Made of Honor

by Marilyn Griffith

  Shemika tapped my shoulder. “So how are you?”

  I paused. What a simple, yet difficult question. I decided to go with the safe version. Pregnant or not, she was just a child. “God is really growing me right now in some areas. But overall, I’m blessed.”

  I really was starting to sound like Mother Holly.

  In a much softer voice than our previous conversations, Shemika agreed. “God’s growing me, too. In more ways than one.” She lifted her head for a quick smile, then looked away. “I think she wants you, Dana.”

  Tangela motioned to me from the makeshift podium at the head of our table, littered with remains of spinach salads and picked-over trout, all except for our two plates at the end. I stood and approached the bride-to-be, remembering my plan this morning to pray instead of complain—no matter how crazy she acted. I bit my cheek. I could have waited a little longer on that one. With so much going on, the rocking motion of the boat was hardly noticeable. Okay, well more than hardly, but not that noticeable.

  “Hey, Tangela. Great lunch. I must say I’m tired though. I’m going to leave the facials with you and if you don’t mind, collect my check and go home—”

  She cleared her throat. “About that.” She held up a hand. “There’s been some…changes. Minor changes of course, but changes just the same.”

  It was that same singsong voice that people used when they’d broke your favorite CD, eaten up the last of the ice cream or left your gas tank on empty. A closer look at the bags under Miss Moneybag’s eyes signaled certain disaster. How had I missed those black moons? Probably too preoccupied with my own. Definitely a leftover from a crying jag. More bad news. Rich girls only cried about one thing.

  Money.

  I dropped into the nearest chair as she prepared to share something I knew I didn’t want to hear.

  “You see, Sheldon’s been cut from the Bulls, so I don’t have the, er, finances that I’d planned on. I can still pay you for the favors, but let’s reduce it to the original price we agreed on.” Her lips curved upward into a tight smile. She patted my wrist as though I were her pet poodle. “You can keep the other four thousand. Consider it a tip. O-kay?”

  A tip? My head went right. Left. Then right again. “Uh, no. It’s not o-kay. Nor is it a tip. I ordered your supplies already. You said—”

  Her smile disappeared. “I said what? I don’t recall. And since we have no written agreement, perhaps I should just recall my business altogether.”

  I mumbled the chorus of one of the songs we’d sang at Passover under my breath. It was either me give thanks or Tangela meet her maker. I hadn’t felt “aggressive” in a long time, but suddenly I felt capable of inflicting a great deal of bodily harm.

  Chill.

  “Ms. Daniels, if this is the way you do business then perhaps you should go elsewhere. You broke your word.” I shoved my fists into my pockets and stood—to keep an unexpected swing from escaping me. She was doing that crinkled forehead thing and I wasn’t sure how long I could hold it in. I rose. “Oh, and by the way, whoever you get to fill the order…let me know and I’ll send her the maid of honor dress.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Tangela hissed.

  You shouldn’t, my heart whispered.

  “I will!” I shouted, wishing the both of them would be quiet. Why was I the bad guy for making her stick to her word? I hadn’t wanted any part in this in the first place. Now I was going to be stuck with a bunch of bills because she changed her mind? I was in hot water with my suppliers anyway. And without my local accounts…

  A low moan, sort of like the sound of cattle waiting to be milked, pierced my eardrums. “I—I knew you’d be like this…” She sputtered and slobbed between the words. The boat eased back into the pier. Was that it? The spa cruise? A spin around a man-made inlet? She was broke.

  Shemika emerged beside me with a box of tissue. I shook my head. Tangela had put me on the verge of crying many times with her careless words, but this was just plain ugly. With her lipstick half across her face, she looked like a clown.

  And what did that make me, the evil ringmaster? Pretty much.

  “You talked a-all about G-God and then you…Ohhhh!”

  I took a deep breath. I’d try to witness to the girl one time and now she had to go and pull that card? I sighed. She’d only paid half. I was out five thousand bucks that I’d already spent to keep the store afloat. What on Earth was I going to do now?

  Charge it to my account.

  Come on, Lord. Sure I’ll let You cover her arrogance and rudeness, but what about the money? What about me? Why must I always be the one to lay myself down? What about the bill for Rochelle and Tracey lying to me, for Mama dying and leaving me, for Jordan leaving me behind, for Daddy wanting to be his father all of the sudden as if I haven’t been here all the time?

  Tears blinded my eyes. Who was going to save me this time?

  I am. I’ll take care of you, Dana. Just like always.

  I shrugged. “Don’t worry about the money.”

  Tangela’s eyes miraculously dried up. A moistened facial cloth appeared from her bag and whisked her face clean. Wow. She was actually pretty under all that paint.

  A hand tugged at my arm. Shemika’s. “Don’t worry, Tangie. You, either, Dana. I’m sure your boyfriend will hook you up.”

  My head snapped in her direction. My boyfriend? “I don’t have a—”

  Shemika pointed out the window to a larger boat docked a few feet away. On top was a small group of people. I made out Austin’s face, then her husband and Mrs. Shapiro. A tall, dark man with a guitar sat between them.

  He started to strum.

  Adrian’s arms closed around me like a fortress. I had no strength or desire to get free. I was spent, plain and simple.

  His face leaned in toward mine. “I know things didn’t work out the way you planned. I’m sorry about that.” He paused, pulling me farther down the boardwalk, his guitar banging against his back like some mariachi band member.

  “You do know that I’m willing to help—”

  Hadn’t he helped enough? I groaned. “So you’re my sugar daddy, now?”

  He flinched, then smiled. “I’m only two years older than you so I don’t think I quite qualify for that role. And in case you forgot, we’re friends. Would you turn down help from Tracey? Didn’t Rochelle loan you the money to open the shop?”

  Hmm…he had me there. Although the loan had turned into more of a gift at this point. Even if I held on to Wonderfully Made, paying off that debt would take the next twenty years. Rochelle urged me to forget about it, probably because it was Jordan’s money anyway. I wasn’t sure if that was any better. Owing Visa was bad enough, but family? Not cool. I didn’t want to add Adrian to my list of creditors. “Sure she loaned me the money, but I hate that I put her in that position.”

  I bit my lip before saying something that I’d been thinking for weeks, but didn’t dare voice. “Maybe this is God’s way of shutting the door on the business….”

  Adrian came up short and looked overhead. He kissed my hand. A strange look passed over his face. What was he thinking of? Sandy? His mother? Other times when he had been “so sure,” too? “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe God is opening the door to something else.”

  My cheeks and forehead bunched up into an expression I’m sure resembled Tangela’s Klingon look. “Something like what?”

  He lifted his guitar over his shoulder. It dangled over his fingers by the strap for a second while we stared at each other, his eyes searching mine. He lowered it gently to the ground. As he moved in closer, the scent of figs, something I’d debuted a season before and he’d bought a ton on clearance for an unknown reason, opened my nose the way a good melody perks up my ears. It’d sold decently as a woman’s scent, but on a man? Oh my.

  Stop working. Your business is probably over anyway.

  He leaned down, pressing his forehead against mine. My stubby fingers laced through his long, slender ones. I closed my eyes, waiting fo
r a kiss.

  The kiss.

  I’d run from it all these months, since that day at Tracey’s wedding when I’d wanted to lay one on him right there in that torn dress.

  Tangerine-scented breath blew across my mouth instead. It sounded like someone had stabbed an over-inflated balloon.

  He peeled his face away, then touched my face, traced my brows, my cheeks.

  My eyes closed. This wasn’t funny. “Please,” I whispered. “Don’t.” Somehow kissing would have been so much easier to walk away from.

  He traced his finger down the curve of my chin and kissed the spot where he’d extracted a hair not so long ago. The guitar crashed over but he kept his eyes on me.

  My stomach did cartwheels.

  “I love you, Dana. I always will.”

  Before I could reply, his lips marched back up my cheeks, my brows…. Each kiss as warm and steady as the next.

  “Please don’t.” I whispered it this time.

  With a pained look, he pulled back.

  I took a deep breath and pointed to his cheek. “Are you trying to grow a beard? You know you almost slit your throat trying to shape up that pseudo-beard you had in eleventh grade….” My voice creaked. I hated to deflect him with a joke, but I couldn’t do this. Not yet.

  He tapped my shin with his foot. “The pirate beard? You were forbidden to mention that.”

  Forbidden. Wasn’t that always the buzzword between us? Though I didn’t welcome it, Dahlia’s confession darkened the scape of my mind. My lips tightened into a line. “Yeah, well lots of things are forbidden, but that doesn’t stop us, does it?”

  His eyes sparkled with questions. “Sometimes, though, things aren’t forbidden at all…just delayed.”

  I took a deep breath. Weren’t we talking about my financial demise? Wasn’t that my biggest problem? Why then couldn’t I focus on it? Probably that figgy pudding lotion he was wearing. I’d made it, of course, but it hadn’t smelled like that then. No, every person brought something to a fragrance, unlocked it. Owned it. And Adrian had surely just reinvented the fig.

  I shrugged. “Delayed. Denied. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Especially when you’re traveling a road with baggage in both hands.”

  He touched my face. Lighter this time. I fought the urge to bat his hand away. What was he trying to do, kill me?

  Maybe I should just tell him that I know about Dahlia. Just put it out there.

  As I considered it, he turned away, reaching down for his guitar, now with a loose wire and a scratch grooved on the side. When had he even learned to play? Another piece of the puzzle of this new person he’d become. He strapped the instrument on the front this time, creating a distance between us.

  With a melancholy look, he patted my hand one last time. “You’re right, sometimes the luggage is so heavy, the trip is impossible.”

  Remember that frozen hot dog bun that Oprah ate back in the eighties? Well, I think I topped that today, tackling a brick of God-only-knows-how-old raisin bread from the freezer. A Weight Watchers coupon had come in the mail the day before, just when even my Velcro jeans wouldn’t pull up. Did they have spies or what? In preparation for the dreaded weigh-in, I was making an effort to eat better.

  I hated the thought of facing that receptionist, but I was having my I’m-too-fat-to-live headaches and Rochelle, who hadn’t said a word about my weight in a while—or much else—had expressed concern about my huffing and puffing up the stairs at church last Sunday. I’d been a little peeved at her weakly disguised intervention—I’d done enough of them for her and Tracey in years past to see one coming—but when I saw the fear in Chelle’s eyes…I realized her sincerity.

  Considering my mother’s high blood pressure, I can see how it would scare her. And truthfully, after getting those pictures back from the baby shower and realizing it was my belly blocking the shot instead of Tracey’s, I knew I had to do something.

  Freezer-burnt raisin toast definitely wasn’t the answer. I should have known by the thud of the bread against the counter when I took it out of the freezer. I pried the inch of ice off it and shoved it into the toaster, only to be shocked half to death while trying to retrieve the soggy wad of dough a few minutes later.

  Not easily shaken, I tried the oven method. Well, after downing that rock of raisins—dry, of course—stroke or heart attack is the least of my worries.

  I drove straight to Starbucks holding my throat and only felt my tongue again after three white chocolate lattes. Oh, well, so much for a new start. I think this time I’m going to have to approach this eating thing from another angle. A wider lens, too, to catch my hips.

  I wanted to be balanced, but my lifestyle, the 60-hour work week, family dinners with more fat than the local butcher’s, loving and hating my former best friend and business competitor, the revival of my church at a time when I was dying and just trying to survive, didn’t bode well for my good health.

  Driving to work, I stared up at the red light, burped a mouthful of raisins and prayed for the traffic light to change. Adrian’s figgy pudding kisses, or maybe my sorrow at the thought of never experiencing another one, had inspired me to start a new men’s line. It’d gone over like gangbusters. If I pushed a little harder, I might be able to save the store after all. Even pay Rochelle back. Or should I give it to Jordan? Too much to figure out.

  With a deep breath, I eased into the store, staring at some of the half empty shelves. I’d needed to stay up last night making stock to replenish the shelves after my last wedding order, but my body had given out without my permission. And it was a good thing.

  I dared to hope, to believe that somehow things would work out.

  They had to.

  I shoved my purse in the safe and looked in the mirror, finally having the time to really pay attention and being lucid enough to process what I saw. I gasped. Who was that? I mean sure I’d been running ninety to nothing, babysitting Sierra, worrying as much as working…but that hag in the glass couldn’t be me, could it?

  Why didn’t anybody tell me?

  Rochelle’s concern-filled face and Austin’s frustrated voice—“What are you doing to yourself?”—skipped through my mind. Tracey chose to lead by example, looking slim and perky even though now quite pregnant. Daddy had been much less tactful—“You blew up like a hot air balloon. You sick?”

  Even Mother Holly had made a few comments at the last noon day prayer about trying to cut back on her eating. Usually, having Dahlia around was enough to make me starve myself out of sheer vanity, but this time I just couldn’t care less.

  What was this fat to me? A wall? A place to hide from my womanhood, my past and my future? Was I using the weight to try and hide from Adrian? Or worse yet, from God?

  I shook off the thought, noting the dangers of self-analysis. Calculating how much product I could make before the store opened in an hour, I measured out the ingredients for my shea-based products—body butter, lotion bars, lip balm and my new bestseller, Figgy Fella for men’s hair, nails and skin. After measuring everything into my meticulously clean utensils—my lack of care for myself had been translated into my care for my shop and products—every dropper and beaker was twice cleaned and sanitized between batches.

  As I capped the last jar and arranged the labels face out, though the first morning rush would mangle them all again, the phone rang. I paused, wondering who would call me here at this time of morning, then picked up, figuring it was Tracey, Austin or Rochelle. Perhaps even Adrian, whose shop across the street would remain dark until 10:00 a.m. when my beloved sister would trot up and unlock the door.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Miss Rose. This is Bob, a Visa customer care representative. After many attempts to contact you—”

  Oh, great. Now the bill collectors even knew I worked overtime. Guess they figured that should translate into a payment. “Well, Bob I—uh—cashavutomoo—”

  “Huh?”

  I stared at the receiver as confused as him. My �
�I do hope to make a cash payment tomorrow” had somehow come out garbled.

  “Sowecanyoucallmesomeovatimo?”

  Okay, I was definitely working too much. Sweat dripped onto the receiver. And working too hard. In fact, I felt a little dizzy….

  “Miss Rose? Are you all right? You sound—”

  Broke? That was my snappy comeback, of course, but my lips refused to deliver it. As if I’d applied Novocain lipstick, my mouth did a sort of saggy, draggy thing. As I tried to feel my tongue, a pain shot up my arm. I dropped the phone.

  “Miss Rose?”

  Bob definitely sounded upset, but not quite as angry as I was. As he spoke, I dropped to the floor like lead and heard the rip before I hit the ground. My new pantyhose. Eight dollars and seventy-five cents. A lot to pay for the pleasure of buying size B, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Oh, well, I could still make knee-highs out of them. Mother Holly would be proud of me.

  Sprawled on the ground, I tried to smile at my witticism, but my lips wouldn’t comply. My eyes refused to stay open, either. With sweat dripping into my mouth, I conceded to the pressure squeezing up my body and fell into a deep, blissful sleep.

  Sight escaped me. Words defied me. But my nose refused to give up. The scent of Betadine and saline solution assaulted my senses, dragging me from the comfort of unconsciousness. My eyes slit open just enough for me to make out the street outside my shop, still dark with morning, but somehow crowded with people. Loud people.

  “How long since the Visa guy made the call?”

  “Ten minutes I think?”

  “And he said she was lucid when she answered?”

  I heard a shuffle of papers. “Right. Said hello with no problem, but it went down from there.”

  My body sped along suddenly, then went over a bump into the ambulance.

  “Okay, so we’ve still got a window for the tPa to work. How old is she again?”

  “Twenty-nine—no, thirty. Today’s her birthday.”

  I tried to frown with no success. My birthday? What kind of person forgets her own birthday? I really was working too hard. No wonder my lips went on strike. My eyes ripped open. Strike. Stroke?