The Truth About Gretchen Read online

  Also by Alretha Thomas

  Daughter Denied

  Dancing Her Dreams Away

  Cass & Nick Series

  Married in the Nick of Nine (1st in series)

  The Baby in the Window (2nd in series)

  One Harte, Two Loves (3rd in series)

  Renee’s Return (4th in series)

  ---------------

  Four Ladies Only

  Missing Melissa

  Detective Rachel Storme Series

  Justice for Jessica (1st in series)

  Losing Lauren (2nd in series)

  A Penny For Her Heart (3rd in series)

  Dancing Hills Mystery Series

  The Women on Retford Drive (1st in series)

  The Truth About Gretchen (2nd in series)

  A NOVEL

  ALRETHA THOMAS

  Diverse Arts Collective, Inc.

  Published by Diverse Arts Collective, Inc.

  Copyright @ 2019 by Alretha Thomas

  Cover design by Tyreese Burnett of TyBu Studios

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition

  ISBN-13: 978-0-578-51162-7 (Diverse Arts Collective)

  ISBN-10: 0-578-51162-2

  First Printing June 2019

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  www.Alrethathomas.com.

  Acknowledgments

  I’m so excited about this second novel in the Dancing Hills Mystery Series! Many thanks to all of you who have read my previous works.

  If you follow my blog, you may know that in February 2016, I retired from my corporate job and am now writing full time. To say I’m grateful that I am able to do what I love full-time is an extreme understatement. I want to thank all of my readers who have been with me over the years and who have supported me since I wrote and published my first book in 2008—Daughter Denied.

  I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank the members of my literary village. First and foremost, I thank God, my Creator. Thanks to Audesah Leroy Thomas, my husband of nineteen years and my best friend. I also want to thank my oldest sister, Vivian Ann Baker, for traveling this journey with me. Hugs and kisses to my development editor, Karinya Funsett of The Editorial Department, for her brilliant insight and ability to see what’s working and what isn’t and for being fearless in pushing me to dig deeper and take my work to the next level.

  Cyrus Webb of Conversations Live, you’re a fabulous interviewer and an inspiration. Adai Lamar, you’re my girl crush. Selatha Simmons, you rock. Yolanda Oliver, you’re all that and more. Gwendolyn Tolbert, I want to be just like you when I grow up. Alisha M. Simko, your enthusiasm is worth more than gold. Veda Johnson, a nod from you is everything. Patricia Crowe Davis, you’ll always have a special place in my heart. Much love to my book club supporters.

  This book is dedicated to:

  People around the world fighting for justice.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Gretchen

  Chapter 2

  Regina

  Chapter 3

  Gretchen

  Chapter 4

  Regina

  Chapter 5

  Gretchen

  Chapter 6

  Regina

  Chapter 7

  Gretchen

  Chapter 8

  Regina

  Chapter 9

  Gretchen

  Chapter 10

  Regina

  Chapter 11

  Gretchen

  Chapter 12

  Regina

  Chapter 13

  Gretchen

  Chapter 14

  Regina

  Chapter 15

  Gretchen

  Chapter 16

  Regina

  Chapter 17

  Gretchen

  Chapter 18

  Regina

  Chapter 19

  Gretchen

  Chapter 20

  Regina

  Chapter 21

  Gretchen

  Chapter 22

  Regina

  Chapter 23

  Gretchen

  Chapter 24

  Regina

  Chapter 25

  Gretchen

  Chapter 26

  Regina

  Chapter 27

  Gretchen

  Chapter 28

  Regina

  Chapter 29

  Gretchen

  Chapter 30

  Regina

  Chapter 31

  Gretchen

  Chapter 32

  Regina

  Chapter 33

  Gretchen

  Chapter 34

  Regina

  Chapter 35

  Gretchen

  Chapter 36

  Regina

  Chapter 37

  Gretchen

  Chapter 1

  Gretchen

  Dressed in his Sunday best.

  That’s how the elderly black woman who sells flowers near the university describes the man in my recurring nightmare. Stretched out in a bronze, silk-lined casket, he wears a tailored blue suit, a white shirt, and a purple tie. His shoes have a mirror shine, and a mysterious light illuminates his curly, black hair. My misty gaze always travels his length, and I stare until the moment his eyes snap open and blood spills out of them, onto his crisp white shirt, down his tie, and over his suit.

  Drenched in sweat, I bolt upright in bed, shaking and gasping.

  The dream always unfolds this way, and last night was no different. So I lie here while my fiancé, who can sleep through a catastrophic earthquake, runs his finger across my back, spelling out I love you.

  I hold my breath, hoping he’ll turn over and go back to sleep. My hopes are dashed when he pushes against me. I imagine myself ramming my elbow into his stomach so hard that he tumbles out of bed, bounces off the floor, and crashes through the window, landing with a muddy thud on the dew-soaked lawn. That’s how irritable I am, because once again, I didn’t get any sleep. The last time I slept through the night was two years ago. I want this nightmare to stop. I’m tired of seeing Him—this nameless stranger, clinging to me during the night. He’s like an infected appendage that needs to be amputated.

  “Babe, are you up? I want you,” Lance murmurs near my ear, his morning breath wafting through my hair.

  Am I up? I’m always up. My eyes land on the clock on the nightstand, its numbers taunting me. It’s 6:30 a.m. I can’t believe I’ve been tossing and turning for three hours. Lance wanted to make love last night, but I wasn’t in the mood, and I promised him we could fool around in the morning—a promise I shouldn’t have made.

  I turn over, and his square, freckled face cracks a smile. The light seeping through our bedroom blinds upstages his grin, and I focus on the light, thinking about the day ahead. The weatherman forecasted rain. I pray he’s wrong. It’s November, and we’ve had some drizzle here and there, but no serious downpours. Lance, who hails from New York, gets a kick out of California motorists. He says they don’t know how to drive in inclement weather.

  “You promised…I can’t help it, Red. You know the effect you have on me.” He scratches his head, topped with a mop of blond hair, then snuggles against me, sending a welcome heat wave my way. I bask in the warmth, hoping it’ll lull me to sleep. But a hand running up my Tom Brady Patriots jersey kills the moment. I hiss and push Lance toward his side of the
bed. He bolts upright and turns on the bedside lamp, as though he’s trying to shed light on the situation. “What’s wrong with you, Greeet-cheeen?” He narrows his baby blues at me.

  I hate the way he pronounces my name when he’s annoyed. He stretches out the syllables and says it in a high-pitched tone like he’s scolding one of his middle school students. I prefer my pet name—Red. Lance and my late grandmother are the only two people in the world who’ve ever called me that. Lance is obsessed with my crimson locks. His niece, not so much. When he introduced me to her, she burst into a fit of laughter. When I asked the seven-year-old what was funny, she boldly predicted that if Lance and I had a baby, it’ll have orange hair. That remains to be seen, because getting pregnant is at the bottom of my priorities list.

  I sit up. The thought of going through the day sleep deprived fills me with dread. “Nothing’s wrong, Lance.”

  “You had the dream again. Don’t lie. You dreamt about Him. Tell the truth.”

  We sit in uncomfortable silence, gawking at each other. He slouches against the headboard and folds his arms across his hairy chest. I turn away from him. My gaze roams over the blue walls with white trim, covered in photos documenting our courtship. It lands on a picture of Lance and me wearing black caps and gowns at our college graduation three years ago. Where the freak does time go? My eyes dip to the picture on the dresser, of my father and me at Super Bowl LI, and my lips curl up into a smile. It fades when the dream I had last night floods my mind, pushing away my thoughts about higher education and my obsession with America’s second pastime.

  “So you’re not going to answer me,” he says.

  “Yes, I dreamt about him.”

  “I’m worried about you. I think you should see that doctor I found.”

  “Lance, you agreed with me that my idea to turn my dream into a film was far better than having someone trying to get into my head and prescribing me drugs. Let me get through the process. I know it’ll be cathartic. Once I get the dream out in the open, I know this weird spell will be broken. You felt the same way. So why are you backpedaling?”

  “Because you’ve been having this damn nightmare for too long. Don’t you want it to stop?”

  “It’s going to stop!” I say with the force of a category four hurricane, trying to convince both of us. I want it to stop. “Be patient, Lance.”

  “I love you. It’s hard watching this disrupt your life, not just your sleep. You don’t see it, but it’s changed you. He’s changed you.”

  “What do you mean ‘he’s changed me’?”

  “It hasn’t happened overnight. It’s been gradual. You’re distant. You spend every waking hour with Patty on preproduction for the film. And when you’re not doing that, you’re watching football. And on weekends you’re mentoring. I know all of it’s important to you, but the only time I get to be with you is when we go to bed. I want some time with you when it’s daylight, when we’re up and fully awake.”

  “I’m sorry, Lance. I didn’t realize I’ve been shutting you out.”

  He scoots toward me and takes my hand. It looks small and delicate in his. He runs his thumb over the three-carat diamond ring he slipped on my finger, on my birthday this past New Year’s Day. I receive compliments on the ring all the time, then raised brows when people find out Lance is a schoolteacher. I can see their minds working, trying to figure out how someone earning a teacher’s salary can afford bling like this. What they don’t know is that he’s a trust fund baby. Last year he received his first distribution. It wasn’t enough to stop him from working, and he wouldn’t have even if it had been. He loves teaching and adores his students. But it did afford us the ring, me going to graduate school full-time, and our swanky condo in Dancing Hills—an elite Los Angeles suburb where I grew up.

  “Well, you have been distant, and I want my best friend back.”

  “You’ll get her back. I promise.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I love you, Lance. You know I do.” I wait for him to give me a sign that he believes me. A smile, a nod, a peck on the lips. He does the latter.

  “I know you do. I’m sorry you didn’t get much rest. What time do the auditions start?”

  “Eleven a.m., but I want to be there by 10:00 a.m. It’s too late to go back to sleep,” I say, looking at the seven and two zeros on the clock.

  “Why don’t I fix breakfast?”

  “That sounds good.” I get out of bed and sink my feet into the plush blue carpet. “I’m going to take a shower. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  He gives me a mischievous look and says, “Maybe I’ll join you and then make breakfast.”

  “Maybe you should take a cold shower alone, Lance, and I’ll make breakfast.”

  “I’m kidding,” he says, through laughter.

  “You’d better be.”

  “How hungry are you?”

  “Very. Thanks, sweetie.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He jumps out of bed and grabs his jeans, wedged between the boxes of Thanksgiving care packages. We’d spent a couple of weeks filling the packages with canned goods, dried fruit, blankets, and toiletries. Grinning, he slips on his jeans and leaves the room. I smile while remembering the fun we had picking out the turkeys, also part of the giveaway, currently stashed in our freezer in the garage. And I laugh out loud recalling Lance hiking a frozen turkey to me, at my request. I was in a playful mood that day, feeling good about doing something worthwhile for others. While trying to catch the turkey, I backed into our shopping cart and fell flat on my butt. Lance, thinking I was hurt, wouldn’t stop apologizing. Gosh, I love that man.

  My laughter subsides when I flash back to the dream. I toss my thoughts and focus on the auditions today. Maybe I should go ahead and give Hima name.

  Chapter 2

  Regina

  There’s nothing like taking a hot shower on a cold morning. I tilt back my head and let the water pelt my full figure. Water crashing against my shower cap reminds me that I need to wear my afro wig for my first audition and my salt-and-pepper wig for my second one. I pour liquid soap onto my loofah and rub it across my sagging stomach, wishing I hadn’t eaten that second slice of cake last night. But my husband Taylor, who I know is trying to sabotage my latest diet, told me I deserved to celebrate for landing back-to-back auditions.

  He loves me thick, but I want to be thin. I want to wear a tight-fitting dress without having to squeeze my fat rolls into Spanx. And I want my agent, Carol, to submit me for younger roles. I know I could pass for a mother of school-age kids. According to her, I could from the neck up, but from the neck down, I’m more believable playing the mother to somebody in his or her early twenties.

  I couldn’t believe she had the balls to tell me some mess like that. But I wasn’t about to complain. I knew she didn’t have a filter when she interviewed me seven years ago and told me she needed a dark-skinned black woman on her roster because there was this mega film about to be cast called The Help. She thought I’d be a shoo-in to play one of the maids. I didn’t get a part, but since I’ve been signed with her, she’s gotten me into more rooms than any of the dozen or so other agents I’ve had, and I’ve booked my fair share of commercials, procedurals, and independent films.

  Truth be told, I’m running out of time. I’m forty-two, knocking at fifty’s ugly door. I can’t believe it was twenty-two years ago I announced to my family that I was going to be the next Angela Bassett. I was twenty and naïve.

  Sure, I have a decent list of credits on IMDb, but the last two years have been dry. So dry, that today I’m auditioning for a student film. Carol was quick to tell me it’s not a student film. “It’s a thesis project,” she said with an uppity air. That’s code for student film on the graduate level. She went on and on about the writer/director, whose name I need to write down on my sheet cheat. It’s Greta Hall or something like that. No, Gretchen Holloway. That’s it. She’s supposed to be this hot, up-and-coming filmmaker about to get an MFA
. According to Carol, producers are saying she’s the next big thing. I checked out her website, and there’s some interesting stuff on there—a little too out there for my taste though. I’m a meat and potatoes gal when it comes to storytelling. She looks like she should be in front of the camera instead of behind it, with her bright red hair, blue eyes, and killer shape.

  She wants to see me for the role of a mother whose twenty-four-year-old son was shot. I press my stomach with my arm, thinking about it. It’s too close to home. I almost turned down the audition, but Taylor encouraged me to go through with it. Speaking of which, that had better be him trying to get into the locked bathroom door.

  “Regina, what are you doing in there, girl? You’ve been in there for more than thirty minutes. You’re going to be late for your auditions. And what have I told you about locking this door? What if you slip and fall and bust your head wide open? You’d bleed to death before I could knock the door down to save you.”

  “I’m getting out. Calm down.” Taylor is the poster child for worriers. But he’s right. I’ve been in here too long. Once my thoughts start going every which way, I lose all track of time. I rinse my body, turn off the water, and remove my shower cap. I hang it on the shower saver and run my hand over my braids, which need redoing. I let out a huge sigh, then step out of the shower into my recently remodeled bathroom, compliments of Taylor. Construction runs a close second to nagging when it comes to his favorite things to do. I love our new his-and-her sinks and the avocado green matching shower and floor tile. I wince when I glimpse my toenails, covered in chipped purple polish, then curl them into the throw rug. I desperately need a pedicure.

  My gaze shifts from my feet to my reflection in the foggy mirror. I turn to the side and suck in my stomach. Maybe I’ll get a tummy tuck. Tossing that thought, I snag my towel, wrap it around me, and head to the bedroom.

  Rolling my eyes, I even out the purple duvet on our king-size bed and turn the accent pillows right-side up. I tuck in the sheet that’s hanging on one side. Taylor has a lot of talents, but making a bed isn’t one of them. I glance down at the two outfits I’ve laid out on my side of the bed—a suit for the print ad, and a pair of jeans and a sweater for the thesis film.