Three Chords and the Truth

by Cas Sigers

Genres: African American; African American Urban

Synopsis

After a few tiring years on the road, nationally known singer Henna James takes a sabbatical and visits her dear friend, Monica. During her search for rejuvenation and inspiration for her next CD, she meets Craig, Monica's flighty, womanizing younger brother. Sparks fly between these two very different people. Henna falls harder than she cares to admit. Craig, too, is having feelings he's never experienced before; but Craig hasn't been completely honest. He has a long-distance girlfriend, Nia, who suddenly pops into town and delivers a commitment ultimatum. She is tired of their on again/off again relationship, and she is ready to be married. Craig is torn, but ultimately his decision is made for him. Henna learns about Nia and quickly ends the affair with Craig. Seeing no hope of reconciliation with Henna, Craig proposes to Nia, but before the wedding takes place, Henna delivers some surprising information that could change everything. Now each of them has decisions to make. Is Craig ready to become responsible for the first time in his life? And if Henna decides to take him back, will she ever be able to truly forgive him? Three Chords and the Truth is about leaving emotional baggage behind, trusting the heart after being hurt, and loving outside your comfort zone.

Release date: November 1, 2012

Publisher: Urban Renaissance

Print pages: 304

Sample

Henna was excited to be back in Brooklyn, New York, and to sleep in her own bed. The tour had exhausted her, both physically and mentally. Two weeks before it had started, Ahmad admitted that he was conflicted about managing her, since he was seeing another woman and felt it was in poor taste for him to manage his ex. But Henna went against her gut and asked him to stay on, at least until after the tour, thinking she’d be strong enough to handle it. Not only was she a professional, but she figured the tour would be an escape. By the time she returned from it, she hoped, her heart would have started to mend. Yet, each night was a reminder, each song was a memory, and for the last 173 days, Henna had to relive this heartbreak onstage in front of thousands of strangers. The man whom she’d trusted with her heart and her art, which was equally as precious, had abandoned her.

“They have no idea,” Henna would often whisper to herself in between songs as the audience applauded in amazement.

As she settled back into her brownstone in Fort Greene, she could still feel Ahmad’s lingering presence. Henna took the remainder of Ahmad’s clothes, bundled them in a bag, and placed them in her designated storage space located in the garage. She spent her first day back in bed, returning e-mails and updating her calendar and phone address book. One by one, Henna deleted old numbers of people she no longer wanted to be in contact with and those she could no longer remember. When she was done, her phone list was twenty-two people lighter.

“If only we could truly delete people as easily,” she murmured.

Before she went to sleep, Henna thought about Monica Cole, her close friend and roommate from Alcorn State. The two met freshman year after Henna had decided to return to her roots in Mississippi to attend college and major in communications. For four years the girls were inseparable but right after college, Henna moved back to New York and Monica took a job in Atlanta. Though they made a point over the years to schedule an annual “girls weekend”, their quality time has been few-and-far between. In the past two years, e-mails and phone calls had been their only communication. But now that the tour was over, and she wasn’t recording, Henna had nothing but free time. A visit to Monica was well overdue, so she dialed her number. Monica picked up on the first ring.

“Are you back in the country?”

“Yes, and I’m coming to see you.”

Monica responded with elation. “Great! When?”

Henna thought about her answer for several seconds. Monica was a stickler on promises, and Henna was extremely fickle. Ninety percent was as sure as Henna ever was about any decision. If she gave Monica a date, she would have to stick with it, or never hear the end of it.

“Before the end of next month. I promise.”

“I’m putting you in my calendar for next weekend.”

“No. It may be the end of the month,” replied Henna.

“Too late. Next weekend, it is. If I don’t make you commit, I may not see you for another year.”

“Fine. You sound busy too.”

“Just having dinner with Julian. You okay?” Monica asked.

“I am. Glad to be home, and glad to hear you are still with Julian, even though I don’t know that much about him,” Henna responded.

“Well, you’ll get to meet him when you come down, next weekend,” Monica emphasized.

“Okay, well, go eat. I’ll call you in a few days.”

“My door is always open. I love you and miss you.”

“Love and miss you too,” Henna responded before hanging up.

Monica was always a breath of fresh air. She was the friend who always put a positive spin on everything, which was just what Henna needed. But Monica was also the friend who overanalyzed situations, and Henna knew she’d have to talk about Ahmad. This was something she didn’t want to deal with. Honestly, she didn’t want to talk about anything. She simply wanted to take a few days in familiar surroundings, cook her own meals, and smell her citrus-scented fabric softener. Henna retired to bed that evening before seven o’clock, but the ringing of her house phone interrupted her sleep. Though many of her friends had gotten rid of their home phones and relied strictly on their mobile devices, Henna couldn’t part with hers. But on this evening, she wished she had. It was Ahmad. She let him speak first.

“I wanted to make sure you made it back safely.”

“Whatcha need?” Henna said curtly.

“Want to meet at Moe’s?” Henna was silent, and so Ahmad continued. “I can meet you tonight, in an hour, if that’s good.”

“Fine,” Henna blurted out, and then quickly hung up. After several minutes of pacing and cursing, she realized that seeing Ahmad would be good. She didn’t talk with him but a few times on the tour, and then there was the Denmark fiasco. She needed to see him for closure. So after taking several deep breaths, Henna slipped on a long black skirt, a T-shirt, and flats. She grabbed the old school leather Adidas duffel bag, she’d purchased for him, that was filled with his clothing, and tossed it in the backseat of her car. Getting rid of his last items of clothing was one step closer to that final good-bye. Again, she knew this was the best thing.

Moe’s was her testing ground for new songs, and her hangout spot when she needed a drink. It was a few blocks from her home, and normally she walked but since she was carrying a heavy duffel bag filled with clothing, she decided to drive. Henna got there in no time and surveyed the area for his truck. It wasn’t there, so she stayed in the car until she saw him walk inside. Henna wanted to see him first to make sure that this was something she’d be able to do without breaking down. It would be better to stand him up than to let him see her cry. But amazingly, not one tear fell. Not that she was over him; she was simply used to hiding the truth. After six years of being with a man who couldn’t make a permanent commitment, Henna was always on guard for him to walk out. In truth, his departure was something she’d imagined and even visualized repeatedly. Ahmad was unpredictable and impulsive, which was part of the attraction. On the other hand, he was selfish and uncompromising, and if something didn’t suit him, it wasn’t going to fly. This was what she hated. She wanted marriage, but he said marriage didn’t define the connection they had. She didn’t buy it in the beginning, but after four years, she not only bought into his fairy tale, but also found herself saying their connection was beyond a few vows. It wasn’t the best relationship, but he was a terrific manager, and so she stayed in it, partly for convenience and mostly because Henna was a creature of habit.

After sitting in the car an additional five minutes, Henna grabbed the duffel bag and walked into the lounge. Immediately she was greeted by a host of friendly faces. Maria, the very busty, and very nosy, Colombian owner, came from around the bar to give her a hug. The gossip immediately and rapidly spilled from her tongue.

“Man, we’ve missed you. So much has happened. Philippe finally got busted for trafficking. Yvette is in AA, Coco had her baby, and Alexa had a Botox job, which went terribly wrong. You should see her. It’s a mess. How was the tour? You look so good.” Maria took Henna by the hand and pulled her over to the bar. “Charlie, a glass for Henna,” Maria said.

The bartender didn’t even ask what she wanted; he grabbed a bottle and poured her favorite brand of red wine, Schlink Haus. She took several minutes to sip her drink and give a few details of the tour before Ahmad made eye contact and motioned for her to come over. He was sitting at “their” table.

“How sentimental,” she whispered as she approached slowly. Ahmad attempted to hug her before she sat, but Henna quickly placed the duffel bag between their bodies and took her seat. With neither party knowing what to say, they sat in silence for several minutes, randomly gazing around the lounge.

At last, Henna spoke. “You look good, Ahmad.”

“I don’t want us to end like this,” he blatantly replied.

“How do you wish for us to end?”

“Not like this,” he answered.

Ahmad then rose and went to the bar for another beer. When he returned, one of the cocktail waitresses bounced over to the table and spoke with excitement. “So I heard you two are finally tying the knot.” They both gave her an odd glare, which didn’t stop her from pursuing the conversation. “You are getting married aren’t you?”

Henna shook her head, and Ahmad disfigured his face as though the word “marriage” gave him diarrhea. Eventually the waitress got the feeling that something was awry and walked away.

Desperately ready to leave, Henna decided to wrap up the conversation. “That’s all of your things,” she said, motioning toward the bag. “I’m not mad at you or anything, but since the tour is over, and you’re no longer my manager, there really is no need for us to talk anymore.” Henna rose and walked toward the front door. But before she could make her exit, she was compelled to return to where Ahmad sat at the table, still sipping his Duvel.

Henna walked back, leaned over, and stared at him. Without a blink, she asked, “Why? Is it something I did? Something I didn’t do? Something I didn’t know how to do? What?”

Ahmad saw the hurt, and he knew his answer would only drive the stake deeper, but he felt he owed Henna an honest response, and so he replied, “You just weren’t enough for me to give you my forever.”

Although that was a variation of what she expected to hear, the words still stung like a thousand wasps attacking her face. One by one, her faculties shut down. First her heart dropped; then her legs locked; finally her vocal cords gave out. The only ability still operating was her mind, and it was screaming at her, “Run right now before the meltdown,” but her body couldn’t respond.

“I’m sorry,” he continued, “but that’s the truth.”

Henna closed her eyes and finally managed to control her neck muscles enough to turn away. After three deep breaths, she gained feeling throughout the rest of her body and was able to put one foot in front of the other. But before she walked away, she took the duffel bag and emptied his contents onto the table. As clothing poured out onto the wood, one of his sneakers knocked his glass of beer into his lap. As Ahmad jumped up, Henna clutched the bag and didn’t speak a word as she exited the bar. She rushed to the car, turned on the ignition, and revved up the engine. She looked at the bar and desperately wanted to run her car right through the front door, aiming her bumper at Ahmad’s forehead. And though that was extreme, she truly wanted to walk back in and punch him dead in the face. However, she knew that would end up in tomorrow’s tabloids, another drawback of fame. You could never be your true self in public. With each second she sat, the anger built more and more. She was pissed that he would say something like that, and more pissed that she couldn’t retaliate. She glanced over at the empty Adidas bag and a tiny smirk emerged but the anger immediately returned and finally she combusted into full-blown tears—tears that turned into loud, uncontrollable bawling, which didn’t stop until she was home and in bed.

Sleep, however, was nowhere on the agenda that night. Henna sat in the center of her bed and evaluated Ahmad’s answer at least a hundred times. It was killing her. Finally she picked up the phone and called Ahmad.

“You okay?” he asked, assuming there was a problem, since it was almost 2:00 A.M.

“Was my talent not enough? Was I a bad lover? Was I not giving enough? Was I not strong enough? Was I not submissive enough? Was I not pretty enough? Did I travel too much? What in the hell was it?” she yelled.

“I don’t want to do this.”

“But you started it, and I have to know.”

“I already told you.”

“With a very dramatic line. I heard you, but it has to be more. Something specific.”

“I don’t know who you are anymore. You’ve become so closed-in. It’s like you’ve lost yourself in your work, and Henna is gone.”

“You once told me that I had to immerse myself in my art to create something genuine.”

“You took it too far. I liked you better before you were famous. You used to be happy. You used to have peace.”

“You know what, Ahmad? Fuck you! You created this monster. You created this star! And now you can’t deal with what you’ve created. And if you don’t know who I am, there is no way you can manage me.”

“You’re right.”

“I know I’m right,” Henna emphasized.

“This is what—”

“I’m done talking to you. I’ve heard enough.” Henna hung up immediately. She knew she was in the wrong, and should have handled it better, but she was getting extremely mad. Ahmad had been her manager since he discovered her singing in a lounge in SoHo. He taught her the business. He taught her to bury herself in her work and in her music; to spend every waking moment breathing her art; taught her that nothing else mattered. Before him, she was Henna Marie Jameston. Ahmad created Henna James, a persona she didn’t even like at first. Yet he insisted that she love her. So she did.

He used to say, “I love Henna James, and the world is going to love her too,” and he was right. The world did love Henna James; and the more they loved, the bigger Henna James became. And the bigger Henna James became, the smaller Henna Jameston got. Ahmad was right again. She wasn’t herself anymore, and there was no peace. Henna knew she was fading away a long time ago, but she never thought she’d lose her man in the process.

“Maybe it was supposed to be for a season?” Henna questioned aloud. “It still hurts, though,” she whispered as she placed her head on her pillow and tried to sleep. Her mind continued to play the conversation, until the phone rang. She knew it was Ahmad, and at first wasn’t going to answer, but she picked up just before the voice mail.

“I’m sorry,” he said before she could speak.

“Good night,” Henna replied with exhaustion in her voice. She rose from bed, went to her living room, and began an all-night writing session.

That morning, around nine o’clock, Henna fell asleep and stayed in bed for the next two days. She came in and out of snoozes every few hours, but the pain in her heart fatigued her body and weakened her muscles. She literally couldn’t rise from the mattress. Henna didn’t shower, communicate with others, or eat. But after three days of ignoring persistent phone calls from the music label, she finally returned their call. As suspected, her rep wanted to discuss her next project. Henna had released two independent CDs before getting signed to a four-CD deal. With three down, her domestic sales were steadily declining, and she knew the label wanted her to go in a different direction and produce something more commercial. They wanted Henna to move from the jazz adult-contemporary lane into the neo-soul arena. It was mentioned on album two, requested on number three, and sure to be a demand for album four. Therefore, she showered off three days of mental funk, got dressed, and went into Manhattan.

Standing outside 550 Madison Avenue, Henna peered from underneath the brim of her black Yankees cap, gazed up the side of the towering building, lit her cigarette, and took three large puffs before walking in. On her ride up to the twenty-fourth floor, she braced herself for the worst. According to her contract, the label could choose to indefinitely shelve her next CD, which wasn’t even complete, if they felt it wasn’t ready to be released. However, that wasn’t her concern. She couldn’t be signed to any other label until she produced the fourth CD, and going into the studio to push out another Henna James creation was the last thing she wanted to think about. She walked into the lobby and spoke with the receptionist for a few seconds; then Phillip Moreano floated around the corner. Phillip had been in the music business for twenty years. He’d birthed numerous talents, and destroyed twice as many.

“Phillip, hi. I thought I was meeting with Thalia?” Henna said.

“She called you for me,” he replied, gesturing toward his office.

They walked into his large corner space, which was overflowing with plaques, platinum records, autographed pictures, and magazine tears of various articles.

“Coffee, tea, water?” he offered.

“No, thank you,” Henna replied.

Phillip’s voice was nasal, loud, and abrasive, and Henna hated to hear him talk. She often tuned him out, but today he got right in her face and spoke. She wasn’t going to be as lucky.

“I’m not going to beat around the bush. We love Henna James, but the U.S. is not so fond of her right now.”

Henna immediately rose to her defense. “I’m so much bigger than the U.S. I sell well overseas.”

“Well, pack your bags, honey, and move to Russia. Take up a couple of languages while you’re there.”

Henna quieted down. She was in foreign territory. Normally, Ahmad fought these battles for her. But she no longer had a manager, and she knew the label was going to use this to their advantage.

“The truth is, your sound is old. Your niche has transformed into something we can’t market. We went along with you and ‘your voice’ for this last project, but we cannot afford to buy into it again. If you want to continue a career with Sony, specifically Columbia, then you have to change your sound.”

Henna took his insults with grace and gave a gutsy response. “Well, maybe Columbia is not the label for me.”

Phillip sighed and replied, “I hate when you artists do this.” He rose, walked around the front of the desk, and stood next to Henna. “If you want to go sell your music on the A train during the lunch express, then you can. But you will do it after you complete this fourth project, which I am in charge of. We want to see the numbers we know you can do.” Suddenly his approach softened and his tone had much more of an inflection of sincerity. It was still all an act, and Henna knew it well. Phillip walked to his shelf of CDs and pulled out Henna’s first Grammy-nominated project with Columbia. He embraced it like an adorable newborn. “Remember her?” he said, pointing to a picture of Henna on the front cover. “She was light and soulful. She was passionate and uplifting. This is the Henna we love. This is the Henna they want. What happened?”

Henna pushed back from the desk, looked him square in the eyes, and replied, “Life.”

She grabbed her purse and turned to leave the office. Phillip quickly pulled her arm and attempted to lure her back to the desk. Yet, she stood still with contempt raked across her face and listened to his suggestion.

“You just need a little inspiration. There is a new artist we’ve been looking at signing. However, Thalia made the suggestion that maybe her sound would be good for you. Why sign someone whom we may already have?” he stated, with a baiting smile.

Henna frowned. “So you want me to copy someone else’s style of music?”

“Of course not. We want you to get inspired from her and apply that inspiration to your own style.” He handed Henna two tickets. “She’s performing tonight. Go see her.”

She took the tickets and read the name. “Crimson?” She glared back at Phillip. “You are kidding, right? She’s a child. I’m thirty-four years old! I can’t make teen music.”

“I like you, Henna, and I think you can turn things around. I’m just not ready to see you go.”

Though she knew the industry was filled with bloodsuckers, Phillip Moreano was the vampire you wanted on your side. She looked at the tickets once more, then let out an exasperated and defeated “okay.”

“Great!” Phillip said, with a loud clasp of his greedy little hands. Henna then turned again and began to leave the office, but Phillip wasn’t done.

“I spoke with Ahmad. So you’re in the market for a new manager, huh?”

She glanced back around and gave Phillip a pleasant smile, but she didn’t respond. She simply walked out of the office.

By the time she hit the elevator, Henna was already digging though her purse for that nicotine fix. She swiftly paced through the lobby, hit the fresh air, and sucked in a puff of packaged tar. Once more, Henna looked up the side of this enormous building, and imagined Phillip Moreano going bankrupt, jumping out of his luxurious office, and landing somewhere on the sidewalk between the cracks and the muck. This thought gave her a simple bit of pleasure, enough contentment to bring a tiny curl to her mauve-painted lips. She took a few more smoke inhales and walked down Madison toward Fifty-seventh street. At the corner of Fifty-seventh and Park, Henna walked into her favorite pizza parlor and got two large slices of cheese pizza. She sat in the window, while eating her hot cheese and dough, and gazed at the folks passing by, one of her favorite pastimes. As the hour passed, she thought about her conversation with Phillip. If she was no longer with Columbia, would another record label choose her? And, if another label didn’t pick her up, what would she do?

Henna put down her pizza, removed a tiny notebook from her purse, and began jotting down a few options to her last question. The first answer was, tour old songs overseas for the next three years. This would give enough savings for at least an additional four years after she stopped touring. The last option was to sell CDs on the D train. She refused to give Phillip the satisfaction of telling her what. . .