“Tell Caroline that Asia Ingrum is here. I’m sure she’ll see me.”
The woman motioned for Asia to enter the room to the right and once she was alone, she breathed again. She wandered around the living room, astonished at the pure majesty.
It was clear that this space, painted in a soft golden hue, had been designed for people who were used to elegant living. The furniture was traditional, from the lines of the timeless mahogany-trimmed sofa to the coffee and end tables in the ornate Louis XVI style. There was only one word that came to Asia’s mind—class.
“May I help you?”
Asia swung around; almost lost her balance. Standing under the living room’s archway stood her competition. The magnificence of the home hadn’t made Asia leave, but the woman who was married to the man she wanted almost made her run.
Caroline, dressed in a simple white raw silk sheath that formed to her shapely figure, stood straight, head high. Her hands rested waist high, cupped together. All that was missing was a crown. She stood like a queen.
Caroline’s five-foot-seven frame moved with grace as she glided across the room. Asia braced herself. This was the moment. When the wife would recognize the mistress. And would wither with fear.
But as she came closer, Caroline’s hazel eyes remained clear, friendly. When only inches separated them, her face still carried her smile. She raised her hand.
“I’m Caroline Fitzgerald-Johnson,” she stated with the tiniest Southern drawl. Her voice, cadence, tone reeked of money and good home training.
Asia tried not to frown. She wanted something—a sign of surprise, shock, anything that would let her know that not only did Caroline recognize her, but now she feared the presence of her rival.
But there was nothing.
Asia took Caroline’s hand. She hadn’t recognized the face, but she would know her name. “I’m Asia Ingrum.”
More nothing.
With a smile, Caroline motioned toward the sofa. “Jenny told me you were here, but she didn’t say what this was about.” She sat, crossed her ankles, and rested her hands in her lap.
Asia glanced at the space next to Caroline but stayed standing. There was no need for niceties—she’d come to seek and destroy. “I thought it was time for us to meet.” She paused, her mouth as dry as the Mojave Desert. She inhaled, then exhaled the words, “I know…I know Bobby.”
A small smile. “You know my husband?”
The way she spoke those words made Asia’s heart pound.
Caroline continued, “How do you know my husband?”
Asia was ready for the kill. “Bobby and I…we’ve been seeing each other.”
Caroline sat, unmoved, unaffected. “Really?” she responded, as if someone had just told her it might rain. “Well, I don’t know why this would be news, Ms. Ingrum. My husband is a professional basketball player. He sees a lot of people.”
Could she possibly be this stupid? “Bobby and I more than see each other. We’ve been involved.”
Still Caroline remained stoic, perched as if she were sitting on a throne. “And by involved, you mean…?”
Asia frowned. She’d seen women like Caroline before, in movies like The Wedding and Eve’s Bayou . Caroline Fitzgerald-Johnson was probably from one of those black families who’d gained their wealth generations before. But even though she’d grown up far from Compton, it was clear that Caroline’s money couldn’t buy her a clue. She sat, composed, not understanding that her house was about to come tumbling down.
“Caroline,” Asia began.
“Mrs. Fitzgerald-Johnson.”
Asia gazed at the woman through squinted eyes. “Your husband and I are in love.”
A beat…then Asia’s eyes widened as Caroline threw her head back and laughed. And laughed.
It’s not funny , Asia wanted to stomp and shout. But she said nothing. Just waited.
Bobby’s wife held up her hand. “I was trying…I just wanted to see how far you would go.”
Asia stiffened.
“What would make you
The woman motioned for Asia to enter the room to the right and once she was alone, she breathed again. She wandered around the living room, astonished at the pure majesty.
It was clear that this space, painted in a soft golden hue, had been designed for people who were used to elegant living. The furniture was traditional, from the lines of the timeless mahogany-trimmed sofa to the coffee and end tables in the ornate Louis XVI style. There was only one word that came to Asia’s mind—class.
“May I help you?”
Asia swung around; almost lost her balance. Standing under the living room’s archway stood her competition. The magnificence of the home hadn’t made Asia leave, but the woman who was married to the man she wanted almost made her run.
Caroline, dressed in a simple white raw silk sheath that formed to her shapely figure, stood straight, head high. Her hands rested waist high, cupped together. All that was missing was a crown. She stood like a queen.
Caroline’s five-foot-seven frame moved with grace as she glided across the room. Asia braced herself. This was the moment. When the wife would recognize the mistress. And would wither with fear.
But as she came closer, Caroline’s hazel eyes remained clear, friendly. When only inches separated them, her face still carried her smile. She raised her hand.
“I’m Caroline Fitzgerald-Johnson,” she stated with the tiniest Southern drawl. Her voice, cadence, tone reeked of money and good home training.
Asia tried not to frown. She wanted something—a sign of surprise, shock, anything that would let her know that not only did Caroline recognize her, but now she feared the presence of her rival.
But there was nothing.
Asia took Caroline’s hand. She hadn’t recognized the face, but she would know her name. “I’m Asia Ingrum.”
More nothing.
With a smile, Caroline motioned toward the sofa. “Jenny told me you were here, but she didn’t say what this was about.” She sat, crossed her ankles, and rested her hands in her lap.
Asia glanced at the space next to Caroline but stayed standing. There was no need for niceties—she’d come to seek and destroy. “I thought it was time for us to meet.” She paused, her mouth as dry as the Mojave Desert. She inhaled, then exhaled the words, “I know…I know Bobby.”
A small smile. “You know my husband?”
The way she spoke those words made Asia’s heart pound.
Caroline continued, “How do you know my husband?”
Asia was ready for the kill. “Bobby and I…we’ve been seeing each other.”
Caroline sat, unmoved, unaffected. “Really?” she responded, as if someone had just told her it might rain. “Well, I don’t know why this would be news, Ms. Ingrum. My husband is a professional basketball player. He sees a lot of people.”
Could she possibly be this stupid? “Bobby and I more than see each other. We’ve been involved.”
Still Caroline remained stoic, perched as if she were sitting on a throne. “And by involved, you mean…?”
Asia frowned. She’d seen women like Caroline before, in movies like The Wedding and Eve’s Bayou . Caroline Fitzgerald-Johnson was probably from one of those black families who’d gained their wealth generations before. But even though she’d grown up far from Compton, it was clear that Caroline’s money couldn’t buy her a clue. She sat, composed, not understanding that her house was about to come tumbling down.
“Caroline,” Asia began.
“Mrs. Fitzgerald-Johnson.”
Asia gazed at the woman through squinted eyes. “Your husband and I are in love.”
A beat…then Asia’s eyes widened as Caroline threw her head back and laughed. And laughed.
It’s not funny , Asia wanted to stomp and shout. But she said nothing. Just waited.
Bobby’s wife held up her hand. “I was trying…I just wanted to see how far you would go.”
Asia stiffened.
“What would make you
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