Heaven Right Here

by Lutishia Lovely

  Derrick prayed for almost fifteen minutes. As he did, Cy’s heartbeat slowed, and his breathing calmed. He began praying in the holy language, underscoring Derrick’s words with his soft entreaty before the throne of grace. He reached for the simple gold cross Hope had brought him for his birthday. Fingering it, his faith grew until he could honestly add his belief to Derrick’s words.

  “And so, Father God, we thank you right now for what we believe you’ve already done. We thank you that this child will grow to call you Lord. We thank you that this seed will be like the tree planted by the rivers of water and will not be moved,” Derrick said.

  “Yes, God, we thank you. Thank you, Father God. Thank you, Lord.” By now, Cy was in the corner on his knees, not caring how he looked or who noticed. He was praying for his joint heir. Nothing else mattered.

  After he got off the phone with Derrick, he sat in a chair, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He forced himself to continue in the calm that had come over him while his brother had prayed fervently for their child.

  What’s your wife’s name? a voice asked in his mind.

  Cy knew His voice. Smiling, he whispered, “Hope.”

  Remember that.

  “Hope,” Cy whispered again, fingering the cross. “Hope.”

  A soft hand touched his shoulder. “Mr. Taylor?”

  “Dr. Chanakira,” Cy said, standing quickly. He still believed, but concern shone in his eyes.

  “Your wife is fine, and so are the babies.”

  “My wife is—what? Babies?”

  “That’s right,” Dr. Chanakira nodded, smiling. “You’re having twins. Your son and your daughter are fine.”

  It seemed Cy couldn’t keep his hands off Hope’s stomach. They’d arrived home an hour ago, and after running a warm bubble bath in their master-suite Jacuzzi, he’d decided to join her. He washed her gently, lovingly, toweled her dry, and then carried her to the bed.

  “Cy, they said I’m okay. I can walk.”

  “The doctor has put you on semi-bed rest. And even though she concluded you experienced severe spotting from a premature contraction, I’m not taking any chances.” He adopted the Africansounding accent Eddie Murphy used in one of their favorite movies. “I will carry my queen wherever she needs to go.”

  “Okay, Prince Akeem.” Hope laughed. “Are you going to spread rose petals too?”

  “Yes, because,” and he broke out in song just like the movie, “you’re my queen to be… .”

  They both laughed as he stood her up just long enough to pull back the covers. Then he picked her up once again and placed her on the bed. He ran his hands over the pooch now evident in her abdomen.

  “You’ve never been more beautiful than this moment,” he said, his eyes shining with tears. “My hardest job is going to be not making love to you for the next couple weeks, as the doctor recommended.”

  “There’s making love and then there’s making love,” Hope said, her eyes going to his manhood as she licked her lips.

  “Okay, Mrs. Taylor, behave. We remained celibate for the three months you lived here before we married. We can handle two weeks.”

  “With you, I can handle anything.”

  Cy lay on the bed beside her and cuddled her in his arms. “Can you believe we’re having twins?”

  “No.” Hope giggled. “Two for the price of one.”

  “Exceedingly and abundantly above all we could imagine.”

  “Plus one of each sex. It’s perfect!”

  Cy nuzzled her ear. “Are you sorry we found out?”

  “No, baby. I’m glad I know. I want to help them stay safe, talk to them, call them by name. So now we can start choosing.” She paused for a moment. “I already have a girl’s name in mind. It’s from the bible.”

  Cy tried to guess. “Rachel? Elizabeth? Sarah?” Hope shook her head to each name. “Ruth? Mary?”

  Hope started to laugh.

  “Delilah? Jezebel?”

  She laughed louder.

  “Rapunzel?”

  “That’s not in the bible!”

  “Okay, what then?”

  “Acacia.”

  Cy pronounced it slowly. “That’s beautiful. I like that,” he added. “I wonder what it means.”

  “It’s a type of tree,” Hope explained. “One that is sharp, strong, with thorny points.”

  “Wait, how are you going to call our child a thorn?”

  Hope kissed Cy. “Here’s my take. Trees with thorns have to be handled with care. You can’t just rush up on them, you know? You have to show them the proper amount of respect. And while roses have thorns, they are still beautiful.”

  “And so is Acacia’s mother. Now, what about our son?”

  “I’ve done my work,” Hope said as she nestled into Cy’s hard body. “It’s your turn.”

  59

  Shall We?

  Tony held the door as Stacy walked into the Getty Museum. He followed, trying hard not to notice the swaying backside deliciously filling out her Apple Bottoms jeans. She wore a lightweight red angora sweater with a pair of red, studded, cowboy-type boots. She looked amazing.

  “I can’t believe I’ve never been here,” Stacy said after they’d left the information booth and stood reading the maps outlining the five wings and over one thousand sculptures and pieces of art. “This place is beautiful.”

  “Hmph. None of these pieces can match the artwork I’ve got on my arm,” Tony said.

  Stacy smiled. “Good answer.”

  It had been only three weeks since Tony and Stacy’s relationship had gone from friendship to dating. The shift had been seamless, and what she’d heard people say was right: friendship was a perfect foundation for a good relationship. Tony and Stacy were on the same page and wanted the same things out of life. They’d both recommitted themselves to God and were determined to handle this relationship according to His principals.

  The myriad of rooms and massive outdoor garden gave them plenty of time to talk.

  “You know, there’s something I haven’t asked you yet,” Stacy said.

  “What, another question about my babies mamas?”

  Stacy swiped him playfully. “I haven’t asked much about either of those women. Only the stuff that pertains to your being with another baby mama! But seriously, when did you know? When did it click for you that you had feelings for me beyond friendship?”

  “Honestly? When I saw the doctor at your house and wanted to jack him up for being around you. I kept telling myself you were like a sister to me, but that emotion doesn’t come up for somebody who’s just a friend. I always found you attractive, from the first time you sat next to me at the Montgomerys’ dinner table. But I’d also been hurt too many times to get caught up with a woman who’s heart was elsewhere. I never thought I’d have reason to thank somebody for being homosexual, but Darius—good lookin’ out, man! What about you? Never mind. Don’t tell me. It was love at first sight.”

  “Pretty much. When I saw you at church, I liked the way you carried yourself. And when Hope told me you were going to the Montgomerys’ …”

  “Oh, so now we’re finding out the truth. You had this whole thing planned, huh, plotting and positioning yourself to get in my good graces.”

  “Okay, now you’re pouring it on a little thick.”

  “So you weren’t attracted to me when we had that first conversation at the table?”

  “I’ll put it this way: the baked snapper wasn’t the only thing making my mouth water.”

  After walking around the grounds for two hours, Tony directed Stacy to an area of the courtyard where a jazz trio provided an elegant backdrop to the evening. A small grouping of tables for two was set with fine linen and silver. Next to one table, a bottle of Martini & Rossi Asti Spumante chilled in a silver bucket on a stand.

  “Shall we?” Tony asked.

  Stacy looked around. “We can sit here?”

  “Why not?”

  “It looks like it’s reserved.”

/>   “Baby, my knee is acting up. If it is reserved we can sit down until whoever’s got the table gets here.”

  They sat down at the center table, and soon the couple were taken to paradise on the wings of smooth jazz. A card on the table informed them that the group, the Musical Messengers, were on a twenty-five-city tour and would be at the Getty only this weekend. When they broke into a jazzy rendition of Marvin Sapp’s “Never Would Have Made It,” Stacy unexpectedly teared up.

  “They’re playing gospel,” she whispered, wiping her eyes. “I love that song.”

  “Me too,” Tony said. He kept his arms around her as the band played. After the bridge, the saxophone player stepped to the mic and began reciting an original poem:

  “Never would have made it without God in my life,

  And now I don’t want to go on without you by my side,

  You are the air I breathe, the sun that shines, And I’d be so grateful if you’d be mine because …”

  Tony, getting down on his knees, began speaking with the saxophonist. The saxophonist dropped out, and Tony continued.

  “I never would have made it, and I don’t want to take it.

  I know we just started this dating thing, but you’re my best friend, so please take this ring.

  You have my heart. I love you. Will you marry me?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring. Stacy could barely see it for crying.

  “Tony!”

  “I know it may feel like I’m moving too quickly. But I’ve waited my whole life for you. I know we can work. Because even now, before we’re lovers, you’re my best friend. Marry me, baby. And make me the happiest man on the planet.”

  “Yes,” Stacy whispered and then again, louder. “Yes! I’ll marry you!”

  “You’ll be my wifey, baby?” he asked as he slipped the ring on her finger.

  “Yes, baby, I’ll be your wifey.”

  60

  Doctor’s Orders

  “Doctor? Doctor?” The pretty, petite brunette nurse hurried to Gabriel Livingston’s side. “Good work. You were amazing in there.”

  “Well, thank you. Good assist.”

  “Look, you must be exhausted and hungry. Do you want to grab something in the cafeteria? Or maybe shake this place for half an hour and go across the street for a bite?”

  “Thanks, but no, Amber. I’m still on call for another four hours. I think I’ll just go shower and take a quick nap.”

  Gabriel wearily rubbed his eyes and chin as he continued down the hallway. Being an oncologist brought him great joy. He considered it a privilege to be at the forefront of the fight to stave off and eventually find a cure for one of the nation’s most insidious diseases. His beloved grandfather had died from colon cancer, and Gabriel had sworn then, at the age of sixteen, to do whatever he could to help others not feel the pain he’d felt at the loss. At other times practicing medicine brought the immense challenge of trying to remain impersonal in the operating room. The woman they’d worked on tonight was a fighter, and even though her ovarian cancer was in a critical stage, he remained optimistic. He always did.

  He stepped into his office and dropped into the swivel-back leather chair. Taking a long swig from a bottle of water, he tapped on the computer and brought up his e-mails. Then he quickly checked his phone messages. He was pleased to find Frieda had left a message both places. The girl had moxie, he’d give her that.

  He and Frieda had spoken on the phone several times, but Gabriel’s schedule had been too full for them to go out.

  “If you don’t have time to go out with me, you’re too busy,” she’d said.

  “You’re beginning to sound like my mother,” he’d responded.

  On more than one occasion, Mrs. Livingston had reminded him that she wasn’t getting any younger and expected to be able to hold grandchildren from him soon.

  “I’m only thirty-seven,” he’d said the last time she went into the grandchild mantra.

  “And when I was thirty-seven,” she’d responded without missing a beat, “you were ten years old!”

  Gabriel smiled as he shot off an e-mail response to Frieda:

  Just finished surgery. Need a nap. Will call you later if it’s not too late.

  PS: Stop talking dirty. It’s not ladylike. :)

  He answered a few more e-mails, returned a phone call, took his phone off vibrate, and placed it on ring so that once he stepped into the shower he could hear an emergency call. Then he walked out of his office and down the hallway to the locker room where the shower stalls were located. He quickly stripped out of his clothes and stepped into the steamy, hot water. He stood directly under the pulsating shower head until he felt his shoulder muscles relaxing. Then he lathered and washed, mindful not to waste time showering that could be used for sleep.

  Back into his office, he walked past the fluorescent overhead light switch, opting instead to turn on the orange Himalayan salt lamp he’d recently purchased. According to the colleague who’d talked him into buying it, the lamp had been scientifically proven to increase the negative ion count in the air, which was supposed to boost the room’s air quality and make you feel more relaxed. While he wasn’t ready to offer up his own personal testimony, he did like the subtle lighting and the chilled-out mood it created.

  Gabriel checked his watch, placed the phone on the table next to the sofa, and stretched out on his back. Almost immediately, he fell into a light sleep, an ability he’d honed as a sleep-deprived intern. A slight, clicking sound caused his eyes to flutter.

  The next thing he knew there was a knee on his chest and a hand on his crotch.

  “Don’t move, doctor. I’m getting ready to operate.”

  Gabriel’s eyes shot open as he sat upright. “Frieda!” he whispered harshly. “How did you get in here?”

  “Never mind that. It’s not where I came from but what I’m getting ready to do that’s important.” She dropped down on the floor and buried her nose in his chest. “Mmmm, you smell like soap. Clean. That’s good.”

  Without hesitation, she reached into his drawstring pants and wrapped her hands around his penis.

  “What in the—Frieda, really. You can’t be in here.”

  “In here? Or in here?” she said, expertly massaging him into a quick erection.

  “Look, I’m still on duty—”

  “Well, baby, you better get ready to work!”

  Frieda whipped off the white nurse’s dress she was wearing that zipped down the front. She was naked underneath. She almost sat on his face as she buried her head in his pants and let her mouth replace what her hand had been doing.

  “For heaven’s sake, Frieda,” Gabriel gasped. “What—are—you—doing?”

  I think you know.

  His hips began grinding of their own volition, and while he willed himself to push the luscious buttocks away from him, his hands had a mind of their own. Before he knew it he was pulling Frieda’s furry paradise toward him.

  “Ooh,” Frieda gushed as Gabriel proved his oral skills matched those of his scalpel. “Yes, baby, do that, do that!”

  Frieda flipped around, yanking Gabriel’s pants down in the process. She lay on top of him, and before he could protest, drove her tongue into his waiting mouth. Gabriel gave up the fight and wrapped his arms around Frieda’s taut waist, moving his hands to cup her breasts and thread his fingers into her hair.

  Knowing they didn’t have long, Frieda reached into the pocket of the white dress and pulled out the strawberry-flavored condom she’d placed there. She placed it on his tip and, with surgical precision, used her tongue to unroll it, sending shards of sensation racing through Gabriel’s body as she rolled the condom into place. And then she began to ride.

  Their lovemaking was frenzied and desperate: Frieda reached toward tomorrow as she filled the empty places left by Giorgio and Shabach, and Gabriel released a month’s worth of tension and patient concerns into the willing heat of this willful, savvy sistah. It was just what the doc
tor ordered.

  Frieda gasped as she experienced a mindshattering orgasm. Gabriel climaxed hard, with an extended shudder, then dropped heavily on top of Frieda.

  “Thanks,” he whispered. And fell asleep.

  Frieda rubbed her hand over his sweaty body, feeling his slender shoulders and small, firm butt. She tried to move, an impossibility with his dead weight, but she didn’t care. She’d come to the hospital determined to see the doctor. And he had most definitely filled her prescription.

  61

  Lover of My Soul

  Derrick leaned back against the leather love seat in his executive office. His eyes were closed, and his head bobbed to the beat. The sound was clean, simple, almost acoustic; the slow tempo—poignant—and Darius’s pure, baritone sound floated between the musical notes effortlessly, filled with passion and yearning:

  “Jesus, lover of my soul, let me to Thy bosom fly. While the nearer waters roll, while the tempest still is high.

  Hide me, O my Savior, hide, till the storm of life is past,

  Safe into the haven guide, oh, receive my soul at last.”

  Darius sat in the chair opposite his pastor, also listening to the sounds. At first he listened professionally, detached from the song itself. But by the time the last verse rolled around, he got caught up, just like he had when God had dropped this song into his spirit. Darius sang along with his CD:

  “Plenteous grace with Thee is found, grace to cover all my sin,

  Let the healing streams abound, make and keep me pure within.

  Thou of life the fountain art, freely let me take of Thee,

  Spring Thou up within my heart, rise to all eternity.”

  By the time the last note sounded, both Derrick and Darius were wiping away tears. They sat in silence a moment, letting the presence of the Holy Spirit wash over them. Finally Derrick spoke.

  “Man, I can’t remember the last time I heard that song. I think it was back at my grandmother’s church when I was, oh, I don’t know, nine or ten years old. And I’ve never heard that last verse. It’s beautiful, man, simply beautiful,” Derrick said.

  “Charles Wesley, 1740. People these days are happy if a song lasts ten years, twenty. But these English brothahs were putting it down almost three hundred years ago and counting—and still powerful. Now that’s when you know your words are anointed. Let them be singing ‘Looks Like Reign’ in 2310. That’s what I’m talking about.”