Someone to Watch Over Me (29 page)

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Authors: Michelle Stimpson

BOOK: Someone to Watch Over Me
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I had to give it to her. “Girl, you've really got your stuff together.”
“You ain't said nothin' but a word, double-o-seven, nothin' but a word. One last thing.”
“What?”
“Keep your head low. I've already seen three people I know.”
“Gotcha.”
Pumped by Cassandra's sense of adventure, I took off on assignment, taking notes as I perused the aisles: “Doritos—$2.99, powdered doughnuts—$2.39. Graham crackers on the bottom shelf? I definitely needed to notify Cassandra of these findings.
I was on my second page of notes when I heard the loudest, countriest, most welcomed scream. “Miss Tori!”
Like a mother who recognizes her child's voice among a sea of youth, I immediately turned toward the voice. “DeAndre?”
He squeezed through two people's shopping carts and hopped over a bag of fallen Tostitos to reach me.
DeAndre!
He leapt into my embrace and wrapped his arms around my neck. I spun him around twice, savoring the distinct odor of little-boy-needing-a-bath. “Hey, you! I'm so glad to see you!” I kissed his cheek.
He wiped it off. “Miss Tori, you can't kiss me in front of other people.”
“But I miss you,” I laughed. In just a few weeks' time, he looked older already. “How are you? Who are you here with?”
“I'm fine. I'm shopping with Miss Retford. She's my foster mother.” He pointed down the aisle toward a plump brunette woman who was temporarily blocked by other carts in maneuvering her way toward us. Two other school-age boys tagged along.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I'm working. What are you doing here?”
“You're always working, Cousin Tori.”
I winked at him. “I'm sorry. I should have spent more time with you. So, how's your foster family? Are they treating you right? Are they hitting you? Has anyone touched you where they're not supposed to?”
“No, no bad stuff.” His face shined. “Guess what!”
“What?”
“We get to play video games on Fridays and Saturdays.”
“That's great, DeAndre!”
“But I'm not that good yet.”
“Hey.” I squinted my eyes. “Why'd you run away from your daddy's house?”
“'Cause they made me sleep in the closet.”
It took every ounce of self-control in me to remain calm. I needed to get the full story out of him without going off or breaking down. “Why?”
“'Cause my baby sister was crying. So I was trying to wipe her tears, but I didn't see a towel. So I used the pillow to wipe her eyes. And my stepmom said I was trying to summo . . . suffum . . .”
“Suffocate the baby?” I finished his sentence.
“Yeah. That.”
I stabbed his chest with my index finger. “DeAndre, you didn't do anything wrong. If they think you would suffocate a baby, they obviously don't know what a wonderful, nice young man you are.”
“Right!”
We high-fived on it.
As Miss Retford neared us, I set DeAndre's feet back on the ground.
“Miss Retford, this is my cousin Tori. Tori, this is Miss Retford. And this is Paul and Jamie. We're brothers. Kinda.”
“Gail,” she deformalized the conversation, shaking my hand.
Paul and Jamie politely spoke for themselves. “Hello, Miss Tori.” I noted Paul's curly locks and droopy eyes, traits also present in Gail's gene pool.
“Hello there. I hear you two are teaching DeAndre how to play video games, huh?”
“Only on weekends,” Gail reiterated. “Homework and baseball on weekdays.”
“Double-o-seven,” Cassandra summoned behind me. “What are you—hey, DeAndre!”
“Hi, Miss Sandra.”
I stepped aside, putting Gail in Cassandra's line of sight. And then God answered my prayer right before my very eyes.
“Hey, Gail! Haven't seen you in a while! How's my favorite uncle's wife?”
Gail and Cassandra hugged. “So you've got DeAndre, huh?”
“Yes,” from Gail. “He's an absolute joy. Fits right in, no problems.”
“Good,” Cassandra cheered, then she turned to me. “Tori, Gail is married to my very favorite uncle on my father's side, Uncle Stoney. He spent a lot of time in the military, been all over the world. He and Gail have been keeping foster kids for—what? Five years?”
“Seven, actually,” Gail piped with pride. “But we only do short-term placements. It's too hard on Paul when we keep kids for a long time and then have to let them go.”
I feel you, Paul.
Cassandra added, “Uncle Stoney's a truck driver, Gail's a full-time mom.”
Keeping up with three boys DeAndre's age was probably a double-time job. Everybody ain't able. “Well, I'm glad to know DeAndre is with good people.” Understatement of the day.
“Next to Aunt Dottie's, this is the best place he could be,” Cassandra confirmed.
Remembrance of a verse kindled within me. “All things work together for the good of them who love the Lord.” This time I even recalled the reference—Romans 8:28. My shoulders lightened, my heart lifted. Cassandra had been right—DeAndre was in God's care all along.
Gail extended, “If you'd like, we can contact Miss Gentry and arrange for visitation.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
“No problem. She's pretty good about keeping kids in touch with their families.”
“Ooh! Momma, can we get some Gushers?” Paul pleaded.
Gail pushed her basket forward. “No, no Gushers. Let's get off this aisle completely.”
“Awww,” he whined.
“Ladies, we've got to get home before too late.”
I reached down for another hug from DeAndre. He grabbed me tightly. And just before we let go of each other, he murmured in my ear, “I love you, Cousin Tori.”
“I love you, too, DeAndre. You be good.”
“Okay. See you later.” He took off to catch up with Gail and the boys. Before they left the snack aisle, he secretly waved good-bye to me.
Cassandra rested her shoulder against mine. “God truly worked that out, my sister.”
I stood in amazement, almost breathless. “I know.”
Cassandra puckered her lips for a moment, then testified, “You know I'm pretty cautious about white folks. But I can vouch for Gail. She's good people. My sister even takes her boys to play at Uncle Stoney's house sometimes, when she feels like driving the distance.”
“How far are they from Bayford?”
“Well, they're another fifteen minutes west, so I guess altogether about forty minutes from Aunt Dottie's.”
I marveled, “Are you related to every single person in Bayford County?”
She tittered. “Darn near. Let's just say my daddy got around, and so did his daddy. Tell you what, though. I ain't marryin' no crazy joker who can't keep his behind in the home zone.” She turned an imaginary key. “Click! Click! Lock it down or . . .” She struggled for a rhyme.
“Your body won't be found . . . alive?” I tried.
Cassandra flared her nostrils. “Dog, girl, I ain't say nothin' 'bout killin' nobody.”
“It rhymes—
down, found
.”
“Nuh uh.” She snapped her fingers. “And you're dating my
second
cousin?”
“Who in this entire region of Texas
isn't
your cousin?”
She laughed. “I gotta keep my eye on you, Tori.”
After a few more spying missions, we shopped for Cassandra's rug and got in line. The woman two carts ahead of us, Miss Macie Corbie, a daily Dottie's customer Cassandra and I both recognized, was in a heated argument with the cashier.
“I thought you said y'all beat the competition's coupons,” Miss Corbie insisted.
“Ma'am, we do match our competitors' advertised prices in
print
.”
Miss Corbie wagged her cell phone in the cashier's face. “Here's the coupon from Dottie's right here. Chicken noodle soup for a quarter a can! Can't you read!”
Cassandra and I turned to each other in shocked unison.
“Ma'am, this is a text message, not a coupon.”
“Well, I don't want nothin' in this basket then! Nothing!” Miss Corbie announced to everyone within hearing distance, “False advertising in here! I'm shoppin' at Dottie's like I always have!” She left her basket and slowly shuffled away.
Cassandra and I high-fived. “Can't nobody do it like Dottie's,” she chanted. “Can't nobody do it like Dottie's.”
Chapter 30
I
slept well after learning DeAndre was in good temporary hands, but I knew Judge Kiplinger wouldn't consider returning DeAndre to me and Aunt Dottie so long as I was technically living in sin with Kevin. I needed a new address, and this meeting with Preston weighed heavily on my residential status.
From my perspective, there were only two options. Door number one, Preston could fire me for unsatisfactory job performance. Forget all the good things I'd done before Inner-G and while Lexa headed the account. Current bottom lines weighed more than past accomplishments.
Door number two, Preston could save my neck but conclude that the telecommute trial had failed and kindly request/order me to hightail it back to the office, where he could micromanage me until I proved myself again.
In either case, I'd need to move back to Houston; to find another well-paying job (which could take forever, given the economy); or maintain the one I'd been graced to keep.
Neither scenario would satisfy Judge Kiplinger, whom I gathered wasn't exactly gung ho about moving DeAndre out of Bayford County.
Preston, who was scheduled to attend a weeklong summit in Dayton, Ohio, said our meeting couldn't wait until he returned. “Could we possibly meet on a Sunday?”
“Sure,” I replied. Sunday was just as good a day as any to get raked over the coals.
Cassandra wanted to go along for the ride, so with Kevin safely out of state, she and I set out for Houston after closing the following Saturday night.
She marveled at my apartment. “Oh my goody-woody! Love your floors! The architecture!”
“All Kevin's. I can't wait to move.”
She visually searched the walls. “No pictures?”
“No,” I admitted. “This was
his
place, remember?” I'd filled her in on all the Kevin drama while we drove.
“Right, right. Maybe you could stay in this complex, just move to another unit.”
“Hmmm.” I considered. “Might not be a bad idea. Except I'm sure I'd run into Kevin here every now and then.”
“So?” she balked. “
He
should be ashamed to look
you
in the eyes, not the other way around.”
Good point.
Cassandra and I spent a few hours packing up my belongings, marking and labeling boxes for storage. Kevin had promised to arrange for moving and storage when he got back in town so long as I organized my belongings.
After a late night, Cassandra and I got up early Sunday morning searching for a church. “I'll go online and find one,” I offered.
“Not necessary. I do have one cousin in Houston. He said just look for a Williams Chicken and there'll be a Missionary Baptist or a CME church within a three-mile radius,” she quoted.
“I'm not familiar with Williams Chicken locations.”
She bucked her eyes at me.
“I don't each much fried chicken.”
“Could have fooled me.”
My cell phone got us to a small, white frame church tucked behind—where else?—a Williams Chicken restaurant. Cassandra and I withstood curious stares and speculative smiles, but soon got into the service as the members realized we knew the words to the choir's hymns. We weren't heathens.
After church, we grabbed lunch at Panera. I dropped Cassandra off at the apartment and gave her a satellite TV lesson to keep her occupied while I ran off to meet with Preston.
I used my key—maybe for the last time—to enter the locked building. Preston, uncharacteristically flanked by piles of paperwork, was waiting for me in his office. Framed pictures of his family had been overtaken by spreadsheets, charts, and graphs.
“Hi, Tori. Sorry for the mess. I've got a ton of work to accomplish before I fly out tomorrow. Thanks for agreeing to meet with me today.”
“No problem.” I moved a stack of papers from the least cluttered chair, placed them on the floor next to my feet.
Preston's tranquil demeanor scared me. Was this the calm before the storm?
God, do whatever is best.
“So, what gives?” I asked.
He tapped a few last computer keys, cleared an area on his desk, folded his hands, and finally faced me. “I don't have to tell you the meeting with Inner-G didn't go well for Lexa.”
I sighed. “She texted me.”
“They were not impressed with her. To be honest, neither was I. What
did
impress them, however, was the number of times she referred to you as the magic key holder. They'd ask a question, she'd say, ‘Well, as soon as I hear back from my colleague, Tori, I'll be able to respond accurately, blah, blah, blah.'
“Long story short, they pulled the plug on us. And I let Lexa go.”
I flinched at the news, wondering how Lexa would process this disappointment. Before this incident, I might have gloated in her demise. Not now.
“Late last week, Inner-G's head honcho called me. He said after he'd heard your name so many times during the botched meeting and saw Tori Henderson computer-stamped at the bottom of the only comprehensible data Lexa produced, he and his team decided they'd stay with NetMarketing if and only if they could work directly with the infamous Tori Henderson.
I took a deep, processing breath.
Preston continued, “If you take on this assignment, your old clients will be reassigned. I'd want you dedicated to Inner-G alone. You need to get out there, travel with them, immerse yourself in sports and hip-hop culture. Learn this market like the back of your hand. Eat, drink, and live Inner-G. Lots of long, hard, nose-to-the-grindstone hours.”
Overwhelmed by his demanding spiel, I interrupted him. “Can I still work remotely?” Given my Bayford-inspired prioritizing skills, I might be able to pull this off. Well, everything except the travel.
“No.” Preston killed the dream. “I need you here.”
When my face hinted disappointment, Preston tried flattery. “I can't think of anyone who's more dedicated to NetMarketing than you. So, what do you say, Tori?”
A few months ago—before appendicitis, before DeAndre, Jacob, reconnecting with Aunt Dottie, God, and the good people of Bayford—I would have dived headfirst into this opportunity, no questions asked.
Isn't this the recognition and position I've always wanted?
My mouth went dry. “H-how soon must I make a decision?”
Muscles knotted in Preston's neck. “Tori, what's there to think about?”
“My life,” I said under my breath.
He peered at me, bemused.
“I have to think . . . and pray about this.”
“You
do
want to keep your job, don't you?” he threatened, clicking the top of his ink pen repeatedly.
“Yes, I do,” I admitted. “But I've learned life isn't about me. I have other priorities, other people I care about to consider.”
For once.
He hurled his hands back onto the keyboard and started typing again, severing eye contact with me. He bit off the final words of our meeting. “Let me know by tomorrow morning.”
“Okay.”
I dismissed myself, wondering where this new and depreciated Preston Haverty had been hiding all these years. I'd seen him angry, of course, but never rude. Never disrespectful. Then again, we'd never had so much at stake.
Before I left the building, I made a conscious decision to forgive Phantom Preston. No way could I arrive at the best option under the influence of anger.
I veered off the path to the exit doors in order to use the ladies' room. The need to hear from God pressed heavily on my heart. What if Preston removed his offer from the table by morning? What if Judge Kiplinger's attitude never changed, no matter what my circumstances? Was it fair to move DeAndre to Houston so I could drown myself in work? What about Jacob?
As I pushed through the women's bathroom door, two little girls, younger than DeAndre, scampered into empty stalls, slamming the doors shut.
Odd
.
“Hello?” I called to them. “Are you girls okay?”
Just then, a woman nearing Aunt Dottie's age slipped into the restroom, softly closing the door behind her. Her wispy, cotton-spun hair retained her Sunday-morning roller set with great effort. The fancy curls contrasted with the mop and bucket she'd managed to glide into the restroom noiselessly.
“I'm sorry, ma'am. I hope they're not bothering you.”
“Oh, no,” I assured her, “I was only making sure they weren't alone.”
The woman smiled relief. “These are my granddaughters. I have to bring them to work with me on Sundays.”
“It's like that sometimes,” I related.
She leaned in and whispered, “Please don't tell anyone.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Come on out, girls. It's time to go.”
Bows and bouncing twists emerged from the stalls. The girls shied toward their grandmother. The woman winked as she walked away. “You understand the importance of family, I see. God always rewards a tender heart.”
Peace filled my chest so completely, I didn't need to wait until morning to give Preston my answer. I confidently strolled back to his office. With a hint of cheer in my voice, I caught his attention at the doorway. “Preston?”
“Yes.” His brow arched and rounded, mimicking my optimism. He clapped twice. “I knew you'd make the right choice. Welcome back, Tori.”
“No, no. I'm not coming back. I can't take the Inner-G account.” I burst his bubble.
He gulped and chewed his bottom lip. “I hate to lose you, Tori. You're a smart lady, but the economy's in a slump. You sure about this?”
“Don't worry about me. I've got faith and family. I'll land on my feet. I'll be in touch.” Turning my back to him, I ended the conversation.
“Tori, wait.”
“Yes?” I stopped, looked in his direction again.
Oooh, those glasses.
Preston shifted nervously in his chair, his jawline tightening. In that instant, I realized Preston wasn't concerned about me. His anxiety centered around NetMarketing. Losing Inner-G meant losing money and blowing the contract of a lifetime. Preston had more at stake than me, actually. I mean, really, what sense would it make to fire the one person who could save NetMarketing's reputation with its biggest client ever? He'd be next on
his
boss's chopping block.
“Let me rethink the remote alternative,” he compromised. “If we hired a production assistant to travel with Inner-G and handle the minute details, this might work. Colleges are always looking to place eager interns. We might even get a tax break for giving someone else a chance to get their feet wet.”
“Okay,” I agreed, stunned at his unexpected rollover. “I'll wait to hear from you.”
 
Cassandra and I laughed about Preston's change of heart half the long way home, then we praised God for His intervention.
“Girl, God's lining your entire, best life up for you,” she teased. “Before long, Daddy'll have you spoiled rotten, thinking every good and perfect thing you pray for is supposed to happen.”
“Well,” I hesitated, “it
is
supposed to happen, right? I mean, why pray if you don't expect God to move?”
“That's what I'm talkin' 'bout!” She clapped. “Preach, girl! You talkin' like somebody who knows the Word now!”

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