by Neta Jackson
And then I started to laugh aloud—a mirthless laugh with no humor, my shoulders shaking at the irony of it. Even God would have a hard time sorting through my prayers tonight. I want Lee . . . I want Philip . . . Lee . . . Philip . . . I want . . . I need . . . me, me, me . . .
My mind and emotions finally wrung themselves out, and as I drifted toward sleep, exhausted, the scripture I’d taped to the kitchen cabinet and underlined in my Bible rose to the top of my thoughts and wrapped itself around my confusion. “Trust in the Lord with all my heart . . . don’t lean on my own understanding . . . In all my ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct my paths.”
“Okay, God,” I murmured into my damp and wrinkled pillow. “Guess I don’t know what I want. Or need. So I’m just gonna love You first and trust You to figure it out.”
The call from Philip came the next morning before I even left for work. “Gabby? I need to talk to you. Any chance we could have lunch today?”
For some reason, hearing his voice startled me. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. I’d had dinner with Lee last night, and we’d kissed—and now my husband wanted to meet for lunch. Would my double life be written all over my face?
Still, I’d told Philip we needed to talk, and he was agreeing. “Lunch?” I grabbed the appointment book I’d been using lately to keep my schedule from getting all snarled up. Monday, November 6 . . . 10:00 Staff mtg . . . 11:00 Lucy clinic checkup ankle . . .
“I’m sorry, Philip, I don’t think I can do lunch. I’ve got a staff meeting this morning, and then I’m supposed to take Lucy to the clinic to check on her ankle, and it’s never in-and-out at the county hospital. Don’t know how long it will take. Um, what about this evening?” I hated to be gone from the boys two evenings in a row, but this was important.
“Tonight? That’s later than I’d like. There are some urgent things I need to talk over with you and I was hoping—but, all right. Can you call me when you’re back from the clinic in case we can get together earlier?”
“Okay, call you later.” Huh. Later than he’d like? What could be so important that a few hours made a difference?
But my day changed when I walked into Manna House with Dandy on his leash and signed in. A sign written in magic marker was taped to the glass windows of Angela’s reception cubby: “No Staff Mtg Today.” I pointed to the sign. “What’s up?”
The receptionist blew a stray lock of glossy black hair off her face. “Mabel’s sick. Sounded like the flu. I’m glad she’s staying home—I don’t want to get sick.” She grinned impishly. “Jin is taking me out to dinner tonight.”
“Ah, Jin.” I grinned. “I’m glad you brought him to the party the other night. He seems like a nice guy—a good sport, too, playing Josh’s crazy games, even though he didn’t know the rest of us.”
Angela made a face and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, even when he chose Dare and they dared him to kiss a girl in the room—knowing he’d kiss me. In front of you all!”
Laughing, I pushed through the double doors into Shepherd’s Fold with Dandy clicking along at my heels. As soon as he spotted Lucy propped up on one of the couches, the dog pulled the leash out of my hand and made a beeline for the old lady. I gave the dog a chance to whimper his joy and lick her face, then said, “Hey, Lucy. You have a checkup at the clinic this morning. Staff meeting just got canceled, so . . . you up for going now? We might get out of there earlier.”
“Today? Oh, all right.” Lucy sounded as if I’d asked her to down a spoonful of cod liver oil, but she struggled to get up from the soft cushions.
It took us a good twenty minutes to get Lucy into her winter coat and down the outside steps—slick with the drizzling rain that had started last night—and into my Subaru. Might’ve taken longer except Angela left her post and helped Lucy with the steps while I got the car. But soon we were heading south on Lake Shore Drive, the windshield wipers thump thumping as they chased raindrops back and forth.
It occurred to me that Lucy was my captive audience for the next twenty minutes until we got to the clinic. If there was any connection between this elderly street person and Will’s grandmother, now would be the time to fish for it. “You still sleeping on the couch in Shepherd’s Fold?” I asked, wanting to get her talking.
“Nah. A bed came up empty so I been goin’ up an’ down that box they call an elevator. Ain’t so bad once I got used to it. But if it ever stops ’tween floors? I’m gonna yell bloody murder so loud they gonna hear me clear down at city hall.”
I chuckled. “Don’t blame you. Glad you got a bed. Have you been able to put any weight on that foot yet?”
“Yeah, some. Sure will be glad to get rid o’ them crutches. What a pain! Worse’n the ankle.”
“Well, here’s hoping the doctors agree.” I drove a few more minutes, the thump, thump, thump of the wipers and the warmth of the heaters creating a cozy cocoon in the car. Then I subtly shifted conversational gears. “Did you ever twist your ankle or break a bone when you were a kid?”
“Oh sure. Lotsa times. Sprained my ankle, I mean. Never broke anything. But I was always climbin’ trees an’ jumpin’ creeks an’ stuff. My ma said I was a bad influence on the other kids, ’cause I was the oldest an’ the younger ones was always wantin’ ta do what I did.”
Oh my goodness. What a perfect segue. “You have many other brothers and sisters?”
“Ha. Too many, if ya ask me. But that’s the way it was with migrant families—we needed all the hep we could get pickin’, so had to grow ’em ourselves. Leastwise, that’s what my paw used ta say.”
I was so excited the speedometer had crept upward without me realizing it. Whoa, slow down, Gabby. Didn’t want an accident. The Drive was slick with rain. Tapping the brake, I let the needle fall below the speed limit. “So tell me some of their names.”
“Well, lessee. Maggie was next ta me, then came Tom an’ Willy an’ George, one after t’other . . .” She drifted into a silence.
“So there were five of you?” I prompted.
She shook her head. “Nah. My ma got sick an’ lost a few— two, I think. But then came the babies. Betty an’ John, I think.” She wagged her head. “Not real sure about them last two. I left home when they was real small.” Her voice faded. “Been a long time now.”
Seven kids. Whew. I needed to tread carefully here. “Have you been in touch with any of your family? Your, um, next closest sister, for instance?”
“Who, Maggie? Nah. I knew she’d be mad at me fer leavin’, ’cause she’d hafta to pick up all the chores an’ stuff families put on the oldest kid. Can’t blame her. But I had to leave. Had my reasons.”
By this time, I’d turned off the Drive and was headed west on the Eisenhower Expressway. But our exit was coming up fast. “Had to leave?” I glanced at Lucy in the passenger seat. “Thought you told my mother you ran off with a boy.”
“Yeah, well, I did. But let’s just say it was complicated. Besides, when them two babies came, it was jus’ too many mouths ta feed. None o’ the rest of them was old enough ta fend for themselves. Had to be me.”
I was so astonished at this bit of news, I almost missed our exit, but I made it up the ramp at the last minute.
Lucy had left home so her family would have one less mouth to feed?
I could hardly breathe. From what Will had shared, it sounded as if the rest of the kids had done all right. At least his grandmother had gotten married and raised a family, and her daughter had married and raised a family—including a brilliant young man named Will who was going to college at the University of Illinois Circle Campus, studying architecture and business.
If Lucy was his grandmother’s long-lost sister, that is. Could all be just a coincidence. I’d know better after Josh got together with Will this week.
We only had to wait an hour before Lucy’s name was called this time. Her ankle was plenty black and blue when the young intern unwrapped it, but after gently manipulating the foot, he said the ankle was coming along n
icely and told Lucy she could begin to put weight on her foot, whatever she could tolerate. “But keep those crutches awhile longer and use them when you need to,” the doctor advised.
He replaced the elastic bandage with a padded air cast—all plastic and Velcro—and gave Lucy an appointment card for next week.
We were back at Manna House by twelve. When I realized we’d be back a lot sooner than I’d anticipated, I called Philip on his cell and said I could do lunch after all. Did he want me to pick up some takeout and meet him at the penthouse?
Philip gave a short laugh. “Uh, a certain Japanese businessman might be surprised if you walked into the penthouse today. I’m staying at the Baxters’, remember?”
Duh. Of course. “Right. Just slipped my mind for a minute.”
“But I’m actually downtown right now—had a doctor’s appointment today and, uh, some other business. I’ve got my car, so let’s meet somewhere. You name it, I’ll be there. Someplace we can talk, okay? And thanks. I appreciate you making it earlier, Gabby.”
We agreed to meet at Baker’s Square on Western Avenue at one thirty. The lunch crowd probably would’ve thinned by then and they had booths—they’d be fairly private.
I signed Lucy in, took Dandy out for a short walk in the relentless drizzle so he could do his “business,” apologized to Estelle for skipping out on lunch without advance warning, and signed myself out again.
But at the last minute, I scribbled a note, ran it back downstairs to the dining room, and handed it to Estelle. The note said: Pray, okay? Philip wants to talk. He needs a plan NOW. Hope that’s what this is about!
chapter 32
Philip’s Lexus was already there when I pulled into the wet parking lot at Baker’s Square—and it was only one twenty. The old feeling of being “a day late and a dollar short” no matter what I did got my defenses up, but Philip smiled a greeting when I slid into the booth. “Looks like we’re both early. I just got here.”
Okay, Gabby, back off, start over, cool your jets.
We ordered quickly—a chicken fajita for Philip and Asian chicken salad for me—then faced each other across the Formica-topped table with hot cups of coffee. Two creams each. Had Philip and I always doctored our coffee the same way? I looked him over, puzzled. Something was different about Philip today. His hair? It’d grown back almost an inch, the same dark brown like fresh-roasted coffee, and nearly covered the long scar in his scalp, but I’d already noticed that two days ago when he was moving stuff into my basement. Something else—
“Your arm!” I pointed, eyes wide. “You got the cast off!”
Philip grinned and moved his right arm this way and that. “Yep. This morning. I think maybe this is what Pinocchio felt like turning from a puppet into a real boy—except my arm still feels kind of wooden. Might need some physical therapy.”
“I’m glad. You’re starting to look like a real person again.” Ouch. What a stupid thing to say.
But Philip just nodded. “I’m starting to feel like a real person again—but not just because of getting the cast off.” He leaned forward, arms on the table, his brow suddenly wrinkled in serious concentration. “Gabby, you said I needed to come up with a plan, to stop flailing about like some rag doll caught in the washing machine.”
I allowed a grin. “Well, at least the part about coming up with a plan.”
“But you were right.” He sat back against the padded booth, drew in a deep breath, and blew it out again. “I’ve decided to take Henry Fenchel up on his offer. To buy me out of the company, I mean.”
I nearly spilled my coffee. “You’re serious?” Of all the plans I’d imagined, I never thought Philip would consider giving up the company he’d started.
“Dead serious. In fact, that’s where I went after my doctor’s appointment today. Told Henry if he’d withdraw his lawsuit, he could buy me out, take my name off the door, the whole kaboodle. It’ll take several days to draw up the papers, but then it’ll be a done deal.”
“But . . . when . . . why . . . how did you . . . ?” I hardly knew what to ask.
“Okay, to be honest, I had some help thinking things through,” he admitted. “You know I’m staying at the Baxters’ a few days until I can find an apartment. Had some time to talk to Denny this weekend—yesterday, as a matter of fact. He and, uh, our mutual friend, Harry Bentley.” Philip shrugged. “Figured he’d earned a right to mess with my business after saving my skin that Sunday when Fagan caught me in the alley.”
I said nothing, not trusting myself to speak.
“Anyway, they asked me what I thought my options were. Have to admit most of my options sounded rather far-fetched, but I did mention Fenchel had offered to drop his lawsuit if I let him buy out my half of the business—along with half a dozen reasons why I wouldn’t even consider it. But Baxter asked me to imagine what would happen if I pursued each of my various options—even the buyout. So, okay, I thought, I’ll play along. But as I imagined the implications of accepting Henry’s offer, I realized it made a lot of sense! With the buyout, even after paying back the money I owed the company—with interest—I’d have enough to pay off Fagan, which would take care of both major debts. Done. Fagan’s lawsuit goes away. No more threats. I’d have a nest egg to rent an apartment and pay my bills until . . .” He spread out his hands. “. . . well, until I figure out what I’m going to do next, I guess.”
Our food arrived, and we were busy for the next several minutes getting fresh coffee, extra butter for the hot bread that came with the salad, water refills. Then came that awkward moment. Dig in? Bless the food? Silent prayer? But Philip arched an eyebrow at me. “Do you, uh, want to say a table grace or something?”
Surprised, I nodded. What was going on here? Was Philip buttering me up or something, being so agreeable? But I bowed my head and kept it simple. “Father, thank You for Your goodness to us today. Thanks for the food and for Philip’s amazing news. Amen.”
“Nice,” he murmured before taking a dripping bite of his fat fajita.
We ate in silence for several minutes, then I cleared my throat. “Have to admit I never expected you to let Henry buy you out, Philip. But it sounds like a good plan. Makes a lot of sense, clears away a lot of the mess you’ve gotten yourself into. Lets you start over. I just . . . just want to say I’m sorry it turned out this way. You had a dream, it was a good dream, and you’re good at what you do. I wish it had worked out for you.”
Philip seemed to have trouble swallowing. But he murmured, “Thanks, Gabby. That means a lot.”
I leaned forward and searched his face. “But I do have a few questions. The money you took down to the casino last week— where did it come from? Was it a loan from your parents? A gift? And what are you going to do with it once Henry buys you out?”
Philip sighed and took a sip of his water. “So you know about that. I—”
“Don’t know. Just a guess.”
“Oh. Well, good guess.” His mouth twisted slightly. “My mother gave it to me as a bridge. Wasn’t a loan. Don’t know where she got it—savings, cashed in some stocks, whatever. But I shouldn’t have taken it. I’m pretty sure she did it behind my father’s back. And I’m tired of that game, Gabby. I don’t want her money. But until I get an actual check from Fenchel, I guess I’ll need to use it to line up an apartment and buy a plane ticket, but then I’m going to pay it back. All of it.”
It took a moment for what he said to sink in. “Did you say a plane ticket?”
He nodded. “As soon as I wrap up this buyout with Fenchel, I’m going back to Petersburg to consult with my father. I talked to him on the phone last night . . . had to eat crow, listen to a lot of ‘I told you so,’ as you can imagine. But I told him I’m selling out, going to make a fresh start. And he’s agreed to meet with me and help me think through what I’m going to do next. Map out a new business plan, so to speak.” Philip’s wry expression seemed to have become a permanent fixture. “I think that was going to be your next question: ‘Wh
at are you going to do for a job?’ Right?”
I nodded and looked down at my half-eaten salad. I pushed it away, suddenly not hungry anymore. I could hardly wrap my mind around the things Philip was saying—selling out his interest in the commercial development company he’d started, paying his mother back for the money she’d given him, actually going back to Virginia to face his father . . .
On one hand, I felt a huge relief. He’d come up with a real plan for untangling the mess he’d gotten himself into.
But . . . not a word about us.
“The boys will miss you,” I murmured, avoiding his eyes. “How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know. A week, maybe two. I need to get away, put some distance between myself and too-easy access to the Horseshoe. Bentley made me promise I’d check into a GA group the same day I arrive. I’m guessing he’ll be checking on me.”
I nodded, still not able to face him. “Okay. Just keep us posted, I guess. Me and the boys.”
Digging into my purse, I brought out a couple of fives to cover my salad and coffee and started to slide out of the booth with my jacket, but felt Philip’s hand reach out and grab my arm. “Gabby, wait. There’s something else I need to talk to you about. It’s important. Please?”
I stopped, his hand holding me back. After two long seconds I slid back into the booth, set down my jacket and purse, and finally looked up without saying anything.
“This isn’t the place, but”—he tipped his chin toward the foggy windows of the restaurant—“it’s not exactly a great day to walk and talk outside. So I, uh, wrote you a letter.” Philip reached inside his sport coat and drew out a long envelope. “This is actually what I wanted to talk to you about, but I realized you wouldn’t be able to hear it until I’d made some practical plans to deal with, well, the whole gambling debt mess. I’m sorry to say the consequences of that have overshadowed everything else that’s important. Like our marriage. You and me. Our family. The boys.” He slid the envelope toward me. “Will you read it before you go?”