Wondering what he’d think about me and Connor, I couldn’t suppress a dry chuckle.
Forty
Sooner than I would have guessed, Halloween arrived. Instead of trick-or-treating, First Baptist and several of the other churches had fall festivals, where the children could dress up as nonoccult objects, animals, or characters and play games for candy. I’d always enjoyed helping, but this time I didn’t. I couldn’t bear seeing Connor without touching or speaking to him.
The week after that crawled by. Then the next.
I kept checking my e-mail for word from school, but found nothing. By the week before Thanksgiving, I called Cathy in the disabilities office and found out they’d been sending all the e-mails to my student account on the college network.
The student account.
Perfect. Talk about feeling stupid. I’d completely forgotten about that. Giant head smack.
With her help, I finally got onto the school Web site (writing each step and my password down for future reference) and found my schedule and a slew of messages. It took me half a day to get through them, and I’d already missed orientation.
Not a good start.
Maybe I shouldn’t have done this. At my age, half my brain was full, and the other half was dead.
But I persevered. (I am, above all things, stubborn by nature.) So the days of getting to know Carla, going to the Home, studying, and checking my student e-mails slipped into comforting routine.
Before I knew it, Thanksgiving arrived. As usual, David and Barb were spending it with her family in Charlotte, saying it was too hard on the kids to bring them to us.
So I felt even emptier without Connor, especially since Tommy and Carla were there, totally smitten with each other.
I wasn’t jealous of them. I was glad to see them both so happy.
It just made me feel more alone than ever. I missed Connor so much, I almost cried.
Sensing my sadness as we all cleaned up after we finished, Tommy proposed, “Why don’t we invite Connor to see the latest Shrek installment at the Imax this afternoon? Carla and I have enjoyed that series.”
Was I that transparent?
Miss Mamie brightened. “I’d like to see that one, myself.”
Carla had the good sense to butt out, for which I loved her even more.
Tempted though I was, I shook my head no. “Y’all can go without me.”
“Okay. Martyr if you want to,” Tommy said. “I’m asking him.”
“Go right ahead,” I told him. “I’m going to bed.”
Mama scowled. “Suit yourself, Lin, but I’m going.”
“Great,” I said sincerely. “I hope y’all have a wonderful time.” Before they could pressure me further, I wrapped my loneliness around myself and headed for the apartment. “Fabulous feast, ladies,” I called back as I left the room. “It may take me two days to sleep it off.”
Then I went home and martyred myself nonstop for two hours, one on the phone with Tricia, but to no avail.
Then David topped the day off by calling to tell me his company had given them and the kids a two-week Christmas cruise as a bonus. Great for them, rotten for me.
Forty-one
One day at a time, Tommy’s words reminded me. Be in the present. Stop projecting.
I tried, and every time I tried, it got a little easier. But I kept reverting to my old ways.
Still, I took my schedule to the campus near the end of fall quarter in December and found my way (with much help) to all my classes. The biggest trek would be from my morning classes in the Humanities Building to the Science Building all the way across campus for algebra.
For once, I was glad my bad knees merited a handicapped parking permit, because there was always a free spot right beside Humanities. But walking across campus twice a day would be good for me, even if it hurt.
And unlike the students, who wore as little as possible regardless of the weather, I planned to dress warmly and use an umbrella. And drag my textbooks in a stout rolling briefcase behind me. So call me a nerd. So what? At sixty, I didn’t give a rip.
Actually, I was no longer afraid of school. I looked forward to it, because that gave me something to be excited about besides Connor.
Forty-two
Early Christmas morning, I got up at six and put on my face and did my hair, just in case Connor showed up. Then the family met at the giant Christmas tree in the family room at seven. Miss Mamie never let anybody sleep late on Christmas.
We’d long since given up trying to buy each other presents. Instead, each of us picked out something we wanted that cost less than a hundred dollars, wrapped it up and put it under the tree, and donated an equal amount to our favorite good cause. On Christmas morning, we showed each other what we’d bought before we went in to breakfast. Worked for me.
Tommy got a little chain saw on the end of a long fiberglass pole, which would make trimming our ancient bushes a lot easier. (He always bought himself tools.)
Carla had bought herself a bunch of old Southern cookbooks, which Miss Mamie asked to look over after we’d eaten.
Miss Mamie opened a large Kindle and a Nook electronic reader, beaming as she did. When she saw our surprise, she went coy. “A girl’s got to keep up with the times. I’ve already loaded both of them with Deborah Smith, Patti Callahan Henry, and half a dozen more of my favorites.” She hugged them to her. “I can’t wait to try them.”
She had definitely blown the price ceiling, but neither Tommy nor I pointed that out. Let her splurge. She deserved it.
Last in line, I started unwrapping my treat: a new makeup mirror with powerful LED SWAT-team lighting to help me get those nasty white whiskers on my upper lip and under my chin. Of course, I didn’t share my reasons for needing a new one with the others.
Then we all went in and helped Miss Mamie finish her annual Christmas breakfast blowout: fresh biscuits, made-from-scratch blueberry pancakes, eggs, grits, country ham and redeye gravy, bacon, fresh ambrosia, homemade cinnamon rolls, and cherry turnovers.
By the time we all sat to eat and blessed it, my stomach was roaring, so I chowed down as if I hadn’t eaten in a week.
“These biscuits are so tender and light,” I complimented my mother.
Miss Mamie beamed at Carla. “I didn’t make ’em. Carla did.”
Obviously having heard about my notoriously bad biscuits, Carla had the good grace to look down and blush.
A tang of resentment tried to rise up, but I stomped it flat. “They’re fabulous. Now I can give up trying and eat yours.”
Then the doorbell rang, and Mama shot to her feet like a volunteer fireman answering the siren, a smug gleam in her eye. “I wonder who that could be?” She motioned us to stay seated. “Y’all keep eating,” she said as she glided out of the room like Theda Bara in an ancient Broadway drama.
My heart suddenly beat fast. Connor? Please, oh please, oh please. Let it be Connor.
I knew he was off. Unless Christmas fell on Sunday, the Baptists canceled services.
Sure enough, there he came with Mama.
“Isn’t this nice, now?” Miss Mamie gloated. “Look who’s come a-calling.”
Suddenly I was as awkward as a seventh-grade girl in ballroom dance class, waiting for a boy to take me onto the floor and terrified that no one would.
“Hi,” I said, looking into Connor’s gorgeous face with patent relief.
His answering hi was just as pregnant as mine with the unspoken things that had come between us, but then he grinned, and I basked in its warmth.
Miss Mamie brought him a place setting and laid it beside mine. “I was hoping you’d come, so I had this ready. Now, you dig in.”
Connor regarded her with affection. “Wow. What a spread. Tommy, could you please pass me those sweet rolls?”
Tommy and Carla watched us like spectators in the final game at Wimbledon.
My hedonist whispered, Man, could I sweet roll with him.
Shut up, I countered, per Tommy
’s advice, but it didn’t work.
Kiss, my inner wanton seduced, bringing back the hunger as if Connor had just pulled away from me that first time. Oooh, kiss, kiss, kiss. Bodies. Bodies, bodies, bodies.
“I’ve been thinking a lot since the summer,” Connor told me, blessedly interrupting my downward spiral. “And praying.”
His expression was very serious, so I braced myself.
“Maybe we shouldn’t date too long before we get married,” he said. “Would that be okay with you?”
My better instincts had disappeared with his arrival, so I barely managed to keep from suggesting we fly to Maryland, on the spot.
What was it he’d asked me? Oh, dating.
“The shorter the better,” I said, breathless.
Tommy and Miss Mamie beamed at me in approval.
“Would y’all like to take in a matinee this afternoon?” Connor asked. “The latest Star Trek installment opens at one.”
Miss Mamie smiled. “Y’all will have to go without me. I’ll be getting Christmas dinner ready. Carla and Tommy can help me with that.”
In on the conspiracy, Tommy nodded.
That left just Connor and me at the movies.
Miss Mamie nodded to Connor. “You’ll join us for dinner, I hope.”
“I can’t think of anything I’d like better,” he answered.
“Then I’ll be expecting you both back by eight to eat turkey with candied cranberries and my homemade biscuit-and-cornbread dressing,” Miss Mamie concluded.
Connor grinned. “Of course.”
We settled in to breakfast while Connor filled us in on the work he was doing with the church and how an anonymous donation had allowed them to repair the spire and reroof the sanctuary.
He didn’t look at me as he said it, but I had a strong sense he suspected the truth.
I did my best to remain calm, but colored up like a ripe summer tomato anyway, feeling the heat from my neckline up, cheeks throbbing.
Connor turned his attention to Miss Mamie. “I’m happy to see that you’ve been able to make some improvements lately, too.”
Mama peered down her nose at him with a frosty smile. “Amazing, how everyone’s business is everyone else’s business in this town.”
Not that any of us had thought for a second that word of our good fortune wouldn’t get out.
Connor wasn’t daunted. He turned to me. “I’ve met your new sitter at the Home. She’s making things so much better for Mr. Breedlove and your uncle.” Then he leaned in toward Miss Mamie. “I think they have a crush on her.”
To my surprise, my mother broke out laughing, covering her mouth with her napkin as she let out a strangled, “Better her than me!”
The rest of us hooted with delight.
That began the best week of my life.
Connor and I went to the movie at the Imax, and we both loved it. On the way home, he told me that he’d prayed and prayed, and the Lord had shown him that we were made for each other. If I’d have him, he wanted to marry me, but I could take my time making up my mind.
The idea of being a preacher’s wife still put me on the inhale, but who was I to wrestle with God? What if Connor was right?
So I let go and lived each wonderful day of that week with Connor to the fullest, my lust receding as I accepted our growing friendship and spiritual concurrence.
We told each other our life stories, his in the hand of God since college, and mine a series of missteps and corrections, but he didn’t judge me. Instead, he comforted me and assured me of God’s grace and mercy.
Never having been in a whole, healthy relationship, I drew closer and closer to him and the charismatic glow of God’s spirit within him every day.
Not only did I love this man—yes, I finally admitted it—and lust after him, I liked him immensely and deeply respected his honesty and strong religious calling.
Then, two days before the New Year, we sat rocking in our coats on Miss Mamie’s porch, the air perfumed by the waning aroma of live pine garland with sprays of magnolia leaves that festooned the railing as it had every Christmas since I was little.
After a long, comfortable lull, Connor drew his rocker closer and turned to ask me, “Would you come to our New Year’s Eve prayer service with me? I’d really like for you to hear the message God has laid on my heart.”
Gulp.
Message, schmessage. Time to pay the piper.
Soon. It was too soon.
I’d been so happy, just the two of us in our own little world. I knew I loved him, had loved him from that first day I saw him. But, as much as I wished we could go on in a vacuum indefinitely, I’d realized, deep down, that the time would come when the two of us would have to face his congregation, and all that came with it.
I sucked in a steadying breath, then let it out in a long, slow exhale that betrayed my fear. Still, I nodded, eyes downcast. “I guess it’s time.” In spite of my efforts to the contrary, my mouth trembled as tears sheeted onto my cheeks.
Connor got up and drew me to him for a comforting embrace. “There, there,” he whispered, gently rocking me back and forth. “It’s going to be all right. Just wait and see. It’s all going to work out, I promise.”
I relaxed into his arms, grateful beyond words for the strength and encouragement he offered.
Phil had never held me that way. Ever, even when we were courting. His touch came with an expectation of sex, and always had, and once he was satisfied, he drew back into his closed, tangential world, leaving me on the outside again.
This was so different. So healing, yet terrifying.
Why couldn’t I just accept what came with Connor and face it together? I wanted to. But evil still deviled me with what-ifs.
For the second time in six months, Connor Allen kissed me, but this was a very different kiss. It came with no demands or expectations, and lingered only long enough to tighten the connection between us. Then he cupped my head and rocked me to him. “It’s going to be all right.”
Like every woman in the world, I needed to hear that. Not solutions. Not plans. Just the assurance of a good man that he would stand between me and whatever might hurt me, and make things right.
To my horror, I heard my voice wail into his shoulder, “Would you marry me?”
He laughed, then hugged me tighter. “Of course. When?”
The weighty baggage of my past dropped instantly from my shoulders. “Tonight?” I half joked.
I drew back to weigh his expression, and he stroked the tendrils away from my forehead, shaking his head in denial. “Not in secret. You’re too special for that. I want to marry you in my church, for all to see. With plenty of notice, so everyone will know what a blessing God has sent me in you.”
“I was thinking more of a justice of the peace in Ringgold,” I blurted out, not sure whether it was the truth, or just an attempt to lighten things up.
Connor chuckled, the warm sound of it resonating through me, then reared back to look at me. “How about we make our plans over dinner at my house on New Year’s Day? I’ll provide the turnip greens and black-eyed peas.”
I hated turnip greens, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “That can be my reward for facing your congregation,” I said, more serious than joking. “But only if you promise to be my first-foot on New Year’s morning.”
He frowned. “First foot?”
“It’s an old Southern superstition, supposed to bring good luck if the first visitor of the new year who crosses the threshold is a man. Totally sexist, of course, but that’s our heritage.”
He drew me close for a deeper, more lingering kiss, gently wakening my libido, then pulled free. “I’d be glad to be your first-foot, even though I don’t believe in superstitions,” he promised, then started back to his house. He waved. “Remember, we’re driving up to Lake Clare in the morning.”
In the cold. But the drive up would be nice, and we planned to lunch at the Dillard House, where we’d be just another doting couple in
the presence of strangers.
The next day, we had a wonderful time, as usual.
For the rest of the time leading up to the New Year’s Eve service, I cherished every instant we were together, but finally on New Year’s Eve, supper was over, and I dressed for church in my most conservative outfit, usually reserved for funerals.
I checked myself in the mirror. Waaay too dark and serious. Definitely not me.
Defiant, I changed into my favorite church outfit: black knit travel slacks, a white mock turtleneck, and my favorite red jacket, a find from the Goodwill. I tied a long, abstract silk scarf in red, white, and black around my waist as a sash, then looked at my reflection again.
Now, that was more like it. Take it or leave it, I loved bright colors, went to R-rated movies, talked too much, laughed too loud, and sometimes (well, maybe more than sometimes) stuck my foot in my mouth. But still and all, Connor loved me, and everything would be all right.
Uplifted by that hope, I put away the knowledge that everybody in town knew we were courting and had an opinion about it. I reminded myself that the only opinion that mattered was God’s.
I put on my most comfortable Life Stride flats, got out the mink coat I’d hidden from the IRS, then set out, standing tall and proud despite my quaking fear underneath, and paving the sidewalk with prayers for grace and strength in the four blocks to First Baptist.
As I approached the church, I read the lighted marquee: WELCOME TO A NEW YEAR. WELCOME TO THE FREEDOM OF FORGIVENESS.
A tiny frisson of anticipation ran up my spine. Now, that was a lesson I’d like to hear.
I smiled warmly and took a bulletin when I was greeted, then strode confidently down to the first row and took the aisle seat on the left (usually reserved for the preacher’s family), passing a visibly appalled Mary Lou Perkins. At least on the first row, I wouldn’t have to see her or anyone else talking behind their hands about me. Then I laid my coat across the back of the seat beside me, which was cause enough for trouble all by itself.
Putting on airs.
Queen Bee Goes Home Again Page 22