The Someday List

by Stacy Adams

  Rachelle shook her head. “Not right now, but I’ll take it out and put it on the table if you want me to.”

  “It’s too hot out there for it right now. I’ll refrigerate it and bring it out when it’s time to bless all of the food,” Aunt Irene said. “Go on out and get a cool drink. Say hi to your uncle.”

  Rachelle stepped outside, into the backyard, and remembered why she spent most of her summer days at a spa or indoor pool. Sweat trickled down her back before she had taken a good three steps toward Uncle Charles.

  It was about three p.m. and the day couldn’t have been hotter. Here she was at a Sunday afternoon barbecue in July. In southern Texas. The humidity left her longing for a bath filled with ice cubes.

  “Stop complaining,” Uncle Charles said and motioned for her to sit in the lawn chair next to him. “Don’t you rich folk cook out in your hoity-toity section of Houston?”

  Rachelle laughed and swatted him with the newspaper he had placed in her lap, along with a few ears of corn to shuck.

  “Yeah,” she teased back, “on our air-conditioned patios.”

  She grabbed her thick mane and pulled a hair claw from the pocket of the khaki shorts she had found in her suitcase. Today was a testament to why packing more than she thought she needed could be beneficial. And thank goodness she kept a few extra supplies in the glove compartment of her car for Taryn’s hair emergencies. If she didn’t get this stuff off her neck, she might be tempted to cut it.

  After shucking the corn, Rachelle and Uncle Charles moved their chairs under one of several white tents where they could relax. He sipped a soda while she chug-a-lugged a bottle of water.

  A heavy silence settled between them, until finally, he spoke.

  “We shoulda told you about Troy, but we just didn’t know how,” Uncle Charles said. “Knowing how much went on between you two, it was hard when we learned he was moving back to Jubilant and wanted the director of music position. But he was the best candidate of the bunch, and we believe God sent him to us.”

  Rachelle peered through the haze of heat at the neighborhood kids playing in the shallow pool Uncle Charles had inflated for them. Yasmin was frolicking with them and orchestrating teams for a water game.

  “I’m not questioning your commitment to follow God, Uncle Charles,” she said. “I just want to know why, once it was clear that Troy was a contender for the job, you or Aunt Irene didn’t pick up the phone and call me. I had a right to know. I make sporadic visits to Jubilant; and I occasionally go to your church. Just the fact that he moved back to Texas meant there was a chance of me running into him. You should have prepared me for that.”

  Uncle Charles sipped his soda and shrugged. He looked away before he spoke. “I don’t know, Rachelle. We knew how hard you took it when you two broke up. We just weren’t sure what to do.”

  “No,” Rachelle said in as even a tone as she could muster. “We didn’t ‘break up.’ My parents gave me an ultimatum—get a divorce or find a way to pay for optometry school on my own. I think that could be considered blackmail instead of a ‘breakup.’”

  Uncle Charles cleared his throat and rose from the seat. He patted her shoulder, and wandered away, toward Yasmin and her friends.

  Rachelle could tell she had crossed his line of tolerance. Aunt Irene often accused him of fleeing from uncomfortable situations.

  Rachelle sat there awhile longer, stewing over the circumstances. More guests began to arrive, and she realized she needed to give the subject a rest. But I always do that—give it a rest; keep the peace; make sure no feathers are ruffled. What if I don’t feel like it?

  Before she could mull over answers, a startling thought crossed her mind: Troy might have been invited to this barbecue before her family knew she’d be there. If he showed up, she was pulling an “Alanna”—she would pack up and be home by nightfall.

  10

  Since Uncle Charles went in one direction, Rachelle chose to go in the other.

  She gathered the ears of corn she had shucked and cradled them in her arms. Before Uncle Charles could grill them, they needed to be washed, and she might as well do the honors.

  When she reached the patio that led to the kitchen, Rachelle noticed Aunt Irene standing under a nearby tree, gulping from a red plastic cup. Aunt Irene smiled when Rachelle approached her and tucked her hand with the cup behind her back.

  “What’s up?” she asked. She squirmed under Rachelle’s curious gaze. “This heat makes you thirsty, doesn’t it?”

  Rachelle nodded and peered over her aunt’s shoulder. The cup held a clear liquid and was half full, but why would Aunt Irene try to hide it?

  “Is that ‘happy juice’ or something?”

  Rachelle laughed, but Aunt Irene winked at her.

  “I need a little help to unwind sometimes,” she said. “Between getting ready for this barbecue/birthday party for Indigo and dealing with your stubborn uncle and my creaky hip, Lord knows I need something!”

  she leaned closer. “But don’t tell anybody, okay? Let’s keep this between us. Come on, help me set the rest of the food out and bring out Indigo’s cake.”

  Rachelle wanted to pinch herself. She had to be dreaming. All of her aunts and uncles were social drinkers except Aunt Irene, who had always said she didn’t partake so she could remain clearheaded enough to hear from God. When had that changed, and why? Rachelle followed Aunt Irene into the kitchen, but decided not to question her until later, when they had some time alone.

  Before she could fret further, Aunt Melba barreled in with a friend trailing her. Bags that overflowed with chips, two-liter sodas, and ice filled their arms. Aunt Melba’s face was nearly hidden by her packages, but her hearty laugh was unmistakable.

  “I’m here now! Let’s get this party started!”

  Melba had never been one to use an “inside voice.” Family gatherings weren’t half as lively when she wasn’t around, and everyone teased her about it.

  “Shoot, I was the middle child—I had to fight to get some attention,” she’d always respond. “That saying is the truth—the squeaky wheel gets the oil, and I don’t like being rusty or ashy!”

  “A little coarse sometimes, yes; but never ‘rusty or ashy,’” Rachelle’s mother had commented years ago, after one of Melba’s weekend visits to Philadelphia.

  Other than Rita Mitchell, no one seemed to mind Melba’s volume or straightforwardness. She was colorful and flamboyant and lovable. She was also gorgeous. At five foot ten, she was slender, but thick in all the right places. She wore a short-layered haircut that accentuated her bronze complexion and high cheekbones.

  Aunt Irene was the baby sister and Rachelle’s dad was the oldest of the three children, but Aunt Melba looked nowhere near the sixty-two years she insisted her birth certificate documented. When she visited Houston for shopping trips to the Galleria and other exclusive stores, strangers often mistook her for Rachelle’s older sister.

  Rachelle still couldn’t fathom why Aunt Melba hadn’t fled Jubilant as a teenager for the runways of New York or Paris.

  Melba, Irene, and Rachelle’s dad, Herbert, loved each other deeply, which meant that loving each other’s children was second nature. Since Melba had never had any of her own, she claimed Rachelle, Alanna, and Irene’s crew by default.

  Aunt Melba set her grocery bags on the granite countertop, next to Irene, who was arranging deviled eggs on a serving tray. She kissed her sister’s cheek, then turned toward Rachelle.

  “Well, look what the cat drug in. When did you get here, Rachelle?”

  Rachelle grinned and trotted over for a hug. “It’s great to see you, Aunt Melba. I made a surprise visit this morning. Gabe is away on business and the kids are with Mom and Dad for the month, so I thought I’d drive down.”

  Melba raised an eyebrow and grabbed a deviled egg. “Gabe’s away, so you can play?” She popped the appetizer into her mouth and waited.

  Rachelle smiled but didn’t respond. Aunt Melba had always been able
to illuminate the heart of matters. Maybe that’s why her hair salon remained the busiest in town. It wasn’t unusual for clients who had moved away to drive several hours to Jubilant for a special occasion appointment with Melba.

  Rachelle couldn’t blame them. Melba was indeed a fabulous hairstylist, but her unparalleled energy, doses of encouragement, and the tell-it-like-it-is advice she doled out were the true magnets. Melba didn’t play favorites—whoever sat in her chair had her full attention.

  Rachelle turned to the woman who had accompanied her aunt. “Hi, I’m Rachelle.”

  “Hello, Rachelle.” The woman smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Cynthia, one of Melba’s clients and also a friend. Nice to meet you.”

  Rachelle wondered how Cynthia had been roped into attending the barbecue. Either she was new to town, in a crisis, or had struck Melba’s fancy as someone the family would appreciate knowing.

  “Good people need to know other good people” was a Melba catchphrase.

  “This is Doctor Cynthia Bridgeforth, pediatrician extraordi-naire,” Melba said, satisfying Rachelle’s curiosity. “Could be living the cushy life of a private practice doctor caring for Jubilant’s well-to-do kids and instead spends her days in the toughest part of town, helping the children most folks gave up on before they even got here. This Cynthia, she’s something else.”

  Rachelle was intrigued. Before she could ask questions, though, the birthday girl made her entrance with an entourage of lip-gloss– smothered, giggling friends. The various perfumes and scented lotions they wore overshadowed the baked beans Aunt Irene had retrieved from the oven.

  While today’s gathering was a celebration of Indigo’s fifteenth birthday, it also was enough reason for the family and their extensive circle of friends to fellowship. Most teenagers shied away from social functions that included embarrassing adults, but Indigo seemed to be dodging that pattern. Aunt Irene and Uncle Charles had made it a practice to surround all three children with loved ones at every turn. They might never know the meaning of the term nuclear family.

  Indigo parted the crowd and ran to embrace Rachelle. “You came to my party but you didn’t bring my little cousins?”

  She rested her skinny arms on Rachelle’s shoulders and locked eyes with her. Rachelle laughed.

  “When did you get so tall? And why weren’t you at church today?”

  “I slept over at my friend Sabrina’s house last night.” Indigo pointed to the girl. “But if I had known the new director of music was going to show up today and sing, I might have popped in. ‘Shawty’ is fine!”

  Indigo and her giggling girlfriends moved as one force toward the back door and tumbled outside. Rachelle couldn’t help but smile, despite hearing Indigo refer to Troy in that fashion. She was just an infant when everything transpired between Rachelle and Troy during their college days and didn’t know that this “Shawty” was her former cousin by marriage.

  Aunt Melba winked at Rachelle and grabbed the baked beans. Cynthia picked up the tray of deviled eggs and the two women followed the girls outside.

  The mention of her ex-husband reminded Rachelle of a pertinent concern. “Is . . . Troy . . . coming to the barbecue, Aunt Irene? Did you invite him?”

  Aunt Irene averted her eyes. She wet a dishtowel and concentrated on wiping the island countertop. “He was invited, along with a few other folks from church. But he came up to me after service this afternoon and told me that he and Chaundra were having dinner with Pastor and First Lady Taylor and might not have time to stop by.”

  Rachelle fiddled with the paper napkins she had folded into triangles. “Did he . . . ask about me?”

  “He saw you, Rachelle,” Aunt Irene said. “I saw him looking at you. But he didn’t say a word to me about you.”

  Ouch. Why did that sting? Hadn’t they both moved on? She had fled church to avoid him, so her disappointment surprised her.

  She was curious about what he’d been doing all these years since they split and how he had wound up back in Jubilant. Aunt Irene probably knew everything, but Rachelle decided not to ask.

  An awkward silence filled the kitchen and Rachelle took that as her cue. She grabbed a serving spoon and an aluminum pan filled with potato salad and headed for the door.

  She crossed the expansive lawn and placed the food on a cloth-covered table under one of the tents. A couple Rachelle didn’t know sat nearby under a tree, chatting. The woman leaned into the man and he bent down to kiss her nose.

  “No newlywed hanky panky. Y’all got little eyes watching ya!” Uncle Charles yelled from across the patio, where he was basting ribs on the grill. The couple laughed and put up their hands in an admission of guilt.

  Rachelle smiled at them and turned back toward the house. She froze in her tracks when Pastor and First Lady Taylor opened the gate of the tall wooden fence and entered with their adolescent son.

  Please, God, let them be alone.

  Did arrow prayers really work? Maybe so, but Rachelle decided hers must be so rusty that an instant answer wasn’t guaranteed.

  Troy and Chaundra stepped inside the backyard and closed the fence behind them. The girl spotted Indigo and her friends and trotted over to join them. Troy zeroed in on Rachelle and paused.

  Her cell phone rang before either of them could react. Thankful for the distraction, she pulled it from the clip attached to her buckle loop and answered without screening the call. It had to be Alanna.

  “You won’t believe who just showed up,” Rachelle said, with her eyes fixed on Troy.

  “Really,” said a deep voice on the other end that didn’t belong to her sister. “Just where are you, anyway?”

  Gabe had picked a fine time to call.

  11

  Gabe speed dialed Rachelle on his Blackberry five times and each time ended the call before it rang.

  He had been gone four days and hadn’t heard from his wife. He was so angry he felt like canceling her credit cards. She wouldn’t stay gone long with no money.

  He wanted to tell her that, but since she was the one with the attitude problem, she should be calling to set things straight. He didn’t have time to be tracking her down. Time was money.

  But today he couldn’t help it. He had to know whether she’d gone back home after she snuck out of the house Wednesday afternoon. He had smashed a glass against a kitchen cabinet when he picked up her voice mail message. If Rachelle hadn’t returned and fixed the mess, Helen would wonder what had happened when she arrived to clean the house this week.

  Surely, though, Rachelle wasn’t going to be stupid. She couldn’t be planning to leave for good and give up her lifestyle.

  But her complaint about “things” not being enough troubled him. He worked hard, provided well for her and the kids, afforded her nice vacations and entrée into circles of influence most women only fantasized about joining. His work was demanding and sometimes inconvenient, but he made it home for dinner often enough. What else did he have to give? Women could be so needy.

  Gabe hadn’t called the house all day, assuming he would reach Rachelle on her cell. But maybe she had come to her senses. He tried their home number, and that call went straight to voice mail.

  “I know Rachelle is not still at some hotel,” he said under his breath and glanced at his watch. He had another session in an hour and would be flying home later that afternoon. Dinner and a massage would be the perfect way to make up.

  This time when he dialed her cell number, he didn’t hang up. Relief coursed through him when she answered, but it was quickly replaced by anger.

  Clearly she had been expecting to hear from someone else. When he asked where she was, she had remained silent long enough for him to fear that she might hang up. He also heard voices in the background.

  “Where are you?” he asked again. “Have your hormones settled down yet? Hello?”

  “Yes, Gabe, I’m here,” she finally responded. “What’s with the interrogation?”

  “What are you talking ab
out?” he said. “I haven’t heard from you since I left Houston. Don’t I have a right to know where my wife is? Until the past month, I never had to ask—you made it your job to keep me informed. Why are you tripping all of a sudden?”

  Gabe felt his voice rising, along with his blood pressure. He sat in the hotel lounge and tried to appear nonchalant. A pretty doctor he had met at dinner the night before walked past him and waved.

  I should have gone to my room for this conversation, he thought. Rachelle wasn’t going to cut him any slack.

  “Listen to you,” she said. “You’re right—we haven’t talked in four days, and what’s the first question you ask me? Are my hormones normal. Then you tell me I’m tripping. That’s why I ‘tripped’ right out the door on Wednesday.”

  What had gotten into her? Gabe took a deep breath and pressed his lips together to keep from fueling her fire.

  “I’m in Jubilant, visiting Aunt Irene and Uncle Charles,” she finally said.

  Gabe felt sucker-punched. He sat forward in the sofa chair and tried to remain calm as groups of physicians swirled past him. “How long have you been there? Are they having a party or something? When are you coming home?”

  The questions flew from his mouth as rapidly as they formed in his mind. Better get them out now before he said something else to anger her.

  Lyle Stevens, his surgery partner, stepped off the elevator. He pointed at his watch and Gabe checked the time on his own. Forty minutes until their presentation. Gabe gave him a thumbs-up.

  He wasn’t getting off the phone with Rachelle, though, until he had some answers.

  “I went to San Diego on Friday to visit Jillian and flew into Houston this morning,” Rachelle said. “Gabe, she’s dying. She had a party to tell her closest friends goodbye.”

  So that was it. Her childhood and college friend was dying. Now it all made sense. “I’m sorry to hear that, Rachelle,” Gabe said. He knew how to handle patients who were struggling with difficult diagnoses. He did it all the time and always received glowing reviews for bedside manner.