Beyond I Do

by Jennifer Slattery

  “Blog.”

  “Even better.”

  “I told you, Lancaster Publishing doesn’t have much of a marketing budget, which means you need to generate your own sales.”

  “Isn’t that what I pay you for?”

  “You mean what you paid me for?” Eric cleared his throat. “Because those funds are gone. They’ve been swallowed by marketing expenses.”

  “Which is why we negotiated 10 percent on the back end.”

  Eric’s face tightened, and his gray eyes locked on Richard’s. “Exactly. The very reason we need to drive sales any way we can.”

  “Perhaps you forgot that was why I hosted the engagement dinner like you suggested.”

  “Well, that didn’t go as well as expected, did it?”

  “You’re the expert—the one who knows which market best fits my book.”

  “There is no market, Richard. Unfortunately, I can’t work magic with the promises you made to your publisher. Contrary to your claims, academia is not anxiously awaiting your material and the general public really doesn’t care. So unless you find a way to make them care—”

  “This conversation is pointless.” Richard checked his watch. “As enjoyable as your lectures are.” He strode toward the door.

  “Wait.”

  Richard turned, his right eye twitching.

  Eric sifted through his briefcase and produced a stack of glossy postcards. He handed them over. “Take these with you.”

  Richard scanned the bold type across the front: Discussing the Deep Shadows Haunting the Schizophrenic Mind. Join Dr. Hollis on Saturday, February 10, for an engaging discussion of neuropathology and its effects on society. Autographed copies of his latest release, The Schizophrenic Next Door, will be available for 20 percent off. A time and address followed.

  Richard snorted. “And what exactly would you like me to do with these?”

  Eric shoved the remaining papers into his briefcase and snapped it shut. “I’m sure you realize face-to-face invitations are much more productive than random mailings. I imagine you’ll encounter colleagues at the country club, gym, or wherever you frequent between now and your signing.”

  “I’m meeting my father and a few other family members and close friends. I doubt they’d be interested.” His stomach soured in anticipation of the humiliation fest his father was sure to initiate. One of these days Richard would do something so extraordinary the old man would be rendered speechless. Delivering spam wasn’t one of them.

  He returned the postcards. “I am content with the mailings, Eric.”

  Ainsley trudged down her driveway toward her snow-covered mailbox. Thick mounds of gray sludge barricaded her drive, thanks to the city road crew who plowed the neighborhood.

  A steady scraping sounded to her right. She turned to see Chris shoveling his driveway in a gray ski cap, thick knit scarf, and a jacket so puffy it gave him the appearance of an overinflated Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.

  Glancing her way, he propped his shovel in the snow and rested on the handle. “Quite a storm last night, huh?”

  She nodded, grabbing her mail and tucking it under her arm. “Don’t you love the city’s plowing job?”

  He strolled over, flecks of snow dotting his head and shoulders. “I’ll dig you out when I’m done here.”

  “Oh no. I’ve got it. My boss gave me a couple days off, so I’m good.”

  “Sounds like a great boss.” He winked. “But if you don’t mind sparing a chunk of ice or two, I need the exercise. I’d much rather shovel a few driveways than pump iron.”

  Ainsley started to argue, but he’d already resumed his shoveling, apparently oblivious to her protests. A giggle tickled her throat as an image of him heading from one walk to the next surfaced. Last weekend, she caught him salting Mr. Dander’s walkway. The week before he’d done something under the hood of Mrs. Prinkton’s car.

  “So . . . Chris rested his arms on the end of his shovel. “Any decisions made regarding the record deal?”

  Ainsley smiled, warmth creeping into her face. “I signed the contract. We should start recording in a month or two.”

  His grin widened. “Seriously?”

  She nodded.

  “Way to go.” He raised his hand for a high five. Laughing, she complied, then he ushered her off, telling her it was much too cold for her to be hanging around outside. Considering her feet were already beginning to grow numb, she didn’t argue too heartily.

  God had truly blessed her, in so many ways.

  Once inside, she peeled off her winter garb then focused on the mail. Sifting through the stack, she shuffled into the kitchen to trash the junk mail, pay the bills, and file the fourth collection notice sent on behalf of her mother’s Visa company.

  A pale-blue envelope shaped like a greeting card, Richard’s blocklike lettering scrawled across the front, elicited a sigh. She almost tossed it into the trash, along with all the other cards he’d sent her since their breakup, but as usual, curiosity bid her.

  Same sentiments, different card: I’m thinking of you, miss you, long to see you again, repeating his regular closing, “Call me. We need to talk.”

  No, we don’t. She threw it away.

  Twenty minutes later, her cell phone rang and Richard’s number flashed across the screen. She hit Ignore. Shortly after, her voice mail icon lit up. She reluctantly played the message.

  “We need to talk. There’s something you need to know. About your neighbor. Please return my call.”

  She massaged her forehead. The man acted like a jealous teenager fighting for his prom date, and Ainsley had no interest in regressing.

  A text message chimed in. “I’ve learned something you need to be aware of. Your altruistic neighbor is not the man you think he is.”

  Nice try, buddy. Depositing her phone on the counter, she plopped into a kitchen chair.

  Was she a drama magnet or something? Between her mom’s creditors and Richard’s childish antics, she felt like she’d ventured into an episode of Real Housewives of New Jersey.

  Chapter 43

  hris set his bank statement down and turned it toward Matilda.

  She leaned across the table, frowning, as she studied the long list of debits and deposits.

  When finished, she sat back and folded her hands. “Your business is doing quite well. You should be proud of yourself and all you’ve accomplished.” Her face softened. “Dad always said you’d be a force to reckon with.”

  He fiddled with the straw in his iced tea.

  “I understand your concerns, and I would give more than anything to see Mom spend the rest of her days surrounded in love, pampered. If I could, I’d take care of her myself.” She sucked in a breath of air and shook her head. “But I don’t think it’d be wise to move her, nor am I convinced this facility you talk about will be any better than the one she’s at now.”

  “Will you at least check it out?”

  “And what if the move is too hard on Mom? She’s in a familiar setting. She knows what to expect.”

  Chris tensed. “Yeah, she expects to be berated for soiling her bed and not eating fast enough.”

  Her lips pressed into a firm line, the skin around them growing white.

  His shoulders went slack. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be argumentative. But can’t we at least try? Bring Mom for an orientation. See how she responds?”

  Matilda studied him for a long moment. “I’ll think about it.” She stood. “I’ll call you.”

  He saw her out, thanking God for the miniscule crack etching through her resolve and asking for a sledgehammer to finish the job.

  Although the real battle would start once she conceded to his plan. Then everything would rest on his mother’s response. A rather disconcerting thought.

  He checked his watch—6:45. Ainsley would be getting off work soon, freeing her for yet another stroll through the Plaza, as had become their Saturday evening custom. He smiled at the memory of their first carriage ride and how
the glistening Christmas lights adorning the buildings reflected in Ainsley’s eyes. As they drove past a jewelry store, his mind jumped to thoughts of a wedding. Which he shoved aside, of course, having dated the woman for such a short period of time. Yet he knew. He had no doubt she was the one.

  So how long should he wait? He chuckled, considering they’d only been officially dating for a few weeks.

  Slow it down, my man. Otherwise you’ll scare the girl away. Like her last fiancé did.

  His mirth dissipated as thoughts of Richard and the recently broken engagement arose.

  Am I a rebound?

  He squelched the thought.

  Richard parked in front of Ainsley’s yard and inspected the adjacent lot. Based on the empty drive and darkened windows, her neighbor wasn’t home. Good. He cut the engine, tucked the photos and documents beneath his leather jacket to shield them from the snow, and stepped out. A smile twitched as he made his way to Ainsley’s door. After pausing to smooth his windblown hair, he chimed the doorbell. The blinds cracked, and the door clicked.

  Ainsley scowled. “What are you doing here?”

  “Give me five minutes. That’s all I ask.”

  She kept her hand on the door, her body blocking the entrance.

  “Five minutes. Please.”

  She sighed and stepped aside. “Fine. Five.”

  He followed her into the living room where she stood with arms crossed. He moved to the sofa, pulled his documents from his jacket, and placed them on the coffee table. Then, settling into the couch, he propped an ankle on his knee and waited while Ainsley inspected first the images, then the documents.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Your neighbor appears to be quite the ladies’ man. As I suspected.”

  “And you thought this would suddenly change everything and I’d come running back, is that it? Unbelievable.” She stomped to the door and flung it open. Snow drifted in and fluttered across the floor. “Leave. And take these with you.” She flung the papers at him. They splayed across the floor.

  Richard gathered them up then closed the distance between them. “I’m concerned, that’s all. As I told you when we were dating, you’d be wise to steer clear of that man. Because as far as I can tell, your lives have become quite entwined.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Have you been spying on me?”

  “Just an observation—you both work at the shelter, and now he’s your boss, right? A rather precarious situation, considering the lawsuit.”

  “Good-bye, Richard.” She pressed her back against the open door. “Don’t force me to file a restraining order.”

  He dropped the papers and photo on an accent table in the foyer. “I’m sorry to be the one to break this to you. I really am.”

  Ainsley slammed and locked the door. The nerve of that man! Most likely, those documents were a farce. She shook her head and marched into the living the room. Seriously, what had she seen in Richard? Oh, he’d charmed her well enough, but even then, hints of his manipulative side had poked through. Only she was too stupid to pay any attention.

  As she paced the kitchen, the image of the official Los Angeles County Circuit Court seal stamped on the documents he’d left drew her. With papers in hand, she resumed her pacing, scanning the pages as she went.

  Sexual harassment? What did that mean, exactly?

  She studied the photo, fighting back images from her high school days and the “stacked-pack” as the chauvinistic jerks used to call themselves.

  No. Chris was nothing like them. Although in this picture, he sure looked like a playboy.

  Not to mention the fact that she was a terrible character reader. Richard had fooled her for five years.

  But that was different. She knew with Richard. Although she tried to deny it, looking back she’d had her doubts, her concerns, for quite some time. Not with Chris.

  Yet.

  Flipping to the second page, she read the claims raised by the plaintiff, the knot in her stomach tightening.

  Unwelcomed sexual advances . . . threats of termination . . . hostile work environment . . . retaliation.

  Punitive damages: $75,000.

  She tossed the papers on the coffee table and resumed her pacing, but no matter how hard she fought it, unsettling questions dominated her thoughts: How well did she know Chris? What if she’d misread him?

  She closed her eyes as her mind drifted to her father and the plastic floozy draped over his arm. A phrase her mother often repeated flooded her brain, “Men are pigs. All of them. Some just come in fancier packages that take longer to unwrap.”

  Not Chris.

  Surely he had a reasonable explanation for this.

  Chapter 44

  nother great day.” Grinning, Chris zipped his money bag and closed the register.

  “That good, huh?” Wanda drew near, swinging a dish towel, her chestnut eyes sparkling.

  He nodded and clasped William’s shoulder who stood beside him, plunking leftover pastries into a paper bag. “Better than I estimated. And I couldn’t do this without you all.”

  Wanda’s eyes glistened as she looked at her son. “We move into our apartment next week, thanks to you. A month and a half ago, William and I spent our first night on the streets, slept beneath an overpass.” Her voice quavered. “I thought for sure God had turned His back on us. But I never stopped praying, for William’s sake. Figured I’d die in a heap of garbage, but not my son.”

  She shook her head, her eyes like chiseled flint. “Nope, not my son. I determined then and there to do whatever it took to see he got a better life. Begged God for mercy on William’s behalf.” She grinned. “He’s about to finish third grade and never missed a day this year, did ya boy?”

  William puffed out his chest, shaking his head. “No, ma’am.”

  “Even kept a B average.”

  Though Chris rejoiced with them, his heart felt heavy thinking of all the other homeless kids he’d seen come in and out of the shelter. How many of them made it to school? How many mothers knelt on the ice-covered ground each night begging God for better, asking for aid? What might the world look like if every Christian lived out their faith in surrendered obedience?

  He looked at Wanda. “Can we pray?”

  She and her son nodded and they all joined hands. Chris glanced across the café toward Candy who leafed through a leather-bound Bible. “Wanna join us?”

  She shook her head and looked away.

  Chris bowed his head. “Lord, may this café be a sanctuary, a place of hope and healing. Rain down Your blessings, Lord, so we can be instruments of Your love and grace.”

  “Amen!” Wanda squeezed his hand before letting go. “And I’d say God already answered that prayer.”

  Chris followed her gaze through the front window where Albert shivered, breath fogging the glass. A woman with long, gray hair protruding from a brown ski cap stood beside him, gnawing on a fingernail.

  Chris turned to William. “Think you can hand me a couple of those pastries? And one of the gospel tracts.”

  William nodded and selected three blueberry scones. He pulled a glossy flyer from beside the cash register and loaded everything into a paper sack.

  “Thanks.” Chris grabbed the food items, crossed the café, and held the door open. “You wanna come in for a bit?”

  Albert stepped forward, his gaze darting from one face to the next, bushy eyebrows scrunched together. Chris held his breath, praying for God’s love to sweep over this man and give him the courage to step inside.

  Footsteps clicked behind him, and Albert’s eyes widened. He darted around the corner.

  Chris sighed and stepped outside, letting the door close behind him. Albert huddled against the brick wall, teeth chattering. The woman stood beside him, staring at the street in front of her.

  “Here. Blueberry scones with lemon icing.” He held out the package and Albert snatched it up. He and the woman studied Chris then looked away.

 
Chris lingered, hands shoved in his pockets, watching the two devour the pastries. When they finished, he squeezed Albert’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow?”

  Albert nodded, a smile emerging beneath his crumb-speckled mustache.

  Chris returned to the café to find everything cleaned, swept, and in order. He turned to Wanda “You guys ready to go?”

  “Don’t need a ride today. Rose is picking us up. Gonna take us to Operation Breakthrough so’s we can talk to other moms standing where we once were.” She gave William a sideways hug. “Like that verse you always tell us about. ‘To him who much has been given, much is required.’ Finally got a chance to give back some.”

  A horn beeped and Chris turned to see Rose parked along the curb. She smiled and waved while Wanda and William scurried out.

  “Wait, don’t forget the pastries!” Chris chased after them with the paper bag. He returned to find Candy lingering near the counter, a coffee-table devotion in her hand.

  “What’s this mean, walk by the Spirit?”

  “That’s kind of confusing.” He lifted a Bible from a nearby shelf and placed it on the counter between them. Flipping through the pages, he located John chapter 3. “Back in Bible times, there was this guy named Nicodemus. To the observer, he appeared to do everything right. Read the Scriptures, went to the synagogue, followed all the rules.”

  “Taking the direct route to heaven, huh?”

  Chris smiled. “Well, he thought so—until he met Jesus.” He read the passage, starting with verse 3. “Jesus replied, ‘Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again’” (NIV).

  “Ha, ha. Yeah, I’ve heard about that—the rebirth experience. From where I sit, if that’s what it takes to get to heaven, I’m outie!”

  Chris chuckled. “Nicodemus had a similar reaction.” He continued reading. “Jesus answered, ‘Very truly I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless they are born of water and the Spirit. Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit.’ You should not be surprised at my saying, ‘You must be born again.’ The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit” (John 3:5–8 NIV). He marked his spot with a napkin then closed the book. “It’s a spiritual birth that happens when a person turns from a life of sin and surrenders to Jesus as their Lord and Savior.”