reading

Things Every Good Woman Should Know: Volume 1

The reproduction, transmission, or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system is forbidden without written permission, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Printed in the United States

Put It In Writing
274 North Parkway
Memphis, TN 38105

This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the story a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places and incidents is entirely coincidental.

ISBN:9781483531755

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my mother, Lillie Marshall,

and my grandmother, Mae Marshall. They are no longer

on this earth but their presence is always felt. The sage

advice of these two women continues to guide me.

Thank you for showing me in word and deed what

being a good woman means. I love you and miss you

madly.

ACKNOWLDEGMENTS

This is my fourth book and my first book of short stories. I am very excited about its release and I appreciate everyone who has helped to make this possible. A special thank you to my editor, Alanna Boutin. You help keep me from making the same mistakes repeatedly. Thank you to my friends Tracy Robinson, Rachelle Butler and Esther Crain-Holden and my cousin, Faith Marshall, for your honest critiques and assistance. To the rest of my family, I love you and I appreciate your loving and supporting me in return. To my church family, Olivet Fellowship Baptist Church and my pastor, Dr. Eugene Gibson, Jr., it is your spiritual nourishment and real-life applicable teachings that help keep me equipped to do the same through my writing. Thank you to my readers and the book clubs who have given me their support and feedback. Please keep it coming. You help make me a better author. Thank you to all the people on my publicity team. Let's take this one worldwide! Last, but certainly not least, thank you to my Heavenly Father from who all blessings flow. I am humbled, grateful, and honored that you chose me to be a vessel for your word.

FOREWORD

I'm sure that you are asking yourself as I once did, "What is a good woman?" The answer is sure to elicit several different answers, each from the unique perspective of the giver. Yet, one cannot argue that there are certain attributes that most certainly accompany the words "good woman." The simplest definition I have found is a woman after God's own heart; a woman who tries to live according to God's word, not only for the benefit of herself but those around her. Being good doesn't mean being perfect. None of us can get it right all the time. It merely means that we try, and when we lose our way, we are open to correction.

The I'm a Good Woman series is my attempt to offer some advice before one of my sisters veers off the positive path. I've learned through trial and error that, more often than not, life is simpler and more peaceful when we do the right thing. Wisdom definitely comes with age, and the mistakes I made in my youthful folly have impacted the years that followed. Each one of my stories is accompanied by what I call "moral messaging" or a lesson learned. I hope you enjoy the lessons each of my characters learn, but better yet, I hope something that is said impacts your life in a positive way. Love yourself enough to do the right thing.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

You Are Beautiful

Take Care of Those You Love

Sex Is More Than Just Sex

Mentorship Is Mandatory

Success Is the Best Revenge

You Reap What You Sow

You Are Beautiful

God has made everything beautiful in its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God's work from beginning to end—Ecclesiastes 3:11

It's funny how people can be closely related and look almost nothing alike. I have two sisters. All three of us are attractive, but we have virtually no physical similarities. My oldest sister, Vanessa, is 26. She has been what brothers label as "thick" her entire life. She's got "Proud Mary" thighs, childbearing hips, an out-to-there derriere, and voluptuous breasts. Her curves were always her ticket to getting almost anything she wanted from a man. Now, after two kids and a failed marriage, all Vanessa does is complain about how fat she is and how she wishes she could lose weight and make more money. Let's not forget about her no-good, trifling baby daddy, Darryl. She's basically raising her and Darryl's two children, who are now ages 7 and 9, on her own. Darryl sends sporadic child support checks and spends time with them occasionally; but that's all he does.

Now, my middle sister, Tasha, is 5 feet tall and 98 pounds soaking wet. She's also 24, but looks like she's in junior high. She's as cute as a button, but hates that she is so little. I guess at some point I would get tired of high school boys hitting on me too. She and her built-like-a-linebacker boyfriend, Reggie, make an odd couple, but he loves him some Tasha and spoils her rotten.

They are currently engaged but haven't set a date for the wedding. Tasha wants both of her sisters as her maids of honor, but our unhappy older sister says there's no way Tasha's putting her on display in some dress she's sure will be ugly. That's Vanessa. Even on our sister's wedding day, it's got to be about her.

I'm extremely proud of Tasha, and I will be there right by her side, beaming with pride. Tasha is also an entrepreneur. She has a fashion boutique that caters specifically to petite women, like herself. It's called The Perfect Fit, and nothing in her store is above a size 7. I am 5 foot 9, so I can't wear a thing in there but the shirts. I tried on a suit once, and the arms of the jacket stopped before they reached my wrists. The pants looked like ankle beaters!

Then there's me, Dawn. I'm the youngest of the Williams sisters. Now, the only thing thick about me is my skin. As a kid, I was crackhead-thin. The kids at my school teased me unmercifully. I was called "Olive Oyl," "crack baby," and "Somalia kid." I hated those commercials asking people to donate to children suffering from poverty and malnourishment in Somalia. People would come to school the next day and say, "I saw you on TV again."

I was tall with no breasts, no hips, and no booty, so people could not believe that "brick-house" Vanessa or "too cute" Tasha were my sisters.

It became common for me to hear things like, "You're so skinny you could hula-hoop with a Cheerio," or "When you step on the scale, a note comes on that reads, Are you on yet??" As a result, I developed thick skin real fast.

As I got older, I gained a little weight and started to fill out some. I now have small breasts, small hips, and a small round peach-shaped booty. I look good in a pair of jeans, if I do say so myself. I'm also a size 6, and people are always asking me if I model. I still think my body could use a little improvement here and there, but whose couldn't? I'd be lying if I said I didn't still have some hang-ups from all those years of being teased as a child. Other people keep telling me I look good, so I take their word for it, coordinate my outfits the best that I can, and thank God for every day I breathe. I'm still a proud card-carrying member of the A Cup Club, but I don't mind; and the men in my life don't seem to mind either. I remember in high school, my best friend Tyra and I developed a motto: "All a brother needs is a mouthful," and I got that covered.

I am currently in a relationship with a wonderful musician named Tyler. He plays bass in a band called Trifecta; it consists of him and his two cousins, Mike and L-Ray. They perform at several clubs around town, and they're working on their first album. I'm a local R&B singer, but not for long. Last month, I signed with Yum Yum Records, and before long, Dawn Williams will be a household name. Tomorrow I'm going on my first photo shoot for the label. I can't wait, but first, I have to get some sleep. I want to be well rested for tomorrow.

My alarm chimed at 5 A.M. I drowsily hit the snooze button. Just 15 more minutes, I thought to myself. They told me to come as I am, so I don't really have to get up and get glamorous. I lay there yearning for more rest, but then I felt Tyler pat me on my stomach.

"Get up, Pussycat," he said. "You don't want to be late for your first shoot. You have to be there at six, right?"

I love when he calls me Pussycat, but I made him promise to only do it in private. He told me my body was sleek and sexy like a cat. I always thought the term sleek was best used when describing cars, but it turns him on, and that's all that matters. I fought my body's lack of desire to move, pulled myself out of bed, and headed to the bathroom. I'm sure "come as you are" doesn't include not bathing or brushing my teeth.

In 20 minutes I was ready and headed out the door. I decided to wear my favorite velour jogging suit, a sports bra, and a brand-new pair of Jordans. These shoes are expensive, but I loved Michael Jordan as a teen. He was talented and fine! All that the guys in my school talked about was how they wanted to be like Mike. All of us girls wanted to be his girlfriend, even though he was still married to Juanita.

The shoot was in a warehouse that didn't look like much of anything on the outside, but on the inside, it was a top-notch studio called Picture Perfect. All the high-end photographers used it because the owner's design team was able to create the perfect set for any shoot. Once, they even turned one of their rooms into a beach, complete with sand, water, and palm trees. Of course, their "make-your-dreams-come-true" services are not cheap, but when you're dealing with companies with million-dollar budgets, who cares? When I got there, I was met at the door by my manager, Melvin, and the wardrobe stylist Gabriella.

Gabriella took one look at me and said, "Darling, you are lovely. I see you've had your nails done, so that is one thing we won't worry about. We're going to have fun together, and when I get through with you, you won't even recognize yourself."

"Great," I said, as she grabbed my hand and whisked me away to get my hair done. She introduced me to the hairstylist, Dontae. I'd heard he's fabulous. He's done hair for the best of them: Halle Berry, Mary J. Blige, and the late great Whitney Houston. It was obvious he's sweeter than sugarcane, and you could tell he was proud of it.

"Girlfriend," he said, smacking his extremely glossy lips, "I'm gonna make you look like the star you are destined to be." He snapped a before picture, and then said, "Follow me to the shampoo bowl, baby, so I can hook you up."

After washing and conditioning my hair, Dontae decided to do a sew-in weave to lengthen and thicken my strands. My hair is short and a little on the thin side; it's something I inherited from my mother. It also doesn't have any weight to it, so it never stays in place. Any way the wind blows, it goes. I usually wear a short pixy cut. It's chic, functional, and best of all, low maintenance. Dontae got to work, and in about 3 hours, my now platinum streaked brown hair was past my shoulders, flat-ironed straight, and runway gorgeous.

"You look fierce, girlfriend. Fierce. A star is born, courtesy of Hair Designs by Dontae. You gotta man, Lady Bug?" Dontae asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"He's going to be all over you when you get home. Now, don't let him pull your tracks out. This is that Grade-A Malaysian hair, honey; if you take care of it, it will take care of you and last at least 2 months or more. Now, you get out of here and go see Miss Missy in makeup."

"Thank you, Dontae," I said. "I love it."

"You're welcome, sweetheart. I'll get your after photo when you're finished getting all dolled up. Up high, girlfriend." I raised my hand and slapped him a high five.

Missy was one of those middle-aged white chicks who has watched way too much BET. She was wearing a huge blond Afro with brown highlights. The name Michael was tattooed on her left arm in cursive letters. I wondered if that was her baby's daddy. She also had DIVA tattooed on the right side of her neck. Her Apple Bottom jeans weren't working in her favor, because her booty still looked as flat as a park bench. Although baby may not have had back, she had plenty of front. Her fitted top hung low to reveal her surgically enhanced breasts. The left one was adorned with another tattoo that read "Missy" and had a pair of red lips beneath it.

"Hey, Boo," she squealed. "That hair is tiiiiight. Now, it's time to put on your makeup." She gasped. "Sweet baby Jesus lying in a manger! When's the last time you arched your eyebrows?" she asked as she peered at me with her nose less than 2 inches away from my face. Her breath smelled like Big Red chewing gum. She put her hand under my chin and turned my head from side to side. "Tsk, tsk, tsk! You have got to do better. You got two caterpillars on your face," she chided.

"I don't know. You're welcome to hook me up, but do me a favor. Don't shave them off and draw me some more. I can't stand that. Plus, I don't think I could draw them myself. I know I couldn't do each one the same. So, after today, I'd be walking around looking crazy if you shaved them," I said.

"I can work wit' whatcha got, boo. We gon' put you on some lashes, too. Now sit in my chair and let's get crack-a-lackin'."

When's the last time I heard someone say that word? The '90s?

After about 40 minutes, Missy finished and handed me a mirror. I screamed, "Aaaaaah, I look beautiful! You made me beautiful. Thank you!" I threw my arms around her neck and almost knocked her off her feet.

"Baby boo, didn't anybody tell you that you were already beautiful? With those great big ole baby browns and that smooth caramel skin, it wasn't hard to get you looking fine as a bottle of Merlot. Now, take yo' sexy self to wardrobe before I kiss you dead in da mouf; and I don't even like women," she laughed.

I scurried out of her chair, and she patted me on my booty. "You go, girl!" she said and snapped her fingers.

I was so happy about my hair and makeup that I barely even noticed Gabriella waiting for me next to several racks of clothes. I almost bumped into her trying to get to the huge mirror in wardrobe so I could look at myself again.

"Careful darling," she said. "Let's see what we have here." She looked me up and down from head to toe without saying a word. Then she picked out my first outfit which consisted of a pair of skintight jeans, a sick blue sleeveless shirt with a plunging V-neckline made of suede and leather, and blue stilettos. After, I tried on everything she looked at me again and shook her head.

"The jeans look good on you, but the shirt I'm not sure about. You don't have much breasts, so it doesn't hang right. Let me see if I can push them up a bit." Her thick Italian accent seemed to emphasize each word, which made them seem extra insulting. She had me try on several push-up bras, drop-in titties, and she event wrapped me in duct tape. It felt a little weird the way Gabriella's cold hands moved around my breasts touching and adjusting them in an effort to give them some lift.

Eventually, she let out a loud sigh and said, "This isn't working. You'll have to wear a different top."

I'd always known I had small breasts, but she made it seem like it was some type of deformity.

"In this business, bigger is better; so you may want to look into implants in the future. Put this on," she said and handed me a plain white T-shirt with "Rock This" on the front in black letters. When I came from behind the dressing curtain, she dropped the rubber titties down my shirt, and positioned them correctly. When she dropped those boobs on me, I swear I felt my self-esteem plummet to the floor. The shirt she originally had me try on made this one look like garbage. She put some dangling earrings in my ears and slid four large metallic bangles on my left arm. At least my Giuseppe Zanotti shoes were cute.

Gabriella looked me up and down again. "This will have to do. Off to the set you go." What happened to we 're going to have fun? This feels like a root canal.

Melvin was waiting for me on the set. He has headed my career for the past 3 years. He and I have pretty good chemistry; but what I love most about him is he sees my vision, and he believes in me. He truly believes I'm going to be a star, and he's working just as hard as I am to get me there. He immediately noticed that something was wrong and pulled me to the side.

"You look great, Dawn, but you don't look happy. What's wrong?"

I tried to tell him what happened while holding back the tears. I couldn't cry because if I did, I'd mess up my makeup. I relayed my story as quickly as possible without shedding a single tear.

"Dawn, the entertainment industry is about perception and illusion. We give the public what we want them to see. If implants is what it takes for you to gain fans and make millions, then do it. This is your dream. Don't ruin it because you have a problem with a little nip and tuck here and there. You look fabulous. Your pictures are going to turn out fabulous. After the shoot, we'll talk to the people in artist development and see if this is the direction they're trying to go. If you need a better rack, we'll get it for you, babe. It's no big deal. I got you."

I was in such shock that all I could say was, "Okay." I thought Melvin would take my side and tell Gabriella to leave me alone, shut up, do her job, and be happy about it.

"You look real good, babe. Don't fight it." He kissed me on the cheek, smiled, turned me in the direction of the photographer, and gently pushed me forward. I was dismissed.

Now, the photographer was this superfine brother named Jermaine. He's from England and speaks with this great accent. Every time he opened his mouth, I could've sworn he was channeling Idris Elba. I'd seen his work in hundreds of magazines, and he could make a corpse look sexy. He took one look at me and yelled for Gabriella. She came skipping over. He looked at her and said, "With boobs like these, why isn't she showing them off? I need cleavage. You know I like the ta-tas in my shots."

Gabriella snickered. "Jermaine, darling, those are not hers. They are courtesy of me and my portable Tupperware set."

They both laughed as I cringed with embarrassment but remained silent.

"Can't you do something? I want to see some skin. She's a new artist, and I want her pictures to ooze sexiness. They need to scream every man's fantasy and every woman's muse."

"Afraid not," Gabriella answered. "The only thing she's got is nipples, and you can't show those in magazines. You're gonna have to Photoshop this one."

By this time, my eyes were welling up with tears again. They were talking about me as if I wasn't standing right there. Jermaine noticed me straining to hold back the tears and said, "I'm sorry. You're sensitive about your flat chest. I apologize. Don't cry. Let's get to work. You are such a pretty girl. Don't make such a sad face. Jermaine will make you look like the rock star written across the place where your bosom is supposed to be. Now smile." I did as I was told. His camera flashed.

After 4 hours and 4 additional clothing, hair, and makeup changes, complete with rubber titties, we were finished with the photo shoot. I was exhausted, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and all I wanted to do was go home and lie down. Jermaine was very nice the remainder of the shoot, but he kept telling me to stick my chest out. His initial insults stuck in my mind the entire time. But I had a job to do, so I plastered a fake smile on my face and did it. I had to show Yum Yum Records I had the right image and work ethic to go along with my talent. After all, this was my big break.

On my way out the door, Melvin grabbed me and said, "You handled that like a pro. I took the liberty of getting the name and number of Missy's plastic surgeon. Give him a call and make an appointment for a consultation. You really do look better with bigger boobs, babe."

I mumbled thanks and headed to the dressing area to take off my clothes. Gabriella was there packing up.

"Melvin told me you might be considering implants. Keep the falsies and try them out for a few days before you make a decision, although I'm sure you'll get the implants. It's a wonder you hadn't done it before now."

Who asked her for her opinion?

I undressed in silence, put my jogging suit on, and threw the falsies in my bag. I had to get out of there. My self-esteem was dragging on the floor, and it took every ounce of self-control I had not to scream. I was hoping that nobody else would step on it before I could make it home. If someone did, I may have hit a note so high that it would've shattered the sound barrier. What a difference a few hours could make. I was so happy when I got there, but by the time I left, I was wishing I had never come. Is that what stardom is like? People thinking they have the right to constantly criticize you because you don't look the way they think you should?

I drove my convertible Volkswagen Beetle home with the radio off. I usually listened to songs from my upcoming album when in the car. They were pretty good if I say so myself. Others have told me it's going to be a hit, but at that moment, that didn't matter. I'd been told by three people in one day that I was physically unattractive. I couldn't wait to get home and cuddle up in the arms of my man. Tyler always had a way of making me feel better.

Unfortunately, the house was empty. He was probably still at the studio. I made myself a salad with grilled chicken breast and doused it with low-fat ranch dressing. I'd barely eaten two bites when I put down my fork. I hadn't eaten all day, but I wasn't hungry. I decided to go to my room and lie down. Maybe I'd feel better after a shower and a nap. I looked in the mirror at my stellar makeup job. I wished I had skills like Missy; I would look like a rock star every day.

I unzipped my jogging suit jacket, removed my sports bra, and stood in the mirror looking at myself. No, I'll never be a DD, but I honestly thought I looked okay. I'm a small woman, with small breasts. That makes me evenly proportioned, right? I wrapped my weave around my head, tied it up in a silk scarf, and put on a shower cap. Then I stepped into the shower, turned the water on, and let the tears flow. In a matter of seconds, the water and tears washed away my flawless makeup job.

How can people be so mean? I'd been nice to everybody today. I didn't deserve that treatment.

After about 10 minutes of crying, I heard somebody enter the bathroom. The shower curtain slid back, and there was the love of my life standing in front of me buck-naked in all of his glorious manhood. My man is blessed, and I love every inch of him; from his low-cut hair to his badly in need of a pedicure feet. Tyler is everything I ever wanted in a man. He's 6 foot 2 with shiny, smooth, dark skin that reminds me of a

moonlit night, strong arms, and a perfectly sculpted chest that he works hard to maintain by going to the gym at least 4 days a week. His lips look more luscious than fresh-picked cherries. He's got silky smooth hands, and he knows exactly what to do with them. He's talented in other ways, too. He is an excellent bass guitar player, and whenever I go to his shows, I see all the women in the audience look at him with lustful eyes, but I just smile and think to myself, I'm the one he comes home to every night. All you can do is dream when I experience delicious reality repeatedly.

We've been together 2 years, and we're both full-time struggling artists. We don't have much money, which is why we moved in together against both our parents' wishes. They believe a couple should be married before they live together. I get so tired of hearing how we are living in sin and God isn't pleased. Cohabitating seems so much more practical. God knows we're broke. We were always at each other's place anyway. It didn't make sense for us to both pay rent. We've been living together about 6 months now, and so far so good. I often dream of us getting married and being one of Hollywood's powerful couples like Will and Jada Smith, Tim McGraw and Shania Twain, or Jay-Z and Beyonce. It's coming. I can feel it, but we've both gotta keep working hard and dreaming big.

When he stepped in the shower, I tried to turn my head so he wouldn't notice my red eyes, but it didn't work. He cupped my face in his hands and looked at me quizzically.

"What's wrong, Pussycat?" There was genuine concern in his eyes.

I tried to answer, but the only thing that came out was a loud wail and more tears. Tyler turned off the shower, wrapped me in a towel, and led me into our bedroom. He told me to sit on the bed and asked his question again. I still couldn't speak, so he started asking me more questions.

"Did somebody die?"

I shook my head no.

"Are you injured?"

I shook my head no again.

"Can I make it better?"

I nodded my head up and down. "Just hold me," I whimpered.

He said, "I'll do you one better," and began to kiss me slowly. His delicious kisses traveled from my cheek to my lips and worked their way down to my neck. His skin was still moist from the shower, but I didn't mind. He pressed his luscious lips against my body, never allowing each kiss to linger in the same spot too long. When he got to my breasts, the memories from earlier that day came flooding back, and I made him stop. He gave me a puzzled look.

"What do you think of my body?" I asked.

"I love your body, and if you hadn't interrupted me, I was about to show you how much."

"This is important, Tyler. What do you think of my breasts?"

"Baby, I love all of you."