Capri's Second Chance

By Maxine Thompson

Capri's Second Chances is the tale of business owner, Caprianna, and her police officer husband, Marquise. To the outside world, they appear to have everything going for them. However, when tragedy strikes, not only is Caprianna's tenuous world shattered, she finds out her husband is harboring secrets of his own. But just when she thought she was at her lowest ebb, fate steps in. Can love rise out of the ashes?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maxine Thompson
• Release date: Apr 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533791498

Maxine Thompson

About the Author Maxine E. Thompson was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan, but has resided in Los Angeles, California since 1981. After graduating from Wayne State University in Detroit, Michigan, she worked as a Child Protective Services social worker for twenty-three years, first in Detroit, then later in Los Angeles. Ms. Thompson attempted her first novel, The Hidden Sword, at the age of 16, when she was the first black student to integrate St. Francis High, an all-white school, in Traverse City, Michigan in 1967. In 1989, Ms. Thompson became a recipient of an honorable mention in Ebony’s first writing contest for her short story, “Valley of the Shadow.” In 1994, she won an award for her short story, “The Rainbow,” through the International Black Writers’ Association (IBWA). She won a PEN Award for her first novel, The Ebony Tree. She has had poems, short stories and articles published in e-zines, national magazines, such as The Writer and Final Call, and anthologies such as Proverbs for the People. She has written three self-publishing columns on the Internet found at http://www.careermag.com, http://www.bwip.org, and http://www.blackmarket.com. She is the author of five novels, The Ebony Tree, No Pockets in a Shroud, (Hostage of Lies), LA Blues, LA Blues 2, and LA Blues 3, a contributor to 5 anthologies, an author of novella, Capri’s Second Chance, How-to-Write, Publish, and Market Ebooks (2000). She has written She began hosting internet radio on March 5, 2002 at VoiceAmerica.com, and continues to this day on Artistfirst.com, where she started on March 4, 2004 and still interviews authors, and keeps abreast of the news in the publishing industry. Ms. Thompson is also the founder of Black Butterfly Press, which created an e-zine for new and self-published writers called On The Same Page,(www.maxinethompson.com), and later created a blog, at Maxinethompsonbooks.com. Dr. Maxine Thompson is the owner of Maxine Thompson’s Literary Agency and Maxine Thompson’s Literary Services where she acts as a literary agent, a ghostwriter, a book doctor, and a developmental editor.  Email [e-mail].

Book preview

Capri’s Second Chance

1                                

Autumn Equinox

Capri

West Los Angeles, California

6:00 a.m., September 2003

It’s true what they say.

Out of the corner of my eye, I steal a glance at Marquise as he twists his mouth like someone who’d just swallowed castor oil, then, in what can only be described as a backward crab crawl, glides his body away from mine. As an after-thought, though, he reaches back and pecks my lips with this offhand, fake kiss. I peek out one eye so I can study his face as he kisses me.  I swear I can see a cumulus cloud passing over his features. This is not exactly how a man should look after he’s just made love to his wife.

What’d you say? Marquise turns away again and buffs up his muscular back to me. Although his voice is muffled, the tone is cold. Well, I’ll be a flying donkey, as Aunt Muff used to say. Just moments before, he’d acted as if I were the last lifeboat thrown to him in a shark-infested sea. Now I’m a pan of dirty dishwater to be tossed aside.

Miffed, I snatch the ecru satin sheet from his side of the bed, tighten it under my armpits, then lean on my elbow and study the freckles on Marquise’s persimmon back. Goose bumps rise on my neck and an ice dagger lodges between my breasts as I recall my recurring dream from last night. I dreamed I was drowning.

I decide not to drop the subject. It’s true what they say about the seven-year itch.

Right eyebrow lifted, Marquise jackknifes straight up in the bed and cranes his neck around. Come again?

You know what I’m talking about. I chew the inside of my left cheek, a habit I have when I’m annoyed; then I heave an exaggerated sigh, cross my arms across my chest, and wait After a few moments of silence, I realize Marquise isn’t going to respond. Instead, he takes a deep yawn, stretches out his body in a lotus position, then clambers his six-foot frame out of our king-sized bed His feet hit the hardwood floor with a thump. Momentarily, he stumbles over the circular Oriental rug in the middle of the bedroom.

It’s you. Something’s going on. There. I’d said it.

Marquise pivots around and my eyes dive-bomb right into his light tiger-eyes. For a nanosecond, he holds my stare, then looks away.

What are you talking about? Didn’t I just take you to Solvang?

You acted like you didn’t want to go.

Marquise’s full lips curve upward in a slur. What d’you expect? I work midnights and usually don’t get three days off together.

Bingo. That’s it. Something about our getaway, second anniversary, Labor Day weekend trip, which we’d just returned from the night before, just wasn’t quite right. The memory of Solvang parades before my eyes in a blur, an array of terra-cotta, rustic shops and a splash of Danish culture away from the craziness of Los Angeles.  Even the soothing sage and sable setting hasn’t been able to hold at baby the gnawing evil at the pit of my stomach. Why did our trip feel more like a three-day charade than a romantic tryst? Something is wrong. Something I can’t put my finger on, but...

Who is she? I blurt it out. I’m just fishing, but I want to see his reaction.  I’m sure he will deny any indiscretions and assure me nothing is wrong.

Marquise is silent for a moment, then surprises me. Don’t start that Jerry Springer drama again. Maybe you need to close that business of yours and get a real job. With that, Marquise reaches for the white terry cloth draped over the mahogany headboard, snaps it around his loins, and pivots on one foot as if he was doing a salute at roll call. Mmmm. Nice way of showing me which side of his behind I can kiss. I recall how at one time, the sight of his toned buns imprinted on the towel used to arouse me, but now there is only a hollow feeling.

Suddenly, anger bum-rushes me, wraps its boat tail around my neck, and constricts my heart. With the sheet draped around my nakedness, feeling so livid I could burst, I leap out of the bed and stalk him. Don’t patronize me, Marquise. Do I say that about your dream? Your running around all day like a little boy in a black uniform playing cops and robbers?

Oh, that’s what you think? Marquise spins around and throws both hands up in the air the way he does whenever he’s frustrated.

You’ve changed.

You’re crazy. Look. At least I get a regular paycheck. You must be PMS-ing again. Send out number seven. Now handle that!

Marquise often says I suffer from multiple personalities throughout the month, so after throwing this snide remark over his shoulder, one of L.A.’s finest stalks into our master bedroom’s adjoining bathroom and slams the door.

I go to my nightstand, pick up the copy of Patricia Anne Phillip’s book, June in Winter, a story of infidelity, that I was reading the night before, ad fling it at the bathroom door. Handle that! I shout, then slap my hands up and down in a Take that! sign.

Being married to a police officer is no joke. And Marquise has had a full-blown case of ego since he joined the LAPD three years ago, which doesn’t help matters any. But to top that, as if Marquise’s work schedule isn’t a marriage ball buster, I have a business, which, for all practical purposes, is going belly up.

Although we’ve only been married two years, we’d dated for five years after we met at UCLA. And, once again in our seven-year relationship, I’d just faked another orgasm.  

Moments earlier, when I held Marquise in my arms, I felt as if I were clinging to a glacier—following the sinking of the Titanic. I know orgasms have been called petit morts—little deaths—but what about fake orgasms? I guess those are the equivalent of grand mal seizures—the big deaths where we die inside a little at a time.

I sit back down on the bed and scratch my head. Thinking about number seven, I consider filing chapter seven, but I believe that’s only for personal debts. Come to think of it, I have some other options here. I can file chapter eleven or chapter thirteen, or I can close my business. But no, I’m too stubborn. I still have one straw of hope. I have the possibility of landing that government contract, which I bid on last month. So far, I’ve let one employee go—my only white male employee.

Two weeks ago on Friday, I’d pink-slipped Ernest Schroder because he wasn’t earning his keep. At the same time, I decided to keep my two reliable, mother-earth employees, Nadine Greer and Micaela Hernandez, who earned and created enough sales to make payroll for them from week to week, and even then, their future tenure with Capri’s Writer Software was uncertain.

In fact, I’d only hired Ernest Shroeder to be in keeping with the Fair Employment Act so that I would have a multicultural team.

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After Marquise showers and leaves for work, I stomp into the bathroom and peer into the gold-veined double mirrors he’s left fogged up. How many times have I told him to wipe the steam off the mirror?