“Maybe we’ll be going to his wedding next.”
Cassidy giggled. Oliver Toby was doing fine in his new home and had become good friends with his elderly neighbor, a widow named Ramona.
Cassidy rubbed Trevor’s arm. “You know what I was thinking before you came out here?”
“What’s that?”
She pointed to a space some thirty feet away, adjacent to a wall of trees that separated Trevor’s property from his neighbor’s. “I’m going to put an herb garden there.” She’d observed enough of Odessa’s green-thumbing over the years to feel confident she would be successful at managing something small.
“I think you’d look sexy in a straw hat and overalls, out there tilling the land.”
Cassidy nudged him in the rib cage, and Trevor tightened the embrace.
“I love you so much, Sky,” he said, the husky whisper gently buffeting her neck.
She smiled. “You still haven’t told me what that nickname is all about.”
He placed his lips against her cheek, and she felt him smile. “Your blue bathrobe reminds me of the sky at dusk. And like the sky, you’re beautiful . . . and expansive . . . and limitless.”
“Expansive and limitless,” she repeated with an air of question.
“You’re expansive,” he explained, “because you have a lot of love in your heart. And you’re always showing it to your students”—he pecked her cheek—“and to the seniors at the center”—another peck—“and to me and the girls.”
Consciously floating on his cloud of flattery, she grinned wider. “And limitless?”
“I see you as a limitless woman. One that can reach any dream she climbs toward.”
“Tell me more,” she purposely cooed.
“Whenever I see you in your robe, it just makes me want to . . .” He whispered the remainder of the sentiment in her ear. Cassidy’s mouth fell open, and she turned and gave him a featherweight punch in the chest. Trevor drew her closer, their bodies becoming a solid line, and she shut her eyes, reveling in some of the fun memories they’d made since Trevor proposed to her last summer.
They’d attended twelve premarital counseling sessions and planned a church wedding. They had their first Thanksgiving and Christmas and Easter dinners together. And they’d refashioned the master bedroom from corner to corner. Early on, Cassidy had reservations about moving into the home Trevor and Brenda had shared for the second half of their marriage. Cassidy thought it would be best if they started out fresh, bought a new house, a place of their own. Trevor had no objections. He was the one who initially broached the subject by asking if she wanted to purchase something new. He was even willing to move into her house, if that’s what she wanted. They had spent several weeks looking at real estate options, but they hadn’t found anything as elegant as Trevor’s titanic vintage home. And when it all came down to it, neither she nor Trevor wanted to relocate too far away from the girls’ school, his place of business, or the church they loved. So Cassidy decided she’d be okay moving in with Trevor and the children. Trevor had made it easy for her to come to that decision by giving her the clearance to redecorate the house as she pleased.
She leaned back and looked up at him, glimpsing the starless sky. He placed a mild kiss on her mouth. Ready for more, she molded a hand to the back of his neck, rose up on her toes, and reached for another kiss as he pulled back and whispered, “I want you to go home.”
Her heart echoing her wish to remain close, she leaned forward and nibbled at his throat. He clutched her shoulders and with the lightest touch, pushed her away. The warmth of passion became replaced with the chill of confusion until Cassidy looked into the amorous depths of Trevor’s eyes. Instantly, she realized he wanted to kiss as much as she did, and he wasn’t refusing her because he didn’t desire her . . . but because of how much he did. He dusted his hand along the length of her face. “Just eight more days, and we won’t have to say good night.”
With the same flirtatiousness she’d been feeling all evening, she tilted her chin up and rasped, “Then I can have all the kisses I want.”
“Wherever you want,” he added, and she blushed, but inside her heart, like every bride-to-be, she looked forward to the unbridled intimacy she would share with her new husband. They would be honeymooning in Jamaica, but their flight wasn’t until Sunday morning, so they decided to spend their first night at home. Trevor had been sweet enough to sleep in one of the extra bedrooms so that they could christen their new room—and bed—together. Cassidy knew exactly what she was going to wear on her wedding night. At her bridal shower, Lena had given her a lacy-at-the-top, sheer-at-the-bottom nightgown. It was delicate yet sexy, and Cassidy was sure Trevor would think the same.
She lifted her eyes to his. She was the center of Trevor’s attention, and she blushed as if he could see what she’d been thinking. “I should get going.” She scooped her purse from a celery-green patio table, a match to four chairs and a recliner. Trevor reached for her hand and laced their fingers, and they walked to her car, sitting in a driveway that curved around the back of the house to a one-car garage.
“Call me when you get to Lena’s so I know you’re in safely,” he said.
Cassidy had sold the house she’d inherited from Odessa and moved in with Lena two months ago. “Don’t forget—have Brittney and Brandi ready by ten.” The sisters would be their flower girls, and they had a final fitting with the seamstress in the morning along with bridesmaids Portia, Shevelle, and Penny and maid of honor Lena.
“They’ll be ready.”
“What time are you picking up Herbie?” she asked. Trevor was taking their ring bearer shopping for shoes tomorrow. Her question seeping into the silence, about to go unanswered, Cassidy gently called, “Trevor,” her hand balled as she tapped him on the forehead. “Where’d you go?”
He blinked abruptly, as if he’d landed back on earth from a fantasy. “I was thinking about Kendall. I wish she could make the wedding.” He smiled. “When you and Kendall do finally meet, I’m sure you’re going to like each other.”
Cassidy couldn’t determine why, but a crumb of uneasiness suddenly fell into her prewedding happiness. She fished the unwelcome tidbit out before it could settle, and smiled up at Trevor.
A tower of empty pizza boxes, twenty deep, sat against the wall in the recreation room of Kregg’s town house. The trash can was full of soda cans and dirty paper plates. The speakers pumped out a steady thump of urban praise while an intense pool match progressed between Clement and a twenty-five-year-old named Linwood. All the other men were standing around, quiet as a surveillance team, eager to see if the unbeatable Linwood would finally be brought down by the pastor.
A few minutes later, Linwood emerged undefeated, and the pastor asked the men to join him upstairs in the living room. Some of the thirty-five men in attendance seated themselves in the burgundy-wine leather sectional and matching chairs. Others sat on folding chairs that had been borrowed from the church, on stools carried in from the kitchen, or on the carpeted floor. Kregg came over and gave Trevor, seated on a leather chair, a white envelope. He gripped Trevor’s shoulder. “Congratulations from all of us, man,” was all he said, and stepped away.
Trevor pulled out a brochure and read the bold writing on the front flap aloud. “Welcome to the Pocono Mountains.”
“We all chipped in,” Houston said, “and got you and the soon-to-be missus an all-expense-paid week at one of them all-inclusive resorts. It’s good for three years.”
“Thanks.” Trevor smiled and took another glance at the brochure. “I appreciate it. I appreciate this entire afternoon.” Trevor thought he was coming over to help Kregg and Hulk install new flooring in the kitchen. Instead, he found this bunch. Nearly all of them were members of Charity Community’s Men Movement—Men of Purpose. They usually met two days a month, one for biblical exploration and fellowship, the other for community service. Last month the men put their time, talent, and money together and painted fifteen units of a homeless shelter. Later this month they would sponsor an indoor fair for the children’s wing of a hospital. A back-to-work clinic for former prison inmates would be hosted by Men of Purpose next month. With gratefulness in his eyes, Trevor regarded his bachelor party participants. “Thanks,” he verbalized again.
“Well, we’re not done yet,” Clement said.
“Time for the stripper,” Durante Jackson called out, and everyone laughed.
“Here’s something from me and Vivaca.” Clement gave Trevor a large box wrapped with gold paper and tied with white string that met at the top, forming an artistic puff that resembled a flower. “Vivaca insisted on all the frills,” he said, backing away and shaking his head.
Trevor removed the decoration and found three books on marriage. “Thanks, Pastor,” he said, and passed them around so everyone could get a closer look.
Sam Myricks read the blurbs on the back cover of one. “Maybe a book like this could help me figure out Leandra. She’s been whining about how I don’t understand her needs.” He added sheepishly, “Especially in the bedroom.”
Clement scooted forward in his seat and said, “Listen, fellows, I had planned to keep this afternoon light, but since it’s just us men, there’s something I’d like to say, if it’s okay.”
Everyone nodded or murmured for him to continue.
“Well, I want to talk to my married brothers first.” His gaze fell on Sam. “Perhaps what I’m about to share will help.”
Sam nodded that he was paying attention.
“Last week,” Clement said, “I had a young lady come to see me. She told me she loves her husband but she hates having sex with him.”
One of the men let out a long whistle.
“As the young lady and I spoke further, she confided, ‘He doesn’t know how to touch me, and when I tell him how I’d like him to touch me, he gets angry.’” The room was still. “This is not the first woman to come to me or Vivaca or one of our counselors with the same heavyhearted burden. So if I may, I’m going to give you gentlemen a scripture that will help you.” Every eye was alert. “Ephesians 5:28,” Clement said.
“So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies,”
Hulk said.
“It’s really as plain as the nose on your face. My friends and my brothers,” Clement said with calm authority, “you don’t rush into bed, grope the most sensitive areas of your wife’s body, and expect her to be turned on. Listen,” he told them, “hold your hands up for a moment.” All the men held up their hands. “These hands have power . . . the power to encourage a woman to please you, if you know how to use them the right way.”
“Power,” Sam boasted. “I like the sound of that.” He pounded hands with the man next to him.
“Now, hear what I’m saying, guys. I’m not talking about possession or dictatorship or manipulation. I’m talking about preparation and presentation.” Clement leaned forward. “Let me break it down into language you all can understand.”
“Break it down, Preacher,” Houston supported.
“Football,” Clement said. “We all love the game. I know because Sunday morning male attendance drops drastically the closer it gets to the Super Bowl.” A few couldn’t look Clement in the eye. “Now, when that Sunday game is on, it has your total focus. Amen?”
“Amen,” deep voices responded.
“Well, you guys need to love your wives with the same devotion and passion. There are four quarters to a game. Tell me why you can’t dedicate the same amount of time or more to making love to your wife.” The eyes of some grew large, suggesting they couldn’t believe the pastor was going there. Others chuckled because the pastor did go there. “Most of you all in here are younger than me, and you mean to tell me you can’t hang for four quarters? And how about a little pregame activity?” Clement picked on one of the chucklers. “Joel, how do you approach your wife?”
“I usually grab her butt and tell her it’s time to get busy.”
“Crude, man,” someone said.
Clement’s focus remained on Joel. “Is your wife receptive to that type of invitation?”
“Sometimes. But she usually gets an attitude,” he admitted.
“So why don’t you change your game plan?” His gaze shifted from man to man. “Start with a light touch to her face or a gentle squeeze of her hand. Hug her without mauling her. Kiss her without shoving your tongue down her throat. And by all means, massage her back or rub her feet.” Clement taught on, “Love your woman
softly,
brothers. Would you like it if your wife grabbed you the same way she might grab that last pair of shoes in her size from the sale table?”
“Ouch,” Durante said, bringing his legs together.
“Your wife’s body is just as sensitive. She needs you to handle her the same way you want to be handled.”
“What do you do when she doesn’t want to be handled?” Bryce Stanford pretended to be his wife and stood up with his hands on his hips. “I’ve been taking care of these kids
all day
and I’m too tired.”
There was laughter, but Clement was serious. “What have you done to ease her load?”
Bryce shrugged and took his seat.
“Did you do the dishes for her? Did you run her a bath?” Giving none of the married men the benefit of the doubt, he aimed the rhetorical questions, like football passes, around the room. “Did you let her sit and read while you put the kids to bed? When’s the last time you opened your mouth and told her how much you appreciate her? Said I love you? I guarantee if you did a couple of those things consistently, she’d respond differently.”
“What do you do when she says she’s bored?” a young man named Marcelle asked.
“You’ve only been married a year,” Bryce pointed out.
Marcelle looked to his pastor.
“If you approach the same team with the same strategies every time you play them, you’re going to have difficulty. You’ve got to change the game plans. Women love variation, so throw a new play in from time to time.” All the men were quiet and attentive. “Look, brothers, I surely don’t claim to know all the answers. But there are dozens of books on the market, many of them Christian-authored books, on sex and romance and intimacy. The three go together, you know. You can’t have one without the others and expect your wife to be satisfied.”