Sasha frowned. “Hey, that was a little too easy. You're not mad?”
“No, just remember, you promised.” Anya smiled. She raised the newspaper, returning to the article she'd been reading. When she heard the door to Sasha's room close, she sighed. “Lord, please help me to keep planting the right seeds.”
The living room was now alight, as the morning's rays engulfed the space. Anya went to her bedroom, dropped her robe in the middle of the floor, then stepped into her bathroom. She had one foot in the tub when Sasha called through the door.
“Anya, I wanted to know—does it matter what I wear to church?”
Anya smiled. “No, girl. My pastor believes that if God doesn't care about stuff like that, then neither should she. People wear everything from jeans to their Sunday best.”
“Okay.”
“Braxton will be here in about thirty minutes.”
“I'll be ready.”
The shower was on full blast and Anya stepped in, enjoying the sensation as it pulsed against her body. Her smile was bright as she raised her face to the ceiling. “Lord, you are so awesome.”
Sasha couldn't help it. The music was moving, and finally she stood, joining the parishioners surrounding her. Suddenly she wasn't so tired and she swayed to the beat.
My Jesus, my Savior
Lord, there is none like you
Anya tried to pass her a sheet with the words to the song, but Sasha shook her head. She didn't want to sing; she wanted to get inside the words, feel each one.
She closed her eyes, releasing herself into the words of the song that talked about God being comfort, and shelter, and refuge and strength.
Maybe there really was strength in God. And if He could provide strength, He could help her get Hunter.
Her eyes snapped open. Why was she still thinking about him? She let out a deep sigh, then felt a hand on her shoulder.
“What's wrong?” Anya said, her voice raised so she could be heard above the singing.
“Ssshhh. I'm trying to concentrate.” Now Sasha found herself tapping her feet as the people around her sang about shouting to the Lord, because he could make mountains bow and seas roar. She loved these words. If God had that much power, certainly He could make Hunter want her.
It had been a long time since she'd been in church, but all of a sudden, she was glad to be here. Hope floated through this room and faith thickened the air. She could feel it.
In an instant, everything changed. Hunter had already fallen for her, she knew that. With time, he could fall in love. He was Hunter Blaine. So he was worth extra effort.
Then suddenly, she began to sway a little less. What am I thinking? she wondered. These are not the kinds of things I'm supposed to talk to God about. Anyway, this would be too hard—even for God. Not even He could help me with that man.
The choir continued to sing, but Sasha sat down and ignored Anya's questioning glance. She didn't know why she'd come to church. There was nothing for her here. She crossed her legs and waited for the service to be over.
Anya tried to keep her attention on the pastor's words but, instead, she kept sneaking glances at Sasha. But Sasha stared straight ahead, even when Anya hit her gently in her side.
“Turn to Genesis 18:14,” Pastor Ford said.
The rippling sound of turning pages filled the sanctuary. When Anya found the page, she placed her Bible on Sasha's lap so that she could follow along.
“The scripture says Is anything too hard for the Lord?” Pastor Ford looked up.
“No.” The word was hummed in unison.
Pastor Ford continued her sermon and Anya sneaked another look at Sasha. Her cousin was watching intently, as if she were suddenly interested.
Anya let out her breath. Obviously, Pastor Ford had said something to get Sasha's attention. She smiled. One goal accomplished. Now, if only everything would go as smoothly with Braxton. She took her left hand and placed it over his. She could feel his smile, but she kept her eyes on Pastor Ford.
“Hebrews 10:23 says Let us hold fast the profession of our faith without wavering, for he is faithful that promised,” Pastor Ford paused, letting God's Word melt into her congregation. “To get all of God's promises, you have to hold on to what you believe. What you know is true with God. That is what He wants from us. Our faith.”
Anya nodded, looking down at her Bible again. She wanted to commit that scripture to memory. That's what I have to do, she thought. Hold on to the fact that God wants Braxton and me together. This time, she looked at Braxton and smiled. He squeezed her hand, and Anya knew everything would be all right.
Braxton wrapped his hand around Anya's and the last lingering doubts melted away. This morning, when he picked her up, he hadn't been sure. Anya had smiled, they had kissed, and even held hands as they walked into church.
But now, as their fingers were intertwined, they had silently made up. It didn't surprise him.
He stood for the benediction but, suddenly, nausea washed over him. His hand tightened around Anya's, but she didn't seem to notice. But then, just as quickly as the feeling had befallen him, it disappeared. Still holding onto Anya, he took his handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and wiped his brow. What was that? he wondered.
He shook it off. There were other things to think about—their wedding, for one. In a few months, he and Anya would be married, permanently relegating their engagement challenges to the past. They had a wonderful future together.
Just as he thought those words, Anya's hand dropped from his.
Anya and Braxton strolled the Marina boardwalk, past the shops and trendy eateries, then stopped and leaned against the railing, as they watched a few boats drifting into the channel. They were silent, both trying to imagine the words of the conversation they had to have.
Anya gazed across the Marina to the homes that sat ensconced in the hills of Playa del Rev, and sighed.
“I'd love to buy you a home here,” Braxton said as if reading her mind.
She smiled, but didn't respond to his statement. “Let's talk.” She took his hand and was surprised that it was as sweaty as her own.
She motioned toward a bench and, before they'd even sat down, Braxton said, “Anya, I am so sorry.”
“I know you are.” She took a breath. “But, now, we have to talk about Junior.”
His eyes turned from her, gazing into the blue of the water. “I should've never agreed to Roxanne and Junior moving back to Oakland, but Roxanne convinced me that she needed her family and it would be best for our son.” He paused as if remembering. “I thought it could work, but I want Junior with me.”
“Have you considered moving back to Oakland?”
His eyes stretched wide with surprise. He should have thought of that. Anya would have to close her business and he would be closer to his son. “You'd do that?”
She shook her head so hard that the tight curls on her head bounced from side to side. “No—no,” Anya stuttered, and stuffed her hands into her pockets. “Did you ever consider it before—before we met?”
“I didn't want to go back that way. Plus, I'd made a life here. I was writing …”
“You could write anywhere.”
“Why are we talking about this?” He was agitated. “That's not an option now, is it?”
“So, what are your options, Braxton?” she asked, matching his tone.
He lowered his eyes. “I see only one. I want Junior. I want to go to his football games. I want to go to his school plays. I want to fight with him over his homework. I want it all.” He pushed himself off the bench and went to the rail where they'd been standing. When he turned to face her again, he said, “I want to be his father.”
Anya went to him. “You are his father. Nothing can change that.”
“It's not enough for me.” He took her hand. “So what do you think about this?”
She shrugged slightly. “You're talking about taking Junior away from everything he knows, especially his mother.”
&nb
sp; “He needs his father now.” He stared into the water.
“Have you played this tape all the way through? What kind of custody battle are we going to have to fight?” Braxton remained quiet, so Anya continued. “Braxton, you're great with Junior, under the circumstances.”
“I want better circumstances.” A few moments passed. “Are you with me, Anya?”
She took her sunglasses from her purse and, with deliberate movements, slipped them on. “I haven't been able to think that far ahead, because I'm thinking about how Junior will be affected by this.” When she heard him groan, she faced him. “Braxton, I'm going to be your wife and I will support you.” She clasped her hands together. “But I want you to think this through. What about Roxanne?”
“She'll fight, but we can win this. Especially if …”
She held her breath, knowing what was coming.
“You're willing to do anything to help me?”
She stared at the ring on her finger. “I can't give up my career.”
He sighed. “I thought we'd have a better shot if you were home.”
“I don't think the courts are going to care about that.”
“But if you were going to be home with Junior, we'd have something over Roxanne.”
She took in a quick breath. “Braxton, we should only get Junior if that is truly best for him, not because we arranged it so that we would look better.”
“I want my son any way I can get him.”
She recoiled at his tone and the way his eyes had glazed cold. He stared, silently challenging her, and at that moment she realized Junior was his mission; she was his tool.
She shook her head to rid her mind of the thought. “I will help you.”
“You'll support me?” His voice had softened, although his eyes had not.
“In whatever way … I… can.”
His face returned to the Braxton she knew. “You don't know how much this means to me.” He pulled her close. “I need this chance.” He kissed her, then said, “Have I ever told you that I love you?”
She stared into his eyes, searching for the words she needed to say. “Me too.”
He grinned. “Let's get something to eat.”
“Actually, I want to go home.” She pulled her jacket tighter around her. “I need to speak to Madear.”
He frowned. “We're all right, aren't we?”
“Of course.” She smiled.
He hugged her again. “I know we're going to win now.”
Holding hands, they returned to the car. Anya was grateful for the glasses she was wearing that protected her from the bright afternoon sun and hid the single tear that had formed in the corner of her eye.
Braxton parked, then took Anya's hand, bringing her palm to his lips.
“I'm glad we had a chance to talk,” Anya said hurriedly, wanting to get away.
“Call me later?”
She nodded and opened the door.
“Hey.” He grabbed her arm. “What do you want to do on Tuesday for Valentine's Day?”
“That time already?” She tried to pump enthusiasm into her voice.
He nodded. “We have a lot to celebrate. Why don't I plan something?”
“Okay.”
“The big question: Are you sure you'll be able to get out of your office?”
He smiled, but his tone didn't.
“Let me know what time and I promise, I'll be there,” Anya said.
His smile widened. “With bells on?”
“With bells that I hope are still ringing.”
Braxton didn't seem to notice that he laughed alone.
By the time Carlos answered the phone, Braxton was beaming. “What's up, my brother? You weren't asleep, were you?” Braxton raised his voice, speaking over the traffic around him.
“No, man,” Carlos yawned. “I was watching the game. You sound like you're in a good mood. Where are you?”
Braxton pushed the button raising his car window, blocking the outside from coming in. “I'm running over to the Tar Pits. Need to check out something for a scene. But I called to tell you that Anya is a go.”
Even through the pocket-sized phone, Braxton could tell that his statement suddenly had his friend wide awake. “You're kidding. She's going to sell her business?”
The ends of Braxton's smile turned down and his brows knitted together. “We haven't worked out that part, but we're almost there. The most important thing is that she agrees with me about getting custody of Junior. Once we start, I know Anya'll do whatever she has to for us to win.”
It sounded like Carlos was blowing air from his cheeks. “Well, you've gotten past the first hurdle, my amigo.”
Braxton's full smile returned. “I think this is even going to improve things with us.”
“I didn't know you guys were having problems.”
“We're not.” Braxton's words came quickly. He thought of Anya's sunglassed face as she stood against the rail at the Marina and told him she would support him. At that moment, he couldn't have loved her more. “I'm just saying this kind of thing always brings a couple closer. I told you before, Carlos, don't worry. All I need is Anya and my friends in my corner.”
“Well, you got that part, buddy.” Braxton could almost hear Carlos smiling again. “Make sure you let Benjamin know. He'll need to talk to you and Anya.”
“I'll call him in the morning,” Braxton said, turning onto Wilshire. “It is time for me; I'm going to have a real family.”
Carlos chuckled. “Okay. Asta manyanna, man.”
Chapter 24
Anya rang the doorbell. No answer. She waited a few minutes, then let herself in.
“Madear,” she called out. There was only silence when she closed the door and walked into the living room. Anya sighed. She had called, but when the answering machine had come on, she thought her grandmother was still avoiding her. But it looked like Madear was still at church, or spending time with friends.
With a shrug of her shoulders, she removed her coat and laid it across the couch. Then she sat in the recliner and closed her eyes, but, within minutes, the silence was too loud and she clicked on the television, raising the volume just enough to erase the quietness.
She wrapped herself in her arms and strolled the room, stopping in front of the fireplace. The mantel and the wall above it were covered with photos. Her eyes scanned the frames that told the story of her life. Not only hers, but Donovan's and Sasha's. Mixed among the grandchildren were pictures of Madear's children.
Anya picked up one of the photos. The ceramic yellow frame was heavy in her hands, and it overpowered the small image inside. But this was still her favorite picture of her parents. It had been taken only four days before they died.
The tears that had overwhelmed her as a teenager were long gone. Now, there was only the desire to hold on to fading memories.
She ran her fingers along the outline of her mother. “Mama.” She sighed. “I could really use some advice.”
She returned the frame to the mantel and said a silent Amen, like she always did. Her eyes continued to scan the room. This home smelled of memories—even now, the roasted chicken mixed with the fresh-cut flowers from the farmer's market that Madear filled her house with every Saturday. Just standing there, Anya was taken back to a time when she always felt safe and loved.
The sound of a car motor disrupted her reverie, and she peeked through the side window. Her grandmother maneuvered her Lincoln Continental into the long, narrow driveway along the side of the house.
It fascinated Anya, the way her grandmother wielded that nine-year-old car. The black vehicle swallowed her petite frame; you could barely see Madear over the steering wheel. But she handled that car like it was a toy, breezing through the streets, whizzing around corners, and zipping through traffic.
Anya watched as Madear gathered her Bible and a shopping bag from the car, then drew back from the window. Her grandmother had seen her car out front. Anya drew in her breath until Madear, with her hands ful
l, stepped into the living room.
“Hi, Madear.” Anya rushed to her side. She took the Bible and the shopping bag from Madear's hands.
“I didn't expect to see you.” Madear kissed Anya's cheek, although her voice was tight. She shrugged her long sweater from her shoulders and went to hang it in the front closet.
“I've left you quite a few messages.” Anya dropped the bag on the coffee table, then handed the Bible to Madear.
“I've been busy,” Madear said, without raising her eyes. She reached for the Bible from Anya and put it on one of the bookcases, then straightened some of the magazines hanging from the shelves. She returned to the couch, and began folding the crocheted comforter that hung over the edge.
Anya softened as she watched her grandmother flitting around the room. This was the woman who loved her, raised her, and taught her how to become a strong Black woman of God. And Madear's teachings weren't just Words. Mabel White Mitchell was a living example. Anya recalled what she knew of her grandmother's past.
Mabel White married Herman Mitchell at the age of sixteen—he was seventeen—on the same day Pearl Harbor was bombed. Not much later, she left behind the only home she'd known, in Emory, Texas, to move to Los Angeles. Mabel had been horrified at the thought of living in a huge city without her mother, father, brothers, and sisters, and the other relatives who populated Emory. But Herman was set on the golden opportunities that awaited them in the golden state.
With a stiff upper lip and daily prayers, Mabel and Herman settled into a one-bedroom apartment in Watts, a neighborhood overflowing with transplants from Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, and other states too numerous for Mabel to count.
Herman worked as an auto mechanic and, at night, attended college at Southwestern University. Mabel took a job in downtown Los Angeles, laboring as many as fourteen hours a day, as a pieceworker.
Just as Mabel was becoming used to her life, World War II touched them personally when Herman was called to serve. If Mabel had been horrified before, there weren't words to depict what she felt now. Her new husband would be leaving in eight weeks to fly to parts of the world she'd never heard of. To add to her fears, she was five months pregnant.
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