Sacrifices of Joy

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Table of Contents

by
Leslie J. Sherrod

 

—Psalms 73:21

Whew! (Can I say that out loud?) It takes a lot of work to write novels—a lot of work, late nights, shortcut dinners, and support! I am grateful for having family, friends, readers, and others who provide me with the resources and support I've needed to keep writing. I am most thankful to God for being a constant source of inspiration and energy as I write for Him. My prayer has always been and will continue to be that He gets the most glory!

Special thanks to my husband and children who continually allow me space and time to write. I am forever grateful for Brian's artwork, Neyla's “big sister” helping hands, Nathan's encouragement, and Niara's hugs. I've needed everything you've provided. Also, thank you Mom and Dad, Jocelyn, Joanna, Daniel II, Ms. LaVerne, Jenae, and Marcus and the rest of the Datchers, Coles, and Sherrods for all of your love and support. I have an awesome extended family, including cousins, aunts, uncles, and more, who continue to stand with me in my writing dreams. Thank you.

Continued thanks to my church family. Your eagerness and encouragement help sustain me. Thanks to my friends Angela, Carla, and Charese for your pep talks, pep texts, and powerful prayers. I'm grateful for other authors who have given me support and true encouragement, including MaRita Teague, Yolonda Tonette Sanders, Tiffany L. Warren, and Victoria Christopher Murray. Thanks to my coworkers, past and present, who've been supportive of my writing efforts. Really, there are many other names I could add here. Thanks to you all!

Here's a big thank-you to the inspiring Joylynn Ross and the Urban Christian family for ensuring that our stories make it to the marketplace. Thanks also to my agent, Sha-Shana Crichton, for all you do. I am grateful for all the promoters, reviewers, interviewers, bloggers, and bookstore managers who have allowed a platform for the Sienna St. James series to thrive.

Readers: This book would not exist if it were not for you. Thank you for supporting this series. I hope you enjoy reading about the exploits and adventures of Sienna St. James as much as I have been enjoying writing about her. Thank you!!!!

1,067 days.

152 weeks.

25,612 hours.

92,203,200 seconds.

No matter which way you calculated it, that's how long it had been since I'd seen or spoken to Leon Sanderson.

He'd left on a Wednesday in May, three years ago next month, his truck piled high with all his earthly belongings, mostly clothes and kitchen gadgets. His long-lost niece sat smiling in the passenger seat, her infant daughter strapped down in the back. I'd cancelled my clients' appointments to be there to see him off and had baked some homemade chocolate chip cookies for them to take on the twenty-three hour drive to Houston.

Of course my cookies didn't taste as sweet as the ones he'd made for me during our two-year non-relationship.

The “non” part was my fault.

He'd wanted more, but I had not gotten myself together in time; hadn't gotten myself over the absence of RiChard.

Even now, the mere thought of my estranged, missing liar of a husband brought such a violent reaction to my body, I shuddered in my seat. The cold, hard plastic in which I sat at the moment fit more than me and my carry-on. It fit my mood.

“We'll be boarding for flight 109 to sunny San Diego in about fifteen minutes. Please have your boarding passes ready.” The scratchy voice through the airport intercom did little to soothe my nerves.

I'd been dreading this day since I'd received the message last week from Roman. A bad, sick feeling lurked in the walls and corners of my stomach as I imagined anew the potential reasons behind his request.

What is Roman up to?
He had just been home not long ago for spring break and the semester ended next month. I had not called back to ask my son any questions when he'd left a message for me last Friday, asking—no, begging—me to come out to see him today. And today only, he'd directed. Not before, not after. And to bring his mola blanket.

Nineteen years old, in college, and still a big baby.

I wanted to smile, but my nerves wouldn't let me. Too many other emotions whirled inside of me like chunky vegetables in a blender on pulse mode.

Sick to my stomach. That's what I felt. The sausage and egg sandwich I'd eaten on the way to the airport didn't help.

“You look like you're deep in thought.” A man, a young white man, of about twenty-four or twenty-five years old studied me from the seat facing mine.

And you look like you need to mind your business,
I wanted to say, but I put on a polite smile instead. I was off, I knew it. I was not in a mood for conversation. Looking away, I started digging through my purse and then pulled out my cell phone. I dialed my voice mail for the umpteenth time that morning and listened to Roman's message again. I felt the same wave of fear, worry, and nausea that had overtaken me the first time I'd heard it.

“Ma, I need you to come out here on Saturday.”

It was a normal request, a casual demand.

But Roman's college was in San Diego and I lived on the East Coast in Baltimore. He'd stopped returning my calls during the fall semester and was supposed to be coming home for summer break in a matter of weeks. Why the urgent need for me to come out now? Why no explanation? And why had he been avoiding me?

1,067 days.

152 weeks.

Three years.

When I could not figure out anything else, I could calculate my sorrow. Leon's absence from my life was measurable.

He had not called.

I had not called him.

A flight to Houston began boarding at the next gate. My mind jumped into daydream mode as I imagined flying there instead of to San Diego; but my stomach twisted in knots. What if Leon wasn't even in Houston anymore? What if he was back in Baltimore? The thought horrified me, what it would mean; what was already meant?

The flight to San Diego was due to start boarding in half an hour. Maybe I had time to grab a soda to settle my stomach, settle my nerves; but I was flying solo and I did not feel like lugging my bag around or risk losing my seat by the gate window.

I needed the window to see what was going on around me.

I needed to know what was going on.

I listened to Roman's message on my voice mail one last time before shutting my phone off completely and squeezing my eyes shut.
Everything is okay,
I assured myself, fully aware of the reasons behind my fears.

I'd initially dropped out of college my freshman year to follow my first love, RiChard, around the world. My son, Roman, was finishing up his own freshman year with eager plans to study abroad in the fall, so I did not have to hold on to the worry that he was about to drop out like I had. And he'd given up the idea of searching for his father a few years ago, satisfied with the family connection he'd made with his half brother in California.

They were roommates at the same university.

I squeezed my eyes even tighter, as if that would shut out the searing pain that burned at the thought of Croix and the other three siblings who were evidence of RiChard's double life.

“I did not know you were still married. I did not know he had given you a son. I am so sorry. RiChard lied to all of us.”
The children's mother, Mbali, had blinked at me with beautiful, innocent eyes. Yes, RiChard had built a legacy of lies. He'd lied about his friend Kisu's death and the actions he'd taken to purportedly avenge it. He'd lied about his travels throughout the world over the course of Roman's life.

He'd lied and told me he loved me.

I never imagined that I'd ever hate someone, but there was no denying the feeling that came to me at the thought, the memories. The lies, the deception.

Hate.

As much as I wanted to push it away, as much as I wanted to cling to the love that's supposed to characterize a child of God, I knew that hate was the only thing pumping out of my heart, flowing through my veins, energizing my muscles, infiltrating my mind. Hatred of RiChard. Hatred of myself for allowing what he had done to me.

“Ma'am, are you okay?”

The voice startled me, brought me back. I opened my eyes and gave another assuring smile to the young man who sat across from me.

“I'm fine. Thanks. Just tired.” That had become my answer over the past couple of years or so when anyone asked me what was wrong. Laz Tyson, the supposed new man in my life, had taken to asking me that question nearly every day. He didn't know that he was part of the problem.

One issue at at a time,
I reminded myself, forcing my thoughts away from Laz and his never-ending drama and back to Roman and why he had me flying across the country with no explanation.
I never should have gotten myself tied to a diva.
That's what Laz was. A diva in a fedora hat.

The young man sitting across from me still stared. His eyes were a clear, bright shade of blue, like translucent crystals. His golden blond hair was short and slightly wavy, trimmed perfectly as if he had just gotten out of a barber's chair.

“Traveling to San Diego for business or pleasure?” His smile was gorgeous with deep double dimples. Hollywood. Vegas. There was charm, confidence, masculinity to his mannerisms. The quality of his short-sleeved light blue polo shirt and tan chinos spoke to old money, prep school, Wall Street. Wealth.

“I'm not sure yet.” I exhaled. An honest answer. “What about you?”

He looked away, didn't answer. Deep thought flooded his face and took away his dimple.

I'd never dated a white man.

RiChard, my missing, estranged husband (
should I even call him that?
) had sometimes been mistaken as a well-tanned one. His mother was Italian, but his father was from the French Caribbean, making him the perfect blend of chocolate liqueur and vanilla bean. His thick black curls had nearly covered his peridot-green eyes. He'd had the longest possible eyelashes that I had ever seen on a man.

Roman favored his father, and at nineteen years old, I knew I'd be naïve to think he wasn't getting the attention of some California girl on his campus.

My face grimaced at the thought.

That was my baby, and I didn't want some fast-moving trick of a girl to get him off track from his international business degree and his plans to become the founder of a global conglomerate. That was his stated dream. And he was going to reach it.

I'd sacrificed too much for him not to. I'd worked my way from college dropout to a mental health clinic owner with a master's degree, all to take care of his behind.

And to make my life make sense to me.

“There you go, looking upset again.” The man across from me smiled again. He looked like he was in his late twenties, not early, I decided.

Still way too young for me. 'Bout ten years too young. However, the intrigue of flirting with a stranger who I would never see again was enough of a distraction to keep my stomach from bending back into pretzel shapes.

“You like to study people.” I smiled back. “Is that a hobby for you, or something you need to do to stay one step ahead of it all?” Okay, I was bad at flirting. Even when I tried to keep it light and easy, the therapist in me always found a way to pop out its psychoanalytical head. He caught on to the seriousness of my question. I could tell because his smile slightly dimmed.

Slightly.

“To say that I'm trying to stay a step ahead implies that we're all moving, and moving forward at that. That's a huge assumption.” His voice was suddenly flat, monotone.

“You majored in philosophy at your Ivy League school.” I took a chance.

“Theology.” He narrowed his eyes. “And I went to a state college.”

“Theology? A man of the cloth. I didn't see that coming.” I raised an eyebrow, pretending to be interested.

“No. I'm no man of anyone's cloth. I'm an atheist. Not really an atheist. I don't believe in belief itself. Atheists believe that they are right.”

A door was opening with him that I did not want to enter.

I just wanted to get on the plane to San Diego and find out why my son wanted me there a few weeks before the end of the semester. I'd wandered through mental minefields before and knew that I needed to step carefully to avoid explosion.

“The state school was against your parents' wishes,” I pried gingerly. “They wanted you to go to some big-name university with a six-figure price tag and you did otherwise to prove a point to them, to yourself, to anyone who cared to pay attention.” I was telling my sister's story, I knew—the upper-class version of it, anyway.

My sister, Yvette, was in a whole different league when it came to proving a point.

The man in the seat relaxed. He believed that I was on his side, or at least was trying to understand him, I reasoned.

“My life is a lot more complicated than that.” His eyes bore through mine as he spoke.

I believed him. There was a level of complexity to the tone of his voice, to the blank stare of his blue eyes that told me that I had dug enough into this stranger's life, had sampled enough of his world to get that there were parts to this man's soul, stages of this man's history nobody would ever fully comprehend. I didn't like his flavor. His last statement would normally be the opening lines of someone who was just starting to tell their story, but I knew that he had no intention of telling me more about his complicated life.

I settled back into my seat, pulled my cell phone back out, fought the urge to turn it back on to listen to Roman's message one more time. There was nothing else for us to talk about, but apparently he thought differently.

“You're a therapist.”

Did I have the word written on my forehead? Was there a sign on my person that let him know I was in the business of mental healing?

“I'm a social worker by training.” I wanted to leave it at that, without explaining that yes, I was a clinical social worker with a private practice that had taken off unusually well following a shaky start in a chlorine-smelling, frayed carpet–looking, cheap-lease, and flickering-lights office building. I'd moved up to a bigger and better office space since and my current clinic offered tranquil views of woodlands and rolling hills in the Dulaney Valley area of Baltimore County.

But I had no interest in telling him all that.

“That's your center, isn't it?” He pointed to the tote bag leaning against my foot.

T
HE
W
HOLE
S
OUL
C
ENTER,
S
IENNA
S
T.
J
AMES
, LCSW-C, F
OUNDER
& CEO was written in gold letters on the maroon bag.

I guess I did have a sign on me.

“Yes, that's me.” I gave a weak smile, trying to figure out how to straddle the ethical fine line between providing needed services and shooing away a potential new client who made me feel unusually uncomfortable.

“Do you have a card?” His smile was completely gone. His blue eyes, which before reminded me of precious gems, now felt and looked as cold and hard as ice crystals.

“Sure.” I plastered on a smile big enough for the both of us and fished through my bag until I found one of the business cards I'd proudly designed myself. My artistic abilities had expanded into the graphic design realm and I was pretty darn good at it, if I said so myself. “Here.” I extended the card toward him.

He did not budge or reach for it. “I did not say that I wanted your card. I just asked if you had one.”

As I tried to figure out how to respond, he stood to his feet, glanced out the terminal window. He pulled out a cell phone, held it up like he was taking a picture.
A selfie?
I wondered as he appeared to have the lens pointed backward. I could see myself and my bags on the corner of his screen.