“How’d you know?”
“My dear, this is a very small town.”
Stunned, I could only rub my tongue across my teeth. “For the record, I went to the church on business.”
“I see, my love, I see.” She dragged the apron over her head, ruffling the back of her hair. Cassandra didn’t bother to fix it. “Well, taa-taa.”
I put a hand on her arm. “Wait! You can’t just leave. When . . . I mean, what did you hear?”
Foreign accent intact, she demurred, “A true lady never repeats gossip.”
“Cassandra, you are not British. This is Bayford. I wanna know the Bayford juice.”
She gushed, “He got a thang for you, girl.”
Chapter 19
Now that I had a signal and could be reached at a moment’s notice, I felt more comfortable leaving Aunt Dottie alone for longer periods. Her left arm could pick up a phone and dial out. Even though she probably couldn’t tell me what she needed, I would know to come home.
I instructed DeAndre to call me when he got off the bus every day. He read the therapists’ notes to me (if they weren’t written in cursive) and made sure Aunt Dottie was comfortable. He found it thoroughly fascinating to know I was communicating with him wirelessly.
“Where are you, Cousin Tori?”
“I’m at the library.”
“Then where are you going?”
“Back to the store, probably.”
“Oh, can you bring me some Sprees?” As though this wasn’t the main point of our conversation.
“Only if you finish your homework and your chores before I get home.”
“Yes, ma’am. And get the sour Sprees, all right?”
I nearly broke my neck trying to get to the box of sour Sprees in the back storage room. When I got home later, the beam across DeAndre’s face compensated for near-death teetering.
“Thank you, Cousin Tori.”
I gave Jacob my number under the premise of him being my eyes and ears. He called me later that week, too, on his own superficial grounds. “Baseball practice starts Tuesday. We’d love to see DeAndre there.”
Just when I’d gotten one area of my life simplified, I was adding Little League sports? “What time?”
Jacob must have heard the distress in my voice. “Six—but I can pick him up, along with several other boys, in the church van. Bring him home, too, if need be.”
“That would be really great, Jacob. I’m going back to Houston.”
“Um”—panic seeped through his voice—“how long will you be gone?”
“Just a few days.”
“Oh, okay. I thought you were out of here, homegirl,” he chided.
“Not quite.”
“Will you be back in time for Wednesday service?”
What’s with all these questions? “Maybe. You got something special going on?”
“No. I was hoping we could do another Starbucks run. You got me fiending for a grande frappuccino.”
Truth be told, the Starbucks concoctions didn’t have anything on the memory of that hand massage. I’d drive to L.A. and back for a second appointment. “I can’t promise I’ll be here when church starts—just depends on traffic coming out of Houston. But I should definitely be back before you dismiss.”
“Hey”—he lowered his tone—“don’t worry about DeAndre and Aunt Dottie while you’re gone. I’ll look out for ’em.”
“Thanks, Jacob.”
The last time I drove into Houston, I’d felt like I was coming home. Now, the landmarks leading back to the city struck me differently. Kind of like when you return from a weeklong vacation. Feels like you’re rediscovering your own house.
Anxiety followed me into the building, but one of the scriptures I’d been reading to Aunt Dottie sprang up in defense. “God’s peace guards my heart and mind.” Philippians 4:7. I don’t think it had ever occurred to me before then how helpful it was to have God’s word handy in my heart.
“Hey, babe.” Kevin met me at the door and relieved me of my overnight bag.
“Hey.”
He leaned in for a kiss. I pulled back, surprised. “What’s that for?”
“Because I’m glad to see you,” he explained, half annoyed. He tried again.
I blocked him with an index finger. “Wait. I thought we were supposed to be talking.”
“May I speak first?” he asked.
“Give me a second to . . . unwind, okay?”
“Fair enough.”
Our place wasn’t quite as fresh as when the housekeeper came regularly. Quite stale, actually, since there’d been no life inside. I set my purse on the nightstand, my work case on the bed.
I slipped my knees onto the floor, arranging myself in classic prayer position. Maybe God would know what to do about all this. All through Proverbs, He harped on asking Him for help. No time like the present.
God, thank You for a safe trip back, but that’s not really what I want to talk about.You already knew, though, so here it goes: what do I do about Kevin?
“Oh my God. Are you praying?” Kevin nearly shouted at the doorway.
Glancing up, I nodded.
“Wow.” He exited the room in shock.
Sorry about that, God. Anyway, Kevin and I have been together for a while, but I don’t know where things are supposed to go from here. Please show me exactly what to do.
I’m also not sure about the next step at NetMarketing. I guess I just don’t know what to do with my life in general, so I’m asking for Your wisdom and help because You said You’d guide me if I asked. Aunt Dottie’s always telling me about Your faithfulness, and I see what You’ve done in her life. I believe You can bless my life, too.
Amen.
I waited, perfectly still, for a while, hoping all the answers would miraculously pop into my head. Nothing.
What did appear was a string of doubt: What makes you think He’s going to answer you? He’s not concerned about you. You just started going to church again a few Sundays ago. Who do you think you are, anyway—Aunt Dottie?
Fear relentlessly kicked me about the room as I fiddled around for a while, delaying the inevitable. Rebuttal came in the form of music. One of Mount Pisgah’s most frequent congregational songs landed squarely on my lips. “Call on Jesus. He will answer prayer.”
A text from Lexa gave another reprieve. When will u be in?
I replied: an hour
I flipped outfits and stuffed my feet into a pair of pumps. Kevin, slumped on the couch watching ESPN, straightened his posture when I entered the living area. I sat next to him. Maybe he had a proper resolution. “I’m listening.”
“Babe, I miss you. I love you, I need you. I love the way things were. Why do we have to change everything? You had your health scare, but it’s over now. Your aunt’s getting better . . . right?” His eyes pleaded for the best of both worlds—comfort without allegiance.
An internal news flash scrolled across my spirit: this is the first time Kevin has asked about Aunt Dottie. Quickly, I scrambled through my memory bank to verify. Negative. Now I could throw this tidbit of information on the table. “You’ve never asked about her before now.”
“Who?”
“My aunt.”
He shrugged. “I . . . I just assumed her health was improving.”
“Does it matter to you that I love her? That she’s the closest thing to family I have left on earth?”
Blankness covered his face. “I mean, we’re not into each other’s families. Or politics or religion—although I’m not so sure about you right now. No matter, that’s what makes us so great. We don’t argue, there’s no drama. There’s no pressure here. Don’t rock the boat, Tori.”
No words came to mind. Thumbs twiddled. Ankles crossed twice. Waiting for the right answer certainly made me look stupid.
“So, what do you have to say?” Kevin pressed.
“Nothing right now.”
“You have to say something.”
Maybe if I’d been trying
really hard to have my own way, I could have met his demand by either agreeing with him or issuing his walking papers. Neither of those options seemed appropriate. “I can’t respond yet.”
The muscles in his jaw twitched as wrinkles puckered his brown. “I made a pit stop in Houston so we could have this discussion face-to-face, remember?”
“I’m sorry, Kevin. I’m not trying to be contrary. I really don’t know what to say yet. What do you want me to do—pull the answer out of a hat?”
Anger settled over his features. “I should have caught the flight to Arizona.”
I swear, Kevin looked like he wanted to spit on me, so I left.
During the drive to work my mind streamed a constant replay of our conversation. Or was that an argument? In all the time we’d been dating, this was as close to a real clash as Kevin and I had ever come. I knew Kevin thrived on competition—had to in his line of work. But he wasn’t confrontational. He’d make five phone calls to maneuver people’s actions before he’d tackle a person head-on. “My approach is far more diplomatic,” he’d say.
Though I still wasn’t sure where to go with the relationship, Kevin made a serious point. We were drama-free. I’d seen people fight like cats and dogs on Divorce Court over how to fry okra. I’d even witnessed Mr. James throwing soft objects—wadded paper or clothes—at my mother in the midst of heated disputes. They used to scare me, actually. I never could figure out how they patched up their quarrels in time for city hall meetings.
Nevertheless, I wasn’t my mother and Kevin wasn’t Mr. James . . . or is he? His little temper tantrum sure linked him with Mr. James, throwing fits when the world (or my mother) refused to follow his master plan.
So, what’s Kevin’s agenda? As far as I could tell, he didn’t have one, other than work. Neither did I, until after the surgery. I couldn’t put all the blame on Kevin.
Our solution would have to wait until after today’s business with NetMarketing. I shook my head clear of Kevin, put on my game face, and hoisted my good-to-see-you-again grin in place for the office. Several new faces peppered the department, as Preston had promised.
My cubicle, if that’s what they still called it, had apparently been converted to mini-storage. Okay? Six boxes of copy paper, a broken chair, a small file cabinet, and a pile of unreturned U.S. Postal Service bins occupied what used to be called Tori Henderson’s work space.
“Oh, Tori, I had no idea you’d be back today. Sorry about your office,” Jacquelyn acknowledged. “With all the new hires, we had to move things around. I haven’t had time to send in the request to have these things stored off site, but don’t you worry. I’ll get this out of your way soon. Um, are you back for good?”
Sometimes a bad attitude is just an inch away. Back or not, my office wasn’t Storage Depot. Then again, a certain someone did use it as a restroom. . . .
Laughing to myself, I answered Jacquelyn’s question. “No worries. I’m only here for a few days. I’ll try to call you a day or two before I need the area cleared.”
Save all the hostility for Lexa.
Relief flattened Jacquelyn’s features. “Okay. Thanks, Tori. And by the way”—she took a step toward me, closing the gap between us—“Preston’s just about figured out we bit off more than we could chew with Inner-G, and Lexa’s looking to blame somebody.”
“Would that somebody be me?”
“Bingo.”
“Great. Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Any time.”
Preston and Lexa were waiting for me in the conference room. She certainly looked the part of a competent marketer. Reading glasses, hair pulled back into a working, messy ponytail. Reminded me of how political consultants ramped up Sarah Palin to gain acceptance with the GOP.
Stacks of charts and reports covered the oblong cherrywood table, making the room look more like Santa’s workshop the night before Christmas.
“Hello.” I tried a cheerful approach.
Preston’s mouth tightened. He checked his watch. “We were expecting you hours ago.”
“I sent Lexa a text saying I’d be in this afternoon.”
Lexa lifted her phone from the table and scarcely glanced at the screen. “I didn’t get that message.”
“I certainly sent it. I can show you—”
She stammered, “Well, you’re here now. All we can do is move forward.”
I gave her the old I-know-you-know-I-know-you’re-lying glower.
“Did you bring the numbers I asked you to research?” she prodded on.
“Yes. I have them.” I dealt the manila files like cards, one for each of us.
Preston opened his and took a deep, calming breath. “This is good information,” he complimented. After a battery of questions, he and I talked strategy based on data for the next half hour. Lexa tried to interject with her feelings, but Preston shot her down every time.
“What market research do you have to support your opinion?” he’d ask.
She didn’t.
“Has our competition tried this strategy already, and if so, what was their success rate?” he wanted to know.
She had no clue. Just shooting from the hip.
“I know you’re incredibly talented and creative, Lexa, but if Tori’s numbers don’t back your proposals, I won’t approve them. This isn’t one of those if-you-build-it-they-will-come accounts. Don’t build it unless you know they will come.”
She blasted, “I don’t have a crystal ball, Preston.”
“But you do have data from Tori and even Alex. Why do you think I put you on a team with Tori in the first place?”
She passed the buck. “If Tori would come to work, maybe we’d have the opportunity to consult with each other.”
Preston turned the tables. “Tori, would you say your performance has suffered since you began telecommuting?”
I nodded slightly. “Yes, I’d say so, but only because there’s an adjustment period for every virtual employee.” No need to bring up the whole no phone signal thing. Moot point, currently.
“I’d be glad to produce research proving my line of reasoning.” This addendum, of course, directed at Lexa.
Her bratty “ha-ha” must have gotten under Preston’s skin. He grabbed his folder and dismissed himself. “I’ll leave you two to work out the rest. Tori, can you give me an update next week?”
“Glad to.”
“Looks like I’m going to have to meet with Inner-G’s executives again soon,” he said.
“No problem,” I assured him. “We’ll make sure you have empirical backup.”
I resisted the urge to bury my thumbs in my ears, wiggle my fingers, and stick out my tongue, taunting “I’m better than you are from hundreds of miles away!” Instead, I attempted to steer our remaining time back to the facts.
“So, I’ll get busy working on our Facebook—”
Lexa railed, slamming a well-manicured hand on the table, “You are not going to take this account from me.” She stormed out, leaving me in total confusion. Father, what is wrong with this girl?
Then Lexa number two entered. Hair dangling free of its clasp, reading glasses tucked in her pocket. “Let’s get started.”
“Whatever. And for the record, let me tell you something: I don’t want your job. I have well-established clients of my own whose campaigns aren’t running at optimum success because I spend half my day trying to return calls and e-mail messages from you.”
Red splotches crawled up her neck as she attempted to lead our discussion. Her hands shook so badly, she couldn’t hold up a sheet of paper between us, had to lay it on the table so we could see the numbers clearly. Part of me felt sorry for her. I know what it’s like to be second-guessed. The difference between Lexa and me, however, was her denial of facts. She’d been second-guessed because her first guess was wrong. She would have been better off throwing up the white flag so Preston and the rest of the team could intervene.
Alas, I was in no position to tell her all this. She was the boss
of me on this account, remember?
We worked well past five o’clock. I got into my zone and forgot all about Lexa’s attitude. The problem-solving groove felt good. Familiar. In this world, I knew all the answers.
Too bad the wisdom train fizzled out when I got back to the apartment with Kevin. “Babe,” he immediately started upon my arrival home, “I want you to know how much I love you.” My eyes scanned the dining room. He’d prepared a hot, healthy dinner for us both—turkey spaghetti with steamed broccoli. Kevin’s idea of a sugar splurge, fruit pizza, would top off our meal.
“Looks nice,” I had to admit.
He pulled out my chair and waited until I was comfortably seated before presenting me with a plateful of his masterpiece. He filled both our wineglasses, then he announced a toast. “To us.”
Couldn’t leave a brother hanging, so I clinked his glass and added to the toast. “To the life fate has planned for us.”
I didn’t believe in fate, but I knew Kevin wasn’t too big on God. Or Jesus, for that matter. Bringing up the Holy Spirit was out of the question. “The universe” was as close as Kevin ventured toward any kind of spiritual talk.
He drank, peering at me above the rim of his flute. His withering stare didn’t phase me, however. I saw clear through him, as though his daddy made Saran Wrap. This wasn’t about me, him, or us. It was about sex. Watch.
“So, what are your plans tonight?” I asked.
“Spending time with you.”
My cell phone’s all-encompassing genius button came in quite handy. “Find AMC theater, Houston, Texas.”
“What are you doing?”
“Finding a movie for us.”
He rubbed a foot against my leg. “Let’s produce our own movie tonight.”
As if. “No can do.”
“Why not?”
“Mother nature’s in the house.”
The flicker in his eyes flatlined. He sucked turkey from between his teeth. “So much for makeup sex.”
We both climbed into bed a little before ten, early by our standards. He monopolized the remote control, setting the television on a sports channel to play through the night.
Someone to Watch Over Me Page 17
