Someone to Watch Over Me (19 page)

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Authors: Michelle Stimpson

BOOK: Someone to Watch Over Me
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She didn't.
“Has our competition tried this strategy already, and if so, what was their success rate?” he wanted to know.
She had no clue. Just shooting from the hip.
“I know you're incredibly talented and creative, Lexa, but if Tori's numbers don't back your proposals, I won't approve them. This isn't one of those if-you-build-it-they-will-come accounts. Don't build it unless you
know
they will come.”
She blasted, “I don't have a crystal ball, Preston.”
“But you do have data from Tori and even Alex. Why do you think I put you on a team with Tori in the first place?”
She passed the buck. “If Tori would come to work, maybe we'd have the opportunity to consult with each other.”
Preston turned the tables. “Tori, would you say your performance has suffered since you began telecommuting?”
I nodded slightly. “Yes, I'd say so, but only because there's an adjustment period for every virtual employee.” No need to bring up the whole no phone signal thing. Moot point, currently.
“I'd be glad to produce research proving my line of reasoning.” This addendum, of course, directed at Lexa.
Her bratty “ha-ha” must have gotten under Preston's skin. He grabbed his folder and dismissed himself. “I'll leave you two to work out the rest. Tori, can you give me an update next week?”
“Glad to.”
“Looks like I'm going to have to meet with Inner-G's executives again soon,” he said.
“No problem,” I assured him. “We'll make sure you have empirical backup.”
I resisted the urge to bury my thumbs in my ears, wiggle my fingers, and stick out my tongue, taunting “I'm better than you are from hundreds of miles away!” Instead, I attempted to steer our remaining time back to the facts.
“So, I'll get busy working on our Facebook—”
Lexa railed, slamming a well-manicured hand on the table, “You are
not
going to take this account from me.” She stormed out, leaving me in total confusion.
Father, what is wrong with this girl?
Then Lexa number two entered. Hair dangling free of its clasp, reading glasses tucked in her pocket. “Let's get started.”
“Whatever. And for the record, let me tell you something: I don't want your job. I have well-established clients of my own whose campaigns aren't running at optimum success because I spend half my day trying to return calls and e-mail messages from you.”
Red splotches crawled up her neck as she attempted to lead our discussion. Her hands shook so badly, she couldn't hold up a sheet of paper between us, had to lay it on the table so we could see the numbers clearly. Part of me felt sorry for her. I know what it's like to be second-guessed. The difference between Lexa and me, however, was her denial of facts. She'd been second-guessed because her first guess was wrong. She would have been better off throwing up the white flag so Preston and the rest of the team could intervene.
Alas, I was in no position to tell her all this. She was the boss of me on this account, remember?
We worked well past five o'clock. I got into my zone and forgot all about Lexa's attitude. The problem-solving groove felt good. Familiar. In this world, I knew all the answers.
Too bad the wisdom train fizzled out when I got back to the apartment with Kevin. “Babe,” he immediately started upon my arrival home, “I want you to know how much I love you.” My eyes scanned the dining room. He'd prepared a hot, healthy dinner for us both—turkey spaghetti with steamed broccoli. Kevin's idea of a sugar splurge, fruit pizza, would top off our meal.
“Looks nice,” I had to admit.
He pulled out my chair and waited until I was comfortably seated before presenting me with a plateful of his masterpiece. He filled both our wineglasses, then he announced a toast. “To us.”
Couldn't leave a brother hanging, so I clinked his glass and added to the toast. “To the life fate has planned for us.”
I didn't believe in fate, but I knew Kevin wasn't too big on God. Or Jesus, for that matter. Bringing up the Holy Spirit was out of the question. “The universe” was as close as Kevin ventured toward any kind of spiritual talk.
He drank, peering at me above the rim of his flute. His withering stare didn't phase me, however. I saw clear through him, as though his daddy made Saran Wrap. This wasn't about me, him, or us. It was about sex.
Watch.
“So, what are your plans tonight?” I asked.
“Spending time with you.”
My cell phone's all-encompassing genius button came in quite handy. “Find AMC theater, Houston, Texas.”
“What are you doing?”
“Finding a movie for us.”
He rubbed a foot against my leg. “Let's produce our own movie tonight.”
As if
. “No can do.”
“Why not?”
“Mother nature's in the house.”
The flicker in his eyes flatlined. He sucked turkey from between his teeth. “So much for makeup sex.”
We both climbed into bed a little before ten, early by our standards. He monopolized the remote control, setting the television on a sports channel to play through the night.
I turned my back to him and studied the knickknacks resting on my nightstand. Among them, a quaint nativity scene that I failed to store every year. Joseph, Mary, and baby Jesus.
I wondered if Kevin would be the kind of husband who'd put up Christmas lights around the house every year. What kind of wife or mom would I be? I couldn't see myself making angel-shaped chocolate chip cookies, leaving them out for Santa. Shoot, I could barely hold the tooth fairy gig together at this point.
“Tori.” I nearly jumped at his voice.
“Yeah.”
He lowered the television's volume. “I do care about you.”
“I know.” In his own special, give-me-my-space kind of way, I'm sure he did.
“So what do you want from me?” he asked.
“I want everything.”
“Define everything.”
“Everything a woman wants from a man.”
Moments later, a sports announcer's voice blared through the speakers again.
Chapter 20
B
y Wednesday afternoon, I still didn't know what to tell Kevin. He moped around the apartment, dishing out the noisiest silent treatment on record. He slammed doors and cabinets, cursed under his breath when he ripped the last paper towel from the holder. Reminded me of DeAndre, really, and prompted me to give my little cousin a call.
“Lester residence,” he answered, as I'd trained him.
“Hello, DeAndre. How are you?”
“Cousin Tori!” he squealed. “When are you coming home?”
I laughed to myself. He thought Bayford was home for me. “Tonight.”
“Yes!” he hissed.
“How was school today?”
“I got a hundred on my spelling test.”
“That's wonderful, DeAndre. I can tell you've been studying.” An elective class I got shoved into at the last minute had come in handy. The instructor told us not to praise kids for being inherently “smart” or “pretty,” but rather for effort exerted toward accomplishments. Suppose I knew a little something after all.
“And how was baseball practice with Pastor Jacob?”
His tone declined sharply. “It was all right.”
“Why just all right?”
DeAndre blew air before answering. “I had to run extra laps because my teacher called the house yesterday.”
Hand against my forehead, I prompted, “Keep going.”
“'Cause she thinks maybe I'm the one who wrote a bad word on the wall in the bathroom, but it wasn't me,” he explained. “I told her, I don't even write like that, all messy and scribble-scrabble.”
“So why does she think you did it?”
He reluctantly admitted, “'Cause I was in the restroom without permission.”
With the phone held tightly to my ear, I pushed past Kevin to grab a bottle of Gatorade from the refrigerator. He lurched in the opposite direction, dodging elbow-to-elbow contact.
A puff of air escaped my lungs, signaling my disgust.
Back to more serious matters. “Well, DeAndre, I hope you learned a lesson from this. If you had been in the right place, you couldn't have been accused.”
“That's the same thing Pastor Jacob said.”
“He's right.”
DeAndre lamented, “I know.”
“So from now on, you stick with your class. Got it?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“How's Aunt Dottie?”
“She's fine, except she makes me read the Bible to her at night and there's a lotta old words I can't read.”
I nearly choked on my drink. “Just keep reading to her. What else is up?”
DeAndre gave a detailed account of Aunt Dottie's ins and outs. He said Joenetta had taken Aunt Dottie to the doctor yesterday, as arranged. Then they had come home with a “whole buncha food.” Not part of the deal, but I imagine Cassandra let those groceries roll out the door since Joenetta probably paraded Aunt Dottie around the store, wheelchair and all.
“I'm gonna get off the phone now, DeAndre.”
“Cousin Tori,” he blurted out, “I was thinking about something.”
“Yes?”
“My momma's birthday is coming up. I was thinking maybe I could go visit her.”
That's not what
I
was thinking.
“We'll see.”
“Okay. Bye.”
I pressed the red disconnect icon, wondering how on earth I'd gone from a peaceful, ho-hum life to possibly planning a trip to the state penitentiary.
Kevin's shenanigans continued until time came for me to leave. His flight out of Bush Intercontinental Airport would depart only a few hours later, so we found ourselves in the bedroom packing simultaneously.
He grabbed the largest suitcase in the closet first, which left me stuffing every square inch of the intermediate-sized piece and the carry-on. There were several other bags to choose from, mind you, but I guess we both coveted the
good
luggage with intact handles.
Nosiness finally got the best of Kevin. “You're packing almost everything. Are you moving out or what?”
“No. I'm just tired of wearing the same two pairs of jeans.”
“So why'd you take the treadmill? Don't they have sidewalks in Breyton?”
“Bayford,” I enunciated, “is filled with animals. Loose animals.”
“You should call animal control,” he suggested.
I answered his question while zipping the front pocket of the smallest bag. “People in Bayford don't call the city on each other's pets. It's rude. If they have a problem, they talk to their neighbors or they figure out a way around it. Live and let live.”
He stopped and faced me, peering down his nose contemptuously. “You owe me an answer. Are you calling it quits?”
“I'm not calling anything until I have an answer.”
“From who?”
“From God, Kevin, all right? I'm waiting to hear from God.” Can of worms now open.
“Are you some kind of super-Christian now?” He circled index fingers around his ears. “Have they
brainwashed
you? Can't you think for yourself?”
Have to let that one slide this time. “I don't expect you to understand, but that's the way it is.”
“So, God is in control of your life now?”
Everything in me stood erect for this lightbulb moment. “Yes. He is.”
He looked toward the sky, then down at me. “Let me know when the real Tori Henderson comes back, okay?”
I didn't justify his response.
“And don't drink the red Kool-Aid!” he yelled, slamming the front door behind himself.
 
Rain slowed my exit from the city, placing me in the parking lot of Mount Pisgah shortly before church dismissed. In the past, I might have considered my arrival perfect timing. The well-explained Word, however, had become a pleasant addition to my Bayford stint. Maybe I could get a personal review later.
As I waited for the congregation's dismissal, my phone's chiming called for attention. I clicked on an urgent e-mail from Lexa—cc'd to Preston—asking about another report that I:
failed to produce prior to leaving.
I quickly replied:
Lexa, I never received your request for this report. However, I anticipated the need and I have already asked Alex to configure the statistics for you. Have a great evening.
I, too, copied Preston. Two can play that game.
Lord, she's gonna get enough of trying to throw me under the bus one day.
The first few churchgoers descended the steps, my cue to locate my people. DeAndre's little head bobbed diagonally as he struggled with Aunt Dottie's bag. Another church member wheeled her down the ramp. I waved toward DeAndre, but he didn't see me.
Hey, I'm in the country.
“DeAndre!”
I can do this here.
He scampered toward me, doing his best to keep the oversized bag in check. I braced myself for his hug. “Hey, you.”
“I'm glad you're here,” he said, slinging the purse off his back and handing it to me. “I don't like carrying no purse.”
“You don't like carrying
a
purse?”
“Nu uh.”
I accepted the bag and placed it in the backseat. Jacob sauntered toward us and took over the task of routing Aunt Dottie safely in her seat.
“We still on for tonight?” he asked once we'd gotten my two passengers situated.
“Yep.”
DeAndre's ultrainquisitive ears must have caught the private exchange between Jacob and me. He kept turning around in the backseat, checking to see of Pastor Jacob was still following us. “Where are you going with Pastor Jacob tonight?”
Aunt Dottie looked at me out of the corner of her eye, obviously stifling a grin.
“None of your beeswax.”
“Are you going to that place with the coffee?”
“Why?”
Aunt Dottie reached across the center console and gently squeezed my arm. Studying her face didn't quite reveal what she wanted to say. “You all right?” I asked.
She nodded. She stealthily pointed at DeAndre, touched her chest, then directed her finger toward me.
He loves you.
Reverence for Aunt Dottie's wordless commentary quieted me the rest of the way home. Jacob had perceived this same fondness. What exactly was I supposed to do with the information, though? I was only a temporary character in DeAndre's life. Pretty soon, he'd get back to life with Joenetta. I wished him well.
After I tucked both Aunt Dottie and DeAndre in bed, Jacob escorted me to java heaven again. We ordered the same drinks, occupied the same table. Only this time, I wasn't consumed with work. I'd have the opportunity to swim in Jacob's eyes and soak up his hearty brown skin.
“How was your trip?”
“Productive.” I reveled in the soft coolness of my beverage. “How was church?”
“Church is always good. We looked at first Corinthians thirteen tonight—the famous love chapter.”
Maybe it was famous to him, but I'd never heard of it. “What's it all about?”
He paraphrased the scripture. “Love is patient, kind, it does not envy, is not proud. Love is not rude, self-seeking, or easily angered, keeps no record of wrongs. The scripture goes on to say love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”
An ache in my chest belied the fact that I spent most of my childhood without love. “Wow. Those are beautiful verses.” My lashes couldn't blink fast enough to stave the tears.
“What's wrong?”
I tilted my head backward, forcing my sockets to reabsorb, reabsorb quickly.
He asked again. Woman 101 advised me to deny distress despite obvious signals. Jacob's probing glance, however, would settle for nothing less than the truth.
“I came to Bayford looking for that kind of love, hoping to get it from Aunt Dottie again because I never got it from my mother. But Aunt Dottie . . . she can't even express herself.” The reality of her stroke hit me full blast right there in Starbucks, perhaps because I hadn't stopped long enough to let myself feel anything before.
Jacob's eyes brimmed with joy. “Tori, you already
have
the love you're looking for. That kind of love, in chapter thirteen, is the kind of love God has for you. He
is
love. You don't have to travel to Bayford or any place else to know His love.”
Truth slowly trickled into my heart, negated by my experiences, my past. Other people's problems, too.
“I pray for a revelation—a Rhema word—on the love of Christ,” he professed.
“What's a Rhema word?”
“A word from God through His Holy Spirit within you, just when you need it.” Jacob's voice began to take on a pulpit quality. “A Rhema word will put you in remembrance of a deeper understanding of God's viewpoint about a specific matter. The Rhema word can always be supported by scripture.”
The incident at the apartment with Kevin—when I recalled the scriptures about guidance—came to mind. “I think I'm already getting those, just not quickly enough.”
He opened his palms. “I'm not God, but if you've got something on your mind, I'm a pretty good sounding board.”
Not totally likely, since my biggest problem was Kevin. I half accepted his offer, asking him what he thought of DeAndre's suggested field trip to prison.
“Going to visit someone in prison isn't a simple exploit,” he explained. “The prisoner has to put you on their visitor's list, then you have to pass a background check—and those were the rules, what fifteen, almost twenty years ago. I can only imagine how much tighter security is now.”
Eyes widened, I asked, “And how do you know so much about prison protocol?”
“My uncle got incarcerated for embezzlement when I was in high school, but he wouldn't have gotten so many years if he'd had more money.”
“How about he wouldn't have gone to prison in the first place if he hadn't committed the crime?” I countered.
Jacob nodded. “True, true. But our justice system is so skewed by money, it's ridiculous.”
How dare he try to make this whole thing about money. One thing Kevin and I always agreed on was the sanctity of people's choices and resulting consequences. “Right is right, wrong is wrong. Right?”
“Yes. But the legal obligation of the justice system is to fairly try each case—not play legal games exhausting the defendant's resources until they have no choice except to plea.

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