by Mata Elliott
“I feel responsible,” she confided. Her throat was taut with emotion, and it hurt as she swallowed. “I should have insisted Aunt Odessa see a doctor. There were signs she wasn’t herself.”
Trevor returned the picture to its home on the mantel. His words were gentle. “Don’t even go there, Cassidy. Mother Vale was her own person. There was no making her do anything. She died peacefully, and I believe she wanted that.”
Cassidy nodded yes. “Aunt Odessa always said she would prefer to go home to be with the Lord a few years early than suffer a few years longer. I wish we could have said good-bye, though.” It was as if her aunt had just walked off. “Did you get to say good-bye to Brenda?”
“No,” he replied, and neither of them seemed to know what to say next, so they stood in the silence, scanning the assortment of mantel pictures.
“Have you spoken with Portia?” she asked.
“Yes, she’ll take care of everything until you return. I’ve also made arrangements for SAFE and Seconds so that I can be with you for the next day or so.”
Trevor’s face, voice, exuded a strength that Cassidy lacked, yet she protested, “No, I don’t want to take you away from your work.” She nodded in the direction of the kitchen, and a benign smile worked its way onto her face. “Don’t forget, I have the whole gang in there.”
“But I want to be here.” He extended a slow but confident hand and cupped the side of her face. His thumb slid back and forth across her cheekbone.
Cassidy’s lids grew listless, drooped, and shut as she leaned her face into the core of Trevor’s hand, without explanation as to why his touch seemed to console more than any other today. When her lids eased apart, Cassidy’s unsettled gaze lifted to Trevor’s stare, and he gingerly urged her forward until the gap between them was filled. She followed his lead, curving her arms around him. With her head against him, she could hear his heart pounding. Cassidy closed her eyes, a fresh wave of grief spanning her heart, and she silently longed for Odessa . . . and for the beautiful baby she’d lost years before.
Trevor entered the bedroom as Brandi said, “That was a good story.” He smiled, humbled by the sight of Cassidy on the bed, shoulder blades against the headboard, one of his daughters on each side of her. She had been reading them a bedtime story, comforting them despite her own torn heart. She was so much braver than he had been when Brenda died.
Seated on the side of the bed, Trevor massaged one of Brandi’s bare feet and met Brittney’s eyes. “Girls, I need to talk with you.” Over the weekend, while they were out of town, he’d been praying diligently, asking God to give him the right words to say to them and the courage to say it. His intentions were to take them to the park this afternoon, spread a blanket, and have this talk. But once the children had been told about Odessa, Trevor changed his mind and let them grieve. Yet he didn’t want another night to pass without saying, “Daddy needs to let you know how sorry he is.” Cassidy started to move from the bed. “No, stay . . . please,” he said.
“Are you sorry because Grammy died?” Brandi crawled onto his thighs.
“I’m very sad we’ve lost Aunt Odessa.” He joined gazes with Cassidy. “I feel as if I’ve lost a member of my family. But there’s something else I’m sorry about.” He checked to ensure he had both daughters’ attention. “On the day Mommy died, I did something that wasn’t very smart . . . or brave.” He paused, Brittney receiving the larger portion of his focus. Her head was against Cassidy’s shoulder and her eyes turned down. “I didn’t come home to be with you that day because I was afraid to face your pain, and I felt really bad that I couldn’t bring Mommy home. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. I’m sorry I chose to cry alone instead of with you.”
Brittney raised her eyes to his. “You cried when Mommy died?”
“Yes, baby, I cried. I cried at the hospital and in my office and sometimes in my bedroom.” How well he remembered rolling to Brenda’s side of the bed one night, clutching the last nightshirt she’d worn and sobbing until he was empty of tears, but remarkably still so full of pain. During that sleepless, solitary night, angry at God for taking Brenda, he’d been tempted to shut God out of his life. But somehow he found the strength to pray and to reflect on all the blessings God had poured into his life over the years, Brenda one of them. Not much later, he fell asleep, and he slept through the night. When he awoke in the morning, although he yearned for Brenda, the road ahead of him didn’t look as dark.
He cradled Brittney’s chin. “I made a big mistake. I should have let you know how much I missed Mommy.” Ready to start handling things differently, he said, “Sometimes it still hurts when I think about her and how I can’t reach out to her, but do you know what I do?”
Both girls, wide and misty-eyed, shook no.
“I talk to God about it. And that’s when I feel His presence and His love, and I know I’m going to be all right.” Tears trickled from Brittney. She covered her face and let out sobs that wobbled her small frame. Trevor signaled to Cassidy to take Brandi, and he pulled Brittney to his chest. He let her cry, rubbing her back, rocking her until she was done. “I’m truly sorry I hurt you.”
“We forgive you, Daddy. Don’t we, Sis?”
“Yes,” Brittney panted through her anguish.
The quick forgiveness from his children pushed tears from Trevor’s eyes, and he let the drops fall, open and free. Brandi crawled to him and wiped his face. As Trevor held her baby-soft palm in place against his cheek, he decided a tissue could not have been more delicate. He positioned the children so they could share his lap and kissed their foreheads. “I love you both,” he whispered, “so much.” Trevor carried his gaze to Cassidy. “Thank you . . . for everything.”
Cassidy nodded and brushed away the tears that were standing on her face.
Suddenly, Trevor felt the truth of God rising on the inside of his conscience. You must forgive, too. Give the anger you have for Brenda’s killer to Me.
Brandi’s eyes sparkled like Brenda’s had when she was happy. “Can I say a scripture, Daddy?”
“Sure you can, sweetheart.”
Brandi began reciting a familiar Psalm. At the start of the second verse, Brittney spoke with her sister and another tear slipped from Trevor.
chapter twenty-four
Cassidy opened the back door and stepped onto the wooden porch. The sconce high up on the wall produced rays of white light that showcased Trevor from head to naked feet. “Are you sure that’s something you want to start?” she asked.
He smiled, ogling her shoeless feet. “You make it look so comfortable.” He sat up straighter, and the lawn chair shifted backward as it accepted his new angle.
Cassidy set a decanter of insect repellent on the railing. The small flame inside the decanter’s belly shimmered. “I thought the service was beautiful,” she said of the funeral that had taken place earlier that day. She stared through the window behind Trevor’s head. With the screen in place, it was difficult to see clearly into the kitchen Odessa had loved, but Cassidy could see the curtains Odessa had hand-sewn. A breeze, handling them as gently as Odessa had, sucked the curtains against the screen, then blew them away.
Cassidy lounged against the railing, both hands gripping the paint-chipped wood. “Thank . . .”—she paused, sought and held Trevor’s eyes—“thank you for being so supportive through everything.” At one point following the burial, when she had been surrounded by church members offering their condolences, he had even reached through the crowd and pressed a note into her palm that reminded her he was close by if she needed him.
Cassidy turned suddenly and faced the skinny crooked tree standing barely three feet tall in the corner of the yard. She arched her neck and observed the full moon as the same breeze that had moved the curtains made the empty clothesline sway.
“Sky,” Trevor said.
Sky. He was calling her that more and more. Secretly, Cassidy had come to like it. She had no clue why he called her Sky, though. Whenever s
he asked him why, he’d smile and change the subject. “Yes,” she answered.
“Come sit next to me.”
A plane roared through a sky freckled with stars as Cassidy turned and found Trevor’s hand, palm side up, in the space between them. Their surroundings grew quiet as she stared into a pair of eyes that whispered, Come to me . . . I won’t hurt you . . . trust me.
She took a step forward and reached and laid her hand against his warm palm. His steady grip tightened over her fingers, and he led her to the chair beside him.
“Tell me something about you I don’t know,” he said.
A memory of the night she lost the baby formed in Cassidy’s mind. But that memory was too complicated to put into words, though sometimes she wished she could find the courage to talk it through with someone. She studied their joined hands, deciding to disclose accounts from her childhood and high school days. “I was in the twelfth grade when I decided I wanted to teach,” she said. “One of my friends had to babysit her brother after school each day. He was failing math, and my friend didn’t have the patience to help him, so she asked me. Soon I was tutoring him and four of his friends.”
The sky had turned several shades darker by the time Cassidy and Trevor strolled inside.
The following night, the children in bed, Trevor did most of the talking after Cassidy accepted his invitation and sat again, her hand in his, on the back porch. He told her how he’d met Brenda and how Brenda had rejected his first six offers to take her out and what had happened when they finally did have their first date on Brenda’s fifteenth birthday. Trevor recounted some of the stupid things he and Kregg did as teenagers, and he talked briefly about how scared he’d been when he became a first-time father. He shared his future plans for a second Seconds, and finally, Trevor exposed his most embarrassing moment in life. She and Trevor laughed about it, their buoyant tones like musical notes meshing and shaping one happy sound under a postmidnight sky.
“Cassidy?” someone called from the sidewalk behind Cassidy.
She spun around. Grace stood a few feet away, dressed in a moccasin-brown pantsuit, sandals the same color as her clothing, and a smile that surpassed the temperature in warmth. Cassidy flashed a similar smile, and the two hugged like they’d been friends for years.
“Are you here to meet Trevor?” Grace asked. “He had business to take care of, and he’s not back yet.”
“That’s fine. I didn’t tell him I was coming by. I was out for a walk and decided to stop.”
“Well,” Grace offered, “come on in and have a cold drink on the house.”
Cassidy observed the large modern edifice. The tinted windows and revolving middle door gave it the face of a polished office building rather than a bakery, and Cassidy instantly recalled that this facility was once home to an insurance company. “I’ve never been inside Seconds,” Cassidy said.
Grace’s mouth fell open for a moment. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not much of a sweet-eater.”
Grace held the glass side door open, her eyes shining. “Welcome to Seconds.”
Outside, the aroma had been pleasurable. Inside the building, the aroma was simply divine, and Cassidy snatched quick puffs from the air, determined to give a name to the scent.
“Corn bread,” Grace revealed. “People come from all over the city for it. We make blueberry, raspberry, cinnamon raisin, maple pecan, and, of course”—she grinned—“plain ole corn bread.”
Cassidy strolled behind Grace, taking note of everything. The front half of the room housed little round tables and chairs. A pinball machine stood on the left, a jukebox to the right, and potted trees were decoratively placed. Paintings of families from various ethnic backgrounds lined the walls, as well as numerous culinary awards and photographs of many famous Philadelphians who had been patrons. A giant square of display cases filled with every type of baked good one could imagine sat in the middle of the bakery. An espresso-cappuccino machine and soft drink machine were near the registers. Workers, teenaged to seniors, uniformed in denim jeans, white shirts, and navy-blue baseball caps with the Seconds logo above the bill, hustled behind the counters. “How many people does Seconds employ?”
“Forty. We have bakers, decorators, dishwashers, porters, cashiers, and delivery personnel.” She opened and held the door of the kitchen so Cassidy could view the room of wall ovens, ten-burner ranges, mixers with bowls large enough to bathe a small child in, and walk-in refrigerators.
“Why is it called Seconds?” Cassidy questioned, pondering why she had never thought to ask Trevor.
“Take a guess,” Grace suggested.
“Your order is ready in . . . seconds?”
“No”—Grace chuckled—“you always come back for more.”
“Apparently,” Cassidy said, observing the long lines. At a display case, a little white-haired woman pointed to a round cake lathered with creamy yellow icing and crowned with a wreath of mint-green petals and vines. Cassidy gave the floral decorations a harder look. “Are those real?”
“They sure do look it, don’t they?” Grace waved a hand. “This way.” She led Cassidy to a room in the rear. Cassidy continued thinking about the cake. Trevor was right. Dessert artist was a fitting title for anyone who could decorate a cake with such precision and creativity. “This is our lounge,” Grace said. “Mr. Monroe wanted employees who were also students to have a quiet place to study before or after school. Some Saturday afternoons we rent this space for small birthday parties, and we supply a complimentary cake.”
The women climbed a narrow flight of stairs leading to the second floor. “Occasionally, Mr. Monroe ventures into the kitchen or jumps behind a register,” Grace chatted on the way, “but he mostly works behind the scenes now.” At the top of the steps, she pointed. “Our offices are on this level. She opened the second cherrywood door in a line of three. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
Counterclockwise, Cassidy examined Grace’s office, typical of many: one desk, several chairs, twin plants, and scattered pictures of family from desk to bookshelf to wall. The room had an air of kindliness. Much like the soul it belonged to, Cassidy mused.
While awaiting Grace’s return, Cassidy noticed two doors. The closest was ajar, so she peeked in, discovering it was a closet. She assumed the other door led to Trevor’s office. Since she knew he wasn’t in, the temptation to open the door and catch a glance of his room was getting the best of her. Another minute and she would have peeped in, but Grace emerged, clutching a tray that held two tall plastic cups and a small white paper bag.
“I brought sugar packets so you can sweeten your iced tea to your preference. There’s a corn muffin in the bag”—she jiggled her eyebrows—“in case you want to be adventurous.”
With a smile, Cassidy thanked Grace and sat in the armchair at the side of the desk.
Grace settled in the padded chair on wheels behind her desk. She crossed her legs and folded her hands atop her knee. “Trevor tells me you’re back to work.”
Cassidy pulled the cup of iced tea away from her lips. “Yes, I didn’t want to stay away from the children too long.”
“Getting back into routine after losing a loved one can be good, but make sure you do what you need to do to heal.”
“Yes, I am. I’ve already been to my first grief support meeting at the church.”
The phone beeped once, interrupting their conversation. “Excuse me,” Grace said, and pushed a button.
The beats of Cassidy’s heart ran closer together as she listened to Trevor’s smooth, low-key voice over the speakerphone. “I’m back in the office,” he said, and she found it too hard not to smile.
“I’d like you to call Rothwell Enterprises, please,” Trevor requested as Grace neared his desk. “Find out if they’re still interested in using us for Sam Rothwell’s birthday party.” He handed a disk across the desk. “Here’s that list of potential clients. Send advertisements out as soon as possible, please.” Trevor gr
inned, recollecting how intimidated Grace had been by the computer when she started. During the secretarial search, he’d received résumés from more qualified applicants, but Grace, a homemaker much of her adult life, had expressed the desire to do something different, and Trevor had wanted to give her the chance. “Also”—he stuck a fingertip in his ear and scratched—“I ran into Suzanne Holloway today. She was quite satisfied with the dessert bar we set up for that black-tie affair last month, and she wants to use us for her daughter’s wedding next Saturday.”
“Not much notice.”
“They want her married before she starts showing.”
Grace puckered her modestly shaded lips. “I see.”
Trevor leveled full concentration on the stack of baking catalogs that had come in yesterday. Flipping through one, he noticed that Grace was still lodged in place. “Is something the matter?”
“No,” she said, and smiled at him. “There’s someone here to see you.”
Trevor put down the magazine and picked up another. “I wasn’t aware of any appointments this afternoon.”
“It’s Cassidy, Mr. Monroe.”
Trevor faked interest in the cookie cutters on page 17 of Better Baking. Grace seemed to be waiting for him to say something. He didn’t, so she asked above the tangible hush, “Should I send her in?”
His head stayed bowed, and his voice held no emotion. “No, I’ll be over in a few minutes.” Grace remained unmoving and quiet, and he sensed her desire to ask questions. She finally turned and left him, closing the door behind her. Trevor unleashed the breath he’d been holding, put down the magazine, and swiveled around to stare through the large square window behind him. He drew his fingertips across his forehead as if he were trying to smooth out the lines, thinking he might be losing his mind. Cassidy had been consistently entwined in his thoughts since the funeral last week. He and Cassidy hadn’t known each other long, yet he felt as if he’d known her all along. And the more time they spent together, the more he wanted to spend with her.
