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  Praise for STAND YOUR GROUND

  “Murray has written a tension-packed novel around the hot-buzz national topic of an unarmed black youth shot by a white male, an act then subjected to the Stand Your Ground rule as a legal defense tactic . . . Murray’s writing admirably shows the often overlooked human emotions following racial violence . . . The pulled-from-the-headlines story line will captivate readers.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Murray, winner of several African American Literary Awards for fiction, powerfully captures the nuances and tragedies engendered by stand-your-ground laws. A must-read.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Using a vivid, realistic premise, she takes a 360-degree view to bring all sides to the forefront for us to enjoy, learn from, judge, and celebrate. Stand Your Ground has great literary relevance for our time.”

  —USA Today

  Praise for FOREVER AN EX

  “Murray spices up her story line with plenty of juicy scandals . . . Readers seeking an inspirational tale with broad themes of trust, betrayal, and forgiveness will do well by choosing Murray’s latest effort.”

  —Library Journal

  Praise for FORTUNE & FAME

  “The scandalous characters unite again in Fortune & Fame, Murray and Billingsley’s third and best collaboration. This time brazen Jasmine and Rachel, who has zero shame, have been cast on First Ladies, a reality TV show that builds one’s brand and threatens to break another’s marriage. Sorry, buttered popcorn is not included.”

  —Essence

  “Priceless trash talk marks this story about betrayal, greed, and stepping on anyone in your way. A great choice for folks who spend Sunday mornings in the front pew.”

  —Library Journal

  Praise for NEVER SAY NEVER

  “Readers, be on the lookout for Victoria Christopher Murray’s Never Say Never. You’ll definitely need to have a buddy-reader in place for the lengthy discussion that is bound to occur.”

  —USA Today

  Praise for THE EX FILES

  “The engrossing transitions the women go through make compelling reading . . . Murray’s vivid portrait of how faith can move mountains and heal relationships should inspire.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Reminds you of things that women will do if their hearts are broken . . . Once you pick this book up, you will not put it down.”

  —Urban Reviews Online

  Praise for DESTINY’S DIVAS

  “With Destiny’s Divas, author Victoria Christopher Murray triumphs again. The depth and storytelling mastery in her latest novel demonstrate why she is the grande dame of urban Christian fiction.”

  —FreshFiction.com

  Praise for SINNERS & SAINTS

  “Murray and Billingsley keep things lively and fun.”

  —Juicy magazine

  “Double the fun, with a message of faith, Sinners & Saints will delight readers with two of their favorite characters from two of their favorite authors. It’s a match made in heaven!”

  —Grace Magazine

  Praise for THE DEAL, THE DANCE, AND THE DEVIL

  “Murray’s story has the kind of momentum that prompts you to elbow disbelief aside and flip the pages in horrified enjoyment.”

  —The Washington Post

  Praise for SINS OF THE MOTHER

  “Sins of the Mother shows that when the going gets tough, it’s best to make an effort and rely on God’s strength. It gives the message that there is hope no matter what, and that people must have faith.”

  —FictionAddict.com

  “Final word: Christian fiction with a powerful kick.”

  —Afro.com

  Praise for LADY JASMINE

  “She’s back! Jasmine has wreaked havoc in three VCM novels, including last year’s Too Little, Too Late. In Lady Jasmine, the schemer everyone loves to loathe breaks several commandments by the third chapter.”

  —Essence

  “Jasmine is the kind of character who doesn’t sit comfortably on a page. She’s the kind who jumps inside a reader’s head, runs around, and stirs up trouble—the kind who stays with the reader long after the last page is turned.”

  —The Huntsville Times (Alabama)

  Praise for TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE

  “[In this book] there are so many hidden messages about love, life, faith, and forgiveness. Murray’s vividness of faith is inspirational.”

  —The Clarion-Ledger (Jackson, Mississippi)

  “An excellent entry in the Jasmine Larson Bush Christian Lit saga; perhaps the best so far . . . Fans will appreciate this fine tale . . . a well-written intense drama.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Praise for A SIN AND A SHAME

  “Riveting, emotionally charged, and spiritually deep . . . What is admirable is the author’s ability to hold the reader in suspense until the very last paragraph of the novel! A Sin and a Shame is a must read . . .Truly a story to be enjoyed and pondered upon!”

  —RomanceInColor.com

  “A Sin and a Shame is Victoria Christopher Murray at her best . . . A page-turner that I couldn’t put down as I was too eager to see what scandalous thing Jasmine would do next. And to watch Jasmine’s spiritual growth was a testament to Victoria’s talents. An engrossing tale of how God’s grace covers us all. I absolutely loved this book!”

  —ReShonda Tate Billingsley, Essence bestselling author of I Know I’ve Been Changed

  Praise for LUST

  “Murray has penned hot, steamy scenes in which her protagonist’s imagination runs wild, followed by the consequences of her realizing her dangerous dreams. A jarring twist at the end has the reader wondering who the good guys really are.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Murray mixes quite a bit of passion, a touch of treachery, and some good old-fashioned revenge.”

  —Library Journal

  “Keeps you at the edge of your seat until the last page.”

  —Urban Reviews Online

  “A topsy-turvy tale of passion on steroids.”

  —Essence

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  It is crazy that I would think something like this would never happen. Just wasn’t reasonable to believe that my mom, who was eighty-four and in failing health, would live forever.

  But that’s what I thought.

  And then, on September 24, 2017, reality paid me a visit.

  I’ve lost so many, but losing you, Mommie, has been the hardest. I haven’t yet figured out how to paste my heart back together, but because of who you were and who you raised me to be, I believe that I’ll be able to do it.

  I still cry and my heart still aches, but my soul sings because I know where you are. And at night when I close my eyes real tight, I can hear your whispers and feel your hugs.

  So this, my thirtieth novel, is dedicated to you, Jacqueline Christopher. The best mom on earth, who is now resting at your home in heaven.

  I will love you forever and I will continue to use the gifts that I was given and that you nurtured.

  God bless you, Mommie.

  1

  Keisha Jones

  My mama was a whore.

  Those words played in my mind as I stared at my mama’s photo, then pressed the picture frame against my che
st.

  My mama was a whore and that was what killed her.

  I held no judgment about how my mama lived. From the time I was a little girl, I knew Daisy Jones was a hustler, doing whatever she had to do to put a roof over us and food inside of us. So I could never judge a woman who took care of more than her business, she took care of her child.

  Daisy Jones was more than my mother, she was my mama, and there is a difference. It was my mama that I loved, not the woman who serviced men at the truck stop right off I-530.

  And anyway, what else was she supposed to do, having been born in White Haven, Arkansas, all the way back before the millennium became new? Not that I had any issues with my hometown or with 1977, the year my mama was born. It was just a fact that if you were a black girl with only a middle school education, your choices were limited to cleaning somebody’s house, frying somebody’s fish, or going for that higher hourly position turning tricks.

  My mama went for the dollars, and again, no judgment. Because if she hadn’t worked hard for that money, I would never have been born.

  Whatever she did, at least she worked until she couldn’t. At least she kept a roof over my head until now.

  Pulling the picture away from me, my fingers traced the outline of her jaw. If I closed my eyes again, I was sure I would be able to see her, feel her. Because she had just been here yesterday.

  I swept my fingers over the glass frame as if I were combing her hair. Her beautiful hair, which was poofed into an Afro, silver, even though she was only forty.

  I guess that was what a hard life did to you. Turned your outside old and your insides out before it was your time.

  “Keisha?”

  I faced the voice and the nurse standing in the doorway. She wore flowered scrubs again; today, they were blue. And she wore the same tight-lipped smile she’d been giving me all week. I gave that smile right back to her, even though I suspected hers was sincere. Mine was only proof that for everything Daisy had done wrong, she’d done her best to raise me right.

  “You good?” Nurse Burns asked me.

  Again, because I’d been raised right I didn’t tell Nurse Burns she’d just asked the stupidest question in the history of stupid questions. How could I be good when my mom had died less than three hours ago? So instead of cussing her out, I turned back to my mama’s bathrobe, which I’d just folded.

  While the nurse stood not saying a word, I reached for Mama’s comb and brush. Next, I went for the plastic case that held my mama’s dentures, but the nurse said, “Don’t take those.”

  I tilted my head. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with the teeth for the bottom left side of her mouth. I didn’t know if I wanted to keep them as some kind of memento that my mama had half a mouth of fake teeth—yeah, at forty.

  The nurse walked over to the table and handed me Mama’s toothbrush.

  Really? She didn’t want me to keep her teeth, but she was giving me her toothbrush?

  She said, “The administrator has some papers for you.”

  I wondered what kind of papers were needed for death.

  Nurse Burns must’ve seen the question on my face because she explained, “You have to sign where you want them to take your mother.”

  Take her? “What?” I frowned.

  “Which funeral home?” Her tone sounded like she thought I was slow. “I was thinking you wanted her over at Brown’s, but you have to sign the papers and tell them that.”

  I paused. “If I take her to Brown’s, won’t I have to give them some money?”

  She nodded and then she stared as if she were trying to figure me out. Well, it was my turn to explain some things to her. “I don’t have any money.”

  “You don’t have to use your own money. The insurance will take care of this.”

  For a second, I waited for her to laugh, and when she didn’t, I did. “My mama didn’t have no insurance. She didn’t even have medical insurance.”

  “What about relatives? Or your church? Surely there are people who will help bury your mother.”

  That only made me laugh harder. People who would help me? I guess since she didn’t live in White Haven, she didn’t know my life. “Look, I don’t have no money, I don’t have no insurance, I don’t have no friends. So the people here, they’re gonna have to bury her.”

  Her eyes widened. “No, Keisha, you don’t want to do that. You want to give your mother a proper burial. If you leave her here, and leave her to the state”—she lowered her eyes, shook her head—“you’ll never know what happened to her.”

  “I know what happened to her.” I paused. “She died.” And then, I went right back to doing what I’d been doing before the nurse interrupted me with this foolishness. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my mama—I loved her lots. But with her death, we had parted.

  Looking at my mama’s robe, I gathered the comb and brush, her dentures and toothbrush into the center. With the exception of a few things she’d left at home, this was all my mama had in the world.

  “Let me get you something to carry that out.”

  “Nah, I’ll carry everything in this.” I folded my mama’s worldly possessions inside the robe, then pressed the bundle to my chest.

  I nodded at the nurse, pursed my lips again into that tight smile, and walked past her.

  She said nothing until I was at the door. “Keisha, wait.”

  Turning, I faced her and stared as she held up the book in her hand. “You forgot this.”

  I started to shake my head, but one of the things I’d learned about Nurse Burns over the weeks of my visits to this hospice was that she was one of those pushy broads who kept talking until someone shut her up. So instead of saying what I wanted to say, I decided I could show her better than I could tell her.

  I tucked my mama’s bathrobe bundle under my arm, then took quick steps to Nurse Burns. My eyes were on hers when I grabbed Mama’s Bible and my eyes stayed locked with hers when I dumped the book into the trash next to where my mama had laid her head.

  Nurse Burns gasped, and stumbled back and away, like she thought lightning might be about to strike.

  I almost laughed, though I didn’t because I pitied her more than I found her funny. So I said, “Bye,” and turned.

  But when Nurse Burns called my name again, I whipped around. “What? I’m not taking the Bible.”

  She shook her head, swallowed, and pointed to the other picture that Mama had brought to the hospice with her. The picture that I always kept away from my glance.

  “What . . . what . . . about . . . this?” She sounded as if she were afraid of me now. As if my blasphemy might be contagious and it was an illness she didn’t want to catch.

  I was pissed, but I couldn’t take that out on Nurse Burns. How would she know that photo wasn’t really a photo, but a dagger that sliced my heart?

  I shook my head, but then, Nurse Burns got her groove back. Because even though I’d threatened her life by tossing that Bible into the trash, she still lifted the picture and held it toward me. She was doing that pushy thing again, and now, because she hadn’t left it alone, she was ’bout to get her feelings hurt—again.

  That meant I had to walk across the room once more, though this time, I didn’t look at Nurse Burns. My glance was somewhere over her shoulder, looking out the window—my insurance that my eyes wouldn’t drop to the picture by accident.

  I grabbed the frame, and with my gaze still somewhere on the horizon, I tossed the picture to the right.

  My aim was great. The photo landed with a thump. Right on top of the Bible. Right in the trash, where they both belonged.

  Again, Nurse Burns gasped, but this time there was more sadness than shock in her sound. And this time, when I walked to the door, I made my way all the way through because Nurse Burns didn’t have another word to say to me.

  2

  Gabrielle Wilson Flores

  Mommy, I finished my cereal and I’m ready to go.”

  I looked up from where I sat at th
e edge of my bed, trying to squeeze my foot into this gorgeous new black pump with a metallic heel that I’d been dying to wear since I’d made this fabulous purchase at an end-of-season sale last February.

  But I forgot all about my shoes when I took in the sight of my daughter. I wasn’t sure if I should cry out in horror or if I should bust out laughing. The way the snickers began to rise up, told me which emotion was winning.

  It wasn’t that Bella had done all that bad of a job. By themselves, the green tights would have worked . . . without her pink tutu, red-striped hat, and black patent leather Mary Janes. And on any day walking down a Los Angeles street, I was likely to see someone four times Bella’s age wearing the same thing.

  But while her clothes worked in LA, they wouldn’t work at her Beverly Hills preschool. “Bella, sweetheart . . . what happened to the clothes that I laid out on your bed?”

  She bounced into the room. “I wanna wear this instead.”

  “Babe,” Mauricio began as he burst into our bedroom from his closet in the master bath. “I need help with this tie. Can you . . .” He paused as he took in our daughter. “Oh, Bella. You look . . . lovely.”

  “Thank you, Daddy.” She scooted onto our bed.

  I gave my husband a hard side-eye. Now what was I going to do? As soon as I told Bella she had to change, she would call on the name of her father. She would cry and tell me her daddy said she looked . . . lovely. I took a deep breath. It would serve him right if I made him take her to school wearing that circus attire.

  “You gonna help me, babe?” Mauricio said, turning his attention to me.

  I stood and hobbled over to him since I was wearing only one four-inch shoe. I grabbed the end of the tie and resisted the urge to wrap it around his neck and pull—my revenge for the position he’d put me in with our five-year-old.

  But it was standing in front of him that made my distress fade away. Because this Latin flame still set my heart (and other parts of me) on fire. He was so hot, blazing even more now than he’d been when I married him six years ago.