Page 80 of Betrothed To Love

“How? Why? Wow,” I gasp.

She steps beside me then grabs my hand. “I loved Asali, really loved him. We met when I was seventeen. I had just graduated from high school in August and I wanted out of Diamond Falls. I had dreams of painting and seeing my artwork in the prestigious galleries in New York. So I took my two thousand three hundred and seventy-five dollars I saved from working part-time at Pancake House and hopped on a bus,” she says with a reminiscing grin.

“Twenty-two hours later, with a belly full of trash food from every stop, I was in Brooklyn. Not quite Manhattan, but close enough. I found a tiny room in a sketchy hostel and started painting. I painted nonstop for two months then proudly took my seven masterpieces from gallery to gallery. I got twelve noes. Twelve, and it crushed me. It was the worst day of my life. My dream was shattered.

“I went and got a slice from a pizza spot on the corner. I met Asali there. He approached me, and with his heavy ass accent, he said, ‘I’ve been staring at you since you got here but decided not to approach because although you are very beautiful, I can tell that today is not your day.’ I remember rolling my eyes, but when I looked up. My God! He was beautiful and kissed by the sun. His dark skin was practically glowing. He asked if I was selling my paintings and I told him everything about my rejections. He sat in the booth next to me, ordered another slice that we shared, then convinced me to sell them in the square. We did. I sold all of them but Blues of a Woman.”

“I fell in love hard and fast, and within six months, I was pregnant with Ace. I knew New York wasn’t the best place to have my first child. I was too young; we were too young. So I came back home. He talked about how much having and taking care of a family meant to him, so I became that wife and mother for him. I never stopped painting though. I just didn’t pursue selling them. God just had other plans. When Ace was about eleven, we were watching television and one of my paintings was in the background on the wall in the show. I went nuts and got obsessed with finding out why and how. I made a million calls and used the new internet to the best of my abilities,” she says, then laughs.

“Chile, it was rough but I found the art buyer for the show. Long story short, she loved my work and asked if I had more. Of course I did. I took pictures of them, printed them at the drugstore, and mailed them. She bought all the pieces but I couldn’t sell Blues of a Woman. I just couldn’t, which is why people have only seen pictures of it, not the real thing.”

“It’s even more magnificent in person,” I admit, even though my mind is blown. Gone.

“It’s yours,” she says, and yes, my heart stops.

“I…can’t… for real… seriously,” I stammer and she squeezes my hand.

“It’s yours. It’s been waiting for you. Think about it. My son’s wife loves my work and she doesn’t even know who I am. I knew when I saw you that my baby boy had found his person, but when you talked about my paintings with so much appreciation, I really knew. You two were meant to be and you were meant to have my other baby. Blues of a Woman is yours.”

“Oh my God. I truly don’t know what to say. Thank you seems too trivial, not enough. God! I can’t believe this, any of this. Thank you,” I gush, then turn and hug her. I truly am beyond grateful, honored, and speechless. When we end the embrace, I stare back at my painting and tears well in my eyes. Then it all hits me. “So they don’t know you’re the Nina Wright?”

“No. Asali nor the boys,” she admits with a full smile. This is truly her happy place. “But I’m going to tell them tomorrow. So please don’t tell Quintus. It has to come from me,” she says with pleading eyes.

“Of course. It’s our secret until tomorrow. But how are you going to do it?”

“Sunday dinner. I’m going to send out a text, get my family here, feed them a home cooked meal, then tell them everything.”

“Everything?” I question because she emphasized the word.

“Yes,” she says, then turns to me. Her look becomes stern or serious. I can’t tell but her next words explain it. “Asali left the night of the dinner at the winery because he knew your friend would recognize him.”

“My friend? What friend?” I ask, hella confused.

“Madam Giselle,” she says with tented eyebrows and damn.

Asali was the Bako Giselle was talking about. Shit!

“Oh,” is all I can say.

“That’s when he told me that he had been going there,”—she sighs—“He left. I wasn’t going to let him ruin my night, your night. So I went to dinner, and when I got home, I pressed him for the truth and I got it, all of it. He’s been cheating the last twenty-two years of our marriage and I didn’t know it. Then, his mistress had the audacity to call my phone and confirmed it. I was such a fool.”

“No, you were committed to him and your life together.”

“Not anymore. Not… any… more. I have to let him go and I have to tell my boys. Family dinner is the perfect time. I’ll fill their stomachs before breaking their hearts.”

“Well, I’m going to help you cook. You have some big ass boys, even your grandsons. You can’t cook all that by yourself. What time is dinner and what time should I be here? And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

With a smile she says, “Dinner’s at seven. So three. I’m doing all soul food, no Hausa dishes.” She laughs and so do I.

“I’ll be here at two-fifty.”

“Thanks and bring my little princess, she loves cooking with Nana.”

“We’ll be here.”

Shuga knows her boys. They wiped out the pans of pot roast, smothered fried chicken, smothered potatoes and sausage, macaroni and cheese, collard greens, and yams. Niya ate and was knocked out in ten minutes. Quintus just took her upstairs, and now, we are all crammed into the living room awaiting Shuga’s announcement.

After grabbing her cup of tea, she walks in and sits on the large ottoman in the middle of everyone. Quintus immediately doesn’t like that. He motions to his nephews who are half gathered on the large, second sectional and half standing behind it.