Lean on Me

by Pat Simmons

  The West End Avenue area was a trendy part of Nashville that attracted graduate students and young professionals drawn to the surrounding downtown nightlife, Lower Broadway, or East Nashville.

  Rumor had it that Midtown was so pricey that the rent there was comparable to the mortgage of a custom-built house. Personally, Nicholas enjoyed being a homeowner in a quiet Smyrna neighborhood with a spacious ranch house that was close to his job. To him, that was preferable to living in the midst of a constant bustle of people.

  Since the traffic flowed, he arrived in less than half an hour and parked around the corner. He grabbed his Bible from the back seat and headed to the building’s grand entrance with a maroon awning and street-level retail shops lining the front windows. He strolled inside. Whoever lived in this place had money with a capital M.

  The interior resembled a hotel lobby with marble floors and expensive decor. Voices above him made him take notice of a mezzanine overlooking the lobby. Wow was the only way to describe the Westchester. A middle-aged gentleman stood from behind a sleek desk in an office with see-through walls and strolled around to greet him.

  He asked for Nicholas’s ID, which he looked at carefully. “Who are you here to see?”

  “Miss Priscilla Brownlee, who is staying with her niece Rachel Knicely in 1402.”

  “Of course.” He returned Nicholas’s license and pushed a button to open the elevator doors.

  Nicholas nodded his thanks and walked inside, where spotless mirrors, brass trim, and accent lighting surrounded him as the doors closed. He had never visited a residence with this type of security, but it was close to a busy area, so maybe that justified it.

  On the ride up to the fourteenth floor, soft music entertained Nicholas until the bell chimed and the doors opened. Should he remove his shoes to walk on the plush carpet? Nah. Overhead, mini chandeliers lit the way to Room 1402, where an artistically carved wood front door would rival the one at his house.

  After he pushed the doorbell, Nicholas stepped back and dusted his shoulders from any stray hair he had missed earlier. When he made first-time house calls, he liked to portray an image of a respectable, serious, and clean-cut man. Despite the box some people put a minister in, respect wasn’t a given. His attire wasn’t dress slacks and a collared shirt; instead, it was his Nissan polo work shirt and jeans.

  He was about to ring the bell again when a woman answered. They blinked at each other. It was a toss-up whether Nicholas had awakened her or she didn’t care about her appearance. Either way, her beauty wasn’t dimmed, even with messy hair, wrinkled clothes, and one large hoop earring, Nicholas had seen worse. He offered a smile.

  She looked at him as if she were in a daze. “Yes?”

  “I’m Minister Nicholas Adams from the Redeemer Lives Church. I’m here to see Sister Brownlee.”

  The woman’s eyes widened with fear, and she slammed the door in his face.

  What? I don’t have time for this. Nicholas was sleep deprived and hungry. Maybe his eyes were bloodshot and she thought he was drunk or high on drugs or something. Unfortunately, there were instances where he was met with hostile greetings from families who resented his presence.

  Nicholas tried not to take their rudeness personally. This was his calling, and he was going in to see Sister Brownlee. He gritted his teeth and was about to knock again.

  He didn’t have to when she slowly opened the door with a sheepish expression. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  Clearly. He kept that to himself, then relaxed. He smiled again to ease the tension, and she returned his smile, although hesitantly. “Your sister in St. Louis called our church office.”

  “Tabitha,” she mumbled, then squeezed her lips together. “She hadn’t mentioned it.”

  That somewhat explained her reaction. “Since I’m here, do you mind if I visit with Miss Brownlee?”

  “She was alert a few days ago, but she’s shut down again. I’m not sure if she’ll know you’re here. I’m not even sure if she knows I’m here.” The look of hurt didn’t go unnoticed.

  “I’m sure she feels your presence,” he tried to console her. “You’re Miss Knicely?”

  “Yes, I’m Rachel Knicely,” she confirmed.

  “Nice to meet you. Again, I’m Nicholas Adams.” He offered his hand. Hers was noticeably soft.

  Before his eyes, Rachel’s sluggish demeanor disappeared, replaced with attentiveness as she leaned on the doorjamb, crossing her arms. “First, may I see your ID?” As he reached into his back pocket for his wallet, she added, “I have a photographic memory.”

  Nicholas contained his amusement at her personality swing from fear to fierceness.

  A Yorkie and a cocker spaniel appeared at her side, barking with veiled threats as guard dogs while wagging their tails, undecided if Nicholas was friend or foe.

  Back to Rachel. He wasn’t offended by her request. Despite the tight security to get to her door, a woman could never be too careful, whether a man was carrying a Bible or not. He had a younger brother, Karl, but if he had any sisters, he would teach them the same precautions.

  He handed over his license. She glanced at it, squinted at him again, then handed it back, reciting his license number, height, weight, and eye color to prove she wasn’t kidding. Did she say his weight? Seriously, hey, he had lost ten pounds since that was taken. He was lean and all muscle. She didn’t need to know that, but he decided to tell her anyway. The woman had some serious mental skills. “Just so you know, I was ten pounds heavier then,” he said with good humor.

  “And you had a bad haircut,” she sassed back and stepped aside for him to enter. He couldn’t tell if she was joking about his hair then or now. He refrained from asking.

  He sized her up as well, about five foot four or five to his six foot two, messy dark-brown hair, tired brown eyes, curly lashes, and a face that probably could use a morning wash. All in all, she was cute. Very.

  He stepped in and noticed the richness of her hardwood floors; they looked as if no one had ever walked across them, only faintly scuffed from her pets. He admired her open space with the dining room/eating area and kitchen on one side.

  Nicholas followed her along a hallway that turned a corner as the dogs trailed behind them. They stepped down into a spacious living room with nice decor and floor-to-ceiling windows. The sunlight was streaming through.

  They climbed a few steps to a loft overseeing the living room, offering little privacy, except for a trifold room divider. Massive bedroom furniture held court. The dogs had beaten them and had scrambled to a spot at the foot of the bed. “Nice place,” Nicholas said, and he meant it.

  “Thank you,” she replied without looking at him. Her attention was on the woman in the bed. “Aunt Tweet,” she called softly. “Nicholas Adams—he’s a minister—is here to see you.”

  Her loved one didn’t respond. The slight rise and fall of the cover was proof she was still alive. Whew. Nicholas had never witnessed someone taking their last few breaths. He didn’t want to see it today.

  Chapter 2

  How embarrassing. Rachel couldn’t believe she had slammed the door in a man’s face—and a minister at that. The doorbell had rescued her from the vortex of a nightmare about a Death Angel trying to get inside her house.

  She could thank Jacqui for putting that term in her subconscious. She had mentioned that her family called a priest to administer the last rites to her grandfather, then minutes later, Mr. Rice died.

  Still shaken from the dream, Rachel remained leery. She watched Nicholas from the doorway as he perched on the chaise that she had slept on for many nights. Leaning closer, he rested his hand on Aunt Tweet’s forehead and softly called her name. “Sister Brownlee, I’m here to pray for you.”

  Please let his prayer make a difference. The moment was tranquil as she noted his gentle manner. Something she wouldn’t expect from a man
who had a handsome face with a no-nonsense expression and a bodybuilder frame. His tenderness was endearing.

  Aunt Tweet slowly moved her head but didn’t open her eyes. Excitement, hope, and anticipation swirled in Rachel’s head at her aunt’s response. Next, Nicholas opened his worn leather-bound Bible. The pages seemed to part without a bookmark as if they knew the passage he wanted.

  As he began to read from Psalm 23, the softness of his voice deepened to a rich baritone. The sound was like a sweet melody. Rachel closed her eyes, drifting into serenity as she listened.

  “‘He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul,’” Nicholas read. “‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…’”

  Death. Wait a minute! Rachel’s eyes opened in horror. Her aunt was very much alive, and she was hoping his prayer would keep it that way. Was the minister summoning death for Aunt Tweet? This was too much talk about death—the doctor, her sister, her friend, and now this minister.

  The thought ignited a sob from somewhere deep within her, and Rachel couldn’t stop the flood. She felt weak in the knees, and she would’ve collapsed on the floor if it hadn’t been for Nicholas’s quick movement.

  “Are you all right?” he asked in a concerned tone.

  She shook her head, unable to answer. He coaxed her to make it to the ottoman. She felt the seat shift as he sat next to her. When she inhaled, a faint scent of his cologne acted as a smelling salt and revitalized her. It was a familiar brand that some of her colleagues and male acquaintances wore.

  “Can I get you some water?”

  “Yes,” she choked out. He didn’t know the layout of her kitchen, but she didn’t have the energy to go herself as she opened her eyes in a daze and glanced at Aunt Tweet. She was still alive, and Rachel exhaled in relief.

  He returned quickly with ice water in a crystal glass. Her best dishes were reserved for entertaining, but he didn’t know that and she didn’t care as she accepted the glass with trembling hands. Nicholas’s hands steadied hers so she could drink. Rachel gulped down the water as if she’d been parched for days. “Thank you.”

  Instead of returning to Aunt Tweet’s bedside, Nicholas took the seat next to her again. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know.” She turned and stared into his eyes, noticing the unusual shade of brown. She wouldn’t described them as light or dark, maybe sun-kissed, as if sunlight were drawn to them. “I lost it when I heard you say ‘death.’”

  Nicholas nodded his head, but she doubted he understood the blow, losing the last connection to her father’s side of the family. “Death is part of life,” he told her, then stood. “If you’re all right, do you mind if I pray for both of you before I leave?”

  “Sure.”

  Returning to Aunt Tweet’s bedside, he smiled, then reached inside his jacket. He pulled out a bottle no bigger than a sample size portion of perfume or scented oil. Unscrewing the top, he placed a dab of oil on Aunt Tweet’s head, then turned to include Rachel. She declined but joined him at the bedside. Closing her eyes, she bowed her head and waited for the prayer.

  His short prayer was spoken as softly as the reading that had lulled to sleep Shelby, her cocker spaniel, and Sweet Pepper, Aunt Tweet’s Yorkie. He added, “Amen.”

  “Amen,” she repeated, then exhaled.

  Nicholas faced her. “If you’d like another ministerial visit, don’t hesitate to call the church office.”

  You mean if my aunt is still alive, Rachel feared. Since that dream, she was having a hard time shaking this death thing.

  “If you promise not to slam the door in my face,” he added, with mirth dancing in those brown eyes, breaking through her reverie. When he smiled, his dimples made a peek-a-boo through his beard.

  So he had a sense of humor. She returned his smile. “You spooked me.” Rachel had only seen a woman slam the door in a man’s face in the movies. That had been a first for her. She looked away in embarrassment before she tilted her head in a challenge. “You’re not going to let me forget that, are you?”

  “Consider it forgotten.” He gathered his Bible and had her show him out. He offered a slight wave, then walked toward the elevator.

  After closing the door, Rachel leaned against it and sighed. Of course death was a part of life, but she didn’t want it to happen on her watch. She needed more time with Aunt Tweet—just like her sisters had created recent memories with their great-aunt, Rachel desired that too. She might not get her full six months with her aunt, but if God gave her a couple more weeks…

  She sighed. “I’ll be so thankful.”

  Yawning, she pushed off the door and headed toward Aunt Tweet’s room. She passed by the hall mirror, then backtracked, screaming at the haunting image staring back at her. Her curls were a matted mess, her face needed attention, and her lounge clothes were wrinkled. She’d taken unkempt to the next level.

  If Aunt Tweet were alert, she would have taken Rachel to task about her appearance. “A woman should always get a man’s attention, whether she wants to or not. Honey, take the affection as long as your beauty lasts” was Aunt Tweet’s mantra. Rachel had pushed all thoughts of men and the dating world aside to focus on caring for her aunt. How Nicholas Adams had broken through her resistance was a mystery.

  He was not a man that a woman could easily dismiss, including Rachel. She had appreciated the eye candy for about thirty seconds—no, make that twenty-nine—but he was a minister. She doubted Nicholas gave her a second glance.

  Back in the bedroom, Rachel checked on Aunt Tweet. She hadn’t stirred. Neither had the two dogs. Her pet had taken to Aunt Tweet the moment she’d arrived, but not to Sweet Pepper. Then oddly, a few weeks ago, the two pets made some sort of dog truce to live in harmony at her side.

  Rachel bent and brushed a kiss against her aunt’s cheek. For an eighty-five-year-old, Aunt Tweet retained her natural beauty. Flawless dark skin complemented her silver-and-white hair. She was classy, with a larger-than-life personality and the right amount of sass to make a stranger crave being counted among her circle of friends.

  “I hope God answers this prayer. I love you, Aunt Tweet,” Rachel whispered before descending from the loft. She would shower and prepare a light breakfast in case Aunt Tweet opened her eyes and was famished again before Clara arrived.

  Clara Dobbs was a home health aide Rachel employed three days a week to assist with Aunt Tweet’s care so Rachel could go to the firm in the afternoons. The other two days, she worked from home to be close to Aunt Tweet.

  Since Rachel hadn’t set her alarm, the minister’s visit was a lifesaver. She pinched her nose. That sounded too much like a pun, but she needed to prepare updates on a project that was almost complete. She couldn’t ask for a better boss or company that allowed her work flexibility during her brief tenure as caregiver.

  Initially, it wasn’t the Knicely sisters’ plan to have outside help. They thought the three of them could handle Aunt Tweet’s care on their own. Kym sailed through her six months, and Tabitha’s six months had been an eye-opener. No medical textbook could have prepared her for the practicum. Rachel expected a less mobile aunt but instead got living a nightmare with whispers of death. None of them were prepared for the dementia symptoms that plagued Aunt Tweet.

  When Tabitha had cried out for help, her friend and neighbor Marcus Whittington had answered. The two of them felt a home health aide would relieve some stress. At first, Rachel and Kym had been incensed about Tabitha leaving Aunt Tweet in the care of a stranger, but the woman turned out to be attentive and trustworthy, so Rachel didn’t think twice about getting help when she brought Aunt Tweet to Nashville.

  Rachel had come to depend on Clara on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays not only to do light housekeeping and patient assistance, but also to guide Rachel as a caregiver. Sometimes that meant Clara had to end
ure Rachel venting her frustrations. Besides Clara, Jacqui always had a listening ear. And her sisters were only a phone call or flight away.

  * * *

  It was after two o’clock when Rachel breezed through the doors of Gersham-Smith, one of the oldest and most successful engineering firms in Nashville. She had worked hard to be respected among her peers and management. She credited Aunt Tweet with inspiring her to study math and science in school before the STEM curriculum—science, technology, engineering, and mathematics—became popular. The subjects were so easy for her, and as a teenager, she was often one of the few black girls in a class.

  She also credited Aunt Tweet with the fact that Rachel wasn’t intimidated by men in the workplace. She preferred to impress with her brains, wit, and beauty. She didn’t believe in leaving the house without being polished from head to toe, not even to walk the dogs. She wanted her appearance to be as exquisite as her intellect. She was fashion-forward and could manage complex projects as though they were building blocks or simple puzzles.

  Her boss, Harlan Goode, appeared as she stepped out of the elevator. “Afternoon, Rachel. How’s your aunt?”

  He was an older man with thinning hair on the crown of his head and a thick mustache. His father started Gresham-Smith, and Harlan expanded the firm to include offices in fourteen states and two overseas. The firm had drawn big-name clients to its roster with cutting-edge designs, including the winning bid to design a deep pump station project for the Metropolitan St. Louis Sewer District.

  As a St. Louis native, Rachel took personal pride in handcrafting the design for the sump, dry wells, and other components for a structure that would be 180 feet below ground. It had been an honor to give back to her childhood city in the form of jobs and better living conditions.

  Voted yearly one of the top companies to work for, the firm stressed work/life balance, which Rachel had never fully appreciated until she became Aunt Tweet’s caregiver. The past four months had been a roller-coaster ride, and it didn’t look like the next few months would be any better with Aunt Tweet’s deteriorating condition.