China is a successfully businesswoman who worked her way to the top the old-fashioned way; through hard-work, dedication and the retirement of her most precious sexual gem. But she meets Malcolm and he puts her loyalty to the test. Tabitha is a little girl trapped in the body of her imaginary friend, Bobby. But is Bobby really her friend or her abuser? Trampled by love over and over, and bearing the emotional scars to prove it, a women finally finds Mr. Perfect and love but is stood up by the man of her dreams. Will she let this dream be a reality of her former nightmares? And due to checkout at any time, a man's wife is battling cancer. In his mind, she will not be here much longer to hold him and love him the way she had for so many years. Who will be there to love him and motivate him and even console him when she is gone? He lets other ladies ease his mind and stroke his ego among other things. At last . . . my love has come along . . . He just knew they were going to be the next first family until the unthinkable happens. The wife of an over-worked politician has an affair, has a baby outside the marriage and the family is falling apart. In a church world, many secrets surround the sanctuary, primarily in the pulpit. Boggled by guilt, Bishop McFoster wants to reveal his secret, right before offering time, but is shot to death before he can. These collections of short stories, plus more, reveal what happens next in their lives . . . one year later.

52 Weeks and Counting ...

By Ebony Webster

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Ebony Webster
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4685-4378-0

Chapter One

AAA (Angry, Ambitious, and Abstinent)

Day 1,095 is the first thought that came to my mind as I put on my Armani Houndstooth jersey skirt with matching jacket. I love the feeling of being successful. I love the feeling of success clothing me. I love the feeling of success! Although the price of success came with the retirement of my precious diamond, it was still worth it. Diamond? My diamond was the ideal gemstone—remarkable clarity, very high polish in color and the cut ... well, to each her own. No, honey, it wasn't cubic zirconia. It was the real deal, Jack! If you haven't gotten it by now, I'm not talking about the diamond you put on your finger. Wink. Yeah, I had to lock up my diamond ... in a safe deposit box. The only person with access was me and whomever I felt deserved the combination. At this point, that was nobody. In fact, it is what got me into so much trouble. Yeah, the diamond was precious, but she was natural. She had natural instincts that meant trouble, trouble, trouble.

I was dressed and ready to go. I sprayed a couple more squirts of my fabulous Emporio Armani Diamonds fragrance. Mmmmmmmm ... success even smells good.

My board meeting was running late because of a few stragglers. Oh, how I hate tardiness! And I refused to start without everyone present. All I need is for someone to say, "I didn't hear that." Or, "I wasn't there when you said that." Talk about something that burns me up inside! So I patiently waited, and one by one, each person entered the room a total of fifteen minutes late. I could tell by their faces they knew I wasn't happy about it. And I'm sure they could tell by mine that I wasn't.

Before my sexual furlough, I was labeled "the carefree manager." Actually, I am the vice president. I was the one who was the most favorite ... the one with whom insubordinates could share personal issues without feeling judged or fearful of their job security. Now 1,095 days in, I am labeled "the slave driver," "the bitch," and the "great dane." Humph. Everyone thought I was angry for some reason. I didn't feel angry. I worked my way to the top the traditional way—with hard work, dedication, and brownnosing. I was thirty-two years old and VP of a very lucrative company with a private staff of twenty-five and a personal assistant. Seriously, you can't tell me I didn't deserve a high-five, pat on the back, thumbs-up, or something. At any rate, I was not angry. Sure, I was on edge at times, frustrated and disgruntled. But what woman wasn't at some point? Business was business, and I refused to let any noncompliant employee stand in the path of my climb. I dared him or her. If the diamond couldn't stand in the way, then nobody could.

During lunch at my favorite corner diner, the thought raced through my mind again. Now 1,095 days! Wooo! Some may have thought it was sad that I would go home and snuggle up to my cold, hard career ambitions every night. I didn't. As I began to erase the thoughts from my mind, a sweet smell whisked across my nose. Well, it wasn't so sweet. It was actually luscious. It was a familiar smell. A very familiar smell. My nose led my eyes to the scent, and that was when I heard the deepest voice I had ever heard in my life. He said, "Is this seat taken?" Bedazzled into his eyes, my mouth could not open. His complexion mimicked the color of French vanilla. One of his parents must be white, I thought. But I could tell he had some type of ethnicity in him because of the texture of his hair. But those eyes—they sparkled like the stars on a clear night. They were piercing ... like the eyes of a kitten, but this man standing fully erect in his stature was no kitten. Not even a cub. Oh, a lion maybe. The king of the jungle. Just then I felt a tingle in between my thighs, one I hadn't felt in 1,095 days!

"Is this seat taken?" he asked again.

I was so mesmerized by his appearance and sweet scent that I hadn't noticed I hadn't yet answered the man. "Yes ... I mean, no."

He took the seat. But on his way down, the top of his collared shirt slowly lifted forward and revealed the top of his chest. Damn. Even his clavicle is sexy! I thought.

"Excuse me for being so forward," he said. "But I saw you walking across the street, and something in me needed to meet you."

I regained my composure. "Why is that?" I asked.

He smirked. "Well, if you would allow me to be blunt—" He paused for an answer.

"Go ahead," I answered.

"There's something about a sister with a walk. I only saw you from behind, but your walk was so demanding and focused. You may not have noticed, but every head turned ... even the women when you walked across the street."

I blushed. I read in an article many years ago that a woman's walk determined her drive and seriousness. Just like a man judged another man's handshake, women judged another woman's walk. It was not so much a stride but a walk of confidence. I practiced it for several years.

He continued, "So I followed you inside to say hello, and hopefully, you can let me buy you a cup of coffee?" He smiled. His teeth were pearly white, and they were the perfect size. Who was this man?

"Sure." That was all I could get out. I had never been taken aback by a man as I was at this very moment. Wait ... I take that back. Yes, I have been. There was Trevor McDonald. He was my first love. We both were juniors in high school. He was the popular boy. All the girls wanted him. Trevor was good-looking, the captain of the football team, and the homecoming prince. I was not as fabulous in high school as I was today, so I knew Trevor wouldn't want a girl like me. But one day, we were in study hall and I was sitting at a table by myself going over my flashcards for my exam, and without an invitation, Trevor came over and took a seat next to me. Much like today with this sexy caramel bar sitting next to me, I felt some type of energy come over me. Not only was Trevor smart and cute, but he also possessed a succulent smell.

"What's up? What you doing?" he had asked.

This had been the first time Trevor had ever spoken to me in our three years of high school, so needless to say, I was shocked by his brazenness.

"Hi," I had said with a sharp tone and a look to match.

"Yo, I've been digging you and wanna know if you want to be my date to homecoming," he had asked then.

Usually, I wouldn't have even entertained a person using such bad grammar, but again, his smell had been so mesmerizing. I will admit the jealous looks of the other girls, especially Stephanie Taylor, pushed me to accommodate Trevor's presence. And I did have a secret crush on Trevor anyway.

"Ummmmmmmmmm," I mumbled.

"Great!" he exclaimed. "Be ready by eight next Saturday."

I remember just sitting there in astonishment yet excitement. Trevor McDonald was digging me! I wondered why he'd never said anything before now. But I thought back to my early high school years and felt that I had really developed physically and mentally. In ninth grade, my chest had been as flat as a checkerboard, and you could literally play "connect the dots" on my face. By junior year, my face was acne-free, and I wore a 32B.

That day, I went home and told my mother that Trevor McDonald had asked me to be his homecoming date. It was just my mother and me. My father split when I was three years old. Last I heard he was in a mental hospital. My mother was excited for me. She had been waiting for the day to dress me up and do my hair and makeup.

The doorbell rang later.

"Mom ... get the door. I'll be down."

My mother opened the door, and Trevor was standing behind it, wearing a chocolate brown suit with a cream and brown ascot tie. His feet were covered with chocolate—and cream-colored Stacy Adams. Oh, that boy was clean. Or as the old folks say, "sharp."

I came down the stairs. Trevor's eyes met mine, and inside them, I saw emptiness, so much that my reflection was staring back at me. I wore a cream-colored cocktail dress trimmed in dark brown. We matched to the tee. My mother put my hair up in a French roll with cream-colored pearls streaming around it. My makeup was flawless. I looked fabulous! So why were Trevor's eyes so empty?

"Wow!" he said. "You look great!"

My mother snapped a few pictures, and then off we went.

I remember sliding into the passenger seat of Trevor's car and thinking that this night was going to be the best night of my life. And boy, I couldn't wait to see the look on Stephanie's face. She had been after Trevor since junior high school. She was a fast tail. Very easy.

"Hello?" Mr. French Vanilla snapped me out of my trance.

"Yes!" I shouted unknowingly.

"How do you take your coffee?" he asked.

"Now that's a very personal question. Mister?" I said flirtatiously, remembering that we had not yet exchanged names.

"Malcolm," he said with a smile.

"Personal question, eh? Well, how about you tell the waitress and I dip out of here?" he said while he threw a few bills on the table. He continued, "I have to get back to the office, but give me a call sometime. Miss?"

"China," I said.

"Chiiiina," he whimpered. "Nice."

He smiled. I smiled. He exited the restaurant stage left. I peeked out the window and watched him walk away. I noticed the arch in his back was of perfect form. He had the walk of Denzel and the stride of Obama. Where had this man come from? Was he the man of my dreams? Hell, I could never remember my dreams to literally answer that, but I was sure he was the man of my fantasies. I looked down at the card he left underneath the bills. I read it aloud, "Malcolm D. Harvey." Nice. I mimicked what he had said about my name earlier.

I finished my cup of coffee and went back to the office. Apparently, I had a smile on my face, because everyone I was passing on the way to my desk was staring at me with confusion. I didn't really notice. Mr. Malcolm D. Harvey was definitely on my mind. I took out his card and looked at it again. There was his name, office number, and e-mail address. It just dawned on me. I thought aloud, "This fool wants me to make the first move!" I hadn't given him any of my information, so it was on me to get in touch with him first. I thought aloud again, "I don't know how I feel about that."

"Don't know about what?" Stephanie, my assistant, said.

Yes, Stephanie Taylor was my assistant. Funny how the world revolves, right?

My mind traveled back to Trevor and our relationship through senior year. We even won "cutest couple." Although we had great times together, Trevor still had some sort of apparent emptiness. I couldn't figure it out. However, he almost told me the Saturday before prom. I could tell there was something he wanted to tell me. It just looked like something was really torturing him. We drove to our favorite spot in a local park and parked the car. He looked over to me, and tears began pouring down his face. I was stunned for a couple of reasons. One, I'd never seen a man cry, and two, Trevor was usually so tough and emotionless. The only thing I could muster up to say was, "What's wrong?"

"I'm lost. I'm so lost," he kept proclaiming over and over. "I'm so lost."

"I don't understand. What do you mean you're lost?"

"Just what I said, China. I'm lost!"

This very moment was déjà vu. I was reliving the night my father had left. I was only three years old at the time, but I remembered sitting on the stairs while my mother and father were arguing. My father kept saying, "I'm lost." He wouldn't tell my mother what he had meant, so my mother told him to get out until he found himself. That was just what he did.

I looked at Trevor. He was trembling. He was crying. He was scared. I just grabbed him and hugged him tightly. Eventually, he calmed down and took me home. The next morning, I woke up and heard my mother talking on the phone. She was saying, "I'm sorry to hear that. China's going to be devastated." I walked in the kitchen, and my mother immediately ended her phone conversation.

"Good morning, honey. Sit down and have some breakfast," she said.

"Who were you on the phone with, mom?" I asked.

My mother had sadness in her eyes.

I asked again. "Who were you on the phone with?" This time, my tone was more demanding.

"That was Trevor's mom, honey."

"Okay. Why is she calling you? What's going on?" I asked nervously.

"Trevor is not going to be able to take you to prom next week, China."

"Why?"

"Trevor is sick, honey. He's not all there," my mother said.

I yelled, "Mom, what are you talking about? Just spit it out already!"

"Trevor is a schizo!"

"What?"

My mother lowered her voice. "Yes, honey. Trevor is very sick ... mentally. Ms. McDonald said he was diagnosed when he was seven years old, but they had him on medicine that controlled the other personalities."

"The other personalities?" I questioned.

"Yes, honey. He was diagnosed with having three personalities, and the medicine doesn't seem to be working anymore. So his mother felt it was a good idea to send him away."

I jumped out of my chair. "Send him away? What do you mean send him away? Where?"

"I don't know, honey."

"I don't understand. Trevor seemed fine to me," I said, knowing that was a lie.

"Why didn't I get a chance to say good-bye?" I asked while I was crying.

"Ms. McDonald felt that if he saw you, it would have triggered an outrage. His fits have been uncontrollable lately," my mother said.

"Fits?" I asked. Now that I couldn't imagine. I will admit Trevor was beginning to have unusual moods, but I never saw him have fits.

I sat at my kitchen table and cried uncontrollably while my mother consoled me.

"China?" Stephanie yelled while she snapped her fingers.

"What?" I had forgotten she was standing in front of me.

"Don't know about what?" she asked again.

"Nothing. I was just thinking aloud. You know me."

"Mm-hmm," Stephanie said with her ghetto-girl, "around the way" accent.

Stephanie and I became good friends in college. We had taken a class together during freshman year, and we were the only familiar faces in the classroom and on campus. Stephanie ended up dropping out during her sophomore year. She got pregnant with my godson. She only has three more classes to go now, and she would have her four-year degree. I was proud of her for going back.

"Anyways, here are your messages, and I'm leaving early to pick Jacob up from the babysitter. Can you watch him tonight? I have a date," Stephanie said.

"Stephanie, you always have a date, and you know I will watch my godson whenever, but not tonight."

"Why?" Stephanie asked in shock.

"Maybe I have plans," I said with a sarcastic tone.

Stephanie sucked her teeth. "You don't have no plans."

Oh, how I hated double negatives!

"And how do you know I don't have any plans?" I asked, emphasizing the correct way to say the sentence.

"Because, heffa, I know you," she said with her sister-girl neck twist.

Stephanie was right. Technically, I didn't have plans. This was the first time I had met a guy in a long time, so I wanted to just think about me and Malcolm's encounter and strategically plan my next move. I couldn't believe he had put the ball in my court. I didn't make first moves. Look at me. I didn't have to. But would it technically be the first move? He came on to me first. So I would technically be making the second move, right? If I did decide to call or e-mail him, how long should I wait before I did it? Did the three-day rule still apply in 2008? Why was this man so heavy on my mind? So many thoughts ran through my mind all afternoon that I couldn't get any work done. I decided to call it a day and head home.

It's been one year. My phone alarm went off and I saw that I had seven messages on my voice mail. Who the heck is calling me at six in the morning, and why? After a long stretch, I turned off the snooze button and checked my messages.

"Happy birthday, girl?" Stephanie screamed into the phone.

"I know I'm about to see you in a few hours because you are the only person I know who works on their birthday, but let's do happy hour after work. Drinks on me!"

Stephanie seemed more excited about my birthday than I did. And she was right. I didn't take birthdays off.

The next message was form my godson, Jacob. "Happy birthday to the best godmother."

I got you a present. I hope you like it."

"Jacob's voice is getting deeper. He will be thirteen next month. I have to figure out what to get him," I thought aloud while I continued to check my messages.

The last message was form my mother. "Happy birthday, darling. You are thirty-three years old today. I hope you have a man taking you out tonight. Who am I kidding? I know you don't. But I'm sure you and Steph are going out. Please find a man and get me some grandbabies before I die. Oh, and have a good day, baby."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from 52 Weeks and Counting ...by Ebony Webster Copyright © 2012 by Ebony Webster. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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