Where Do I Go? (20 page)

Wait a minute.
I corralled my thoughts into a neat little row. If Philip wanted a reservation at Bistro 110 for one o'clock, why couldn't I do both? Lunch at the shelter was usually noon, straight up. I'd go to the shelter in the morning, let Mabel know my little conflict, meet the reverends at twelve for half an hour, make my apologies, catch a cab at twelve thirty, and be at the restaurant before Philip and the Fenchels even arrived.

Perfect.

I settled back into the chair, downing the last of my coffee in its “tall” cardboard cup with the plastic sippy lid. Maybe God had a way of untangling these little
snafus
anyway.

Only when I was on the El, watching the wall of buildings and windows fly by, did a nagging thought step out of line. Philip had said Mona Fenchel was coming to the
office
with a bottle of champagne . . . did he expect me to be there for the signing too?

By the time I let myself into the penthouse, I was pretty sure I knew the answer. This was a big deal for Fairbanks and Fenchel, and I should be glad Philip wanted to include “the wives,” shouldn't I? He and Henry could just go out to celebrate and come home with a hangover.

But, I argued with myself, kicking off my shoes and flopping onto our king-size bed, getting this job at the shelter was a big deal for me too. Maybe I should just tell my husband I had an appointment at noon, but I'd be at the bistro with bells on at one. Get it all out on the table. After all, there was no reason both things couldn't happen, right? Except . . . it was hard to reason with Philip once he decided things should happen in a certain way. He'd see it as making my petty agenda more important than his big moment. By wading straight into the water, I risked getting sucked in by the undertow that swept so many of our communications out to sea. If not setting off an actual tsunami.

Okay, maybe I wouldn't say anything, just do it and deal with the fallout later. After all, Philip didn't actually
say
he wanted me to come to the signing. Just asked me to make a reservation at that cute little bistro I'd taken him to before. Why not leave it at that?

I got off the bed. I'd feign innocence. Tonight, I'd raid the freezer—there should still be a package of king crab legs in there—make a lovely dinner, light the candles, rub all the tension from last week out of his neck. Tomorrow, I'd go to the shelter, meet the board members, show up for the celebration at the restaurant. And cross my fingers.

But first, I better make that reservation, or my name really would be mud.

Unlike most weekdays, Philip didn't dash out of the house at seven thirty the next morning. In fact, he was still there when Camila arrived to clean at nine, trying to choose between his gray Armani suit, white shirt, and conservative maroon tie, or a tan suit with blue shirt and tan and brown striped tie.

I was glad for the interruption—anything to distract Philip from going over his plans for the day with me. We'd made it through dinner and the evening the night before, mostly because I kept asking questions at the table about the new job—a combination residential-office multiplex with more than one hundred one- to three-bedroom condos, twenty-five work studios, ten high-end shops on the first level, and underground parking. “Everything from the design to managing the construction, Gabby! Robinson Inc. is primarily an investment firm, putting up the money.” Philip had happily picked his teeth with a toothpick after sucking out the meat from the last crab leg. Then he'd excused himself from the table and spent the next two hours on the phone.

I poked my head into the bedroom. “Camila's here, Philip. I'll get her started at the other end of the house. Mm, the tan and blue looks nice.” I closed the bedroom door and steered Camila toward the living room. “Can you start up front? My husband is still dressing for an important day at work.” I gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry. We'll both be out of your way in a few minutes.”

Sí,
no problem, Señora Fairbanks.” Camila gave me a nervous smile. “But I have a favor to ask,
por favor
. Next Friday is “Cinco de Mayo, fifth of May, a big celebration in my country. I would like to take the day off to be with my family . . . if that is okay with you and Señor Fairbanks?”

I tipped my head curiously. “Cinco de Mayo? What holiday is that, Camila?”

Camila must have taken my question as hesitation, because her words came out in a rush. “If it is a problem, I could make it up to you by coming to clean Thursday or Saturday after my regular—”

“No, no, it's fine.” As little time as we spent in the penthouse, we could easily skip a week. I hoped it was okay with the cleaning service, but who cared. We were the employers, weren't we? “Tell me about this holiday—”

“What are you going to wear, Gabby?” Philip appeared in the archway between gallery and living room in the gray Armani. “How about that purple outfit I bought you?” He glanced at his watch. “Oh—gotta run. Don't be late, Gabby.”

“Go on, go on, I'll be there.” I pushed him out the door, at the same time pushing down the niggling suspicion we were talking about two different times. I leaned against the door and closed my eyes. The purple outfit.
Plum
would be the fashion word. A clingy, long-sleeved top with soft folds falling around the scoop neckline, and flowing pants that could pass for a long skirt. It was lovely . . . and completely wrong for my chestnut hair. Not to mention it would be totally out of place at the women's shelter.

But the purple outfit it would be. I'd have to shave off another five minutes to change in Mabel's office. And forget the El. I picked up the phone and dialed 01. “Mr. Bentley? Would you call a cab for me? . . . Twenty minutes would be fine.”

I got to the shelter at ten wearing casual slacks (I decided against jeans today, even though most of the staff—except Mabel—dressed down) and carrying a bulging bag with the purple outfit and dressy shoes. Colorful prisms reflecting from the stained-glass windows on either side of the oak doors splashed over the tile floor of the entryway and decorated the walls. I drank in the colorful welcome. The sun was out. All should be well.

Mabel wasn't in her office, so I went hunting—and found her comforting a sniffling Edesa in the toddler playroom behind the multipurpose room. Gracie was on the floor, rocking on all fours, as if trying to get hands and knees coordinated for The Big Crawl.

“Oh. Excuse me.” I started to back out of the room.

“No, no, you're just in time.” Mabel waved me in. “I have an appointment soon, but I don't want to leave Edesa alone. She needs some help pulling herself together before leading the Bible study at ten thirty. Can you . . . ?”

“Of course.” Except it was Mabel I needed to see, and she was disappearing down the hall. I turned my attention to the young mother. “What's wrong, honey?”

Edesa sank into a molded plastic chair, leaned over to place a squeaky toy in front of the baby, and then blew her nose into a well-used tissue. I fished in my bag and handed her an unused travel pack.

“I . . . I . . . I just got a call from our . . . our . . . social worker,” she hiccoughed. “She says someone claiming to be
el papá del bebé
has come forward and . . . and . . . and wants to stop the adoption and take . . . take . . . take Gracie.” A flood of fresh tears shook her body, and she buried her face in her hands.

“Oh, Edesa.” I pulled over another chair and put my arm around her. I could only imagine how she must feel. “Oh, honey.” I had a dozen questions—Who was he? Why was he only coming forward now? Where was he when the baby was born?—but I just hugged her to me and let her cry.

After a few minutes, Edesa blew her nose again and looked at me with a wry twist to her full lips. “And I'm supposed to—
hic—
lead a Bible study on trusting God this morning! Me! I'm a mess . . . and I don't have time to call Yada Yada.”

She must have caught my funny look. “S-sorry. That's my prayer group.” She hiccoughed again. “We meet every other week. I'll e-mail them later, and I know they'll shake heaven with their prayers. But I—
hic—
need prayer right now—and . . . and Josh doesn't even know. He has a test today, trying to test out of a class for next semester.” Her dark eyes lifted and met mine. I'd hardly ever seen Edesa Baxter without a sparkle in her eyes, but even wet with tears, her eyes struck me as alive, honest, open—as though they were truly windows to her soul. “Will you pray with me, Gabby?”

“What?”

“Will you pray with me? And then, I hate to ask, but could you take care of Gracie for the next hour? Josh couldn't come today . . .”

“Of course.” I meant, take care of Gracie. The Bible study only went to eleven thirty. But Edesa took my hand in both of hers, our light and dark fingers entwined, and she bowed her head. I realized she was waiting for me to pray.

I suddenly felt like an adolescent at my first Spring Fling, standing against the wall, terrified somebody would ask me to dance. And then someone did. And now was the moment of truth. “God . . .” I swallowed. I couldn't remember the last time I had prayed aloud. I used to pray, “Now I lay me down to sleep . . .” with the boys when they were small. But people around here didn't pray memorized prayers. They just talked to God.

I tried again. “God, Edesa's pretty broken up over this news about a relative showing up. But if anyone I know trusts You, God, it's Josh and Edesa. And they love this baby so much . . .” I stumbled on for a few more sentences and then said, “Amen.”

Edesa gave me a hug. “Thank you so much, Gabby. I . . .” She grinned shyly. “I'm so glad you're going to work here. Nobody's married on staff except me. It will be
muy bueno
to have someone around who's been married a while to talk to about . . . well, you know.” She grabbed her Bible. “Gotta go. Bye, Gracie, honey.” She blew the baby a kiss and was gone.

My skin prickled. Me? Have marriage advice for those two lovebirds? Fat chance. Though . . . once upon a time, Philip and I were in love too. Smiles and glances across the room, hilarious pillow fights, finding a single rose on my pillow. One time I'd talked him into driving to Virginia Beach on the spur of the moment—at ten at night!—just to wade in the ocean by moon-light. He had laughed and told me I was good for him, good for their “proper” Southern family. I still remembered his strong arms around me as the tide swirled around our feet, his fingers in my “mop top” and his kisses soft on my lips, my eyes, my hair.

But that was then. This was now . . .

Now.
Yikes
. I still needed to find Mabel and tell her about my crunch. I scooped up the eight-month-old and cuddled her on my hip, smelling the softness of her dark hair as I glanced at the clock on the wall.

Ten forty. The signing at Fairbanks and Fenchel was in twenty minutes.

Just to be safe, I fished for my cell phone and turned it off.

chapter 19

Except Mabel was not to be found. “Oh, she went out,” Angela informed me from her cubicle. “Had a hair appointment or something. Taking an early lunch.”

I felt like rolling my eyes. Flexible schedules was right! Was she even going to be here when the two board members came? What if she came sauntering in at twelve forty, thinking there was no big rush for this meeting with the “reverends”? After all, she didn't know I had to leave at twelve thirty. But scooting out when she expected me to be here would be worse than telling her I couldn't make it at all.

Gracie started to squirm and squeal, annoyed at my inattention. I jiggled her in my arms and made absentminded cooing noises as I paced around the foyer, wondering what to do. Too late to make the eleven o'clock signing at Philip's office. No one here knew about the split-second timing needed to enable me to get to my second rendezvous . . .
Drat!
My coy conniving had lit a fuse burning at both ends, and I'd be apologizing for the mess in two directions.

Dear God, if I haven't totally blown it, I could use some
help—
“Ouch!”

Gracie had grabbed a handful of my hair. She kept her grip at my outburst, but the rest of her body pulled back in my arms, and the giggle on her face slid down to a quavering pout of her bottom lip.

“Aw, sweetheart, it's all right.” Suddenly the baby in my arms came into focus. This little girl was oblivious of the storm swirling around her—her birth mother dead, a fight brewing between her loving foster parents and the supposed father over her adoption. And here I was, acting as if juggling my tight schedule was the linchpin of a Middle East peace proposal. And nothing had even gone wrong yet! I was getting carried away, praying about such trivial stuff.

“Come on, Gracie,” I whispered in the baby's ear. “Let's go play. But we gotta be quiet, 'cause Mommy's leading the Bible study.” I squeezed through the double doors and was heading quietly toward the toddler playroom when the lilt of Edesa's accent from the circle of chairs on the other side of the multi­purpose room became actual words . . .