Page 1 of Saving Saul

PART I

Before Saul

LIGHTS, CAMERA, LOVE?

TESSA

When the doorof my red Honda Accord clicks shut behind me, I pause, feeling a rush of awe and appreciation, like I’m on the brink of something big.

I, Tessa Baptiste, aspiring actress and unemployed chef, stand outside the most beautiful and largest house I’ve ever seen. It is the home of the hit reality TV show Love,Unmasked.This mid-century modern glass mansion has been transformed into a fantastical stage for romance—or so they say.

I allow the grandeur of the house to wash over me. It stands out amongst the lush greenery of the Hollywood Hills, its sleek glass exterior reflecting the bright California sun. It is an impressive sight, with multiple levels and large, open windows that offer a glimpse inside.

My best friend Carissa will never believe this. She loves opulent homes. Without thinking, I take out my phone to snap a picture to send, but then I remember the ten-page NDA I signed to get this gig.

Damn! That contract is going to be a problem.

I step closer, and the heavy glass doors slide open, unveiling a world of opulence I’m unfamiliar with. I’m greeted by a waveof cool air infused with the delicate scent of vanilla. The foyer is breathtaking—a blend of modern elegance and timeless charm.

To my right, a sweeping staircase curls upward, its wrought iron railings twisting like vines kissed by morning dew. Potted ferns line each step, their green leaves softening the grandeur with a touch of natural beauty. On my left, a sitting area beckons with plush velvet couches upholstered in rich shades of emerald and sapphire. They encircle a marble-topped coffee table adorned with fresh blooms and stacked art books that whisper stories of far-off places.

Staying in this home for the next two weeks will not be a burden.

The walls hold abstract paintings, each stroke of color alive in the golden light streaming through the towering floor-to-ceiling windows. The art seems to shift and sway as if the house were breathing, alive with secrets and stories waiting to be discovered. An arched doorway reveals an atrium bathed in sunlight just beyond the sitting area. Tropical plants stretch toward the light, their vibrant greens and splashes of color creating a lush sanctuary—the soothing sound of a trickling fountain hums softly, calling me forward.

Absently, my fingers glide over the smooth pearls of the necklace resting against my collarbone. It has been a constant presence in my life, passed down through six generations of Sinclair women, each of us connected by its quiet power. This necklace is more than an heirloom; it’s a lifeline, a thread tying me to the women who came before me.

I can’t call my mama to calm my nerves—I never could. Her voice is forever silent, but this necklace, warm against my skin, carries the echoes of her strength. It’s my shield, my reminder that I’m never truly alone. Our family history reveres it as a *Holy gris-gris,* an amulet blessed by the divine.

The story, whispered from mother to daughter, is as much legend as it is true. My great-great-grandmother earned this necklace in an act of defiance and salvation. She saved her mistress, a Creole woman passing for white, from being beaten to death by her husband—the master of the house. She didn’t just intervene; she ended the violence, stabbing a man three times her size in the back.

The Lord only knows how she found the strength, but in my family, we know the spirit world is as accurate as the blood in our veins. My great-great-grandmother was a holy woman, deeply connected to the divine. After her act of courage, she prayed over this necklace, weaving into it an incantation meant to protect the women of our line for eternity.

“All you have to do,” my grand-mère would say, “is wear it. The Lord’s spirit and our ancestors’ strength will do the rest.”

I can almost feel the warmth of Grand-mère Sinclair's arms around me, her embrace as comforting as those long weekends at the old house. My daddy always had gigs on the weekend, and my stepmother often went with him, so I got to be with Grand-mère.

She never complained when I was underfoot; instead, her love was a balm for the ache my mama’s absence left behind. From the moment Mama vanished, Grand-mère wrapped me in love as thick and enduring as the roux we made together for her infamous gumbo. Its rich aroma constantly weaved through her home. Each flavor held a story; each bite was a promise I was hers to cherish and nurture.

Even now, I can hear her humming the jazz music she’d play, her voice a gentle undercurrent to the melody. I hold on to those memories, the feeling of safety and belonging. Grand-mère’s love wasn’t just an anchor; it was home. It still is.

So, I wear the pearl necklace whenever doubt creeps in. Whenever fear tries to steal my resolve, I reach for it, groundingmyself in the knowledge that I am not just one woman—I am all the women who came before me. I am guarded, guided, and never without the strength to face what lies ahead.

Over the next week or so, I’ll need all the strength the divine can give me because, as beautiful as this house is, I know it’s only a harbinger of drama.

"Tessa Baptiste, welcome toLove, Unmasked," the showrunner’s production assistant greets me with a warm smile, her tablet in hand. Are you ready to find love on television?"

I smile. She remembers me from auditions, which makes me feel more comfortable. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Great.” She chirps through a less genuine smile. “Why don’t you follow me to the family room, where all the other girls are waiting? The men arrive separately and are in their wing of the house, blocked off and guarded, just in case your curiosity gets the best of you.”

I wish I could tell her she doesn’t have to worry about me sneaking around. I can guarantee her that I won’t want any man here. Love is a gamble I refuse ever to take. This is a business opportunity and nothing more. I don’t need any help getting a man.

They’ve always wanted me in their beds, and for a while, I wanted that, too. My dark chocolate skin and hazel eyes always throw men for a loop, and I have two dimples to accentuate my smile, thanks to my daddy. I’m curvy with long Black hair that brushes the curve of my generous backside, thanks to my mama’s Creole heritage.

That backside has gotten me more attention than I’ve enjoyed. However, nothing lasted beyond a few night-time thrills. Most of that was by my design, not wanting to open myself up to the possibility of being hurt. Why wait for some fool to leave and break my heart when I can leave him first?

So, I do. Always.

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