Who Is My Shelter? (51 page)
I smiled big and relaxed. “I don't know. They'll tell us the first session.”Whatever it was, I was with Avis.
As it turned out, we didn't need our key cards. The door to Suite 206 stood ajar. Avis and I looked at each other and stole inside like the Three Bears coming home after their walk in the woods. The sitting room part of the suite was empty. However, through the French doors leading into the bedroom, we could see “Goldilocks” sitting on the king-size bed painting her toenails while WGCI gospel music blared from the bedside radio.
The stranger looked up. “Oh, hi!” She waved the tiny polish brush in our direction. “Don't mind me. Make yourselves at home.”
We stood and stared. The woman was average height, dark-skinned, and lean, with a crown of little black braids sporting a rainbow of beads falling down all around her head. Thirties, maybe forties; it was hard to tell. Her smile revealed a row of perfect teeth, but a scar down the side of her face belied an easy life.
Avis was braver than I was and said what I was thinking. “Uh, are we in the right room? We didn't know we had another roommate.”
The woman cocked her head. “Oh! They didn't tell you at registration? Suite 206, right?” She capped the nail polish and bounced off the bed. “Florida Hickmanâcall me Flo.” She stuck out her hand. “Avis and Jodi, right? That's what they tol' me downstairs. Anyway, I was going to room with this sister, see, but she had to cancel, and I didn't want to pay for a whole suite all by myself. Had to sell the kids just to get here as it is.” She laughed heartily. Then her smile faded and she cocked her head. “You don't mind, do you? I mean . . . I don't need this whole king-size football field to myself. Unless . . .” Her forehead wrinkled. “You want me to sleep on the fold-out couch?”
My good-girl training rushed to my mouth before I knew what I was saying. “Oh, no, no, that's okay.We don't mind.” Do we, Avis? I was afraid to look in Avis's direction.We had pretty much agreed driving out that since it was a suite, we could each have a “room” to ourselves. Avis was definitely not the stay-up-late, sleepover type.
“Oh. Well, sure,” Avis said. “It's just that no one told us.” I didn't know Avis all that well, but that wasn't enthusiasm in her voice. “I'll sleep on the fold-out,” she added, wheeling her suitcase over to the luggage stand.
I noticed that she didn't say “we.” I stood uncertainly. But our new friend had generously offered the other side of the mammoth bed, so I dragged my suitcase into the bedroom and plopped it on the floor on the other side of Florida's nail salon.
Well, this was going to be interesting. I had thought it would be quite an adventure to get to know Avis as my roommate for the weekend. As members of the same church, this was a chance to get beyond the niceties of Sunday morning and brush our teeth in the same sink. But I hadn't counted on a third party. God knows I wanted to broaden my horizons, but this was moving a little faster than I felt ready for.
As I hung up the dress I hoped would pass for “after five” in the narrow closet, I suddenly had a thought. “Florida, what number is on your registration packet?”
Florida finished her big toe and looked at it critically. “Number? . . . Oh, you mean that gold sticker thing on the front?” She looked over the side of the bed where she'd dumped her things. “Um . . . twenty-six.Why?”
Neta Jackson's award-winning Yada books have sold roughly 700,000 copies and are spawning prayer groups across the country. She and her husband, Dave, are also an award-winning writing team, best known for the Trailblazer Booksâa 40-volume series of historical fiction about great Christian heroes with 1.5 million in salesâand
Hero Tales: A Family Treasury of True Stories from the Lives of Christian Heroes
(vols. 1â4). They live in the Chicago metropolitan area, where the Yada stories are set.
