Mila

They were back in the city. Fog surrounded them as Yasmin drove through the tiny streets where Zenobia’s cousins lived. They’d dropped her off so that she could visit with family before the pageant at The People’s Love Project, and the wedding party hit the ground running.

On La Cienega Boulevard, among the palm trees and a Shell gas station, Yasmin drove past a billboard featuring an array of women in various colors from porcelain to . . . Lido. They were sprawled around each other, all limbs and good skin for a high fashion makeup cover.

“Sheesh, I’ve had such a great time these past three days. I almost forgot about our trifling ass sister,” Mila said, shaking her head.

“Well, we have something for that ass the next time we see her.” Yasmin grinned.

Mila glanced over her shoulder. Her sister had taken a right onto Melrose when she should’ve been headed back to the freeway. “Where are you going?”

“You reminded me.” Yasmin was headed toward Hollywood. “We need to have a chat with Madame Renee.”

“Humph! I am going to tell that woman that assuming she’s getting a check for—” Mila sighed. “Damn, I cannot even say the price aloud. That heifa knew what she was doing, allowing Lido to play us. Greedy old wench.”

“And the greedy old bitch is going to learn today.”

Twenty minutes later, Yasmin was pressing the buzzer for the umpteenth time. Mila gripped the wrought iron gates and placed her forehead against the cool iron. She glanced left to right but was unable to see much more into the French portico surrounding Madame Renee’s home. “Now, I realize why Parker stood in the rain. Girl, that little old lady is not going to open up for two angry black women. Nevertheless, I’ll expect a call from her when she doesn’t receive payment.”

“Then we wait like Parker.” Yasmin folded her arms.

Mila shoved a hand through her kinky hair. “Aren’t we supposed to be relaxed, refreshed, happy?”

“We are happy.” Yasmin grinned.

Although, internally she was beginning to not care, not one lick, she almost wanted to tell the lady to shove the dress up her cobwebbed pussy! “What if nobody enters or exits this uppity establishment? It’s Monday. If I were designing clothing and made my own schedule, I wouldn’t come in on Monday.”

Yasmin offered a listless glare. “Okay, why?”

“Because it’s the day after Sunday,” Mila grumbled, knowing that if she told Yasmin she didn’t want the dress at all, it would just spark another argument. And dammit, the dress was beautiful. Both of them. Green or white!

This prompted her sister to chuckle.

A man in a Bentley driving by slowed down. Gesturing toward him, she said, “Girl, the neighborhood watch is gonna kick us out.”

“What are you doing?” A loud, female voice spoke from the speaker at the door.

Both the sisters jumped.

“Um, this is Yasmin—Mila Ali. We have the check.”

The gate clicked.

Mila bumped her sister with her hip while Yasmin started through. “We just saw a potential neighbor, and we don’t live on this street. Don’t have the cops coming by before we can even ask why Madame Renee altered Lido’s dress and decided to charge me an arm and two legs!”

“Madame, my ass.” Yasmin glanced back at her.

“Yas, don’t get in here and embarrass us. I’m writing that woman a check for an insane amount of money, and I will let Madame Renee know that she will never see another dollar out of me.”

Yasmin smirked. “I love the head held high, always graceful and poise thing you do, little sister.”

“Humph, I learned from the best.”

As they walked past a four-tiered water fountain, Yasmin joshed, “I try, but with a house full of males, it’s easier to put my foot in somebody’s ass to rectify certain situations.”

They made their way into the foyer and were offered seats by Renee’s assistant. The brunette in a simple black dress excused herself, indicating that they’d wait just a moment.

Mila sat. Yasmin stalked back and forth, which prompted her little sister to stand up too.

“Hello, ladies.” Madame Renee entered the room. Her elongated neck seemed to soar even higher due to the peacock feathers at her collar. The brunette stood at the door just as quietly as she had when they were taking measurements. She’d moved with haste when Renee made a request, but, otherwise, she had an uncanny quietness about her.

In a contrite voice, Mila began, “I have a check—"

“Where do you get off,” Yasmin cut in, “charging my little sister for two bridal gowns?”

“Excuse you?” Renee’s brisk French accent curled in anger. “You’ve purchased a bridal gown and three additional bridal dresses.”

“That settles it. It appears I was emailed a statement from the manufacturer for the wrong price then.” Mila’s eyebrows knitted together.

The look on Yasmin’s face proved that she wasn’t ready to play nice yet.

Mila continued. “For some reason, I assumed . . .”

Madame Renee tapped her lip. “Please, ladies, let’s see these dresses.” She waved a hand, signifying that they should follow her. Renee led them down the arched shaped hallways and to the extravagant room where Mila had literally stood on a gilded pedestal the first time. On top of a gold table was a tall vase of white orchids, and in the center, four long royal purple colored boxes. Inscrolled on one was bride, another matron of honor, maid of honor, and bridesmaid. The entire display reeked of luxury, and still, Yasmin’s demeanor was defensive. Mila internally hoped that the photo the manufacture had emailed was a glitch.

“The butler was to deliver these to you, by tomorrow, but now that you’re all here.” Madame Renee smiled as if her personally presenting the items to them was rare privilege. “Mila, Yasmin, would you like to do the honor of opening your own dresses?”

Yasmin gestured for Mila to proceed. She stepped up to the long-gift-wrapped box and placed her hands on the silk paper. Then she opened it slowly.

“Oh, Mila . . .” Yasmin gasped. She was beyond speechless.

The dress was rich ivory with a trumpet silhouette that would glide along Mila’s skin like butter. Swarovski crystals were embellished along the long sleeves and low-cut bodice. The heftily priced crystals descended down the lengthy dress, leading to a train of angelic feathers.

“Yasmin, please.” Madame Renee gestured, visibly pleased by Mila’s reaction. “Once you confirm that everything is as it should be I will communicate with the maker.”

As Yasmin agreed that her dress was exactly as it should be, Madame Renee opened Zenobia’s dress while saying, “I’ve designed dresses for years. Years. And never have I ever had an issue with the company who makes them by hand. The moment I became too busy to be a seamstress, I personally vetted and selected—”

The woman stopped speaking when she opened up the container with Lido’s dress. She blinked a few times and continued to stare. “This . . . this is—this is your dress in green!”

“Olive green as all the rest of the dresses are,” Mila corrected. “But that isn’t my dress.”

“This is completely unacceptable. I can assure you that this should have complemented the wedding dress but have more in common with the matron of honor dress and this one as well.” She tapped Zenobia’s dress. “I am appalled. There has to be some sort of mix up.”

The brunette assistant began to backtrack out of the room. Yasmin cut the woman off. “Not so fast, rat. Yeah, you look as dirty as they come.”

“Jane?” Madame Renee gasped. “You forwarded the original designs to the seamstress.”

The woman stood in shame. “Ms. Lido Ali came by, she said—”

As Madame Renee screeched that Jane was fired, Mila spoke in a calm, collected voice. “I’m not here for excuses. So, you’ll send it back. We truly won’t be needing it anyway, and have the invoice updated?”

Renee spoke up. “Well, I have never—”

Yasmin chimed in. “This is no mistake of ours. You hired her. My sister is writing a check for the other dresses. This one is yours to keep.”

***

Mila gnawed silently on the pen cap in her mouth. Her thick, curly short hair framed her face. A few of the kinky tresses blew in the sea-salted air from the Santa Monica beaches. She sat on a cushioned bench on the patio outside of the bedroom. For the first time in a week, she wasn’t reviewing something for the wedding. Who knew that silverware and china were so important? She was glancing at the flyer design for her upcoming first-annual modeling event at The People’s Love. On the flyer was four people: an Asian, a black, a Latina, and a white teen. It made her smile, seeing diversity and not all just one color, regardless of what it might be. Her organization had begun to appeal to the Cambodian community and Mexicans. Mila grinned. Growing up in Ethiopia, there was a separation of the white Africans from the rest, and then there were the lights versus the darks.

“We won’t be having any of that,” she mumbled to herself. Mila picked up her cell phone and texted her approval and elation for Stacey’s computer skills. They had two nights for the ink to dry, and everything seemed to be transpiring without a glitch.

At the sound of footsteps, Mila’s heart quickened. The breeze made the drapes sway and—

“Mila, are you alright?” The maid asked, standing at the sliding glass door to the master suite.

“Yes, I just didn’t . . .” She blinked away thoughts of Todd Welsh. “Please call my name or something? Let me know you’re coming?”

The woman blinked at her and then nodded. “Of course. I’m leaving for the day unless you have anything that you need.”

“I’m—” Mila noshed on her lips. I need you to stay until Blake comes home. She glanced at the time on her iPhone. “It’s almost five. Oh, time flew.”

“The chef left a lamb roasting in the oven. I know you two already agreed on the time to remove it, so the meat can rest. Are you sure I can’t stay to take it out?”

Now, Mila felt like she was imposing on the woman. “I’ll make it. You have a husband and a varsity football player to feed. Blake’s almost here.”

The maid hesitated for a beat as if she understood Mila’s worry, and then with one last smile she said, “I’ll set the alarm on my way out.”

“Thanks,” Mila called after her. Under her breath, she mumbled, “Girl, get a grip.”

Mila reminisced about her time in college and living in a dorm room. She had Keith back then to hound her before she became engaged to his older brother, Warren. And then there were the years when she climbed the latter of the white man’s world and headed business accounts for a fortune fifty company. Success like that came with a sky rise apartment in downtown Los Angeles. She lived alone. She dominated and prospered.

The sound of a seagull squawking above had Mila dipping down. It was just like she did when she first heard a car backfire in South Central LA as a kid visiting for the summer.

She gathered her laptop, removed the afghan from her legs and stood. “I’m going into the house. I’ll . . . shower,” she gulped, “and I’ll take the roast out and sauté some asparagus and add a side of quinoa.”

Inside of the bedroom, Mila placed the laptop on the suede couch and laughed at herself. “This isn’t even the same house. I’m okay. I should be more worried about how many pieces of ass have been sweating in my fiancé’s face this weekend. Not to mention the flirting.”

She turned toward the bathroom. The layout was much different than the glass house in Hollywood Hills. This bathroom was like a tropical oasis. It didn’t have a large arched entryway, but Moroccan clay curved the entrance giving it more of a closed-off feel. But Mila couldn’t see herself entering the space.

I’m on the defense. She grabbed her robe and new lingerie and headed to one of the guest bathrooms. At least there, she could lock the door and take a good sweep of the hallway before exiting.

In the bathroom with calming yellow accents, Mila turned on the shower and stripped off her clothing. The heat began to rise as she stepped inside and onto the warm tile.