In My Sister's House Read online

  Praise for THE BACHELORETTE PARTY

  “Don Welch must have really studied ‘sistahs.’ I mean, how else could he be so on target when it comes to how we interact? He put his foot in this one … or at least in somebody’s high heel!”

  —Vanessa Bell Calloway, actress

  “You will laugh, cry, and celebrate while connecting with this story of irreplaceable friendships, personal transformation, and the flip side of love. An enlightening and very enjoyable read.”

  —Hill Harper, actor and author of Letters to a Young Brother

  “This story really grabs you and never lets go until the very last line. Readers will get so involved that they will do everything but get up and testify: ‘OH YES!’” —Loretta Devine, actress

  “The writing is SUPERB! … The biggest laugh and cry I have had in a long time.” —Freda Payne, singer

  “Don’s writing brings to life the diversity of women’s issues with honesty and emotion.” —Kenny Lattimore, singer

  “The Bachelorette Party convinced me that Don Welch bugged the ladies’ room and has been listening to all our dirt for years.”

  —Anna Maria Horsford, actress

  “The Bachelorette Party is a wild ride on the secret side of what we ladies laugh about, cry about, try to hide from our friends … and even at times ourselves! The stage play is a must see…. this book, a must read!”

  —Dawnn Lewis, actress, singer, composer, producer

  “Don’s writing is that of a fly on the wall in a group therapy session hearing firsthand details with nothing left out.”

  —Fred Thomas, Jr., director, filmmaker

  ALSO BY DONALD WELCH

  The Bachelorette Party

  To my mother, Gloria Welch Pollitt,

  who continues to stand strong and

  steadfast with her love and support

  of all that I do

  Dear Readers,

  Boy, how time flies. Seems like it was just yesterday that I sat down and began writing my first novel, The Bachelorette Party. I was excited, nervous, scared, and happy all at once. But I got through it with the support and love of so many of you, and God’s ever-present grace. As a write this, I am listening to the great Aretha soar through the gospel hymn “God Will Take Care of You,” from her landmark Amazing Grace album, reminding me that Aretha possesses possibly one of the greatest voices ever given to a woman, and that God truly does take care of all of us.

  A lot has happened since The Bachelorette Party was published. Not only has my faith been strengthened immensely, but America elected its first African American president. As pleased as I am personally that this has come to pass, I could not be more elated that it happened in my mother’s lifetime. She migrated to Philadelphia from the South many years ago, and lived through Jim Crow. On the night of the presidential election she called me as they announced that Obama was the winner. My mother said she had gotten out of bed and was running around in circles in her bedroom, wildly clapping and flapping her arms in joyous glee that “the Lord had moved.” (Christians will know what I mean by that [smile].) There was nothing better than sharing that precious moment in American history with my mom.

  And that sense of family and love brings me to In My Sister’s House. In this novel, I wanted to show the importance of family, friends, and lovers and their impact on our lives. Even though life has many trials, tribulations, and ups and downs, at the end of the day, what really matters is love and support. Isn’t that what we all want? I am ecstatic with how this story turned out. The characters are as real as the day is long. Some are outlandish and unforgettable, others, colorful and unpredictable. But I hope you find them all familiar nonetheless.

  I also have great news to share. I am still in love! Yes, I wake up each day in love with my life, my career, the people close to me, and God. Now if I could only find someone to share it all with (smile). But the future remains bright: I have a slew of new projects on the table—stage plays, TV and film projects—and I know there are more novels in me. So you’ll soon hear more great news and receive blessings from Don B. Welch.

  To the countless fans—old and new—book clubs, friends, and family around the country, thank you so much for traveling on this journey with me. I don’t take any of you for granted.

  Now sit back and relax with your favorite snack while you laugh, cry, and hopefully are entertained by In My Sister’s House.

  With all that life brings us, “be not dismayed, God will take care of you.”

  Donald

  < PROLOGUE >

  Time in a Bottle

  Philadelphia County Jail for Women

  An agitated Storm paced the floor of the visiting area at the Philadelphia County Jail for Women. Her red eyes were puffy and swollen from crying and lack of sleep, and her one-piece orange uniform hung loosely on her small frame. Her unflattering white slip-on sneakers were too big for her, and she had to make a conscious effort to keep them on because the powers that be didn’t allow shoestrings in case an inmate tried to hang herself or strangle someone else. Her attorney was late and Storm was pissed! Her hair was pulled back into one single braid held together by a dirty rubber band. She undid it and smoothed her hair back neatly. Her long hair was her pride and joy. And it was all hers.

  Wasn’t nothing fake about Storm Morrison. She never understood how women could get cheap weaves. She believed you should either wear your own hair, no matter how short it was, or get a good weave. And if you can go to the corner store and buy a Pepsi and a bag of hair, then you aren’t getting a good weave. That shit was crazy to her: A headful of hair from some bitch in Indonesia on a bitch’s head from the hood.

  She looked down at her hands. The clear pink shade of polish she had favored since her college days had either faded or been eaten away by her nervous energy. A manicure was definitely in order.

  Catching her reflection in the Plexiglas window that separated inmates from freedom, Storm knew her appearance was not on point. She was a far cry from the chick once heralded as Philly’s “baddest-dressing bitch in stilettos.”

  Although too short to runway model, print work was readily available to her. Talent scouts from KING magazine and SMOOTH begged her for photo spreads. Her knockout body boasted two perfectly shaped breasts, a set of legs to die for, and an ass known to make a man’s eyes water when she passed him on the street. She turned all the magazines down, saying, “When you niggas pay what the white people pay for Playboy and Hustler, maybe. Until then, fuck no!”

  But not today. Today she wouldn’t even be considered for a JET centerfold. But all that would change. As soon as I get the fuck out of here.

  Once her attorney, Clara Bow, was seated and picked up the phone receiver, Storm lashed into her. “My preliminary hearing was supposed to be weeks ago. What the hell is going on?”

  “I asked for more time to build your case. It didn’t happen overnight, Storm.”

  “I don’t give a fuck, MISS CLARA BOW! I’ve called your office time after time and you have not returned my calls. And who names their kid a stupid-ass name like Clara Bow anyway?” Storm’s eyes bulged larger, and her nostrils flared to resemble the tip of a loaded .45 ready to go off any second.

  “I was named after my mother’s favorite actress.” Attempting to calm Storm down, Bow explained, “I have not ignored your calls. If I remember correctly, you told me not to bother you with particulars, that you would rather know for sure what our plan of defense would be. I had to wait for the formal charges from the DA.” She gave Storm a moment and then continued. “But I do have some good news. After weighing all the evidence, or lack thereof, the DA was sympathetic to your case and has agreed to reduce the charge to involuntary manslaughter. I think—”

>   “What does that mean?” Storm cut in.

  “If you plead ‘No Contest,’ he’ll ask the judge to reduce the charge to involuntary manslaughter. There isn’t sufficient evidence to support intent on either one of the charges. With an involuntary charge, you’ll get no more than three years, which you will start serving immediately. Stay out of trouble, you’ll do half. Hell, Storm, you already have sixty days served. You’ll be out in less than eighteen months.”

  “Bitch, are you crazy?! I couldn’t do that! Do you have any idea what kind of hell I’ve been through in this pig hole? Huh?” Storm shouted loudly enough to prompt the female guard on watch to step forward and tell her to lower her voice or her visit would be cut short, attorney privilege or no attorney privilege.

  Looking over her shoulder Storm rolled her eyes and continued talking to Clara. But before she got a word out, Clara reprimanded her. “We’re going to stop the name-calling. I have never allowed a client to call me out of my name in the seventeen years I have been practicing law and I refuse to start today. Now I know you’re upset, but I am doing the best that I can, as quickly and as effectively as I can. If the day arises that you feel that I’m not, then perhaps we need to have a discussion on my resigning as your attorney. Am I clear?” Clara glared.

  Storm paused. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just frustrated at this whole thing. What other options do I have?”

  “We go to a jury trial, which could take up to a year. And they could try you for second-degree murder, which carries a mandatory fifteen to life. As I told you before, Pennsylvania is a no-bail state for murder charges. Look, take the deal, Storm. We won’t do any better.”

  As tears welled up in her eyes, Storm pleaded, “But I’m innocent and you know it!”

  “Yes, I do. But my job was to have everyone else believe it, too, and I couldn’t do that with the material I have.”

  Two days later, Storm found herself dressed in a two-piece burgundy suit, a lilac blouse, and conservative pumps, with just a hint of makeup, looking older than her twenty-six years. It was not her choice of suit, not at all her style, but when her attorney suggested that Storm needed to come to her arraignment with a subdued appearance, she knew that there was nothing in her closet at home quite appropriate for the occasion. Storm caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror as she was being led into court by two burly female guards, and was reminded of the scene from the movie Monster in which Aileen Wournos, a prostitute–serial killer, is led into court for her sentencing. Difference is I’m no prostitute, and I damn sure ain’t nobody’s killer, Storm thought to herself.

  As she approached the table where her lawyer stood, Storm noticed that her family was there. Her father, Dutch, looked at her with weary, sleepless eyes, seeming as if he had aged overnight. Feeling responsible, Storm glanced at him and gave him a slight smile before dropping her eyes in shame. Nettie, a family friend who worked at the restaurant, waved at her. Standing at the very end of the row with a solemn expression on her face was Skylar, Storm’s twin sister.

  “Your Honor, the defendant is willing to plead guilty to an amended count of involuntary manslaughter,” Clara Bow said. “We’ve agreed to a three-year sentence in state prison. The sixty days she has served in county would be credited to the overall sentence.” After the lawyer spoke, Dutch’s shoulders slumped and his legs looked like they’d give out on him any second.

  Looking through a pair of half-rim glasses barely clinging to the bridge of his nose, Judge Randell Reinhart shuffled through the paperwork at his bench. “Miss Morrison, do you understand that this conviction could be used against you in any future violation or convictions, resulting in additional time attached to your sentence?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Upon completion of your sentence, you will be on a five-year probation, and during that time, you will not be able to vote in any election or leave the country without authorization. Do you understand these terms?”

  Vote!? Who the hell cares about voting? Obama is already in office. What really pissed Storm off was that she wouldn’t be able to go to her favorite vacation spot in the Cayman Islands for five years after getting out of this joint. “Yes, Your Honor,” Storm answered.

  “Therefore, Miss Morrison, for your conviction in count one, the court sentences you to three years in Muncy State Prison for Women, with a credit of sixty days already served. Good luck to you, young lady. And may I say that I hope this unfortunate event has turned your life around.” The judge banged his gavel so hard that his glasses fell off completely.

  < ONE >

  When I Think of Home, I Think of a Place

  Storm had long ago decided not to call anyone to come pick her up on the day she was released. No, she needed to make this journey back into society the same way she left it three years ago, by herself! Besides, the one thing she didn’t want or need was pity from anyone, especially Skylar.

  The smell on the prison bus was a familiar one. Although it had been three years since she was last on one, it was just as she remembered: funky and stale with a mixture of recognizable scents, like cheap perfume, cigarettes, body funk—life and death. But all that didn’t matter now. She was on her way out of this cage.

  There were only ten people on the bus including her, but Storm chose a seat in the back by herself. She didn’t know any of the other girls getting released anyway. None of them were from her cellblock. Besides she needed this time to think about all she had to do when she got home. Home. Do I even have a home anymore?

  Storm had plans and they were already in motion. First, she needed to find a job. Sidney, Skylar’s man, had assured her there would be a job at the club for her if she wanted to work there. She had never met Sidney, but felt she knew a little about him. He was usually the one who accepted her collect calls from the prison. Over the years, they had had lengthy conversations. Skylar was usually too busy, or not there when the calls came through, and when the two sisters did manage to speak on the phone, they seemed like strangers. Storm heard that Skylar had turned Morrison’s, the family restaurant, into some type of nightclub. Things are going to be real different back home.

  < TWO >

  Get Here if You Can

  “So, do yourself a favor and stop by Legends for an unforgettable evening of sheer entertainment, dancing, and the finest in Southern cuisine.” A tear formed in Skylar’s eyes as she read aloud the ending of the review that Philadelphia magazine had given her very popular nightspot. She had worked her ass off this past year trying to make Legends the number one spot for entertainment in the Philadelphia club scene. The two-storey burgundy-and amber-colored brick building almost appeared out of place, nestled among a string of neatly adjoined row homes and positioned proudly on a corner in the working-class community. The fact that Philadelphia magazine had done a feature story and review on an African American business was a rare accomplishment—and rarer still, it was a positive review. But there it was, in black-and-white—a glowing review and profile ranking Legends number one.

  Although Legends catered to an affluent, sophisticated crowd, its atmosphere was elegant, not bourgeois. Everyone felt at home here. Exquisite artwork by such noted artists as Jacob Lawrence, Romare Bearden, and Annie Lee adorned the walls. There was also a special rich royal blue tribute wall where eight-by-ten black-and-white portraits of legendary black entertainers of yesteryear, like Lena Horne, Ella Fitzgerald, Johnny Mathis, Sidney Poitier, and Dorothy Dandridge, hung in gold-colored picture frames. It was a conversation piece among the guests dining and dancing the night away. So much so, Skylar was planning to add to it and highlight legendary artists of today, like Whitney Houston, Beyoncé, Usher, Mary J. Blige, and Sade.

  Looking at all she had accomplished, her mind went back to when she was a child. Dutch had been head chef at Morrison’s, and people came from far and wide to savor his food. As it became more successful, everyone encouraged him to expand. But he always politely declined, convinced that the restaurant wo
uld lose the down-home family feel that he and Lady had dreamed of and created, even if it meant that periodically there were lines of people outside waiting for seats. After a difficult pregnancy, Lady lost her life during childbirth, and Dutch doted on his two baby girls from the start—they were the only family he had left aside from his regular customers— showering Skylar and Storm with more love and attention than any father could ever give his daughters. And now he was gone.

  Roebuck Cicero Morrison, a retired navy man, worked as a short-order cook during his time in the service. He opened Morrison’s Family Restaurant back in 1979 after marrying his longtime high school sweetheart, Barbara Evans. From the moment they laid eyes on each other in Spanish class at Ben Franklin High in Philly, there was no doubt they would be together forever. When Dutch enlisted in the Navy, Barbara enrolled at Cheyney University and promised to wait for him. Dutch called Barbara the love of his life and she reciprocated the feelings. Because they were complete opposites, no one really expected their romance to last, and some even passed it off as puppy love. He was laid-back, quiet, and gentle. She was eccentric, controlling, and what some deemed “a little off.” But none of this bothered Dutch, not even Barbara’s decision to change their names—especially his, because she couldn’t for the life of her understand why someone would name their child Roebuck. She became Lady and he became Dutch. Together they purchased the building at 1625 South Street during a period of aggressive gentrification in South Philly.

  Skylar’s tears of joy over the review now turned into tears of sadness for her father. How she wished he had lived long enough to see her follow in his footsteps and become so successful in this business. When he decided to retire, his goal was to sell the place, but when she approached him with the idea of keeping it in the family by allowing her to open up a nightclub, he didn’t hesitate to say anything but “Yes!” Hence, Legends was born. Thank God for Sidney, her fiancé and best friend. She couldn’t imagine the past few years without him. And yet she still felt lonely at times. Not because Storm had been incarcerated for the past three years—they were never close anyway.