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  I’d dressed casually in lightweight wool pants and a cashmere sweater and had chosen Royal Exclusive by Creed for my scent of the day. As First Lady, every time I stepped out of the house it gave the general public as well as the media an opportunity to pass judgment. Malik reminded me of that often so even when I took Nylah to school, I made sure I was dressed camera ready.

  My initial reaction at seeing Wesley was to conjure up an excuse as to why I was meeting with Haney. But not wanting to appear suspicious, I pretended it was any other business meeting, because in my reality it was.

  “Tiffany Skinner, I’m surprised to see you in here this morning,” he said, bending down to kiss me on the cheek, ignoring Haney.

  “Business meeting. How’ve you been?” I asked, hoping to sound casual, which was no match for the question on his face.

  “Doing my job, whatever that is.”

  I knew he was referring to his role as community liaison, but I wasn’t going to allow myself to get into that. So I ignored what he said and referring to his fiancé and their four children, I asked, “How’s Curtiss and the kids?”

  “Everyone’s cool. They miss coming over to the house, though,” he said, while rocking back and forth on his heels.

  He was right; our occasional get together at each other’s homes had come to an end once Malik had gotten wind of Wesley’s double-dealings.

  “We’ll have to set up a play date for the kids.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be sure to tell Curtiss, I’m sure she’ll be happy you sent a message.”

  “Thanks, take care,” I told him, trying my best not to be dismissive, yet picking up the menu as if I were about to place an order.

  Swiping a look at Haney, then turning his attention to me, he said, “You should be careful with whom you do business.”

  Haney didn’t respond to Wesley at first; instead he kept his eyes on his mobile phone, presumably reading emails or text messages. But then, he said, “Excuse me, Wesley, but shouldn’t you be focused on your new assignment, rather than my personal affairs?”

  “I thought you said it was a business meeting?” he asked, turning back to me.

  “Either way, it’s none of your concern,” I answered, annoyed that he was questioning me.

  Fixing his gaze on me, he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I guess that’s my cue to roll out.”

  “You’re tougher than I thought,” Haney said, once Wesley was out of earshot.

  “Never mind that, now why am I here?”

  “Like I told you on the phone, I have someone you need to meet.”

  “Who and where are they? I need to get on with my day,” I told him, displeased with myself in how I’d spoken to Wesley and wondering if he would tell Malik he’d seen me before I could.

  “Raquel Turner-Cosby.”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise; this woman’s rumored estimated worth was $8 billion. Her title was simply, philanthropist.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He paused, then tapped his phone until a recording played, “Good morning Mr. Haney, this is Gwendolyn Ranier from the office of Mrs. Raquel Turner-Cosby, please let me know when you’ve confirmed her appointment with Mrs. Skinner.”

  “Why are you involved?” I asked, knowing the price of being indebted to him.

  He laughed, then said, “As I told you on the phone, she has disposable income. I don’t need to tell you what a woman of that caliber can do for your charity.”

  “And when will this meeting supposedly take place?”

  “Today, two p.m., her office.”

  “What’s your connection? I’m sure she could’ve called me herself.”

  “Let’s say I brokered the introduction.”

  This time I laughed. “I hope you’re not expecting anything in return.”

  “Nothing you don’t want to give me willingly,” he sneered, over the rustle of the kitchen staff cleaning up.

  Contemplating if this were a good idea, I said, “You can confirm that I’ll be there. Thank you.”

  I’d pushed back my chair and was ready to go when he placed his hand over mine, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist. “I heard it was your birthday.”

  Snatching back my hand, I began to ask, “How’d you—” but then realized my sister must’ve mentioned it. I had to talk to Kamille and tell her not to tell this man anything about me, or my daily routine.

  “I have something I wanted to give you,” he said, reaching into his briefcase. He removed a flat box, tied with a single bright pink ribbon.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, nervously glancing around the empty restaurant.

  “It’s for you.”

  I’d never recalled him giving me a gift because what we had wasn’t based on any of that. But my curiosity got the best of me. What could he possibly have thought to get me?

  Untying the ribbon, I lifted the box top and was completely taken aback to see a coffee table book titled, Parfums Rare by Chabbert and Férat. I knew the book, it was a study in old and new world perfumes, an absolute treat for a perfume enthusiast like myself. I ran my hand over its black and fuchsia cover. How had he known?

  “Why would you do this? You know I can’t accept it.”

  “It’s my understanding that you’re a women who loves everything French.”

  “That might be true, but a gift from you is inappropriate,” I said, sliding the box back toward him.

  His hand covered mine. “There’s one more thing,” he said, this time placing a purple oblong box on the table.

  I furrowed my brows, looking around the restaurant at who might be watching. Chef Haak pretended not to notice, but I knew better.

  “Here, try this. I thought it might delight your senses. I understand it’s hard to get,” he said, opening the box and setting it down on the table.

  Before me sat the most exquisite 20th century apothecary styled bottle of Farmesiana Caron perfume, a work of art in itself.

  “I. . . what. . . why would you do this?”

  He paused, relishing, I’m sure, in practically taking my breath away.

  “At least open it.”

  I opened the bottle and drew in the fragrance of vanilla, jasmine, and heliotrope. It captured me; there was no way I could go home without it.

  He pushed the book across the table back toward me.

  “Nobody will ever know they were from me.”

  “We can’t have secrets.”

  “We won’t, except this. Take it Tiffany, please?”

  I hesitated, knowing this was a bad idea, but picked up the gift bag and said, “Thank you,” then clumsily hurried out the restaurant.

  I had two hours to prepare for the meeting with Mrs. Cosby, and to see what details I could ascertain about her philanthropy efforts. I didn’t doubt she knew every detail about BBWC down to each penny we’d raised and what we still needed.

  Once in the house, my first call was to Janae. I needed her to reschedule my calendar for that afternoon. The only thing she couldn’t reschedule was the conference call I needed to take with the organizers of the Philadelphia branch of The First Ladies Literacy Program, that I’d take on my way to see Mrs. Cosby. Janae also informed me that I’d been invited to host a workshop at the Pennsylvania Women’s Conference in October, which I told her to confirm because this was an event hosted by the governor’s wife.

  While I searched through my closet for something to wear, I phoned Craig to give him a heads up. “Craig, I hope you’re not busy.”

  “I was about to call you, we need to—”

  I cut him off mid-sentence and said, “Wait, this is more important. I’m about to sit down with Raquel Turner-Cosby.”

  “You’re not serious? Wait, you are serious. What do you need to know? I’m pulling her up right now on my computer.”

  “Tell me everything that you find on her,” I said, putting the phone on speaker so I could multi-task.

  “Wealth dates back to early 1900’s, family discovered and pa
tented some kinda parts for helicopters, then years later, sold it to some Italian company, which as an only child, gave her a fat inheritance. She married twice, very young, like 19 the first time, both times I might add to not very attractive men, yet very wealthy. First husband owned a tech company; the other was in multi-media. No prenups, divorced, created her own empire, the privately held RTC Holdings. Oh yeah, no kids to share the money with either and some even say she’s a lesbian. Either way, she’s a good person to be bed in with, well not literally, but you know what I mean, for BBWC.”

  I pulled a suit from the closet and scampered through boxes for the right shoes, telling him, “Thanks. Listen, let’s not send word to the board until I get her confirmation, but expect a call from me at three p.m. Oh yeah, call Michael and give him a heads up as well.”

  “You’re going to make me crazy waiting. There’s so much going on right now. I’m going to burst before our board meeting.”

  “If this meeting ends with a check, we’ll be celebrating, so keep your phone handy.”

  I didn’t take Malik’s noon call because he would’ve been too distracting with all his questions and advice about Mrs. Cosby. He had his own set of problems trying to balance the city’s budget and searching for a cop killer.

  The first order of business, though, before I even met with Raquel was what to do with the gifts from Haney. If I hid them and Malik discovered them, he might get suspicious. The best thing to do was hide them in plain sight, so I placed the book on the living room coffee table, and the beautiful perfume bottle, I sat on my vanity among the others.

  Then before getting in the shower, I did a quick Google search on Raquel Turner-Cosby to see what else I could find out. It appeared she was on the Forbes list with the likes of Oprah, Christy Walton, Mary Dorrance, and Meg Whitman. There were even rumors of her belonging to a secret society of women, which sounded about as absurd as Beyoncé and Jay Z belonging to the Illuminati, but those same sites also mentioned her being gay.

  She was definitely a Republican and had given heavily to various politicians. Her family’s past in Philadelphia dated back as far as prohibition, however it was interesting to note that in addition to her being an avid baseball fan; her first husband had previously owned the Atlanta Braves.

  Her main residence was the entire 52nd floor at the Four Seasons, now located inside the Comcast Innovation and Technology Center, which also included the offices of RTC Holdings. Additional properties included a five-bedroom home in St. David’s, PA, a country house in France, villa and winery in Tuscany, and there were grainy aerial photos of a private island she owned off the coast of Jamaica. Craig was right, I needed to be in bed with her.

  I arrived to the Comcast Center at one-thirty and was whisked into a private elevator that carried me to the 52nd floor. From there, Tristan, a very young and handsome man, who could’ve very well been a Calvin Klein model, greeted me.

  He seated me in the reception area, where I met the receptionist, Gwendolyn Rainier, who appeared to have been plucked from Victoria’s Secret’s runway. Gay or not, it was easy to see that Raquel liked being surrounded by beautiful and young people.

  Other than that, the furnishings of RTC Holdings were conservative and nondescript. Then at exactly two p.m. the double doors to the right of the reception area swung open and there she stood.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Skinner. I’m so glad you could make it,” said Mrs. Cosby, appearing in an herbal green wrap dress, with her golden brown hair swept behind her ears, all of which reflected well off the sun streaming from behind her.

  Extending my hand, I made notice that if she really were 50 years old, she could easily pass for 40. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Cosby,” I replied,

  “Please, come in,” she offered, ushering me into what I initially thought was a conference room, but once inside I saw that it was connected to her oversized office. It had floor to ceiling glass panels giving a panoramic view of the city that led to a furnished wraparound deck, which at 52 floors in the air, I had no interest in seeing.

  The enormous space was warmer than the reception area, decorated in hues of plum and gray, with abstract artwork and baseball memorabilia bringing it together. The personal space at the far end of the room held an oversized L-shaped mahogany desk, on which sat two MacBook computers, two mobile phones, and a seating area equivalent to a living room, which included a wet bar, flat screen television, and a full bathroom.

  Taking in my surroundings, I whispered to myself, “So this is what a billion can buy.”

  “Please, here, put your things down,” she said, offering me a chair onto which I sat my purse.

  “Thank you.”

  “What can I offer you?” she asked, while moving about the room as if she controlled the world.

  “Everything looks delicious.”

  On the server, there were silver trimmed dishes, heavy silverware, and beautifully shaped water glasses. Nanny would’ve loved this set up. The afternoon’s refreshments included delicately cut fruit, tea sandwiches, cookies, mini salads, beverages, and a chilling bottle of Krug Clos d’Ambonnay, a brand of champagne that was new to me, but which also indicated there may be a reason to celebrate.

  “You have a beautiful space,” I said, in an effort to make small talk, while adding bite size fruit slices to my plate. While standing so close to her, I also tried to take in her scent, which usually told me a lot about a person. But she obviously was a woman who didn’t wear perfume, which to me meant she didn’t want to be remembered.

  “Thank you. I still think it could use some more artwork. What do you think?”

  I had no idea why she was asking my opinion because I hadn’t even gotten my bearings yet. “I. . . I think your space is amazing,” I stuttered. “Is this really an original by Zelda Fitzgerald,” I asked, admiring the Times Square piece that hung above the server.

  “Yes, I picked it up at Christies. Who Stole the Tarts, should be arriving next week. Very clean suit you’re wearing. Theory?” she asked.

  “Why yes, thank you,” I responded, surprised she’d even noticed my two-piece tweed suit that had been delivered on Saturday.

  We moved to the conference table and instead of sitting across from me or at the head of the table, she sat two seats down, leaving a chair between us. Folding our napkins across our laps we both began to pick at our food.

  “Gregory has spoken very highly of you,” she said, her eyes crinkling to get a better look at me. I wondered if she wore glasses. “But I’ve been noticing you’re not one to seek the limelight.”

  “My husband’s the politician. I’m simply his wife.”

  “My research tells me you’re more than that. It’s my understanding that you set the direction for Blessed Babies, framed the tough issues that faced your organization, and it’s you who weighs all the decisions to ensure they’re right for the actual mission. I’d say your leadership skills are far more than average and you shouldn’t consider yourself as simply anything.”

  “The way you put it, it does sound like I actually know what I’m doing. Thank you, I’ll have to use your characterization the next time I’m asked for my bio.”

  “You’re a smart woman, Mrs. Skinner, not as reserved as one would think. Which makes me wonder why you haven’t taken more of a role in your husband’s administration,” she said, making me feel uneasy in the way her eyes took me in.

  “I’m quite comfortable in my current role.”

  We both pause to eat, she bites of her tea sandwich and I relish in the sweet taste of the fruit.

  “I must admit I was slightly surprised at the platform you’d chosen. It’s certainly different than standard charities in which I’m asked to contribute, and there are many.”

  “I will admit, it hasn’t been easy and we still have a ways to go.”

  “Well not one request came in to RTC Holdings from your organization. Needless to say, I took it personally,” she joked, all while insinuating it had been a slight.

/>   “Our board members, Elise Nielsen and Gretchen Hockstein, offered to reach out to you personally.”

  “They didn’t do a good job, I barely know who they are. I did hear from a Deacon Brown requesting a donation for your church.”

  I almost laughed aloud knowing how pissed Elise and Gretchen would be to hear they hadn’t made it into her circle of main line socialites. Yet surprised that Deacon Brown had.

  “Yes, Deacon Brown is a member of our church, Shiloh Baptist. He serves as chairman of the deacon board and he also chairs the building committee. I wouldn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “No, it’s fine; that’s what I do, give money to the less fortunate and this year they faired pretty well from RTC Holdings,” she said, her crinkling eyes drifting past me.

  I wasn’t sure I appreciated her reference to our church being less fortunate, as I’m sure she was aware that some of Philadelphia’s wealthiest African-Americans attended Shiloh.

  Becoming somewhat impatient with her version of small talk, I was ready to get to the real purpose of her calling this meeting, so I queried her with, “Is there anything I can tell you about Blessed Babies?”

  “I have to ask, do women really volunteer to hold babies?” she asked, the question in her eyes as well.

  “Yes ma’am, women, as well as men. It makes a big difference to a newborn.”’

  “Funny, you know not having children, I can’t even remember the last time I held a baby.”

  “We’d welcome you to BBWC on any day.”

  She pushed her chair back, removed our plates from the table and walked back to the server. Casually poised, keeping steady eye contact with me, without blinking she stated, “I’d like to be a patron donor, five million over the next five years.”

  Stunned at what she’d offered, I assumed my brain had short-circuited and when I opened my mouth to speak, only an embarrassing low squeal escaped. I swallowed hard, but my throat was dry so my words came out raspy and barely audible.

  “Excuse me, you want to donate five million over the next five years?” I asked just to be certain I was hearing correctly because by now my legs were beginning to shake. If this woman were honestly giving us that kind of money, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could contain myself.