by Donna Hill
“Hey, I didn’t want to ask, but I wouldn’t be your best friend, ride-or-die chick if I didn’t—”
Zoie cut her off. “Yes, I saw him.”
“And . . .”
An image of Jackson jumped in front of her and blocked out the waning light streaming in from the window. “It was hard.” She swallowed. “I didn’t think it would be after all this time, but . . .”
“You never really got over him, which is why you and Brian didn’t work out, even though I think Brian is perfect for you.”
“If you’d ever met Jackson, you’d say he was perfect, too.”
“Is that a wistful tone that I hear?”
“No. Just stating the obvious.”
“Well, I don’t need to meet him. You told me enough that I feel like I know him, and because I know him, I hate him for what he did to you.”
“Tell me how you really feel.” Unfortunately, Miranda only had part of the story—the part that Zoie had wanted to reveal.
“It’s true,” Miranda singsonged. “And what’s also true is that you will never be happy if you don’t get beyond Jackson Fuller.” She paused a beat. “Seems like you have a lot to do down there besides your Nana’s will, sis.”
“May-be,” she said in a distant voice. “Maybe.”
* * *
Zoie awoke the following morning to the smell of frying bacon and sausages. Her stomach howled in response and forced her out of bed. Living in New York, she’d adopted all the latest health-food crazes—green teas, salads, Greek yogurts, and fish as opposed to meat. She did yoga twice a week and soul-cycling on Saturdays.
However, the water in her mouth and the rumble in her belly said to hell with that healthy crap; give me some hot, greasy, salty pork! And if she knew her mother and Aunt Sage, there was a steaming pot of grits with cheese, homemade biscuits, and eggs light enough to float off the skillet.
Zoie padded off to the bathroom, did a quick wash and brush—enough to pass inspection at the breakfast table—then trotted downstairs and into the kitchen. Her mother was at the stove.
Rose glanced over her shoulder, looked Zoie up and down. “You’re not dressed for church.”
“Church?”
“Yes. It’s Sunday. It’s what we do here, or have you forgotten? I know they have plenty of churches in New York. Apparently, you don’t attend.”
Whatever desire she had, whatever she may have imagined sitting down to breakfast with her mother and aunts could be, dissolved.
Her heart actually hurt.
“You can fix yourself a plate, but you need to hurry. Takes us a little longer to get Hyacinth out of the house, and you know Sage hates to be late and have to sit in the back.” Rose wiped her hands on her apron. She lifted the pan with the eggs and spooned them onto the platter at the center of the table.
Rose glanced up from ladling the eggs. “Are you gonna just stand there or do something useful?”
Zoie swallowed over the lump in her throat. “What do you need, Mama?”
“You can get the pitcher of orange juice out of the refrigerator.”
Zoie did as she was instructed, biting down on her lip to keep from screaming.
“Thank you, baby.” Rose smiled at her daughter the way she used to when she was a small child, and Zoie nearly wept. “Go on and fix yourself some right quick. If you want, you can sneak it up to your room so you can eat and get dressed. Just don’t let Sage see you.” She rolled her eyes. “Go ’head.” She fanned her hands as if shooing a fly. “It’s our secret.”
Zoie took one of the plates that was stacked on the table and piled her plate high. “Thanks, Mama.”
Rose grinned, then went to the sink and began to wash the pots.
Zoie hurried up the stairs and prayed she wouldn’t run into her aunt. She managed to make it to her room unseen. She eased the door shut behind her but couldn’t shake the childhood dread that at any moment she would be found out and chastised. The very idea that her mother had orchestrated this major breach of household protocol was still settling in her head. They’d actually had a “moment”—she and her mother. The occasion was so rare that it left her hard-pressed to process how she actually felt. A part of her, the girl that needed her mom, bubbled with joy. But the cynical woman who was a victim of the unpredictability of her mother remained wary.
She rested her plate on the nightstand, then dug in while she mentally catalogued her meager wardrobe lineup. The only thing that came close to appropriate church attire was the black dress she’d worn to the funeral.
It was the best she could do because she knew her aunties and her mother would have one fit short of institutionalization if she wore slacks to church.
She crossed the room and took the dress out of the closet and gave it a good shake. She sniffed under the arms of the short sleeves. Good to go.
* * *
When Zoie returned to the kitchen, Sage threw a brief look in her direction as she continued to fasten Hyacinth’s pearls. “’Morning. Hope you ate something. Service takes a while.”
Hyacinth chuckled. “Bring lunch.” She laughed again. “Reverend loves to hear his own voice,” she said, sounding like her old self.
Zoie grinned. Oh, how she remembered the endless Sunday service, which was exhausting if you weren’t prepared. Between the incalculably long sermon, guest speakers, countless musical renditions by the choir, the required “catching of the spirit,” the praise dancers, the announcements, the calling to the altar, the collections for the building fund, the pastor’s fund, the roof fund (which should be included in the building fund), the sick and shut-in fund, the water fund, and the school fund—well, church could go on for the entire day. She grew dizzy thinking about it. Not to mention that around two hours into the service the aroma of fried chicken, collards, string beans, and triple mac and cheese would begin to waft into the sanctuary as the preacher preached on.
“I’m ready when you are,” Zoie said.
* * *
Back under the eaves of the First Baptist Church of Our Lord and Savior, she saw familiar faces that were the same, yet different, and smelled the scent of lemon wood polish on the pews, mixed with the sachet and talcum powder of the parishioners, as the hum of organ music played in the background while the membership filed into the sanctuary and took their assigned seats. She remembered well the hierarchy of seating in the church and the ushers who were charged with ensuring that no one breached protocol. Inwardly, she smiled. The sense of community and genuine caring enveloped her, and she realized with a jolt of nostalgia that she actually missed all this. At least a little bit.
As promised and expected, the morning service lasted a full three hours, and between the singing, praise dancers, testimonies, catching the spirit, and, of course, the sermon, there wasn’t a dull moment. Zoie was mildly surprised that three hours had passed so quickly.
Now she only had to get through one more night and the reading of the will in the morning, and she could return home—back to New York, where she belonged.
CHAPTER 4
“Mr. Phillips, Mama’s attorney, said he’d be here by eleven,” Rose said while she poured hot water into her mug. She daintily dipped her herbal teabag in and out until the water turned a rich reddish brown.
Zoie plucked an apple from the floral-patterned bowl on the counter. She recalled how her grandmother would fuss if the fruit bowl was ever empty and would send her daughters or Zoie running to round up fruit from the market and the backyard peach tree.
“It should be pretty quick, I would think,” Zoie said.
Rose’s brows arched. “Why would you say that? The quicker it is, the quicker you can leave?”
Zoie squeezed her eyes shut and slowly shook her head. “Why does everything I say have some other meaning? Why does every conversation between us have to be a war of words?”
Rose pushed out a slow breath and leveled Zoie with a steady gaze. “Maybe because you made it clear to me and your family that what you do is
more important than who you are. That family doesn’t come first and you are willing to sacrifice family for your own ambitions.”
Zoie blinked with incredulity at her mother’s reasoning. Her mouth opened, then closed. She pushed up from her seat. “I’m going upstairs. You can call me when Mr. Phillips arrives.”
It took all of her home training to stop from slamming her bedroom door. Fury seared through her veins. This was why she stayed away. The constant feeling of anger bordered on debilitating. It drained her, clouded her mind, and stole precious moments of her life.
Zoie flopped down on her bed and stared, unseeing, at the ceiling. What made her believe, even for a moment, that any sort of reconciliation between her and her family was possible? The hardest part was that she never understood why she always felt like an outcast, unloved, by the very people who should have held her tight to their breasts.
Had it always been this way? She tried to remember a time when things were good and happy.
A slow smile moved across her mouth.
It was spring. Early May. A Sunday, she knew, because she could see herself in a sunshine-yellow dress with white frills on the hem, black patent-leather shoes on her feet, and white anklet socks. Raucous laughter came from the parlor. Zoie saw herself skipping down the foyer and through the archway of the parlor.
Nana Claudia seemed to be in the middle of a story that had Zoie’s mom, aunts, and dad in stitches.
All eyes turned toward her, and she felt swaddled in a Technicolor blanket of love. Her mother and father held their arms out to her, and her aunts cooed and ahhed at her, while Nana looked upon her family with the self-satisfied smile of the matriarch she was.
Dad.
Zoie jerked back to the present. Her eyes were wet. She blinked against the memories. Hank Crawford had the gift of delight. He wore it like a tailor-made suit and never took it off.
Within his aura, her mother was a young, starry-eyed girl, full of laughter and with plenty of hugs and kisses to spare.
Her aunts bloomed like their names in his presence, and her grandmother glowed.
But to Zoie he was simply Daddy, the man who made her world go around, who carried her on his broad shoulders, read to her at night, and listened to her secrets.
Then he was gone, and with him the laughter and sunshine. No one ever told her why. All she knew was that the world had changed. Her family had changed.
The knock on her door jerked her upright. She wiped her eyes.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Phillips is here,” her mother said from the other side of the door.
Zoie cleared her throat. “Coming.” She swung her feet to the floor and by degrees pushed up from the bed and stood. Crossing the room, she stopped in front of the mirror that topped her dresser. She forced a smile, smoothed her hair, turned, and walked out.
* * *
The family was gathered around the dining room table. Mr. Phillips sat at the head, where her grandmother always sat. The image slowed, then stopped Zoie’s forward motion.
“Oh, Zoie, there you are.” Mr. Phillips stood until Zoie fully entered and took a seat next to her mother. “Well,” he said on a breath, then spread his fingers on the table, “let’s get started.”
He took a folder filled with documents from his briefcase, and placed them on the table. He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “Claudia has willed her jewelry and her savings, totaling ten thousand dollars, to be divided equally between her daughters, Rose, Sage, and Hyacinth. Her home, her garden, and her business is bequeathed to her only granddaughter, Zoie Crawford, with the caveat that she must live in and maintain the property and business for one full year to claim her inheritance. Should you break the terms of the will, the house, the garden, and the business will be sold and the proceeds distributed to the First Baptist Church of Our Lord and Savior.”
The eyes of the Bennett women turned on Zoie, who sat in wide-eyed shock. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“That’s it,” Mr. Phillips said, looking around at the astonished expressions. “Zoie, I have some papers for you to sign that temporarily turn things over to you.” He closed the folder with a definitive thunk.
Sage huffed, pushed back from her chair, glared at Zoie, then stormed out. Rose assisted Hyacinth from her seat, and without a word or a backward glance, they followed in Sage’s wake.
Zoie sat frozen, confused and hurt by her family’s reaction. But more, she was overwhelmed by what her grandmother had done. The implication of it all was still out of reach.
Mr. Phillips came around to where Zoie sat and placed the documents in front of her. He sat down.
“I know this may be difficult for your aunts and your mother, but your grandmother was very specific in her wishes. She wanted to be certain that you would be financially secure, always have a home, and she believed that you were the only one she could entrust with carrying on the business that she built. And more important,” he said, covering her fisted hand, “she wanted you to be the one to look after your aunts and your mother.”
“But . . . how can I? I . . . live in New York. I have a job, a life.” Her eyes filled.
Mr. Phillips pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to her. “Your grandmother placed a heavy load on you, but she also did it with a lot of faith.”
“What if I don’t sign? What if I turn everything over to my family?” she asked, suddenly frantic.
“If you decline, there is the caveat,” he intoned.
“That would mean my family would have to leave?”
Mr. Phillips nodded slowly. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”
“Oh, God,” she moaned and covered her face with her hands.
Mr. Phillips patted her shoulders and placed the pen in front of her.
Zoie looked at the pen as if it might bite. Tentatively, she picked it up. Mr. Phillips pointed to the place on the documents where she needed to sign.
“That’s it, then. The house, the garden, and the business are yours in the interim and will revert fully to you at the end of one year.” He gathered the documents and stood. “I’ll have copies made of everything and get you the originals tomorrow.”
Zoie looked up at him, her gaze imploring him for some words of wisdom. All he offered was a tight smile before walking out.
Zoie sat immobile and tried to process the unfolded events. How could she handle this? Worse yet, whatever fragment of a relationship that she had with her family was surely ripped to shreds. How could she face them? Why would her grandmother do this? Surely, she had to know how everyone would react. The questions, devoid of answers, swirled through her head.
“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Zoie turned to see her mother standing in the archway.
“Mama . . . I—”
Rose held up her hand. “Your grandmother loved you. That’s clear.” She stepped further into the room. “The truth is, your grandmother knew what she wanted. She believed that the best hands to lay her legacy in were yours.”
Zoie’s heart thumped. She swallowed over the tight knot in her throat.
Rose blew out a breath. “It doesn’t take the sting away, the slap in the face. We’ve been here day after day. Now you’ll have to stay and endure us, whether you want to or not. Ironic, huh?” She lifted her chin. “Up to you now, I suppose. We’ll have to see how all that turns out.” With that, she turned and walked out.
Zoie lowered her head and finally let the tears fall.
* * *
Zoie returned to her room, hurt, shaken, and overwhelmed by the events of the morning.
She couldn’t turn her life upside down and relocate to New Orleans. It wasn’t possible. With a major assignment to cover Kimberly Maitland-Graham, this was the worst time. She had a career, one that was leading her straight toward stardom in her field. She needed it, craved it, dreamed of it. Recognition. Acceptance. Accolades. They were all within her reach. Now this.
The Louisiana sun was high in the sky, the glare near-blinding in spots, but its rays were not strong enough to warm the deep cold in her bones.
She started down the street at a slow jog, barely taking in the stately homes, manicured lawns, porch sitters comfortable in their rockers and bench swings, dog walkers, and casual strollers. It was all a blur as she rounded the corner and headed instinctively toward the park.
Zoie approached the entrance when a car horn blared alongside her. She slowed, turned.
The dark-blue BWM pulled to a stop. The lightly tinted window descended.
“Zoie . . .”
She stopped. Her blood, already pumping hard from her jog, kicked up a notch.
Jackson got out. “You run when you have a lot on your mind.”
She hated that he still knew her so well. “If you know that much, then you should know I don’t like distractions. Defeats the purpose.”
He rounded the car and came to stand in front of her.
Her breathing escalated. She wanted to take a step back but could not seem to move.
Jackson, with the tip of his thumb, wiped a tear of perspiration that ran down from her hairline along her right ear.
The place where he touched her sizzled. The dampness of her skin suddenly heated.
“Want to talk?” he asked as soft as a prayer.
The gentleness of his voice, the sincerity in the brown pools of his eyes, and his tender touch combined to break open the floodgates.
Jackson immediately gathered her in his arms and held her tight against his chest.
The hurt, the loss, the guilt, the weight of her future poured out and onto his starched white shirt. She wasn’t even sure how, but she found herself cocooned inside the sanctuary of his car, weeping on his shoulder.