Faking Reality Page 4

  Tia struggled with going from being the perfect NFL trophy wife to being the first lady of a church. Being a trophy wife came easy to Tia. She was five feet four, with peanut-buttery skin and chestnut eyes. Her hair was a perfectly coifed black weave that hung midway down her back. Voluptuous was the word most used to describe her body that was toned and curved in all of the right places. Most men considered her to be exceptionally beautiful.

  Tia believed that she’d been born to be someone’s perfect black Barbie doll trophy wife. But she knew nothing about being a first lady. Until she married Brandon, Tia had never even been inside a church. It took some time, but eventually she learned to fake her relationship with God and the church. She watched television and mimicked the way other first ladies and women in the church acted. Tia was able to copy their every move and action successfully, except for getting pregnant. They never used protection, and Brandon often remarked that he could not understand why God had not blessed them with a baby.

  “Tia, I need to go speak with the camera crew. What does the test say?” Brandon impatiently knocked loudly on the bathroom door.

  Taking a deep breath, Tia stood up and went to the door. She took another deep breath before finally opening it. She greeted her husband with a huge smile. “It’s positive. I’m pregnant,” she said.

  Brandon picked her up and spun her around as he grinned excitedly. “Hallelujah!” he yelled. Then he suddenly put her down. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” he said, gently touching her stomach.

  “No, I’m fine,” Tia said laughing. She had never seen him so excited.

  “It’s a boy. I can feel it. You are carrying Brandon Kitts Jr. in there. Let’s go downstairs. I want to share this news with the camera crew. It will be a great start for our first show.”

  “Honey, wait. I don’t want to tell everyone just yet.”

  Brandon looked at her strangely. “Why not? This is incredible news.”

  “It’s too soon. What if . . . well, what if I miscarry again? Let’s at least wait until my second trimester before we spread the news.”

  Brandon smiled; then he reached out and pulled her into a hug. “You’re right. Forgive me. I was so excited I forgot about what happened last time.” He released her from the hug and gently kissed her on the lips.

  As they left their bedroom and walked downstairs to greet the camera crew Tia’s mind was spinning like an expensive clock. Her thoughts went back to her first marriage. She had awakened one morning feeling nauseous. After checking her calendar, she realized that her period was late. She immediately rushed to the drugstore and bought a pregnancy test. The time period that she waited for the results seemed like sheer agony to her until, with relief, she read the negative results.

  Tia had decided as a teenager that she did not want children. In her opinion, they were loud, messy, and expensive. For that reason, she began taking birth control pills at seventeen, and they were a constant part of her diet, except for the rare occasions that she forgot. Her brief pregnancy scare convinced her that she needed to make sure that she never conceived a child with anyone.

  Tia was home alone as her husband was away at spring training camp for his football team. Before he returned, Tia had her tubes tied. She did not regret her decision, as being a mother was not something that she ever dreamed of. Even though Brandon constantly talked about being a father, Tia knew it would never happen.

  She’d faked a pregnancy during their second year of marriage, and she eventually had to fake a miscarriage. It was her hope that this would pacify Brandon for a while, but its effect was only temporary. Tia grew weary of the lies and pretending to be a great first lady and decided that divorcing Brandon would be her best option. Although she’d signed a prenuptial agreement, there was no evidence of infidelity and she felt there was a good chance that she’d receive a nice settlement. Her lawyer saw things differently. At that time, they’d only been married a few years and her lawyer felt her settlement would be minimal. He advised her that the most effective way for her to walk away from the marriage with a substantial settlement was to give Brandon at least one child, maybe two.

  Tia was furious as she left his office. Not only did she not want any children, there was no way that she could give birth even if she wanted to. Instead of going home, she’d stopped at a local interior design studio, The Periwinkle Palace. The owner, Quincy, was flamboyant, loud, bossy, and gay. He was also Tia’s best friend in the whole world. She sat in his private office and begged him to give her answers to all her problems.

  Quincy’s plan was so over-the-top that it had taken Tia over a year to put all the pieces into place, but she was sure she’d found a foolproof way to not only fake her pregnancy, but to also give Brandon the child he’d always wanted.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs where the camera crew was waiting for them in the front entryway. Brandon reached out to shake each person’s hand before turning to Tia. He politely introduced them.

  Lights, camera, action, Tia thought, as she began to “act” like the perfect first lady.

  Chapter Six

  The lights dimmed, and Julian settled back comfortably in his chair. It wasn’t the usual screening procedure, but he had become excited about his new reality series. For that reason, he’d decided to go over the footage personally in his home theatre with just him and Anderson in attendance. Anderson arrived right on time with the reels tucked safely under his arms. After setting up the video to play on Julian’s fifty-inch screen, the two of them waited patiently to see the raw footage before it went to their editors.

  They shared a bowl of popcorn while they watched the tapes. Julian felt disappointed. All of the footage he’d watched so far had been bland and boring in his opinion. “What is this? I thought we agreed that we didn’t want a sanitized version of their lives. Where’s the dirt?” he demanded.

  “This is just the first day of shooting, Julian. The camera crews were settling in and getting to know the ministers and their families. Trust me.”

  Julian turned his attention back to the screen, still feeling severely disappointed. He watched for several more moments; then he abruptly grabbed the remote control and turned the television off. “Get out. Get out now!” he suddenly screamed.

  Anderson jumped from his seat. He was so startled that he turned over the popcorn bowl and scattered popcorn all over the floor. “I’m sorry, Julian. It will get better, I promise. Just let me clean up this mess and then we—”

  Julian interrupted him. “I said get out! I don’t want to watch anymore.” He pointed toward the door.

  Slowly Anderson walked to the door feeling defeated. “Does this mean we are not moving forward with the show?” he asked quietly.

  “Leave me alone. I need time to think.”

  “Okay, man, that’s good. Just think about things, and I’ll call you tomorrow. Is that okay?” He stared at Julian waiting for an answer, but none came. Julian stood stoically staring at the blank screen.

  He was still standing staring at the screen long after Anderson had left the room. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t get his feet to move. Inside his head he heard voices from his past, and his heart began beating rapidly. His pulse quickened, and he felt as if he might faint. Finally, he returned to his seat and picked up the remote control. The tape started again—and he saw her face.

  He knew she had moved to Atlanta, but in all of the years that he’d been there, he couldn’t find her. He checked phone records and bought public records accounts online. He had poured over the information, but there was nothing there. It was as if she’d disappeared off the face of the earth. He had given up hope that he’d ever find her again when he received a letter from a high school friend. In the letter, the friend told him that his beloved Ophelia Guzman had left Atlanta and died in a car accident while traveling from South Carolina to her new home in Florida. The friend had even sent along a newspaper clipping verifying the story.

  That weekend, Julian flew to Florida
and placed flowers on her grave. He sat in the cemetery and wept for hours before finally going home. Although he’d dated many women in his lifetime, Julian made a vow that he would never marry. The one true love of his life was gone, and no one could replace her.

  Is it really her? Is she alive? he wondered. Maybe it’s just someone who resembles her. I’m tripping. She’s dead. Ophelia is dead. He settled into his seat and restarted the tape. She was descending the staircase on her way to the kitchen. The woman on the tape had long, dark brown hair that wasn’t a weave. He could tell by the way her hair bounced as she walked down the steps. Her luxurious hair was one of the things he had adored most about Ophelia. Julian fell asleep at night with his hands wrapped in it and woke each morning still entwined.

  As he watched her, he recognized the familiar sway of her hips. This woman’s hips were a bit wider than his Ophelia, but she wasn’t fat. He believed it was just possible that she’d filled out in all the right places. Although she was in her late thirties, the woman on the screen still looked youthful and vibrant. She looked the way Julian imagined Ophelia would look, if she had lived.

  For the next two hours, Julian watched the tapes and studied the woman. My mind is playing tricks on me. She looks like Ophelia, she sounds like Ophelia, she smiles like Ophelia, but there’s no way she could be Ophelia.

  Exasperated, he left the theater room and went into his home office. Julian sat down behind the huge mahogany desk and pulled out the contracts Anderson had given him for all of the show’s participants. Tossing papers aside without noticing they were scattering all over the floor, he searched until he found her profile. Slowly he read it.

  Yolanda Smalls Snow had met and married Bishop Jimmy Snow ten years earlier. She was a stay-at-home mom to his teenage children. She was active in church activities and was head of the dramatic arts ministry of her congregation. After reading this, Julian thought back to the first time he’d seen Ophelia on stage. Their small hometown was predominantly white so whenever there was a high school play, it was inevitable that the black actors would be cast in very small roles. That didn’t matter to Julian. He felt his beloved Ophelia stole the show, even if she didn’t have many lines. Her mere presence was breathtaking.

  Years later, he was excited when he learned she’d gotten a principal role in a play. He read an article in the newspaper that said she would be playing Rose Maxon in August Wilson’s play Fences at the local community theater. Julian sent roses to her dressing room and showed up every night with another armful of roses to present to her. But that had been so many years before. One day, Ophelia had walked out of his life and never returned. There had been no explanation and no long good-byes. She just disappeared from his life, leaving Julian devastated.

  His heart desperately wanted to believe that he’d found her again, but his mind would not stop asking questions. Who is Yolanda Smalls, and if she’s really Ophelia, why is she using that name? Julian dug deeper into his desk until he found the newspaper clipping announcing her death. Although he had it memorized, he read it again.

  A one-car accident claimed the life of a local woman. The driver of the car, and victim, has been identified as twenty-four-year-old Ophelia Guzman, of Tallahassee, Fla. Ms. Guzman was heading north on Hwy I-85 in South Carolina when it is believed she fell asleep at the wheel. Her car veered off the road and crashed into a tree. Guzman was pronounced dead at the scene. Investigators state that there were no other occupants in the car, and no other vehicles involved in the accident.

  It is believed that Ms. Guzman had no living family. A memorial service will be held for her at Mt. Temple Mortuary, and her remains interred at Forestdale Cemetery. If you wish to make donations to cover funeral costs, please contact the mortuary.

  Julian received the letter and clipping two weeks after Ophelia’s burial. It was too late for him to say good-bye. Ophelia’s parents had died when she was a small child, and her grandmother, who raised her, had passed away while she was in college. Julian felt horrible that she had died alone and sincerely wished he had been there for her.

  After placing the newspaper back inside his desk, Julian picked up his phone and dialed Anderson’s number. “Hey, it’s me,” he said solemnly. Julian felt drained, as if he’d relived Ophelia walking out of his life and her death all over again.

  “Hey, man, I’m so glad you called. Listen, I talked with my editing guy, and we can fix this. We can punch it up and find some drama. Even if we have to twist their words, there is nothing in the contracts that can stop us. Just don’t give up on it yet.”

  “I’m not giving up. That’s why I called. I overreacted, and I’m sorry.”

  Anderson was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice the sadness in Julian’s tone. He began rattling off details of the next few days’ shooting schedules. He continued on for several moments before he realized Julian was not answering. “Are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here. Listen, what do you know about Bishop Snow’s wife, Yolanda?”

  “Nothing really. She’s a former actress that nobody’s ever heard of. I know they are boring, but we can’t kick them off just yet. Give me some time to work on them. I can get some investigators digging. Maybe there’s some dirt in their background that we don’t know about yet.”

  Julian pondered what Anderson was saying for a moment and realized that he could help him. An investigator could dig up all the information he’d need on Yolanda Smalls Snow. Deep inside, he believed that she was Ophelia, but there were too many holes and unanswered questions. He knew he had to play his cards just right if he was going to get the truth.

  “That’s a great idea. Dig up anything and everything that you can find on her. I mean on them.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Anderson answered excitedly.

  Julian hung up the phone and went upstairs to his bedroom. His mind was still reeling, and his heart ached. He’d grieved for Ophelia every day since he learned she died. Reaching into his nightstand, he pulled out the last photograph he had of them together. They were happy and smiling at a church picnic. He remembered that she’d brought the potato salad that he loved so much. It was her grandmother’s special recipe that contained mayonnaise, mustard, and a secret ingredient she refused to tell. Several of the members requested it for church functions. It was the best he’d ever tasted.

  Finally, he returned the picture to its drawer and prepared for bed. As he showered, he found himself reminiscing about their first kiss. It wasn’t in the shower, it was in the rain. But whenever he felt water pelting his head, he remembered her lips and her kiss. After changing into his pajamas, he climbed into bed and stared up into his skylight. Have I really found you again, Ophelia?

  Julian wasn’t sure, but he made another vow to himself that if Yolanda Snow was indeed his beloved Ophelia returned to him, he would never ever let her go again.

  Chapter Seven

  As she stood in her kitchen preparing dinner, Yolanda tried to contain her excitement. It had been over a month since the camera crews began filming them for Revelations, and after dinner, she and her husband would join the rest of the cast for the premiere party and screening at the W Hotel in Buckhead. Earlier in the day she’d laid out the new dress she purchased just for the party. She’d chosen a white one-shoulder chiffon gown with flattering ruching and iridescent beads at the empire waist. Yolanda felt it was reminiscent of Michelle Obama’s inaugural gown. Although she wasn’t the first lady of the United States, she wanted to look just as beautiful as she represented her church as their first lady. It had taken some time, but she’d finally convinced Jimmy to rent a tuxedo for the occasion.

  “Momlanda, my dress doesn’t fit,” her stepdaughter Priscilla said. She walked into the kitchen carrying the blue A-line empire dress she’d worn to her junior prom just a few weeks prior.

  When Yolanda met and married their father, Priscilla was seven years old, and her younger brother Jimmy Jr., or JJ as he was called, was five. Neither of them had ma
ny memories of their natural mother, but both she and Jimmy felt it was important that they not erase her from their hearts. She wasn’t comfortable being called Mom or Mommy, but she also felt it would be disrespectful of them to call her by her name. So they’d come up with a compromise, and she’d been Momlanda since that day.

  “It fit when you wore it to the prom, and you haven’t gained any weight. What’s the problem?” Yolanda asked. She turned the gas down on the chicken she was cooking so that it would not burn while she spoke with Priscilla.

  “I don’t know. It just won’t fit. If I left now, I could get a new one and be back before it’s time to leave for the party.”

  “What about dinner? They are only serving drinks at the party.”

  “I’ll grab something at the mall. Please?” she begged.

  Yolanda knew that the dress probably fit fine. Priscilla just wanted a chance to see her friends at the mall and get a new dress for the party. She hesitated for a moment, but then realized it was a special occasion for them all.

  “The car keys and the Visa debit card are in my purse. Do not spend more than $200,” she said.

  Priscilla hugged her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks so much.” She rushed out the back door to the garage.

  “Hurry, we don’t want to be late tonight,” Yolanda yelled after her.

  A few hours later, just as the family was completing dinner, Priscilla excitedly burst through the back door. “I found the perfect dress. I can’t wait for everyone to see me in it.”

  “You’ll still look like a pencil with a black eraser,” JJ said. He began laughing loudly.

  “You’re just jealous because I’m not fat like your girlfriend,” Priscilla shot back.

  “Teresa is not fat. She has a gland problem,” JJ snapped. He turned to his father for help. “Dad, make her stop saying that.” JJ folded his arms across his chest in anger.