“Sing that song, Dee Dee. My goodness, woman! You still got it, gal.”
“Well, you know I always could cook,” Delilah purred, “and I make a mean pot of grits and cheese, too.”
He tried to look serious to keep from agreeing with her. “Just make sure you put water in that pot right away, gal. You know grits stick like glue. I don’t have a dishwasher—except for the one you’re about to become.” He laughed at his own joke.
Delilah started to say something that the old Delilah would’ve said. It’d be about how the deacon didn’t have any Teflon-coated pots and pans and she’d be damned if she was gonna be anyone’s dishwasher. But she didn’t want to break the mood; just in case he was up for a doubleheader.
“Take a seat, Thurgood. Let me show you how a sixty-four-year-old woman who moves like she’s thirty-five can serve her man.”
“Oh, you served me until I was full last night. I haven’t felt this good from my rooter to my tooter in quite some time. For a moment, you were serving me so good I didn’t think I was going to live to see seventy-something; and wouldn’t have cared if I didn’t.”
They laughed even more when the deacon boasted, “Dee Dee, I still can’t believe you remarried me.” He winked. “I realize when I asked, you made the promise during a moment when you were hollering yes to everything I did.”
“Tone it down, Tarzan.” Delilah started spreading butter on his toast. “It wasn’t hard for me to say it and mean it. After all, I can chew gum and walk at the same time.”
“Really,” the deacon said as his chest expanded, “I know about the chewing gum and walking ability, but why wasn’t it hard to say?”
It was the third time he’d asked her that same male-ego-feeding question. She decided it was going to be the last time.
“Oh, Thurgood,” Delilah purred, “stop acting like we were ever divorced. Remarry is all we could do.”
“You mean it wasn’t my . . .” The deacon stopped and put on his most sad-looking face. “I’m hurt.”
“You oughta be hurt. I tried to break your back!”
The two seniors laughed as Delilah reached over his shoulders and wrapped her arms around his chest. She kissed the nape of his neck and moved the plate closer to him. “Quit playing around and eat this food. I don’t cook this good for any old deacon husband.”
“You’d better not.” He laughed again before he chided, “Just how many old deacons did you know, anyhow?”
“Do you mean in or out of the church?” Delilah could hardly keep a straight face.
The deacon stood and turned to face her. And despite the fact that less than a year ago he’d questioned God’s wisdom and blamed Satan for her return, he cupped her chin and whispered, “Thank you for coming back into my life, Dee Dee.”
He didn’t want to chance Delilah destroying the moment with some truth he didn’t want to hear, so he playfully patted Delilah on her hips. “Woman, put it in gear so we can go shopping for your new car. Meanwhile your husband’s ready to eat whatever your perfect little hands have prepared.”
“I’m going to get dressed. I just can’t decide between a Porsche or an Audi. What do you think the Lord would want me to drive?”
“Well, let me see what the spirit is telling me, Dee Dee.” The deacon pushed his chair aside and threw his head back. “I see a HONDAAAAAAAAA.”
Delilah and Deacon Pillar’s laughter turned almost into giggles. Delilah in particular couldn’t believe how much at home she felt.
After eating a big breakfast, they washed the dishes together. It wasn’t quite noon yet, so the deacon grabbed his old guitar. His fingers strummed a few chords until he found the right ones. Within minutes, and as though they’d never stopped singing duets, he and Delilah sang a couple of soft melodies. They kept their voices low so as not to awaken Jessie.
When it was all over, the deacon put away his guitar and sat back on the sofa. “Bring your sweet self over here.” The deacon chuckled and patted a space beside him on the sofa. “I’d place you on my lap, but neither one of us would stand a chance—if you know what I mean?”
“You mean, you wouldn’t stand a chance.” Delilah winked. “You know I’ve learned a lot in the last six decades.”
“Well, I’ve got almost another decade on you. You’d better watch out now.”
Delilah and Pillar chided one another, their laughter getting louder and louder, until they fell across one another like two teenagers. The only thing missing was the tickling.
“Delilah DuPree Jewel-Pillar.” The deacon repeated her name over and over. And with each time he spoke the words, his voice took on another tone; a more reverent one. It was almost as though he were about to open a church service. “It’s still hard for me to understand what’s going on at this stage of my life. I don’t know why God is handing me a second chance with you—the love of my life. . . .”
“Thurgood,” Delilah said while she, too, struggled to understand.
“Don’t interrupt me, Dee Dee. I need to get this out.”
“Okay, Thurgood.”
“I’ve decided that if the Master thinks enough of me to give me a second chance at having a family, then I’m going to treat this opportunity like the golden treasure it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m the Chairman of the deacon board. . . .”
“I know that.”
“Of course you do. Nothing much gets past you.” The deacon started to laugh. “I’m just teasing, Dee Dee. But you need to let me finish.”
“Well, you’d better hurry up. I don’t think you want me taking this much time getting undressed when you want me to hurry.”
“I get your point.” The deacon kissed Delilah. “Okay, here’s what I’m thinking. I think since I’m a deacon that you should consider becoming a deaconess.”
“Thurgood, are you serious? I haven’t been in Christ long enough to take on such an important title.”
“My goodness, woman, this title is for man, not God. He doesn’t care what you call yourself as long as it’s not ‘Satan’s spawn’ or something like that.”
“But I’m still struggling every day to do the right thing. I don’t want to disappoint the Lord; or you, either. I’m not quite like you.”
“What do you mean, Dee Dee?”
“You don’t sin anymore.”
“Woman, please. Everyday I sin.” The deacon reached across Delilah and took a small Bible off the table. “In between the pages of this book lie all the reasons why we go through hell to get to heaven.”
“I’ve never thought of it like that. . . .”
“Now, what we did last night and what we’re gonna do later on—now that’s about as close to sinning as I can think of.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because, my lovely Dee Dee, just like us humans, God loves it when we make up with him.”
“So how often are we gonna make up?”
“We’re gonna do it like the Word says, seventy times seventy times seventy times seventy. . . .”
“My goodness, you two! Talk about something else. I’ve worked all night. Can’t y’all take up knitting or go cruising or whatever it is old people do? Damn!”
Jessie’s voice sailed up through the floor vent.
Later the next day, it wasn’t their lovemaking or any cooing that kept Jessie from getting sleep. It was the sound of hammering. Delilah and Thurgood nailed a covering over the floor vent. That freed up the oldsters to do whatever they wanted, as loud as they wanted, and as often as they wanted. And they thanked God every time.
Don’t miss Pat G’Orge-Walker’s wickedly funny,
uplifting novel of love and betrayal,
good karma and bad karma, sin
and redemption in . . .
Somebody’s Sinning in My Bed
On sale now from Dafina Books
Here’s an excerpt from
Somebody’s Sinning in My Bed....
Chapter 1
Viole
nt March winds swirled viciously along Brooklyn, New York’s Linden Boulevard, showing little respect for a supposedly holy and consecrated Sunday night. From the second earth took its form, God set that seventh day aside for everything He’d created to praise His work. However, as if mocking God, the very winds He’d created angrily kicked around empty wine and liquor bottles along a small section of Linden Boulevard that struggled to hide its poverty. Small yet powerful wind funnels seemed to mock heaven as they propelled scraps of paper toward the night sky. In a blink of an eye, it then turned its anger on small, colorful plastic crack vials, tossing them against the street curbs like dice.
And then, without a warning, evil shifted its shape and intention as it prepared to release its minions.
That night, chaos of another sort was about to visit Linden Boulevard and fierce gusts of winds and signs of poverty along that stretch were the least of its problems. That night, some folks would learn that what goes around certainly does come back around, bringing with it the proverbial flip-top can of vicious comeuppance.
Farther down Linden Boulevard the distant purring of an automobile somehow reached through the howling wind to make its presence known. As if on cue, a nearby broken streetlight suddenly flickered, revealing a slow-moving powder-blue 2006 Mercedes.
The car’s driver found a spot, parked, and slowly stepped out. The embers of a lit cigarette flickered as a figure of a man was outlined. He puffed once more before tossing it to the ground.
As if accepting the challenge to step up its evil, the wind suddenly changed its direction toward the Mercedes, abandoning its game of tossing about litter. Loud wooshing sounds accompanied its assault. It homed in on the rear flap of the man’s expensive chocolate-brown trench coat, causing the material to fan rapidly.
The man suddenly stood still. With eyes narrowed and determined, he suddenly looked back toward his car. It was as though he were daring the wind to do its worst. He muttered, “Go to hell!”
He had dark, penetrating brown eyes that were set deep into an extremely tawny-complexioned, handsome face that hinted of a possible mixed heritage. Then he sucked in a deep breath of night air as though it were his last.
He’d only taken a few steps when one hand suddenly flew up and grabbed at the tan fedora about to fall off his head. He was too slow. The wind would not be denied and blew the expensive fedora over into the middle of the filthy street.
Through it all, he kept his eyes focused and determined. Without a word, he walked a few feet and retrieved the hat, placing it snug onto his head, and turned back to the sidewalk. He’d ignored the filth not so much from fear but almost as a reflex because of what he was about to do. With his hat now secured, he used the same hand to hold the front of his coat, not wanting anyone to see what he had hidden.
There was no turning back now.
Across the street there was a working streetlight. It burned bright on the man as he crossed the street as though to make up for those lights that didn’t.
The man moved toward a two-story building nestled between a totally abandoned building and a closed Neighborhood Multi-Service Center. He came within a few feet of his destination and stopped. Despite the darkness, he could see clearly through a small square glass pane. He scowled briefly at a sleeping, obese man.
The portly man was supposed to be alert, but it was nighttime and sleep had claimed the bouncer for the Sweet Bush. Despite nodding off in a deep coma-like sleep and snoring like a bull with asthma, he somehow managed to keep from falling off a stool that was much too small for his wide girth.
The man was tempted to snatch off his unclean fedora, slap the bouncer, and stuff one of those disgusting snores back down his throat, but he needed to stick to the plan.
The man hugged his coat, again, against a body that had been well worked out and buffed. Being a bit of a health fanatic, he hadn’t even started smoking until recently when it seemed as though his life was falling apart and brought him to where he now stood.
With one hand, he angrily pushed hard against the oak wood door. The door swung open and closed quickly. It almost nipped the hip of the man as he poured into the front room of the Sweet Bush Lounge.
Noise affected the bouncer much like a sleeping pill; with his barrel chest heaving slightly, he shifted his weight on the stool and continued sleeping soundly.
In a deep sleep, the bouncer would not be a problem.
Fool. The man suppressed a rising growl in his throat as he dismissed the bouncer as a threat. He chose, instead, to adjust his eyes to the dim lounge lights. While he slowed his heart to a manageable beat, he stood transfixed between the panels of a red velvet curtain and peered through a wall of love beads. His handsome face was stoic. With little effort he inhaled the streams of thick, cloudy, cigarette and reefer smoke for what seemed like an eternity.
But it wasn’t.
It’d only taken a moment before he fully understood that none of the other few patrons inside the dark smoky din of lust had paid particular attention to his entrance. Why should they? He wouldn’t be the first, or hardly the last, to stumble through that door looking peaceful or angry, on the hunt for whatever was forbidden and getting it.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2010 by Pat G’Orge-Walker
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-3543-5
First Kensington Trade Edition: September 2010
First Kensington Mass Market Edition: January 2015
eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-860-9
eISBN-10: 1-61773-860-3
Kensington Electronic Edition: January 2015
Don't Blame the Devil Page 24
