You Get What You Pray For

Book 3: Always Divas

by E.N. Joy

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

Synopsis

Lorain has been a prisoner of her secrets for almost her entire life. At the age of 13 she managed to keep her pregnancy a secret, discarding the infant and leaving it for dead. Years later, Lorain's mother finally met the love of her life, and Lorain couldn't find the courage to tell her mother that her new beau was the man who had molested Lorain and impregnated her. To complicate matters even more, Lorain discovered that the baby she'd abandoned all those years ago survived, and God has now placed Lorain in her adult child's life. It seems like the legacy of secrets has been passed on, too, as Lorain helps her daughter conceal the true details behind one of her own pregnancies. Lorain has managed to maneuver the secrets and lies like pieces in a strategic game of chess, and is now living the lavish, fairy-tale life of a doctor's wife. But even that is a lie. With the rug about to be pulled out from underneath Lorain by the woman who raised her abandoned child, all Lorain prays for is that everything ends well. In this cycle of lies, secrets, shame, and guilt, will Lorain get what she prays for?

Release date: February 1, 2015

Publisher: End of the Rainbow Projects

Print pages: 288

Sample

“I wouldn’t change this million-dollar lifestyle for two million,” Lorain said as she stood in the middle of her great room, admiring the soft yellow vaulted ceiling and the custom-designed crystal chandelier. Her home in Malvonia, Ohio was more than she’d ever imagined herself living in.

Sitting on the sand-colored couch with yellow accent pillows always made Lorain feel as though she were sitting on one of the beaches of Saint Martin. Although she, her husband, and their twin daughters had lived in their built-from-the-ground-up house for almost a year, every day that she woke up in her home was still like a dream come true. For the first couple of weeks after moving in, she would wake up, run downstairs, go stand in the middle of the great room, and not only admire it but also spin around in awe, kind of like Belle when the Beast introduced her to the library in his castle.

She had been introduced to something, all right—the good life. And just thinking about how good her life was at that very moment, she felt the urge rise up inside of her to take a good ole spin. So there she went, doing her fairy-tale, Gone with the Wind, “I’m so fabulous, and so is life” spin. As her spinning came to a slow, winding halt, she asked herself, How does a wretch like me go from the hood life to the good life?

Dressed in a silky-satin white blouse with short sleeves, puffy shoulders, and ruffles down the front, a red pencil skirt, and crystal-studded, strappy four-inch heels—all by designers whose names she couldn’t pronounce without practicing several times out loud—Lorain felt like a queen. And no one could tell her she didn’t reside in a palace. The six-thousand-square-foot home, which featured five bedrooms, four and a half baths, a finished basement with a grand wine cellar, a stainless-steel gourmet kitchen, an exquisite dining room, and a to-die-for great room, was everything she had prayed for . . . and then some. The lower-level mini theater, which could seat a little over a half dozen people, and the modest indoor pool were the “then some.” The gray-, black-, and white-marble Jacuzzi in her master suite, which could fit four adults, was heaven. The custom-made walk-in closet was the size of her bedroom when she was a little girl. As a matter of fact, Lorain had subconsciously had it painted the same teal green color of her childhood sleeping quarters.

Growing up, Lorain had never been poor. The house she was raised in, though, was on the imaginary line dividing the good side of town and the bad side. When her father left the home when she was ten years old, he stayed current on child support and Lorain’s mother kept a full-time job, so Lorain was never forced to do without. So even though she might not have grown up having and getting everything she wanted, she’d always had enough. Now she had more than enough. And there were often times when she felt she didn’t deserve it, but God had blessed her with it all, so obviously, He felt she did deserve it. And who was she to argue with God?

It seemed like yesterday that Lorain was thirteen years old, hiding a pregnancy, then giving birth to a baby on the nasty, hard cement bathroom floor of her middle school and, with squirming infant in arms, taking the longest trek ever to the Dumpster to dispose of the new life. When she walked away from that Dumpster, she never looked back, even though the horrible stench followed behind her. Still, Lorain kept moving on in life, heading down a path of destruction. Every act she committed from that point on had been suicidal, only she never died. To God be the glory!

God had shown her mercy by not punishing her with a deadly sexually transmitted disease after years of jumping from one man’s bed to the next. Purposely having unprotected sex with men whose last names she didn’t even know was suicidal. Sleeping with a married man in the bed he and his wife shared, knowing the wife could come home at any minute and blow both their brains out, was suicidal. That was all her younger years had consisted of, until an HIV scare had her life flashing before her eyes. It was then that she realized that she really did want life over death.

While she waited for the results of the HIV test, she promised God that if He spared her life, she’d give it to Him. She had actually kept that promise. After she received the negative results of her HIV test, there were no more one-night stands or sex with other women’s men. Now on the other side of forty, Lorain didn’t have to settle for sloppy seconds. She was finally somebody’s wife herself, and a doctor’s wife, to boot.

“Hot dang! Won’t God do it?” she said aloud. She clapped her hands and got a little Holy Ghost dance on in her stilettos. Her thousand-dollar pair of shoes did a two-step on the carpet, which was a shade darker than the couch. From the outside, it might have looked as though Lorain was giving God some praise. On the inside, though, she was plain old dancing for joy, glad that the hand she’d been dealt had turned out to be a full house. She had it going on!

After getting her shout on, Lorain, with her size twelve, voluptuous figure, stood with her legs spread and her hands on her hips. She looked so much like a model, trendy and chic. She’d always had a short, edgy haircut that complemented her long, thin face. Her golden-honey hair enhanced her mocha-brown skin. Her nails, decorated by the personal manicurist who came to her home once a week, tapped her size ten waistline.... Well, at least the Spanx made it look like she had a size ten waist. The corners of her mouth were turned upward in an expression of pride. Surprisingly, she didn’t get a chill from the air she had about herself.

She admired her custom-made designer furniture, which consisted of the sand-colored couch, a light yellow love seat, two oversized chairs, one chair the color of the couch and the other the color of the love seat, handmade solid oak tables, and antique lamps dripping with crystals that matched the chandelier. The gleaming, thirty-five-hundred-dollar vase that was the centerpiece of the awkwardly, yet uniquely shaped coffee table seemed to wink at her. Her eyes couldn’t help but roll over the sunset-yellow and orange Italian rug that the designer in Italy had personally shipped her. One of the doctors’ wives had passed the designer’s information on to her after Lorain had made such a fuss over the rug she’d seen in the parlor at a doctors’ wives’ meeting a few months ago. That thought reminded Lorain that the clock was ticking. This month’s meeting was at her house. The wives would be arriving shortly, and she hadn’t done a final check-in with the staff.

Although it was no easy feat to host the doctors’ wives monthly meeting, Lorain nonetheless experienced an adrenaline rush whenever it was her turn. The women always spent months preparing to host the meeting, as it involved coming up with unique, outrageous, and over-the-top ideas to show off their husband’s money and resources. The pressure was really on if a holiday fell in the hosting month, which was the case for Lorain, as it just so happened to be February. So of course, she had to incorporate the whole Valentine’s Day love theme into the meeting. Her husband, Nicholas, whom everyone called Nick, had urged her to make her theme Black History Month instead. She wasn’t convinced that this would go over well with the three non–African American wives. She didn’t want there to be confusion or negative chatter because some of the wives lacked an understanding of her culture.

“That’s all the more reason to highlight it,” Nicholas had told her. “School them on the history of our culture so that they will have a better understanding.”

“Maybe next year, when I have more time to prepare,” Lorain had replied. “Besides, I’ve already made purchases for the Valentine’s theme.”

“So I noticed when I was paying bills and balancing the checkbook,” he’d told her in a tone that let her know she might have gone overboard with her spending. His single raised eyebrow only confirmed his dismay.

Lorain’s meeting had been only three months out at the time Nicholas suggested the Black History Month theme, and by then she’d already invested a couple grand in the affair.

“Well, the next time it’s your turn to host, you can do it,” Nicholas had told her. “Every month of the year should be Black History Month, anyway.”

Lorain would consider it, but for now she had to focus on this month’s meeting. And as she did a final walk-through of the areas of her home where the women would be entertained, she was quite pleased to have stuck to her decision about the Valentine’s theme. The house had been transformed into a love shack. It looked as if Cupid himself had shot an arrow into her home, releasing red dye and hearts everywhere, but the decorating was tasteful and on point. She was sure her meeting would be the talk of the women for at least a week.

It would definitely stay on their minds until the March meeting, for which St. Paddy’s Day would more than likely be the theme. Irish or not, Lorain was certain the host would go with the whole four-leaf clover, beer, and leprechaun theme. She only hoped that whoever was assigned March this year would eliminate the green eggs and ham. That had been done two times too many. It had lost its novelty, and besides, all the wives had agreed that green eggs and ham should be reserved for Dr. Seuss’s birthday month.

Of course, the whole heart and love theme of Valentine’s Day had been done a million times over, but this time around, Lorain had done something none of the other women had thought to do thus far. The water in the round fountain, made of various stones, that sat in the middle of the foyer had been dyed red and rose petals were floating on it. The fountain’s installation had been completed just last week, and in the nick of time. The women almost expected to be shown something new each time they visited one another’s home. Lorain was certain the fountain would be a showstopper. The sound of the water in the fountain pouring down the mini mountain of rocks was so serene. If you closed your eyes, the smell of the fresh water would have you thinking you were standing in a Costa Rican rain forest.

But if the fountain didn’t do the trick, Lorain knew what would. Each wife who entered her home would have a rose boutonniere pinned on her by a hunk of chocolate. Not the edible kind that was an integral part of Valentine’s Day, but a shirtless hunk of a chocolate man who, besides the bow tie, wore only the bottom portion of his tux, cummerbund included.

She’d rented a red carpet, and adorned with red rose petals, it led from the front door to the dining room, where, of course, a triple punch fountain rained a specially prepared red beverage. The origami pink, white, and red hearts hanging from the dining room ceiling were almost like little butterflies flying about the room. The cupcake display on the side table that was created by the one and only Chocolates and Stilettos was to die for. The cupcakes had icing that was the same color as the floating hearts, and there were way more than the six women could possibly devour, even if half of them weren’t on diets or didn’t have a Lap-Band. But at least three dozen cupcakes had been needed to form the huge heart-shaped cupcake tower Lorain had envisioned.

The chefs had done a wonderful job overall with the food coloring, making the red and pink delicacies look delicious. They’d even given the Scotch eggs a little shot from Cupid. The whites of the eggs were now pink, and those pink egg whites looked so dainty in between the yellow yolks and the browned crumbled sausage. Lorain had wanted the yolks dyed too, but the head chef, Omar, had wasted at least two dozen eggs in an attempt to do so. “I think this would go over better with deviled eggs, ma’am,” he had told her. Lorain had agreed with a nod, even though her inner voice had pleaded with Omar to give it one more try with the Scotch eggs. If he could have pulled that off, Lorain knew the women would have been highly impressed. Besides, deviled eggs were reserved for the summer meetings, so Lorain didn’t dare opt for that.

“Madame, I believe your guests are starting to arrive,” announced the hired hunk as he entered the dining room, his bare feet padding on the light blue carpeted floor. The carpet was about two shades darker than the ocean-blue painted walls. He was carrying with one hand the sterling silver tray that held the boutonnieres.

“Oh, my. I didn’t even hear the doorbell, and I haven’t done my final check with the staff.” Lorain was in a fix. Did she run to the kitchen and let the incredible hunk answer the door, and thus miss the expression on the ladies’ faces as they were greeted? Or did she go make sure everything was perfect, since she was paying an obscene amount of money for it to be?

The doorbell rang again.

“We don’t want to keep them waiting,” the chocolate hunk said.

Lorain looked him up and down. Gosh, he is so much better than a chocolate heart or that stupid, big, fake walking chocolate bunny that weirded everybody out at last April’s meeting. Knowing the women would lose their minds over this man, Lorain wouldn’t miss their reactions for the world.

“You’re right. No, we don’t want to keep them waiting. Come, come.” Lorain whisked past him and made her way to the door. He was right on her heels. She looked through the glass blocks around the double doors and could make out at least three figures. Excitedly, she smoothed out her clothing and then stood to the side. “Okay, let them in,” she ordered the hunk.

He nodded, then walked over to the door, holding the tray above his shoulder. He held the tray with his one hand while he opened the door with the other.

Fine and adept at multitasking, Lorain thought to herself.

One of the women started fussing as she dashed through the door after ringing the doorbell twice before being let in. “It’s February, Lorain. It’s cold out there.”

Standing off to the side after having opened the door for the women to enter, the hunk greeted the guests. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

All eyes immediately landed on him. Lorain hadn’t thought about the fact that he would steal the fountain’s glory.

“But it’s hot in here!” the fussed woman exclaimed.

And just like that, the complaints were nipped in the bud by the chocolate stud.

“Welcome to the Wright residence.” He lifted a boutonniere. “May I put it on you?” he asked one of the women in a sexy tone, with raised eyebrows.

“Child, like Tamar Braxton’s song says, ‘put it all on me!’” Carrie shouted.

Leave it to Carrie, the newlywed, married and inducted into the doctors’ wives’ clique only two months ago, to be all loud and ghetto. Thing was, no one was ever embarrassed by her brash antics and unfiltered tongue. Most of the time the women found her quite amusing and entertaining.

“You can say that again for me,” Mary said, cutting in front of Carrie to have her boutonniere pinned on her first.

Mary was Asian. Her birth name was Meizhen, which meant “beautiful pearl,” but she had changed her name ten years ago, when she became a U.S. citizen. She’d informed the wives that changing their names once they became U.S. citizens was something many Asian women did. She said it made them seem more Americanized and enabled them to fit into American culture and society better. She’d also told them that the name Mary looked better on her résumé and job applications. Her birth name was a dead giveaway that she was foreign born, and therefore, it could potentially hinder her from getting a job due to someone’s personal hang-ups or ignorance.

Mary, the daughter of two doctors, had been educated at Ivy League schools, and so she looked good enough on paper to get a first interview. By the time she wowed the interviewer with her genuine brilliance and charm, it didn’t matter if she was an alien from Mars. The girl was bad in every sense of the word. She was brains and beauty wrapped up in sushi, an egg roll, spring roll, or whatever. Her husband, Dr. Gerald Haroll, thought so as well.

As luck would have it, Gerald was the doctor who had interviewed Mary for her internship during medical school. She’d graduated from med school with honors, but instead of following in both her parents’ footsteps, she’d followed in only her mother’s . . . at least in one of her footsteps, anyway. Mary became the wife of a doctor. And not just of any doctor. Dr. Gerald Haroll was one of the best pediatricians in the state of Ohio. Lorain even took her girls to him.

“Some American men can be intimidated by a woman who is equally as smart and as wealthy as they are,” Mary had said to the women. “So imagine how my dear husband would feel if he realized I am much smarter than he’ll ever be.” She placed her index finger on her lips as the women laughed. “And I was wealthier when I was only eighteen than he is now,” she had confessed. “But he needn’t know about the trust fund my grandparents and parents set up for me, which I never touch.” She’d winked. “We live off of his money, and his money alone.”

“Mary, you sneaky little devil, you,” Lorain had said, tsk-tsking and shaking her head.

“Hmm, you American women taught me well. But the heck with just a secret bank account on the side. I’ve got a whole trust fund.”

Of course, at the time Lorain had had no concept of the notion of trying to provide for every contingency, but eventually, she’d kick herself for not learning a thing or two from Mary about having a plan B. But perhaps if Lorain had stuck with God’s plan, she wouldn’t have ever found herself in the position of needing a plan B in the first place.

“Next time you’ll have to use my guy,” Tabby said, sitting down at the dining room table holding the Scotch egg in her hand and observing it. “Clifton could have done something with this yolk besides leaving it yellow.” She bit the egg. “Umm, but it is tasty.” She smiled.

Lorain shot Tabby a fake smile, all the while really wanting to show her the saliva dripping from her fangs. That dang Tabby. If Lorain wasn’t such a lady, she’d snatch those thousand-dollar extensions off Tabby’s head, soak them in the fountain, and send her out of her house coordinated with the whole Valentine’s theme. But that wasn’t who Lorain was anymore, thank God. And thank God that He’d forgiven her for the times in her past when she had gotten out of line and resorted to getting physical. He’d even forgiven Lorain for the ultimate no-no of putting her hands on her own mother.

At one point, having such an estranged and nasty relationship with her mother, Lorain had resorted to laying her hands on her, and not in the spiritual sense, either. It wasn’t until after being tried time and time again by her mother that Lorain lost control of herself. It was still no excuse for Lorain to black out like that. But when her mother accused her of perhaps having a sexual relationship with her own biological father, Lorain snapped. So hanging Tabby’s snooty, stuck-up tail out to dry wouldn’t have been a problem for Lorain. Sure, God would forgive her, as He had forgiven her for the incident with her mother and had even restored their relationship. But how many days of her life had been shortened by dishonoring her mother? Only God knew. And Lorain wasn’t about to make her days—her days of freedom, at least—any shorter by going at Tabby.

Besides, that was the old Lorain: the angry, bitter Lorain, who deep down inside had blamed her mother for not protecting her from her molester, who had impregnated her at thirteen. It was an act that Lorain had never told her mother about as a young girl. Years later she’d only wished she had, since, adding salt to the wound, her mother brought the molester into her home, not knowing what he’d done to Lorain all those years ago. On top of that, Lorain’s mother ran off and eloped with the man. The old, unforgiving Lorain had felt her mother definitely deserved to have hands laid on her for that one.

According to Lorain, if a woman married the man who raped her daughter when her daughter was a child, then the daughter had every right to be mad . . . at the whole darn world! And for quite some time, Lorain had been mad at the world, especially the male species. Men became nothing more than pawns in Lorain’s miserable world. She became numb to anything they had to offer. They were toys in her game of life, and they had to pay to play. That was until she met the one and only Dr. Nicholas Wright. He changed her life, in more ways than one. Were it not for him, she wouldn’t be entertaining these wives of doctors in her house right now. She’d be off somewhere with their husbands, while these women ate cupcakes.

“I’ll make sure to get your guy’s number for the next time Scotch eggs are on the menu,” Lorain lied to Tabby.

“Pink, white, yellow, or green,” Mary said, finishing off an egg of her own, “these babies are to die for.”

“Well, thank you kindly, Mary.” This time Lorain offered a genuine smile, one that came from inside her.

“So, how’s Nicholas and Tom’s new private practice coming along?” one of the women asked Lorain.

Lorain lit up at the opportunity to boast about her husband’s year-old private practice. “It couldn’t be better. He couldn’t have partnered with a better physician.” Lorain smiled at Angel, Tom’s wife, who stood over at the punch fountain.

“The feeling is mutual.” Angel held up her crystal cup full of punch.

“I can’t believe it’s been a year already,” Lorain continued. “Nicholas is so much happier, it seems, now that he’s his own boss.”

“Doesn’t he still do work in the ER?” another one of the wives asked, chiming in.

“Yes, as community service one weekend a month,” Lorain answered. “He says it keeps him grounded.”

“You know what they say. Charity is the best gift.” Mary smiled.

“I thought the saying was ‘Charity starts at home,’” Tabby noted and then turned her nose up as she looked around the room.

She allowed her eyes to gaze briefly at the long glass dining table, which sat ten people, four on each side and one at each end. She felt that the table’s stone base, which was akin to a white mountain, was cheap looking. The high-back chairs, smothered in custom-fitted chair skirts, were eye-catching. But the chair skirts were a shade darker than the table’s stone base, and Tabby felt that anything custom made should match the stone base to the T. The chair skirts threw it all off. That was something only Tabby would notice . . . and be bothered by. As she swept the room with her eyes, a stern expression on her face, she silently insulted Lorain’s taste in decor. Since she did a little wedding planning on the side, Tabby felt she was always one up on everybody else when it came to decor. She claimed to have been in charge of the decor for million-dollar weddings.

“You would know about charity needing to start at home, wouldn’t you?” Lorain retorted, then chuckled.

“Ladies.” Isabella joined the women at the table after grabb. . .