Taylor Made Read online

  Taylor Made

  Sherryle Kiser Jackson

  www.urbanchristianonline.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Reader’s Guide Questions

  Urban Christian His Glory Book Club!

  UC His Glory members pledge to:

  Copyright Page

  We are fearfully and wonderfully made.

  Dedication

  For my son, AJ, who taught me that the best communication is nonverbal.

  Acknowledgments

  At a memorial service for one of my sorority sisters and Civil Rights pioneer and leader Dr. Dorothy Irene Height, a chorale of singers sang one of her favorite songs, “We Are Climbing Jacob’s Ladder,” in sweet harmonious a capella. One phrase stuck out to me: “If you love Him, why not serve Him?” It reminded me that love is active.

  By then, I was well into writing Taylor Made, but it made me think of relationships in general, and the one between my main characters, Pill and Corey, specifically. If marriage is an assignment from God, our service is required. There is a difference between lip service and providing heart service. Catch my drift?

  To my husband, Arvell K. Jackson, Nylah-Poo and Jr. too, who had to do more than their fair share of household service while I was writing this, you are appreciated.

  To my pink warriors (and I mean pink in the nicest possible way, sorors) Delores Kiser, Tasha Herring, and Aaron Johnson Hearn, your bravery and infallible spirit are a testament to the strength of women.

  To fellow author Nikkea Smithers and my line sister Crystal Evans, who sent me maps, links, and even filled in a few blanks, thanks for bringing Richmond into focus for me.

  I’m writing at an interesting and pivotal time in the publishing industry. I am grateful to write with some incredible caring and sharing literary professionals at Urban Christian, specifically my editor, Joylynn Jossel. I’ve had the pleasure to meet and do events with a good many authors under UC. I can’t wait for the day when we do a collective event.

  To my serious, sophisticated, and steely iron-clad crew, better known as Soul Food, His word is true. Iron does sharpen iron, and I’m never dull with you.

  It is my hope that I not only serve you with my words but my actions as well.

  —Sherryle Kiser Jackson

  Chapter 1

  Pamela Jones Taylor was looking at a pitiful sight nestled in her lap. When she realized she wasn’t moving, she turned her attention back to the road. She crept toward the exit of the Suburban Banking and Trust lot.

  A drizzle was dampening the sign of a homeless man at the corner. It read, “Hungary, please help. God bless.” The misspelling was compounding the effect of the man’s hopelessness.

  “C’mon,” she groaned out of exasperation a few moments later as a new model Mercedes Benz switched over into the lane she was about to turn into, blocking her exit from the bank parking lot. Three more luxury cars whizzed by her before a soccer mom in a stereotypical minivan, distracted and obviously yelling at several kids, allowed her access to the main road where she sat with the rest of the speed demons at the red light.

  The homeless guy could hardly be seen for the Korean man with a pail of roses working the same corner. The homeless man, a wiry, dark-skinned man of fifty-something with few personal effects confined to a small duffel bag, did have a rain poncho. It was the thin, clear plastic kind with a hood that anyone can buy from the dollar store that made them feel as if they were wearing a plastic bag.

  Pam remembered being forced to go into a corner store by her older sister to buy one of those cheap shields herself years ago when she was crowned homecoming queen in her senior year of high school. She remembered how embarrassed she felt encased in plastic like a couch in her Aunt Agnes’s living room. She played it off by telling people that she still wanted her outfit to be seen through the transparent shield. Other girls in her homecoming court in anticipation of the rainy forecast went out and bought matching umbrellas and the pink polka dot rain slickers that were high-priced and in style then.

  In her Cosmopolitan dreams, she would have done one better and gotten the complementary designer boots. In reality though, her sister informed her that her homecoming attire was already a luxury they could not afford. Once again, she was painfully aware that there was a wide gap between the haves and the have-nots. The latter was the story of their life with their momma. Pam decided then that one day, she would not only be among the ones who have, but that she would have it all.

  The memory made her sneer at the homeless man as he inched his way toward her car holding his sign at her car window. He had nothing coming. She put her hand up for added emphasis. She had her own problems. She flipped open her pink metallic razor cell phone and adjusted the ear piece. The round knob would not fit comfortably in her ear. She needed a Bluetooth in her life, like the girls at work. She also had her eye on the new iPhones with a built-in MP3 player and touch screen for texting, like Carmen’s, the salon owner she worked for. Switching phones meant switching payment plans, and since she was now married, it would be something else she would have to negotiate with her husband, Corey.

  She decided to call Corey and engage him in a little game of bait and catch. He was a ground deliveryman for UPS, which made his cell phone his mobile office and made his talk time limited. When they first got married six months ago, she had to get used to their brief check-in calls at least once a day. She figured today it would give her opportunity to gauge his mood.

  “Everything all right?” Corey asked, after greeting her.

  “I have to run into the drugstore. I was wondering if you need anything.”

  He did that kind of half sigh, half chuckle he sometimes does that she had not quite distinguished between amusement and disgust. “Is that your way of telling me you’re going shopping? Knowing you, you’ll get to CVS via Macy’s, Ann Taylor, and Abercrombie & Fitch.”

  At least he’s got my stores right, she thought. “Excuse me for being considerate of my husband. Isn’t that what they tell us in Marriage Maintenance class?”

  “Yeah, all right, Pill,” Corey said, calling her by her nickname. She would admit that she could be moody at times. Add that to her confidence that some would mistake for arrogance, and more than once, people had referred to her as “a trip.” Ms. Tyler, her third-grade teacher, trying her best to censor her comments about Pamela’s behavior, simply wrote in the comment section of her report card, “Pamela is quite a pill. Her outbursts and overall off-task behavior is a little hard to swallow.” The name stuck. She would put her own spin on it when having to explain the sometimes embarrassing nickname by saying, “Whether
bitter or sweet, I’m good for ya.” Most people elected to call her primarily by her given name, Pamela, or a shortened version, Pam, when they first meet her. Like Corey, they soon switched off and used her nickname once they had ingested a taste of The Pill.

  “Keep in mind your booth fee is due today. Don’t go spending any money,” Corey said.

  Apparently she already had spent lots of money and just didn’t remember. Shopping gave Pill a high. Sometimes it was as if Pill blacked out after a shopping binge, much like an alcoholic who had too much to drink. She couldn’t remember what she had bought, especially when trying to hide her purchases from Corey. He had asked her time and time again to write stuff down, particularly when the money for those purchases came out of their joint account. In her mind, that kind of documentation provided evidence to her husband about her spending that could easily go under the radar. Accounting for every belt, hat, purse, jacket, and pocketbook to a man is what she refused to do.

  “Well, I put in three hundred fifty for us on that mink coat my mom wanted, although I don’t know what a sixty-five-year-old needs with a fur coat. I didn’t look at the ATM receipt for a balance, but I know there should be enough left in the account,” Corey said.

  Pill almost expelled a sigh of relief into the phone. She was so glad she hadn’t tampered with the money for her mother-in-law’s gift. Corey told her over a month ago that the two of them would go in with his dad and his only sibling, Danielle, to buy a mink jacket for their mother to show off in when she wore it to church.

  There was never any denying that Pam was not her mother-in-law’s choice for Corey. Pill didn’t know what she had done to the woman, but the air of distrust was immediately apparent upon meeting her. She assumed it was just game recognizing game. Mrs. Taylor was spoiled by Corey’s father and everyone else in the family. Obviously, she didn’t want Pill to be the recipient of any generosity Corey may have inherited. Pill would have never been able to live it down if Corey’s mother couldn’t get her precious mink because they didn’t have their share of the money.

  In this case, Pill happened to agree with her mother-in-law’s fashion sense. A mink coat meant she truly had it going on. Jet-black, she thought. She hoped Corey and Dani had gotten the black mink that would absolutely sizzle with her salt-and-pepper hair. Pill dreamed about flossin’ in her own mink coat one day, but for now, she would settle for a short chinchilla coat with the matching headband.

  Recollection of where some of the money went hit her like a thunderbolt. She could see eighty dollars change hands between her and Ahmad, the resident hustle man at Carmen’s Epic Beauty salon. He came in the shop twice a month with two large storage tubs and a rickety clothing rack filled with trendy apparel still tagged and on hangers that, “just came in.” From where was never questioned.

  While her fellow stylists were devouring Baby Phat knockoffs, Pam spotted a camel-colored Shearling poncho with the matching Alpine boots. It wasn’t out for public display, but she had to have it. She remembered the supermodel Giselle wearing a similar poncho while riding a white stallion in an ad in the latest issue of Cosmo. Although she knew Ahmad’s version wasn’t designer, her knockoff was definitely better than her coworkers’ knockoffs. She went into acquisition mode.

  She waited until Ahmad went to the back to question him about his hidden stash. He explained that he had promised the ensemble to his lady friend, but assured her that he could get her one when his cousin went back to New York’s garment district. It was a layaway of sorts, which was not their normal way of doing business. His policy when selling was cash-and-carry, and hers when purchasing was cash-on-delivery. She had made an exception that day as she dashed to the ATM, ordering the shampoo girl to put a heat-activated conditioner in her next client’s hair and sit her under a blow dryer to stall for time. She gave him the eighty dollars plus another $100 from her smock. She figured since he was going to New York, he might find a pair of Sevens jeans she had been wanting.

  If Carmen wanted her money on time, she had to stop the vendors from soliciting in her shop, Pill reasoned.

  “When I get paid tomorrow, the cycle starts all over again,” Corey said, interrupting her thoughts.

  The cycle he was referring to was their bare-bones budget that delineates his first check of the month for the mortgage on their three-bedroom town house and her earnings going to the other bills. They used his second check to pay the lease on her new Honda Accord and pay insurance, which included a policy on his Corolla that had been paid off long ago. They locked into this schedule during the last month of their marriage prep class and agreed to revisit it. Once a month, they attended the Marriage Maintenance class for newlywed couples at church that focused on the emotional, physical, and financial side of their relationship now that they have taken the plunge into matrimony.

  “You’re saying that to say . . .?” Pill said defensively, still trying to account for the extra money she had obviously spent.

  “Don’t go spending any money. I gotta go. See you later,” Corey said. Good-byes were not necessary.

  Money from Rosetta’s weave that she did on Saturday would give her a quarter of her monthly booth fee, but subtract from her bill money. She did at least call in the digits from her debit card to pay the gas and electric on Monday. Corey had warned her against debiting the account as opposed to taking the money directly to source or mailing it out on time. “You never know when they will take their money out of your account.” Gosh, she should write this stuff down.

  Pill laid her hand on the horn to join in with those cars in front of her showing their displeasure at an eighteen-wheeler that was unsuccessful at making a U-turn and was blocking their lanes when the light turned green. Now she would be late for the staff meeting at the salon on top of being late with her booth rental fee.

  The rain hadn’t let up, and there she sat. The rose man had long since taken cover, leaving the homeless guy with a now-drenched cardboard sign in position at the base of the intersection. Pill looked down in her lap once again. She was indeed witnessing a pitiful sight. Her bank receipt read: -$152.

  Chapter 2

  Pill finally arrived at the shop thirty minutes late and in the middle of the staff meeting. Beauty salons were normally closed on Mondays, serving as the second day of a stylist’s two-day weekend. The first Monday of the month was the mandatory staff meeting at Carmen’s Epic Beauty, which happened to coincide with the due date of their monthly booth fees.

  Pill was actually glad she was late to get a brief reprieve from Carmen’s inquiries. There was no special envelope, box, or slot in which to put the rent and allow Pill anonymity. Everyone walked the black-and-white parche flooring back to Carmen’s office to hand-deliver their rental fee. She wouldn’t. Sooner or later she would have to explain the delinquency to Carmen.

  Carmen’s Epic Beauty was a full-service salon. The black-and-white flooring was highlighted with splashes of red. Mini table fountains and birdcages with fake white doves were placed throughout. It was like a Japanese Zen Garden. There were six spacious stations; three on each side that formed a horseshoe shape. Just beyond the stations were the bank of sinks and dryers. Carmen’s office and a storage room were off the back entrance.

  Pill’s station was up front at station six directly across from the first chair. She placed her handbag, Spiegel catalogue, and this month’s copy of Cosmopolitan on her station. Then she swiveled her chair toward the conversation before taking a seat. Mercedes, the salon’s newest and youngest stylist, at nineteen, walked in right behind Pill. She stood off Carmen’s shoulder with an obvious grievance on the tip of her tongue. Carmen spread her arms out on either side as if to ask if there were some kind of conspiracy since they both were late. Mercedes placed a check for her booth fee in Carmen’s outstretched hand with no shame.

  “Do y’all have anything you want to air before I go on?” Carmen said.

  “I don’t mean no harm, Ms. Theresa, but I’m not use to having my schedule so tig
ht,” Mercedes said. She walked across the center of the assembly to station three after securing her spot in the conversation.

  “It’s a lot different than being a shampoo girl, Mercedes,” Carmen said.

  “Regardless, Carmen, I almost killed myself Saturday. I didn’t get home until after midnight on Friday and wouldn’t have gotten home at all if Candy didn’t take those two walk-ins for me.”

  “I believe Carmen said last meeting that I was to give the bulk of the new clients and walk-ins to you,” Ms. Theresa, the receptionist and Carmen’s aunt, said. She was a frail woman of sixty with a nervous disposition that appealed to everyone to get along and appeared near faint when they didn’t.

  “We’ve got to talk about these walk-ins,” Mercedes added.

  “I agree,” Candy chimed in. “We should be able to veto a walk-in based on what’s already on our schedule and what they are having done.”

  “Or if you have cramps and just don’t feel like it,” Mercedes said.

  They all laughed at her honesty. They were nearing the end of a “Book an Appointment and Bring a Friend Free” promotion that Carmen extended to the ladies in the new executive office building that opened up the street. What she didn’t expect was that just fifty flyers would spread throughout Richmond, bringing in the most unlikely patrons and pals.

  “You’d be able to move a lot faster if you didn’t talk so much,” Deena said.

  Candy rose from her seat and walked over to give her buddy Deena a high five. They were directly across from each other at stations two and five respectively. There was never a time they weren’t of the same opinion or cosigning each other’s argument.

  “I heard you tell that long drawn out story about getting your purse stolen at the club to every single client. I’m talking hand gestures, dramatic pauses, and all—to like six different clients,” Deena said.

  “Forget y’all. Who doesn’t talk to their clients?” Mercedes rolled her eyes.