His scrutiny this time seemed to take on a greater intensity. She wondered what she'd said or done to trigger it. Just when she'd decided to ask him, his inspection ceased. He finished his second hot dog and tossed the wrapper into a can about five feet from them. Then he opened the file he had brought with him and handed her a red folder and a yellow folder. "I've been thinking of two different projects. Right now, the key concerns facing us are unemployment and teen pregnancy."
"Teen pregnancy?" CeCe took the folders as her antennae of suspicion immediately shot up. She wondered what, if anything, Nate Richardson knew about her past. Had this teen pregnancy idea just come out of the air, or was it chosen because of her unique qualifications?
"That's right, teen pregnancy. People rarely think of it in the context of the family. There's usually this picture of the pregnant teenager, all alone, but most times that teenager is a member of a family unit, and that entire unit is affected by the pregnancy."
He was right, of course, and she had the scars to prove it. "What would you want to do about it?"
"I'm not sure of the details," he said, stretching his long legs out in front of him and resting his folded arms across his stomach. "All my ideas are in the red folder. I was thinking we could start with small group sessions for the teens and their parents and see where it went from there. What do you think?"
"I'm not sure," CeCe said. What she thought was that the teen pregnancy issue hit too close to home. "What's the other idea about unemployment?"
"That's much easier. Check out the yellow folder. I was thinking we could help the unemployed and the underemployed seek new or better positions. You know, give them pointers on presenting themselves professionally in an interview, conducting an effective job search, updating their basic skills—those kinds of things. Some small group sessions where family members discuss how their job situation affects them might be a good idea, too. As you can see, I have ideas, but again, no solid plans. Do you think you can work within parameters that general?"
CeCe answered with a slow nod of her head. "I think I work best that way. I kind of understand what you're looking for, but there's still room for me to be creative in how it's accomplished. Or at least that's the way I'm reading you."
"You're reading me right."
"The people we're planning these projects for—who are they, and do they know what we're planning?"
He finished his soda and flattened the can with his hands. "They're everybody. Some people come in off the street; others are directed to us from Social Services. We've adopted the Robinwood area, so everything we offer is targeted specifically to them."
CeCe thought the continued focus on the inner-city Robin-wood neighborhood was a wise and commendable choice. It showed Genesis House's long-term commitment to the neighborhood and its people. She felt a bit guilty that her personal knowledge of the area was limited to an occasional drive-through en route to some destination in southeast Atlanta. "Does that mean I get to talk to the residents as I build the programs to make sure I incorporate what they need?"
"That's exactly what it means. You'll spend some time in the office, but your real work will be in the community. This job takes a lot out of you, but you get a lot back. I can promise you that."
CeCe believed him. She could hear the satisfaction in his voice. "So how long have you been with Genesis House?" she asked, wanting to know more about the man and what made him tick. She told herself she only wanted the information because it would help her to work with him more effectively.
"I started as a volunteer four years ago."
"A community service volunteer or a regular one?"
He laughed, and the gleam in his eyes told her that he appreciated her wit. "A regular one. The founders, Shay and Marvin Taylor, are friends of mine. You met Shay on Saturday."
"Now I'm embarrassed," CeCe said. "I thought Shay was the receptionist. She didn't say anything about being the founder."
"No need to be embarrassed," he said. The light in his eyes seemed to dim, and she wondered what had caused it. "She and Marvin haven't been around much since I took over the directorship about eighteen months ago. Shay has recently started coming in to help around the office. I hope we'll be seeing more and more of them."
CeCe knew there was a lot that Nate wasn't telling her, but she didn't feel it was her place to inquire further. She, perhaps more than most people, understood a person's right to privacy.
"So which assignment appeals to you most—teen pregnancy or unemployment?" he asked, turning her attention back to the work.
CeCe looked at the two folders. "I'd say unemployment." There was no way she was ready to lead any workshop or any discussion on teen pregnancy.
He extended his hand to her again. "Welcome to Genesis House, CeCe Williams. We're glad to have you."
As CeCe took his hand, she searched his face for some clue as to what he knew about her past and what conclusions he'd drawn about her based on that knowledge. All she saw were his bright eyes and kind smile, and maybe a tinge of the pain from a few moments ago. Having no other choice, she did what she'd done since first meeting him—she returned his smile. "Believe it or not, I'm looking forward to the experience, Nate Richardson. Maybe a hundred and fifty hours of community service won't be as bad as I had expected." As she made the statement, the thought that she should protect her heart from this man pressed against the forefront of her mind.
Chapter 2
"Stop it, CeCe," she told herself as she turned her car into the Apple Lakes subdivision in the South DeKalb suburb where she lived. The community was so named because of the copse of apple trees the developers had planted near the entrance, not because of any lakes on the property. CeCe had been thinking about Nate Richardson and Genesis House all afternoon. She was amazed that she'd been able to get any work done, which was definitely a new experience for her. At twenty-six, she was too old and too experienced to go crazy over some guy, even a nice guy. She'd had enough of men, of that she was sure. Besides, she'd been through nice guys before. And always with bad results.
She sighed as she pulled into the paved driveway of the rambling two-story colonial that she shared with her son, David, and Miss Brinson, her dorm director from college. David was the only man in her life now, and she was sure of him. She smiled as she thought about her son and wondered where he was. Unless it was raining or he was away, he always ran to the car to meet her.
CeCe got out of the car and walked around to the back of the house. She liked coming in by way of the deck and through the den. The smell of Miss Brinson's cooking usually greeted her, and she felt good about coming home to her family. For that's what David and Miss Brinson had become. They were her family—the people she could count on. Miss Gertrude "B.B." Brinson had been her advocate since the first day they'd met in Laura Spelman Hall during her freshman year at Spelman College. The older woman had quietly and quickly let all the girls know that she was a believer. And she'd always had an ear to listen and a heart to pray. CeCe couldn't count the number of times she'd come to Miss Brinson with some seemingly insurmountable problem, only to have her pray it into right perspective. Unfortunately, she also remembered a time when she'd shunned Miss Brinson's counsel, along with the counsel of others who'd only had her best interests at heart.
Miss Brinson hadn't held her willfulness against her, though. Rather, the woman had embraced her with open arms when CeCe had told her she was pregnant. She'd gone on to tell CeCe that she was retiring early from Spelman and had suggested that the two of them move in together. CeCe hadn't been able to find the words to express how much the offer meant to her then, and she still wasn't able to now.
Though the two of them had started out looking for a rental to share, when they'd heard about the house in Apple Lakes, they'd known it was perfect for them and the baby CeCe was going to have. Between the two of them, they had been able to come up with the down payment, and in short order, they were homeowners. The house-hunting experience had triggered Ce
Ce's interest in becoming a real estate agent. After David was born and she'd gotten her job in Buckhead, she started to look into real estate as a part-time venture. When she learned that she could take the courses required for licensing online without leaving home, she decided to go for it.
"There you are," Miss Brinson said with a smile as she pushed open the screen door so CeCe could enter the house. "I thought I heard you pull in." As always, the older woman was dressed in the height of fashion. Today she wore a multicolored peasant blouse and skirt ensemble, set off with a Native American necklace and matching earrings. The total effect, including her graying, closely cropped Afro, made her look much younger than her sixty-five years.
CeCe smiled. "You didn't hear me. You must have seen me."
"Don't be smart, missy. My ears are as good now as they were when I heard you girls trying to sneak in after curfew."
CeCe followed Miss Brinson to the stove. "Well, I wasn't one of those girls," she said, lifting the cover off one of the pots. "Where's David?"
"He went with Timmy and his grandfather to the mall. Timmy needed new sneakers, and he wanted David to go with him. They should be back in a little bit."
CeCe nodded as she dipped the serving spoon into the pot of chili. Nobody made chili like Miss Brinson. Spicy and delicious. She knew chili meant that Mr. Towers, Timmy's grandfather, was staying for dinner. She liked Richard Towers and considered him a good friend. Not all grandfathers would be generous enough to share the time they spent with their grandchildren. But then Mr. Towers wasn't like all grandfathers. They had met him about three years ago when he'd helped his son move in next door. To welcome the newcomers, Miss Brinson had cooked one of her famous sweet potato pies, and the three of them had trooped over to their new neighbor's house with the welcome gift. That night she and Miss Brinson made a new friend, and eighteen-month-old David found a surrogate grandfather. Last year Mr. Towers's son had moved to Alpharetta, a suburb about thirty minutes away, but Mr. Towers still found the time to visit the "old neighborhood" whenever he made the trip down from his Virginia home, which he did at least four or five times a year. And he always made a point of including David in at least one, most times more, of his outings with Timmy.
Miss Brinson slapped the back of CeCe's hand with another wooden serving spoon. "Get out of my pot, young lady," she said in her strictest dorm director voice.
"One taste," CeCe pleaded, "just one."
Miss Brinson frowned, but there was no starch in it. CeCe giggled. "You always were a pushover."
Miss Brinson playfully pushed the younger woman aside.
"And you always were a smart aleck. Now get out of my way." She inclined her head toward the counter. "Why don't you do something useful like read your mail?"
CeCe brushed a soft kiss on Miss Brinson's forehead and then gave her a private's salute. "Yes, ma'am," she said, marching over to the counter. "Nothing but bills," she muttered to herself as she went through the short stack of mail. "I've got to get this real estate business in hand if I'm ever going to get out of debt, or we're never going to be able to start a day-care center."
"We've already started one," Miss Brinson said.
CeCe looked over at the older woman. Miss Brinson currently kept five children, including David, in their home each day. The parents were from their church, and Miss Brinson was doing it more as a friendly favor than as a business proposition. "You know what I mean. We're no closer to forming a business this year than we were last year."
"Stop worrying, CeCe. All in the Lord's timing. All in the Lord's timing."
CeCe took comfort in those words, as always. They were Miss Brinson's favorite words. Over the years, CeCe had learned personally just how true they were. She knew she'd come a long way since David's birth, and she knew she had no one to thank for that but the Lord. There were times when she had doubted she'd make it, times when she'd wanted to give up, but she hadn't. The Lord had been there for her, had brought her through. She'd attended church all her life, but it wasn't until after David's birth that she came to know the living Christ and to bask in his loving care. When people—all but Miss Brinson—had let her down, the Lord had remained true. He'd been there in her darkest moments. He knew every awful thing she'd done, and he loved her still. Not just loved her, but blessed her as well.
"Thank you, Lord," she whispered softly. "Thank you so much." She blinked quickly to stop the tears that always came to her eyes when she thought about the past, the terrible mistakes she'd made, and how much she'd endured and survived. "Forgetting the past," she recited from the book of Philippians, "and looking forward to what lies ahead." The truth of those words had kept her going then, and they'd keep her going now. She took a deep breath and turned her attention back to the mail. Bill. Bill. Bill. Junk mail. Junk mail. Junk mail. Bill. Junk mail.
She paused as she picked up the next envelope. Not a bill, but definitely junk mail. Without opening it, she tore the envelope in half and tossed it in the wastebasket at the end of the counter. Nothing but junk mail.
She stared at the torn envelope in the wastebasket until the tug of Miss Brinson's eyes made her give the older woman her attention. She didn't want to look at her friend because she knew what she would see. Disappointment. She sighed and forced herself to meet Miss Brinson's gaze.
The older woman didn't open her mouth; she didn't have to. CeCe heard her as if she'd been screaming. "You have to forgive them, CeCe," Miss Brinson had told her a hundred times, if she'd told her once.
"I have forgiven them. I'm just not ready to talk to them yet," she feebly protested her friend's unspoken reprimand. The words sounded hollow even to her own ears.
"I know, but sometimes we have to get ready even when we don't want to," Miss Brinson said. "Think about David, CeCe."
"I am thinking about David," she said, her eyes closed to stop her tears. "Who else am I thinking about? How will I explain to David that he has grandparents but that he doesn't have a father? I won't have my son in an environment with a man who doesn't want him. I won't do it, B.B. I can't do it. Not yet. Maybe when he's older."
The tears CeCe had fought finally fell from her eyes. She'd come so far, but every time she got one of those letters, she felt as though the clock turned back five years. The pain was as real as it had been then. All she'd done—and all she'd suffered because of what she'd done—weighed on her like a pile of cement pressed against her chest.
Miss Brinson came over to her and took her in her arms. "CeCe, I love you and the Lord loves you. If you give him this burden, he'll take it. He wants to take it, but you have to give it over."
"I'm trying," CeCe said between her tears. "But I can't see them. I can't. I'm just not ready yet. It still hurts too much."
Miss Brinson patted CeCe on her back. "I know it hurts, sweetheart, and it's going to keep hurting until you do something about it." She continued to hold CeCe until her tears subsided. Then she stepped back and wiped at CeCe's tears with her fingers. "I love you, CeCe; you know that, don't you?" After CeCe nodded, Miss Brinson turned her toward the downstairs powder room. "Now go wash your face before your son gets home and you scare him half to death."
CeCe gave a weak smile and moved to do as Miss Brinson directed. When she reached the entrance to the hallway, she turned and said, "I love you, too, B.B."
* * *
"And then Timmy—"
"Don't talk with your mouth full, David," CeCe said to her four-year-old son. They were having dinner with Mr. Towers in the dining room. When it was just the three of them, they normally ate in the breakfast area directly off the kitchen. The dining room gave them the extra space they needed when they had a guest. "We're not going anywhere. You have plenty of time to tell your story."
"But, Mama—"
"No buts. Eat."
"All right," he said, lowering his eyes to his plate. CeCe had to fight a grin when he lifted a brow to see if his meek act was working with her. Biting back the smile that always came to her face when
she thought about how precious her son was, she turned her attention to Mr. Towers. "How did you put up with the two of them today?"
The older man grinned, and his eyes twinkled in his wrinkled face. Mr. Towers looked every year of his sixty-seven years—receding hairline and all—but he was still an attractive man. "We had fun, didn't we, Davy boy?"
David opened his mouth to speak, then looked at his mother. He chewed quickly, swallowed, and then said, "We sure did, Mama. You should have been there." Now that his mouth was empty, David could tell the entire story, and he did. In detail.
When he wound down, CeCe looked at the half-eaten food on his plate and asked, "Are you finished?" David nodded. "Well, you're excused. Why don't you go get ready for bed? You've had a long day."
CeCe could tell he wanted to protest, but he must have been more tired than she guessed, because he mumbled, "Excuse me," and left the table.
"You've done a good job with him, CeCe." At Mr. Towers's words, CeCe turned to him. He nodded. "David's a good boy."
"Well, I should be thanking you for some of that, shouldn't I? You're good for him. Thank you for making time for him when you visit."
Miss Brinson stood and looked from one of them to the other. "If you two are going to start a mutual admiration society, I guess I'll clear the table."
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