What Kind of Fool

by Rhonda McKnight

Genres: African American Christian; African American Women's Fiction; African American Romance

Synopsis

Angelina Preston tunes out the voice of God when she decides to divorce her husband, Greg. She's forgiven him for his affair, but she won't forget, even though her heart is telling her to. Shortly after she files divorce papers, she finds out her non-profit organization is being investigated by the IRS for money laundering. In the midst of the very public scandal, Angelina becomes ill. Through financial and physical trials, she learns that faith and forgiveness may really be the cure for all that ails her, but can she forgive the people who hurt her most? Sexy, successful Dr. Gregory Preston didn't appreciate his wife when he had her. His affair with a devious man-stealer has him put out of his home and put off with women who continue to throw themselves at him. Greg wants his wife back, but he'll have to do some fancy operating to get her. When the secrets and lies from his past continue to mess up his future, Greg finds himself looking to the God he abandoned long ago for a miracle only faith can provide. Samaria Jacobs finally has the one thing she's always wanted: a man with money. The fact that she's in love with him is a bonus, but even so, life is anything but blissful. She's paying for her past sins in ways she never imagined and living in fear that the secret she's keeping will separate them forever.

Release date: February 1, 2012

Publisher: Urban Christian

Print pages: 288

Sample

“I can’t ever trust you again.” I slid the divorce papers across the table. “It’s over, Greg, just sign them.”

I watched my husband sit back and slump in his chair. “But—” he began.

“Don’t say it.” I waved a hand to cut him off. “It won’t matter.”

“But, I do,” he continued. “I love you. I want to work this out.”

Our waitress crept past us. Our menus were still open, so she continued to the next table. I supposed she’d assumed we still weren’t ready to order. Little did she know if any eating was going to happen, Greg would be doing it by himself. I wasn’t planning to stay around long enough to dine. I just wanted to meet in a public place so I could end the conversation on my terms, and so I wouldn’t be weak.

“Angelina, are you listening to me?” The velvety tenor of his voice pulled me from my thoughts. “I feel like this is more about Samaria than it is about me.” He pushed the papers back in my direction. “If it hadn’t been her—”

“It’d still be over.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Why? Because I put up with it before?” My mind went back to the other affair, an anesthesiologist at a conference. It was one weekend, but it cut me to the core. I remembered the pain in my heart, the months it took to stop crying, and what it took to rebuild trust. But nothing had compared to the way I felt when I’d found out about Samaria.

I’d suspected there might be another woman, but not somebody I knew, someone I considered to be a ... friend. I closed my eyes to the pain that was still fresh. Then reopened them and met the sad gaze of my husband, soon to be ex-husband. I cut my eyes away from him before his good-lookingness melted my resolve.

Greg Preston was the most handsome man I’d ever known in my life, better looking than most actors on television. His looks were the gift of a Creole mother and a dark-skinned Cuban father. He had skin the color of a cocoa bean and hazel eyes so sharp in contrast to his complexion that it gave him an exotic look, almost animalistic, like a wolf dipped in chocolate.

“Talk to me, Lena,” he pleaded. It was so unlike Greg to beg for anything. He’d been begging for months. “Punish me, but don’t do this. Please, can’t we try?”

I released a plume of air from my lungs and forced Samaria’s face from my mind. “I wanted to work it out before,” I said. “I wanted another child, so I thought if I just put up with you no matter what, I’d eventually get pregnant again.” I pushed the thought of our deceased daughter, Danielle, from my mind and forced myself to take in a breath of air. “But now, I realize I’ve been a fool.” I shifted my eyes away from him. “For years, I’d been a fool.”

“So are you saying you haven’t loved me for a long time?”

“No. That’s not what I’m saying.” My eyes met his. “I’m saying I compromised because I wanted a baby, but now I realize it was silly to try to have a baby with a man I don’t trust.”

Greg loosened his tie like he needed air to speak. “I didn’t ask you if you trusted me. I want to know if you still love me.”

“Greg,” I said sharply, “what part of ‘that doesn’t matter’ don’t you understand?”

“Lena, It’s not like I knew who she was.” He leaned forward, raised his voice a little, and we both looked to the left and right to see if we’d drawn an audience.

True, Greg had not known that Samaria Jacobs, the woman he was sleeping with, was the same woman I’d befriended and had known as Rae Burns. Greg had not known his mistress was so devious that she’d joined my church and wormed her way into my life, all with the intention of gleaning enough inside information to wreak havoc on our marriage. But it didn’t matter. I’d told myself the first affair was the last affair, and I was standing on that, no matter how much he begged, no matter what my heart said. It was time to use my head.

“What about my will?” I ignored the voice in my head and slid the papers that had now become a “hot potato” back across the table.

Greg lowered his head. When he raised his eyes, unshed tears shown in them. “I know—I know I was wrong, but I thought—I thought Christians were supposed to forgive.”

It was me who sat back now. I was shocked he’d pulled the Christian card on me. Steam rose in my belly, and I was annoyed that he’d hit a nerve. I’d wrestled with the same thought all week, the thought or the voice that entered my head when I accepted the papers from my attorney.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to just have these served?” Mavis Benchley, one of the top divorce lawyers in Atlanta, had asked as she peered suspiciously over her glasses.

“No. He’s asked to meet with me this week, so I’ll just give them to him myself.”

“Don’t do it.” There was the Holy Spirit again. I felt an uneasy burst of perspiration, and my breath caught in my throat for a moment. But I shook my head, just as I was doing now. I didn’t want to hear what that voice was asking me to do.

“Forgive?” My hand felt unsteady. I returned the glass to the table. “What makes you think I haven’t forgiven you?”

Greg’s face clouded over with confusion. He didn’t really understand the doctrine of forgiveness, and he’d just played himself. “If you’ve forgiven me, why this?” He let his eyes fall on the papers for a second, and then returned his heated stare to mine.

“Because forgiveness doesn’t always mean things will work out the way you want them to. Forgiving doesn’t mean a happy ending.” I raised my glass and took another sip. My stomach felt like it was in knots, and the same bead of perspiration was forming over my lip.

“I can read you. You still love me.”

I hated that those words were true. I hated that I wanted nothing more than to reach for his hand, let him touch me, and take me home and make love to me again. I was such a fool for this man. And even though it had only been three months since we’d separated, celibacy wasn’t wearing well, not after thirteen years of marriage and good lovemaking. I wanted ... I needed ... No, be strong. You have to end this. “I want a divorce.” I looked him squarely in the eyes, prayed my waning confidence didn’t allow him to read me.

Greg threw his head back and touched the papers as if my final declaration had made them real. He picked them up for a few seconds and lowered them to the table. He did not meet my gaze when he said, “I need my attorney to look at them.”

“I’m not really asking you for anything.”

That statement got his head up. “What does that mean?”

“I just want the house. I’m going to sell it and buy something smaller.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Greg frowned. “I will not agree to give you nothing.”

“I thought it would be easier—” I stopped, pressed my lips together, and then began again. “I thought it would be faster, and I’m willing to do anything—”

“To be free of me.” He raised his hand and washed his face. “I won’t let you walk away without a decent settlement. It wouldn’t be fair.”

I thought of Katrice, my new daughter or soon-to-be daughter, once the final hearing for her mother’s parental rights had been held. They’d be severed, and then I would be free to adopt her. Having the extra money in the bank would look good on my adoption application, and I could use all the pluses I could find with the divorce pending. Single parents adopted children all the time, but having a strong financial situation could help the application.

“Can you see Phil right away?” I asked, knowing he’d give them to his fraternity brother, who, for many years, had been our personal attorney.

Greg put the papers inside the manila envelope I’d delivered them in. “In a rush?” He closed the metal clasp and let out a long sigh.

“Not really, but it’s a good time to sell the house,” I replied. “The truth is ... I have a buyer.”

He nodded absently, like he had emotionally checked out of our battle of wills. “Go ahead and sell it. You don’t have to wait for the divorce if you have a buyer.” His eyes were so sad that I could barely stand to look in them. He dropped his head. He was looking down, at what I had no idea, but I could tell he was concentrating really hard. He raised his head, swallowed, and in the most desperate tone I’d ever heard, he moaned my name. “Angelina, it hasn’t even been that long. Can’t we—”

“Save your breath.” I stood. “I’m not going to change my mind.” I picked up my handbag. “Just have Phil send them to my attorney, and please, come get the rest of your things from the house. They’re in the garage.” I turned on my heels. I couldn’t bring myself to say good-bye, so I didn’t. The emotional roller coaster in my spirit moved me through the restaurant like a car on rails. Once on the street, I did a slow jog to the entrance of the parking garage, and impatiently tapped my foot as I waited for the parking valet. Not wanting to wait even a second for change, I overtipped him, slid behind the wheel, and gunned the gas. I was running, and I didn’t know if it was from my husband, myself, or my God.

“You’re making the worst mistake of your life.”

“Mom ...” I attempted to get a word in. My mother and I had been bantering back and forth about Greg for more than five minutes, and my mother’s outrage over my decision was winning. “Would you let me talk?”

“You told me what you had to say, and it still don’t make no sense. You’re divorcing your husband so you can adopt somebody else’s child?”

I pulled the telephone away from my ear and looked at it. I wanted to slam it into the receiver. Somebody else’s child? I hate that my mother thought of it that way. I took a deep breath and put the phone back against my ear. “I’m not divorcing Greg because of Katrice, and you know that.”

“I know you messing up your life.” My mother’s voice was shaking. “That man is begging you on his knees. He even said he would go to counseling.”

“And you would know that how, Mom?” I asked. “I wish you’d stop talking to him. He has his own mother. You’re mine.”

“That man is like a son to me. He loves you, and he’s a good husband. A good provider. You have no business even thinking about divorce.”

“Mom, I’ve made up my mind.” I started to perspire again. I carried the phone into the foyer to see what the thermostat was set at.

My mother continued to drone on. “So you gonna let that wretched gal win. You gonna let her have your husband just like she wanted all along.”

“Greg and Samaria can have each other. I don’t care.” That was a lie. The thought of Greg with Samaria made me positively sick. But I was sure he was too angry with Samaria to think of continuing a relationship, or at least I hoped.

I’m not supposed to care, I thought, pushing Samaria’s face from my mind. I closed my eyes to the image of the large tears that had spilled down Samaria’s cheeks. “You are a home-wrecking, backstabbing tramp, and I never want to see you again.” Those had been my last words to the woman. Samaria had called several times after. Even wrote me some letter apologizing and saying she knew forgiveness was not possible, but it was her Christian duty to accept responsibility for what she had done. New converts have an overzealous penchant for following the Word. I would ordinarily be pleased, but from Samaria, it was more salt in a wound that had come from battery acid the woman had poured all over my heart. I would never forgive her and never forget.

“You’re crazy. You don’t hand over your man to a mistress. If she’s bad enough to take him, then let him go, but to hand him over when he’s begging to stay ...”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and peered at the number sixty-eight on the wall. I wondered if the thermostat was broken. The house was really warm. I’d never had it this low even on the hottest of days that Atlanta had to offer.

“Angelina,” my mother yelled, “do I need to come there and talk some sense into you?”

“You don’t need to come here. You’re talking enough on the phone every day and honestly, Mom, if you don’t stop this, I won’t have a choice but to stop taking your calls.”

My mother didn’t say anything. That was a bad sign. She might really get on a plane and come from Charlotte just to knock me in the mouth. I needed to change the subject. “I’ve sold the house. I’m moving in a few weeks.”

Once again, my mother was mute. She loved my house, and I know she thought I was insane to sell it.

“The buyer practically walked up to my door,” I continued. It was true. My nosy neighbor, Joy, had knocked on the door last month expressing concern over having not seen Greg’s car. I put her out of her curious misery and told the woman I was getting a divorce and probably selling the house. Joy expressed condolences for a moment and appropriately patted my hand, but none of it felt sincere. I knew why within seconds.

“You don’t need to put a sign up,” Joy had said, slapping her hands against her cheeks. “My best friend in the whole world is dying to buy your house. Every time she visits she says so. We want our kids to grow up together. . .” and Joy continued her brattle of celebration without regard for my feelings about the whole thing.

“Why, all you’ll need is a real-estate lawyer. It’ll save you a bundle.” Joy clasped her hands together. “I’m so glad I came by. What good news.”

I knew it was, in fact, good news. The market wasn’t great, especially for homes in this pricey range, and I needed to sell. The house held too many memories. I wanted a fresh start without Greg lurking in the shadows and in every corner.

My BlackBerry began to ring. I pulled it from my pocket. “Mom, I have to go. I’m getting a call from the office.”

“Think about what I said. Don’t be a fool. Pride cometh before destruction.”

“Bye, Mom.” I pressed the END button on one phone and the TALK button on the other.

“Angelina, you have to come in!” Portia yelled before I could get my hello out.

I raised a finger to the thermostat and pushed the button until it went down to sixty-six. That had to kick the fan on and get a breeze going. If it didn’t, I’d have a repairman come look at it tomorrow. “I have another appointment. What’s going on?”

Portia paused, and I heard her clear her throat. “I hate to tell you this on the phone, but some government men are here from the IRS Criminal Investigation unit. They say they need to see our records.”

I took a step back from the thermostat and tried to steady myself. I shook my head to clear double vision. Had I heard Portia correctly? Criminal investigation. I wiped my sweaty forehead, and then everything went black.

I didn’t remember getting up off the floor or grabbing my purse or getting in my car. But I was in it, speeding down Peachtree Parkway to my small office on Holcomb Bridge Road and trying to figure out why I’d fainted like the heroine in a 1940s movie. I was also trying to figure out why representatives from the IRS’s Criminal Investigation Unit were at my office. What in the world could they want with my records? The only person who handled the money was Don Conley, the accountant. He was a CPA, and I trusted him implicitly. That’s why I’d called him as soon as I’d gotten in the car. Voice mail greeted me, and I left a desperate plea for him to call me back, which he was doing now.

“Don, there are IRS investigators at the office, wanting our records. Will you meet me there?”

He said of course and the knot in my stomach loosened a little.

It seemed like it took forever for me to pull into the small parking lot of the building I leased. Something Extra, my nonprofit foundation, was a three-person shop nestled near downtown Norcross. My building and the surrounding offices were converted Victorian homes clustered around a duck pond. The rent was more than I should be paying, but I couldn’t resist the tranquility the quaint, historic location afforded me. Suburban Atlanta was a maven of newness, filled with architecture that was a compilation of glazed terracotta, mirrored glass, and steel. I desired to escape it all for a simpler, quieter location, so I preferred the wood, brick, and beveled glass that could still be found in downtown buildings in Norcross.

I took the three steps at a rapid pace and pushed the door open to the reception area. Portia flew from behind her desk. Her emerald-green eyes bugged like glassy volcanic rock, and her gelled red hair looked like lava shooting from a recent eruption. Her freckles stood out against the backdrop of pale skin that had become even paler since I had seen her a few hours ago. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I knew you had to come back for this.”

Two men in ominous dark suits and white shirts stood from the small sofa on the far end of the wall. Like the Men in Black, they stepped toward me. I was almost expecting them to do impersonations of Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones, that is, until they turned official on me.

“Angelina Preston?” one of them asked. I nodded, and he removed an identification badge from the inside of his jacket pocket. “I’m Agent Rod Crisp, and this is Agent Vince Lyons. We’re with the Internal Revenue Service Office of Criminal Investigation.”

Agent Lyons, the brother, reached into a gold business card case and handed one to me. “We’ve come to seize your financial records for our investigation.”

My throat went dry. The words IRS, criminal, seize, records, swirled around in my head like frisky fish in a round tank. It took a few seconds, but I finally found my voice. “I don’t understand.”

“Something Extra Corporation is being investigated for the possible illegal activities of embezzlement and money laundering.”

Tears burned the back of my eyes. “There’s some type of mistake. I’m a small nonprofit. We don’t see enough money for embezzlement and money laundering.”

“Ms. Preston, we’ve conducted a general investigation that tells us otherwise. Now we need to continue our investigation with—”

“Do you have a warrant or something?” I interrupted him. I wasn’t about to be railroaded by these guys. Before they could respond, I heard a noise behind me. Portia’s metal pencil cup had hit the tiled floor with a ping.

“Here,” Portia yelped out the word and extended a blue trifolded document. “They gave it to me.”

I took it and let out the deep breath I’d been holding. It was a search warrant, but I knew they would have one. People like this always came prepared. At least in the movies they did, which was the only place I’d ever seen such a thing as an IRS criminal investigation. What’s happening?

I dropped the search warrant on Portia’s desk and reached for a tissue. I could feel perspiration rising all over my body. They had me scared, and I didn’t want to go through this alone. “Would you at least wait for my accountant? He’s on his way. He should be here any minute.” I heard myself pleading, but my words fell on unsympathetic ears.

“We do not wait for any company official to begin our seizure. However, we will interview Mr. Conley, along with the other staff and volunteers once we’ve reviewed your records,” Crisp replied.

A beat of silence, and then the brother said, “Please show us where you keep your records.”

I fought the scream that wanted to escape my lungs and did as I was asked. They picked, prodded, and tore through every piece of paper and ledger stored in hardcopy and on the computers. In the end, they took all my financial documents and the hard drive to both the computers, leaving only the one on Portia’s desk, because it had no financial records. How were we supposed to work with no computers? This was insane.

They left. I looked at my watch. It was five o’clock. I had to get to the daycare center and pick up Katrice. I had already promised her I would be early today, and now I would actually end up being late because I had been waiting for Don. Don, who the agents knew and paused upon saying his name; Don, who said he’d be right over, but neither called nor showed; Don, who’s phone was ringing straight to voice mail. I slammed down the file folder I’d been holding.

“Angelina,” Portia crept into the room, “can I get you something before I leave?”

I raised my pounding head. My eyes were so heavy I could barely see her. In fact, when I looked at Portia, all I could see was the fear that had been clenching my own heart for the last two hours. What had Don done? What was I going to do if my business, my baby, was in trouble?

I started Something Extra, a nonprofit organization that raised funds for foster children, three years ago. Their donors contributed to a pot of money that bought Christmas presents, school clothing and supplies, paid cheerleading and football team fees, graduation dues, vacations, even vehicles and college scholarships when I could finagle them. My volunteers and I were busy, all day every day, setting up fundraising events and begging for money to pay for them. It was a good organization. We helped so many children. Could Don have stolen from the kids? Don is a retired accountant who’d spent twenty-five years of his life making sure the books were correct for other companies. I felt bile rise. I pressed my lips together to keep from throwing up my lunch. “I’m fine. Go home.”

Portia hesitated for a moment, bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, and then turned to walk out of the room. “I’m sorry, Angelina.” She stopped in the doorway. “I’m so sorry that all of this happened.”

I rolled my chair back and pushed myself to my feet. Nobody was sorrier than I was because Greg had warned me about Don.

“I’m not a criminal attorney, bu. . .