He straightened and pulled me into a hug, settling my head where it had been when we were dancing. “If you’re right, and there’s no way for us to work out, it will fall apart pretty quickly. At least neither of us will have to wonder ten years from now what might have happened. And if we’re supposed to work out, we will.” He pulled back, and I glanced up to find him watching me. “I’m not trying to pressure you, but it feels wrong in every part of me to let you go. Am I coming off like a total head case right now?”
I shook my head. “Not a head case. Or I’m one too, I guess. Can I think about this?”
He smoothed back my hair. “Whatever you need.” A car door slammed, followed by the bright babble of voices heading into Leonard’s. He rested his forehead against mine, and his next words were quiet, but I could feel them all the way through me. “I’m fighting all my instincts to give you more to think about, to make this decision harder.” He turned his head the tiniest bit, brushing his lips against mine. It wasn’t even a kiss, but it nearly buckled my knees. “But not here, and not now.” He let me go and stepped back.
“You play dirty,” I said when I thought I could keep my voice even. It almost worked.
“I play honest,” he said. “I’m being as clear as I know how to be. I’ll get you home.”
When he dropped me off and waved at me before walking back to his car, it occurred to me that it was a gesture that could mean both good-bye and hello. And I didn’t want to say good-bye anymore.
Chapter 10
Kiana was waiting by my classroom door Monday morning. “Why so early?” I asked, but I was fighting a smile. I’d seen her wound up before, but usually it was stress. This was different. This was a nervous, twitchy energy that betrayed excitement even though she was trying to keep her face blank.
“Nothing I had to do at home, so I came in.”
I nodded and unlocked the door. “Have a good weekend?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d you do?” I settled my bag on my desk.
“Research.” She shot me a look to see my reaction.
I didn’t gloat. Barely. “On Madame CJ?”
She nodded.
“Interesting stuff, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” She sat in her desk and pulled out a notebook, pretending she needed to write something down, but her pen never moved. Finally she spoke again. “How I’m going to do something original about her? Everything needs saying already been said.”
“You think so?”
She shrugged.
I sat back in my teacher chair and studied her for a long moment. “Do you think if you stood up and read what you found online about her to the class that they would get why she’s so interesting?”
“No. Jamarcus would probably be talking some mess about how he wants to be a millionaire and not get why it’s such a big deal how she did it back then.”
“So maybe if your peers wouldn’t get why it’s a big deal the way it’s currently been explained, it hasn’t been said the right way. Maybe there’s a way to say it so people like Jamarcus would get it.”
“That’s what I’m supposed to figure out how to do?”
I grinned at her.
She eyed me. “It ain’t that easy.”
“Of course not. But you can do hard things, Kiana. And this one is going to pay off for you.”
“How do you know that?” she said, sounding more curious than angry.
“You see connections between things other people don’t. If you can figure out how to explain them to other people, you have this in the bag.”
She looked back down at her notebook for so long that I left her to her thoughts and turned to my computer to enter scores for the essays I’d graded all day Saturday.
“You gonna help me?”
I glanced up at her, her question asked quietly but with that same hard, protective edge I’d had to chip at for the whole first semester. “Yes, Kiana. I’m absolutely going to help you. But it has to come from you, so I can’t do any of it for you.”
“Then how you going to help?”
“Advising. Like this. Tell me what got you so pumped about Madame CJ this weekend?”
Kiana shifted around in her seat. “She didn’t just make something up and then a bigger company came and bought it from her and made her a millionaire. And she didn’t come from money either. Her parents were slaves, but she was born after Lincoln freed them. But they still didn’t have nothing, really. She was smart though. Paid attention. And she made this whole business that didn’t just make her rich, but it helped all these other black women too. She gave them recognition for having good sales but also for doing good things for their neighborhoods. I like that. Don’t seem like that’s how most people are trying to make money these days.”
“Sounds like you went beyond the Wikipedia article.”
Another shrug. “I went to my cousin’s house. They got Internet. I did some looking.”
“Great historians ask one question over and over again to uncover truth: why? Why did people do what they did? They ask until they find answers. If you can dig into Madame CJ Walker’s life story and figure out the why, that’s good. If you can figure out how to present it to other people so they understand the why too, that’s better. If you can do it in an unexpected way, something fresh and creative, that’s best. Make sense?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes. But I don’t have no idea what kind of project to do.”
“Don’t worry about that. Focus on digging into Madame CJ’s why. I’ll see if I can find some extra resources for you to read.” I had privileges at the LSU library; it was all I could do to refrain from logging into the system to search right that second. If Kiana was this excited from basic Internet research, she was going to lose her mind over the scholarly research.
“Ask yourself hard questions. Why did she do what she did, Kiana? Why did she do it the way she did it? Why did it work? Why is she not as famous today as other people who started beauty product lines, like Estee Lauder? Why should she be?”
Kiana squinted at me. “That’s a lot of whys.”
“Cool, right? Should give you plenty of scope for your project.”
“So you’re saying go read right now, and some kind of project is going to come to me?”
“Yes.”
“You kinda crazy.”
“No. It’s just experience. As you learn more and more about this woman’s life and you’re thinking about how to make other people understand her and why she matters, inspiration will strike.”
The squint returned. “Now you being mystical.”
“Yes.”
She shrugged. “All right. I can do some more reading and wait for some idea to come hit me over the head.”
“Good. Except for one thing. Thomas Edison has a pretty famous quote about inspiration. He says that success is ninety-nine percent perspiration and one percent inspiration. What do you think that means?”
“You gotta work?”
“You gotta work,” I agreed. “Besides reading up on her, keep looking up projects from years past. And look for history projects from all kinds of competitions, not only this one. If you need Internet access, wander in here whenever you need to, okay?”
The door opened, and a couple of kids came in. It would be a steady trickle for the next few minutes with a final flood right before the tardy bell. I was extra glad to see their faces today. I hadn’t only been happy to see Kiana because it was fun to see her excited; there had been a significant part of me that was grateful for the distraction of something to think about besides Max.
I’d seen him at church yesterday, suffered that same impulse to constantly look back at him during sacrament meeting and Sunday School. By the time Relief Society had started, my neck had been downright stiff with the effort of not turning around. It didn’t help that the few times I couldn’t resist, I found him watching me. The first three times, he looked thoughtful. The fourth time he caught me, he flashed me a tiny knowing smile. Tha
t was the last time I turned around.
He had found me after church, waiting for me to untangle myself from the wedding belles so he could walk with me out to the parking lot. “You look pretty today,” he said.
I had blushed. Dang it. I hated that he could do that to me. But I’d put on the dress with him in mind, hoping he’d like it. It was pale yellow and swishy, with tiny red flowers on it, like spring woven into fabric. “Thanks.”
“So, have you had any time to think?”
I’ve done nothing but think. You won’t get out of my head. “I need more time.”
He drew me into a hug. “Call me when you figure anything out,” he said, releasing me and walking off toward his car. No, sauntering off. Sauntering! Like this was not the most stressful situation in the world.
When I had gotten home and realized Mom had cooked for an army again, I accepted it as a sign that my stomach did an excited flip. But it was for Brother Lewis and Bridger, not Max. Still, it had been good to watch Mom fussing over someone besides me.
A wad of paper went sailing toward the trash can. “Marcus Brown!” I called and shook my fist until he picked it up and dropped it in. Facing a classroom of teenagers, their noise and energy, forced Max into the background, but they couldn’t push him out of my thoughts completely. Was that even possible at this point?
Oh, man.
Chapter 11
Tuesday night, Mom called as I was driving home.
“Where are you?” she asked. “In a ditch?”
“What? No. I’m on my way home.”
“You’re so late I thought the only reason I hadn’t seen you by now is because you’d driven yourself into a ditch.”
“No, I stayed to get some things ready for my lessons tomorrow.”
“We have company for dinner, and we’ve been waiting on you almost fifteen minutes. Hurry up. But not so fast that you drive into a ditch.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “But you didn’t tell me we were having company. How was I supposed to know you wanted me home?”
“I only decided on company this afternoon. Pedal to the metal, darlin’. But don’t—”
“Drive into a ditch. Got it. Bye.”
Wait. What if the company was Max? I was torn between speeding home or speeding in the opposite direction because . . . Because. Just because.
It was a Prius parked in front of the house, and I got an instant case of butterflies. Max’s voice drifted from the kitchen when I opened the front door, and my nerves hummed. “Hey,” I said, walking in.
Max stood on a chair, fiddling with a lightbulb hanging over the table. He paused and grinned down at me. “Hey yourself.” He wore black dress pants and a gray-striped button-down shirt, like he’d just come from work. He looked good. Really good.
“I had him come over and help me with a few things,” Mom said. “I offered him dinner, and he couldn’t say no.”
“I’d have done it for nothing,” he said, climbing down from the chair and giving her a peck on her cheek. “I happen to like the Guidry women. Dinner is a bonus.” Mom looked as pleased as if one of my brothers had given her sugar.
“How are you?” Max asked, rounding the table to pull me into a hug. I’d seen it coming and hadn’t bothered getting out of the way.
“Tired,” I said. “Glad to be done at work.”
“Hard day?”
“They’re all hard days,” Mom said before I could answer. “She puts her whole self into her job, no holding back. Wears herself out, but it makes her a good teacher.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Of course, sweetie. We’re having meatloaf. I threw it together while Max worked.”
I glanced at the clock. It was six thirty already. “How long have you been here?”
“An hour. I stopped by on my way home from work.”
“What exactly has she had you doing?”
“All the stuff we never get to,” Mom answered. “He changed four lightbulbs, put some boxes up in the attic, and rearranged my office furniture.”
I almost said, “I could have done that for you,” but the fact was that I hadn’t. Instead, I smiled at Max. “You shouldn’t let her con you into anything else. She’s got a good home teacher, and the Young Men in her ward are always begging her to let them come do service projects.”
She made a dismissive sound. “I’m a project because I’m a widow now. This is the kind of thing I’d make your brothers do if they were around, but there’s not nearly enough to keep a quorum busy, and there’s too much to pull Brother Campbell away from his own family to fix. So Max is the perfect solution. You’re a good boy, Max.”
“Thanks, Sister Guidry.”
“You can call me Hattie.”
MISS Hattie, I mouthed at him.
He nodded. “I’m glad to do it, Miss Hattie. Call me anytime.”
“Let’s eat,” she said. “I believe the meatloaf is about done.”
I crossed over to the cabinets and took out plates to set the table.
“I’ll help,” he said right behind me, and I whirled, nearly dropping the dishes. He took them, and as his fingers grazed mine, I could swear the lightbulb he’d replaced flared brighter for a second.
“Let Max do the table, and you throw together a green salad,” Mom said, pulling the meatloaf from the oven.
“Yes, ma’am.” I changed course to the fridge. A few minutes later, we were all settled in and eating.
Max took a bite and chewed slowly, then nodded. “Magic.”
Mom laughed. “Have you talked to your mama lately? How is everything?”
“She’s great. She’s busy getting ready for Samantha’s baby to come.”
“Where’s Samantha now?” I asked. She was a year younger than me, and I remembered her pretty well.
“She’s in Kansas City. This’ll be her second. My mom always goes and stays with my sisters for about a month when they have a baby. She’ll do it for the daughters-in-law too, if they’ll have her, but Aidan’s wife doesn’t like having her for long. She says it stresses her out to make my mom do her housework.”
Mom’s face had softened as she’d listened to all the baby chatter, and even though she didn’t look at me, I could feel her grandbaby hunger simmering beneath the surface. She decided to embarrass Max instead of me. “Are you the only one who’s still single out of all the kids?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So even your youngest sister is on child number two, and you’re still unattached.”
He shifted in his seat. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Leave him alone, Mom,” I said, my voice light. She had the impeccable manners of any well-bred Southern woman, but the older she got, the more she did that other quintessentially Southern-woman thing: she claimed the right to mother anyone a decade or more younger than her, up to and including getting into their private lives to offer unsolicited advice.
“It’s okay,” he said.
I scooped up another forkful of meatloaf. “It’s your funeral.”
“You hush, Lila Mae. So tell me, why aren’t you married yet?”
“Mom! Too much. Let him eat in peace.”
“It’s fine, Lila.” He pushed his meatloaf around for a minute. “I haven’t found the right woman. As simple as that.”
“Are you too picky?” she asked. “That’s a problem more and more with young people these days. Too many options, so they don’t choose. It’s decision paralysis.” I almost intervened again until I noticed her expression. Clear, focused. Present. It was so good to see her—all of her—no fog in sight.
“I don’t think I’m holding out for a fairy tale or a dream Barbie. My mom always told us that you marry the person who makes you see forever. I’ve only been able to look a few years down the road and see trouble with anyone I’ve dated so far.”
Mom shook her head. “I don’t like the sound of this, Max. What do you mean, trouble?”
“I’ve dated a couple girls where it started getting kind of se
rious, and I would try to imagine married life in twenty years, and I couldn’t imagine having enough things to talk about to fill up that time. Seems important.”
Mom didn’t argue or lecture him. That was a shocker. Instead, her expression grew thoughtful. “That’s a good thing to consider. But I can tell you the real problem.”
“Watch out,” I said. “She’s playing love doctor now.”
“Diagnose me,” Max said. “I’d like to be fixed.”
“You’ve been dating the wrong kind of girls.”
“My mom says the exact same thing,” he said.
“Then date the right kind of girl,” Mom said, spearing a piece of meatloaf with an air of triumph, like she’d single-handedly figured out how to marry him off.
“I’m trying,” he said, his voice even. His eyes locked on mine, and my mom’s gaze sharpened, but she didn’t say anything except, “Good,” and went back to her meatloaf.
When dinner ended, Max didn’t try to finagle a walk out to the pier. He only helped clear the table until Mom shooed him off. He laughed and stepped out of the way. “I guess that’s my cue to leave. I have to catch up on some work, and I should probably give Lila a chance to relax.”
“See him out,” Mom said, already zeroing in on the dishes.
I did, walking him out to the veranda. “What kind of work do you have to bring home?” I was kind of curious but mostly looking for a way to keep him a few minutes longer.
“Tonight, it’s risk assessment reports. We’ve got a slight increase in minor on-the-job injuries, and I want to see if I can figure out why, maybe bring the numbers down. Next week, it might be reports on opening up a market for our stuff in Canada.”
“Workplace injuries and new-product markets seem like two very different things.”
“They are. And neither of them is technically my job, but how am I going to run the world if I only understand one corner of it?”
“Run the world, huh? You think big.”
“Only metaphorically. I’m not planning global domination anytime soon, just corporate. Working in operations helps me see how the different systems in Taggart work, and that’s a major plus for moving up through the ranks.”
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