Remembrance

by Mary Monroe

Genres: African American Women's Fiction; Holiday books; Family Life

Synopsis

In this moving, unforgettable novel from New York Times best-selling author Mary Monroe, a successful, happily married mother suddenly finds herself feeling far from joyful. But Christmas brings an unexpected chance to rediscover herself and what happiness really means.

For Beatrice Powell, the holidays are usually an extra-special time to celebrate. Between her 20-year-plus marriage, gorgeous Berkeley, California, home, and three wonderful adult children, she has everything she could desire. But change-of-life doubts are making Beatrice a stranger to herself and her bewildered family. She only finds peace volunteering at the local soup kitchen, especially helping out homeless Charles Davenport. His sensitivity and honesty soon comfort her in ways she never imagined.

Charles thought he had it all — until a devastating betrayal and the shattering loss of his family drove him to living on the streets. Beatrice is the first person who's truly cared about him in a long time. Little by little, he's finding reasons to care about rebuilding his life — and risking a sudden, courageous choice.

Drawn to Charles and the temptation of a second chance, Beatrice is faced with the hardest of decisions. But his insight, secrets — and the reminder of a profound past encounter — will give her unexpected inspiration, gratitude, and the strength she needs to find her way — perhaps in time for Christmas.

Release date: October 27, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 208

Sample

I didn’t date again until six months after my accident. I socialized with a few interesting men, but nothing panned out until I started going to church on a regular basis with Mama and Daddy. That was where I met Eric Powell. He was a deacon only four years older than I was, and he was already a successful plumbing contractor. After several dinner dates, movies, a few parties, and a weekend in Reno, things got serious between us. My parents told me to my face that he was a “keeper” and that I should take him and run before another woman caught his attention. I did just that.

It was so easy to fall in love with Eric. He was a laid-back, down-to-earth man with a strong set of values, and he was good-looking. His athletic build, butterscotch-colored skin, sparkling black eyes, and curly black hair made him a standout. He even laughed at my lame jokes and teased me when I filled up Baggies with food when we went to all-you-can eat restaurants. He wasn’t much of a reader, but he gave me his full attention when I told him about a book I’d read.

“I don’t like to beat around the bush, Bea, so I’ll tell you straight up, I want to marry you.” Eric’s Saturday-morning proposal over breakfast at IHOP, six months after we’d met, came as a surprise to me. I had previously dated a couple of other men for over a year prior to my accident, but I never got to know them as well as I already knew Eric. There was no doubt in my mind that he was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

Instead of saying “yes,” I said, “When?”

He reached across the table and lifted a lock of hair off my ear. “I want you to be my wife as soon as possible,” he said loud enough for people in the next block to hear. Every other patron in the restaurant cheered and applauded. One even insisted on paying for our meal.

We were married in his parents’ living room in Sacramento the first weekend in February. Moving from my shoe-box-size apartment, next door to a liquor store, into a four-bedroom, Tudor-style house, which Eric had recently bought, was so amazing that I had to keep pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. He had already purchased a few pieces of new furniture, but he left everything else up to me.

“I never thought you’d make out this good with a man,” Mama gushed when she saw the lavish baby blue velvet couch and matching love seat I had picked out at one of the most expensive furniture stores in town. Her eyes got as big as saucers when I told her that Eric had said I could spend as much as I wanted, so long as it made me happy. “Humph! On top of everything else, he’s generous too! If Denzel Washington is a ten on the scale from one to ten, Eric is a twenty! I never dreamed my baby would reel in such a big fish.” I never dreamed I would either. The closest I thought I’d ever get to having a relationship with a “big fish” was in my romance novels.

I took to marriage like a duck to water. Two days after we returned from our seven-day honeymoon in Montego Bay, Jamaica, I hosted a combination housewarming /Valentine’s Day party. I invited everybody we knew. I hired a jazz band, cooked up a storm myself, and still had more food catered. Everybody had such a good time, I couldn’t wait to host another event. Well, even though I didn’t have a drop of Irish blood—or know anybody who did—that March I decided to throw a St. Patrick’s Day party. My guests loved it!

Eventually I started hosting parties for some of the most obscure “holidays” on the calendar. The following year for Groundhog Day, I purchased a statue of a groundhog and placed it in our front yard. It didn’t matter if the real one saw his shadow or not, we still celebrated. I invited a dozen of our friends over for a cocktail party. Eric didn’t care one way or the other if we had parties, but he always had as much fun as everybody else.

We had agreed to have four children, and we wanted them to be close in age. Lisa was born two years after we got married. Denise arrived two years later. Mark entered our lives the following year.

After several years of trying, we had not been able to produce our fourth child. When I complained to my mother about only having three, she chastised me the way only a woman with Southern roots and eleven siblings could: “Girl, what’s wrong with you? It’s going to be hard enough raising three, especially these days when kids are doing everything from shooting up schools and malls to killing their own parents. We were lucky—you were so easygoing, you practically raised yourself. But I’m still glad we had only one child. . . .”

Some of my friends never wanted to be parents. The ones who did had already reached their goal. Debbie Reed, the only one of my friends who liked to shop as much as I did, had three of her own, and adopted two more. Camille had wanted only two. When she gave birth to twins the first time around, she had her tubes tied.

I was disappointed that I had not been blessed with a fourth child. But I was grateful for the three I had, and all the rest of my blessings.

December 2, 2016

It was hard to believe that twenty-five years ago today, I had almost lost my life in a hit-and-run accident. My physical injuries had healed completely. But I hadn’t been able to remove the mental anguish from my memory bank. It was especially bad on the anniversary. I cringed whenever I drove near the scene of the accident. Other than that, my life was fairly normal. I was in excellent health, and still the same size eight I’d been when I got married, so I looked much younger than a woman who’d turn forty-five in a little over three weeks on Christmas Day.

Getting older didn’t bother me as much as the gloom that consumed me every year on the anniversary of my accident. Other than that, and occasional boredom, I was fine. I didn’t need to see a therapist. But I wished that I had an unbiased friend to talk to, who would be more understanding and sympathetic than Eric and everybody else, and would give me some advice I could use.

I had slept only a few hours last night. When the alarm went off at seven a.m., I had already been awake for two hours.

“What’s bothering you, baby? You’ve been acting strange for the past couple of days,” Eric said as he woke up.

I sat up and gave him the most apologetic look I could manage. “Don’t you remember what today is?”

He gave me a puzzled look and hunched his shoulders. Then he glanced at the calendar on the wall facing our bed. “Today is the second of December. So what?”

“I almost died twenty-five years ago today,” I said in a feeble tone.

Eric blinked and raked his fingers through his hair. “I keep forgetting.”

“I wish I could. Even though it made me change my life in so many positive ways, I wish it had never happened. I . . . I thought I’d be over it by now.”

“You should be. I fell out of a tree when I was thirteen and broke my leg in two places. I don’t even remember what day it happened, and I never think about it unless somebody brings it up. If you’re having such a hard time moving on with your life, maybe you should think about seeing a professional.”

My jaw dropped and I gave Eric the most incredulous look I could manage. “A professional what?”

“A therapist or whoever it is people like you need to talk to when they can’t move on with their lives. I don’t want you to keep getting depressed and stressed out over something that happened a quarter of a century ago.”

I laughed. “If I go see a professional, will you go see one too?”

“Me? Why?”

“Because you must be crazy if you think I am!” We both laughed this time. And then I got serious again. “Honestly, Eric, I don’t need to talk to a professional. It’s not that serious. Believe it or not, I have moved on with my life. I’m very happy. One of the reasons is because I keep myself busy so I won’t spend too much time thinking about the accident.”

“And that’s another thing. You are too busy. The day I met you, you already had a mighty big load on your plate. But that plate and the load on it have grown even bigger over the years. Baby, I don’t like it when you spread yourself too thin. With all those parties you host throughout the year, I’m surprised you haven’t run out of steam and keeled over by now.”

“I thought you loved my parties. People are still talking about the Christmas you dressed as Santa and the pillow slid so far to one side, you looked like a lopsided camel.” I giggled, pinching the side of his arm.

“I do love your parties, and please don’t remind me about that embarrassing episode. But it’s time for you to slow down and try not to do so many things.”

I rolled my eyes. “Now if you’re going to tell me to give up my volunteer work at the soup kitchen, don’t bother. You know how important that is to me. It keeps me from getting bored.”

“You’re bored?”

“Well, every now and then.”

“Bored or not, it wouldn’t hurt for you not to help feed the homeless for a few weeks. I don’t want you to keep burning yourself out when you’re already doing so much. I do a lot for the unfortunate myself, but within reason. Besides, you’re . . . um . . . you’re not a spring chicken anymore, Beatrice.”

“Tell me about it.” I groaned as I rubbed my aching knee.

“And it wouldn’t hurt you to skip hosting a big Christmas party this year.”

I bit my bottom lip and stared off into space for a few seconds. “I like doing for other people, Eric. Making them happy makes me happy. You knew that before we got married. Don’t ask me this late in the game to find something else to do with my time.”

“Baby, I’m only telling you these things for your own good. If you don’t want to talk to a therapist, the next time you go see your gynecologist, ask him to refer you to a doctor who can give you something for your depression.”

I never got depressed en. . .