Читать книгу Don't Ever Tell - Brandon Massey - Страница 11

Rachel had lied to Joshua. Again.

As quickly as possible, she left home. The longer she stayed in Joshua’s presence, the worse she felt about what she’d done.

She backed her silver Acura TL out of the garage and drove away from the house, winding through the subdivision of spacious homes and winter-browned lawns. It was a quarter to seven, but the December sun was still in hiding. Although she loved the holiday season, she disliked the late sunrises at that time of year. A shower of sun rays as she drove to work might have lifted her spirits.

Or perhaps not. She was burdened with such heavy thoughts that nothing might have improved her mood.

Why had she lied to Joshua—again? He was kind, honest, and loyal, the kind of man she’d longed to meet and had doubted she would ever find. He deserved the best she could give him of herself. He deserved the truth.

But the truth would break his heart.

Last night’s dream was fresh in her mind. After she’d awakened, Joshua believed she had fallen back to sleep, but when he shut off the lights she’d lain awake for almost an hour, worrying.

Worrying about him—the man whose name she dared not voice, not even internally, out of an almost superstitious fear that doing so would conjure him out of the ether like an evil spirit.

But she’d received very disturbing news about him yesterday. News that had almost certainly brought about her nightmare.

Don’t think about it, girl. Worrying never solves anything, does it?

In typical Atlanta fashion, traffic was already heavy on Camp Creek Parkway, the four-lane road that snaked past their neighborhood all the way to the marketplace where her salon was located. Cars poured onto Camp Creek from intersecting streets that supported an ever-increasing number of residential communities.

In her three years living in Atlanta, she had watched the south side transformed from vast acres of silent fields and undisturbed forests of pine and elm into the metro area’s hottest slice of real estate. Some people complained about the rapid pace of growth, but she welcomed it.

It was easier to stay hidden in a heavily populated area.

Stopping at a traffic light, she flipped down the sun visor and examined her face in the mirror. She wasn’t looking for flaws, and she wasn’t planning to apply makeup. She had been blessed with a blemish-free complexion that required only a light touch of cosmetics.

Instead, she was inspecting her new look.

Before moving to Atlanta, she’d worn contact lenses, instead of the thin frame glasses she now sported. Auburn was her natural hair color, and her lush mane had previously hung to the middle of her back. Upon relocating, she’d dyed her hair black and trimmed it to a cute, curly ’do.

If someone who’d known her before she came to Atlanta saw her today, they wouldn’t recognize her. She hoped.

Ten minutes later, she parked in front of her salon, Belle Coiffure. The name was French for “beautiful hairstyle.” She and Tanisha, her business partner, had opened the salon two years ago, and business had been booming from day one.

Certain individuals from her past had doubted her abilities, had told her she’d never amount to anything on her own. As the saying went, living well was the best revenge.

The Open sign was already aglow, the interior track lights shining brightly. When she pushed through the glass double-doors, she heard a gospel song by Mary, Mary rocking on the radio. Tanisha was organizing magazines in the waiting area—copies of Essence, Hype Hair, Gospel Music Today, Ebony, and other glossy periodicals.

“Morning, Tee,” Rachel said. “I didn’t expect you to be here already.”

“Hey, girl,” Tanisha said. “I’ve got a seven-fifteen. Otherwise, you know a sista wouldn’t be rollin’ in till eight.”

Tanisha was a tall, light-skinned sister in her mid-thirties, with a sprinkle of chocolate freckles across her cheeks and a hairdo that changed weekly. This week, her brown hair was styled in a twisted up-do with highlights that accentuated her hazel eyes. It looked fabulous, of course. Tanisha believed that each stylist’s own hair was her best form of advertising, and Rachel tended to agree.

Tanisha was the first friend Rachel had made when she’d moved to Atlanta. They had worked side-by-side at a shop in College Park. Both of them were driven, talented at their craft, and ambitious. It was only natural that they would decide to step out on faith and open their own salon together.

“You enjoy the party last night?” Rachel asked.

“It was real nice,” Tanisha said. “Y’ all had everything there—except single, fine men with good jobs.”

“You know if I knew any single men, I’d hook you up.”

“Single, fine men with good jobs, girl. Not single, bucktoothed, cross-eyed, broke-ass men.”

In spite of her weariness, Rachel laughed.

“Girl, you just don’t know,” Tanisha said. “It’s rough out there.”

Tanisha had never been married, but she wanted to be. She’d wasted five years of her life playing house with a man who believed marriage was only a piece of paper. A year ago, she’d finally gotten fed up with his refusal to commit to a permanent arrangement. She had moved out, bought her own town house and a show-quality Pomeranian she’d named Mr. Bixby, and jumped back into the dating pool.

“You’ll find someone,” Rachel said.

“Easy for you to say. You’re married.”

“The man for you might not look exactly like you think he will, Tee. You’ve got to look at a man’s character. Would you want a pretty boy with a good job—who beats you?”

“Hell, no. I wouldn’t let any man touch me. Shit.”

“You get my point. It’s all about character.”

“All I know is, you should thank God that you aren’t out there any more. Josh is a sweetie.”

Thinking of Joshua laid a leaden heaviness on her shoulders.

“I thank God every day,” Rachel said, and sighed.

Tanisha frowned. “Hey, you feeling okay? You look exhausted.”

She would never share anything about her dream—or what had produced it—with Tanisha. Although Tanisha was a good friend, Rachel had drawn a firm line between what she would share with friends such as Tanisha and what she would never share with anyone.

“Putting on the party was a lot of work,” Rachel said. “I’m still kinda tired.”

“When’s your first appointment? Maybe you can catch a catnap.”

“I’ve got an eight-thirty, so I may just do that.”

Swinging her purse from over her shoulder, Rachel went down the center aisle of the salon, automatically surveying the sixteen stylist stations as she walked, to ensure that each would be ready for business when their stylists arrived. For most of the day, every chair would be occupied with a mix of walk-ins and appointments. If women believed in one thing, it was keeping their hair done. It was no surprise that Madame C. J. Walker, the inventor of the hot comb, had become America’s first black woman millionaire.

In the back, behind a door marked STAFF ONLY, there was a supply closet, a staff lounge furnished with comfortable chairs, a sofa, a coffee table, and a TV, a restroom, and an enclosed office. The office contained a bank of filing cabinets and two desks, one for Rachel, the other for Tanisha.

She plopped into the swivel chair in front of her desk. The sofa in the lounge did look inviting…but she was afraid to go to sleep, for she might have another nightmare about him.

Besides, there was something else she needed to do first.

She unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk. Inside, there was a plastic bag from Walgreen’s Pharmacy, sitting atop a black metal case.

She took the bag inside the restroom.

It contained an early pregnancy test kit.

She spoke a prayer, and tore open the box.