Save the Best for Last

  SAVE THE BEST FOR LAST

  by Bettye Griffin

  Kindle version, published by Bunderful Books

  This book is available in print at

  www.amazon.com

  Copyright © 2009 by Bettye-Lynn Griffin Underwood

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  P.O. Box 580156

  Pleasant Prairie, WI 53158

  www.bunderfulbooks.com

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Save The Best For Last

  Also By Bettye Griffin

  About The Author

  Excerpt, Something Real by Bettye Griffin

  Excerpt, Isn’t She Lovely? by Bettye Griffin

  Excerpt, Accidentally Yours by Bettye Griffin

  Dedication

  For Aunt ‘Weenie’

  Ninety-three years old and still loves a good love story

  Viva la romance!

  Acknowledgments

  Bernard Underwood, Eva Mae (“Bettye”) Griffin.

  My story consultant and editor, Kimberly Rowe-Van Allen. Kim, you outdid yourself on this one. Every writer should have someone like you...but I’m glad I’m the writer who got you!

  Sean D. Young of Young Creations. Thanks for the beautiful cover design. You are so talented!

  Special thanks to Reon Laudat and Elaine English.

  Everyone who is reading a copy of this book.

  The Almighty, from whom all blessings flow.

  Save The Best For Last

  Chapter 1

  “How’s the divorce going, Barry?”

  Those five words changed Genevieve’s life.

  They should have, for she’d been dating Barry Henderson for six weeks. Six weeks, and he hadn’t mentioned a thing about having a wife. He described himself as divorced, as in filed, decreed, and officially sealed. But if he wasn’t divorced, that meant he was still married. He’d deceived her.

  Her whole body went numb. The only movement she had awareness of was the blinking of her eyes. She looked at Barry, the only friend she had in New York, an accusation she couldn’t express verbally. Not now. Not in front of his friends.

  But the damage was done. Stan Smith, their host who’d inadvertently given away Barry’s secret, looked horrified, obviously realizing too late that Barry hadn’t felt it necessary to inform Genevieve of his true marital status. Brenda, Stan’s wife, looked at him, her narrowed eyes and displeased expression merely hinting at what lay in store for him after they were alone.

  Leaving seemed like a good idea right about now. Genevieve had been enjoying her Bailey’s Irish Cream, but now she felt that one more sip would make her vomit. She lowered her half-full mug to the coffee table in the Smith’s well-appointed living room. “I think maybe we should call it a night, Barry.” Her attempt at sounding amiable failed to conceal her boiling hostility.

  At least he had the good sense not to argue with her. “Yes, of course,” he said in hasty agreement. “Stan, Brenda, everything was great, as usual,” he said, rising.

  “Yes, just wonderful,” Genevieve added. “And I hope you find a tenant soon.” Stan and Brenda had sounded awfully concerned about their vacancy at dinner, and she couldn’t blame them. People everywhere were experiencing hard times. The Smiths probably counted on the rental income they received from their two rental rooms on the third floor of their brownstone to help them meet their mortgage each month. To make matters worse, Brenda said she suspected the college student who rented the second room on that floor would soon be leaving as well. To lose one tenant was bad enough, but to lose both of them could be financially crippling.

  Genevieve could readily understand worry and fear. She’d lived with those emotions for over a year now, and in that time the knowledge that her entire life could change in the snap of a finger had started to wear her down.

  With Barry, the only real friend she’d allowed herself to make since returning to New York, she had carefree times when she could, at least temporarily, forget that the life she’d carved out for herself since arriving had an expiration date that could come at any time. Now that she’d learned that Barry did not have the right to pursue her, she had a nagging feeling that the time for her to continue living the way she had was about to come to a close as well.

  Yes, Genevieve understood worry and fear. Even if, unlike the Smiths and thousands of other Americans, the problem she lived with every day had nothing to do with money.

  She rushed down the outside stairs of the brownstone to ground level, her hands balled into fists and stuffed in her pockets, impatiently waiting for Barry to offer an explanation. The Smiths quickly closed the heavy oak front door, probably not wanting to witness the unpleasant scene they knew would follow. With no other option, Barry ambled down the stairs to the street level like a man on his way to get a lethal injection.

  They walked a little before he spoke, assimilating into the anonymous but lively nighttime Harlem streetscape. Folks lined up outside a supper club across the street from the Smith home, its outside walls covered with large posters with a photograph of the musician who would be performing there tonight.

  Genevieve stared at the well-dressed crowd gathered under the club’s awning, waiting to be seated for the early show. They all looked so happy and excited. How many of those couples had secrets from each other, she wondered. Not the kind that would result in happiness, like planning surprise parties for birthdays or anniversaries, but the big frownie kind, like finding out that the person you’ve been seeing has a spouse, even if they were in the process of dissolving their marriage.

  They rounded the corner at One-Hundred-Twenty-Fifth Street, Harlem’s major east-west artery and its pulse. This neighborhood had fewer sit-down restaurants than other parts of the city, due in part to strict zoning regulations disallowing alcohol sales near churches, which were particularly plentiful in this part of New York. But all of the fast food chains that lined the boulevard remained open, and some of the mom-and-pop establishments as well, filling the air outside their doors with the scent of hot dogs grilling and of fish and chicken frying. Street vendors hawked their stuff, their boom boxes close at hand to fill their corner of the world with their favorite music. Browsers strolled down the street, stopping to inspect items here and there, occasionally pulling out their wallets to make a purchase. The street was almost as crowded at nearly nine p.m. as it would be thirteen hours from now, when the stores opened for the traditionally busy Saturday shopping period.

  “Genevieve, I’m sorry,” Barry finally said.

  She walked a few steps before replying. “‘I’m sorry’?” she repeated. “Is that all you can say?”

  “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be upset. My divorce is pending. It’s taken so long because of the special circumstances.”

  “Special circumstances?”

  “Yes, rather messy ones, I’m afraid. My wife’s insisting she get half of what we acquired during our marriage. I feel that her having an affair invalidates any claim she might have. I’ve got substantial assets, and I’m not willing to give her a thing.”

  She considered the irony in his complaint, that old what’s-good-for-the-goose mentality that so many men hated, but then rapidly dismissed it as non-applicable. She and Barry had a casual dating relationship, not an affair. The fact that her on
ly friend had lied to her made her feel a little down.

  She spoke softly, but firmly. “Well, I’m sorry to hear all your troubles, Barry, but it doesn’t change the fact that you lied to me. You represented yourself as a divorced man, not a man merely in the process of getting divorced. A soon-to-be ex-wife is still a wife in the eyes of the law, and in my eyes, too.”

  “Gen, you know I didn’t want to mislead you. I felt that if I told you the truth you wouldn't go out with me.”

  “You’re right. I would have told you to come back after you had your decree.”

  “It’s a suggestion that’s been made to me before,” he admitted.

  “So this isn’t the first time you’ve stepped out on your wife?”

  “Only since I found out she was stepping out on me. Before that I was a perfect husband. Or, in my case, a perfect sucker.” He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, then sighed. “But when I saw you sitting in the reception area at the network, waiting for your appointment with the art director, I didn’t want to take the risk of you turning me down. You just looked so cute. I told myself right there I was going to get to know you better.”

  Genevieve felt a little embarrassed at just how well he’d gotten to know her, but she also had the answer to something that had been secretly bothering her. They’d had some pretty passionate make-out sessions, but yet Barry had always pulled back, always come up with some excuse about having to leave. Genevieve couldn’t claim to be disappointed, for while she genuinely liked Barry, she wasn’t particularly attracted to him. At forty-one, Barry was fourteen years her senior and older than any man she’d ever dated, and Genevieve suspected that his slightly stocky build, smooth brown skin, nearly shaved head, and light eyes would probably hold more appeal for her if she were thirty-seven rather than twenty-seven. Nevertheless, his behavior left her puzzled and wounded her feminine pride as well. Didn’t he find her attractive? She couldn’t bring herself to ask him outright why he was evading her sexually, mainly because it would only give him the wrong impression, make him think she wanted his attentions in that direction. She wondered if someone his age might suffer from what the TV commercials tastefully called ‘erectile dysfunction.’ She’d heard that every man couldn’t take Viagra; the drug’s side effects had proven lethal to a few unfortunate souls. Now she knew the real reason why he’d used such constraint.

  At least Barry had the decency to keep the physical part of their relationship in check. That line about consenting adults was older than the Brooklyn Bridge, but as far as she was concerned, if something was wrong to begin with—like adultery—consent didn’t make it right. Genevieve felt no one should unwittingly be dragged into a situation the other party knew was just plain wrong. So it pleased her that Barry had kept his libido in check, even if she suspected it had less to do with moral decency and more to do with protecting his marital assets by not getting caught with his pants down.

  He paused at the corner of Lenox and One-Twenty-Fifth. “You want to get a cab?”

  She glanced at her watch. “No, it’s only ten minutes to nine. Let’s get the subway.” She spent a lot of time indoors and usually relished the sights and sounds of the big city, but all she wanted to do now was get home, crawl under the covers, and pull a pillow over her head.

  In New York there were only two types of cab rides, the ones in which you actually moved and the ones where you were stuck in traffic. At this time of night the traffic flowed fairly smoothly, but after the shock she’d just gotten she didn’t feel like a placid ride. She needed a reminder of just how uncertain her existence was, and if she couldn’t be reminded by something tangible, she’d have to settle for motion. A loud, screechy, jerky subway ride would do a better job of that.

  They descended into the recesses of the subway, riding the express train for one stop, emerging at Eighty-Sixth Street. As they walked the few blocks to her high-rise condominium building, Barry tentatively reached for her hand. “Gen, try to forgive me. I didn’t set out to hurt you. I was just being selfish.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “I forgive you, Barry. How can I not? You’re the only friend I've got here in the States.” Or at least the only one she kept in contact with. Genevieve had two friends from the neighborhood whom she deliberately hadn’t informed of her whereabouts. Things were different for her now, and she didn’t want to make any of her old friends party to her situation. No one knew about her plight, not even Barry.

  Suddenly she felt a pang of guilt. How could she be so hard on Barry for keeping a secret from her when she withheld vital information from him? Wasn’t a secret a secret?

  No. It’s not the same thing. I’ve got a much better reason for keeping my secret from him.

  He grinned, obviously feeling he was back in her good graces. But his lips repositioned into flatline at her next words.

  “But from this point on, we’re just friends, Barry. We’ll do the things that friends do. No couple stuff, like dates or dinner parties or snuggling on the sofa...or holding hands.” She gently pulled her hand away and held his gaze for an extended moment, wanting him to see she meant business. His deception smarted. She’d always respected the institution of marriage, and learning Barry was still married made her feel, well, sullied. Even with her being alone in the world, she knew she would hold her ground. “That’s all we can be to each other until your status changes and you’re a single man.” Maybe by then she’d be able to work up some ardor for him. Her parents would certainly approve of Barry. He was a well-educated, successful television news producer, and as for their age difference, Genevieve’s own mother had been ten years younger than her father.

  “Can I at least see you to your door?”

  She knew he was looking for a good night kiss, one he would undoubtedly make so ardent that she’d end up changing her mind. Or so he hoped. She enjoyed Barry’s kisses, which she would describe as merely ‘pleasant,’ but with no real fire. He simply didn’t bring out the tiger in her tank. “I'll be fine, Barry. I live in a doorman building, remember?”

  Z.L., the night doorman, tipped his cap in greeting. “Good evening, Miss Shane, Mr. Henderson,” he said in the Hungarian accent he’d never lost, even after nearly fifty some-odd years in the U.S. Genevieve found it charming how any word Z.L. said that ended in ‘I-N-G’ came out rhyming with ‘ink’.

  “I hope you’re enjoying this beautiful night,” Z.L. said, drawing out the next-to-last word in his infectious enthusiasm.

  “It was very enlightening,” she said pointedly with a meaningful glance at Barry. Then she smiled at Z.L., not wanting him to be confused. She had great fondness for the doorman, a stocky white-haired man in his early seventies who called her “Jenishka” when no one else was around. He’d known her father as well, and he projected a caring, almost paternal air she found comforting.

  “Oh, Miss Shane,” Z.L. said. “I almost forgot. You had a visitor.”

  She went rigid. No one should be visiting her. She never gave out her home address, so no one had reason to visit her. The unsettled feeling from earlier returned. Could it be that...“I did? Uh, do you know who it was?”

  “Nobody I ever saw before,” Z.L. said, his pronounced accent exaggerating each word. “He came by about six-thirty. He was in his forties, brown hair, and wearing a brown suit. He wouldn’t give me a name or say who he was with, but I overheard him when he stopped to say hello to someone he knew who was passing by. The other gentleman asked him how things were at the INS.”

  “Immigration?” Barry said. “That's ridiculous. What would they want with you, Genevieve?” He looked at her and saw the sheer panic on her face, then hastily took her arm. “Excuse us, Z.L.”

  Z.L.’s words tumbled out as they retreated, nearly unintelligible in his rush. “He asked when you would be back. I told him you were away for the weekend and wouldn’t be back ‘til Monday afternoon. I don’t know why I said that. Something inside—” he pounded his broad chest—“just told me to say you were out
of town.”

  “Thank you, Z.L.,” Genevieve said. It came out little more than a whisper.

  She allowed Barry to usher her inside. They said nothing until they were safely inside her tenth floor unit.

  “All right, Genevieve,” Barry said. “You want to tell me what's going on?”

  Chapter 2

  She gulped, a sound so loud she felt certain it could be heard out in Astoria. “I guess I do need to tell someone.”

  “What’s wrong, Genevieve? Why is the INS looking for you?”

  She searched his face for signs of possible untrustworthiness as her mind recounted their time together. In spite of the way he misrepresented himself to get close to her, he had only shown her kindness and respect and caring. She swiftly made up her mind to confide in him.

  “They’ve been looking for me for over a year, since my visa expired.”

  “You’re here illegally? I don’t get it. Why did you let your visa expire?”

  “I had no choice, Barry. I couldn’t go back home.”

  “Why not? You’re from a beautiful, tiny island in the Caribbean with pink sand and estates belonging to some of the world’s wealthiest people. Why wouldn’t you be able to go to a place where people speak French and drink tropical concoctions out of coconut shells with little paper umbrellas?”

  “That’s what you’re supposed to think,” she said bitterly. “A tropical utopia, a place where the superrich of America and Europe go to get away from it all. But there’s trouble in paradise, Barry. The high-ranking government officials are living like kings, courtesy of the treasury, while the general population lives in abject poverty. My father learned about it after he joined the Cabinet. He spoke out against it and hinted that he would expose it if they didn’t do something about sharing the wealth, and they killed him. At least I think they did.” She sniffled, tears pooling in her eyes. “He got me out of the country, and I haven’t heard from him since. After sixteen months, what else can I think? He told me not to return under any circumstances unless I heard from him.”