by Neta Jackson
Nick let Kat do most of the talking.
Climbing the stairs to the second-floor apartment, Nick let them in with his key, motioning to the girls behind him to be quiet. “Conny’s probably asleep.”
He needn’t have bothered.
“Nick!” Swathed in summer-weight Superman pajamas, the little boy launched himself off the couch and jumped into Nick’s arms. “Now you can put me to bed!”
“What are you doing up, young man?” Nick loosened the stranglehold around his neck.
Rochelle appeared from the hallway that led to the two bedrooms and single bathroom. “I’m sorry, Nick. It’s been one big fight ever since you left. I finally gave in. He . . . I think he misses his daddy. Conny stayed with him a couple months, you know, when I . . . well, you know what it’s been like for us lately.”
“Don’t miss Daddy,” the little boy pouted. “He didn’t read me stories. Just had to go to bed.” Conny wiggled out of Nick’s arms and ran to the coffee table, grabbing a couple of books “Grammy Avis” had gotten for him at the library. “Read me a story and then I’ll go to bed. I promise!”
Nick chuckled. “Okay. This time. Come on, buddy. We’ll read in the study.” Nick led Conny into the study that served as his bedroom ever since he’d surrendered the larger bedroom to Rochelle and Conny. Kat and Bree had claimed the twin beds in the second bedroom of the apartment they’d sublet from the owners of the condo, who were currently traveling in South America on business.
Conny cuddled under Nick’s arm as they settled on the futon in the study and opened The Saggy Baggy Elephant. Nick pulled him closer, conscious of the little boy’s sweet, soapy smell. Maybe someday he’d have a little boy like Conny . . .
Halfway through the second book he realized the boy’s breathing had slowed and his head had fallen forward. Carefully picking him up, he tiptoed through the living room, passed Kat on the couch doing the newspaper crossword, and headed down the hall to the far bedroom. He knocked. Rochelle opened the door. Her long black hair, which she usually wore wavy and full—looser than what he expected from “black hair”—had been braided and wound around her head for the night.
“He’s asleep.”
“Okay.” The young mother stood aside. “Just lay him on the bed.”
Nick laid the little boy on the large queen-size bed, drew the sheet up over him, and turned to go. Rochelle was still standing in the doorway as he squeezed past. “Thanks,” she said. Quickly standing on her toes, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thanks for being there for Conny.” And then she closed the door behind her.
Nick was so startled he just stood in the hallway a moment. What was that about? . . . Nothing, he decided. Just a thank-you from a grateful single mom.
He turned to head back to the living room . . . and saw Kat at the opening, framed in the light from the front room. “Sweet,” she said. But there was an edge to her voice. Before he could say anything, she took several quick strides to the doorway of the bedroom she shared with Bree, disappeared inside, and quickly shut the door.
Chapter 2
Kat Davies flopped down on the twin bed in the “perfectly appointed” guest room of the sublet and punched her pillow.
Her roommate peered over the top of the book she was reading on the other bed. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Brygitta rolled her eyes and tossed the paperback onto the bedside table between the two beds. “Right.” Yawning, she kicked off the lightweight bedspread and pulled the sheet up to her chin. “You’re going to tell me, you know.”
Kat said nothing. She felt confused by her feelings. So she’d seen Rochelle Johnson give Nick a peck on the cheek after he read her little boy to sleep. What was that about? Probably nothing. At least Nick would say that. But what did she know about Rochelle, after all? The girl was a mystery. Girl . . . not really. Might even be a few years older than she was. She’d been married, after all, and had a six-year-old kid.
And it was her own fault Rochelle and Conny were staying in the condo she and the other CCU students had sublet for the summer. It was her big idea to invite them when their fourth housemate moved back home. Seemed to make sense at the time. Skinny thing like Rochelle digging in Dumpsters for food, living from hand to mouth, with a kid to support—all because she’d had a falling-out with her parents who lived one floor up.
Well, okay, it was more complicated than that. But still.
Kat slid off the bed, shed the skirt and top she’d worn to SouledOut that evening, wiggled into the sleep tee wadded up under her pillow, and turned the fan in the window on low. She hadn’t brushed her teeth, but no way was she going to the bathroom now and risk running into Nick. She didn’t want to deal with him right now. Or Rochelle. That was the problem with these older apartments—only one bathroom per unit.
Kat turned out the bed lamp and slid between the cool sheets. She lay staring into the darkness for several long minutes.
“Bree?”
“Told ya.”
Kat ignored the snicker from the other bed. “Do you think we were too hasty inviting Rochelle and Conny to live with us?”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s just . . . when we got this apartment, the four of us knew each other pretty well, knew we’d basically get along and be able to work out any little problems.”
“Well, yeah. Except it didn’t work out for Olivia, did it?”
“But that’s different! It wasn’t us not getting along. Livie was already edgy about living in the city. I might freak too, if I got robbed at the El station. Can’t really blame her.”
In the dim light coming through the blinds from the street, Kat saw Bree lean up on one elbow. “Kat. What’s this about? Did you and Rochelle have a fight or something? I thought you two were tight.”
“No! It’s just . . . I’m realizing we don’t know Rochelle very well. And cute as Conny is, there’s a thin line between cute and annoying. I mean, he’s all over Nick! Not going to bed until Nick came home tonight? Get real! What kind of mother lets her kid do that?”
Bree punched her pillow and lay back down. “Oh, he’ll settle down. He’s just excited. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Easy for you to say. He’s not clinging to you like some barnacle on a ship.”
Bree giggled. “Well, ask Nick if it bothers him. He’s the one who has to work it out with Rochelle and Conny.”
Kat sank into silence. Nick didn’t seem bothered. Maybe that was the problem . . .
Oh, give it up, Kat, she scolded herself, flopping over onto her side. Am I jealous of the time Nick’s spending with Conny? How petty is that! Even if Nick was one of the best friends she’d ever had. Nick and Bree, that is.
But then . . . there was that kiss.
Should she tell Bree about it? No . . . that would sound jealous. They were all just friends, right? Or were, until Rochelle and Conny came along.
Kat rolled back. “Bree?”
A muffled, “What?”
“Do you think other people think it’s kinda weird, a single guy like Nick living with three women?”
A snort in the darkness. “You’re worried about that now? We’ve been here a month already! Far as I know, nobody’s said anything. Why should they?”
“I know. Still, I’m kinda surprised somebody at SouledOut didn’t bring it up at the meeting tonight when Nick was proposed as a pastoral intern. You know, that whole ‘avoid any appearance of evil’ thing.”
Bree sat up again. “Kathryn Davies. You of all people, worried about that? It’s not like just one guy and one girl sharing an apartment. There’re three women to one man—and a nosy kid. And we’ve practically got chaperones upstairs. I mean, Mr. D is one of the elders at SouledOut and Mrs. D happens to be one of the interim pastors . . . Oh, darn. Now I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” Bree’s dark shape loomed up between the two beds, marched toward the bedroom door, and disappeared into the hall.
Kat sighed and close
d her eyes. She should have told Bree about Rochelle giving Nick a kiss—okay, a peck on the cheek. Maybe it was nothing. Still, it seemed weird. As close as the four students had been for the past three years at CCU, she’d never kissed Nick, not even in a sisterly way. Hugs, sure. Wrestling and goofing around, fine.
Maybe Rochelle was more of a kisser. What did Kat know about her culture anyway? Still, shouldn’t she be careful about stuff like that? After all, Rochelle was HIV positive, even if it wasn’t her fault.
Kat’s eyes flew open. That’s it. Of course. She was worried about Rochelle being HIV. They had all acted so liberal and tolerant when they found out—but now they were living together like a family. Shouldn’t they be taking some precautions? And kissing of any kind had to be out, didn’t it?
Cradling her pillow, Kat somehow felt relieved. Her eyelids closed. She could talk to Nick about that, tell him she’s concerned. That would make sense.
Kat had set her alarm for six thirty, giving her plenty of time to get ready for her morning volunteer job at the Summer Tutoring and Enrichment Program—known as STEP—at Mary McLeod Bethune Elementary School. But who needed an alarm? Childish feet thudded down the hall past her bedroom door and she heard Conny yell, “No! Wanna play!”
Kat squinted at the digital alarm. Six fifteen. Good grief. What was he doing up this early? He’d still been awake at ten!
In the next bed Bree groaned and jammed the pillow over her head. She didn’t start her shift at the coffee shop until one o’clock today and had said she wanted to sleep in.
Good luck with that.
Well, it was almost time to get up anyway. Kat groggily swung her feet out of bed and peeked out the bedroom door. Coast was clear. She zipped into the hallway and then into the bathroom and locked the door.
Standing in the shower, Kat let the hot water run over her head, trying to clear her mind. Thursday . . . STEP ran from nine till one, and she had to relieve Bree at the coffee shop at five. Which meant she had four hours free that afternoon. It felt like a gift! So much had happened in the past couple weeks, she needed some time to herself just to get her feet back on the ground.
Except . . . when could she talk to Nick? About that HIV thing. Alone.
But by the time she’d washed her thick hair, given it a blow-dry, which seemed to take forever, and dressed in a pair of denim capris and a denim top—trying not to wake up Bree—she was having second thoughts. The whole thing felt awkward. Maybe she should just forget it. Wait a few days and talk about what kind of precautions they should take living with someone with HIV in some other context.
Except . . . Nick knew she’d seen Rochelle give him that kiss. Saw her flounce into her bedroom. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
Sucking up her courage, she walked into the living room. The double doors into the study were open, the futon folded away, and the room was empty. Wandering into the kitchen, she found Conny bent studiously over a kids’ activity book, following a maze with a pencil. Rochelle was stirring a pot on the stove, wearing a kimono-type short robe, her hair still braided and wound around her head.
She looked up, dark eyes bright. “Hi. I’m making oatmeal. Want some?”
Kat had been thinking granola, but, oh well, they were both oats. “Sure. Uh, where’s Nick? The study’s empty.”
“Went for a run, I think. Conny woke him up . . .” The young mother grimaced. “Bet he woke you up too. I’m sorry. I thought he’d sleep in after getting to bed so late, but somehow it doesn’t seem to matter when he gets to sleep. He’s up at six or six thirty.”
Her apology softened Kat’s annoyance at the early waking. “It’s all right. He’ll settle down. He’s just excited being someplace new.” She grinned, hearing herself quoting Bree.
Rochelle dished up three bowls of oatmeal and set them on the table. “Couldn’t find raisins. You got any here?”
“Uh, think so.” Kat had used most of them when she made up the batch of granola, but she found some in a box in the baking cupboard, along with a bag of walnuts, and set them out with the brown sugar and milk on the table.
“Um, wanted to let you know . . .” Rochelle suddenly seemed shy. “I’m going to call that family about the nanny job you told me about. The one Olivia had before she left. See if they still need someone.”
“That’s great, Rochelle! Good for you. Just, you know, be honest about your situation. That’s all you can do.”
“I know.” Rochelle’s voice fell to a whisper.
“I did it! I did it!” Conny crowed, holding up the page he’d been working on. “See, Mama? See, Miss Kat? I found the treasure!”
Rochelle seemed glad for the interruption. “You sure did.” She sprinkled brown sugar on his cereal. “Put it away now. Do you want raisins in your oatmeal?”
Conny seemed to notice the steaming bowl at his elbow for the first time. “Don’t want oatmeal! I want Froot Loops!”
Rochelle rolled her eyes. “There aren’t any Froot Loops and we aren’t going to buy any either. You like oatmeal. Now eat.”
Conny stuck out his lip. “Daddy let me eat Froot Loops.”
His mother rolled her eyes. “Grr. If I hear ‘Daddy let me’ one more time,” she muttered to Kat, “I may do something I’ll regret.”
“Did I hear somebody doesn’t want his oatmeal?” boomed a male voice coming in the back door. Nick appeared, wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt and athletic shorts, his sandy hair plastered against his forehead. “Guess that means I can have it!” He plopped down on a chair and reached for Conny’s bowl.
“No-o-o! That’s mine!” Conny pulled it back, giggling.
Rochelle jumped up. “I made enough for everybody. You can have your own bowl.”
Conny watched wide-eyed as Nick enthusiastically doctored his oatmeal with raisins, walnuts, brown sugar, and milk. Then the little boy did the same and lifted a heaping spoonful to his mouth.
“So, is it good enough to thank God for?” Nick asked the little boy. “You want to say a blessing on the food?”
Conny shook his head, his mouth full, milk running down his chin. He pointed at Kat. “You do it,” he garbled.
Well, at least somebody notices I’m in the room. But seeing Nick and being ignored and Conny getting all the attention left Kat in no mood to say a blessing for the food. She folded her arms across her chest. “I think Pastor Nicky ought to pray over the food. He’s the one who brought it up.”
She’d tried to keep it light, but Nick gave her a strange look. Kat looked away—and didn’t close her eyes when she heard him say, “Fine, I’ll do it . . . Jesus, thank You for oatmeal and a new day. Amen.”
“That was short!” Conny giggled.
“Yeah, well, short is good when you’re hungry, right, buddy?”
Kat had about had it with all this “buddy buddy” and “perfect parenting” stuff Nick was into. She was tempted to pick up her bowl and take it into the next room, but just then Bree wandered into the kitchen, holding a cell phone and looking anything but pleased. She held out the phone to Kat. “Next time I’m trying to sleep in, take your cell phone with you.”
Kat jumped up and took the phone. “Sorry, Bree.” She was too. But putting the phone to her ear, she headed for the living room. “Hello? Kat here.”
“Kathryn? Hi, it’s Edesa! Hope I didn’t get you up.”
Edesa? “No, no, I’m up. Especially now that we’ve got a six-year-old in the house. Rochelle Johnson and her little boy.” Why in the world was Edesa Baxter calling her at seven thirty in the morning?
Edesa’s laugh sounded like a tinkling glass wind chime. Kat could just picture the pretty black woman with her bright smile and dancing eyes. “Ah! That’s right. Sí, I know what you mean. I have my own gallito waking me up each morning.”
“Gallito?”
The laugh again. “Little rooster. Back home in Honduras, we always kept chickens, and oh! That gallo started crowing before the sun was up! Just like my Gracie. But now I just put books in her bed and
go back to sleep. Often she does too.”
Hmm. Good idea. I should tell Rochelle to try that.
“Anyway, I wanted to catch you before you left for the day. You volunteer mornings with Sister Avis’s STEP program, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Had she mentioned it to Edesa? Maybe Mrs. D told her . . . or probably Jodi Baxter, Edesa’s mother-in-law, who also volunteered at the summer program. That Baxter family had been hard to figure out at first: white middle-aged couple, young married son, black daughter-in-law—who spoke Spanish, no less—and Hispanic grandchild, who turned out to be adopted. Kat could just see her own mother raise an eyebrow if she ever met the Baxters.
“And you work at The Common Cup . . . when?”
“It varies. Brygitta and I split an eight-hour shift, so sometimes I work afternoons and sometimes evenings.” What was this about?
“Ah. Well, I’ve been remiss getting back to you—you know, your idea about teaching a nutrition class together.”
Kat perked up. Well, it was about time! Edesa Baxter had a master’s degree in public health, and she’d thought the woman would jump all over her idea. Instead, Edesa kept putting her off . . . in fact, had once basically told her she had no idea what she was talking about when it came to poor people and food issues. Miffed, Kat had let it drop. But if she’d changed her mind . . .
“I’d love to! When?”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. I teach a Bible study at the Manna House Women’s Shelter on Friday mornings, and then I’m helping do lunch with Estelle Bentley—you know Estelle, don’t you? Harry and Estelle at SouledOut?”
“Sure, sure. Well, I know who they are. She works at Manna House?”
“Yes. Chief cook and bottle washer—and a dozen other things. Anyway, I wondered if you’d be free tomorrow afternoon to come to the shelter, and maybe the three of us could talk.”
“Drat! I work at the coffee shop tomorrow afternoon—but I don’t go in today till five. Any chance we could do it today?”