Aniston.

“Kendall, I’m just checking in with you. Janet said you’re all set, ready to go.”

“We are. We’re ready to press Send on the e-mails and get the calls started.”

“That’s terrific. Your sister has a great shot at this.”

Mr. Aniston had told her that Sabrina’s chances were good because of her white mother. Being biracial expanded the possibilities.

“Mr. Aniston, as we agreed, there will be no mention of me or my sister from today on.”

“If that’s the way you want it,” Mr. Aniston said, although his tone told her that he still had questions. From the beginning she’d told him that she didn’t want her name associated with this drive. He’d explained how this would be good publicity for her business. But that wasn’t what this was about.

This campaign was being spearheaded by Janet; the e-mails and calls were being made on Janet’s behalf for Hope Johnson, a pseudonym that Dr. Hudson had established with Gilbert Aniston.

When Kendall hung up with Mr. Aniston, she gave final instructions to Janet, then strolled back to her office. Inside, she sat at her desk, and massaged the muscles in her neck that had been overworked from the hours she’d put in researching at her computer.

Her eyes were still closed when Janet knocked on her door.

“Kendall, Mr. Quimby is here.”

Kendall nodded and stood as the disheveled man ambled into her office, looking just like she expected, just like Columbo.

She shook his hand and then sat in the chair next to him. “I gave you all the information I had over the phone,” Kendall said.

Mr. Quimby nodded, “Yes, but I like to meet my clients in person.” Then just like the private detectives on television, he dragged a small pad from inside his jacket. “I’ve got all the details here.” He paused, pulled a package of gum from his pocket and tossed three sticks into his mouth. “You didn’t really give me much,” he said, doing more chewing than talking.

“I know, but that’s all I had.”

He nodded again as he perused his notes. “Well, at least I have a name and last known address. She’s Caucasian, right?”

As much as she hated to, Kendall nodded.

“Well, let’s get started. It’s more information than I get sometimes.” He chuckled.

“How long do you think this will take?”

He shrugged and chomped, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. As if her sister weren’t dying. “Depends on how good the information is that you gave me.” He smiled. “But, don’t worry, little lady, I’ll find”—he paused, looked at his notes—“Shelly Smith for you.”

“Great.” Kendall stood. “As we discussed, Mr. Quimby, if…when you find Ms. Smith, I don’t want my name mentioned. Not to her, not to anyone.”

He shrugged and they shook hands before Kendall sent Mr. Quimby on his way. To do his job. To find Sabrina’s mother.

She returned to her desk. She didn’t like that man—didn’t like that he called her little lady or that he talked with a mouthful of pink matter. But she didn’t care what he called her or how he looked, as long as he did his job. And, he’d come highly recommended from Pastor Ford. Not that Kendall had told anyone—except for Janet—what she was doing.

But between the donor drive and Mr. Quimby, every base was covered.

She glanced at the message slips on her desk—one from Sheridan and the other from Asia. Maybe there
were
more bases to cover.

She picked up the phone and called Sheridan first. After she asked her partners for prayer, every base would truly be covered.

A
SIA

Power trumped money.

No amount of cash could have changed a thing with Child Protective Services. But power changed everything.

Only a week had passed since Asia had talked to Sheridan, yet between Sheridan’s mother and her aunt, here she was back in Ms. Thomas’s office with Sheridan at her side. The two stood at the two-way mirror watching Beatrice Collins and Angel chatting like old buddies. It was clear this interview would proceed better than the last one.

Angel and Beatrice were already friends—they’d met last night when she and Angel accompanied Sheridan and Tori to LAX to pick up Beatrice.

At first, Asia had felt as if she were intruding, the way mother and daughter and granddaughter greeted each other at the baggage claim with tears and hugs, like they hadn’t seen each other in weeks. Turned out, her assessment had been correct. Almost two months before, Beatrice had traveled to San Francisco.

But after she greeted Sheridan and Tori, Beatrice had turned her charm to Angel. “Call me Nana,” the silver-haired woman said as she hugged Angel. “That’s what Tori calls me.”

Angel had turned to Tori. “This is your Nana?”

Tori nodded, shrugged, as if it were no big deal.

But this was major for Angel, and she was delighted to claim Beatrice as her own.

It had been Beatrice’s idea that the five dine together last night, with Angel sitting at her side. By the time they parted, Angel was demanding to know when she would see her grandmother again.

“This is going well,” Asia whispered to Sheridan as she watched Beatrice ask the same questions Ms. Lloyd did last week. This time, Ms. Lloyd sat to the side.

But when Beatrice’s questions turned to Bobby, once again Angel’s eyes filled with fear.

“It’s okay,” Asia heard Beatrice’s soothing manner through the speakers. “You know you’re safe with me, right?”

Angel nodded.

“I promise, you can tell me anything and I will keep you safe.”

Sheridan whispered, “It may be better if we wait downstairs. I saw a coffee shop on Pico.” It still took a moment to nudge Asia away.

Asia exhaled a long breath when they finally sat in the café. “This is so hard.” She held up her hand. “I trust your mother and I’m so grateful that she’s here, but did you see Angel’s face?”

Sheridan nodded and covered Asia’s hand with hers. “It’ll all be over this afternoon.”

Indeed it would. Asia had opted to also have Angel’s physical today with Beatrice present. It would end there—assuming that nothing was found.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Asia said. “I got a strange message from Kendall.”

“So did I. She asked me to pray for her, but she didn’t say what was going on.”

“You know it has to be serious if she asked me to pray for her. I called her back but I can’t get her.”

“Neither can I. I’m going to talk to Pastor.”

Asia nodded. “So…what’s up with you?”

“Absolutely nothing. I don’t have much drama in my life.”

“Count that a blessing. I’d give anything to be drama free.” She sipped her coffee. “What’s going on with you and your man from Compton? You never talk about him.”

Sheridan exhaled. “There’s just so much….” She stopped, looked at Asia, and then took a sip of her tea.

Asia laughed. “I don’t believe this. You don’t want to talk to me.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Girl, I can read women. I’ve had to do it for all these years fooling with a basketball player that every woman on hoochie patrol wanted. So”—she leaned back—“you don’t think we’re close enough to talk?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

Asia grinned. “If you’ve trusted me with your prayers, you can trust me with anything. So, I repeat, what’s up with your man?”

Still, it took a moment for Sheridan to say, “We’re taking a breather right now.”

“You broke up?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know?” Asia said as if she didn’t believe her. “If you can’t answer that, you life is not as drama free as you think.”

“Let me explain.” Sheridan opened up—going from discovering Quentin’s preference for men, to the divorce, to meeting Brock, then loving Brock, and now how she had somehow found her way back to Quentin.

“If it wasn’t for Tori being suspended from school, it would have never happened,” Sheridan said.

“So, you kissed your ex?”

“I didn’t kiss him. He kissed me.”

“Explain the difference.” She paused. “Which one do you love?”

“I told you, I love Brock.”

“That’s what you said, but I’m not so sure.” When Sheridan shook her head, Asia added, “Maybe Quentin is your soul mate. And if he is, there’s not a man…or a man”—she chuckled at her own joke—“who can keep you two apart. Maybe being with Jett was just a little somethin’-somethin’ Quentin had to get out of his system.”

“I don’t care what it was, he can’t come back to me.”

“Why not? We do it all the time—take back our men when they’ve been with other women.”

“This is different.”

“So, you would mess up your chance for happiness because Quentin’s sin of choice was a man?”

“It’s that and a whole lot more. I don’t associate my happiness with Quentin anymore. I’ve moved on. I’m trying to make a life with Quentin.”

“With Quentin?”

“I mean, I’m trying to make a life with Brock.”

Asia laughed. “Whatever you say.”

“That was just a slip of the tongue. I know who I want.”

“Whatever you say.” Asia grinned.

“I’m serious. I want Brock. I love Brock.”

“Say it one hundred times and maybe then it will be true.”

Sheridan shook her head.

“I’m just teasing,” Asia said when she saw that her friend wore no smile. “Look, all I’m saying is go with your heart. You were the one who taught me that God was right here.” She pointed to her chest. “You’ve got to trust that. If you love Brock, then cool. But…if God wants you with Quentin, don’t fight it.”

Sheridan nodded.

Asia leaned forward, and took Sheridan’s hand. “All I can say,” she began seriously, “is…let the games begin and may the best man win!” She laughed.

“You’re crazy.”

“As a fox. Come on,” Asia said, standing, “let’s go get your mother and my daughter. I want to get as far away from this place as I can.”

S
HERIDAN

Sheridan pushed the door open and her mother stepped inside behind her. “Welcome home.”

It was a small smile that Beatrice gave her as she rested the garment bag against the wall. “It smells good in here.”

“I bought flowers,” she said, pointing toward the table.

Beatrice nodded, and Sheridan stood still as her mother meandered through the living room as if this hadn’t been her home for most of her adult life. While she strolled, adjusting candles and vases and the stack of magazines, Sheridan watched. Not a strand of Beatrice’s silver hair was out of place, and her tailored lilac pantsuit fit her frame as if it had been designed for her personally. Before she’d left, Sheridan was concerned with the weight her mother had lost. But she seemed to have found a few of those pounds in San Francisco. She looked good—rested and happy.

Beatrice paused at the mantel and when she picked up the photo of her wedding picture, Sheridan’s eyes began to fill.

Beatrice said, “This was your father’s favorite.” She turned to Sheridan and noticed her daughter’s face etched with emotions. “Come in here. Let’s talk.” When they sat together, Beatrice took Sheridan’s hand. “You’re still having a hard time, aren’t you?”

Sheridan nodded. “I can’t stand seeing you without Daddy.”

“I know, it’s still hard for me to believe. But I’m getting used to it.”

“How can you, Mom? I can’t get used to him being gone and you were with him for so much longer than I was.”

“Honey, I had the privilege of loving Cameron Collins for almost fifty years. I focus on that blessing rather than the loss.”

“I don’t know how you do it. I don’t want to let him go.”

“My darling, letting go is where you start. But I’m not surprised. Letting go is not your strong suit.” She patted Sheridan’s hand. “Even as a child, you wanted to hold on to everything—you wanted to keep the Christmas tree up so that Christmas would last longer. You kept old clothes because they reminded you of some event. And letting go of your children? Please, I thought you were going to have a nervous breakdown when Christopher left for school.”

“Mom, that’s every mother. But this with Daddy…letting go of him…”

“It’s not a choice. Your father’s gone. And I’m not about to put a comma where God has put a period. I’m not trying to hold on when God said let go.”

Sheridan nodded and wished she’d heard those words before—in time to share them with Vanessa. “I hope to be as wise when I’m your age.”

Beatrice twisted her lips. “Child, I know plenty of old folks who don’t have a lick of sense.”

Sheridan chuckled.

“How’s Brock?”

That question took her laughter away. “He’s cool.”

“Cool, huh? Listen to you. It must be nice hanging around a younger man.”

“Yeah.”

“Why doesn’t that yeah sound like a yes?”

Sheridan hunched her shoulders. “Brock and I are in this very weird space. We’re closer than we’ve ever been, but yet, we’re so far apart.” She paused, wondered if she should share, then said, “Brock asked me to marry him.”

“Oh.” After a moment, Beatrice lifted her daughter’s hand, searched her fingers. “I guess you didn’t say yes.”

“I didn’t say no. I said, not right now.”

“That’s a good thing if you’re not ready.” She peered at Sheridan. “So, how’s Quentin?”

Sheridan looked at her mother sideways. “Why would you ask about him right now?”

Beatrice shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I want to know how he is.”

“He’s fine.”

“And maybe because I suspect he’s the reason you’re not ready to commit to Brock.”

Sheridan twisted, faced her mother. “That’s exactly what Brock thinks! But, Mom, I’m so over Quentin.”

“Do you love Brock?”

“I do.”

“Do you love Quentin?”

“Not anymore. I care about him because he’s Chris and Tori’s father. But I know who I love. I just can’t get Brock to believe me.”

“What’s your relationship with Quentin?”

Sheridan stood, paced across the room. “We don’t have a relationship, Mom.” Her glance stopped, at the wedding photo of her and Quentin that sat on her parents’ mantel as if the two were still husband and wife. “We see each other because of Tori, but besides that, we don’t see each other….” She thought about their lunch. “We don’t see each other much. I just care about him, Mom. We were responsible for each other for a lot of years.”

Beatrice stood and took her daughter’s hands. “There’s nothing wrong with caring. That’s the heart that God gave you. But just listening to you, I understand Brock. You care for Quentin. I can tell that you care for him a lot. And caring…that’s where love begins.” She paused. “Brock knows that and maybe he’s concerned about where your care could lead you and Quentin.”

Sheridan shook her head. “Brock has no reason to worry.”

“Just make sure that he knows that.” She paused. “And if you’re serious about Brock, make sure that Quentin knows that, too.”

Sheridan frowned. Wondered why she needed to say anything to Quentin. They were divorced. He didn’t deserve any explanation of her heart. Sheridan glanced at her watch. “Mom, I’ve gotta get out of here. I didn’t leave anything for Tori to eat.” She hugged her mother. “Are you sure you don’t want me or Tori to spend the night? You know your granddaughter would love to hang out with her nana.”

“No, sweetheart. I’m fine, and if I need you later, I’ll call.”

Sheridan hugged her mother. “I love you.”

“Ditto!”

They walked to the front with arms entwined and then Beatrice stood at the door, until Sheridan waved.

Sheridan hated leaving her mother alone, but she knew this was all part of what Beatrice had told her—letting go. Now all she had to do was find a way to convince the world that she had long ago let go of Quentin.