But the way these women go about spilling the tea…it’s stale, dry, and leaves a bitter aftertaste, like last week’s coffee.
Determined to regain control before I completely lose my mind, I twist dramatically on the over-the-top faux-fur sofa. “Josephine, shall we get themorningteaon this charity gala, benefiting the kids?” I clap, awkwardly at first, trying to summon some enthusiasm from the audience.
The production assistants, fashionably late, finally hold up the APPLAUD NOW cue cards.
With a cool blast, the air conditioning whirs to life, sending a chill crawling up my spine as time seems to stop.
Yvette and I are at an impasse, staring, waiting for the other to make a move.
“Josephine Carter and Ebony Grace Livingston, everyone!” Azalea says, and Yvette beams, laughing for the cameras like they’ve just won an award. “Thank you again for joining us today onThe Morning Tea…”
Yes, Lord Jesus,pleaselet’s wrap this up.
“One more time, tell everyone about the event, and how they can show their support,” Yvette prompts me.
Another chill skitters over my skin as I suck in a breath, my head scrambled. Except it isn’t a chill. It’s that shaky Ace of Diamonds—my watch vibrating with a text notification.
My pulse spikes as I steal a glance at the name on the screen.
All morning, these women have turned my life into their afternoon circus while a private investigator’s gathering evidence of my husband’s misdeeds, and now, there’s an update I can’t check until this circus is over. Just when I think it can’t get worse…my diaphragm betrays me.
HICCUP!
Josephine laughs and rubs her warm, velvety hand along my arm, smiling as if to say,No need to lie. This is happy news.As if hiccups are a telltale sign.
I know that old wives’ tale.
My own mother has accused me of hiding pregnancies when I’ve had hiccups and fish dreams, or if I slept too long. But this? This is nationally syndicated television. I’m angry. Some people cry; others lash out. I can’t help it if untimely diaphragm spasms are my body’s mode of choice for anger release.
Ugh—
HICCUP!
Stay calm. Rivers. Trickling streams. Rushing water. Waterfalls…
“I’ll take this, Yvette.” Josephine smiles, shifting into business mode and quickly giving the audience all the gala details, before she hands it back to Azalea.
“Thanks again to our guests…” Azalea, eyes fixed on the camera, fans out a hand at us. Her laughter slowly fades, and her voice smooths into a measured cadence. “Coming up at the top of the hour on KTLE’s ten o’clock news, our own Nora Whitfield will be sharing the details on the upcoming Zion & Zara cotillion, and the city’s plans to sell and restore Ellswood’s famous downtown luxury venue Madison Manor to its former glory. After this!”
And that’s it.
My heart is in my throat, and I’m free to go check my phone.
Breathe, Ebony—
HICCUP!
The audience applauds of their own volition, the producer wraps the show, and Josephine and I graciously hug our hosts before exiting stage left—with me barely holding on to the little dignity I have left.
I let out a small, stilted sigh as one of the assistants leads us to the green room where we stashed our purses.
But before we make it to the door, the wide-eyed, braided, and beautiful producer—Christina or Krystal, I can’t recall—appears in front of the doorway. She’s geared up in a headset, a clipboard under her arm, and a two-way radio squawking from her back pocket. She looks like she’s about to make us an offer we can’t refuse.
“Mrs. Livingston, Mrs. Carter…” She gasps, clutching her chest. “Oof, I’m so glad I caught you.”
“Slow down, honey,” Josephine says, warmly. “Take a breath then tell us what’s on your mind, hmm? We’re in no hurry.”
Speak for yourself.
