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  I smiled back, wished them a Happy New Year and kept moving down the hallway lined with boxes and five gallon drums of oil, toward my sister, where she stood at the end of the hall talking with one of her hostesses and waving at me.

  Years ago, Kamille and I had been opposite in our views of the world. I thought I was the one who had it all together, and as it turned out Kamille had been the one who’d led me out of a difficult and dark time. My sister had gone from being a crazy and wild young mother of three, to a business owner and married woman. She was the only real friend I had, and probably the only one I could trust.

  Kamille was taller than me, curvier, and opposite of my Hershey bar skin; she was French-fry yellow. Having recently chopped off her thick wavy hair, which had almost hung to her butt, she now sported a short bob that she covered in an LA Angels baseball cap.

  “Happy New Year, sis,” she said as we embraced.

  “Not that happy,” I responded.

  “C’mon, let’s talk, you look like somebody died,” she joked, with a roll of her eyes before pushing me into her office.

  “Here sit down and don’t talk about my office,” she joked, making space for me on the cluttered and cracked leather love seat.

  For as much as my sister’s restaurant was orderly, her office was not. I’d offered several times to organize it for her, but she refused, insisting that she’d get to it. I remained standing, my back against the closed door.

  “You guys are really busy.”

  “We might be feeding the entire city and Chef is talking about he doesn’t want to close the door until all the food is gone. What’s up?” she asked, poised against her metal desk, with her hand succinctly placed on her hip.

  “I really, really hate to spring this on you, but Mr. Haney is out of jail,” I said, my eyes searching for her response.

  “How’d you find out?” she asked, not looking at me but instead moving around to the other side of her desk.

  “I ran into him at the party last night.”

  “He came to your party? What was he doing there?” she asked seemingly more interested in what was on her computer screen, rather than what I was saying.

  Her placid response caught me off guard because she of all people should’ve known why he was there. “What do you think?”

  “I mean what did he say?” she asked, now sifting through the disarray of papers, and receipts overflowing from a wire basket on her desk.

  Walking to where she stood, I pulled her hand away from the mess. “Kamille, are you listening to me? He was at our party; he was in the elevator with me. Why are you acting like this isn’t a big deal?”

  “Sis, I swear, you’re overreacting,” she remarked, absentmindedly pulling the bib of her cap further down over her eyes.

  Holding back a scream, I covered my mouth with my hands, then said deliberately quiet, “I don’t believe it. You already knew.”

  Holding her head down, I watched as Kamille drew a deep breath, then blew it out slowly before saying, “You’re right, I’m sorry, I should’ve told you, but I’m pretty sure my father doesn’t want any trouble. He’s an old man, hell he’s 59. He just wants to get on with his life.”

  I backed up, knocking over a box of menus before taking a seat on the arm of the couch and asked, “Did you say, your father? What the hell are you talking about, Kamille? Your father? You can’t seriously be referring to him like that. You only found out he was your biological father right before he went to jail and you hated him then. And now you think it’s okay to keep it from me? Remember, we’re not sisters who keep secrets.”

  “Slow down, nobody’s keeping secrets. I never said anything, but he wrote me while he was in jail,” she said, her tone slightly apologetic.

  There was a knock on her door, it opened a crack. “Boss, customer wants to see you out here.”

  “I’ll be right out.”

  I waited until the door was closed before I asked, “How could you not tell me that he was out?”

  She squeezed in beside me on the arm of the couch and continued. “Brandon kept pushing me to tell you, but I needed to get to know him first. He doesn’t have an ax to grind like you think.”

  Brandon was my sister’s husband of the last two years. He bragged about being lucky to have a wife and three sons, and even though they weren’t biologically his, he’d gladly taken on the role of Daddy.

  “I don’t understand, you knew, Malik knew, and your husband knew, but nobody bothered to tell me? That’s wrong, Kamille, how could you do that? You know the kind of relationship I had with him,” I cried, my voice beginning to crack, realizing that I was in this alone.

  She looked at me with a smirk and said, “Now sis, we both know that wasn’t a relationship.”

  My mobile rang. I glanced at the caller ID; it was my assistant, Janae. I needed to be on my way.

  Taking my hands in hers, she said, “Tiff, I admit, I was wrong not to tell you we were communicating but when we found out, you remember it was a bad time, and now, well I wanna give him a chance. Please try and understand. I mean things are different; when he went to jail I could’ve cared less after that crazy stuff you two were into, but you’re married to Malik and you’re not that vulnerable and reckless woman anymore.”

  At that point, my sister’s face was begging for my understanding, which meant I couldn’t possibly tell her how I’d allowed him to touch me in that elevator. There weren’t many things I kept from my sister, but somehow I wasn’t inclined to tell her the truth about our interaction.

  My mobile rang again; this time it was Phinn. I sent it to voicemail.

  Standing up to face me, and maybe even moreso to let me know she’d made her decision, she said, “Listen sis, my relationship with him has nothing to do with you and Malik. He’s been to my house, met Brandon and the boys, and we’ve talked about what happened. He only wants to make amends. As for seeing you in the elevator, I’m sure that was a coincidence.”

  Kamille’s reaction was making my head hurt. I had to get out of there. As much as I hated that he was in her life, I certainly wasn’t there to make her choose.

  “I’m not sure what’s going on, but we need to talk about this. Are you going to be around later?”

  “Sure I’ll come over if you want, but like I said, he doesn’t want any trouble. Believe me. What did Malik say?”

  “Same as you, no big deal. But, Kamille, he doesn’t know about what was going on with me and Haney, he only knows about the relationship I had with his son.”

  “And he won’t know, okay? Stop worrying. Now get on your way.”

  I left the restaurant thinking that there was no way anyone could convince me that Mr. Haney didn’t want trouble. My husband had put that man, and his son in jail; how could he not want revenge?

  Chapter 2

  Blessed Babies

  We were back in the Tahoe, headed to the CW studios at 16th and Callowhill Streets. This afternoon I would be hosting a TelEvent for my organization, Blessed Babies, which I’d founded after witnessing the horrifying effects of a newborn addicted to crack.

  Initially with the guidance and support of the nurses at Children’s Hospital and University of Pennsylvania, I was able to corral volunteers to simply sit and hold newborn babies, rocking them through their tremors. Then after a considerable amount of research and strategizing, I came up with the idea of an actual facility to provide services specific to their needs. I presented it to Malik, thinking the city’s Public Health Department could help, but he pushed it onto my plate, making the Blessed Babies Wellness Center (BBWC) my first project as First Lady.

  In the six years since I began this project, I’d been able to bring together a very prominent board of directors, in addition to securing a four-story building at 38th and University Avenue. The entire project, from renovations to operating costs for the next ten years totaled approximately $40 million. To date we still needed $25 million. Our goal was to keep BBWC a non profit center, where newborns
and children could go for extended treatment once they left the hospital, especially if they didn’t have an initial home or foster home to go to.

  We were also kicking off our first crowdfunding campaign specifically to raise money through what we’d named the Cuddle Campaign. For each person who posted a video cuddling a baby for 10 minutes, they were to donate $10.00.

  Phinn pulled into the parking lot on 16th Street and this time I let him get the door for me, probably because I was preoccupied with my thoughts.

  Holding the door open he asked, “Mrs. Skinner, you have my number, right?”

  “Yes Phinn, I’ll text you when I’m ready.”

  In the lobby, a jubilant Craig Ernst, chairman of our finance sub-committee, welcomed me. Craig was a nurse anesthesiologist at the Perelman Center, but he was also a good friend whose wedding Malik and I recently attended when he married his partner of 12 years.

  “Happy New Year, Mrs. Skinner,” he said, kissing me on both cheeks.

  “Yes, Happy New Year, Craig. How’s it going up there?” I asked, before stepping into the elevator.

  “We’re at $75,000, Moosh & Twist performed, then remotely from London, Eve hosted for an hour; she pulled in a good $15,000 and Tina Fey dialed in with $5,000 donation. And lest I forget, the Smiths signed on as patron donors, which would give us $10,000 a year for the next five years.”

  “The Smiths?”

  “Will and Jada?”

  “Nice, very nice.”

  “But everyone is waiting to hear from you, so I hope you have your game face on.”

  “I’m ready,” I answered, realizing it was time to put my personal life aside.

  When the elevator doors opened, Janae stood waiting with a clipboard in her hand. I’d been trying to get her to use the iPad I’d given her for Christmas, but she was making slow progress.

  “Happy New Year, Mrs. Skinner.”

  “Happy New Year, Janae,” I said, realizing that not only was I sick of repeating that greeting, but thus far, the New Year hadn’t been happy. “I swear, I remember telling you that you didn’t have to be here today.”

  “You’re here, I’m here. What can I get for you?”

  “Can you get me a Mountain Dew, please? I don’t think coffee is going to do it and I’m starved.”

  “Already got it. But we only have about ten minutes before you go on. I also jotted down a few notes to get you started,” she said, while showing me to a table where she’d set me up with a bagel and Mountain Dew.

  Ten minutes later the spotlight was on me.

  “Happy New Year! Thanks so much for tuning in today. I’m Tiffany Johnson-Skinner. I’m sure you’re aware that I’m the First Lady of Philadelphia, however this afternoon isn’t about politics, or campaign endorsements, it’s about our children. . . Blessed Babies and The Wellness Center. When I first started this project, these babies were labeled with the awful term of crack-babies and nobody cared that they lay crying in the hospital. Like everything else, it was regarded as an urban problem and maybe for the most part it had been. But in the last three years that’s changed. The definition, Neonatal Abstinence Syndrome, simply refers to babies born addicted to any type of substance. . . whether it’s heroin, crack cocaine or prescription drugs. No matter how you spin it, our babies are suffering and it’s not their choice. The BBWC will help these children and their parents with managing the physical and emotional issues surrounding NAS, and for that we need your help.”

  For intervals during the next three hours I spoke, interspersed with performances by local and national entertainers, poetry readings, a Skype with Kevin Bacon, some humor from Kevin Hart, and a final performance from Meek Mills, appealing to the young audience to whom many of these babies were born. We even had parents and grandparents sharing personal stories.

  Finally, with less than an hour left in the show, I slipped into the green room, hoping to find something to eat. The Mountain Dew had burned a hole in my empty stomach, and the catered food had shriveled and dried, leaving me to munch on a bag of Doritos and a bottle of water.

  The television was playing clips of my husband waving to the crowd at the Mummers Parade, Philly’s 100-year-old folk festival, with its elaborate costumes and string bands. That, of course, followed with clips from the previous night’s murder scene, where reporters questioned how he planned to make good on his campaign promise of keeping Philly safe. No matter how hard they pushed Malik, he never appeared surprised by a question and always had an appropriate response.

  I did, though, catch the slight shift of his eyes as he stole a glance at the worn Bulova watch he’d been wearing since law school, a gift from his grandmother. I’d been after him to buy a new one, but Malik never wanted the public to think he was grandiose. However, by giving his constituents full access to our lives through social media, it also gave them reason to comment on every aspect of our lives, which sometimes to me was quite intrusive.

  Three taps on the green room door interrupted my thoughts.

  “Come on in.”

  “Mrs. Skinner, you won’t believe the gigantic surprise waiting for you,” Craig exclaimed, spreading his arms open to indicate how big it was.

  “If you don’t stop calling me Mrs. Skinner,” I replied to my friend, who was ten years my senior.

  “All right, all right Tiffany, but you’re hardly going to believe this! It’s fifty thousand dollars!”

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “Yes, yes, isn’t it wonderful?” he squealed, all while clapping his hands and twirling around the room.

  “Is it someone my husband knows? A celebrity?”

  “It’s a law firm, Spevak or something, he’s on his way up in the elevator so you have to get back on camera to formally accept it. Please hurry before it gets away!”

  “That’ll be the easiest thing I’ve had to do this year!” I said, before applying a fresh dab of lipstick, popping a mint to freshen my breath, and making sure my bun was still neatly in place.

  When I reached the phone bank to stand with Craig, we held hands in anticipation. Usually we knew beforehand about a contribution of this size, so this really was a surprise.

  “He’s here. Two minutes to action,” yelled the production assistant.

  The PA was right, he was here; our donor was Mr. Haney.

  I felt myself shrinking into a dark place mixed with desire and fear; there was no way I could be face to face with that man on television. My mouth went dry, my scalp tingled and I had to clinch my thighs together to stop the awful pulsating between my legs.

  Having recognized who Mr. Haney was, Craig exclaimed, “Looka here, prison sure did him well, that man is one handsome old man.”

  We both stared as Mr. Haney straightened his tie and moved toward us. Under the glare of the studio lights, as he sauntered my way, our eyes locked.

  I hadn’t noticed it so much on New Year’s Eve but this man appeared even more distinguished than before he’d gone away. Flecks of gray were sprinkled throughout his hair and his perfectly trimmed mustache and beard accentuated his wrinkle free skin.

  And that’s when it happened, without warning, my mind momentarily drifted back to that night he uninvitingly showed up at my house and dripped hot candle wax all over me, and for two days he used my body over and over until I’d literally passed out. How could I desire such a horrible man, whose lovemaking knew no boundaries?

  “Craig, you have to handle this, I can’t,” I mumbled, squeezing my friend’s hand a little too hard.

  Turning to me with concern, he asked, “Tiffany, it’s money, who cares about his being an ex-con.”

  “I need you to accept this, please,” I begged, while fumbling to remove the microphone attached to my dress collar.

  “Get it together, First Lady, this is your baby.”

  “I can’t. . .” I stammered, but it was too late, Mr. Haney was a mere ten steps away, and the cameras were focused in my direction.

  Having no idea who he was, J
anae proudly introduced us. “Mrs. Skinner, this is our most generous supporter, Mr. Gregory D. Haney, the second, of Wallus, Spevak & Rule, Attorneys at Law.”

  With a wary smile on my lips, I said, “Good evening, Mr., we’re so grateful for your gift,” I responded, unable to say his name, as I’d said it too many times in the throes of passion, most recently in that damn elevator.

  “It’s my pleasure, First Lady,” he answered, his warm outstretched hand grasping mine in a double-handed handshake.

  The PA instructed, “Thirty seconds. I need you on your spot, please.”

  All eyes from the studio audience, cameramen, stagehands, assistants and those manning the twenty-person phone bank were on Mr. Haney and me. I couldn’t come unglued.

  When the cameraman said, “Roll it,” the last thing I saw out of my peripheral vision was Phinn on his mobile phone.

  “As the chairwoman for Blessed Babies, we at the foundation thank you for the generosity of Wallus, Spevak & Rule.”

  Mr. Haney stepped in closer; his shoulder brushed against my arm and I felt my nipples harden.

  “Often people don’t want to think about the babies who are born addicted to drugs and sometimes abandoned by parents who aren’t equipped to deal or who are struggling with their own addictions. But because of your firm’s generous donation, the doors of the Wellness Center will soon open. Again, we thank you.”

  “Mrs. Skinner, if I may take a moment to say that we at the firm understand how hard you’re working for this worthy cause and want you to know that we are here to provide not only financial support, but pro-bono legal advice to your center and its parents when needed. All you have to do is give me a call and I’ll generously give of my services.”

  Chapter 3

  Restitution

  “Good job this evening,” Malik whispered when I walked into the family room where Nylah lay asleep across his lap.

  “Malik, we need to talk about Haney, right now,” I fumed.

  “Let me put her to bed first.”

  “Why are you avoiding the subject? This is important. I’m worried about what he’s up to, and why’d that law firm give him their money to donate anyway.”