Rhythms of Grace (36 page)

“There you are.” Thelma stood behind me in a flowered housecoat. Her head was full of rollers. “I saw you over here the other night, but I had a kitchen full of heads. Pastor’s anniversary. All the girls wanted a new style.”

I nodded, studying her face for some piece of me, something I could claim as my own.

She laughed. “Can’t talk, huh? Well, I’ve got some smoked turkey wings, rice, and gravy over there that will loosen your lips. I came to Social Services awhile back to bring you dinner.”

Here was my opportunity. “My boss, he told me you came by. He said you asked—”

Thelma looked around the yard. “Funny for him to remember me.”

“He said that you mentioned something about my mother. That she would find me.” I stepped closer, looking into my old friend’s eyes. “Has she found me, Thelma?”

She grabbed my hand. “I asked him if you found your mama. When he said no, I told him that Lord willing, she might just find you first. That’s all.” Her words raced like a runaway train.

I stared into her eyes, still streaked with blue eyeliner from a long day in the lunchroom and a longer night at church. She knew more than she was telling, but I wouldn’t get more. Not a bit. Great. Another dead end. “How would she know where to find me?”

Thelma patted my hand and looked away. “Trust me, baby. A mother always finds her children.”

50

Grace

Of all the Cincinnati Zoo exhibits, I loved the World of Insects best, especially Whiting Grove, the picnic area, where I could ruminate about the monarchs and hummingbirds I’d seen. It was too cold for all that, so the Japanese maples held my attention instead. Their snow-covered branches extended like fingers ready to carry me away.

Mal had picked me up early with a call only when he was almost to town—he and Brian had that in common. Why I’d come, I wasn’t sure, but here I was, shrimp salad sandwich in hand, with the nerve to wonder if Mal remembered to put in the grapes.

He’d remembered, all right. He’d even thrown in something else too.

“Ow!” I clutched my jaw.

He reached for me. “Are you okay? I guess I didn’t think about that part. Oh goodness. Here I am trying to be romantic and I hurt you . . .”

I dabbed my bloody gums with a napkin and stared at the offending ingredient. A ring. And a huge one at that. Whoever said that diamonds were a girl’s best friend hadn’t had lunch with Mal. It was everything I would have wanted a year ago, but now it was just a piece of jewelry hidden in my lunch.

An oak above us pointed accusingly at my hands. Not only had Mal evaded my questions all morning, now he’d thrown another twist into my knotted life. I turned to face him with grapes and celery lingering on my tongue. I sighed.

Mal cracked a grin. “Speechless, huh?” He placed a jewelry box on my lap.

“Basically.” What does one say after almost choking on a diamond?

“I’ve had this planned for a while. When I found out about Joyce, I knew the time was right, that you’d be coming home—”

Was he serious? “Are you kidding me?”

He looked offended. “Of course not. I just wanted to make my intentions clear.” Malachi slipped off the bench and onto the icy ground, gathering my hands between his. Firmness lurked beneath his gentle grasp.

“I thought you’d be happy. I thought . . .” He raked his fingers through his cropped curls, sprinkled with gray.

“You thought what? That something has changed? It hasn’t. I’m still the same woman you walked away from a few months ago. The woman who accepted that and moved on.” My voice faltered.

He had the look of a man intent on getting what he wanted. “You make things so complicated, Grace. I made a mistake—”

“A mistake? You called off our engagement!”

His forehead creased a little. “I was confused. Now I know what I want.” His fingers pressed through my wool coat. There was a lot of difference between this and Brian’s light yet strong touch. Although Mal met all the requirements—saved and single—his hands felt like a death grip.

“
I want
you
.”

How long had I waited to hear those words from him? If only it were true. Need. That’s what this was about, need masquerading as love. I needed to get out of here. And quick. I opened the jewelry box and pushed the diamond into its slot. “Here.” I pressed the box into his palm.

Malachi took it, but his eyes remained fixed on me, almost threateningly. An ultimatum of sorts. His expression spoke almost audibly—
I won’t ask again
.

Again, God’s promise came to me:

For your maker is your husband—the Lord Almighty is his name—
the Holy one of Israel is your redeemer . . .

“Just say yes. It’s so easy.”

I shut my mouth tight so that no words could escape and betray me. My head shook back and forth, saying no without words.

He ran a hand through my hair, then went silent again. Though only six years older than me, the sprinkle of gray on Mal’s scalp gave away his well-masked worry habit. The rest of his body exuded youth. He loved God, looked good, worked hard, and he wanted me. What else could a woman pray for? A vision of flashing eyes and a head full of locks swept across my mind.

Everything.

Malachi knelt to gather the remaining food into the basket. He looked up at me, a determined smile creasing his lips. “I’ll keep the ring until you’re ready. Even criminals get three strikes, right?”

I prayed for the right words. “Please, Mal. Don’t.”

He slammed a loaf of French bread into the hamper. “I’m sorry for letting your past scare me away, okay? How long do I have to pay for that?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“I—”

I held up a finger in protest. “That day after you left, after I told you about me, God gave me a peace and a mission. I’ve been a little sidetracked, but I’m going to give myself to these kids. It’s enough. It has to be.”

Mal stood and buried his face in my hair, the thing he’d complained about most. “Sweetheart . . .”

The warmth, the closeness, threatened my sanity.

An unmarried woman . . . is concerned with the Lord’s affairs.
Her aim is to be devoted to the Lord, in both body and spirit.

The rest of the verse hung in my mind like a dead weight.

But a married woman is concerned about the affairs of this
world—how she can please her husband.

Futile attempts to please one husband festered in my mind. Would spending the rest of my life trying—and failing—to please Mal be enough? If I was honest, I wanted more than a man with all the trimmings. I wanted something I’d never had; I wanted to fall in love.

I moved away from his touch.

Mal tossed the ring into the basket at his feet. “So nothing will change your mind?” He flipped a wheel of Gouda cheese atop the pile.

“I’m not waiting for somebody to love me so I can live, Mal. I’m ready to live now. I don’t want to be anyone’s wife.”

“Not even Brian’s?” Malachi stood, his fists in his pockets, the basket handle dangling at his wrist.

He called me out.

Still, I had to play dumb. “What?”

He snorted. “Come on. You two were wrapped up at that assembly like swizzle sticks. I saw you through the window.”

I pulled my coat tighter, remembering Brian’s big hands in mine . . . touches in a moment of sorrow, nothing more. “This has nothing to do with Brian, though I do find it interesting that you’d bring him up now. You haven’t wanted to discuss him all day.” A breeze churned up the path behind us, waking leaves from their snowy grave.

Mal’s eyes bore down on me, as if searching for the meek, mellow woman he’d shared a first date with at this spot two years before. “I hope you haven’t allowed yourself to fall into some delusion about Brian. He’s dangerous.”

Snow powdered my hair. I could almost feel the curls sprouting from the moisture. “And you’re safe?”

He threw down the picnic basket. Kicked it a few feet. “I heard about those charges against him. I think you need to take them seriously. Unless you want to be his next victim, I suggest you stay away from him—even at work.”

“The thing with Lottie Wells? I know about that. I was there.” I stared at one of the goblets from our lunch, now shattered on the ground. I wouldn’t let the same thing happen to me, not with Mal or with Brian. Even if it meant resigning from my job.

Mal motioned toward the shelter when the snow came down harder, stinging our faces. I didn’t move. He wiped the white from his nose. “It’s not just that. Brian was doing this stuff years ago, when we were growing up.”

“He’d be in jail . . .” My voice sounded firm, even through the brewing storm, but I didn’t resist when Mal pulled me under the pavilion, dragging what remained of the picnic basket with him.

He restated his case. “He was never charged, but trust me, he was guilty.”

I staggered. “How can you be sure?”

He pressed the ring box into my hand.

“I was there.”

I visited the new church again on Sunday, both thankful and sorry to be an anonymous face in the crowd. Monday came too quickly, bringing with it the somber mood of Joyce’s announcement. Of all the students, Sean looked undaunted. Brian looked crushed.

“Can anyone give me an example of a writer from the Harlem Renaissance?” I asked.

Sean’s hand shot up. “Langston Hughes.”

My hands moved across the chalkboard, writing his answer. “Good. And what were some of the themes of his works? What was his struggle?”

Brian watched from the side of the room, half listening. He’d asked this morning what had happened over the weekend. Besides my hair being nappy again, nothing had changed really. Nothing and everything too.

The bell rang.

I turned from the board. “We’ll discuss Jean Toomer’s
Cotton
Song
tomorrow. Be prepared.” The students moaned agreement and filed out of the room. I smiled at them. And then frowned at Brian.

Immediately I regretted it. Sure Mal had always been honest with me before, but I didn’t have any proof that Brian had done anything wrong. Sure, he was even more distant since the assembly, but that didn’t prove anything either.

My heart judged Brian innocent on all counts while my head told me to get away as fast as I could. It was time I admitted it, to myself and to God, that without meaning to, I’d fallen for Brian. Somehow I was going to have to get back up.

When the class emptied, I pushed past Brian into the office, trying my best not to look at him. “Excuse me.”

He tapped my shoulder. Gently.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

I shrank back. “Yes? Can I help you?”

From the look on his face and the flip in my stomach, that was the wrong question. He let the moment pass. “I have a memo for you, but first I wanted to clear up something.”

A memo? This had to be some kind of sick joke. “Put it on my desk. It’s not really a good time to talk.”

Brian walked into the office and stuck the memo inside my Bible. In Ephesians somewhere. I’d scour that passage when I got home, though it probably meant nothing.

As he turned back to me, he had a puzzled look on his face. “You know, things between us were fine until X—Mal Gooden showed up. What did he tell you about me? Did he tell you how he—”

The office door swung open. Quinn bounded in, then stopped short, probably discerning the tension in the room. “I can come back . . .”

I started clearing my desk. “You stay, Quinn. I was just leaving.”

Brian rolled his eyes and motioned Quinn to the chair beside his desk. He looked over at me and shook his head. Just a little, but enough for me to notice.

Quinn sighed. “Now doesn’t seem like a good time. You want me to go?”

“It’s okay. Come on in,” he said, inviting Quinn to sit with his hands and begging me not to go with his eyes.

I left anyway.

He got rid of me.

Of all the things I expected that memo tucked in my Bible to say, learning that I’d be switching positions with Zeely was a total shock. I’d wanted to talk to Joyce about it, but I knew she was resting most of the time now. I’d have to be a big girl and deal with it. As I’d left school and set out for the store, I began to wonder if maybe it wasn’t a good idea after all. This way I could get over Brian and not have to wonder what he was going to do next or whether he was a good guy playing bad or the other way around. I could just teach and go home. Easy. If only shopping were as simple.