by Stacy Adams
“This is not a bad place to begin wrestling with God’s role in it all, but honestly, there’s no pressure. I’ve got your back, no matter what.”
The men did a soul-brother handshake and hugged.
“How’s that for a white boy?”
They laughed.
“Sorry, man,” Gabe said.
Stevens was about to part the netting and unlatch the door when Gabe touched his shoulder.
“One more question, man,” he said. “About this grace and mercy. Does that apply to everything?”
Stevens turned and faced him. “Before I surrendered to God, I was gambling away my future,” he said quietly. “Those long weekend trips I took? They weren’t to golf resorts. I was holed up somewhere losing big, while my wife sat at home crying and worrying about whether we’d survive financially. God removed my addiction and saved me from bankruptcy, Gabe. That’s nothing but grace and mercy.”
Gabe followed his friend into the building and bade him good night.
His mind was swirling from all he’d heard, and he still felt awkward for having asked Stevens to talk with him anyway. He walked to the room he shared with three other men from Gabe’s church and tiptoed to his cot, where he would cover himself with more netting and quickly change into lightweight sleepwear.
Once settled, he lay there, listening to the mosquito songs and willing sleep to come. Instead, Stevens’s words reverberated in his mind. The portions of the Scripture about pleasing God instead of man became a refrain.
He thought about his sins, the biggest of all being his eighteen-month affair with Veronica. How could he fix that? Would God really help him set things straight?
Stevens hadn’t said so, but from the little Gabe knew about God, he realized that if he were going to take a serious step toward faith, he would have to seek forgiveness, not only from the heavenly Creator, but also from his wife.
If choosing God meant Rachelle might never come home, he wasn’t sure he could do it.
26
Rachelle was still flustered by the time she reached Uncle Charles and Aunt Irene’s home and didn’t want anyone to see her.
She entered through the front door and tiptoed to the powder room, which was conveniently located just before the living room entrance. She closed the door behind her, flipped on the light, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot.
I know I did not just lock lips with Troy Hardy.
She wondered whether God was keeping score and if today’s offense equaled three strikes all by itself.
Rachelle splashed cold water on her face and patted her eyes, hoping to draw less attention to them. When she felt calmer and able to pretend as if everything were all right, she took a deep breath and emerged from the bathroom.
Voices floating from the living room caught her attention. She crossed the hallway and poked her head inside. Aunt Irene was sitting up on her cot, flanked by Uncle Charles and a well-dressed man wearing a bow tie. Rachelle waved hello.
Uncle Charles motioned for her to join them. “Rachelle, meet John Dupree, our lawyer. He’s going to represent your aunt on the misdemeanor stemming from the car accident.”
“Oh,” Rachelle said. This was the first time they had spoken openly about the charge, although it had been written up in the newspaper. “Is there going to be a trial?”
Mr. Dupree looked in Aunt Irene’s direction. “We’re hoping for a bench trial, which means the judge will briefly hear the case himself, without us having to select a jury and face a drawn-out process. As soon as Irene feels up to it, I’d like to get her involved in a community service project. That will go a long way toward convincing the judge to be lenient, since this is her first offense. Something not too strenuous, but valuable, to show that she’s serious about contributing to society and not making the same mistake.”
He waited for Aunt Irene’s response.
“I’ll go to the AA meetings if you think that will help, John,” she told him. “But honestly, I have not had a drop of vodka, or any alcohol, since the accident, and I’m not craving it.”
A heavy silence filled the room.
“What?” Aunt Irene asked. She looked from her lawyer to her husband. “You don’t believe me?”
Uncle Charles shrugged. “You’ve made promises before, Irene.”
Rachelle was stunned enough to sit on the sofa. Just how long had Aunt Irene been drinking?
“You change for a little while, then you get stressed and run back to your usual crutch,” Uncle Charles continued. “What makes this time any different?”
Aunt Irene was fair-skinned enough that Rachelle recognized her embarrassment when she blushed.
“I’ve never caused a major accident before, Charles,” she said softly. “I know how serious this is.”
Mr. Dupree rose from his seat and shook hands with Aunt Irene, Uncle Charles, and Rachelle.
“Ladies, gentleman, gotta run to my next appointment,” he said. “Call me, Irene, when you’ve thought about the community service piece, and I’ll be researching places as well that might be a good fit.”
He left through the front door and closed it behind him. Aunt Irene leaned forward and looked at Uncle Charles.
“So you think I’m still drinking?” she said again to Uncle Charles. “You think I’m that crazy?”
He opened his mouth to say something, but hesitated. He was saved from responding by a light knock at the kitchen door, which was often unlocked when they were home. It creaked open, and though Rachelle and the others couldn’t see who had entered, Rachelle knew by the clickety-clack of her stilettos on the kitchen tile that Aunt Melba had arrived.
“Hey, family!” she said.
When she didn’t grace the living room right away, Rachelle pictured her poking around in the fridge.
“Rachelle, you didn’t cook today?”
Rachelle chuckled. “It’s time to go home when Aunt Melba starts showing up, looking for me to prepare a good meal. I don’t cook like this in Houston, you know.”
Melba entered with a Diet Coke in her hand. “I know—you’ve got a maid and all. Must be nice. But at least you learned well from your mama. You’ve got pretty good culinary skills.”
Rachelle laughed again. “You’re wrong about that one,” she said. “I didn’t learn how to boil water until I showed up at Everson and Aunt Irene felt sorry for me. She told me I was ‘disabled’ and made me come over once a month with my friend Jillian to learn how to cook a new dish.”
The thought of Jillian made her sad. She hadn’t heard anything since her visit to San Diego, but in this case, no news was good.
Aunt Melba slid onto the sofa next to Rachelle. The piece of furniture had been shoved against a wall in the living room to better position Aunt Irene’s bed.
“What are y’all up to?” she asked.
Uncle Charles quietly left the women to talk.
Irene told her about the lawyer’s visit and his suggestion that she find a place to volunteer. Melba took another swig of soda and gave a thumbs-up.
“Got the perfect place for you—Cynthia’s pediatric practice,” she said.
“What?” Aunt Irene and Rachelle said in unison.
“What would I do with a bunch of cranky, sick little kids?” Aunt Irene asked. “I don’t want to go anywhere that’s going to leave me blowing my nose or taking my temperature at the end of the day.”
Melba waved off her concern. “Cynthia has college students in there all the time, reading to kids in the waiting room, or helping parents understand the various pamphlets she distributes about asthma and other chronic conditions.
“Like I mentioned before, she serves a lot of young mothers, who come to her to get the guidance they’re lacking at home. There are a number of things you could do to assist her, Irene. She would welcome you with open arms, and you’d be rendering the kind of community service your lawyer is talking about.”
Aunt Irene looked pensive. “But what about my hip
? I can get around alright with my crutches or the wheelchair, but I can’t be chasing around hardheaded children. I taught high school for thirty years because the younger age groups weren’t my cup of tea.”
Aunt Melba laughed. “Those babies in Cynthia’s office don’t want you chasing them. Sitting in a wheelchair, or in one of the chairs in the waiting area, should be okay. Think about it and let me know. I’ll call Cynthia if you want to give it a try.”
Rachelle touched Aunt Melba’s arm. “If she’s open to that idea, ask her if I can come too. I haven’t done eye exams in a long time, but I’d be happy to help with the routine pediatric eye check-ups or serve as an extra set of hands for whatever else she might need.”
The phone rang and Aunt Irene picked up the cordless receiver to look at the caller ID. She raised an eyebrow. “It’s Troy Hardy. Wonder what he wants.”
Rachelle bit her lip and frowned. Aunt Irene and Aunt Melba both noticed.
“If he’s calling for me, tell him I’m not here,” Rachelle said.
Aunt Melba cocked her head to the side and stared at Rachelle. “Why would she need to do that? And why would our music director be calling here for his married ex-wife?”
27
Aunt Melba leapt from the sofa and grabbed the phone from Aunt Irene before it stopped ringing. Even in her stilettos, she didn’t falter.
“Burns residence,” she said. “Hello, Troy. It’s Melba. How are you? You’re calling for Rachelle? Well, can I take a message for her?”
Aunt Irene frowned and swatted Melba’s arm. She motioned for Melba to give the phone to Rachelle, but Melba pretended not to see.
Rachelle wouldn’t have been surprised if her heart pounded right through her shirt. What had she started?
“No message?” Melba asked. “You sure? I mean, you took the time to call.”
She pursed her lips and nodded. “Got it. I will be sure to tell her. And Troy? Oh, never mind.”
Aunt Melba hung up and returned the phone to Irene. She put a hand on her hip and glared at Rachelle. “What is going on?”
“What did he say?” Rachelle asked. “And what was that last exchange about? That whole ‘never mind’ thing?”
“He said to tell you he was out of line and that he’s sorry,” Aunt Melba said. “He said to tell you he owes you an explanation. I told him ‘never mind’ because instead of handling it with him, I’m going to deal with you.”
Aunt Irene looked at Rachelle. “Where have you been today? What is he talking about?”
Rachelle’s face grew warm. She started to squirm. This could not be happening.
“Rachelle?” Aunt Irene said. “Why is Troy calling here for you?”
Aunt Melba moved toward Rachelle and grabbed her by the arm.
“Come on,” she said and pulled Rachelle from her chair. “We’ll be back later, Irene. Will you be okay?”
Aunt Irene nodded. “Charles is here for the rest of the afternoon. Go on. Get things straightened out. We can’t have Troy calling here like this.”
Aunt Melba kept her grip on Rachelle’s arm and led her outside to her Volvo. She unlocked the car with her keychain device and walked Rachelle to the passenger side, where Rachelle opened the door and plopped in the seat.
When Aunt Melba had settled behind the wheel, Rachelle turned to her. “Why are you treating me like I’m twelve years old? Why are you even getting involved in this? Was that all that Troy said?”
Aunt Melba didn’t respond. She put the car in reverse and pulled out of the driveway, steering the two miles to her house in silence. When they reached the beige brick rancher, she ushered Rachelle inside, into her family room. She offered Rachelle a seat on the sofa and returned a few minutes later with a glass of iced tea.
Rachelle sat back and sipped it while Aunt Melba settled on the floor in front of her and began rifling through the lower shelves of a wall-length bookcase.
“What are you looking for?” Rachelle finally asked. “And why did you bring me here to ignore me?”
Aunt Melba finally found what she was searching for—a small black photo album that had been tucked in the back of the bookshelf, behind a row of hardcover novels. She dusted it off and stood up, pressing the album to her chest.
Aunt Melba came over and sat next to Rachelle. She waited until Rachelle set her glass of tea on the table and turned to face her.
“Do you know who you are?”
Rachelle frowned. “What are you talking about, Aunt Melba? And why did you bring me here? To ask silly psychological questions?”
Aunt Melba stared at her for the longest time without responding. Then she passed the photo album to Rachelle.
“You want me to look at your pictures?” Rachelle asked, wondering if Aunt Melba was losing it.
“Rachelle, I’ve never been married and I’ve never confronted the regret that must come with being reunited with someone you once loved dearly.” Aunt Melba spoke slowly and thoughtfully. “I haven’t walked in your shoes, so I have no idea what you’re thinking or feeling. But I do know what it feels like to be tempted and to yield to your emotions because it seems right and you think that makes it okay.
“I know what it feels like to wish you could go back to yesterday and fix everything you messed up when you were young and stupid and thought you knew everything. I’ve been there, and it seems to me that you’re heading down that path for a second time.
“Whatever happened between you and Troy years ago needs to stay there,” Aunt Melba said. “I’m telling you this because I love you. I know you’re struggling in your relationship with Gabe, and coming here and seeing Troy has only clouded the issue further. But you know what? What you’re really struggling with is yourself.
“You have to figure out who Rachelle Mitchell Covington is, behind all of the titles—wife, mother, niece, cousin, friend. What do you want out of life? What is your purpose, independent of the people who fill your life? I’m not saying you don’t need those people, but until Rachelle comes to know and love Rachelle, how can she really love anybody else? And until you decide to surrender your heart to God, you might not ever be able to claim a piece of it for yourself. Maybe that’s why you’re trying to turn back time.”
Rachelle lowered her head and closed her eyes. She hadn’t yet opened the photo album that she now clutched to her chest.
Everything Aunt Melba said struck a chord. She didn’t know who she was. She never had.
That was why it had been so easy for her to give up on a life with Troy when her parents had insisted. She had always been their perfect little princess and hadn’t wanted that to change.
That was why she had so readily latched onto Gabe after taking him home one weekend and getting her mother’s approval. At least the second time she wed, she got to have a real wedding.
Having the children back to back had been Gabe’s idea, as had her membership in Houston’s Junior League, Jack and Jill, and other elite organizations that would help them both become movers and shakers in the Houston Metroplex area. Gabe had even chosen her girlfriends, because he happened to associate with or like their husbands.
So who was she really, except a trophy wife with a phat house and a nice bank account—things that, in the long run, could be considered trappings rather than blessings?
Aunt Melba folded her arms and watched Rachelle ruminate.
“Take as much time as you need to think it through,” she said. “We’ve got all night. I just don’t want you to leave here and think that running into the arms of an old love is going to make you happy. Troy can’t make you happy. Only God can give you that kind of contentment. I know, because he finally showed me that when I was ready.”
Rachelle raised herself from her bent-over position and looked at Aunt Melba. Her voice trembled when she spoke. “Troy called because we ran into each other today and he kissed me. No—we kissed each other.” Rachelle offered her aunt a sad smile. “Gabe has been indifferent to me forever, and I think he’s having an
affair. I noticed changes in him and in our relationship a little over a year ago, but I didn’t call him on it because I didn’t want to throw our lives into upheaval.
“He takes care of home. The kids and I have everything we need . . . except him.” Rachelle’s voice trailed off as she looked away.
Aunt Melba finished the sentence for her. “So you decided to live with a glass half full rather than risk it becoming empty.”
Rachelle raised her eyes to Melba’s face. “You didn’t know I was so shallow, did you? It can get pretty comfortable living in a place where most of your needs are met. I figured since I had given up the love of my life and my career, I could at least have everything else.”
“But how does that make you feel about you? How do you feel about the fact that Gabe isn’t faithful to you?”
Rachelle looked away again to avoid Aunt Melba’s searing gaze. “I really don’t know. I tucked my feelings away, I guess, so I wouldn’t have to experience the pain and rejection that had become the norm. I started functioning inside the new reality and didn’t examine it too closely.”
Aunt Melba held out her hand. “Let me see the photo album.” She took it from Rachelle and opened it. “This is one of my favorite pictures.”
She pointed to a photo of herself clad in a strapless royal purple gown. She was standing next to a tall, muscular man dressed in a white suit and purple cummerbund. They were hugging and grinning at the camera.
The next photo showed them clad in bathing suits, kissing under a waterfall. In a third picture on the page, Melba and the man sat on a sofa and she was resting her head on his lap, eyes half closed.
“I loved him,” Melba said and sighed. “But he couldn’t love me back.”
Rachelle squinted at the photos then gasped. “Is that . . . ? Isn’t he married?”
Melba looked at Rachelle. “Yep, that’s the mayor. We were together before he became mayor, during his tenure with the city school board. Very married. With children, the house, the dog, and me, a long-term concubine.”
