Like Sweet Potato Pie

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  “Good at it? Like you gotta practice your pitchin’ arm first?” She chuckled.

  I laughed, too, but it fizzled quickly like the lacey snowflakes on my coat. “Why would Satan care about ruining my life, Beulah? I’m not important. I’m not a missionary or a preacher. Do you really think he cares about messing up my crummy situation even more?” I scuffed snow off my shoe into the curb. “I mean, isn’t that what my life has always been? One mess after another?”

  But Beulah leaned her face close to mine, unafraid. “ ‘Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith!’ ” She poked me. “That’s 1 Peter 5:8 and 9. You need to put His words in your soul. Read them! Memorize them! Hold them up like a shield when Satan whispers in your ear!”

  She took something out of her pocket and handed it to me. “Here.”

  I looked down in surprise at the little Gideon New Testament, nearly identical to the one I usually packed in my purse.

  “Ya got one, don’t ya?”

  “Sure I do. I just … didn’t bring it today.” I wiped my nose with a tissue from my pocket.

  “I know. God sorta reminded me that ya might need this one.” She took my arm.

  “He what?”

  Beulah shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not important either. But I pray, and I listen. And I hear His voice. Ya see, ya don’t have to be a missionary or a preacher to come under attack. Satan hates us because we love the Lord Jesus and can’t wait to destroy our lives and faith. But don’t fear—just keep your eyes on Jesus and let His powerful words take root in your soul!” She caught my eye. “Don’t be fooled, child! We’re always at war!”

  I looked over at her in surprise. “Why did you come today, Beulah? How did you know …?” I let my words trail off.

  “Forget about me. I’m just the Lord’s servant. And I feel that He wants me to tell ya to wait on Him. Wait on the Lord, Shiloh, and He will deliver you! I promise ya that.”

  My throat suddenly choked.

  “Ain’t one of His good promises ever failed, baby. Trust Him! He’ll show ya the way. Here. Pray with me.” And she took my other hand and prayed for me right there on the corner of the sidewalk while I shivered, sniffling back tears. Feet freezing in those flimsy Mary Janes.

  “That young man a believer in Jesus?”

  “Of course he is!” I hugged myself in the cold. “You know him from …” I smacked my forehead with a gloved fist. “Oh. You meant Carlos. Um … no. I don’t think so.”

  “Why, who did ya think I meant?”

  “Nobody. At least nobody I could be with.”

  “Why not, baby? There’s always a way.”

  “Not for us. Everything’s all wrong.” I stuck my hands in my pockets. “And he doesn’t even … forget it. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

  “God can change things in a New York minute, Shiloh.”

  “Exactly. I wish He would and park me right in West Village with a good-paying reporting job. This isn’t my kind of town, or my kind of life. Jesus should know that.”

  “Jesus knew ya before ya drew your first breath.” Her words came out soft, like snow that barely grazed my cheek. She put her arm around me. “Well, why are ya considerin’ some other fella if he ain’t following the Lord?”

  “Maybe he will.” I looked down uneasily. “Maybe it’s God’s plan for me to tell him what I’ve found, and we’ll … I don’t know.” I broke off, looking at my watch. “But I’ve got to clock in, Beulah.”

  “Okay, sugar. But that ain’t exactly the way it’s supposed to work. When ya look for a man, honey, he oughtta be saved and walkin’ with the Lord Jesus. Not perfect, mind you. But saved.”

  “Does it count if he’s really handsome? And rich?”

  Beulah laughed and slapped my back. “You’re a funny one, Shiloh Jacobs. Ya ever thought a doin’ stand-up comedy?”

  “It depends. Would it help pay my bills?”

  Beulah harrumphed. “How many bills ya got?”

  I hesitated, gazing gloomily up into gray puffs of cloud. “Never mind. I’d better stick with waiting tables.”

  Chapter 19

  No.” I drew my chin up to face Carlos, crossing my arms tightly against a gust of freezing wind. “The answer’s no.”

  He drew back, those too-thick lashes blinking in confusion. “What do you mean no, amor? To stay at your house? I thought we decided to talk about this.” He put his hands on his hips, irritation flashing across his sun-browned face. The cold breeze carrying a hint of his aftershave, like stumbling upon a long-forgotten memory of our hands entwined, his breath stirring my hair against my cheek.

  I quickly turned my head and purposefully inhaled the smell of icy asphalt, trying to clear my lungs. It hurt, pulsing like the still-healing gash on my finger.

  “That, too. But I mean you. I’m sorry, but I can’t be … well, anything with you. Ever. We’re done.”

  Bare branches from a nearby tree scraped against the wall by the lobby as we stood outside the double doors, headlights of passing cars reflecting in glossy smears across the glass.

  It had taken me awhile to decide, but somewhere over the clatter of dishes and squeak of shoes on the kitchen floor, Beulah’s words and verses solidified something in my head. Something that just wouldn’t budge, like the scar across Adam’s knuckles even after years had passed.

  Carlos opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Then he shook his head, eyes burning. “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You’re breaking up with me?”

  “Technically, no. We’re not together. We were just … discussing. And I’m saying no.” The last words stung, but I got them out. I covered my ears with my hands as the wind blew, wishing I could just as easily block out the aching fierceness of Carlos’s voice.

  “I come across the entire world for you, and you say no? Before I’ve even asked you anything?” Carlos’s voice rose in a blaze of Latin temper, and I stepped back.

  “What are you saying? You tried to give me my ring back. You told me …” I couldn’t bring my cold lips to form the word love.

  “I never said I wanted you back.”

  “Excuse me?” The words hit me with an unexpectedly blunt blow, and I drew in a sharp breath.

  “I gave you the ring because I have a big heart. Not because I want some kind of commitment. You’re—you’re all wrong for me. You and your religion. I like the old Shiloh better.” He turned away, facing the snow-dusted, leafless woods and long, lonely train tracks behind the hotel. “At least back then you were fun.”

  I flinched again, forcing my chin up. “At least back then I thought you loved me.” I pressed my lips together to keep them from quivering. “I know better now.”

  Carlos opened his mouth to retort, but his cell phone rang inside his pocket. I watched in disbelief as he put it to his ear, gesturing me to wait by lifting a finger. “Hold on a second.” His voice scratched me like a rough branch—harsh and prickly. “This is important. Just five minutes.” And he rambled over somebody’s stock balance in great detail, turning away from me. His breath misting up into the bitter night sky.

  I stood there for a few minutes, shivering, then stalked off to my car, which glinted under the apricot-colored parking lot lights. I’d just put the keys into the ignition when I heard the low vibrating of my cell phone, indicating old messages from sometime during the day.

  I took off my gloves again and pressed the button. And saw, to my surprise, Carlos’s number.

  “Carlos here. Listen, do you still have that newspaper I gave you? I just remembered something. Would you mind dropping it off during your break? It’s important. I just need to … uh … check something.”

  I pressed it again, brow wrinkling. “Carlos here again. What’s your work address? I’ll just get the newspaper from your car myself so I don’t bother you.”

  I flipped my phone closed and tapped it to my chin, feeling something creepy in the pit of my st
omach like I did when Ashley called me. Wanting something. But what on earth could Carlos possibly want from me?

  The Yomiuri Shimbun still lay in the passenger’s seat, now stuffed under my duffel bag, Beulah’s cookies, and the little Bible she’d given me. I pulled the newspaper out, inhaling the sharp, musty scent of newsprint, and opened it. Wondering why Carlos was making a fuss over a week-old Japanese newspaper that, by his own admission, he could barely read.

  I held it up to the dim artificial light, curious, and then switched on the interior light for a closer look at the rows of intricate black kanji characters. Crinkling my way through the pages until a shaft of yellow landed on a square outlined in pen. Noted with little translations in the margin, in Carlos’s bumpy ink handwriting: Boston. Alexandria. Fairfax. New York. Washington, DC. Topped with the printed words Northeast Fashion Month and listing some Japanese designers and locations for shows. A couple of (mostly female) names and initials penciled in by the various cities.

  Including mine. With a tiny note: Maybe too far. I leaned closer, trying to understand. But + g.c. = perfect.

  “Northeast Fashion Week?” I said out loud, eyes jumping from the newspaper to Carlos’s distant figure, partially illuminated in the glow of the bright windows. “What’s the big deal about that? And who’s G. C.?”

  I started to fold up the newspaper in disgust, its beautiful, kanjilined pages retreating into an insipid black-and-white rectangle.

  The dates. I halted, something ominous twisting at my stomach as a little square of paper fell out of the pages, notes and numbers scribbled in Carlos’s block handwriting.

  Certainly not. Not Carlos. Not …

  All at once it hit me.

  I grabbed the newspaper and reached for my purse, slamming the car door behind me as I stalked toward the hotel lobby.

  Chapter 20

  Northeast Fashion Week?” I said, waving the Yomiuri Shimbun. “Is this what you tried to hide from me?”

  Carlos, who stood outside the glass door in a black leather jacket and navy-and-tan striped scarf, finally ended his conversation, phone bobbing in surprise, and faced me. “What’s that supposed to mean, amor?” But something awful darted across his face a second before he smiled.

  “Did you decide if I’m too far away from Fairfax or not? Because I’d hate to make you miss the big event on my account—seeing as how you’re a model now and all. It’s a long drive out here to rural Virginia. You must want something.” My throat knotted, unable to swallow.

  “Give me that.” His smile faded like the headlights of a passing truck, taking the sudden flash of brilliance with it. He stretched his hand for the newspaper, but I tucked it under my arm, just out of reach.

  “You’re a stockbroker. What do you make now, six figures?”

  “I don’t need to tell you my business.” His voice dropped to a growl.

  “But that’s just it. You’re after something that all your money can’t buy. You think I didn’t figure out why you drove here to find me, apologizing and offering to make me dinner?” I poked him in the chest defiantly. “You thought you could get away with it. That I wouldn’t find out.”

  “You’re crazy! Find out what?”

  I stood on tiptoe to meet his eyes, surprising even myself. “That you want to use me for a green card. By marriage. So you can go on with your next venture. Start your own clothing line or something.” My words hovered there, frosty, in a breath of smoke. “But my house and my heart don’t come free, Carlos. I don’t take in boarders. Or freeloaders.” I forced my voice to hold itself steady, although something underneath wanted to crumble. “Spare me the love speeches. You left your green card notes inside the sports pages.” A sob caught in my throat.

  He took a step forward, eyes snapping. A cold wind whisked between us, and the front doors opened and closed. We moved away from the entrance as a bellman rolled a shiny gold cart through, and we faced each other in the shadows.

  “Are you accusing me?” Carlos’s eyes snapped, his voice raising a touch. “You’re calling me a freeloader?”

  “Did you think you could buy me off so easily by flashing a ring and spouting all this ‘I love you’ nonsense?”

  “Is that what you think? That my words are nonsense?” He jabbed a finger at his heart, breath loud and angry. “I wanted to see you, amor. That’s all that ever mattered to me.”

  His eyes flickered away from me when he said it.

  “I don’t need your help with anything.” His voice rose, cold and proud.

  “I’ll bet.”

  Without warning, Carlos caught my eye and dropped his voice to ice. “You’re just jealous because I’m doing something better with my life than you are, Shiloh. Look where you live—a small-town dump. Doing what? Waiting tables?” His lip curled up in a sneer, and he shook his head in disgust. “You don’t even have your master’s yet, do you?”

  I opened my mouth in a silent cry, wrapping both arms around my middle to hold in the pain.

  “You do what you want with your life.” My teeth chattered as I struggled to keep tears from rising. “But I won’t help you. But maybe Kristi can, in Boston, whoever she is.” I flung the newspaper at him.

  “Ah.” Carlos threw his arms up, kicking the newspaper aside with his shoe like an old hamburger wrapper. “You’re despicable, amor. To think something like that about me.”

  “Don’t call me amor. You never loved me. Whatever you had for me, it wasn’t love.”

  “Love.” He spat out the word, gazing out over the darkened landscape. Trees, dark and spindly, spotted with snow. “What is love, Shiloh? Tell me that. I think it means something different for you than it does for me.”

  “Maybe so.” I felt tears well up as wind stung my cheeks, and I put my hands in my pockets to keep back my emotion. “We’re done, Carlos. Go. Don’t try to call me. Don’t … anything.”

  “You’re really serious?” Carlos laughed again, a bitter laugh, but it died out. Lost in the sound of wind shivering in the dry shrubs.

  Neither of us spoke.

  Finally Carlos let out a long sigh, throwing his head up to the cloudy night sky. “Why, Shiloh? Why do you have to be this way? We did have something special, you know. At least back then.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat with difficulty, remembering how not long ago I would have fallen into his embrace despite my misgivings, inhaling the painful sweetness of his cologne-tinged sweater: a warm scent of wool and comfort. And let his golden words fall soft in my ears, willing myself to believe them.

  But this time I didn’t move, arms taut like ropes pulled painfully tight.

  “You’re not Hachiko,” I whispered.

  “What?” he cried. Obviously he didn’t remember the little statue of a dog in Shibuya, Tokyo, that moved me more than anything else in Japan. Every day Hachiko waited at the station for his master at the time of the evening train. Day after day, year after year. Until the day his master never came home.

  And still Hachiko waited at the time of the train. For ten whole years, until they found his stiff, lifeless body on Shibuya streets.

  Talk about love. Faithfulness. And I would never find it in Carlos Torres Castro, no matter how his radiant good looks cried out to me.

  He sputtered in indignation. “What does an iron dog have to do with this?”

  It was bronze, but I didn’t correct him. “Good-bye, Carlos.”

  “Nobody’s going to want you, Shiloh! You’re washed up.”

  “Then I’ll stay single.”

  “You’re crazy! I’ve wasted too much time on you.”

  “Please don’t call me or come here again. Ever.”

  I picked up the battered Yomiuri Shimbun from the concrete and marched toward the desolate parking lot, turning my back on an angry flurry of Spanish. I wanted to weep, but no tears came. I had cried them long ago. Strips of snow had hardened like my resolve into little crystalline patches, sparkling under the tall parking-lot lights.

 
; I ducked my head into the wind, my eyes barely seeing the shadows and frozen, snow-scuffed cars scattered across the parking lot as I trudged between the cars.

  Everything dark, everything cold, everything terrible.

  And then at the last minute as I turned toward my Honda, I lunged and gasped. Barely missing the dark shadow that seemed to appear from nowhere, between an SUV and a station wagon, heading toward the hotel. Inches from me.

  “Sorry! I didn’t … Sorry!” I flung my hands up, almost dropping my purse and newspaper.

  He jerked out of the way with a quick apology, which the wind snatched away, and I watched him go, sensing something uncomfortably familiar in that gait, that coat. Wishing the light would shine a little more clearly on his obscured face under its cap. His footprints left hollow marks in the blanket of snow.

  I dug for my keys, heart pounding, as he paused a few feet away, turning abruptly back in my direction.

  He swiveled his head between me and Carlos, who still stood at the door, laughing, blowing me a spiteful kiss.

  A streak of light illuminated his arms full of newly printed flyers, sleek and colorful in a flash of overhead light. And without reading the print, I knew what those business cards tucked under the rubber band said: Adam J. Carter, landscape designer.

  Chapter 21

  Good! Now try that on.” I pointed, hands on my hips. “I’m telling you, you’ll like it.”

  Becky regarded the bag skeptically. “Well, I’ll try it. But the jury’s still out on this’n.”

  Becky Donaldson made me proud. She looked great these days, a little more polished and pulled together, and every few weeks she ditched something else: the oversized overalls, fuzzy pink ponytail holders that didn’t match anything, bulky sweaters and sweatshirts that made her look lumpy.

  What she didn’t ditch, I hid. Simple.