Try as I might, I couldn’t rest well again until I’d settled the matter of the fairy money. DeAndre had been heartbroken when he thought she’d skipped him. Between Z and Ray-Ray, he’d been skipped more than enough.
I got up, found a few dollars in my purse, and tiptoed into DeAndre’s room. Moonlight outlined a path to his bedside. The soft, deep, raspy sound of DeAndre’s breathing assured me that he was conked out. Wish I could say the same for myself.
I reached beneath his pillow, keeping one eye on his face. Got it! Tooth in hand, I slipped the money in place. When I pulled my hand back, a small piece of paper cascaded to the floor. Instinctively, I grabbed the paper and crept out of the room.
Just beyond his door, I switched on the hallway lamp and read.
Dear Tooth Fairy,
I am sorry I have been bad lately, but I lost my tooth and I hope you will forgive me so I can get some money. I am really sorry, so if you can leave me some money I will know you still like me no matter about my mother.
The End,
DeAndre Lester in Bayford—I live with Aunt Dottie and
Cousin Tori
P.S. If you see my mother, please tell her I said hello. Her name is Zoletha Simpson, but she is also Z. Amen.
Chapter 17
Of course, Aunt Dottie’s church routine placed me at Mount Pisgah on Wednesday nights for Bible study. Jacob Jr. led the meeting, adding even more insight to my nightly readings with Aunt Dottie.
After service, DeAndre and I had plenty of help carting our aunt back to the Caddy. Several members volunteered to hold her bag, open the doors, etc. For the first time, I noticed women flocked around Jacob at the church entrance.
Hmmm.
Once we’d put her in the car, I set my mind on the next shift. I needed to get to Starbucks for some online time. Lexa had finally come up against a snag in Inner-G’s marketing plan. None of the keywords she’d researched for targeted Web site impressions had enough search demand to warrant a massive campaign. Can you say “didn’t do your homework”?
Her e-mail had asked for “my input,” but she really needed my help. Not that she would ever admit this, mind you. Part of me wanted to see her crash and burn. Really, if the buzz about her sleeping around to get accounts was true, she’d set women back fifty years. She deserved whatever she lost.
But I couldn’t let Inner-G go out like that. Not with my name and a portion of my paycheck tied to it, anyway. I had a long night ahead of me.
Before I could get one of my own legs in the car, Jacob dashed toward my car. “Hold up.”
“Yeah?”
He leaned into my car to acknowledge my family members, then continued, “You got a minute?”
He seemed to have a knack for approaching me at the worst possible moments. “Not really. I’ve got to get to Starbucks for an Internet connection, fast.”
“You’re going all the way to Henrytown by yourself at this time of night?”
Aunt Dottie beeped my horn, nearly startling me out of my skin. She wagged her index finger at me. I’d gotten pretty good at reading her body language—she agreed wholeheartedly with Jacob.
“I’ll go with you,” he insisted with heartfelt sincerity.
Aunt Dottie gave us a thumbs-up.
I couldn’t resist. “Let me take them home first.”
Jacob followed me back to the house and helped get both Aunt Dottie and DeAndre settled for the night.
“What time are you coming back?” my pesky little overseer queried.
“Too late for you to be up when I return.”
He squinted at Jacob, who was standing in the bedroom doorway, then whispered, “Is this a date?”
Not sure how to answer—or if I should answer—I sidestepped him. “Good night, DeAndre.”
He roused to his knees in bed and gave me a hug. “Night, Cousin Tori. Ooh! Did you hear what I said?”
“What?”
“When I say your name real fast, it sounds like ‘cussin’ Tori,’ you get it? Cousin Tori, cussin’ Tori?” He fell over laughing at himself. DeAndre could be downright delirious when he was sleepy. “Your name is super-bad!”
His giggling touched a silly nerve within me. In a moment’s time, we were both laughing. Jacob, shaking his head, walked toward the front door. “Cussin’ Tori,” I repeated. Each time, another wave of delirium swept over him, his eyes blinking slowly, barely able to stay above board. He’d be a goner in no time.
“Don’t forget—if you need anything, phone numbers are on the refrigerator.”
Jacob met me in the living room. With my laptop bag on one shoulder and purse on the other, I looked more like I was on my way to a conference room with Preston than Starbucks with Jacob. I wished we were going on the romantic date DeAndre suspected, but this would have to be clinical.
“You want me to drive?” Jacob pulled his keys from his pocket before I could answer.
“Sure. Thanks.”
He opened the passenger’s door for me, waited until I’d settled my belongings on the floorboard, and then closed my side.
The interior of his car boasted top-of-the-line gadgets. More bells and whistles than I’d ever seen or than anyone in Bayford would ever need. The sound system enhancing the gospel lyrics spewing from speakers I could understand. But a built-in GPS device?
Curiosity got the best of me before we even made it to the highway. “Okay, Jacob. I have to know why you have a navigation system in this car.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I do get out of Bayford sometimes, you know?”
“Really?”
“Yes. Other churches invite me to preach. I go into town to meet friends. Pick people up from the airport, plus I dabble in real estate throughout the county.”
I gasped. “I didn’t know you were a realtor.” This bit of information might come in handy when we got ready to sell Dottie’s.
He nodded. “Keeps me in touch with people’s everyday lives. Pastoring has a tendency to distance men and women of God from their flocks. Makes for unrealistic sermons and theology with no practicality.”
“You did a great job of breaking down the scriptures tonight, by the way,” I complimented him. “When you teach, I understand His message to us.”
“Thanks for the encouragement; it’s all God.”
We crossed the official city limits, reminding me of the last time I’d left town. “I took DeAndre to Houston with me and he nearly hyperventilated at the sight of a shopping center.”
“Wow.”
“I know, right? I wonder what he’ll do when I take him to a mall.”
“Hmmm.” Jacob rubbed his temple slightly.
“Hmmm what?”
“You’ve really taken to DeAndre, huh?”
“No.” I creased my brow. “He’s . . . eight. He’s . . . always into things, always asking questions. Seriously, he can’t walk past a rock without picking it up and throwing it.”
“And he’s crazy about you,” Jacob observed.
I sang, “Come again?”
“He asked if we were going on a date—he’s trying to protect you. And when he hugged you, I wish you could have seen his face. Contentment. He’s really going to take it hard when you move back to Houston.”
What?! “DeAndre has . . . Joenetta.”
Jacob pursed his lips. “Wrong answer.”
“So, you know Joenetta, I gather?”
“Know her well. Been praying for her for years now. Aunt Dottie keeps her sister high on the prayer team’s list.” Jacob smiled to himself.
“I recommend you all keep Joenetta a priority ’cause she sure needs all the prayer she can get.”
He laughed slightly. “We all do, my sister, we all do.”
“So, what are you praying for yourself?” My spiritual way of getting nosy.
He responded quickly, “Guidance.”
Too generic for me. “Guidance in what area of your life?”
“Pastoring. Work. My parents. What about you?”
/> “I should be praying about work, Aunt Dottie, and the store.”
“What about DeAndre?”
“I’ll pray that his mother gets out of prison soon, I guess.”
“Don’t hold your breath. She’s in for armed robbery and aggravated assault. She already had a record before this. It’s gonna be a while before she sees the other side of the barbed wire.”
My heart sank. DeAndre would probably be a man by the time Z was released. She wouldn’t even recognize him.
“What’s his mother like?”
“I don’t know. She’s a lot younger than us. Twenty-four, maybe. Some of the Simpsons attend New Jerusalem Temple, about ten miles north of here. From my understanding, she’s always been in trouble. In and out of jail, fighting, running with a bad crowd, short temper.”
That would explain DeAndre’s sharp attitude and penchant toward violence. Couple his mother’s model with Joenetta’s influence, it’s a wonder the child had any sense at all.
We listened to music the rest of the trip. Jacob sang along softly with whoever was bellowing praise to Christ. There’s just something comforting about a man who can sing.
One of my earliest memories is of my maternal grandfather, who used to walk around their grand old house crooning the blues. When PaPa wasn’t singing, he whistled marvelously. He tried to teach me how to whistle once, to no avail. Soon thereafter, my grandmother and my mother had a falling out and I never saw my grandparents again. I asked my mother if I could go see PaPa once.
“No. He and Granny are no longer a part of our lives. He’s not your real grandfather anyway.”
“Oh.” Her statement led me to one that I’d been asking since the first time I saw Good Times on television. “Momma, who’s my real daddy?”
She grabbed the section of hair she was combing and yanked my head to the side. “Your don’t have a daddy. You’ve got me, and I’m good enough.”
Despite the pain coursing through my scalp, I pressed, “Doesn’t everybody have a daddy?”
She sighed and (thankfully) eased up on my do. “No, Tori, not everyone has a daddy. I didn’t have a real one, and neither do you. You’re a momma’s girl right now. But I’ll find you another daddy soon.”
Years later, she told me Mr. James would be my daddy. He was more like a custodian than a father figure. My mother never did tell me who my biological father was. I tried an Internet search in later years, but without her help, I couldn’t proceed. By that time, my grandmother was dead, so the buck stopped there.
I finally figured whoever he was, if he didn’t care enough about me to find me, I didn’t want to know him. He’d only add to the stack of disappointments in my life.
Starbucks came into view much sooner with Jacob behind the wheel. He nabbed the front parking spot, helped me out of the car, and even opened the door for me. It was almost too much chivalry, but I had to remember: Jacob was probably born, and definitely raised, in Bayford.
The distinct aroma of coffee beans wafted through the air, a barista whipped up a Caffè Latte. Ahh, the sounds and smells of civilization. The house was nearly packed, so I quickly claimed one of the few empty tables with my laptop case. Jacob and I got in line to order food.
“What do you like?” I asked.
He waved me off. “Nothing. I don’t drink coffee.”
“Hmm.” I studied the menu. “Why don’t you try a Strawberries and Crème Frappuccino? My . . . friend drinks those.” Good Lord, I almost mentioned Kevin.
“What’s the taste?”
“Kinda reminds you of a milkshake.”
“Cool.”
Jacob paid for both drinks and led the way back to the seat I’d staked.
Time to get to business. “I hope you don’t mind, I really do have a lot of work to do.”
“No problem.” Jacob held his palms toward me. “I’m only here to accompany you. But I am gonna run back to the car and get some things I need to cover, too.”
When our drinks became available, Jacob thanked me profusely for recommending the frappuccino. “This drink is anointed,” he remarked in a most holy tone.
I giggled like DeAndre.
For the next hour, we worked in isolation. Me with my laptop, Jacob with the Bible, a pen, and a spiral.
I couldn’t make heads or tails of Lexa’s keyword search information. Hadn’t she factored in global competition? This girl was way off track. I checked my phone for the time. 10:42. If she was half the workaholic she projected herself to be, she should still be in front of her screen, too.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Lexa, it’s Tori. Did I wake you?”
“No, I’m up. Glad you called. Have you had a chance to review the data?”
“Yeah, there’s no way we’re going to hit the numbers we need with these terms unless we bid much higher, and that would take us over the budget.” I went on to explain exactly how she should refine the keywords, get with Alex in research and have him run another report with different parameters, and go from there.
“Do I have to go to Alex?”
Duh? “Yes. He knows back-end research. It’s going to take a little while for him to pull it all together, but we don’t need to go any further without the numbers to back us.”
“Ugh. Time is money. And Alex talks too much,” she balked. “I don’t want the office thinking I don’t know what I’m doing.”
You don’t. “You gotta do what you’ve gotta do, Lexa.”
“Thanks, Tori. You’re a godsend.”
Of course, she’d never say those words to me within hearing distance of our team. “Good night.”
“Hey, when are you coming back into the office?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
She clicked her teeth. “Just asking.”
“You need me for something? Has Preston said anything?”
“No, no. Just . . . stay put. No worries.”
I was tired of playing games with Lexa. “Look, if there’s something going on that I need to know about, I’d really appreciate a heads-up.”
Jacob glanced up at me for a moment.
Lexa gushed, “It’s not rocket science, Tori, and Preston might not realize it yet, but you need to be at your job in this industry. I mean, I’ve had to wait a whole day for a response from you about this account. I think you know how big this is for me, for everyone at NetMarketing. We’re trying to take this company to another level, and you’re not here. You don’t even reply to e-mails in a timely manner.”
“I already told Preston, who was my boss the last time I checked, that I’m in a small town where there’s no signal except—”
“Not my problem.”
My lips curled with disgust. “This entire Inner-G account fiasco is your problem, Lexa. You should have done your homework and planned this whole movement better. Doesn’t make sense to take on a huge client if you don’t have the resources to make the campaign work.”
“Are you trying to sabotage me?” she accused.
“No. I’m trying to get you to slow down and go to the drawing board with this client. You can’t use the same tactics with Inner-G that you use with, say, P-T-C Books. It’s a totally different market, a totally different consumer you’re trying to reach. You’re going to need help—”
“I have help. I have you, if you’d ever come to work.”
She cut me off one time too many. “Listen, I am here to assist you, not lead this account. If you want to do your job right, you’re going to have to start from scratch. I don’t know what you’ve promised the people at Inner-G already, but you cannot proceed without backing up first. That’s all there is to it. Good night, Lexa.”
She disconnected without another word. I slapped my phone onto the table and ran my fingers through the nape of my fro.
“Sounded like a heated conversation,” Jacob commented.
I released a prolonged exhale. “Just work as usual. I don’t know how much longer I can keep up with everything.”
Jac
ob’s probing gaze made me uneasy. “What?” I asked.
“Your entire facial expression morphed during your business chat,” he said.
Suddenly, the muscles in my face screamed from overuse. I intentionally relaxed them. “Is that better?”
“Much better. Does your job always make you so uptight?”
“Not usually. Just lately, since I’ve been telecommuting, there’s added stress from my coworkers. I thought working away from the office would be heaven—and maybe it would be if I weren’t in Bayford. But here I am at Starbucks, hoping I can haul my share of the load before the baristas start blinking the lights.”
He nodded.
“Doesn’t everyone feel pressure from their job now and then?”
“I suppose so,” he acquiesced. “But there’s a difference between pressure and stress. I see stress written all over your face, your eyes, your neck.” He scooted my laptop aside, creating an open space between us. “Here. You need a hand massage.”
“A hand massage?”
He winked. “Ancient Egyptian practice.”
Without question, I complied. Jacob Carter Jr. asked for my hands. If only the girls from Bayford High could see me now.
“You right-handed?”
I affirmed using my head, afraid my voice had taken flight.
He rubbed the back of my dominant hand, then turned it over and began kneading my palm with his thumbs. Starting at the base of each finger, pressing warm lines as he worked his way up to my wrist. Then he started his movements higher on each finger, working from the nails downward. He finished the massage with an upward rubbing motion, which sent heat racing from my hands straight up my arms. Am I sweating?
“You want me to do the other hand?”
I swear, a drop of spit was almost about to fall from my lips. Quickly, I drew in my breath. “Yeah. Sure.”
He repeated the heavenly process, giving the left hand its fair share of attention. “Feel better?”
My pulse slammed in my ears now. “Mmm hmmm.” Not quite sure if his massage had the intended effect on me. Sure, I was relaxed, but I was also . . . shall we say . . . happy to be touched.
He’s a preacher, Tori. Stop it!
Someone to Watch Over Me Page 15
