Fortune & Fame: A Novel (9 page)

Jasmine banged her hand on the steering wheel. “I knew it! Melinda set me up, but why? Just for drama? But Natasia’s not on the show so it can’t be that.” The questions and answers rolled off Jasmine’s tongue. “Did she do it just to get on my nerves?”

“Probably. She wanted to get back at you for going to Oprah. But I don’t think that was the only reason. Melinda’s really been given the charge to produce a classy reality show.” Mae Frances shook her head. “That’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one. But anyway, Natasia has been brought on to add a newsworthy element to the show.”

“News? What does news have to do with a First Ladies reality show?”

“Look, I’m just telling you what Stedman told me.”

“Well, whatever the reason she was brought on . . . do you have a plan to eliminate her?”

Mae Frances cocked her head to the side and smiled. “Eliminate her? Like permanently?”

Jasmine frowned. What in the world was her friend offering? She never wanted to have to testify in a court of law. She’d
learned that more than twenty years ago when another friend had “eliminated” someone on her behalf.

“By permanently, do you mean permanently from Hosea’s life?” Jasmine asked.

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“But she’d still be alive, right?” Jasmine just wanted to make sure since she’d been down this road before.

“Do you want her to be?”

“Mae Frances!”

“What?”

“Can you just help me get rid of her so that she never calls Hosea again.”

“Yes.”

“But I want her to still be breathing.”

Mae Frances grunted as if she was disappointed, but finally she growled, “All right. Let me see if I can work on getting her fired . . . we’ll start there. But it’s gonna be tough ’cause they really like her. I’ll see what Stedman can do.”

It was only about a ten-minute ride from their Buckhead home to Serendipity, one of the premiere restaurants in the city. Jasmine eased the car into the lot and pulled in behind one of the OWN vans. There were few cars scattered throughout, but Jasmine knew that was because of the early hour.

Jasmine turned off the car, then peered through the windshield at the glass panels at the front of the building. She’d been pleased when one of the show’s junior producers had told her that this where they were going to have their first meeting. That let her know that Oprah wasn’t going to skimp on the budget . . . not that she ever expected skimping from the Queen of Television.

Jasmine flipped down the visor, opened the vanity mirror, and checked her eyelashes, making sure that each individual mink lash was still in place. Next, she puckered her lips and used her pinky to make sure that none of her gloss was out of line.

“Ah-hem.” Mae Frances cleared her throat. When Jasmine didn’t respond, Mae Frances coughed again.

“Are you doing that for my benefit?” Jasmine asked with her eyes still on the mirror.

“Don’t you think we need to get in there, Jasmine Larson?” Mae Frances tapped her fingernail against the dashboard and pointed to the digital clock. “We’re already twenty minutes late.”

“It’s not twenty minutes late, it’s fashionably late.”

“It’s colored people late,” Mae Frances snapped. “And I don’t want to miss one moment in front of the camera.”

Jasmine laughed. “Okay.”

She slipped out of the car, straightened the hem of the red St. John’s jacket that she wore with black slacks, and slung her purse over her shoulder.

The producer had told Jasmine to come camera ready and dress casually, but there was no way she was going to do that. She had to outshine Rachel and whoever else was going to be on the show. They’d show up in jeans—or, knowing Rachel, leggings—and Jasmine would look like the class act that she was.

Thinking about Rachel made Jasmine smile. She had no doubt that once she saw her, Rachel would play her role. She would react in her typical, not-so-ghetto-fabulous way. She would annoy everyone and set the stage for Jasmine to be the star.

Just as Jasmine reached for the chrome handle, the glass-paneled door swung open. “Welcome to Serendipity,” a man in a tuxedo greeted them.

“Thank you,” Jasmine said and Mae Frances nodded.

Before she could say another word, Jasmine was blinded by white light.

“What the hell, I mean, heck?” she said, recovering quickly.

“Just walk in, Jasmine,” she heard a voice behind the light say. “We’re taping.”

Oh, that’s right.
So, even though it took a moment for her eyes to adjust, Jasmine strutted as she followed the cameraman who was backing up through the restaurant, leading Jasmine the whole way.

“Are you getting me? I think Jasmine is blocking my light!”

She’d been so caught up in the moment that Jasmine had momentarily forgotten about Mae Frances. But Jasmine didn’t turn around, didn’t miss a step. The light was shining on her and she wasn’t going to miss a moment.

Then, a click and the light disappeared. Jasmine blinked, focused, and took in the white man balancing a camera on his shoulder, and Melinda and Natasia standing on either side of him.

“Mae Frances,” Melinda said, moving her eyes between Jasmine and the older woman. “I . . . I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Well, now you know,” Mae Frances said, shrugging just a bit so that her mink hung off her shoulders.

“I think what Melinda is saying,” Natasia jumped in, “is that you’re not part of the cast.” Natasia crossed her arms and looked Mae Frances up and down.

Mae Frances glared back at her. “The devil is a lie!” she said to Natasia. Then, to Melinda, she said, “You don’t have a problem with me being here, do you?”

It was a simple question, though it sounded like a threat. Every eye watched Melinda swallow hard. “Uh, no. No, of course we have to have a supporting cast.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought and that’s why I’m here,” Mae Frances said, sauntering past the production team as if she knew where she was going. “To support all y’all.” She slipped into one of the booths and snapped her fingers. “Okay, y’all can get back to filming me.” Now, she completely shrugged the mink off her shoulders, leaned a little to the side, tilted her head, and smiled.

“Ah . . . excuse me.”

Everyone in the restaurant turned the other way.

“Oh, my goodness! Rachel!” Melinda called out.

“Roll the cameras, quick!” the director, Sonny, shouted.

The blinding light came on once again.

Rachel held up her hand, shielding her eyes, and blinked.

Jasmine turned to fully face Rachel and she smiled as she watched Rachel’s eyes focus, scan the group, then settle on her. She could almost hear the questions rattling around in Rachel’s empty head.

Then, “What the hell, I mean, heck?” Rachel jerked down her hand. “What is she doing here?” she asked, pointing to Jasmine.

Jasmine’s smile widened. “Rachel. Dahling,” she said, glad that she was standing with her good side toward the camera. “It is so good to see you.” She reached for a hug, but the moment she put her arms around her, Rachel slapped her arms away—exactly as Jasmine knew she would.

Jasmine stepped back, pressed her hand to her chest, and wished she’d worn pearls so that she’d have something to clutch.

“What are you doing?” Rachel directed her question to Jasmine when no one answered her. “Why are you here?”

In the next moment, Jasmine was sure that Rachel was going to stomp her foot, throw a tantrum.

But then there was another “Ah . . . excuse me.”

And again, everyone turned to the new voice, a white woman whom Jasmine didn’t recognize.

“Oh, my God!” Rachel shouted.

Jasmine could tell that Rachel was so filled with fury that if she’d been a few shades lighter, her skin would’ve been beet red.

Whipping her head toward Melinda, Rachel shouted, “What is she doing here?” But this time, her finger was pointed at the white woman. “Do you know who she is?”

The cameras rolled, but no one responded to Rachel. Now, Rachel screamed, “Somebody call the police. This woman is an escaped felon!”

As murmurs rumbled through the group, Jasmine slipped into the booth next to Mae Frances. “This is turning out to be even better than I expected,” she whispered. “Rachel is acting like she’s lost her mind.”

Mae Frances nodded, and she and Jasmine watched Rachel stomp from one producer to the other, demanding answers and that the police be called.

“I wonder who that white woman is? And why does she have Rachel all riled up?”

“You don’t know?” Mae Frances asked.

Jasmine twisted to face her. “And I guess that means that you do.”

“I do. ’Cause I know everything.” Mae Frances said, “That there woman is Mary Richardson. She’s Lester’s baby’s mama!”

Jasmine frowned. “Baby’s mama? I didn’t know . . .”

“ ’Cause I didn’t tell you. But Lester had an affair, and now everyone in America will know about it.” Mae Frances tilted her head back and released a howl of a laugh that stopped everyone in the restaurant. “Guess you could say the devil made him do it . . . literally. ’Cause that woman there? Any second now, you’re gonna see her horns.” Mae Frances’s shoulders shook with her amusement.

Now, Jasmine laughed, too. This was all working out perfectly. It wouldn’t even take her a season to get her own show. Her fortune was on its way.

G
od was testing her. That’s the only reasonable explanation that Rachel could come up with as to why she was standing here looking at the woman she despised most in this world. Up until recently, that title had belonged to Jasmine Cox Larson Bush. But she and Jasmine were cool now. At their worst, she didn’t despise Jasmine nearly as much as the woman standing in front of her.

“Rachel, it’s good to see you,” Mary casually said.

“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” Rachel repeated for what felt like the hundredth time.

The left side of her brain wanted to haul off and smack Mary, pop Melinda in the eye, and stomp anyone who had anything to do with this. But the right side of her brain told her she needed to calm down because her television debut didin’t need to go this way. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the cameraman zoom in, so she tried everything in her power to compose herself.

“I guess you hadn’t heard,” Mary said with a big stupid grin. She was dressed in a tacky-looking church lady suit; her long
blond hair was twisted in a bunch of curls. She looked absolutely ridiculous. “I’m the third First Lady on the show.”

“How in blue blazes are you on a show for First Ladies?” Rachel questioned. “I don’t . . . wait, what do you mean,
third
?”

That’s when Rachel’s eyes made their way over to the booth where Jasmine and Mae Francis were sitting. Jasmine did a brief finger wave as she smiled confidently.

“Awww, hell naw!” Rachel said. “Cut, turn the camera off!” She pushed toward the cameraman, but he stepped back. “I’m not playing,” Rachel fumed. “Turn the camera off or I will walk up out of here right now!”

Melinda looked at her like she knew that wouldn’t happen. Even still, she motioned toward the director, who rolled his eyes and said, “Fine, let’s take five.”

“We’re going to need longer than five because someone needs to explain to me what in the world is going on,” Rachel snapped as the cameraman removed the camera from his shoulder.

“Looks like you’ve got company on this here show.”

Rachel spun her head toward the booth from where that statement had come.

“Why are you even here?” Rachel yelled.

Mae Frances pulled out a fan from her purse, popped it open, and smiled as she began fanning herself.

Rachel gave her the hand. She didn’t have time to deal with Methuselah right now anyway.

Rachel turned back to Mary. “What do you mean, you’re the third First Lady? First of all, you’re not a First Lady, and who is the second?”

“Raise your hand, Jasmine,” Mae Frances said, lifting Jasmine’s arm.

Rachel ignored her as she continued ranting. “This is my show!”

“Actually, Raquel . . .” Mae Frances said.

Rachel stomped over to the front of the booth. “Rachel! Rachel! Rachel! You know damn well my name is Rachel!”

Mae Frances frowned as she looked at Jasmine. “Can First Ladies say damn?” she snickered.

“Rachel, just calm down,” Jasmine said. “It’s not that serious.”

“Not right now, Jasmine,” Rachel said, jabbing a finger in her direction. “I’m going to get to why you’re even here in a minute.”

Jasmine smirked, then threw her hands up like she was out of it. “That’s what divas do, and I’m done!” she said.

Jasmine was taking pleasure in this whole scenario. If she had anything to do with Mary being here . . .

Rachel turned back to Melinda, took a deep breath, and said, “Melinda, tell me what’s going on.”

Melinda shifted nervously. “Um, ah, I’ve always made it clear that the possibility existed that we may bring some other First Ladies on to the show.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you that?”

Rachel couldn’t believe this woman—this woman who she thought was her friend—was standing here trying to play her. “No. You didn’t. Really, Melinda? I thought you were my girl.”

Before Melinda could reply, a tall stunner of a woman with light-brown, almond-shaped eyes and a fierce Halle Berry pixie-style haircut sauntered over and said, “Mrs. Adams, this isn’t personal, it’s business.”

“And who are you?” Rachel said, not bothering to hide her disgust. “Are you on the show, too?”

The woman gave a big smile. “Natasia Redding. I’m executive producer of the show.” She stuck her hand out. Rachel didn’t take it.

“Rachel, we just felt like we needed to add several elements to the show,” Melinda interjected.

“And no one felt like they needed to clear this with me?”

“Actually, that directive came from the top,” Natasia said.

“The top?” Rachel looked around. “Someone give me a phone so I can call Oprah. I will talk to her myself.” She’d never actually held a conversation with Oprah, even though she was confident that once she became O’s biggest star, they would become the best of friends.