by Mata Elliott
“You don’t fool me, girl.” The woman on the right cooled herself with a straw fan. “Now that the man of your habitual delusions is single, you think you have a chance. You’ve always wanted him.”
The woman in red snatched the fan and fluttered it near her exposed cleavage. “Yes, at one time I was minimally attracted to him.”
“But you have no interest in him now?”
She stared ahead, waving the fan with increased momentum. “No interest at all.”
She was no stranger to visions, but certainly, a funeral was an odd time for a vision of a wedding. Startled by the arresting image, the gray-haired church mother jerked, sending the purple leather-bound Bible open on her lap to the floor. Bending to retrieve the divine book, she glanced across the aisle at the new widower. He was holding the hand of the beautiful woman next to him. They appeared to be dealing with their loss together. The church mother meditated some more on the vision, then leaned forward and helped herself to another look at the widower and the pretty-faced woman. A faint smile of enchantment and approval played on the church mother’s lips as she pondered how God would bring the marriage in her vision to pass.
chapter one
Ear-piercing screams filled the air. Cassidy Beckett tucked the towel around the baby and hugged him closer. She kissed his wrinkled forehead and rocked back and forth.
“What’s the matter with it?” Minister’s voice crackled with hostility.
“I don’t know.” Cassidy gulped, and more of her tears fell onto the bundle in her arms. Earlier, she had cleaned him up the best she knew how, then rubbed lotion on his tender skin. Now Cassidy pressed her cheek against the baby and sniffed, holding his soft scent inside her nostrils until her lungs gave way. “I don’t know how to calm him,” she cried, her voice shaking with each word.
“Well, you better hurry up and figure something out.” Contempt blazed in Minister’s eyes as he stared at the baby.
Cassidy’s cell phone hummed a series of notes, and she forced herself to stop thinking about Minister and the baby. Focusing on the present, she answered the phone. The caller had the wrong number, and after a polite exchange, Cassidy ended the call as the cab she occupied merged with the stream of traffic aiming for the next off-ramp. She was at least ten minutes from her destination, and so she had time to check her messages, and she logged in the code. One message waited in her voice mail box. Cassidy gritted her teeth and sighed from a place inside that was tired of dealing with Sister Maranda Whittle. She quickly scribbled Maranda’s number on a small notepad, then called the number, ready to take on Maranda for the last time.
“Praise the Lord!” Maranda answered after the second ring.
“Hello, Sister Whittle. This is Cassidy Beck—”
“Oh, yes, Cassidy,” Maranda cut in. Maranda smiled a full beam whenever she spoke to Cassidy at church, so Cassidy imagined Maranda was fully charged now. “I’m so glad you called. Have you given any more thought to our previous conversation?”
Cassidy’s stomach burned. “No . . . not much.”
“The Sparrow Ministry could use a young woman like you. Why don’t you come to our next meeting?”
No can do. Cassidy could not make the next meeting, the reason enfolded in personal conflict, which she would never unfold with Maranda or anyone else. So why couldn’t she just be blunt and answer Maranda with a no? Like the other times they’d spoken on this topic, her tongue hardened, and she could not lift it to speak one word that would let Maranda know without question she wasn’t interested in joining the Sparrow Ministry. Maranda stated the time and place for the next Sparrow Ministry staff meeting, probably assuming Cassidy was writing the information down. As if she sensed Cassidy’s desire to hang up, Maranda rushed through an oration on the ins and outs of the Sparrow Ministry that she had shared with Cassidy once before. “You be blessed,” Maranda tooted at the end of the call.
“You, too,” said Cassidy.
“Here we are,” the cabdriver said. Cassidy suddenly realized the driver had parked in front of her house. He came around, opened her door, raised his cap, and scratched his bald, dark-colored scalp. He put his cap back on tight, and only the woolly gray sideburns were visible again. Cassidy stretched her legs through the doorway and vacated the burned-popcorn-smelling car she’d spent sixty minutes of her life in. As the hem of a denim skirt dropped below her calves, she smiled up at the three-story semidetached dwelling standing before her. The bulbs in the pine boxes that bordered the second-level windows had bloomed while she was away, and a breeze encouraged the tiny flowers to wave and bow at her as if they were welcoming home royalty.
After a sigh of optimism, Cassidy said, “It’s good to be back.” She harbored no doubts, questions, or regrets. Leaving San Diego, returning to her children, remained a wise decision.
The driver, who’d introduced himself as Benny at the airport, spoke with certainty. “I’m sure you missed your little girl.”
Cassidy frowned, and Benny pointed toward the walkway leading to the brick house. A toy Corvette with an African American Barbie doll lounging in the passenger seat was parked in the dirt beneath a manicured shrub. Cassidy rubbed a hand over her microbraids from the start of her hairline to the bun at the back of her head. “One of the neighborhood girls must have left it there,” she said. No children lived at this address, just she and her great-aunt, Odessa. Several years prior, upon completion of graduate school, Cassidy had planned on moving out of Odessa’s house and renting an apartment. But Odessa had suggested that Cassidy continue living here and they would share the household bills.
Cassidy grinned as she thought of how surprised Odessa was going to be. Cassidy hadn’t told her she was returning today.
Benny lifted a large suitcase from the trunk and started toward the house.
“No,” Cassidy objected right away, “I can handle that.” Benny shrugged and placed the luggage at the edge of the walkway, and she handed him the fare with a generous tip.
Rounding his vehicle to the driver’s side, Benny shouted, “Enjoy the rest of the day . . . and the summer.”
Cassidy planned to enjoy every remaining slice of summer vacation. Breathing in the delicate fragrance of her aunt’s small garden, she flung aside the memory of Larenz Flemings, the man she’d dated at this time last year. Cassidy already vowed that this summer would be better, brighter, and by all means date-free, with the exception of Oliver Toby. Cassidy and Oliver Toby had a date every Wednesday afternoon.
A group of elementary-age girls drove by on bicycles, and Cassidy smiled, ACES stamped on her thoughts. The tutorial center, stationed in Charity Community Church, had been her idea. She had named it the Academic and Cultural Enrichment School. And while ACES had been left in capable hands, Cassidy was eager to return. The students weren’t just students. They were her children, those she loved and those who loved her.
The wind chimes hanging in the far corner of the porch tinkled as Cassidy looked over at her car, parked on the street. The previously owned Accord, hers for the last eight years, had been grounded, in need of significant repairs. Cassidy sauntered closer to the car and removed a brochure clamped beneath the windshield wiper. She skimmed the advertisement, an announcement detailing the grand opening of another neighborhood pizzeria. There was no room for pizza in Cassidy’s diet, so she crumpled the paper into a ball and stuffed the wad into her pocket. She continued to study the car and decided it must have rained a lot while she’d been out of town, because except for the bird droppings splattered on the windshield, her car was immaculate, the front bumper “burnished to a luminous shine,” she remarked to a squirrel scampering up a telephone pole.
Burnish.
It was Cassidy’s word for the week. She collected words the way some people collected stamps or dolls or coins.
“Cassie gal, is that you?” Emma Purdue, Cassidy’s longtime next-door neighbor, wobbled out onto her porch. Cassidy smiled in the direction of Emma’s loud voice as Emma limped do
wn the steps and along the walkway with the assistance of a cane.
“Yes, Ms. Emma, it’s me.” Cassidy advanced upon the only person in the world who called her Cassie. Emma Purdue, slightly deaf in both ears and adamant about not needing the support of hearing aids, had yet to discover that Cassidy’s real name was Cassidy. With folks like Emma, once something got stuck in their head, it seemed to stay that way, and no matter how zealously the rest of the world poked, prodded, or protested, it didn’t change a thing. Cassidy had long ago accepted that to Emma Purdue she would probably remain “Cassie” forever.
Cassidy embraced Emma, the odor of fried chicken and collards billowing from the stout senior’s flowered housedress. The soul-food smell almost drowned out the thick and commonplace smell of the pomade Emma used on her short gray Afro.
“Whatcha doing back?” Emma asked, a hand on her hip, a hand resting on her cane. “Gal, ya not sick, is ya?”
Emma, with her Deep South upbringing and no more than eight years of school, often reverted to the way she spoke when she was a “gal” back home. Cassidy shook her head no to Emma’s question, appreciating the motherly concern threading through Emma’s voice.
“Did you eat enough while ya was at that teachas’ convention?” With the back of her hand, Emma wiped the mid-June heat from her forehead. “I know the way ya can go without two, three meals straight sometimes.” Her lips in a firm pucker, her eyelids close together, Emma bobbed her head down, up, down, up as she inspected Cassidy. “Gal, it don’t look like ya put on a single pound.”
“I ate three meals a day, Ms. Emma.” Cassidy added what she knew the older woman would relish hearing: “Of course, none of the meals were as good as yours.”
“I sho know that’s right.”
A mighty laugh burst from Emma, and Cassidy laughed, too, secretly, at Emma. The over-eighty-year-old didn’t believe anyone could fry, bake, or even boil better than she could, and the truth was, up and down treelined Pomona Street, Emma was said to be one of the three best cooks on the block. The Vietnam veteran who resided in the corner house and Cassidy’s aunt Odessa were said to be the other two.
“Well, I’m glad yer back,” Emma said. “Shevelle and the baby is still here. Shevelle’s been hoping she could get together with ya ’fore she goes home next week.”
Cassidy was all for hanging out with Shevelle, but she prayed Shevelle left the baby at home. Last time Cassidy and Shevelle went out, Shevelle brought the baby along and insisted Cassidy hold her. It annoyed Cassidy when people with babies assumed everyone wanted to hold their little angels.
Cassidy reached for her suitcase, and the gold link bracelet she rarely took off slid to the end of her arm.
“Hold it.” Emma’s voice was uncompromising as she pounded her wooden stick on the sidewalk, the rubber tip stealing the strident sound she seemed to be after. “Robbie, come take this here suitcase,” she hollered across the two-way urban street.
Their neighbor, a boy of nine, out for an excursion on his scooter, stopped the royal-blue contraption a few inches short of Cassidy’s white canvas sneakers. “Hi, Cassidy,” he said cheerily.
“That’s Miss Cassie to you, boy.” Emma nudged his ankle with her cane.
Cassidy put her arm around Robbie’s shoulder and sent a smile down to the child. An ache within Cassidy’s soul intensified mercilessly, but she kept her jaw rigid, unwilling to let the agony show on her face. “Robbie,” she said, “you keep right on calling me Cassidy.”
“It ain’t respectful.” Emma aimed a sharp gaze at the youngster, further conveying that in her presence there would be no addressing adults without the preface of Mr. or Miss.
Cassidy gave Robbie a squeeze and patted his braided-to-the-scalp hair. “Your scooter looks new.”
“It is. My dad gave it to me last weekend . . . when I stayed at his house.”
“It’s very nice. I like your knee and elbow guards, too. Where’s your helmet?”
Robbie’s stare widened. “I should go put it on.”
“Good idea. I’ve got the luggage.” Cassidy watched the boy ride home, her heart still aching. She turned back to Emma. Emma’s expression was a sandwich of disbelief and disagreement.
“Ya should’ve let that chile help. It’s never too soon for a boy to learn the ways of a man.” She propped her cane on her hip and stacked her arms across a hefty bosom. “And like I’ve told ya time and time again, young lady, acceptin’ a man’s strength is not a sign of weakness.”
Out of reverence, Cassidy kept her eyes from rolling, but she had to speak up. “I’ve got the Lord, and He’s all the strength I’ll ever need.”
Emma laughed. “The Lord is the center of my world, too, baby. But the broad shoulders of an earthly man sho feels mighty good.”
Not in the mood for one of her neighbor’s love-and-marriage and how-good-a-man-can-make-you-feel talks, Cassidy hugged Emma good-bye, then grabbed her suitcase from the sidewalk and hurried to the house. Before she could drag her key from her purse, the Charity Community Church van pulled up to the curb and the driver blew the horn. Cassidy waved at Deacon Willie Linden and the three silver-haired female passengers on their way to the Knitting Circle, a club that met at the church on Friday evenings.
“Well, mercy,” Odessa Vale exclaimed, pushing open the screen door. It squeaked and slammed behind her. “Baby girl, what are you doing here?”
Cassidy wrapped her aunt in a hug that pinned them close for several moments. She was forced to give the abridged version of why she’d come home early because Deacon Linden had blown the horn a second time, and now he was on his way up the walkway to escort Odessa to the van.
“We’ll talk more when I get home.” Odessa gave Deacon Linden, barely able to bend his arthritic knees, her bag of knitting supplies so she could hold on to his elbow and the rail as she eased down the steps. “I’ll tell you all about Trevor,” she said over her shoulder.
“Who’s Trevor?” Cassidy called after Odessa, but she was engaged in a conversation with Deacon Linden and either didn’t hear the question or elected not to answer.
“Are there any questions or concerns?” No hands rose this time. Trevor Monroe clapped shut his binder and stood. “In that case, we’re done for the day. You’ll find refreshments in the lounge.” He smiled at the newest teen employees seated around the conference table as they gathered complimentary pens and handbooks, preparing to exit. It was a first job for most of them, and their uncertainty was obvious. As was his custom, Trevor had tried to keep the tone of the meeting casual. Although he let it be known that he was boss and expected professionalism at all times, he wanted his employees to feel comfortable and free to approach him. At the door, he shook each teenager’s hand. “My number is in the manual if you have concerns, job-related . . . or otherwise,” he reminded them.
Without meeting his secretary’s gaze, he knew she regarded him with dissatisfaction. Grace Armstrong had advised that his private number should remain private. The managers could handle concerns. But Trevor had disagreed. The concerns of employees, especially the teens, were paramount. Some of them couldn’t, wouldn’t, talk to their parents. He preferred they come to him rather than reach out to negative street influences.
Trevor looked Grace’s way. Above the burgundy rims of reading glasses, set so close to the tip of her nose it seemed one quick move of her head and the frames would topple off, her eyes scrutinized him. After all of the teenagers had gone, Trevor strode over and glued a kiss to the cheek of the woman dear enough that he’d given her cards and gifts every Mother’s Day since she started working for him. Trevor knew he had a special place in Grace’s heart as well. Grace had miscarried a baby thirty-five years ago, and he was the same age that baby would have been.
Grace wriggled out of his embrace, fanning her hands as if shooing flies. “That lovey-dovey stuff will get you nowhere, Mr. Monroe.”
At work, she insisted on addressing him formally, and that was one of the battles he’d let
her win. “I know, but that lovey-dovey stuff sure is fun.” He winked. “Just don’t tell Houston. I’d hate to have him put a beat-down on me.”
Grace’s face softened. “It’s been ages since I’ve had men fighting over me.”
“Shattered many hearts in your day, huh, Grace?”
She chortled, not answering. Trevor could easily imagine she had broken hearts. Grace was attractive at fifty-nine. Her silver and black hair was cut in a modern style, and even with the makeup she often wore, her face appeared natural. Grace had a medium-size, well-defined figure, and her clothing, while befitting her maturity, stayed hip enough to gain oodles of compliments from younger workers. Grace was what Trevor imagined his wife might have resembled years down the line if—
Grace’s voice interrupted Trevor’s thoughts as she passed him on the way to the door. “I mailed you an invitation. Did you receive it?”
He frowned, not meaning to. “It came a few days ago.”
“I’ll be making that potato salad you eat by the ton.”
At the least, Grace deserved a halfhearted grin, and he gave one. “The offer’s tempting. I’ll let you know.” In all honesty, Trevor could have let her know right then. He would not attend the annual barbecue in honor of Grace and Houston’s wedding anniversary. With his family one member short, such a gathering would be too painful. Trevor lifted his binder from the table remembering how difficult it had been to return to church without his wife. It was a full three months before he could sit through an entire service.
Trevor locked up his office for the day and exited through the rear of his Chelten Avenue bakery and café. Car keys hanging from his fingertips, he strolled across the parking lot blacktop to a hunter-green Expedition. The hot strikes the sun bombed the region with all week were held at bay by thickening, darkening clouds, but the air was still too clingy for Trevor’s taste, and before boarding his truck, he pulled off his tie, undid his top shirt buttons, and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. After starting the ignition, he flipped on the air conditioner. A man pleased with the outcome of the workday, he drummed his fingers on the dashboard in time to the spry pulse of Bishop Colvin Culpepper and the Solid Ground Church Mass Choir. Trevor owned all four of Culpepper’s urban praise CDs. The latest he’d purchased yesterday, and as he listened to a song he was hearing for the first time, he sorted through ideas of how to spend the evening. Like most things nowadays, his plans revolved around and often included the leading ladies in his life. Trevor removed his phone from the belt clip at his waist and punched the necessary buttons.