Glorious Sunset

by Ava Bleu

Genres: African American; African American Christian

Synopsis

African King Taka Olufemi has traveled more than four hundred years to find the woman who holds the soul of his murdered queen, and he's a little cranky. With a ruby brooch as his vessel, the former king is forced to grant wishes to ungrateful mortals, hoping to one day find, and win, the heart of his lost love. It will take more than good looks, superior intelligence, and an impressive pedigree to earn the love of Violet Jackson. The ambitious interior designer doesn't remember Taka or their history. Love—with its inevitable heartbreak chaser—has no place in Violet's immediate life plan. All the handsome "genie" can do for her is pony up on the three wishes he's promised, and try not to be a pain while he's at it. While the arrogant king is praying for his submissive queen, and the faithless object of his affection isn't praying at all, guardian angel Aniweto is praying for them both. With Ani's help, will Taka and Violet's epic love be rekindled and this royal couple-behaving-badly finally earn their happily-ever-after through the grace of the Almighty?

Release date: September 1, 2014

Publisher: Urban Christian

Print pages: 288

Sample

Present day: Columbus, Ohio, USA

Violet Jackson’s company, Shades of Violet, was buzzing with activity, phones ringing and people moving around; it was crazy and manic and Violet loved it.

Her business wasn’t large, but it was profitable and growing every day. She had a staff of one assistant and a multitude of interns eager to cut their human ecology teeth in a bona fide design studio and Violet was more than willing to take advantage of their free labor. It freed her up to do other things like what she was doing now: convincing someone to do what she wanted.

Violet thrust a swath of material toward a slight woman with glasses perched on her nose.

“Red?” the woman said. “I don’t know.”

“Absolutely, red,” Violet assured her.

“Red seems so radical.”

“This change in your life is very radical.”

“But, what about this nice pink here?” The woman meekly held up a “candy hearts” pink paint swatch.

Violet hid a sigh and dropped the material. The thing about Columbus, Ohio was that it wasn’t New York City. There were precious few people who had both the money and the desire to delve into unchartered territories. Artists with courage were always broke, unlike those rich little bohemians in New York. And the rich people in Columbus were busy trying to one-up each other by seeing which one could get the dullest dull colors they could find and calling it “classy.” Sure, she liked some plain stuff too, but not all the time. The reviewers claimed it was because she was black and naturally took to reds and golds. Whatever.

She took the woman by the arm. “Doris, I love you to death but I will not do another pastel chic job for you. For some people that might work, but not for you. Red is your favorite color.”

“But red walls? What will people think? I’m forty-five years old. It’ll look like a hippy pad.”

“It will be tasteful and classy and you will wonder why you ever hesitated.”

“But—”

“Listen to me, Doris. You said you wanted to completely change that house and I don’t blame you. But you also told me pastel is what he liked. Ivories, beiges, light peaches: those were colors he wanted, am I right?”

Doris nodded, wide-eyed.

“Where is he, Doris? Where is this man you spent your whole adult life trying to please? I’ll tell you where: he’s shacking up with some silicon-stuffed porn star in a penthouse with a Porsche and his freedom, that’s where. So what the heck are you still trying to please him for? The kids are away at school, Doris. There’s no one rumbling around in that house but you. It’s pretty much the only thing you got in the settlement.” Well, that and maybe a million or ten. But rich women loved it when you pretended they were just like regular working-class grunts. “So you tell me, who should you care about impressing now? Doris?”

Doris looked at her shyly. “Me?”

Violet held her hand to her ear. “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.”

“Me?”

“You’re darned right. And what has been your favorite color for only your whole entire life?”

“Red.”

“Okay then. Am I going to be creating a warm, comfortable home for you with red walls that reflect the fire in your fireplace and in your soul and giving you a sense of peace and pride and confidence? Or am I going to my Rolodex to refer you to one of my associates who specialize in your ex-husband’s favorite pastels?” Violet was bluffing, of course. She would no sooner turn away business than she would cut off her right arm, but bluffing sometimes worked.

Doris smiled, bashfully, and pumped her arm in the air. “I want red! Oh, I want red!”

Violet smiled. “That’s all I need to hear.” She hugged Doris. “Now, get out of my shop and let me work.”

Doris looked at her, eyes twinkling. “Thank you, Violet. I’m so excited!” She was dreaming of her new red walls as she scurried out of the shop.

Violet was thinking of the potential of this sale. She would give Doris a redesign that would be the envy of every moderately wealthy divorcee in Columbus. And then they would all flock to her thinking that that Violet woman had some innate sense of color credited to her ethnicity. Then they would all want to do the “ethnic” and Violet would happily smother her indignation under the blanket of money and fame that was sure to follow. It was a win-win situation all-round.

Whew, that almost made up for the fact that her neighbor had stolen her paper, again. It almost made up for the fact that the cleaners had somehow forgotten to send out her clothes so the thirty minutes out of her way had been wasted. It almost made up for the fact that her hairdresser had overbooked and she was the casualty. Sure, they all got a piece of her mind but Violet got the short end of the stick. Couldn’t trust anyone in this darned town. It was the story of her life.

Violet barely had a moment before the phone rang and her assistant was handing her the receiver.

“Yeah. What?” It was one of her contractors working on a house and trying to give her the shaft. It was like she had CHARLIE BROWN stamped on her forehead! “No, I told you pink marble. Look, you little twerp, if I have to come down there and kick your tail all the way to Italy, you will get that marble and have it properly laid by the opening date or . . . What? Try suing me; my lawyer is even worse to deal with. Mhmm, mhmm. I thought so. Thank you so much.” She hung up the phone. It was always amazing how quickly fear could motivate the jack-offs of the world. For goodness’ sake, all she wanted was for people to do what they said they were going to do! But she knew the cliché was true: if you wanted something done right you had to do it yourself.

Her receptionist handed her some pink message slips and she was about to go back into her office when the front door opened and a thin, pretty, cinnamon-colored woman ran in smiling. Her best friend, Brenda, was fifty pounds soaking wet with a trust fund big enough to cover the state of Texas. Brenda: friend and competitor with her own shop not too far from Violet’s. Brenda: who’d only just last night revealed in a lavish, intimate to-do—with 200 of her closest friends—that she was engaged to none other than Violet’s ex-boyfriend, Gary. Brenda: who’d put Violet on the spot, asking her to be her maid of honor while the fiancé/ex-boyfriend smirked with malice. 200 people stared with morbid curiosity and Violet managed to successfully accept the heartfelt invitation, and keep the champagne-flavored bile from projectile vomiting from her throat at Linda Blair Exorcist speed, at the same time. That Brenda. If Violet weren’t so quick on her feet it might have been a disaster of epic proportions.

Though they were best friends, she could easily have gone a week without seeing her smiling face but Brenda was back with the timing and frequency of a bad penny. Violet seriously thought about ducking behind a bolt of fabric but her doe-eyed friend was too quick, herself.

Brenda spotted Violet and ran over on the balls of her feet, looking more like a strange gazelle than a socialite. “You’ll never guess what happened!” she said to Violet.

“Umm, you’re marrying my ex-boyfriend? I mean, really, Brenda, how many times do you have to say it? Do you think I forgot in the eight hours since I saw you last?” Violet tried to smile over the grimace and stamp out any trace of hysteria.

“No, something else! You’ll never guess in a million years!” Brenda dissolved into giggles, only slightly less annoying than the guessing game. She was giggling so much, this had to be bad news.

Something else? What else could there be? After the engagement bombshell everything else should pale in comparison, right? Prickles of discomfort made their way over her skin. “Tell me, Brenda, before I slap it out of you.”

“You know the Bickman account?”

Violet’s ears perked. “Ronald Bickman? The zillionaire who is decorating his newly built five million dollar home? That Bickman?”

If Brenda’s jumping up and down didn’t confirm, her open-mouthed, soundless scream did the job. “I got the account!”

“The Bickman account?” Violet’s skin turned icy. “The one that every designer in town is trying to get?” The one that I’m trying to get?

Brenda nodded enthusiastically and she jumped again, making the male interns all happy at the sight of her bouncing boobies. “I got the account!”

Violet felt stuck on phonics. “Ronald Bickman?”

“Yes, Ronald Bickman, yes! Violet, I got the account!”

Violet was silent and still for a moment, swallowing down an unexpected wave of hurt, then: “You witch.”

Brenda dissolved into tears of joy and laughter, enveloping Violet in a hug. “I knew you’d be happy for me! Oh, Violet, this is going to put us on the map.”

“You mean it’ll put your business on the map, not mine.”

“I’ve been waiting for something like this my whole life. And really, I have you to thank. Once he saw the Melting technique—”

Violet felt her stomach slowly slide toward the bottom of her pelvic cavity and sink somewhere underneath her intestines. “Melting technique?”

“He was looking for something different, original. And when I showed him how we could lay the patterned material on the walls and paint over them in a semi-translucent color and then apply low-grade heat, he was hooked. We used a tweed-ish material with an oatmeal overlay.”

“You showed him my technique?” Violet asked. The air swirled about her head, dangerously. It was the first sign of fury; she knew it well as it was one of only two danger zones. But Brenda was her friend and her sense of loyalty was throwing her synapses all off whack. Fury had no place in friendship, right?

Brenda covered her mouth with her hand and her eyes grew large. “Oh, Violet, I haven’t offended you, have I? It’s just that I was losing his interest so fast I had to think of something. And it isn’t like Melting is your trademark or anything. I mean, it’s a procedure anyone could have thought of.”

“But anyone didn’t think of it. I thought of it. And patented it,” Violet ground out through her smile.

“Oh God, Violet, you’re not mad, are you?” Brenda had finally caught a whiff of Violet’s inner fury and the water in her eyes threatened to spilleth over.

Violet could feel the eyes of her staff and customers on her. It would not do to make a scene. And what would be the point? If she ran around now claiming the Melting technique was hers, it would only look like sour grapes. She would have to find another way to handle this. She shuffled her anger beneath her pain, which was anchored somewhere underneath her stomach and intestines, and shrugged, despite the dangerous pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears. “Don’t be silly. I’m happy for you.”

She was the bigger person, she said to herself as she enveloped Brenda in a hug way too tight, hoping to rupture her spleen. Sometimes extra weight came in handy. But Brenda was immune to injury and pulled herself from Violet’s grasp, happy again.

“Besides, this isn’t just a good thing for me. Ronald Bickman could have flown in someone from New York, Milan, Paris, anywhere. But he stuck with a designer from right here in Columbus. This is going to put all of us on the map. I hear his last home was featured in InStyle.”

Violet winced and was only half joking when she said, “Okay, stop right now or I’m really going to have to do you bodily harm.”

She hadn’t had a blow to the gut like this since . . . last night. And before that? Oh yes, the time she’d found out Brenda and Gary had been going at it like jackrabbits behind her back; that had nearly made her pass out. She’d always thought it was ridiculous when she’d read about women catching the “vapors” but that time she was pretty darned sure she’d caught a vapor or two. She must have caught a whole vat of vapors. She could barely crawl out of bed after that. If it weren’t for the fact that Brenda was her only friend, she would no longer be a friend at all, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. And the cheating thing, that was a memory best reminisced along with a bottle of tequila and a quart of ice cream at home. It had no place in the office. No place in the office!

“You know, I feel a little headache right here between the eyes.” Violet tweaked the area of her nose in that spot, disappointed that it was actually true. It had started out such a wonderful day.

“I know; it’s like my luck is incredible, right? But now I don’t know how I’m going to do everything. A wedding and a contract and we’re going to have to move, for sure. We need something way bigger, for expansion, you know?”

Violet covered a hiccup behind pursed lips. The hiccups were the first sign of her second danger zone: the one she was more afraid of than blind fury.

“Look at me standing around, shooting the breeze when there’s so much to do. Gotta go. I’ll see you later!” Brenda called happily, in her unique blustery, self-centered way. The bell tinkled behind her as her jaunty, skinny behind wiggled out the door.

It was the tinkling bell signaling the utter futility of her life that finally did it. In what “law of averages” universal theory did spoiled little rich girls always trump lower–middle class, hardworking, smart, determined, ambitious girls? Every freakin’ time.

Violet’s breath caught in a louder hiccup gasp and all eyes swung her way. Calm down, sister. But how could she calm down? Brenda stole her man and her contract right from under her! Her eyelid jerked ominously and before uttering another word she began a quick, stiff power walk to her office, feeling the eyes of her staff following her all the way. Shutting the door behind her, she fumbled the blinds closed, and made a mad sprint to her desk. Quickly, she procured an empty brown paper lunch bag from her hidden stash as the gasps erupted from her in progressively louder, stronger increments. Finally, Violet plopped into her chair, leaned her head between her knees, and pressed the opening of the bag to her face with trembling fingers. She let loose, breathing in a huge amount of air so quickly stars swam in front of her face, exhaling just as violently. The brown paper balled up tight and then expanded on her exhale like a crazed balloon as she gave in to the hyperventilation.

What was the matter with her? Brenda was a twit. Why did she let her upset her? So what if she had Gary? He wasn’t any prize. So what if Violet had once thought he was the one? Didn’t mean anything. So what if Brenda passed her technique off as her own? Didn’t mean anything. So what, right?

She was working that bag like an accordion. After a few minutes her lungs had relaxed, along with her shoulders, neck, and stomach; and she lifted her head, sighing as her body relaxed into the chair. She balled up the bag and tossed it into the trash, allowing her brain to take over now that her silly emotions were in check.

She breathed her relief. Thank goodness she’d made it into her office. There was no way she could ever let her employees see her like this. Again, that is. Score one for Brenda. This time. Violet was none too happy but she had more important things to think about. Her friend had bested her, but Violet was nothing if not wily. She was nothing if not resourceful. She was nothing if . . .

Her receptionist’s head jerked upward when Violet’s office door opened. Violet strode toward her, calm and in control once again. She knew what she had to do and everyone had to see her do it. She picked up the receiver and punched out some numbers.

“Tracy? Violet Jackson. So, what is going on over there?” She laughed a fake laugh that would have been believable had it not been forced through a grimace instead of the requisite smile. “Has your boss lost his mind? I thought he was going to look at all the bids before making a decision.”

Bickman’s overworked assistant was a competent, resourceful woman. Violet had known from the first moment she’d tracked Tracy down as she left work and followed her halfway home to accidentally trip over her and introduce herself as a “new designer with a few ideas” that Tracy was a force to be reckoned with.

Tracy, on the other hand, was used to being targeted by eager business people, job hunters, and paparazzi on behalf of Ronald Bickman. Tracy answered warily, “I’m sorry, Violet. I tried to convince him to continue seeing designers but he was really impressed with Odyssey Designs.”

“It doesn’t take much to impress him, does it? Never mind. You’ve got to get me in to see him.”

“Oh, Violet, he’s already made up his mind.”

“Has he already signed the contract?”

“Not yet, but it’s right here in his in-basket.”

“Pull it for me.”

“I can’t do that, Violet.”

“One meeting. I just need one meeting. It’s not as if I’m panhandling. We are already scheduled to meet on Monday; just move the appointment a few days early.”

“I was going to call you about canceling that.”

“Look, this is a courtesy thing, Tracy. I’m not trying to be a pest but the man didn’t even give the rest of us a chance. Now, I’m sure somebody is telling him that Brenda is the best out there, but he doesn’t realize there’s a whole flock of us. And frankly, Brenda is following my lead. Everybody in the business knows that Melting is my technique. He can settle for Brenda or he can work with the original.”

“I don’t know.”

“Ten minutes, that’s all I need. From one professional to another he really needs to show some courtesy. Why, if the media knew how he’d blown off some of the best designers in the city, well, there might be bad publicity, don’t you think? I mean, I wouldn’t say anything to the media, but these things get out, especially with Brenda going around telling everyone about it. It would be in his best interest to reconsider. I know you can convince him of that.”

Tracy was quiet for a long spell. “Okay. I’ll give you a half hour day after tomorrow in the interest of fair play. I’ll work it out with him somehow. But if he says no in the first ten minutes . . .”

“I love you!”

“Then you accept defeat and go away quietly.”

“You’re a gem!” Violet yelled and hung up to award her assistant, Carol, a smile that the woman didn’t return.

“Did you just schedule yourself to see Ronald Bickman when your friend already has the deal?” Carol asked.

Violet waved her hand in annoyance. “Oh, pshaw, she took my technique, anyway. Besides, she would understand. This is a dog-eat-dog world, Carol. You didn’t think those tears of hers were real, did you? She screwed me over and then had the nerve to admit the only reason she got the contract was because she screwed me over. I can’t sit still for that. I love the girl but she needs her behind whipped and I’m the sister to do it. Do me a favor, call the florist and send some flowers to Tracy, a really big arrangement. And send it to her home, will you? We don’t want Bickman to get any ideas.”

“You mean, like you’re bribing his secretary?”

Violet wrinkled her nose at her. “Whose side are you on anyway?” Didn’t really matter, though. She knew one thing: she was going to get that Bickman account or die trying. Her stomach rumbled menacingly. First lunch. Then strategy.

Nothing topped off sweet revenge quite like spicy kraut. Violet spent most of her lunches in her office scarfing down a bag of potato chips while working but today she had to get out of that office. Being located downtown meant she had a decent amount of restaurant choices, but she really loved the hot dog vendors. She still remembered when her father had been alive, still remembered the occasional trip to a game or to the park and the vendor who would load up her hot dog so that a little girl could dream about someone making something special just for her, something just to her specifications. She would look to her father with a smile and he would chuckle at her expression, and then they would share a walk or a talk and all was right with the world. Her taste in toppings had changed but her love of the experience hadn’t.

She had just been handed her hot dog covered in mustard, onions, and sauerkraut; and when she turned to walk away her heel caught on something, almost toppling her.

“Darn!” she yelled, checking her heel and relieved that it was still fine and the hot dog had only lost a little kraut in the incident. She looked down to see what had almost done her in and saw a piece of something that reflected light. She squinted and the glare disappeared but she could still see metal. “Hey,” she said to the vendor, “can you hold this a minute?” She handed her hot dog to him.

He looked at her like she was insane.“I’m busy, lady.”

“I just asked you to hold it for one second.”

“I don’t want to hold it.”

She rolled her eyes and put the hot dog on his cart earning a glare from him with which she was not concerned. It wasn’t the vendors she had soft feelings for, only the hotdogs.

She looked down at the metal that appeared to have an edge of lace. Kneeling, while making sure to keep her skirt smooth so she wouldn’t award all the lunchers in Bicentennial Park a look at her goodies, she reached down to grasp the metal. She would be highly embarrassed if it turned out to be a bottle cap, but her curiosity had gotten the better of her. She worked it from the dirt with her hands, getting them dirty, but doing it nonetheless. Behind her the vendor was whining about the amount of space her little hot dog was taking on his big cart, but she was busy. Finally, her back-and-forth motion pulled the piece free and it came up. She smiled triumphantly and looked at it.

It was a piece of jewelry. A brooch. A large, gaudy, tacky piece of jewelry. But the metal seemed real and it seemed sturdy. The stone no doubt was a big piece of glue, but perhaps she could use it as an accessory, maybe something to pin to a curtain or on a lampshade. There was something about it, something that stopped her from tossing it onto the ground, where it probably deserved to be.

She dusted it off, thinking, and spoke out loud: “I’m no expert but you look African to me. And I know just the person to tell me for sure.” She wrapped the brooch in a napkin, dropped it into her purse, and stood, walking over to retrieve her hot dog. “Thank you,” she said to the vendor. He mumbled some not-too-kind words under his breath but she intentionally ignored him as she sauntered away biting down on her delicacy with relish. People didn’t know a thing about customer service these days.

That afternoon after work she made a stop at her favorite antique shop on Parsons Avenue. It was a great place to shop for things to accent her designs. She had spent a pretty penny on items she found there to accent her works of art, which was what she considered every completed design. Tables, chairs . . . she had a keen eye for style that spanned the ages.

She entered the shop, approached the counter, and rang the bell. She stood there, tapping her foot on the floor and fingernails on the counter, growing more impatient by the moment before finally leaning over it for support to enable her to toss her voice through the doorway behind the counter and into the little room beyond. “What’s a girl got to do to get some service around here?”

Seconds later an old man shuffled out, not surprised in the least. “You young people, no respect. And don’t go flashin’ that smile at me ’cause I know your mama ain’t raised you right.”

Violet promptly dropped her cordial smile. “Don’t worry about what my mama did, old man. I’m here on business.”

“What kind of business? I ain’t got nothing new in and you done already bought up the best stuff in here.”

“I’m not here to buy, Skeeter. I’m here to sell.”

“Sell? What you got to sell?”

She pulled the brooch wrapped in a napkin out of her purse, unwrapped it, and handed it to him. “What do you think of this?”

He looked at it closely, pulled out a magnifying glass from under the counter, and pressed it up against the brooch to look closer. As Violet watched she saw the unmistakable sign of recognition before he made a valiant attempt to disguise it. He cleared his face and looked at her innocently.

“That looks like a fine piece of costume jewelry you got there, darlin’.”

Violet narrowed her eyes at him. “Doesn’t look costume to me,” she bluffed, though she had indeed thought it was costume jewelry until his pitiful poker face had given it away. “That looks like a ruby to me.”

He rolled with the game. “They make ’em nowadays so you can’t tell the real from the fak. . .