By that next New Year, it was a new way of celebrating hot new lives on a chilly first day of 2011. There was no longer a girls’ night out on New Year’s Eve. It was a new and different day for Magnolia, Rebe, and Darla.
Miller and Magnolia had everyone over to their new waterfront, Mediterranean home in Indian Creek Village to bring in the year, and to celebrate Magnolia and Darla’s birthday.
Rebe was there with fifteen-month-old Tristan. And she was also allowed to bring Randall’s daughter, Chyna, who was three and a half. Chyna called Rebe T-mom, meaning she was Trinity’s mom. Rebe and Kandi were actually on speaking terms.
Trinity, who did not graduate from college, but promised to go back, got her own place in New York and was finally working as a runway model. She was making a lot of money, even without a degree. Rebe knew she probably would not return to school. She was just happy that Trinity was happy. Also modeling in New York with Trinity was Armani.
And Darla had ended her first year in the black. She was up to date on her condo payments and had cleaned up her credit.
She sat on Grainger’s lap in the sunflower leather chair in Magnolia and Miller’s family room, watching little Chyna try her best to dance to the song “Billie Jean” by Michael Jackson. They laughed and clapped their hands to the beat. On the ring finger of her right hand, Darla wore her tiny black diamond ring in yellow gold. She and Grainger were simply promised. But this time, the subject of sex before marriage was not an issue for her.
And in the backyard on the deck, along the edge of the narrow creek, surrounded by a menagerie of towering trees, minding the grill, in the sixty-degree weather, was Darla’s father, grilling the chicken and ribs for their feast, working the barbeque pit like he was thirty years younger.
“Do you need anything? Are you okay?” Gigi asked, coming outside in her sundress from the kitchen after making her signature cabbage and turkey wings, stepping up behind him to wipe the sweat off his brow with her hand. She still wore her same old wedding ring. She handed him a bottle of Dos Equis.
“Yes, dear.” He still wore his same old wedding band.
They kissed on the lips.
“Watch it now, Mister,” Magnolia warned Darla’s father as she stepped outside to check on him.
“I’m good,” he said, sipping on the cold bottle. “Very good. Excellent,” he told Magnolia, eyeing his new woman down. They’d spent nearly every day together at one or the other’s place the entire year of 2010.
Miller came outside and joked, “Okay now, don’t burn those. I spent a lot of money on that meat.”
“Oh he’s got it just fine. My spousal equivalent knows how to grill, all right,” Gigi said, chomping on a piece of hard candy. Her light brown eyes devoured his image.
Darla’s father said, “Yeah. If I burn one, it’ll have your name on it, Miller.” He laughed and Gigi laughed louder. She sat down at the patio table and continued to watch him do his thing.
Magnolia said, looking protective, “Spousal equivalent. How cute.” She spoke directly at Miller. “My grandma is happy.”
“Looks like they both are.” Miller took Magnolia by the hand and led her back into the kitchen and then into the family room. “Happy birthday, love.” He leaned into her.
“Thanks.” Magnolia held on to his arm and kept her shoulder to his.
As the Michael Jackson CD ended, Grainger picked up the TV remote and turned up the volume, switching to ESPN. That’s when Rebe heard a familiar voice.
“I will continue my contract as the WNBA head coach of the San Antonio Silver Stars. These allegations are untrue. I have not been involved in a sex ring, as I’ve been falsely accused of. I am innocent until proven guilty.” He had a cleft in his chin, big man, perfect goatee.
Magnolia and Rebe watched as well, seeing the familiar face, all ears.
The sportscaster said, “That was Marcus Cotton, former track coach at New York University, who left his position to coach the WNBA team recently, who’s under fire for alleged charges of promoting prostitution. We’ll have more tomorrow after the team’s press conference. Back to you in the studio.”
Rebe looked as though she’d seen a ghost. She was in sheer shock. Her eyes were the size of ice cubes.
Two years after she met him, she found out her baby’s father’s name was not DeMarius Collins. It was Marcus Cotton. She now, at least, knew who he was.
“Ain’t life a flip,” Rebe said to her BFFs, and then looked over at her and Marcus’s young son, Tristan, who was curiously toddling near Chyna. Tiny dimple in his chin.
“Yes it is. A real flip,” said Darla, looking stunned.
“It surely is,” said Magnolia, still holding on to Miller. “In an instant.”