Destination Wedding

by Jacqueline J. Holness

  “Okay, I guess.” She reached up and kissed him. “I guess I will head back to my girls, and you can head back to the fellas with my permission.”

  He laughed and hugged her.

  As Senalda returned to her friends, she realized she had just scored a major victory in their Destination Wedding project—even if she was a bit uncomfortable with how it happened. She was in an exclusive relationship with six more months to secure a proposal and plan a wedding to spare.

  CHAPTER 8

  July

  Senalda

  IT WAS NOT LOST on me that I had two similar goals for the day: successfully running the Peachtree Road Race course for the first time, and determining the course of my relationship with Dexter. But first I would focus on the former, and the latter would be addressed later in the day.

  I checked myself out in the bathroom mirror one last time after lacing up my sneakers and attaching my timing tag. To rep my sorority, I was wearing the perfect jazzy outfit, a fire-engine-red and stark-white running tank top and shorts that fitted enough to show my newly toned shape but were loose enough for easy movement. I bought the outfit at Phidippides, a running store in Ansley Mall. And since my hair had just been cut, I decided I could smooth my curls to my scalp after I started to sweat, and it wouldn’t look so bad. I look damn good.

  At 5 a.m., it was still dark and quiet as I backed out of my garage and onto the street. I turned on WBB, the news station, on my drive to the College Park MARTA train station. The broadcaster was already talking about the streets that were blocked off for the race. Dexter and I were meeting at the Lenox MARTA station near the start of the race. Most of the people who boarded the train seemed to be headed to the race as well.

  I tried my best to be laid back, but I got squeezed more and more because crowds of runners got on at nearly every stop. I held my breath as long as I could because the armpit hair of a shaggy-haired white man hung like a furry umbrella over my head. I finally said, “Your armpit is in my face.” The man laughed like I had told him a joke and then moved.

  I found Dexter at Lenox station, waiting in front of the brochure area near the top of the escalator. I smiled because I could picture him in the same pose at an altar on the beach waiting for me as I walked down the aisle to meet him.

  “Sen,” Dexter called, waving to me.

  “Hey, Dexy!” I ran up to him, and he bent down and hugged me. I never got tired of feeling his muscles, and they were on display today in the fitted green running singlet that he wore.

  “So I know you’re faster than me, but you won’t leave me, right? I don’t want to get lost with all of these people,” I said, spotting two white fleshy-but-slim men in tiny shorts checking out Dexter. I couldn’t blame them, because Dexter was fine.

  “I’ve done this race about every year since I was nineteen, so I’m not worried about how fast I run,” he said.

  “That’s a lie and you know it. I know you can run faster, but that won’t stop me from trying to catch up to you or beat you!”

  “So you don’t mind if I run ahead?”

  “That’s motivation,” I replied, trying to act like I was confident. I wasn’t.

  • • •

  Once my feet hit the street about an hour later, I wondered why I had signed up to do this race in the first place. All of 6.2 miles for my first race! That’s what I get for being competitive. For the first two, I kept up with Dexter, although I was breathing hard.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” I said, struggling to talk and run at the same time.

  “Let me know if you want me to slow down.”

  “I’m good for right now,” I released, still trying to breathe. “Go ahead.”

  “Okay,” he said as his pace got faster, and I began walking.

  After a couple of minutes I picked up my pace, although my legs wanted to crumble like pretzels. Maybe the “holy water” sprinkled on me and other racers by a white-collared reverend gave me some supernatural energy as I got to The Cathedral of St. Philip, Cathedral of Christ the King and Second Ponce de Leon Baptist Church, the three churches on Peachtree that made up “Jesus Junction.” I slowed down again as I approached Cardiac Hill, trying to keep my pace steady while still moving forward.

  “Water?” a race volunteer called with an annoying smile as she raised a paper cup in the air. She had come over to me from the left side of the street.

  I shook my head to say no and tried to run faster, but my legs wouldn’t cooperate. At least I’m not walking. As I passed the High Museum, I saw Dexter again and pumped my arms to help my feet get moving.

  “Hey,” I said, finally arriving at his side.

  I reached up to feel my hair. Just as I thought, my bouncy curls were gone. Now my hair was just wet, and I could even smell my perm. But there was nothing I could do about it.

  “Sen, just push through. When we do this again next year, it will be so much easier,” he said as he grabbed my hand and started dragging me.

  Next year? He plans for us to be together next year!

  “You must have read my mind,” I said out loud feeling a burst of energy brought on by his words, “because I was thinking this is my first and last time doing this race.”

  He laughed while he ran. How did he do that?

  I looked up and saw that we were close to 10th Street. I dug deep, mustering up some extra energy since the race was going to end after another 1.2 miles. I was surprised to see that I was still keeping up with Dexter.

  “Let’s finish this race together!” Dexter said.

  As we turned left to run down 10th Street, the crowd had multiplied, and everyone had their hands in the air and cheered for us. Their encouragement made me tap the last bit of energy I had to keep up with Dexter.

  “Lift your arms in the air,” he shouted over everyone. “See the photographers up there?”

  I looked up and saw a line of photographers on a bridge contraption above the runners. I lifted my arms in the air as we got to them.

  “Here we go,” Dexter said. But then he picked up his pace, and his long legs passed me just like that.

  I tried to run faster, but he was too far ahead to catch up.

  “You did it,” he said as he kissed me on the cheek once I got to him on the side of the street just beyond the finish line.

  What happened to, ‘Let’s finish this race together’? This had to be payback for beating him in the election. He may have won the race, but I kept my eyes on my second but most important goal for the day—determining the course of our relationship.

  • • •

  Although Dexter’s townhouse in Alpharetta was fine with its two bedrooms and two-and-a-half bathrooms, I wondered if he would mind living in my house once we got married. My home was bigger, after all.

  “You can shower in my guest room bathroom,” he said while pulling into his garage. “While you’re doing that, I will look for something for you to put on. You’re so small, I don’t think I will have anything.”

  “Yeah, I must be musty, since you’re practically pushing me into the shower,” I said.

  “You’re not the only one,” Dexter said with a laugh.

  • • •

  As I stuck my head under the shower nozzle, I was glad my mother was Puerto Rican. My hair would be wavy after I got the sweat out. A few minutes later, I dried myself off and walked into Dexter’s room. A T-shirt and some sweatpants were on his bed. I only put on the T-shirt and went into his bathroom where he was showering.

  “Hey, Dexy,” I said as I walked through the steam. “You want me to get in there with you?”

  “That depends. Are you starting something you can’t finish?” he said, turning to look at me.

  “Who says I can’t finish?” I felt like working up a sweat again, but this time in his bed.

  “I just want to relax and eat after that run,” he said.

  I frowned. Dexter was the moodiest guy I had ever dated when it came to sex. He had
so many other things going for him, I didn’t make a big deal about it. Other things I couldn’t ignore.

  “So where is this relationship going, anyway?” I said. “We’ve been seeing each other for almost six months.”

  “That came out of nowhere. Can we discuss this AFTER I get out of the shower?”

  “Okay,” I said with a laugh. “I will leave you alone FOR NOW.”

  It was already July. If I wanted to get engaged and married by the end of the year, we had to get moving. By the time he took me home tonight, I would know the answer to my question.

  A few minutes later, he walked out of the bathroom, a black towel wrapped around his waist.

  “So what do you want to do for the rest of the day?” he said to me as I lounged on his bed watching him.

  I looked at him, gave him a sly smile, and finally said, “You said you wanted to relax and eat, but we could do other stuff too.”

  He laughed. “I got some hamburger meat in the fridge so I’m going to grill some burgers. And I bought some baked beans and potato salad from Publix yesterday.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “So we can have our own little July 4th barbecue!”

  An hour later, Dexter and I relaxed on his brown leather sofa as we sipped Heinekens from the bottle and ate our food.

  “So do you have some DVDs?” I said. “I feel like watching movies.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Look under the television.”

  I got on the carpet and searched through the television stand. “You’ve got Coming to America! That is one of my favorite movies,” I shouted. “Boomerang, The Nutty Professor, Dreamgirls. So obviously you’re an Eddie Murphy fan.”

  “Yeah, he is one of my favorite actors,” Dexter explained. “I saw Eddie Murphy Raw when I was ten years old, I think. I was hooked after that.”

  “Let’s just watch Eddie Murphy movies all day,” I said.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  By 10 p.m., I realized that I needed to get home to get to work on Monday although I officially had the day off. And Dexter still hadn’t told me where our relationship was going.

  Jarena

  In June, I made the biggest decision I’ve made since I said “PEACE OUT” to my last job and started my own business. I had been feeling like God was calling me to be a minister, of all things, in the months I’d been attending Hidden United Methodist. But I scheduled a meeting with Pastor Kirby to make sure I wasn’t going crazy.

  After church, I went to his office and waited for him to finish greeting members as they passed by him in the vestibule. Although Hidden United Methodist was old timey, his angular office furniture was actually contemporary. What surprised me the most was his office chair. It was one of those ergonomic chairs that looked modern enough to take flight. I was so used to seeing him sit in the burgundy velvet-covered pastor’s chair behind the pulpit.

  “Do you like my office?” he said as he walked in and looked around. “My wife spent months working so that it would look modern instead of how the sanctuary looks.”

  I laughed.

  “She did a good job,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting it with rest of the church’s décor for sure.”

  “So what can I do for you today?” Pastor Kirby sat down in his chair and leaned forward so that his arms rested on the glass shelf.

  “Ever since I’ve been going here, I’ve been reminiscing about my grandmother. She used to take me to a country church that reminds me of this church,” I said. “She was always saying that she believed I was ‘anointed’ and I would be a minister one day. That it was the ‘highest calling’ you can have on earth. I never really thought about what she said then because she said a whole lot of stuff to me.

  “But lately her words have been coming back to me almost every day. And another thing. I used to read the Bible before, well at least on Sundays, and now I cannot live without reading the word of God every single day. So I started to pray about it, and I think God is telling me that I should be a minister. Is this what happened to you? Or am I going crazy?”

  Pastor Kirby leaned back in his chair.

  “Sorry for flooding you with all of that information,” I said with a nervous laugh.

  He chuckled and then paused before saying, “So I guess you’re the one who God has been calling.”

  “Huh?” I said, forgetting I was speaking to a pastor.

  “At the beginning of the year, God told me that someone in my church was going to be a new minister here.”

  I remembered the sermon from the first Sunday I visited the church. “You think God was talking about me?” I said, placing my hand on my chest.

  “It is June and no one else has told me what you just said.”

  It was my turn to be quiet. Had this been the reason that I found this little church, or rather why God led me here?

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said, finally. “I’ve been researching seminaries on the internet. Is that what I’m supposed to do now? Go back to school? What happens next?”

  “Let’s pray. That’s the first thing. In fact, let’s pray about it now.”

  Pastor Kirby came over to the chair next to me and grabbed my hands. He bowed his head and began. “Lord, you told me at the beginning of the year that someone in our congregation needed to be a minister, and here is Jarena today confirming what you said. But we need to be sure, Lord. Show Jarena clearly in a way she can understand and not deny what is your will for her. If you want her to be a minister, show her, Lord. In the blessed name of your son Jesus Christ, we pray. Amen.”

  “Amen,” I repeated, feeling a warmth overtake me like a wave. “Thank you, Pastor Kirby.”

  “Would you like to be a certified lay minister here at the church?”

  “What is that?”

  “A lay minister is someone who serves in the capacity of a minister but is supervised by an ordained clergyperson.” Pastor Kirby walked back to his chair behind his desk. “You can start a Bible study, start your own ministry at the church like a prayer ministry, visit the sick. You can be involved in any area that you feel led to be involved in. There is a two-day training session for lay ministers coming up in July in Charlotte.

  “Also, after this session, there will be several courses offered by the North Georgia United Methodist Conference that you would need to take over a two-year period. During this time, I can mentor you and help you discern God’s call on your life.”

  “Do I still need to go to seminary?”

  “If you want to be an ordained minister, then yes, you have to go to seminary. But becoming an ordained minister can be a much longer process than the two years it takes to be a certified lay minister.”

  “I don’t know if I want to be an ordained minister, but I do think I should go back to school. I just want to learn more. I already have a bachelor’s degree.”

  “What about getting a master of divinity degree? I have some contacts at Candler School of Theology at Emory,” he said. “Let’s look at the website and see what you need to do to apply, if you’re interested.”

  I walked behind his desk to look at what he had pulled up on his computer. I had until July 1 to submit my application materials to get into the school the next school year.

  “That doesn’t leave you much time,” Pastor Kirby said, turning to me. “But you can count on my letter of recommendation.”

  “Yeah, a month isn’t much time, but I think I want to do it,” I said.

  “That settles it, then. I will have my letter ready by next Sunday!”

  “Wow! Well, thank you very much, Pastor Kirby,” I said as I extended my arm to shake his hand. “I will see you next Sunday.”

  • • •

  By July 1, my application materials had been turned in, only by the grace of God! I hoped I wouldn’t have to wait too long to hear from the admissions committee to find out if I had gotten in Emory. In the meantime, I packed for my Charlotte trip.

  It was almost as if Barry was telepathic. He sent me a Faceboo
k message after I met with Pastor Kirby, and I told him that I would be in Charlotte on July 4th weekend for a ministry conference. He wanted to meet me for lunch on Friday. I thought I should probably decline, but I eventually concluded there would be no harm in two old friends meeting for a lunch, especially since I hadn’t seen him in person since just after we graduated from college. Plus, we had changed since being the college sweethearts we once were, I told myself.

  Barry remembered how much I loved soul food, so he suggested that we meet at Fat Daddy’s Soul Food. Fat Daddy’s was in a strip mall. It was easy to spot because the enormous blue-and-white sign featured a huge, jowled, pot-bellied black man. From my car, I looked through the glass storefront into the one-room restaurant, noting its bright fluorescent lighting and retro—or just plain old—blue Formica laminate tables and matching chairs. The stark ambience solidified it would be a friendly lunch, not a romantic reconnection. But I was also glad the restaurant looked like nothing special because I was suspicious of any soul food restaurant that placed too much emphasis on the décor. It wasn’t easy to put “soul” into food, in my opinion, so that trumped décor all day every day for me.

  I wondered what Barry would say about my huge curly Afro in person, especially in contrast to the simple black pantsuit with a white blouse I was wearing to be as conservative as possible at the training session. And then I saw Barry. For a second I wanted to drive off, but I was intrigued by what I saw. He was still rocking a medium-length curly Afro, but he had put on man weight. And then he looked at me. It only took him three steps to be in front of me as I opened the restaurant door. I wondered if his lips felt hot, because mine did. And then I was encircled in his arms. We still fit perfectly.

  “Are you still wearing Drakkar Noir?” I said with a laugh.

  “Hey, when you find a brand that works, stick with it.”

  “I guess you would know, Mr. Senior Brand Manager for Coca-Cola.”

  “And you have your own company,” Barry said. “We’ve come a long way from eating ramen noodles in my grungy apartment!”