Page 11 of Richard

“Let’s get smashed, honey, and you can tell me all about it. And about the man himself.”

Collette had cried off, claiming exhaustion. “Rain check. And besides, I have to prepare for the meeting with Lenny Bolt.”

“I cannot believe you will be sitting down with that legend. I know it’s unprofessional, but I would not mind getting an autograph. That man’s song has seen me through several nasty breakups.”

“I will see what I can do,” Collette promised her.

Now she was home and too excited to even prepare a meal. She was in the middle of pouring a glass of wine when her phone rang. Thinking it was Babs again, she pressed the button without looking at the screen and laughingly said, “I have already said no to clubbing, and I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Collette, it’s me.”

The familiar voice from her past had her knees going weak.

Putting the glass on the counter, she took a shaky breath. She had refused to answer his calls before now and when she did, had refused his invitation to meet him.

“What do you want?”

“To talk. Look, please hear me out. Janice told me she has been to see you to explain everything. I just want you to know that I am sorry. I made a mistake, and I am facing the consequences.”

Her hands tightened on the counter, and her body started to tremble. She had told herself that after years of therapy, she was past the hurt and humiliation, but hearing his voice brought it all back.

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“Just listen.” His voice was deep and hypnotic and had fooled her for years, telling her how beautiful she was and how much he loved her. “I cannot wait for us to have kids,” when he said it, he had lulled her into thinking he meant it. Trevor had been veryclever that way. “I was seduced–”

“Stop!” she cried, covering her ear as if she could drone out his voice. “We have been over this and I–”

“I love you!” he interjected hastily. “I still recall the times you talked me out of quitting, times when you were my most avid cheerleader. I am divorcing Janice. Our marriage has been on the rocks for years, and we are just going through the motions. She is not like you–”

“I am warning you," she said tersely. Finding the strength, she firmed her lips and blinked at the tears. “Please don’t call me again.” She hung up and turned off her phone. Clasping her hands together, she took several deep, fortifying breaths.

She should be over this, but over two weeks, she had been in contact with the two people who had caused her too much misery to even vocalize.

Her therapist had suggested she put it in writing.

“Start a journal, Collette,” he had urged. “I find that writing things down lessens their importance.”

“Or magnifies them.”

“That too," he had agreed. “But write down what they did to you and how you felt. It would help if you got into a room with them and shouted, vent, get it out in the open.”

“No," she had quaked at that. “I couldn’t bear the idea of that happening.”

“Which means you are not healed. That time has not lessened the hurt and pain.” He had been sympathetic and earnest in his effort to help her. “When you start thinking of those two without feeling debilitated, then that’s when the healing will have started.”

She had pushed it at the back of her mind. In the first year, she had cowered in shame, not wanting to go on living. She hadentertained the idea of ending her life, but that had been brief. She had been brought up in church, and suicide, no matter how bad the situation, was not an option.

She had also been brought up to believe that being black meant that she was not supposed to sit on the couch of a complete stranger and pour her heart out. “God will take care of everything.

He is capable of doing so,” her mother had drummed it into their heads. But after constant praying and attending services with the minister assuring her that “things would get better,” she had finally succumbed to Babs’ urging to get some help.

“I appreciate the fact that you want to seek help from above, but there comes a time when you have to exercise common sense. And talking about the problem is what’s going to help.”

And it had, to a point. It had made living bearable. It had taken months for her to get over it, to go out in public without feeling humiliated, but she had taken the baby steps. She had also used work as a panacea.

Babs, bless her heart, had been there for her and had given her some very tough assignments. It had helped her to climb out of her shell and bury herself in doing her job. Over the years, it had gotten better until she was almost whole.

But she was not quite there yet, and hearing his voice, seeing her sister a week ago, had ripped the bandage off. Sucking in a breath, she picked up her wineglass and gulped the liquid down.

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