bikinis down her legs to get her husband’s attention. She could sidle up to
Randall, press herself against him, moan until he apologized for inviting Sharon.
“You’re a better woman than I am. I wouldn’t have let her in my house.” Candace’s look says you better show that woman whose
man Randall is. “What’s the matter with you? Why did Randall invite her? What was he thinking when he gave you that outfit?”
“He meant for her to have it.” Lena wonders if this is the expensive meal he promised Sharon.
“Randall says you’re quite the decorator, Lena.” Sharon redirects sections of her chocolate dessert to the edge of her plate.
“I’d love a tour of the house. Maybe you can give me a few pointers. I don’t have an eye for that sort of thing.” She pats
Randall’s arm. “And this one keeps me busy.”
“Show her my office and the master bedroom. Take the ladies with you. She just finished redecorating.” Randall rises from
the table and holds an invisible cigar to his mouth—his signal for a smoke on the front porch.
“I think we’ll skip the tour and go into the sunroom. Upstairs is a mess,” Lena lies.
“In that case, I think I’ll join the boys on the porch. I’m sure Randall won’t mind.” Sharon glances at the front door, and
her smile conveys more than friendliness or amusement.
“I’m sure I have a cigarillo you could handle,” Randall says.
“Oh, I can handle that, and more,” Sharon says, standing to follow Randall to the porch.
Lena knows Sharon isn’t the first woman at TIDA to hit on Randall. The CFO’s second wife cornered him at last year’s Christmas
party and told him in no uncertain terms, which Lena could plainly hear, that she always wanted to fuck a powerful, sexy black
man. That woman was not this determined.
With two measured steps, Candace puts herself between Randall and Sharon, separating them with her wide designer skirt and
the woody-amber scent of Hermès perfume. Lena watches her take Sharon’s arm in a firm girlfriend grip, and with that one motion
she forgives Candace for each and every bragging word, for each and every bit of raunchy gossip; this one action endears Candace
to Lena forever.
“Let the boys tell their dirty jokes and smoke their stinky cigars. It’s the one vice we wives allow.” Candace steers Sharon
to the sunroom, leaving Lena and Charles alone beside the table.
“Is she fucking him?”
“Ask him. But Randall’s no fool. You don’t mess around in your own backyard, especially when you’re trying to be the head
of your company.” Charles feigns a slight bow. “I, on the other hand, wouldn’t let my head be turned by some overambitious
twit. If you weren’t married to my best friend, I’d seduce you into having a torrid affair with me and fuck you all over the
kitchen between all the lovely meals you’d cook for me.”
“Drop dead, Charles. If Randall is your best friend, why do you say things like that to his wife?” Lena empties the last of
a bottle of aged cabernet into her glass. “Why don’t you go fuck Sharon? She seems to want to give it up pretty badly, and
you’ve got enough money.”
“Because you know I’m not serious. Because she’s not my type. Because everyone knows you’d never leave the son of a bitch.”
Charles winks and saunters to the porch.
The hint of cigar smoke wafts between the threshold and the door as Lena walks past. Tonight the smell does not remind her
of John Henry or the night Randall gave her the yellow diamond. It reminds her that Randall has his own agenda. That once
she shared that agenda with him. As she nears the sunroom the bimbette’s shrill voice reaches Lena before she sets foot there.
“Does she always go to this much trouble? I mean, that meal was fabulous.”
“For what you ate of it, dear,” Lynne says, her back to the sunroom’s double doors. “We call Lena the black Martha Stewart.
She got away with
Randall, press herself against him, moan until he apologized for inviting Sharon.
“You’re a better woman than I am. I wouldn’t have let her in my house.” Candace’s look says you better show that woman whose
man Randall is. “What’s the matter with you? Why did Randall invite her? What was he thinking when he gave you that outfit?”
“He meant for her to have it.” Lena wonders if this is the expensive meal he promised Sharon.
“Randall says you’re quite the decorator, Lena.” Sharon redirects sections of her chocolate dessert to the edge of her plate.
“I’d love a tour of the house. Maybe you can give me a few pointers. I don’t have an eye for that sort of thing.” She pats
Randall’s arm. “And this one keeps me busy.”
“Show her my office and the master bedroom. Take the ladies with you. She just finished redecorating.” Randall rises from
the table and holds an invisible cigar to his mouth—his signal for a smoke on the front porch.
“I think we’ll skip the tour and go into the sunroom. Upstairs is a mess,” Lena lies.
“In that case, I think I’ll join the boys on the porch. I’m sure Randall won’t mind.” Sharon glances at the front door, and
her smile conveys more than friendliness or amusement.
“I’m sure I have a cigarillo you could handle,” Randall says.
“Oh, I can handle that, and more,” Sharon says, standing to follow Randall to the porch.
Lena knows Sharon isn’t the first woman at TIDA to hit on Randall. The CFO’s second wife cornered him at last year’s Christmas
party and told him in no uncertain terms, which Lena could plainly hear, that she always wanted to fuck a powerful, sexy black
man. That woman was not this determined.
With two measured steps, Candace puts herself between Randall and Sharon, separating them with her wide designer skirt and
the woody-amber scent of Hermès perfume. Lena watches her take Sharon’s arm in a firm girlfriend grip, and with that one motion
she forgives Candace for each and every bragging word, for each and every bit of raunchy gossip; this one action endears Candace
to Lena forever.
“Let the boys tell their dirty jokes and smoke their stinky cigars. It’s the one vice we wives allow.” Candace steers Sharon
to the sunroom, leaving Lena and Charles alone beside the table.
“Is she fucking him?”
“Ask him. But Randall’s no fool. You don’t mess around in your own backyard, especially when you’re trying to be the head
of your company.” Charles feigns a slight bow. “I, on the other hand, wouldn’t let my head be turned by some overambitious
twit. If you weren’t married to my best friend, I’d seduce you into having a torrid affair with me and fuck you all over the
kitchen between all the lovely meals you’d cook for me.”
“Drop dead, Charles. If Randall is your best friend, why do you say things like that to his wife?” Lena empties the last of
a bottle of aged cabernet into her glass. “Why don’t you go fuck Sharon? She seems to want to give it up pretty badly, and
you’ve got enough money.”
“Because you know I’m not serious. Because she’s not my type. Because everyone knows you’d never leave the son of a bitch.”
Charles winks and saunters to the porch.
The hint of cigar smoke wafts between the threshold and the door as Lena walks past. Tonight the smell does not remind her
of John Henry or the night Randall gave her the yellow diamond. It reminds her that Randall has his own agenda. That once
she shared that agenda with him. As she nears the sunroom the bimbette’s shrill voice reaches Lena before she sets foot there.
“Does she always go to this much trouble? I mean, that meal was fabulous.”
“For what you ate of it, dear,” Lynne says, her back to the sunroom’s double doors. “We call Lena the black Martha Stewart.
She got away with
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