Her heart pounded more from surprise at the sound of her father’s deep voice than the run. She forced a pleasant smile and turned in the foyer to find her tall father, Horace Vincent, with deep brown skin that she’d inherited and low-cut silver hair, standing in the open door to his office. He was still in his silk pajamas, but files were in hand and he eyed her over the rim of his spectacles.
“Good morning, Daddy,” she said, walking across the hardwood floors to press a tender kiss to his cheek. “I just finished my run.”
Horace was a retired corporate and banking attorney who started Vincent and Associates Law over forty years ago. It was one of the top five hundred law firms in the country—a huge accomplishment for an African American man—and Ngozi was proud to be one of the firm’s top criminal trial attorneys.
“Ngozi!”
The urge to wince rose quickly in her, but Ngozi was well practiced in hiding her true feelings from her parents. “Yes, Mama?” she asked, following her father into his office to find her mother leaning against the edge of the massive wooden desk in the center of the room. She was also still in her nightwear, a satin red floor-length gown and matching robe.
Even in her seventies, Valerie “Val” Vincent was the epitome of style, poise and confidence. Her silver bob was sleek and modern. She exercised daily and stuck to a vegan diet to maintain her size-eight figure. Her caramel-brown skin, high cheekbones, intelligent brown eyes and full mouth were beautiful even before her routine application of makeup. She was constantly mistaken for being in her fifties, but was regally proud of every year of her age.
And she was as brilliant as she was beautiful, having cultivated a career as a successful trial attorney before becoming a congresswoman and garnering respect for her political moves.
“I know today is difficult for you, Ngozi,” Val said, her eyes soft and filled with the concern of a mother for her child.
As her soul withered, Ngozi kept her face stoic and her eyes vacant. She never wanted to be the cause for worry in her parents. “I’m fine, Mama,” she lied with ease.
Her parents shared a look.
Ngozi diverted her eyes from them. They landed on the wedding photo sitting on the corner of her father’s desk. She fought not to release a heavy breath. The day she wed Dennis Johns, she had put on a facade as well and played the role of the perfectly happy bride vowing to love the man she’d met in law school.
Until death do us part.
After only four years.
She was a widow at twenty-nine.
She blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay.
“We want you to know there’s no rush to leave,” her father began.
Ngozi shifted her gaze back to them, giving them both a reassuring smile that was as false as the hair on the head of a cheap doll. It was well practiced.
I’m always pretending.
“When we suggested you move back home after Dennis’s...passing, your mother and I were happy you accepted the offer, and we hope you’ll stay awhile,” Horace continued.
“Of course, Daddy,” she said, widening her smile. “Who wants to leave a mansion with enough staff to make you think you’re on vacation? I ain’t going nowhere.”
They both smiled, her show of humor seeming to bring them relief.
It was a pattern she was all too familiar with.
How would it feel to tell them no?
Her eyes went to the other frame on her father’s desk and landed on the face of her older brother, Haaziq. More death.
She winced, unable to hide what his passing meant for her. Not just the loss of her brother from her life, but the role she accepted as defender of her parents’ happiness. Losing their son, her brother, in an accidental drowning at the tender age of eight had deeply affected their family. Little six-year-old Ngozi, with her thick and coarse hair in long ponytails and glasses, had never wanted to be a hassle or let down her parents because of their grief. She’d always worn a bright smile, learned to pretend everything was perfect and always accepted that whatever they wanted for her was the right course of action.
“Let’s all get ready for work, and I’m sure breakfast will be on the table by the time we’re ready to go and conquer the world,” Val said, lovingly stroking Horace’s chin before rising to come over and squeeze her daughter’s hand.
At the thought of another meal, Ngozi wished she had dipped inside the bakery, enjoyed the eye candy that was Bill the Blond and Buff Baker, and gobbled down one of the decadent treats he baked while resembling Paul Walker.
Bzzzzzz.
Ngozi reached for her iPhone from the small pocket of her jacket. “Excuse me,” she said to her parents before turning and leaving the office.
She smiled genuinely as she answered the call. “The early baby gets the mother’s milk, huh?” she teased, jogging up the wooden staircase with wrought iron railings with a beautiful scroll pattern.
“Right.” Alessandra Dalmount-Ansah laughed. “The early bird has nothing on my baby. Believe that.”
Alessandra was the co-CEO of the billion-dollar conglomerate the Ansah Dalmount Group, along with her husband, Alek Ansah. Ngozi served as her personal attorney, while corporate matters were handled by other attorneys at Vincent and Associates Law. The women had become closer when Ngozi successfully represented Alessandra when she was mistakenly arrested during a drug raid. She’d been in the wrong place at the absolute worst time, trying to save her cousin Marisa Martinez during a major drug binge.
“How’s my godchild?” Ngozi asked, crossing the stylishly decorated family room on the second level to reach one of the three-bedroom suites flanking the room.
“Full. Her latch game is serious.”
They laughed.
The line went quiet just as Ngozi entered her suite and kicked off her sneakers before holding the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she unzipped and removed the lightweight jacket.
“How are you?” Alessandra asked, her concern for her friend clear.
“I’m good,” Ngozi said immediately, as she dropped down onto one of the four leather recliners in the sitting area before the fireplace and the flat-screen television on the wall above it.
Liar, liar.
She closed her eyes and shook her head.
Then she heard a knock.
“Alessandra, can I call you back? Someone’s at my door,” she said, rising to her feet and crossing the room.
“Sure. See you at the baptism Sunday.”
“Absolutely.”
Ngozi ended the call and opened the door. Reeds, her parents’ house manager, stood before her holding a tray with a large bronzed dome cover. She smiled at the man of average height with shortbread complexion, more freckles than stars in the sky and graying brownish-red hair in shoulder-length locks. “One day my mother is going to catch you,” she said as she took the tray from him and removed the lid to reveal buttered grits, bacon, scrambled eggs and toast.
He shrugged and chuckled. “The rest of the staff wouldn’t know what to do without me after all these years.”
“I know that’s right,” Ngozi said with a playful wink.
“Just remember to at least eat the bowl of fruit at breakfast,” Reeds said before he turned and began to whistle some jazzy tune. He stopped in the middle of the family room to glance back. “Or you could just tell your mother you’re not vegan. Your choice.”
Ngozi