Secrets to Kill For

By Joy Evans-Smith

Secrets. Everyone has them. Do you? How bad is your secret? Some of us have darker secrets than others. Meet the Baxton sisters: Patricia, Regina, Deidra, CeCe, and Sherilyn. They fight, they love, they laugh, and when necessary...some of them kill! These sisters each lead lives that are not what they seem. The question is, who will be discovered? Who will live and who will die?

Secrets To Kill For is a fast paced, mind-boggling suspense thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat guessing all the way to the end!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 10, 2007
• ISBN: 9781469115917

Book preview

Copyright © 2007 by Joy Evans-Smith.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Part I

Secrets Kept

Patricia

Regina

Deidra

CeCe

Sherilyn

Marco

Deidra

Patricia

Regina

CeCe

Sherilyn

Patricia

Marco

Regina

Deidra

CeCe

Sherilyn

Patricia

CeCe

Marco

Regina

Deidra

Sherilyn

Patricia

CeCe

Marco

Deidra

Regina

Sherilyn

Patricia

Deidra

Regina

Sherilyn

CeCe

Patricia

Deidra

CeCe

Marco

Regina

Sherilyn

Patricia

Deidra

Marco

CeCe

Sherilyn

Deidra

Regina

CeCe

Sherilyn

Deidra

CeCe

Marco

CeCe

Marco

Sherilyn

Deidra

CeCe

Marco

Deidra

Part II

Secrets Revealed

Patricia

CeCe

Regina

CeCe’s News

Deidra’s News

Patricia’s News

Regina’s News

Sherilyn’s News

Part III

Grand Finale

Diana

CeCe

Marco

Los Angeles Mental Hospital

Epilogue

Discussion Questions

For Preston and Christopher

Acknowledgements

There are those who help, and there are those who hinder. Below is a list of people who helped and supported me on my journey through the literary world.

I graciously thank each one of you:

Chunda Brantley

Jade Brown

Marie Elliot

Forrest Huguenin

Erika Jarman

K-Lynn

Brandi Kinnebrew

N’Chelle

Shelese Pearson

Nashira Reed

Anisa Yusuf

CLM Photography

Ethereal Photography

In Loving Memory

Gwendolyn Daniels

Maria Espat

Ramon Evans

Polly Nickens

Spencer Nickens

Victor Nickens, Sr.

Kerry Tuckenberry

Monroe Tuckenberry

My name is Patricia Lynnette Baxton-Jamison. People call me Pat. I am the oldest of five girls. I was born in San Diego, California in 1972 to John and Diana Baxton. My father was black, and my mom is Puerto Rican. She was born in Puerto Rico, while my dad was born in San Diego. Of the five of us girls, I am the one whom everybody roots to fail. I never got good grades in school. I am not educated. I dropped out of school at age fifteen. Yeah, my parents did not like it, but I had to face the facts. School was just not for me. With a ninth grade education, what kind of life was I going to have? That’s simple. I would just look for a man who is willing to marry a not so smart girl, but a pretty girl instead.

I really wish I could have stayed in school. I used good looks as an excuse for my laziness. I did not apply myself. I didn’t even try. I hated school. I thought it was a waste of time. People say that it prepares you for an exciting career. What career? What experiences? Well, I’m good at sitting on my butt. That’s why I took a nine dollar an hour job that required me to do just that… sit on my butt. I’m a security guard. I always hated to see women security guards. That is, until I became one with what little education I have. Anyway, that’s my gig, and that’s what I do now.

Before I became Superwoman, I worked part-time at the local fast food joint in San Diego. At age seventeen, I met Leon Jamison. He was a twenty-nine-year old mechanic. Twelve years my senior and fine as hell, I knew my parents would not approve. However, I was only one year from my eighteenth birthday and they couldn’t stop me from dating Leon. They often said Leon was a pervert, and that any man that old who is interested in a teenager is a sick, stark-raving pussy hound, and needs his head examined. Under normal circumstances, I would agree. If it were my daughter, I wouldn’t approve either, but it was about money in my case, and the fact that I had little experience in the job world. Mom and dad could not be there forever. How much longer could I go on living off nine dollars an hour part time? Leon was just what I needed, and I didn’t care how he looked, who he lived with, how many kids he had, or nothing. Now, as I got to know him, I discovered that he didn’t have any kids, and he had his own place. All I wanted was for him to just have time for me and help me get ahead.

I know what you’re thinking, You make all good women look bad. No. Why should what I do make someone else look bad? If anything, it should make ME look bad because I’m the one who’s doing it. Moreover, it doesn’t make me feel bad at all. I love Leon. I didn’t at first, but I eventually learned to love him. We got married two months after I turned eighteen. We did it at City Hall and then hit everyone at home with the old, Surprise, here’s your new son-in-law. Dad was not happy at all. Mom tried to pretend to be happy, but her smiles were fake. Dad didn’t want us living in his house, married or not. Leon had his own apartment, but then gave it up. I didn’t understand why until he hit me with another big surprise. His company closed down, and luckily, a manager position opened in Queens, New York! I was excited. I had never been outside of California. I heard some great things about New York. It was like The Big Apple was America itself. When people from third world countries say they want to come and visit the United States, they all want to come to New York. I was on my way as well. I couldn’t wait!

The flight was a little over five hours. Leon had everything set up. He got us an apartment and even got me that security job I told you about earlier. I was happy to be in the big city, away from my parents, even if we were living in what some people called, the projects. My parents were just too uptight, and non-supportive. That was sixteen years ago.

I now have four children. There’s Leon Jr., who’s fifteen. Lena, she’s thirteen. Tiffany, she’s twelve, and my youngest son Marcus, who has asthma, is eight. Leon has had several mechanic jobs since our move. He can’t seem to hold jobs without being laid off, but he has still managed to never let us go hungry or without utilities. He is now the manager at this chain of auto parts stores called Liberty Auto Parts. Leon didn’t go to college, but he does have a high school diploma, which is more than I can say for myself. That’s why he has not gotten the, We’ve hit the jackpot! job, but he’s trying. He’s forty-six now. Who’s gonna hire him as CEO even if he does go back to college for his degree? He’ll be fifty when he’s done and no one will hire someone who’s fifty, and who is just finding himself when the world is filled with young, prep school yuppies who are dying to get out on to Wall Street. They will hire a Harvard graduate and pay him out the ass before looking at some middle-aged person who should have had his shit together years ago. Then there’s me… thirty-four at nine dollars an hour. I guess I should feel bad, but hey, I’m happy. Or am I? Fourteen years of marriage and I feel something is missing. Leon is getting old and he’s not as cute and exciting as he was when we were younger. I love him. I think it’s because he’s… you know, there. Like a dog. You love your pet dog, but you’re not attracted to him. You don’t want to make love to your dog. He’s just a member of the family whom you love and don’t want to see leave. That’s how I feel about Leon.

The real reason I don’t want him to leave is because I can’t make it on my own. Not with four kids. Remember, dropping out of school led to this. Now, I have to spend the rest of my days with a man that I love like a pet and not the way a wife should love her husband, all because my dumb ass chose to drop out and be content with single digit an hour jobs. Yep, that’s my life… dead-end marriage in the name of kids and bills. The only way out is to find another man who has just as much as Leon. Then again, that’s easier said than done. These days, rich guys, black or white, have gone to college, gotten a degree and want to settle down and marry someone who did not drop out in the ninth grade and who does not have four children. I guess I’m stuck. There’s nothing for me to do but pray that Leon doesn’t go anywhere.

Mom and dad eventually had a change of heart. Maybe one of their devout Christian friends told them that they should spend more time loving and supporting their daughters than worrying about how our actions would make them look. Unfortunately, daddy never got the chance to reconcile with us. He died of a heart attack about five years ago. Mom still lives in the house where we grew up. She visits us every now and then to scold us about how full of sin we are. I hear she is planning to visit soon. God, help us.

My name is Regina Nicole Baxton-Copeland. Everyone calls me Gina. I am the second eldest of five sisters hailing from San Diego, born in the year 1974. I was a cheerleader in high school. I was the one the boys would lie about, saying they slept with me or they went out on a date with me, and a lot of other dreaming. I was even prom queen. Yes, the girls hated me dearly, but I didn’t care. They hated me because they couldn’t be me. To this day, I still carry around that bitchy, nose-in-the air attitude. I roll with the best because I, myself, am the best. You can’t get any better than me.

I hated mom and dad’s rules. They were so protective, and I loved them for it, but they would never let me live down my sister Patricia’s mistakes. What the hell does Patricia have to do with me? I love my sister. In fact, I love them all, but let’s not be stupid. Just because she married an old geezer at eighteen and ruined her life with a petty two-dollar job, struggling to make ends meet all while bringing four children into this God forsaken world doesn’t necessarily mean that I was bound to make the same mistake. I had a much better plan. Instead of wasting time chasing cheesy mechanics and gas station attendants, I decided to go for something bigger and better. I seized me a Wall Street man. William Copeland.

That was my plan all along. Marry a rich white man. Of course I get the stares, the rolling eyes, the, Oh no she didn’t. and the ever popular, He can’t hit it the way I can. See, that’s where you’re wrong. I am more concerned with what he can do for me financially, emotionally, and physically. Unlike black men today, who are far too concerned with booty, my husband actually has something to contribute to our household besides sex. What do black men have besides babies that they do not take care of and an STD? Nothing. I guess God’s name should be erased off churches and be replaced with the word, booty, seeing how that’s all black men today seem to worship. A black man can’t do shit for me besides what? . . . Knock me up then deny it’s his baby, all while moving on to the other girl and doing the same to her?

Black men also have a tendency of being the biggest, laziest moochers. I don’t have time to play surrogate mother to these tired, tacky, tasteless men. That’s what their mother is for. Any mother in her right mind ought to be ashamed of having a low life for a son anyway. Where are the fathers today? Dad not being in the picture will create one bastard of a son when he gets older. What’s more? Oh, his mother will act as though if she’s the only woman special enough to get his respect. Being a woman, you should know how tough it is raising a child alone, so why encourage your son to leave his child high and dry? There’s an excessive amount of that in the black community, which is why I chose to simply stay away from Negroville. You know, the place where dead beats, thugs, drug dealers, and booty worshipers roam. Along with that, you will also find men who do nothing but live in your house, drive your car, spend your money, eat your food, talk on your phone, and never has ten cents on a pack of diapers for his child’s butt because he’s too busy doing more important shit, like chasing women. That’s why the HIV/AIDS epidemic is on the rise in the black community. Men there don’t know how to use condoms, and the women there are too busy trying to get pregnant to either keep the man in her life, or piss off the other women he may have in his. In the end, you’ve won nothing except life long heartache and pain, because your children will grow up to be everything but upstanding. When you give birth, just say ‘hello’ to your baby and future criminal.

Instead of ditching the deadbeat men in their lives, you will always hear excuses from women like, Well, I would throw him out, but I have needs. Ha! You have needs? So it doesn’t matter that he’s not contributing to the upbringing of his child, you’d rather tolerate any type of disrespect simply because you have needs, and Mr. Baby Daddy is the only man in the world who can fulfill those needs? It’s no wonder why black men are not motivated to do better. After these whores have had their needs met, then what? The kids are still hungry. I guess the baby momma’s of the world will figure out some way to put food on the table. Then again, who needs to eat when you got all the sex you need? Eating is so passé these days anyway. In addition, why waste your time trying to sue these men for child support? I mean, just continue to allow all these nice tax-paying individuals such as William and I, that didn’t have shit to do with making these kids provide this free medical care, some cheap housing, maybe even help with some groceries.

No child support and no respect from the fucker who knocked you up. He won’t have time for his kids, but can surely make time for sex. Wow! In the end, you’re nothing but a free prostitute. Oh, black people are so sickening! That’s also one of the main reasons I chose white men.

Black men are so thirsty to date the half-n-half’s. You know, the black girl that’s not one-hundred percent black. Big lip, nappy head tar babies are the last on their lists. Those kinds of black women, for some reason, don’t measure up to a certain level of beauty in the black man’s eyes. Not saying that a dark woman wasn’t pretty, it’s just that black men don’t see black as pretty unless she’s high yellow with green eyes. There are women out there who buy into that shit too. You’ve seen her. She’s the one who says, "I’m not really black. I’m one-third Cuban, and one-fourth Colombian, and two-thirds Italian, and one-eight Hawaiian . . ." etcetera. Who gives a shit? In the end, being a mixture of difference races doesn’t make you prettier or more desirable, nor does it enhance your intelligence. And they tell me that I’m the poster child for black self-hatred. Right.

Don’t even let me begin with the blacks who use not having a community center in their neighborhood as an excuse for the reason why they choose to be in gangs. "Whitey won’t give you money to finance your hood? Well, get back at the man by joining a gang, selling drugs, stealing, carjacking and completely fucking up your own neighborhood! That’ll show ’em.’"

William, unlike the others, is a high-powered attorney at a prestigious law firm on Wall Street. At thirty-three, he makes more money in one month than most people see in a year. We live in a cozy little eight-hundred thousand dollar three bedroom co-op in Brooklyn Heights. Brooklyn Heights overlooks Manhattan and is more of a mid to upper middle class neighborhood. A promenade there overlooks the river and the city. Lots of Brownstones and narrow streets, perfect for us who don’t wish to reside in a certain part of town. We have a door attendant named Marty, and a cute little reddish brown Cocker Spaniel named Kiwi. Don’t ask about the name Kiwi. William named her that.

William showers me with nothing but the best. Dolce & Gabana, Gucci, and Donna Karan. You name it and William buys it for me. Just last week I got those Jimmy Choo’s that I wanted. You should see all the black chicks stare. They stare at William, then at me, then at my wardrobe. I laugh. I really want to tell them that they too could have these things if they stop being content with being a sperm bank, and wait for a man to put a ring on their finger before gladly spreading their legs to have his baby. Alternatively, if they do not have children, they should stay in school, get a degree, and then get a job rather than spending money on rainbow colored weave and cheap imitation designer shit from Mr. Woo at the Korean store.

I met William when I moved here. Yes, I too left California. I left for a better reason than my sister Patricia did. I got a scholarship to attend Juilliard. While attending school, I met William. He was working part time as a janitor while attending college. We got our college degrees, got married, and have been happy ever since. We have no children. Hell, whenever I want kids, I’ll just go to any ghetto in the city and take my pick. There’s always some crackhead mother too trifling to take care of her child. Okay, I’m lying. I would never open my doors to some crack baby.

I love my life. I love being a rich man’s wife. I also love the fact that I don’t have to work! William says he makes enough for me to just stay home and be a housewife. That’s good enough for me. Just in case William decides to leave me though, I still have an education to back me up. I will also get half of everything he owns. I am set for life and I love it! Speaking of set, William just bought me a pair of diamond, pear shaped earrings for tonight. We’re going to the theater to see Wicked. I think I’ll fix a snack and then get ready to go out for a night of fun.

My name is Deidra Michelle Baxton or Dee, and I am the third born of five. I was born in San Diego, California in 1977. I don’t know what else to say about myself, other than I’m a single mom, working hard to keep a roof over my son’s head. I had my son at age fourteen. Do I really need to tell you how my mom and dad reacted towards that one? My mom exploded. She cursed me so bad while daddy slapped me in several different directions around the room. They disowned me and kicked me out of the house. I had no other place to go except to my son’s grandmother’s (my son’s dad’s mother) house. She allowed me to live there because it was the only way she could spend time with her grandson. She wasn’t happy about the whole baby situation, but she also understood that there was no use in getting angry because the damage was done. In addition, she had her son at a young age. She and I were so much alike and we all had so much fun together. She was a big help while her son, my boyfriend Kelvin, ran the streets selling drugs. I was not happy about the whole drug dealing stuff, but I admired how he brought whatever money he made home to us. He never turned his back on his son or me and that’s what I loved about him.

We lived with Kelvin’s mom up until Kelvin Jr. was four-years-old. I finished school and was looking to work part-time and attend community college. That plan never took off. While I was out registering for school, I came home only to find at least a dozen police cars there. I just knew they had caught Kelvin and put an end to our income that stemmed from drug sales. Instead, they were pulling out bodies. My legs instantly turned into mush and I couldn’t move. I thought about my baby. I just knew he was dead too. I also knew why.

I may not be the smartest woman in the world but I do know the difference in police activity when someone dies of natural causes versus someone being murdered. Natural causes didn’t require all those police cars.

When I finally made it to the house, I discovered that my son wasn’t dead. Thank God! Kelvin, and Miss Ellen, his mother, weren’t as fortunate. Turns out, Kelvin’s drug dealing had gotten them killed. Whoever did it spared my son. I was thankful for that, but I hated these killers at the same time. What now? Am I going to be homeless? Will my child end up in foster care? These thoughts swarmed around my mind, tugging at my brains making me lose total control of myself. What am I going to do?

Kelvin’s family members put together the funeral and everything. I was there, and so was my son. Afterwards, they hugged me and gave me the old, If you need anything, call me speech. Yeah, right. People say whatever they feel you wish to hear at the moment, but months down the road, will they even remember my name? Probably not. Truth is, no one is ever there when you need them. A person saying they’ll be there has become just as customary as saying the word congratulations on your wedding day. It’s just the right thing to say for the occasion.

I was now eighteen with a high school diploma, homeless, and flat broke. Mom and dad’s was an automatic hell no! I did the only thing I could think of, and that was call my sister Regina (or Gina as we call her) while she was in school in New York. Well, of course she was much too prissy to be seen with a teenage sister who had a baby. Besides, what will all her other prissy white friends think? Maybe Regina was a bad idea. She was in school and living on campus. There was no way she could sneak me in to live with her. So I called up my sister Pat.

Pat was more than happy to let Kelvin and I live with her. They had a three-bedroom apartment in a Queens project when she and Leon started out, and she said it was okay to let Kelvin Jr. bunk with the boys until I got on my feet. She even sent the money for us to get there by Greyhound. Talk about a long ride.

Once we got settled in, I got a job as the receptionist at the place that Pat does security for. Didn’t pay much, but a job’s a job. It kept me off welfare, something that I was much too proud to accept.

It was good being here with two of my sisters. Well, one. Remember, Regina is much too good to hang with black people. I love my sister Regina but I hated her snobby ways.

My son now is fifteen and is a moderately good student in school. We have a one-bedroom apartment here in the Bronx. Rent is higher for a two-bedroom. I could barely afford a one-bedroom on what I make, so two was out of the question. I quit working at the place Pat hooked me up with and got a job downtown at an insurance company as a secretary. My son sleeps on the sofa bed in our living room, while I have the bedroom. I promise, we will someday get a bigger place and maybe even a house. My son is a good kid. He hasn’t been in any real trouble, other than fights at school. Pat and I speak frequently with our children about the way their Auntie Regina is always stereotyping black people. We both have trained our children to make a liar out of her. The last thing I need is for my son to become some thug and have Regina throw it in my face. It’s not really about what Regina thinks. Hell, I say fuck what she thinks. Whether or not Regina has input has nothing to do with the fact that I want my boy to grow up to be a respectful man, and not hit women, or call women tasteless names. I want my boy to treat women the way he wants to see a man treat his mother. My son is doing just that.

I am known as CeCe Baxton, born in San Diego, California in the year 1980. I am the fourth Baxton sister. You’ll probably see or hear more about me than the rest. I am the one who people are talking about. I am the one who has everyone scratching their heads trying to figure me out. That’s just it. You can’t figure me out. I’m in my own little world. You know the deal with my other sisters, right? Well, I will tell you the deal with me soon enough. Right now is not a good time, but I promise you will come to know everything.

I will tell you this though. In school, I was a straight A student, top of my class. I had tons of people who wanted to befriend me, but I am very meticulous about the company I keep. Females are too envious. They smile in your face while going behind your back snickering, gossiping, spreading vicious rumors and such, while the men are acting like horny rabbits and have everything except your best interest at heart. The only one friend I ever trusted in this world was my best friend and next-door neighbor, Marco. Marco and I shared the same birth year and month. I was born May 3 and he was born May 1 in 1980. It was as if we were meant to be pals. We did everything together like played basketball, baseball, skating, movies, and all kinds of stuff. I was such a tomboy… probably the only girl on my block who wasn’t afraid of snakes.

Summer time was best. Marco and I would stay out on the porch late just talking. We would talk about who was the better basketball player between Michael Jordan and Magic Johnson. He would choose Magic because he was a die-hard Lakers fan. I was more of a Chicago Bulls fan and I loved Jordan. Every year we would bet anything from a quarter to a dollar on who would win the championship. In 1991, my Bulls took the title. They would also take it in ’92 and ’93, then take a two year hiatus only to come back and win three more. Marco would always have to pay up. He paid up until I left San Diego in 1996.

But I’m not here today to talk about Marco. I’m not supposed to talk much at all. Then again, Marco is not a factor in my situation right now. I got things going on that you would never believe. Let’s just say, I’m living that fast life. My life is one big lie.

You have already been introduced to three of my sisters. You know them as Pat The Struggler, Regina The Snobby Bitch who thinks that being a black woman who hates other black people makes you more loved by whites, and Deidre The, "I’m Just Happy To Have A Job . . . Doo Dah, Doo Dah" bitch. Deidra got on my nerves with being paranoid over men. And Regina, well, fuck her.

By the way, in case you’re wondering, yes, I’m in New York as well, and yes, mom and dad sent me here. My parents were probably most anxious to get rid of me. I am the one whom they label as the worse. I actually like it that I’m thought of that way.

As for friends here in New York, I only have one. For reasons already stated, I don’t want friends. When I first moved here, I had a friend named Jasmine. I lost contact with her a long time ago. She was too shady for me. Jasmine would always come running to me whenever she needed to borrow money, or needed various other favors. Everything I did for her was forgotten about once her worthless baby daddy made his weekly appearance to bang her real good. She allowed herself to be used by some of the most loser men, and would turn her back on a true friend that helped her when she needed it most. I never could grasp the concept of shitting on a friend while constantly trying to reason with an asshole who is as useless as he is worthless. Next, there are those friends who will promise you the world, but if it looks as though you’re going to outshine them in certain areas, watch out. They feel they got better things to do and don’t owe you the common courtesy of scratching your back when you’ve scratched theirs, or they get jealous and figure, why should I help you get ahead? That’s how our fellow crabs are. All the more reason why I can’t stand women folk. Men, well, with my schedule and all, I have very little time for them too. I’m on the run constantly.

Now that I’ve vented, it’s time for me to get back to what I need to do.

My name is Sherilyn Marie Baxton. People call me Sheri. I am the youngest of the Baxton girls, born in 1982. Just like my sisters, I was born in San Diego, California. Of the five of us, people tend to say that CeCe and I are the normal ones, whatever that means. I love all my sisters. We get along great. The only thing I didn’t like was my sister Regina who thought she was so much better than the rest of the black people in the world. She put all black people in a box and labeled them, forgetting that she herself is black also. I think it’s going to take a racist white person to remind her of that. When Klan members label blacks as lazy, welfare recipients, they usually include ALL blacks, and not every black person except Regina.

After I graduated high school, I attended community college for a while majoring in journalism. After that, I still was unclear of what I really wanted to do. One day, it hit me. That’s when I told mom and dad that I wanted to join my other sisters here in New York to attend culinary school. I moved in with my sister CeCe. She had gotten an apartment up in Harlem. Not the best place in New York, but a home was a home. We didn’t have any trouble there though. Damn near everyone in the neighborhood knew CeCe. She was also the wrong girl to mess with. She had no problem with shooting and killing someone. CeCe will burn you bad if you cross her the wrong way.

My sister Pat was hard working and so was her husband, Leon. Their only mistake was having too many children. Somehow, they made it work. Pat was never too proud to work a small job. As long as it paid money and was nothing illegal, she’d be up for it. Leon was the same way. I really admire that. I also admire my sister Deidra. She too was a hard worker. Always ending up with the short end of the stick, she still kept her head up and continued searching and working hard to get a house for her and my nephew Kelvin, whom I nicknamed Kel.

Regina thought she was the hot shit because she graduated from college. Good for her. I’m happy that she made it out of college, but I finished college as well. I attended The Art Institute of New York. You guessed it. I’m a chef! I love to cook. I’m always the one they call on whenever they needed something cooked for a dinner party, or some sort of potluck for their jobs. Regina’s husband William would always pay a nice penny for my famous German Chocolate Cake and Red Velvet Cake. The people at his law firm loved them. Every weekend he would spoil his friends and colleagues. It started out with him just bringing in a simple pound cake that they can eat with a nice, hot cup of coffee. After the pound cake turned out to be such a big hit, William had my phone ringing off the hook with requests from tons of people at the firm asking for all kinds of cakes such as pineapple-coconut, orange marmalade, and lemon. One woman, Mary, who weighed a good three-hundred pounds, adored my double chocolate-chocolate chip cake. She jokingly told me that she was going to sue me if she gains another pound.

Today, I run my own catering business. I don’t have the money to rent out an office space, so I have everything set up in my brownstone here in Brooklyn. The money is good and I love what I do. Everyday I get calls from people who seem to love having parties every single weekend. Weekend parties meant money. I’d make anything from nine-hundred, to two thousand dollars weekly. I would often pay my sisters to come over and help prepare the food as well. They would never ask for money because, like me, they loved to cook. I would still give them a little something for helping though. Of all my sisters, CeCe and I are the closest. Even though she’s always in the streets, or always too busy with her friend Sasha, I still felt a strong sisterly connection with her. She hasn’t come around much for the past year because… well, I’ll let her tell you when she gets time.

Part I

Secrets Kept

Patricia

Mom, can we have this? Leon Jr. asked.

It was a cool and breezy Saturday afternoon. I was in the grocery store with my son, Leon Jr. He was begging for Peanut Butter Cap’N Crunch instead of the usual off brand corn flakes that I would buy. I had no problem with my kids having what they wanted, but money was somewhat tight, and I was sick and tired of always calling Regina for money. Regina was very giving, however, she only did it just so she can have something to hold over my head. She loved the fact that she was rich while I was one-step away from welfare. I guarantee you that if we were to get into an argument right now, she’ll bring up what she has done for me and Leon.

Junior, you know those name brand cereals are too expensive. I said. Why not get those over there?

I pointed to another off brand peanut butter flavored cereal that was on sale for a dollar-fifty. Junior turned his nose up but still picked the box up and dumped it into the shopping cart nonetheless. Yes, as a mother it bothered me that my kids couldn’t have the best of everything, but I tried.

Mom, you think we can spend the night at Auntie Gina’s house?

And why do you want to go over there? I asked.

Junior hesitated. I knew why. He knows that my sister would shower him and his siblings with whatever they wanted… constantly reminding me how much of a failure Leon and I were.

I like her house. It’s big, and we have a lot of fun.

And you don’t have fun at home with your dad and me?

I didn’t say that, said Junior. I just like Auntie Gina’s house too.

Junior, I’m not stupid. I know why you enjoy going over there. I can’t say I blame you. I know that your parents are a big let down, but…

Mom, don’t do that. Junior interrupted. Don’t beat yourself up. If I died today, and had to start my life all over again, and God allowed me to choose my family this time, I would still choose you for my mom. I really do mean that. We’re not rich, but we’re not, well, you know, snobs either.

That brought tears to my eyes. My son was so mature for his age. He was a good boy. I never had any trouble out of him. I wonder what Regina thought of that since she’s the expert on black men.

That’s a very sweet thing to say. I said. You sure you want me as your mom again?

Of course. Auntie Gina and Uncle William may have money, but that’s all they got.

Oh? I said.

Mom, you know Auntie Gina hates black people. I think that’s dumb. She’s black and she acts like the KKK.

I wanted to laugh out loud. Instead, I held it in. I didn’t want Junior to think I was going to uphold him in talking bad about his aunt. I hated her ways, but that gave my kids no right to badmouth her.

Junior, your aunt has some type of, I don’t know, complex, maybe? No matter what you hear me or your other aunt’s say about her, I don’t want you talking bad about her. After all, she’s still your aunt and she’s been nothing but good to you.

I know that mom. Junior said. I’m not talking bad about her. I’m only saying what’s obvious. One time, she drove us to school and all the kids were staring at her Cadillac Escalade when she pulled up. They all gave her compliments and she didn’t even say thank you. She turned her nose up and then said something about needing to drive away because she didn’t want to get carjacked.

Well, if she’s that bad, why do you want to go over there?

I still like her. She’s my aunt, like you said.

Something told me that my son only enjoyed going over to Regina’s house because of the money. He may not have liked the fact that Regina was a stuck up princess, but she made him look good in front of his friends. If they see that Regina is wealthy, then that meant he was too. I planned to have a long talk with him later.

After I got all the things on my grocery list, I headed towards the checkout counter. It was there I saw a familiar face. He was a kid last time I saw him, but still, I somehow remembered his face.

Excuse me, is your name Marco? I asked.

Marco was our next-door neighbor and my sister CeCe’s best childhood friend. What was he doing here in New York? I didn’t expect to see him.

I’m sorry; do I know you from somewhere? He said.

It’s me, Pat. Patricia. Patricia Jamison.

I’m sorry, I don’t know anybody named…

You may know me by my maiden name, Patricia Baxton, your neighbor from San Diego.

Pat? Marco said. What the… ?

Before Marco could finish his question, he grabbed and hugged me. It really was good to see an old face from California.

Marco, what are you doing in New York?

I live here now.

Since when?

Since I left San Diego. Marco replied. After high school I came here to go to NYU. Been here ever since.

No! I laughed. It was strange enough that my sisters and I ended up here. Now you? Who would have thought our whole damn neighborhood would be here?

Yeah, that is weird. Marco said. So where’s the rest of the Baxton Klan?

Well, Gina is in Brooklyn Heights. Dee got a place up in the Bronx. Sheri is in Brooklyn too, and I’m still here in Queens.

Wow, you all are all over the city, I see.

Marco suddenly developed a strange look on his face. I knew what that look was. He missed his best friend CeCe. He was eagerly waiting for me to tell him where she was living.

So, what about C… ? Marco began.

She’s here and there. I quickly responded.

Here and there? What exactly does that mean?

Well, she’s uh, busy.

Marco looked puzzled.

I don’t follow you.

Marco, I can’t tell you much. I mean, she’s here and there, and she hides out a lot.

Hides out? Is she a fugitive or something?

I really hated being cross-examined. I didn’t want to lie to Marco, but I can’t dime out my sister. CeCe will have to explain it all to him when the time is right.

Marco, I’m sure CeCe would love to see you too. Trust me, she’s wrapped up into, uh, a certain lifestyle that I can’t discuss with you right now.

CeCe? Marco asked, puzzled.

Yes, she’s goes by CeCe now. Everybody calls her that.

Marco looked even more puzzled.

Is everything alright? Is she in trouble?

She’s fine. I said. Look, I really can’t discuss anything about her with you, but next Saturday we’re having a get-together at Gina’s. Why don’t you come over? CeCe is going to drop in for a few minutes.

"You sure? From the way you talk it sounds like, uh, ‘CeCe’ is on the run from the law, or has someone out to get her."

Oh, she’ll be there. It’s my youngest son, Marcus’ birthday. He’ll be nine. She wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Marco continued with this puzzled, solemn-like look on his face. I was curious as to what went on with him and my sister.

What exactly happened with you and CeCe?

I don’t know. Marco said. She never said anything to me. She just left.

I could tell that the whole thing was bothering him. After all this time, he hadn’t gotten over how CeCe left without saying one word to him. He quickly changed the subject.

How many children do you have?

I suddenly looked over at Junior who I totally forgot was even there because I was so shocked to see someone from the West Coast who was not my mother, all the way over here on the east. Junior had that, Hello? Did you forget I was here? look on his face waiting for me to introduce him.

I’m sorry. I said. Marco, this is my son Leon Jr. Junior, this is Marco, your Auntie CeCe’s best friend from California.

Hello sir, said Junior. Nice to meet you.

Same here, Junior.

I have four children. I continued. I got married at eighteen and then moved here. You know the story.

"I remember. I was young, but I remember, uh, ‘CeCe’ telling me about you getting married to that mechanic and that you were moving here. You still look the same now that I know who you are and have gotten a closer look."

So do you. I said. You got a cute little goatee I see. You didn’t have that when I last saw you.

When you last saw me I was only ten.

We both laughed. I felt bad about not being able to tell him more about CeCe. They were so close. They were like brother and sister. They were kids, and kids, boys and girls, can play together without being attracted to one another. Marco was now a man, and I was wondering if he sees CeCe now, would he be attracted to her. When CeCe turned fifteen, I called home to San Diego to wish her happy birthday, and she went on telling me how she and Marco were going to the movies to see some scary flick. I, being the older sister, and somewhat of a mom to my siblings because my mom certainly wouldn’t talk about sex with us, asked CeCe if she and Marco had become more than sister, brother best friends. She said that she would never dream of having Marco for anything other than a brotherly friend. I told her that the older the two of them got, they will begin to look at each other differently. She laughed and said that she and Marco will always be the best of friends, nothing more. She kept her promise. Well, I can’t really say that. By the time she was sixteen, mom and dad ran her away too. CeCe left and Marco hadn’t seen her since.

When was the last time you saw CeCe again? I asked, already knowing.

We were both sixteen. I remember something about your sister Deidra having a baby by that guy Kelvin and your parents kicked her out, but I never understood why they got rid of CeCe. She didn’t get pregnant.

My parents were just too unbalanced for me. I said. For them to have five kids, girls at that, you think they would have had more patience with us. If they weren’t on us about boys and getting pregnant, they were waving the Bible in our faces telling us that lipstick made us look like tramps and all this other nonsense. Pregnant or not, we all did the right thing and ran away from my parents’ hell hole.

Marco glanced at my son and signaled me with his eyes that we should change the subject.

So uh, this party at Gina’s house, are you going to give me the address? Marco asked.

Oh yeah, I said. Here, let me write it down for you. She lives on Montague Street.

Whoa, Gina must be living large.

She is, but don’t tell her that. Somehow I think she knows it.

Don’t tell me she’s still uppity. Marco laughed.

She’s worse than uppity. I said. She’s racist.

Racist? Damn, the last time I saw her she was too cute to play sports with CeCe and me. Too scared her nails were going to break or that she may get her dress dirty.

Yeah, well, trust me, Marco, she’s worse. She hates blacks. She hates them so much that she married a white man.

Marco laughed.

Damn, maybe I shouldn’t go over there then. I mean, with me being black and all. She may think I’m coming to rob the place.

Marco and I laughed, but it was true. Regina was so quick to label black people. She would surely label Marco. He was dressed in baggy jeans and an oversized red hoodie sweater, with a black do-rag and baseball cap on his head. One look at him and Regina would surely have Marty the door attendant discard him quickly.

Believe it or not, her husband is nothing like her. He likes black people more than she does.

That’s crazy. Marco replied.

I didn’t want to ruin Marco’s mood with talks of Regina. I remember as kids she would always turn her nose up at him. He didn’t care for her either. Every time he came to the house to watch cartoons with CeCe, she would always belittle him, saying that he was going to turn out like his father who was a true dog. His father even tried to hook up with me once. Regardless of what his father was, Marco was a kid at that time and didn’t deserve being treated like shit by Regina. Regina was a kid herself. She had no business being so nasty towards someone who was much younger. Furthermore, she only knew of Marco’s dad being a dog because she was busy with one ear to the door listening to mom gossip with her church friends.

So Marco, what do you do for a living?

I own my own construction company now.

I was shocked. Maybe some of what Regina was suffering from rubbed off on me because I instantly thought Marco was going to say he was unemployed based on the way he was dressed. He was dressed just like those rappers on TV who did nothing but disrespect women.

You OWN your own company?

Yes. Marco responded. Does that surprise you?

Well, uh…

Oh, I get it, said Marco, you thought I was some girls’ ‘baby daddy’ who didn’t work and lived in somebody’s momma’s basement, huh?

Marco laughed, but I felt bad for even thinking that.

No, it’s just that… I began.

Hey, it’s cool. I get that a lot. Every time I talk to a girl, she, just like you, thinks she has me figured out. They nearly pass out when they find out that I am single, with no kids, and reeling in six figures a year. Was he for real?

No! I said.

It’s true. Marco said. I don’t feel the need to flaunt money, or dress a certain way, or even act a certain way. I’m just Marco from San Diego who went to NYU, got a degree in business and then started up a business after college making good money. There’s no book written that states a man who makes six figures is supposed to turn in his hoodie for a Polo shirt, or turn in his Nikes for Italian leather shoes. Only a bona fide bourgeois would do that.

I was proud of Marco. I really, truly admired him. I found what he was saying to me hard to believe. Damn! Six figures?

Well good for you, Marco. I said.

I looked over at my son. He seemed to be getting aggravated so I politely ended the conversation with Marco.

Well Marco, I have to get going. It was really good seeing you.

You’ll be seeing me again, now that I’m here in NYC too.

Where do you live?

Manhattan. I got a loft on Park Avenue.

What?

I may not dress bourgeois, but who says I can’t live like one?

We both laughed and agreed.

I hear that. I said. What brings you to Queens?

I got a friend who lives here. I was giving her a ride home.

Oh, that’s nice. I’m glad to see that you’re really doing well, Marco. Congrats on your success. I’ll tell CeCe that I saw you, and that you’ll be at Gina’s next weekend… maybe? I said, giving Marco that look that screamed pretty please.

Marco began to look as though he were daydreaming, right before he looked at me.

Tell CeCe, that uh, well, yeah, I’ll see her next weekend.

"You miss her don’t you?’

Yeah, I do. She was my, you know, sister. I haven’t been the same since she left. I hope we can be buddies again.

I’m sure you will be.

Well, you take care, Pat. It was good seeing you again.

Same here Marco.

I gave Marco a hug goodbye. I couldn’t get over how handsome he turned out, or that he was here in New York. He was as little as a shrimp the last time I saw him. I’ve been five feet, nine inches tall since I was sixteen and Marco had grown taller than me. Now he was standing over six feet tall. I gave him one last little smile before he walked out of the store. Just then, I remembered something. I handed Junior a one hundred dollar bill to pay for the groceries so that we wouldn’t lose our spot in line, because I needed to run outside after Marco to give him Regina’s phone number.

Marco! I shouted. "I forgot to give you Gina’s number.

Gina’s number? You sure she’ll accept calls from black men? He laughed.

Hmm, good one. I’m sure it’ll be okay. You don’t have to call until next weekend anyway. Just call and let us know if you can stop by. CeCe would love to see you.

Okay, what’s the number?

Wait, let me get some paper out of my purse.

I can just put it in my cell phone.

Oh, right.

I almost forgot about modern technology.

It’s 718-555-3429. If you need mine, its…

Hold on, let me get Gina’s number in.

As I waited for Marco to program Regina’s number in, I looked into the window of the store to check on Junior and I noticed that he was moving closer to the checkout clerk.

"Ok, what’s your number?

My cell number is 347-555-8694.

Got it. I’ll see you next weekend.

I said goodbye to Marco and went back into the store to get Junior and the groceries. Wow! What will Marco think when he sees CeCe?

Regina

Miranda, how long before the Beef Wellington is ready?

Just a few more minutes, Mrs. Copeland.

Tonight William and I were having dinner guests. Louis and Helen Schumacher were on their way over here. I was getting tired of sitting and not earning a cent, so I told William that if I’m going to sit on my butt at least let me sit and make money. That’s why he invited the Schumacher’s over. Louis was a big time real estate agent and his wife Helen was a legal secretary who worked at Lanlin and Cooper Law Firm. They were bringing over the necessary paperwork for me to get the ball rolling on William buying a building over in Flatbush and renting it out. This ought to be fun and exciting. I want to use this to help my sister Pat too. She could use some extra cash. She seems to be making no effort to soar higher than a nine-dollar an hour job, and Leon was somehow attracted to jobs that constantly laid him off within a year’s time. One day he’s going to get laid off and have the hardest time getting another one because of his age, and we all know Pat’s job alone won’t do much. My nephew Leon Jr. could probably get a part time job when he turns sixteen, but that may somehow interfere with his schooling. I don’t want to see another dumb black man. We have enough of those already.

I wanted to have something good for dinner tonight, so I called up my sister Chef Sheri for the recipe to Beef Wellington. While Miranda prepared that, I blanched some green beans and Miranda took over from there with a nice, rich butter sauce. For dessert, I prepared Tiramisu. William loved that.

Miranda, what did you do with the hors d’oeuvres? I asked.

They are in the refrigerator, ma’am.

Sheri composed a small platter of open-faced hors d’oeuvres. My sister was a creative genius! Kiwi loved her food too. She always looked forward to seeing me accidentally drop meat on the floor for her to sample.

I went to the bedroom to put on my brand new shoes that William bought me just yesterday. They cost four-hundred dollars. I thought that tonight would be the perfect time to wear them with my black silk knee length dress. As I put my shoes on, I watched William adjust his tie in the mirror while Kiwi sat next to him. Sometimes I think he’s having an affair with that damn dog.

Hurry up honey, the Schumacher’s will be here in a minute. I said.

I’ll be there. Is the food ready?

The Beef Wellington should be done in a few. I hope it turns out okay.

I don’t know why you just didn’t have Sheri make it for you.

For what? She has other things to do. Besides, what do we pay Miranda for?

Gina, Miranda was hired to help you keep the place clean, not cook. She’s not a chef.

Miranda will do as we say. We’re her boss. She’s not ours.

Honey, we pay her to clean, not cook. I’m not comfortable with someone who just cleaned my toilet to cook my food too. At least Sheri is licensed and she knows all about cleanliness and sanitation.

If we didn’t have Miranda, I’d be the one cleaning your shit out of the toilet, AND fixing your dinner. You mean you wouldn’t eat it?

No, because I’d cook my own food.

Really?

Yes. William laughed.

Well, you know I’m not much of a cook anyway. Miranda cooks better than I can, and I’m sure she has sense enough to wash her hands behind everything she does that is considered vile and disgusting.

Maybe, but you know me. I’m just picky.

I remember you saying how picky you were when you met me.

Oh yeah. William smiled. When we first met I told you that I was tired of airhead bimbo’s and that I wanted something new.

You got something new alright. I said. You got something black!

We both laughed.

I didn’t see black. All I saw was a beautiful woman who shared the same interests as me.

William moved closer and put his arms around my waist.

William, let’s not start anything you can’t finish.

He ignored my wishes and proceeded to kiss me. We kissed a long, good, hard passionate kiss until the phone broke us apart.

Shit! I said. That must be them.

William let out a childlike groan.

Don’t worry hon, we’ll finish this later tonight. I winked.

I dashed out of the bedroom yelling for Miranda to get the Beef Wellington out. Kiwi was right behind me barking as usual. She always barked at the sound of a ringing phone or a knock at the door. I answered the phone and sure enough, it was Marty the door attendant. I was expecting the Schumacher’s but instead he told me it was my sister Pat.

I opened the door for Pat, wondering what the hell she was doing here. She had a happy look on her face.

Hey Kiwi baby! Pat said, while bending down to pet her.

Pat, what brings you here?

Gina, I need a little bitty favor. Pat said, while holding her index finger and thumb close together to indicate just how small a favor she needed.

What?

I need you to keep the kids for me. Leon won a raffle at his job. It’s a two-night cruise!

That’s great! I yelled. Where are you going for two nights?

Well, it’s one of those cruises that don’t go anywhere. You know, just a cruise along the Atlantic. It’s nothing big and special but Leon and I could use the getaway.

Uh, well, yeah. I’ll keep the kids.

Pat saw my hesitation.

What’s wrong? You don’t want to keep them?

No, it’s not that, it’s just…

Look Gina, I would ask Sheri, but you know she’s busy with the catering business, and Deidra doesn’t have the room, and CeCe, well, you know the deal with her, and…

Pat… Pat… Pat! I shouted. "It’s not a problem. I love those little