The Bachelorette Party Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue Daydreaming

  Chapter One: I Can See Clearly Now

  Chapter Two: You Drive Me Crazy

  Chapter Three: I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar

  Chapter Four: Sing a Song

  Chapter Five: Memories Light the Corner of My Mind

  Chapter Six: Do You Think I’m Sexy?

  Chapter Seven: You Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’?

  Chapter Eight: I Sing Because I’m Happy; I Sing Because I’m Free

  Chapter Nine: Get Here if You Can

  Chapter Ten: Stranger in My House

  Chapter Eleven: Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

  Chapter Twelve: Hurricane

  Chapter Thirteen: Someone to Watch Over Me

  Chapter Fourteen: The Breakthrough

  Epilogue: A New Day

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Advance Praise for The Bachelorette Party

  Copyright

  To my mother, Gloria Welch Pollitt,

  and in memory of my grandmother

  Mary Welch (“Momma”).

  I am the man I am because of

  your unconditional love.

  Author’s Note

  Dear Readers:

  As a man I don’t profess to have some deep insight into the female psyche, but I’ve been told that I have an innate ability to listen, really listen, to what women have to say—something a lot of my “brothahs” don’t do. The women you will read about in this novel are no strangers to me. I know them and am convinced you do too. They are our sisters, friends, lovers, and family.

  The Bachelorette Party is based on my hit stage play of the same name. After performances, women would come up to me and tell me that they saw themselves or knew people who represented the characters in my play. Word of mouth caused news of the play to spread like wildfire and more than seventy-five performances later, I’m pleased to share with you my first novel.

  Writing my first novel was both a wonderful and painstaking process. It gave me an opportunity to expand upon characters who became so dear to my heart. While the play took place on one night, Nicole’s bachelorette party, with the novel I was able to show these women’s backgrounds and give you a glimpse into their childhood, teenage years, and up through their present, including the aftermath of the bachlorette party. I was able to inject more humor, more drama, and even more sisterhood into a story that I hope will linger with your spirit long after you finish reading the last page.

  I began writing this novel in the middle of two national tours of my stage plays, all the while heading up my production company, Don B. Welch Productions, and through this process, I’ve found that writing can sometimes be a lonely craft, separating the writer from family, friends, and lovers, sometimes for days and weeks on end. But I am smart enough to know that without all of the above, this book would not be possible. For this I am both thankful and grateful.

  My profound love and respect for women, especially black women, is unquestionable. Their beauty, strength, and undying love has cradled me from infancy to adulthood. My mother and grandmother not only showered my brother, Vernon, and me with unconditional love, but also everyone else they knew. My grandmother—“Momma” as we all called her—was a 5'2" black woman from the South who migrated to the Philadelphia area in the 1940’s, with two children and no more than a third-grade education. Despite her lack of formal education, she was one of the smartest and most self-sufficient women I’ve ever known. Many times throughout my childhood, college years, and adulthood I would seek my grandmother’s and my mom’s advice on life and love, and before making tough decisions. When you are constantly told that you can be anything or go anywhere in this world without fear as long as you have the love of God in your heart—well that is some powerful stuff. “Momma” is gone now, but on occasion I find myself still talking to her and seeking advice. I’m blessed to still have my mother and we are best friends.

  With so many negative stereotypical images of black women constantly being displayed on screen, stage, and in books, I hope that The Bachelorette Party is a welcome change. Sure it’s peppered with adult language and situations, and the ladies might display “home girl” attitudes at times, but look closely, and you’ll see a group of smart, intelligent, beautiful, loyal, and sexy black women—all different, but in the end, all the same. They live hard, love hard, laugh hard, play hard, and cry hard. But through it all, their strength prevails.

  So there you have it, my friends. This is the first of what I hope are many novels to come. My baby: The Bachelorette Party. And remember: The day you stop dreaming you might as well stop breathing.

  Living my life like it’s golden,

  Donald Welch

  PROLOGUE

  Daydreaming

  STANDING IN HER wedding dress, Nicole Lawson caught her reflection in the glass doors of the church, and for the very first time in her life she truly knew what beautiful felt like. Everything about the day was beautiful. Yes, she thought, including me. She started to cry.

  “You all right, baby girl?” her father’s soothing voice whispered in her ear.

  Nicole was too overcome with emotion to respond.

  “Baby, you ready?”

  “Huh? Oh, sorry, Daddy. Yes, of course I’m ready.”

  Was she ever.

  As she walked down the aisle, she couldn’t help but admire her sisterfriends lined up so pretty and regal, smiling at her through her veil. They had been through so much together. Most groups of friends like them hung for a while, and then through the years a few dropped off here and there. But not them: Freda, Denise, Valerie, Keisha, Zenora, Renee, Mira, and Tisha—all her girls.

  Wait! Why was Keisha holding her goddaughter Kimmy? Of course, Tisha was late again. Damn, Tish, even on my wedding day? Nicole thought. Tisha Grant was chronically late for everything. Now I’m pissed. She promised me that today, of all days, she’d be on time.

  Music interrupted Nicole’s brief flash of anger. Miss Landis, the church musical director, played the organ music as Freda made her way to the microphone.

  Freda began to sing “All In Love Is Fair,” and her voice was in rare form. Sing it!

  Nicole’s legs turned to rubber. “Daddy, hold me up, okay?”

  “I got you, baby girl,” he whispered. He then chuckled and said, “No time to get cold feet now. Alan is waiting for you.”

  Despite her anxiety, Nicole noticed the wonderful job her mother and the wedding coordinator had done. Gladioli and lilies, her favorite flowers, filled the church with their scent. Candles were arranged at the altar in a half-moon pattern adding to the tranquil mood. Nicole and her mother had pored over every bride and wedding publication on the magazine stands for suggestions on selecting the “perfect” gown and decorations. The entire sanctuary went beyond Nicole’s expectations, and she wanted to keep a picture of it in her memory forever.

  Something drew Nicole’s attention to the leftmost back pews. She was surprised to see Tisha sitting completely alone. Through her veil, Nicole attempted to signal Tisha to join the other bridesmaids before she made her march down the aisle, but Tisha didn’t budge.

  I’ll deal with her lateness at another time. But not now. Not on my beautiful day.

  With tears in her eyes and an angelic smile, Tisha looked her way and mouthed the words, I love you.

  If Tisha could have seen Nicole’s expression under the veil, she’d know that Nicole was rolling her eyes.

  Nicole and her father began their slow march, and all eyes turned their way. Nicole could feel her father’s pride as she leaned on his arm.

  She noti
ced that Mrs. Ward, the mother of her childhood friend Adrienne, had come. It had been years since Nicole had last seen Mrs. Ward, whose hair was now white as cotton. Thoughts of Adrienne came to her. They’d promised to be in each other’s weddings, but that wasn’t to be. Nicole still missed her childhood friend and hoped that Adrienne was looking down on her from above. A familiar-looking young girl sat with Mrs. Ward. Perhaps it was her niece, who looked about twelve or thirteen, the same age as Adrienne when she passed away.

  Yes, everything looked absolutely beautiful. It was the happiest day of Nicole’s life. She was even willing to forgive Tisha for being late. At least she’s here. Thank goodness Roland, that bastard of a husband of hers, didn’t come. Nicole was surprised that Roland even let Tisha go anywhere without him. How she ended up with him, Nicole could never figure out. Once she believed Tisha was the most cautious out of all the girls as far as men. Tisha had a good track record for choosing decent brothas, but that all changed when she met Roland. None of them liked him very much, but Nicole tolerated him because he was her girl’s man, and her goddaughter’s father. Otherwise, Nicole had little use for Roland, and he didn’t hesitate to return the sentiment.

  Okay, enough of that, Nicole Lawson; it’s your day.

  Alan patiently stood at the altar next to his best man and cousin, Pete, who looked as nervous as she felt.

  This is it! The day I’ve waited for all my life.

  Nicole and her father reached the pulpit. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, whispered he loved her, and joined her mother in the front row.

  Alan took Nicole’s hand, and they turned toward Reverend Roberts. He smiled, opened his hymnal, and began to announce their vows.

  Ring! Ring!

  Nicole couldn’t believe it. Someone’s cell phone was going off. She immediately assumed it was Keisha because she never went anywhere without her cell phone. Nicole cut an angry stare her way, and Keisha threw back one of her own hard looks that read, Bitch, it’s not mine. So there!

  RING!

  This time it was even louder. Nicole decided that she would personally kill the owner of that damn phone.

  Ring!

  No one was scurrying to turn off the cell.

  Ring!

  “Will somebody answer that!” Nicole shouted.

  Hello, who is this? Who?

  “It’s Rocky, Miss Girl. Where are you at, diva?”

  One

  I Can See Clearly Now

  NICOLE WOKE from her dream, her beautiful dream. Rocky was calling from Zenora’s salon. Oh, shit. I overslept, she thought. What time is it?

  “It’s ten fifteen, Nicole. Your appointment was—”

  Nicole cut Rocky off before he finished, “Ten o’clock. I know. Tell Z I’ll be there in twenty. Okay, gotta go.”

  In three moves, Nicole hung up, sprang out of bed, and jumped in the shower. Her head was killing her. What the hell was that dream about? Jesus! Nerves must have gotten the best of me before my wedding day tomorrow, Nicole thought to herself. Is that alarm clock working? As the hot water cascaded down her face and body, she glanced at her feet. “Oh, shit!” she yelled. She forgot to add a pedicure to today’s appointment.

  She ran into her large walk-in closet, which housed more than 250 pairs of shoes and enough clothes (some with tags still on them) to open a small boutique. Nicole’s shoes were arranged neatly on wooden racks, and her clothes were hung according to season and color. She quickly grabbed her favorite Gap jeans and paired it with a Roberto Cavalli jacket. She may be late, but she was going to be fierce.

  THE DRIVE TO ZENORA’S was quick, and all the traffic lights worked in Nicole’s favor. Nicole couldn’t stop analyzing that dream. Why was Tisha late for the ceremony and sitting in the corner of the church? Why was Keisha holding Kimmy? Her mind searched for some type of explanation.

  Nicole had almost reached the shop when her cell rang, but she didn’t answer it, because she figured it was probably Zenora ready to curse her out for being late and for not taking her suggestion to make the appointment on Thursday. Going to a black salon on Friday or Saturday, no matter how early you got there, usually turned into an all-day affair.

  Luckily, Nicole found a parking space right in front of the shop. She prepared herself to apologize to Z for her lateness and plead with her for a pedicure on the busiest day at the salon, hoping Z would be sympathetic.

  Nicole rushed through the front door and was greeted by Marcella, Zenora’s receptionist, who was seated behind a fuchsia-and-white counter that reflected the décor of the salon. Activity was bustling at every station. Marcella smiled and said, “Hello, Nicole.” Nicole returned the greeting as Marcella checked her in by first bringing up her data on the salon’s computer database, including operator, treatment, and appointment. She then handed Nicole a fuchsia-colored smock and escorted her to a changing area.

  Nicole looked around, proud of all her girl had accomplished. Everything Zenora touched turned to gold, and this salon was evidence of that. Women were pampered at Zenora’s like you wouldn’t believe. Z’s staff of fourteen attended to their clients’ every need. Weaves, braids, more weaves, shampoos, more weaves, color and tint jobs, perms, manicures, facials, and more weaves!

  There were eight stations and a luxurious waiting area near the receptionist’s desk. Each station was adorned with professional artwork. Hardwood floors gave the salon a showroom flourish.

  Those scheduled for facials and waxings were escorted to a private room for service. Behind the desk display cases offered top-of-the-line beauty products, from mink eyelashes to luxury foot cream to a new line that Z imported from Italy, which was bringing in even more clients just for the products. Nicole blushed as she thought of the imported lemon bath gel—it drove Alan wild when they showered together with it.

  There was only one thing Z didn’t tolerate, and that was lateness. If a client was more than ten minutes late for an appointment, she might as well forget it and reschedule her appointment for a future date, because each stylist was instructed to move on to the next client. No excuses. No exceptions.

  The last time Nicole was in, a mother had arrived late with her seventeen-year-old daughter, who needed a hairdo for that evening’s prom. Her appointment with Rocky was scheduled for 9:15 a.m. They arrived at 9:26 a.m. The teenager wanted microbraids, which could take as long as eight to nine hours to complete. Noticing the client had not arrived at 9:25 a.m., Rocky shouted, “Any walk-ins? Next!” Just like that, the chair was occupied. A minute later, the door swung open and the two ladies came rushing in. When the women saw somebody else in Rocky’s chair, the mother screamed like somebody had just died. You’d think that all the activity in the shop would come to a complete halt. Not at Zenora’s. Everyone continued whatever they were doing, knowing full well it was merely some poor soul late for her appointment.

  Feeling bad for the teenager, Nicole went over to Rocky to make a plea.

  “Rocky, it’s her prom. C’mon, look at her. She’s all upset. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime event for a young woman. She’s crying.”

  Without even a slight glance at either mother or daughter, Rocky said, “I guess so. It’s cryin’ time! Miss Thing knows that we don’t play that shit in here. I spoke with her yesterday when she stopped by to confirm and reminded her about her appointment and our policy. I told her it would probably be in her best interest to arrive fifteen minutes earlier than her scheduled time. She played it off, waving me down with her hand and rolling her eyes, saying ‘Chile, don’t worry, we’ll be here.’ So I don’t want to hear that crap!”

  Defeated, the mother started to attack Rocky, who continued chewing his gum and prepping his next client. She spoke loud enough for Rocky and everyone in the reception area to hear: “We only came here in the first place because he was our last resort. He’s not that good at braiding damn hair anyway.” As she made her exit, she sneered, “Faggot!”

  Time stood still: Everything and everyone in the shop came to a complet
e halt. It even seemed like the Whitney Houston song on the CD player stopped midway.

  Rocky excused himself from his client and calmly walked over to the pair. He leaned toward the mother with a hard stare and then whispered something in her ear. When he finished, the woman looked at him with a terrified expression and, without saying a word, shot out the door like a cannon. Rocky smoothed the bottom of his smock and, with the grace of a ballerina, floated back over to his station. The intrusion was over and everything resumed like clockwork: conversations, the sound of hair dryers, running water, even Miss Whitney finished her new song.

  Nicole later asked Z what Rocky had said to the woman.

  Z laughed and said, “He told her ‘Bitch, I will run this flat iron so far up your ass that the cherry you thought you lost seventeen years ago when you had that ugly-ass daughter of yours will fly out yo’ nose like a red boogie! And furthermore, Mommy, try asking your husband how well I braid hair, because when I was on his back and he was facedown in my pillow whimpering like a newborn kitten, I noticed how masterful my skills were!”

  Whew! Rocky didn’t waste words.

  BUT TODAY IT WAS Nicole who was late. I might as well get it over with, Nicole thought. No lies, just go in, tell her what happened, and pray that this one time she will forgive me and let me in the chair. Nicole didn’t take for granted the fact that Z had been her girl since high school, because sister girl had made it very clear on past occasions that she didn’t mix business and friends. Friend or no friend, there were two things you didn’t fuck with when it came to Zenora: her business and her men. She’d say, “Black people need to be retrained. How many times have we sat at a concert or movie theater and it does not start on time, or if it does, some of our ‘cousins’ will sashay in fifteen or twenty minutes late and be loud about it?”

  Nicole hoped she could catch a break because Z was on the phone, and her chair was still empty. Z approached her station without saying a word and motioned with her hand for Nicole to sit in the chair, all the while rolling her eyes. Nicole chuckled to herself, got seated, and prepared to receive the dressing down she had coming to her. She could tell by the tone of Zenora’s conversation that she was talking to one of her many chulos.