by Janet Walker
Chapter Forty-Three
SUMMIT OF PLEASURE
Tracy Sullivan slid happily onto the leather of the Jaguar’s passenger seat and grinned at her coach. Grace sat behind the wheel wearing an elaborate necklace of heavy brushed gold, matching wrist cuffs, and a taupe knit ensemble that looked to Tracy like something out of a fashion magazine. The woman’s hair was gathered in a French braid that clung to the back of her head. A caramel and a beige ribbon were woven into the braid, and the interlaced cords dangled between the woman’s shoulder blades. Noticing her coach’s appearance immediately struck Tracy with doubt. Her own outfit, which she had carefully selected, suddenly seemed inadequate for the occasion—too juvenile or boyish or something. It was the best of her Haineswear, a two-toned thick cotton sports shirt over peach-colored jeans, with tan hiker’s boots. She had washed her hair last night, oiled and brushed it repeatedly this morning, so now it billowed down around her shoulders, tame and scented, but it was not, as she had thought it would be, a replica of the hairstyle Miz Grace was wearing that day. Tracy clutched on her lap the brown bomber’s jacket she had brought to wear later, when the warm afternoon turned into a chilly night. She hoped that when they got to the Summit, she wouldn’t embarrass Miz Grace by looking like a ghetto fly girl.
“You look nice,” the voice at the steering wheel said.
Tracy looked quickly at the other face, uncertain about its sincerity. The woman’s gaze was earnest, her smile soft, but Tracy wasn’t sure. She smiled shyly. “Thanks. Not like you, though.”
“No,” the woman insisted, “your clothes are colorful and neat and appealing and—what’s the word you young people use today? Dope? Fresh?”
The girl chuckled and blushed. “Thanks,” she said, looking at her lap.
“And I love your hair. It’s fuller. What did you do to it?”
Tracy looked at the woman with surprise. “Um, I, uh, brushed it a lotta times.”
Grace made a pondering sound in her throat and said, “I’ll have to try that.”
Tracy gazed at the woman in wonder and with a startled kind of pleasure.
The Jag was parked in the Porter driveway. Grace gripped the gearshift and gave a swift look out the back window. The gesture made Tracy jump with remembrance.
“Oh! My aunt want you to come in for a minute.”
Grace’s expression sobered. “We don’t have time, Tracy,” she apologized.
“Oh,” said the girl and looked at her aunt’s house with bewilderment.
“Was there anything in particular she needed to discuss with me?” Grace asked.
“Nope. She just said you could come in if you wan—Oh, there she is!”
They both looked. Emerging from the front door and heading toward the Jag was Madge Porter. Tracy watched her aunt with pride. The Witness minister had gone out in the proselytizing work that morning and was still dressed attractively in heels and a dress. She walked to the driver’s side of the car, smiling, as Grace pressed the button that rolled down her gray-tinted window.
“Hi, Miss Grace!” the tall large woman greeted cheerfully. “You could have come inside!”
Tracy grinned at her aunt’s use of the students’ nickname for the coach. Aunt Madge, she concluded, must be nervous about talking to the famous and pretty woman.
“Yes, Tracy told me and I wish I could, but we’re running a little behind because my hairstylist stayed longer than planned,” Grace said congenially. “Maybe next time.”
Tracy lowered her head to peer across the passenger compartment and out the window at her aunt. Their eyes met discreetly. Both were pleasantly surprised by Miz Grace’s next time.
“All right,” agreed Madge. “And thank you for taking Tracy. She’s so excited about going!”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure. Tracy’s a joy to have around.”
The two women looked at the teen, who blushed and looked away, causing aunt and coach to laugh. But it was the nervous laughter of strangers straining to be cordial.
“I’ll have her back as early as I can after the game ends. That should be no later than eleven.”
“That’s fine. As long as she’s with you, I know she’ll be okay,” said Madge sincerely.
Tracy heard her aunt’s remark and was surprised by it. Aunt Madge talked so often about worldly people—wicked people, the ones who would be destroyed at Armageddon—that Tracy had begun to believe her aunt didn’t trust anybody who wasn’t a Witness. But now here she was, saying that she knew Tracy would be safe with Miz Grace.
In response to the comment, Grace smiled but did not verbally respond. Instead, she adjusted her weight in the driver’s seat and gripped the steering wheel in preparedness. “All right,” she said, which Tracy knew meant We’ll be leaving now.
Madge bent low and looked over at her niece.
“You be good. Don’t give Miss Grace any trouble.”
Tracy rolled her eyes, trying to look annoyed. “Aun’ Madge!” she whined.
The women laughed again and Madge stepped away from the window. The Jag backed out of the driveway and moved down the street. The shadow of a farewell smile lingered on Madge’s face as she thoughtfully watched the luxury car carry away the youngest member of her family.
