by Pat Simmons
TALK TO ME
(A love story in any language)
By
PAT SIMMONS
~~~
Smashwords Edition
This is a work of fiction. References to real events, organizations, and places are used in a fictional context. Any resemblances to actual people, living or dead are entirely coincidental.
To read more books by this author, please visit www.patsimmons.net.
Copyright ©2008/2014 by Pat Simmons
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
PRAISES FOR PAT SIMMONS
“In Talk to Me, Pat Simmons weaves together a love story from the perspective of each of the main characters. However, one of the main themes involves the struggles and hardships that Noel faces as a member of the deaf community. While reading this novel, I began to take note of the fact that my church doesn't have a deaf ministry and how that may seem unwelcoming to members of the deaf community. I also began to think about other things, such as phone conversations without an intermediary, the ease in hearing my child should he cry out at night and other things I simply take for granted as a hearing person. Ms. Simmons does a great job of bringing awareness to issues facing the deaf community, while at the same time, telling a wonderful love story.” — RAWSISTAZ Reviewer****
Pat Simmons does it again and again! Another great story from Pat Simmons! What I love about her books is they are all biblically based! She shows how we, as humans, are in need of healing, deliverance, forgiveness, etc. I really like her approach to the dating scene! It is refreshing from some other Christian novels that allow their characters to engage in sexual activity without being married! Thank you, Pat, for giving us some good, pure, interesting Christian materials to read!! I appreciate you! You and a handful of other Christian Authors are rare commodities in these last days! …LeeLee, reader****
This was a very inspiring story. A lot of romance and determination. Kept you waiting for the next chapter. Thoroughly enjoyed this book. Shared it with my reader friends. Pat Simmons knows how to inspire anyone.—Peaches, reader***
I found myself shouting hallelujah and amen whilst reading it. I fell in love with these real life characters and the way in which the words came over to the reader, Pat truly has a way with words in orchestrating and declaring the living word of truth. I felt satisfied at the end of this book which I often don't get to enjoy whilst reading novels. I see Pat's writing as her ministry for I truly identified with some of what the characters had to go through and the reality of the struggles that we Christians face and must overcome. I am going to read again and note the very appropriate and effective scriptures. I have come away enriched and edified from this book. I cannot wait to read every single novel from Pat—Tamy Truth, reader***
Simmons, is truly a gifted writer from the Lord, she's one of my all times favorite writer, her books touch your very soul and make you think of your choices, mistakes, forgiveness, repent, I always see message in every book I read. This is truly a must read whatever you going through or when through she's let u know just be still and trust God.—Theresa, reader, on THE KEEPSAKE***
Other Christian titles include:
The Jamieson Legacy
Book I: Guilty by Association
Book II: The Guilt Trip
Book III: Free from Guilt
The Guilty Parties series
Book I: The Acquittal
Book II: The Confession (fall 2014)
The Carmen Sisters
Book I: No Easy Catch
Book II: In Defense of Love, February 2015
Love at the Crossroads
Book I: Stopping Traffic
Book II: A Baby for Christmas
Book III: The Keepsake
Book IV: A Man’s Treasure
Making Love Work Anthology
Book I: Love at Work
Book II: Words of Love
Book III: A Mother’s Love
Holiday novellas:
A Christian Christmas
A Christian Easter
A Christian Father’s Day
A Christmas Greeting
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
BOOK TWO
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Book Club Discussion Questions
About the Author
PROLOGUE
On Thanksgiving Day, at nine-thirty in the morning, I fell in love. It was swift and irrevocable. In other words, I lost my common sense. Without warning or fanfare, I succumbed to Mackenzie Norton’s allure. Love is such a strange emotion—never enough time to savor all the sweet moments. It’s hindsight now that I’ve lost her.
Sometimes the memories taunt me, other times they provide comfort. When my eyes close, Mackenzie appears. Her brown eyes twinkle, causing a sexy glow to spread across her face. Her hypnotic trance released strong vibes that are undeniable. She was such a puzzle, allowing me the pleasure of seeing how her pieces fit together. Inside the church walls, she was sober. With me, her mischievous antics would issue challenges.
Mackenzie. The way she commanded her body possessed my senses. Thank you, God, for my eyes to see. With deliberate movements, Mackenzie’s hands beckoned to me, sprinkling magic along the way. Long, slender arms danced with the grace of a swan.
For the initial five seconds I laid eyes on her, I dismissed her until she demanded my attention without trying. A gentle spirit tempered her powerful personality. Yes, Mackenzie’s magnetism was undeniable. She became my teacher and I, her willing student. I chuckle at the memories.
She had the most enchanting smile. Ah! Did I mention her lips? They were my worst distraction and her best asset—shapely and full in a natural pout. They moved like a musician manipulating his instruments. Have I mentioned she was a feisty five-foot four-inch beauty who was committed to her convictions?
Glistening skin reminded me of wet brown sugar—my attraction. A head of messy curls was her crowning glory. On any other woman, the look would’ve been scary, but it was Mackenzie’s trademark—
stylish, sassy, and sexy.
During our quiet time, we mouthed promises to each other. We honored each word with sincerity and care, vowing not to break one. It happened anyway. Mackenzie was to blame, or maybe I was.
One evening we savored the quietness. We were being silly as we watched the sunset at a deserted playground. I spoke aloud a wish as I pushed Mackenzie on a swing. “I miss dancing. The final song I heard was Donna Summers’ “Last Dance.” How prophetic. More than anything I wish we could dance the night away.”
Mackenzie dug her heels into the ground, halting the swing. Turning around, she finger-kissed the sadness, disappointment, and pain out of my eyes. “I promise, Noel, one day we’ll dance.” I didn’t hear her, but I knew she was sharing a secret when she always touched me. Now our chance will never come. I hate broken promises.
It had nothing to do with me being one of twenty-eight million Deaf Americans. It wasn’t from birth, but sixteen years earlier when doctors delivered the tragic news to my parents that I had lost my hearing. They were in shock. My mother cried, knowing my family lacked the skills to communicate with me. I’m lucky—no, I’m blessed—to be alive, unlike my childhood buddy, Keith Morrow, who died in a freak explosion near a fireworks plant. He was an only child.
Anyway, I grew accustomed to interpreters signing at events, but it was Mackenzie’s contagious enthusiasm that sucked me into a storm, whirling me into the eye of the hurricane. Never had I witnessed an interpreter wrapped up in so much pleasure and total involvement in communicating what was happening around me. Not only did I see and feel; Mackenzie made me believe I could hear the choir’s rendition of “My Life is in Your Hands,” a Kirk Franklin song I had never heard.
My heart jumped at a thunderous rumble inflicted by Mackenzie’s imaginary wooden drumsticks, pounding invisible drums and tapping fictitious cymbals. With confidence, her fingers stroked pretend piano keys. Her expression, most humorous, depicted the altos’ deep voices and the sopranos’ melodious high pitches.
Who knew that when I stepped into God’s Grace Church, I would enter utopia? Suddenly, I felt like praising God for what I had—my eyes to gaze, hands to enjoy her soft skin, and a heart that throbbed faster when she was close. At that moment, for some unexplained reason, I thanked God that I was deaf. Can you believe that? I thanked God for allowing the worst event to happen in my life because it made me the happiest. How else would I’ve met a woman whose love was fierce and unconditional? Then months after our meeting, I, Noel Richardson, lost Mackenzie Norton.
CHAPTER 1
Have you ever had one of those days while you’re driving and decide, at the last minute, to change course, to go a scenic route? That’s what happened to me while cruising through Richmond Heights, a St. Louis suburban neighborhood. I could blame the detour on the comfort of the car I was test driving, a platinum Cadillac CTS—the Motor Trend Car of the Year.
I’d been searching for a while. Not for God, but for a car that was sleek and roomy for my six-foot-three-inch muscular frame. At thirty-one years old, I bench press almost three hundred pounds, workout five days a week, and maintain a healthy weight of 210 pounds. I’m also an educated black man with two degrees.
Church was the farthest thing from my mind when I drove past a large, portable sign, flashing a message in bold, bright-red lights, Thanksgiving morning worship service, beginning at nine. Deaf ministry is available.
Hmmm, any excuses had expired for skipping a service with real people and a reach-out-and-touch pastor. I’d stopped attending church a long time ago because the experience left me too frustrated. For years, my Sunday morning rituals consisted of reading several chapters in my Bible and watching two hours of televangelists. Although I read lips, I’d missed something in the translation—the excitement, the power, the inspiration—despite watching an interpreter at the bottom of my TV screen.
I hadn’t known that a Holy-Ghost filled church with a Deaf Ministry was minutes away when I recently purchased a house. It was an answer to my inconsistent prayers. The location was closer to my office and the one-story brick ranch house had recently been renovated. Neighbors appeared to compete for camera-ready manicured lawns and intentionally posed shrubbery. Everything was perfect except for decorating. That proved to be a first-time lab experiment gone wrong. Each picture, rug, and piece of furniture confessed that all rooms were under construction.
On Thanksgiving morning, at the designated hour, I arrived on the church’s corner parking lot. I’d never attended service on a holiday. The number of cars reminded me of an auto dealership as I scrambled for a space in the strategically landscaped area. When I parked, I got out, and began my walk to the entrance. Large, weather-bleached stones and mortar fortified the church’s exterior. Once inside, my eyes widened at the modern sleek décor camouflaged by the vintage front building.
Marble pillars stood at attention between stained-glass windows that allowed anyone to peep into the sanctuary. A warm presence touched me before anyone approached, as if Jesus was beckoning me home. Glancing up, I grinned. My anointing was really the outside chill that had activated the blast of heat inside the lobby.
“Welcome to God’s Grace, my brother.” A man, maybe in his fifties, saluted me and added a huge smile.
“I’m here for the deaf ministry,” I signed, hoping he understood. He didn’t.
As if summoned, an elderly usher appeared dressed in a faded black suit, white gloves, and a purple bow tie. After bowing like a butler, he did an about face and walked away. I took that as my cue to follow. Entering the sanctuary, the size overpowered me. It was spacious with purple cushioned and eye-catching crystal chandeliers, sparkling like night stars.
The deep-purple carpet was so plush I felt guilty for wearing shoes. Numerous ushers patrolled three aisles as if they were programmable toy soldiers. Others were sprinkled throughout the sanctuary.
I grimaced as my escort guided me to my seat. Why did visitors always have to be paraded to the front line? I didn’t have to guess that the four roped-off pews were the designated deaf area. Thanking the usher, I shook off my black cashmere coat, and draped it over my arm. Scooting inside the pew, I laid it down with my Bible.
After nodding to those already seated, I sat. Bowing my head, I prayed, asking God to tell me if this is where he wanted me. Opening my eyes, I stretched my legs and wondered if my comrades were members or fellow curious visitors.
Flexing my muscles, I crossed my arms, and waited for the show to begin. I have to be honest; I wasn’t easily impressed because everyone who called themselves interpreters weren’t polished, nor did they enjoy the communication. It was a job, a well-paying one too. As a first-time visitor, I made note of my surroundings. Despite the grandeur, it had a cozy feel.
The next thing that caught my eyes were the people crammed into a three-level stadium style seating—the choir stood several feet behind the podium. Then, two women who appeared in a doorway stole my attention.
From a distance, neither was bad looking. The taller one was dressed to showcase her endowment, and I admired her bountiful assets. Her hair was straight and poured over her shoulders as a silver-colored dress clutched her body. Her shimmering stockings were meant to catch a man’s eye. They did.
The other woman, who was shorter, piqued my interest. There was something about her that challenged me to look away, if I dared. Her clothes were bold and her hair was wild, but the combination was stunning. I had no doubts about her endowments although it was clear she attempted to conceal them.
What had I been missing sitting at home in front of a television? “Wow,” was my first thought at her abundance of hair. I smirked at her colorful scarf that failed to restrain rebellious curls. Yeah, set them free, I taunted inwardly. The way she jutted her chin and held her head showed she had confidence. Her beauty was understated.
Closing my eyes, I regulated my breathing, and reminded myself where I sat. Yes, I was in church, but God wanted me to appreciate His handiwork. A
beautiful woman was worth admiring. I inhaled a deep, measured breath and opened my eyes.
The pair chatted as they walked, throwing air kisses, shaking hands, and returning waves to church members. Eventually, they approached the roped-off pews and stopped. They made eye contact with our group for a brief moment, as if they were taking a head count. The tall sister’s eyes met mine a second and then a third time.
I couldn’t believe I looked away first, thinking, I’m trying to behave. I did come for the Word not a woman. In sync, they sat in folding chairs and faced us. They were the interpreters. Okay, show me what ya got. I smirked.
Unfortunately, the showcase interpreter did. She yawned wide enough for a dental exam as her eyes darted around the sanctuary. Was she bored already? I wondered. That was not a good sign. The other woman bowed her head in prayer. The choir opened their mouths and swayed to sounds that were prohibited to one of my five senses. It didn’t matter, as I felt the powerful vibrations under my feet. My heart pounded in harmony. Masterfully, that interpreter moved her fingers, telling me a story that defied me to blink or turn away.
A large overhead screen unraveled from the ceiling, displaying lyrics to “You Are Welcome in This Place.” If this worship period was a warm-up exercise before the sermon, then maybe I was in the right place.
Ending her prayer, the understated interpreter’s face glowed as she signed the song with conviction. I chanced looking around me. Yep, others were spellbound. When she stood and swayed, I followed.
When the singers stilled their mouths and sat, the other interpreter whose face was draped in boredom took over the interpretation. Again, she didn’t stifle a yawn as a man came to the microphone. She signed, Psalm 69:30: I will praise the Name of the God with a song, and will magnify him with thanksgiving.
