Newlywed, Jamilla Randle’s, idyllic life is blown to smithereens when she receives a call from her new husband’s other wife. ASAP, she hires women's attorney, Letta Storm.
Then Jamilla meets Tony at a barbeque and feels an instant, compelling bond with him. Yet, after her marriage fiasco, she’s afraid to trust her judgment regarding men.
Nevertheless, the attraction is too strong to be denied and with Tony’s patient persistence, her heart begins to warm and the three of them begin to pick up the pieces of Jamilla’s life.
In the process they unravel some amazing secrets even she didn’t know existed.
I’d just installed my best customer, Sylvia Bernstein, under the dryer when my cell phone rang. “Hello?”
“Hello. Is this Mrs. Randle?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Maximilian E. Randle III.”
“Yes, who’s this?”
The caller sighed. “This is Jeanette Randle. The other Mrs. Maximilian E. Randle III. The one in Bel Air with two young children.”
A chill crept up my spine. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”
A careless laugh preceded her response, “I assure you, it’s no joke. We are both married to the same man.”
The chill turned into the hot flush of panic. My voice cracked as I screeched, “I don’t understand.”
That laugh again. “I know you don’t. I’m having trouble understanding this myself. The bottom line is, I’ve been married to Max for four years and you have been married to him four months.” This time the laugh sounded hysterical. “Lady, you have been duped!”
My newlywed husband has another wife and…kids? Max is a bigamist? I felt dizzy. So dizzy, I sat in the customer chair of my booth. “We must get together to figure something out.”
Her voice became cold, calculating, bitchy. “I’m afraid that’s not possible—at least not at this time.”
“Then wha—”
With an air of privilege, she announced, “My attorney will be in touch.”
“When?” I screamed, “How?” but the line was dead.
I closed my eyes and raised my fingers to my temples. A headache was coming on. My God, is it possible? Could Max be married to someone else?
Why am I not in shock?
Because from the beginning, as he boldly took a seat at your table, and introduced himself, he seemed too good to be true. You have been expecting something like this for months.
I hadn’t heard from Max for four days and he hadn’t returned any of the messages I’d left. He was ostensibly on one of his trips, trying to drum up business for his fledgling company. I punched in his number to call him again—to confront him—but all I got was his voice mail.
“You’ve reached Max Randle. I’m busy right now, but if you leave your name, number and a short message, return your call.”
Sure, you will. “Max, I just received a call from a woman named Jeanette, who claimed to be your wife and she sounded white. Is this a joke? I’m in a panic right now. Please call me so we can talk.” I closed my phone.
My lips trembled, My temples throbbed and all of a sudden, my neck was stiff. My nerves had been stretched to the breaking point. I felt hot and stifled. I need to get out of here. I removed and hung my smock on a hook and stumbled to the reception desk. “Darla, something’s come up. I just put Mrs. Bernstein under the dryer. When she’s ready, would you have Sally finish her up? And while you’re at it, reschedule the appointments you can and those you can’t, spread out as best you can.”
“Sure thing, Ms Turner.”
