Home At Last

by Raney, Deborah;

  They reached the truck, and he dug the keys from his pocket and went around to open her door.

  But instead of climbing into the truck, she grasped his arm. “Link—one last thing.”

  He turned, a question in his expression.

  She inhaled a shallow breath. “When my mother married Daddy, her parents kicked her to the curb. Mama and Daddy hadn’t done one thing wrong—not like Jerry and Tara. But Mama’s parents cut all ties with their own daughter because of one thing—the color of my dad’s skin. They never even took the time to get to know him. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the day I was born, my grandfather officially disinherited my mother. Because of me.”

  “Oh, Shay . . .” His voice was a whisper.

  “You can guess the label he had for me. Of course, Mama never told me that herself, but I overheard her and Daddy talking one night. I could tell it about killed her. And I think my dad felt guilty that it was because of him that Mama lost her inheritance. Her parents had quite a bit of money.”

  “Shayla, that’s on them.” Link shook his head and leaned back against the side of the truck. “Surely you don’t think their bigotry, their hate, has anything to do with you? Or with your parents. Anybody with a heart can see how wrong they were.”

  She tried to think how to answer. Honestly. “I know in my mind they were wrong. That they missed out on so much when they rejected Mama. And me. And later Jerry. So”—she looked away—“why is it that I sometimes wish that my skin . . . That I looked like Mama?”

  “What’s wrong with a woman wanting to look like her mother? That’s probably every little girl in the world.” He paused as if her meaning had just penetrated. “If you mean you wish you weren’t black? Don’t let them do that to you, Shay. They’re not worth it.” He reached up and cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand. “You are so beautiful. How can you not see that when you look in the mirror? I . . . I wish you could see what I see.”

  It took everything in her not to melt into him. Let him comfort her. But she turned away. “But I’m no better than them. I know I judge as bad as they did. On something people can’t even help.”

  “None of us are sinless, Shayla. We have to just learn to control those thoughts. My dad used to say”—he paused—“he’d tell us to take every thought captive.”

  Shayla nodded. “It’s in the Bible. ‘Take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.’ ” A wry smile came. “Sunday school memory verse. But I guess I haven’t been very good at that.”

  “It’s hard. Thoughts are tricky things. But it must be possible, or God wouldn’t have told us to do it.”

  “Oh, Link. I’ve hated people I didn’t even know. Mama’s parents . . . I never even met them. Didn’t want to. But I’ve hated them.”

  “Are they still around?”

  She shrugged. “Last we knew, they were in St. Louis. But like I said, they wrote Mama off. As far as I know they didn’t even attend their own daughter’s funeral.”

  “How sad.”

  “Of course, I doubt Daddy wasted any time trying to contact them when she died. They never forgave her for marrying a black man and then embarrassing them with black grandbabies. Apparently they pretended Jerry and I didn’t exist.”

  “At least they got out of your life. They could have made it pretty miserable.”

  “Well, don’t think they didn’t. If my parents ever fought about anything it was what had happened with Mama’s parents. It broke her heart. Mama told me once—after she got sick—that my dad’s family wasn’t all that thrilled about their marriage either. But they came around. Grandma and Grandpa Michaels ended up being like parents to her. And it eased some of the pain of her own parents’ rejection.”

  “Are they still living? Your dad’s side?”

  She shook her head. “They died within a few months of each other when I was in middle school. We still lived in Cape back then, but I have a lot of happy memories of holidays spent at their house for Christmas and Easter. Sometimes Fourth of July. Maybe that’s why I’ve always felt more black than white.” She lifted her arm and inspected the back of her hand. “Well, that and the fact that my skin sort of didn’t give me any other options.”

  “You are so beautiful,” Link said again. “Just the way you are.” He didn’t try to touch her this time, but he spoke more emphatically, as if he knew it would take some convincing.

  “It’s not like I hate myself or anything, Link. I don’t. And until I was seven or eight—when I found out what Mama’s parents had done—I didn’t even think about race. But if I could click my heels and have Mama’s creamy white skin and her straight blonde hair, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

  She wasn’t about to tell him the truth—that loving him had only made that desire stronger. To look like his sisters. Fit into his family.

  Loving Link.

  Did she love him? Did she even know what love was?

  It didn’t matter. Even if she did truly love him—even if Daddy would give his blessing on them being together—she couldn’t ask Link to take on the burdens of her life.

  And she needed to tell him that before she lost her courage.

  15

  Link held the passenger door and waited for Shay to climb in. “I need to get you home. Your dad will be worried. Don’t want him thinking I’ve kidnapped you.” Even though he’d like to do just that.

  He climbed in behind the wheel and slipped the key into the ignition. Nearly nine o’clock. He switched on the truck’s headlamps and the beams illuminated the darkness before them, casting pale white light across the now-still pond.

  The last thing he wanted to do was face Shayla’s father. But he would. After everything Shayla had told him, he was hopeful the man did, indeed, have a good side, and he intended to get on it.

  “I went with you of my own free will, Link. Don’t let my father accuse you otherwise.” Her voice still bore the breathy quiver of tears, and it tugged at his heart. He wasn’t usually one to let a woman’s tears get to him. After all, he’d grown up with sisters.

  But Shay’s emotion seemed genuine, and she had every reason to feel trapped and disappointed with life. Even though it felt like a dangerous prospect, he had a strange feeling he could change things for her.

  But at what cost? Would he really help her if he ended up feeling just as trapped and alone as she was? Not to mention, he wasn’t exactly in a position to support a ready-made family.

  He turned the key and the engine sputtered—and died. “Oh, no.”

  “What’s wrong?” Shay leaned forward, sitting up straighter. Link thought he saw something stronger than mild concern in her expression.

  He tried again. Same results. Lord, please! I need this truck to start. He turned the key and held it engaged a few seconds longer this time, but that only created an awful, high-pitched grinding. He turned the ignition off and gave Shay what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. It’s done this before. I think I know what’s wrong.” Where was Ruiz when he needed him? Now if only he could remember what Izz had done to fix this junker of a truck the last time it conked out in the parking lot at work.

  He popped the hood release and opened the door. “Be right back.”

  He found the lever and opened the hood. The headlamps were nice and bright, but they didn’t shed any light under the hood. He aimed his phone’s flashlight on the engine and wiggled a few of the same wires he remembered his coworker fiddling with. He wasn’t a total whiz with cars, but his friend had taught him a few tricks. He checked the battery cables and didn’t see a problem with the connections, but he jiggled them anyway.

  Leaving the hood up, he climbed back in the cab and turned the key again. Same grinding noise.

  “Do you know what’s wrong?” Shayla watched him closely.

  “I’m not sure. But you’d probably better call your dad and tell him we’ll be a little late.”

  She gave him a look of disdain. “I don’t have a curfew, Link. Besides, I walk
ed out on him, remember?”

  “Yes, and why do I feel like I’m the one who’s going to be in trouble for it?”

  She gave a one-shouldered shrug that almost felt like she agreed.

  “Let me try something else. Hang on.” He got out again, racking his brain to think what it could be.

  “Try praying,” Shayla called through the open driver’s side door. “That’s what my dad does whenever the stupid delivery van breaks down. It usually works too.”

  “Believe me, I’ve been praying.” Mostly that her father wouldn’t ask for his head on a platter. He tinkered with some hoses and belts, and after a few minutes, he lowered the hood partway and looked through the windshield. “Could you try starting it for me?”

  Shayla leaned across to the steering column. Almost instantly the truck sputtered to life.

  Thank you, God! He slammed the hood, hopped back in the truck, and put the gearshift in reverse. “You must be a good pray-er.”

  She gave a wry grin. “Where two or more are gathered . . .”

  He fastened his seatbelt and checked the clock on the dashboard. After ten. “Buckle up. We need to get you home.”

  Wordless, she did as he asked.

  It was hard to make out the unmarked edges of the lane, but he managed to get back to the highway and head toward Langhorne. “So your dad is going to be a hard nut to crack. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “He’s a good man, Link. He really is. That whole mess with Mama’s family was bad enough, but when she died . . . He changed. And after Jerry and Tara, I think something just snapped in him. He hasn’t been the same since.”

  “I can’t blame him. That’s a lot to bear. For you too.”

  She didn’t reply, and he drove for a while in silence, his thoughts a swirl of conflict and horror at all Shayla had revealed about her family. His family had grown stronger and closer after his brother’s death. But it was different losing Tim as a hero. The Whitmans had been surrounded by comforting words and accolades, as if they’d done something honorable simply by being Tim’s family.

  But if they’d buried him in shame or sent him away to prison. If they’d had sorrow after sorrow on top of what happened to Tim, would Link have been able to say the same thing about how his family had weathered their grief? He doubted it. It gave him a new perspective on Shayla’s father, and he knew he would’ve spoken differently to him if they’d had this conversation before.

  “Hey?” He patted Shayla’s knee.

  She looked up at him with doleful eyes. “What?”

  “I’d like to talk to your father in private, okay?”

  “Without me, you mean?” She looked nervous. “What are you going to say to him?”

  “I just want a chance to plead my case.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she tipped her head. “Your case?”

  “If your dad has a problem with you going out with me, I want to talk to him about why. I want his blessing before I see you again.”

  “Then you might as well drop me off in the street because you’re not going to get it.”

  “Just let me try, okay? You don’t know my persuasive powers.” He gave her his best puppy dog eyes. And wished he believed his own bravado.

  But Shayla wouldn’t be teased out of her mood, so they rode in silence until they reached the bakery. Still, she didn’t argue when he got out of the truck and walked in with her, his nerves growing tauter with every step.

  A dim lamp in the back of the bakery did little to dispel the shadows.

  “Daddy?” Shayla called.

  Link followed her through the dining room. Rustling came from the seating area at the far end of the store. An overhead light came on and Mr. Michaels appeared.

  He barely acknowledged Link’s presence before turning to Shayla and hooking a thumb toward the stairway that led to the living quarters. “I told Portia you’d tuck her in.”

  Shayla touched Link’s arm. “Don’t leave before I talk to you.” She swept past him and hurried up the stairs.

  Link shuffled his feet on the tile floor. “I apologize we’re so late, sir. My pickup wouldn’t start. I’m sure that probably sounds like a version of ‘the dog ate my homework,’ but I swear, it’s true.”

  Michaels leveled his gaze. “You ever hear of a phone?”

  “I did ask her—Shayla—to call, but . . .” He hadn’t meant to throw her under the bus, but her father had a way of making a guy quake in his boots.

  Now Michaels waved a hand, dismissing Link.

  It was now or never. “Sir . . . I’d like to speak with you for a few minutes. Please, sir.”

  Shayla’s father cocked his head. “I’m listening.”

  “Um, could we go sit down somewhere? Please?” It came out sounding far braver than Link felt.

  Michaels motioned for Link to follow him to a round table in the corner. He pulled out a chair and sat. Link followed suit.

  “Mr. Michaels, Shayla tells me you don’t want her dating me. And I’d like to plead my case. If you’ll let me.”

  No response.

  “Sir, I’m not sure exactly what your objections against me are. But I assure you I have the utmost respect for your daughter. I think the world of her, and I think the feeling is mutual, and I’d like to have your blessing to court her.” He wasn’t sure where that word had even come from. Court her? But it did seem like maybe Shayla’s father was the kind of man who would appreciate that old-fashioned term.

  “You think the feeling is mutual, huh?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “And I assume Shay’s told you about her situation?”

  “Portia, you mean?” He wished he hadn’t spoken so quickly. Maybe that wasn’t what her father was referring to at all.

  “Oh, yes, there’s Portia. But that’s only the half of it. What I mean is, do you know what it means to tie yourself to a black family.”

  “Sir?”

  “I bet Shayla hasn’t told you about all the birthday parties she didn’t get an invite for when she was in middle school. You ready to explain that to your children someday? For your little girls to come home cryin’ to you with their hearts broke because the boy they like doesn’t date black girls? If the feeling is so mutual as you say.” His voice dripped sarcasm.

  Link cleared his throat. “I realize that—” That was all he could get out—not that Mike Michaels would have let him speak anyway.

  “I don’t suppose Shay mentioned how her brother got cut out of his group of friends at school? So he fell in with the only bunch left to him. And of course they’re just what you’d expect. Gang bangers and”—he gave a sharp laugh—“what you’d probably call thugs. That what you want for your kids someday? ’Cause that’s what you got ahead of you if this turns into anything. If this is so mutual as you say.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Michaels. I’m truly sorry those things happened to you. And to Shayla. To Jerry. To your family. I know the world isn’t perfect. And I don’t deny there are still prejudices here. But I truly think things are better now. That it would be a little easier for our kids—I mean, if we ever had any kids. After we got married, I mean. If we ever got married . . .” He was digging a hole so deep he’d never get out.

  Mike Michaels gave a humorless laugh. “You think so, huh? You think all that”—he stretched out the words—“everything I just told you, happened way back in the olden days? Then I don’t guess Shay told you about the bottle that come sailing through our front window here just the other day. Your parents ever had a bottle come smashing through a window out there at their fancy bed and breakfast?”

  At first Link thought he surely must be attempting a joke. But despite his condescending tone, nothing in his demeanor hinted at a joke. So Link sat there with his jaw slack wondering what he’d done to deserve the vitriol Michaels was dishing out.

  “Yeah,” the man said shortly. “I didn’t think so.”

  “A bottle? You mean somebody threw a bottle through your window here? At
the bakery?” Shayla hadn’t said a word about it. He wondered if she even knew.

  “Cost me over a thousand dollars to get it fixed, and of course I have a fifteen-hundred dollar deductible on my insurance. That’s a lot of doughnuts and coffee I gotta sell.” He leveled a hard gaze at Link. “So you never had something like that happen to you, huh?”

  Link looked away briefly. “No sir. I haven’t.”

  “This ain’t the olden days, son. This happened last week.”

  “Are you saying it happened because of your race? Because you’re black.”

  “Well, now, the character that threw that bottle didn’t leave a message rolled up inside explainin’ himself, but judging from the looks of him, I think you and me would draw the same conclusions.”

  Link wasn’t sure what, exactly, he was implying. But he could guess. Although, given some of the conversations he and Shayla had had, he was tempted to call Michaels on judging a person by his looks. “I’m sorry it happened, sir. And no, I didn’t know about it. Did they catch the guy that did it?”

  “Like I said, it was a drive-by. He didn’t leave his name and address, and he probably looked like a hundred other pierced and Mohawked white kids around here.”

  “Mohawked?” His heart lurched. “Did he . . . Was his hair dyed yellow?”

  Michaels eyed him. “You know the guy?”

  “No, but Shayla and I had a run-in with a guy with a yellow Mohawk at the movies a few weeks ago. A big guy? Pasty white complexion?” Why hadn’t Shayla said anything? “Was Shayla here when it happened? The broken window?”

  “She was here, but she never told me anything about a run-in. What do you mean by that? Does Shay know this guy?”

  “No. He was just some jerk in line at the movies. He made some smart remark about Portia. He must have thought she was ours . . . together. Shayla just ignored it, but he wouldn’t let it go, so I finally told him—more or less—to shove it.” Maybe that would gain him some points with Shayla’s dad.

  But Michaels shook his head and clenched his jaw. “That there? What you just told me is exactly why I have reservations.”