Beyond I Do

by Jennifer Slattery

  No, I’m fired, and not up for a “stick it to the big guy” mantra either. “What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to make sure you’re OK with me going, and to see if perhaps we could meet for dinner, for an early Christmas celebration, just the three of us—unless you have a date you could bring, of course.”

  “Thank you for considering my feelings.” Or more accurately, allowing your thoughts to drift in my direction after the fact. Not that Ainsley expected anything different.

  “Of course, sweetie. I always worry about my sugarplum. But I should probably let you go. I’m sure you’ve got a busy day ahead. How about if I call you later tonight to talk about specifics?”

  Yeah, terribly busy—drinking coffee, dusting shelves, and maybe, if she got real crazy, cleaning toilets. “Good idea.”

  They said their good-byes and hung up. Tossing her phone aside, Ainsley grabbed her Bible. Tears welled in her eyes, the initial liberation she felt when Mr. Holloway let her go now replaced by fear and doubt.

  Lord, I know You’ve got a plan here. You’ve always got a plan. Please help me to see it. Help me to walk through whatever doors You open with surrendered obedience.

  Her stomach soured as an image of the women huddled around tables down at the shelter flashed through her mind, the sermon Pastor Jeffreys spoke resurfacing.

  “To what lengths would you go to reach the lost? Joseph brought glory to God in the depths of an Egyptian prison. What about you? What if God has you here, in this shelter, in order to love your bunkmate through you?”

  Clutching the Bible to her chest, she closed her eyes. Lord, You know how accustomed I’ve become to comfort, and the thought of losing my home and living at the shelter, among those ladies, terrifies me. A shiver ran up her spine and she gripped her Bible tighter. But if that’s what it takes to reach their broken hearts . . . She swallowed. Then not my will but Thine be done.

  Opening her Bible, she leafed through the pages until she landed on Isaiah 43:19–20. “For I am about to do something new. See, I have already begun! Do you not see it? I will make a pathway through the wilderness. I will create rivers in the dry wasteland, . . . Yes, I will make rivers in the dry wasteland so my chosen people can be refreshed.”

  Closing her eyes once again, she sat in the Lord’s presence until her anxious heart settled and a warm peace washed over her. Then she slid her feet to the floor and shuffled to her bedroom to get ready for the day—whatever it entailed.

  Thirty minutes later, she stood on her front step bundled in a heavy jacket, knit scarf, and ski gloves. A brisk wind swept across her yard. Sunbeams pierced through the blanket of clouds, creating a faint rainbow partially hidden by the adjacent rooftops.

  Shoving her hands deep in her pockets, face angled downward to ward off the icy wind, she strolled to the corner café. She intended to spend the next hour or two nursing a hot vanilla latte. After that, she’d scour the want ads for another job.

  The door swooshed open, ushering in a gust of cold air. Chris glanced up to see Mrs. Jeffreys and a pack of chattering ladies bustle in, purses clutched to their chests. He set his rag on the counter and migrated over to meet them.

  “Mrs. Jeffreys, how good to see you.”

  She shucked off her gloves and tucked them in her pocket, bobbing her head and smiling. “Good morning, Mr. Langley. These ladies are from my women’s Bible study.” She swept her arm from one woman to the other, making introductions. “We normally meet at the Starbucks on 64th, but,” the skin around her eyes crinkled, “we decided to give your café a try.”

  Chris led them to the counter. “So, what can I get you ladies? A peppermint mocha? Or, my personal favorite, eggnog?”

  “Now don’t those sound lovely?” She plopped her purse on the counter and studied the menu. “How about a white chocolate raspberry latte?”

  He took the rest of their orders while Candy, his lone remaining employee, filled them. Cupping their hands around the steaming coffees, the ladies traipsed to a table next to the window.

  Candy glided to his side and leaned forward, her back slightly arched, a few too many buttons on her shirt unfastened. “Your friend’s quite the recruiter. Maybe you should give her flyers.”

  Diverting his gaze, Chris chuckled. “I have a feeling she’s already printed them up for our upcoming concert. Which reminds me, we really do need to get the word out.” He glanced at the clock. “How about you drop some flyers around town, at the library, grocery stores? Maybe take some to a few to area churches? Ask if they’ll distribute them to their Bible study leaders.”

  She poked her bottom lip out. “But it’s so cold outside, and my car’s heater is broke. How about we go together after closing?” She moved toward him.

  He stepped aside. “That’s OK. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You go to church, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve never been. Well, once, in elementary school with a friend.” She twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “Maybe you could take me sometime.”

  Chris cleared his throat, glancing at his “What Would Jesus Do?” bracelet. Sure, Jesus ate with sinners and prostitutes, but He also told them to leave their life of sin. And the pouty smile Candy gave him whenever she looked his way suggested sanctification never crossed her mind. “I . . . Yeah, maybe.” He pulled a package of napkins from a bottom shelf then strolled across the room.

  The door chimed open and Ainsley rushed in bundled in winter clothes, her nose and cheeks rosy. Her green eyes sparkled beneath her knit cap, her curls cascading beneath it.

  “Good morning.” Chris smiled.

  “Hi.” She pulled off her hat and scrunched up her hair, each curl bouncing back into place. “Love the smell of fresh brewed coffee and baked goods.” Peeling off her gloves and jacket, she walked with Chris to the counter. “And a hot vanilla latte sounds amazing.”

  While he rang up her order, three more women entered, waved to the group of ladies gathered near the window, then ambled to the counter.

  “Looks like things are starting to pick up a bit.” Ainsley fished through her purse and pulled out her wallet.

  “Thanks to Mrs. Jeffreys and her Bible study group.” Chris tipped his head their direction and Ainsley turned and waved.

  “You’re here later than usual. No early morning meetings today, I take it.” He punched her order into the cash register. “Or do you have the day off?”

  Ainsley looked down. “You could say that. I’ve been fired.”

  “No way. Seriously?”

  She nodded.

  “Perfect!”

  Her head shot up, her eyes widening.

  “I mean, that’s unfortunate. I’m sorry to hear that . . . but if you’re looking for something to do, I could sure use some help.”

  Ainsley’s eyebrows shot up, and she studied him, before her features settled into a frown. She shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, really. But I’ll find something. I’ve got plenty of prospects.” She pulled a crumpled newspaper add from her purse. Red ink circled numerous ads.

  “Well, what if you helped me in the meantime?” The door opened again as two more ladies scurried in, falling in line. “Because I have a feeling we’re going to be busy today.”

  She looked around. “I suppose it won’t hurt. But only when you’re busy. I don’t want charity.”

  “Charity suffers long.”

  “What?”

  Chris chuckled. “Charity, the word used for love in 1 Corinthians 13:4 in the King James Version.”

  Lowering her gaze, Ainsley wrapped her hands around her coffee then moved out of the way. She lingered near the counter while Chris took drink orders. Ten minutes later, things quieted enough for him to talk with her.

  “Would you like to start today?”

  Her mouth parted. She glanced down at her jeans and sweater, then from Chris to Candy. “I . . .

  “Don’t worry. You look fine. Although . . . He looked at Candy who
leaned over the counter, twirling her hair. If he allowed Ainsley to come in street clothes, Candy would demand the same right, low-riding pants, midriff shirts, and all. Not that the polo he bought her appeared to help any, the way she stressed the buttons. Note to self—next employee meeting, explain new policy number 375—No more than two buttons unfastened at any time.

  He motioned for Candy to take his place behind the register then turned to Ainsley. “Follow me for a brief lesson on latte construction.”

  “Are you sure you wanna reveal your coffee-magic secrets?”

  He stared into her beautiful eyes, his chest warming. “Nothing would please me more.”

  Chapter 36

  ichard examined Jolino’s parking lot, relieved to see only a handful of cars, and only two he recognized. Eric’s black two-door occupied the last stall on the right. His parents’ Lincoln Continental sat beneath the dim streetlight next to the handicapped slot. Of all people to show up early. His pulse quickened in anticipation of his mother’s relentless questioning, knowing his clichéd excuse wouldn’t suffice.

  Men in designer suits and women in long wool jackets crowded the lobby. A tall man with gray-flecked hair dressed in a suit and tie stood behind a marble-topped podium.

  He offered a stiff-lipped smile when Richard approached. “How many, sir?”

  “Hollis party.” He scanned the dining area.

  “Follow me, please.” The maître d’ led him around a grand piano, through a high archway, and up a wooden staircase. Cream trim accented the rich, golden hues of the venetian plaster on the walls, and soft music poured from hidden speakers.

  Richard stiffened with every step, the anxiety nibbling on his gut when he first entered mounting to near nausea. Chiding himself for his childish emotions, he lifted his chin and centered his gaze straight ahead. At thirty years old one would think he could address his father without fear. And yet, it seemed each encounter only increased his angst.

  “Here you are, sir.” The maître d’ left Richard standing in a private dining room surrounded by floor to ceiling windows.

  A long table centered the room, decorated with golden napkins folded to resemble blossoming flowers. Candlelight complemented the dimmed lighting.

  Richard looked for Eric. He stood next to a long buffet table conversing with the wait staff. Richard’s parents occupied the far corner, sipping what appeared to be cocktails.

  Squaring his shoulders and donning a firm smile, he strolled across the room.

  “Mother.” He kissed her cheek then straightened. “Father, glad you could make it.”

  His mom’s forehead wrinkled. “Where’s Ainsley?”

  He stepped back, buying some time. “She is . . . Having an early midlife crisis, not that he could verbalize such. Luckily Eric approached, providing the perfect distraction. “Ah, look who’s here.”

  “Richard, good to see you.” Eric held out his hand and the two shook. “I had the pleasure of meeting your parents in the lobby. Although as I told your mother, she’s beautiful enough to pass for your sister.”

  Richard’s mom appeared undaunted by the compliment. “Son, where is Ainsley?”

  “Feeling ill.”

  “Oh, my! Nothing serious I hope? I wanted her to join me at my women’s tea this Thursday. The ladies are dying to meet her. Quite honestly, they’re beginning to think she’s a figment of my imagination.” She gave a slight smile.

  “No, nothing serious, but I suspect she might be unavailable for some time, gauging by her condition when I spoke with her this morning. I fear she has the flu.”

  “How unfortunate. Perhaps next week.” She sipped her drink. “On second thought, how about giving me her number and I’ll speak with her directly. After all, she will be my daughter soon enough. No sense asking you to be liaison.”

  The knot in Richard’s stomach tightened as everyone focused on him, including Eric. Richard clenched his jaw and shot Eric a warning glare before turning back to his mother. “That’s a wonderful idea. Remind me to get that to you before the night’s end.”

  “I have a pen—”

  He rotated to face Eric. “I believe you and I have a few things to discuss before our guests arrive. Mother, Father, enjoy your drinks.” Stepping forward, he talked as he walked, forcing Eric to follow. “Have you spoken with the Kansas City Star?”

  “Yes. I left messages with the senior editor and sent numerous emails to their editorial staff.”

  “But you haven’t received a confirmation?”

  Eric cleared his throat. “You know how editors are about returning calls.”

  Shoes clicked on the marble floor. Everyone turned as the maître d’ escorted two primly dressed couples into the room. Another followed a few steps behind.

  Richard forced a smile and hurried to greet them.

  “Dr. Shavonaugh, Dr. Foster, so glad you could make it.” He waited for the men to introduce their wives then turned to the third couple now standing by their side. “Dr. Cook, thank you for coming.”

  A waiter approached holding a tray of deep fried calamari. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “A glass of Sauvignon Blanc.”

  The waiter nodded then continued to the other guests, taking each one’s order.

  Richard’s father approached, dragging his wife with him. “Dr. Shavonaugh, my son never told me you were coming.”

  The room filled up quickly, couples gathering in groups of fours and sixes. A few more doctors came alone, clustering in the center of the room, arms crossed tightly or hanging stiff at their sides. Richard made his rounds, looking each guest in the eye and offering a firm shake, followed by a saccharine-laden compliment or two. Numerous questions regarding Ainsley’s absence surfaced, but most appeared to accept Richard’s response. His father, on the other hand, watched Richard closely. At least his mother appeared to be enjoying herself, laughing among the other wives.

  After drinks had been distributed and hors d’oeuvres passed a few times, Richard grabbed a silver fork and clanked it against his wine glass. Heads lifted and the room quieted.

  “Thank you all for coming. As many of you already know, Ainsley, my fiancée, couldn’t make it due to a rather unpleasant case of the stomach flu. She sends her regards and sincere apologies. Now, if you would be so kind as to find your seat, the wait staff will take your order shortly.”

  The rest of the night dragged. Richard attempted to engage numerous colleagues in small talk, but the minute he spoke of his book, their eyes glazed over and they quickly changed the subject. By the end of the night, he left with nothing more than handshakes and a few “Best wishes to you.”

  Afterward, Eric joined him on the curb. “Did you have any luck?”

  He scowled. “They were not impressed with my publisher.”

  “I told you, the bigger publishing houses felt your book lacked—”

  “Originality. Marketability. I know. But that’s what I hired you for, isn’t it? To create a market for me.”

  Footsteps sounded behind him, the scent of expensive perfume signaling his parents’ approach. He turned and smiled, his overtaxed cheek muscles stiff from a long night of playing host.

  “Father, Mother, thank you for coming.” He stepped back and stared at the street to avoid eye contact. Hopefully, he could slip away before his mom mentioned—

  “I do hope Ainsley feels better soon.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a small, spiral notebook. “Give me her number. I’ll bring her soup.”

  Richard tensed. “She’s got the stomach flu. Soup likely won’t sit well. And she’s really not up for phone calls right now. I’ll tell her to contact you as soon as she feels better.”

  “Fine. So I’ll bring soda and saltines. Does she still live off Vivian?”

  Richard swallowed. If he said no, she’d likely call information and wonder why he’d lied. If he said yes, she’d show up on her doorstep with a care package.

  He checked his watch then kissed her cheek. “I
hate to dash, but I have a lot of work to catch up on. I’ll call you.”

  With a plausible reason why she couldn’t possibly show up at Ainsley’s, which barring an unforeseen disaster, wouldn’t be easy.

  Ainsley surveyed the restaurant, the knot in her stomach tightening when her gaze landed on her mother and Stephen seated at a corner window booth. Even from this distance, her gold blazer and heavily sprayed hair commanded attention. Attention Ainsley preferred to avoid.

  Inhaling, she tucked her hair behind her ears and straightened her posture. Moving toward them, she wove between tables and extended feet, offering polite nods as she passed.

  Standing behind her mother, she smiled at Stephen.

  “Ainsley, good to see you again.” He rose and extended a hand.

  Her mother swiveled in her chair with a lipstick-cracking smile. “Sweet pea, so glad you could make it.” She rose to give Ainsley a brisk hug. “Have a seat. You remember Stephen, the charming man who steals my every thought.” She shot him a wink.

  Ainsley draped her purse over the back of her chair and sat, hands folded in her lap. “Yes, of course.”

  “How pleasant to enjoy lunch amidst such attractive company.” Stephen leaned forward. “Beauty must run in the family.”

  She fought an eyeroll. Real creative, this guy, and about as smooth as a snail, slime included.

  She studied her menu while searching for an appropriate conversation starter. She had no desire to hear about their upcoming trip, how they spent their time, or how many illegitimate children the man left in his wake. Which, considering his snaky smile and John Travolta dress shirt, covered all potential topics.

  Setting her menu down, she forced a smile. “So, Stephen, you work for Burlington Northern, correct?”

  He nodded. “I work on trains.” Grabbing his glass, he gulped his water, opening his mouth wide enough to allow the ice to funnel in.

  “Interesting.”

  “Oh, it is!” Ainsley’s mom batted her eyes in a way reminiscent of Tammy Faye. “I’ve never seen such an engine before! Those, oh, what are they called, those long, cylinder-like things you showed me?”