by Neta Jackson
“What? What’s done, Estelle?” I suddenly had a horrible thought, and my eyes darted to her left hand. Her ring finger was bare. “Oh no, Estelle! You didn’t!”
“I did.” For just a nanosecond, Estelle’s lip trembled and she blinked back a puddle of moisture in her eyes. But her tone stayed resolute. “Harry don’t understand right now, but he’ll thank me. No way I can saddle him and that precious grandson of his with what it’d take to live with Leroy.”
chapter 34
I was speechless. This couldn’t be right. Harry and Estelle were perfect for each other! Hadn’t God brought them together in the first place? Harry often said God had given him a second chance at love—not to mention another chance to be the kind of father he should’ve been to his son. And DaShawn was more excited than anybody that his grandpa was getting married to “Miss Estelle.” And why shouldn’t he be? The little boy was enjoying being a real kid with a real family for the first time in his life, instead of trying to hold life together for his drug-addled mama with his daddy in jail.
“You can close your mouth, Gabby.” Estelle dabbed at her eyes with a stray napkin. “I know everything you’re thinkin’, so you don’t need to say it. It’s just . . . sometimes a mother’s gotta do what a mother’s gotta do.” She started to rise—and then her glance went to the envelope I was holding. “What’s that? You wanted to tell me somethin’?”
I shook my head and stood up. “That’s okay. It can wait. You’ve got enough on your plate.”
“Now you siddown. What’s goin’ on?”
I gave her a half-hearted smile, relieved to see the “koffee-klatch duo” in the corner leaving for the main floor upstairs. Where to start? Breathe, Gabby. “Well, you know that ‘man thing’ Denny and Harry were doing Sunday afternoon? I think they had a man-to-man talk with Philip—at least that’s what Jodi said Denny planned to do, taking advantage of the fact that he’s staying at their house this week. That’s all I know, except yesterday Philip called and said he wanted to talk to me real bad, so we met over lunch—and he gave me this.” I handed her the envelope.
Estelle pulled out the letter. I watched her face as she read. Big frown between her eyes . . . replaced by a raised eyebrow . . . followed by several grunts and “Lord, Lord.” Finally she let out a low whistle and looked up. “Gabby girl, let me get this straight. Philip says he wants to talk with you, you get together for lunch, then he hands you a letter and wants you to read it while he’s sittin’ there, instead of tellin’ you this himself ? Did you two talk about this?” She waggled the paper in the air.
I squirmed. “Well, he said he had more he wanted to say after I read the letter, but I was so taken aback after reading it, I said I couldn’t respond right then. And I just left.”
Estelle’s eyebrow went up again. “Mm-hm. You got up and walked on out of there after he’d just spilled his guts all over that paper?”
I squirmed. “Well, yeah.” Then added hastily, “I know I need to respond, Estelle, but I don’t even know how I feel about what he’s saying. I need some time.” I looked at her anxiously. “What do you think it means? How should I respond?”
Estelle pursed her lips and was quiet for several moments. “Don’t know what it means down the road. That’s somethin’ you gotta figure out between you an’ God an’ your husband. But since you’re askin’—whatever those two ‘unlikely brothers’ said to him”—she chuckled at the thought—“I think God’s got your man by the ear and he might actually be listenin’. An’ somethin’ else.” She nailed me with one of her Looks. “If Philip handed God this letter with ‘I’m sorry’ all over it, what do you think God would say?”
My gaze fell and I studied my lap for a full minute. Oh yeah, I knew the “right” answer. But it wasn’t that easy and I wasn’t going to say it if I didn’t mean it. I finally raised my head and met her eye to eye. “Okay, sure, God would probably say, ‘I forgive you.’ But it’s not that easy—and trust is something else, Estelle. I’m not God.”
Estelle’s little self-righteous “test” made me mad. I knew she was right—in my head. But my feelings were so tied in knots, I wasn’t sure I knew how to untangle them. Mostly I didn’t know what forgiving Philip might mean—or even what he’d think I meant if I said, “I forgive you.” So I pushed the letter to the back of my mind and busied myself at work, making sure I talked to the new names on the bed list about the classes available to them—typing, cooking, sewing, English as a second language—and trying to assess how many could make use of GED preparation and money management, the next “life skills” classes I wanted to add to our roster of activities.
I still hadn’t had the courage to pick up the phone and call Philip by the time I headed home from work that evening with Paul and Dandy in the car. Please, God, I need some help here. I know Jesus told Peter we should forgive someone who wrongs us seventy times seven, or some horrendous number. But it’s not that simple! I mean, how can I trust Philip after what he’s done? If I forgive him, maybe he’ll assume I want to get back together, and— “Mom! Where’re you going? You just passed our street!”
“Oh! Sorry, kiddo. Wasn’t thinking.” I drove around the block, which meant parking on the opposite side of the street. Rolling his eyes at his absentminded mother, Paul took Dandy for a “dog duty” walk while it was still light, giving me a chance to say hi to P.J. and check the answering machine as I came into the apartment.
Nothing from Philip. Hm. Over twenty-four hours since he’d given me the letter and he still hadn’t called. Well, that was good. No way did I want him bugging me. I still needed some time to think and pray about this.
Someone knocked at the front door as I was preparing supper, and P.J. yelled, “Mom! It’s Josh! He wants to talk to you!”
“Tell him to come on back!” I needed to tell him about Maddox Campbell moving out of 3B. Another apartment to paint and renovate.
Moments later Josh Baxter sauntered into the kitchen, Gracie in his arms. The little girl held out her arms to me, nearly falling out of her daddy’s grip. I caught her just in time and swung her around as she squealed. “Hey, wanna trade?” I teased Josh. “My two boys for your sweetie-pie here. We can trade back when she turns thirteen.”
Gracie grabbed two fistfuls of my hair and pulled, squealing again. “Ouch! On second thought, we can trade back now.”
Laughing, Josh untangled the toddler’s fingers from my curly mop and sat down with her at the kitchen table. “Got any raisins? That’ll keep her busy. We can’t stay long anyway, just wanted to report on my talk with Will Nissan about his missing great-aunt.”
I’d almost forgotten I’d asked Josh to do some sleuthing for me. Plopping some raisins in a dish for Gracie, I sat down across from them. “So what’d you find out?”
“Will says he doesn’t know all that much about his grandmother’s sister. Her real name was Lucinda, but they called her Cindy. He couldn’t remember her exact birth date, just November something. Said he has it written down at home somewhere, used it when they were doing some Internet searches. But I did find out his grandmother’s name—Margaret Simple.”
November birthday? A tickle of excitement made me grin. Margaret? Lucy had said her sister’s name was Maggie. Could it be . . . ?“Wait. You said his grandmother’s last name is Simple? Maiden name or married name?”
Josh looked blank. “Uh, I don’t know. Didn’t think to ask.”
“Josh!” I threw up my hands. “What kind of sleuth are you? But it’s got to be her married name, right? I mean, Will’s her grandson, so she was probably married, and that generation of women always took the husband’s name.” I frowned. “What we need to know is her maiden name—”
“More!” screeched Gracie, banging the plastic bowl I’d given her, empty now.
Josh pried the bowl from her fingers and jiggled the toddler in his arms. “Guess I should get Gracie home—she hasn’t had supper yet.” He stood up from the table.
“Okay. Thanks for the
info, Josh.”
We walked together toward the front of the apartment, and I remembered at the last minute to tell him about the tenants in 3B moving out that weekend. “That means more work for you, I know. Repairs, redoing floors, that kind of thing.”
But as I opened the front door for him, I realized he was still stuck on our other conversation. “The name thing,” he said. “Does it matter? Maybe the missing sister got married and has a different name now, too, which is why they can’t find her.”
I scowled. Possibly, but if so, it was less likely that Lucy was the missing sister, since I’d never heard her say anything about a husband.
Josh jiggled the impatient Gracie. “Mind telling me what this is all about? Will wanted to know why I was asking, and since I didn’t know why you wanted to know, I just said Manna House sees a lot of people and maybe we could ask around. But it sounded kind of lame.”
I grinned at him. “Good answer, though.”
“Uh-huh.” He looked at me funny. “I think you know something.” Then he sniffed. “Uh, is something burning?”
“Oh no!” I tore down the hall and jerked the scorched pan of rice and beans off the stove. Now what was I going to do for supper?
Mabel Turner was in her office with a wad of tissues when I got to Manna House Wednesday morning with Dandy. “Glad to see you back, lady.” I leaned into her doorway, not wanting to get too close, but Dandy pulled on his leash, whining. “Just a sec.” I unsnapped the leash and let the dog into Shepherd’s Fold, even though I didn’t see Lucy anywhere in the big room. “Go on, find Lucy,” I urged the dog, then went back to Mabel’s office. “You feel up to coming to our household meeting tonight?”
Mabel blew her nose. “Maybe. Not promising, though. Everything okay with you?” Poor woman sounded all stuffed up.
“Um, we’re all healthy.”
“Uh-huh. And?”
I rolled my eyes. Mabel was too perceptive. “Oh, just more drama going on with Philip.” I stepped into her office, closed the door, and leaned against it. “Not sure you’re going to believe this.” I tried to bring her up to date on everything that had happened in the past few days—Philip moving out of the penthouse, staying with the Baxters while he looked for a cheaper apartment, his plan to pay off his debts and settle the lawsuits out of court by selling his half of his business to his partner.
Mabel’s eyes had widened. “Whoa. That’s major! Good news, right?”
I nodded. “No kidding. Never thought he’d ever agree to give up the business. But seems like he’s finally dealing with the whole mess. And, well, another thing.” I hadn’t really planned on telling her about Philip’s letter of apology, not yet anyway, but it just came blurting out.
“My goodness, Gabby! Are we talking about the same man? The guy who kicked you out of house and home and all that? What happened?!”
Funny, Mabel’s astonishment made me feel as if I’d stepped outside myself, listening to what I’d been saying through her ears—and it was amazing. What happened? Good question! But something Estelle said when I’d shown her the letter suddenly echoed in my head: “I think God’s got your man by the ear and he might actually be listenin’.”
chapter 35
Mabel did show up for the household meeting at House of Hope that evening, bringing Jermaine with her, much to Paul’s delight. The boys immediately began setting up Paul’s electronic keyboard to do some “jammin’.”
“Mom!” P.J. hissed at me as I gathered up my folders and notebook. “Why do they get to take over the living room on your meeting nights? I can’t study in my room when they’re making all that racket!”
I touched P.J.’s cheek gently with the back of my hand. “I’m sorry, hon. I know it doesn’t seem fair. But I don’t think they’ll bother you if you study in my bedroom in the back. This won’t happen often. Ms. Turner won’t be coming every Wednesday night, she’s just helping us get started. Okay?”
P.J. shrugged off my hand. “Well . . . okay.” But as he lumbered off down the hall dragging his book bag, he gave me a half smile, as if he’d just needed reassurance that I understood he was the one having to make a sacrifice.
The door to 1A was open across the hall as I came out my door, and somewhere inside I heard Sabrina raising a fuss about why she had to babysit Bam-Bam and Dessa as well as Sammy and Keisha on Wednesday nights. “Why can’t Shawanda get ’em to bed by eight o’clock like little Gracie? I got homework to do, too, you know!”
“Uh-huh,” I heard Precious snap back. “Girl, you been on the phone since you got home from school—and now you wanna do your homework?” Precious flounced into the hallway in a huff, but then stuck her head back into the apartment. “Besides! Sammy an’ Keisha are big enough to help amuse the little ones. You just keep an eye out an’ make sure they play together peaceful-like.”
Precious pulled the door shut behind her, muttering as we walked up to the third floor together. “Humph. Maybe that girl learnin’ a thing or two about gettin’ babies into bed at a decent hour. Makes me wanna scream when I see little kids outside at all hours of the night or gettin’ trundled about till one or two in the mornin’, just ’cause they stupid mom or dad wanna go party somewhere.”
As we walked into 3A everyone else affiliated with the House of Hope had already gathered in Edesa and Josh’s front room—Tanya, Shawanda, and Celia Jones, as well as Mabel Turner—snacking on yogurt-covered peanuts and helping themselves to the tray of hot tea Edesa had prepared. But since we were all there, I asked Edesa to start us off with a prayer and then we got down to business. “Mabel, why don’t you review our list of Rules and Expectations? Everyone’s read and agreed to them, but this would be the time if anyone has questions or additions we need to make.”
Mabel had barely got through the list when Shawanda waved her arm in the air. “How come we can’t have mens in the apartment after ten o’clock on weekends? You guys treatin’ us like little kids.”
“You signed these rules and expectations, Shawanda,” I reminded her.
“Well, yeah. But you said we could ask questions. I’m just askin’.”
Mabel explained the reasons: for general safety in a building with mostly women and children, courtesy to their apartment-mate. “And because we’re a Christian facility, Shawanda, and want to conduct the House of Hope in accordance with biblical principles. You’re all single women and we don’t want men coming and going at all hours of the night.”
My cheeks felt a little hot. Oh Lord. How close I’d come—more than once—to inviting Lee into the apartment “for coffee” after a date. I’d had my own reasons for not inviting him in—but I hadn’t even thought about needing to be an example for the other single women in the building.
Shawanda wasn’t finished. “Can we get us a kitty? Don’t say nothin’ in here ’bout pets. Dessa wanted ta keep that poor kitty she found under the back porch on Monday. Now it’s gone an’ she all heartbroken.”
I doubted the three-year-old even remembered Monday. But we opened the topic for discussion. The list of concerns got lengthy: residents with allergies; ability to pay for shots, food, and litter for cats; scooping poops for dogs; obnoxious barking; damage to furniture or floors from ill-behaved dogs or cats.
“Yeah,” Shawanda muttered, “but Miss Gabby here already got her a dog. Don’t know what we need to keep talkin’ ’bout.”
“Shawanda, taking in a feral cat is not the same thing as Dandy staying here. Besides, he’s temporary,” I reminded her tersely. “Lucy sprained her ankle, remember?”
Mabel finally tabled the discussion “to be continued,” suggesting we form a small committee of staff and residents. Humph, I thought. We also better get clear what rules are for residents and what rules are for staff. Personally, I thought a dog or two owned by staff might be good security for the building, but allowing pets willy-nilly could get out of hand.
I reported that the tenants in 3B might be moving out this weekend, adding to our House of Hope apa
rtments. But the apartment would also need renovation and repairs. We agreed to schedule another painting party on one of our household meeting nights soon. No, we didn’t know who’d be moving in yet.
Just before we closed the meeting—we were still trying to keep them to one hour—Edesa said she had a proposal. “Some of you know I’m part of a women’s prayer group we call Yada Yada, which meets every other Sunday evening. Estelle Williams is part of that group, too, and Jodi Baxter, Josh’s mom, and Avis Douglass, the wife of the Manna House board chairman. Well . . .” The black Honduran woman beamed her infectious smile around the circle. “I was thinking it would be so bueno to start another Yada Yada Prayer Group right here at the House of Hope—on the other Sunday nights.”
“You givin’ up the other one? Or gonna be part of both Ya Ya prayer groups?” Precious asked.
Edesa laughed. “Not Ya Ya . . . Yada Yada. It’s actually a Hebrew word that’s found in the Bible hundreds of times! It means ‘to know and be known intimately’—or something close to that. The way God knows us in Psalm 139. And yes, I’d like to be part of both groups. If God blesses this one as much as He has the original, well . . . none of us will be the same.”
Shawanda looked dubious. “Ya mean we’d hafta go? I ain’t all that religious, ya know.”
Edesa shook her head. “No. Entirely voluntary. For anyone who would like time to pray together with other sisters.” She eyed her husband. “Hombres not allowed.”
Josh threw up his hands. “No problemo. I’ve got my own men’s prayer group.”
“Sí, the Yada Yada Brothers.” Edesa laughed and gave her husband a hug.
Celia Jones spoke up for the first time during the entire meeting. “I’d like that very much. My kids are all grown, and there’s not much I can do about some of the poor choices they’ve made. Keisha’s mother, well, some would call my daughter a lost cause, which is why I have custody of my granddaughter right now. But I do know there’s one thing I can do—an’ that’s pray.”