Emma, with her Deep South upbringing and no more than eight years of school, often reverted to the way she spoke when she was a “gal” back home. Cassidy shook her head no to Emma’s question, appreciating the motherly concern threading through Emma’s voice.
“Did you eat enough while ya was at that teachas’ convention?” With the back of her hand, Emma wiped the mid-June heat from her forehead. “I know the way ya can go without two, three meals straight sometimes.” Her lips in a firm pucker, her eyelids close together, Emma bobbed her head down, up, down, up as she inspected Cassidy. “Gal, it don’t look like ya put on a single pound.”
“I ate three meals a day, Ms. Emma.” Cassidy added what she knew the older woman would relish hearing: “Of course, none of the meals were as good as yours.”
“I sho know that’s right.”
A mighty laugh burst from Emma, and Cassidy laughed, too, secretly, at Emma. The over-eighty-year-old didn’t believe anyone could fry, bake, or even boil better than she could, and the truth was, up and down treelined Pomona Street, Emma was said to be one of the three best cooks on the block. The Vietnam veteran who resided in the corner house and Cassidy’s aunt Odessa were said to be the other two.
“Well, I’m glad yer back,” Emma said. “Shevelle and the baby is still here. Shevelle’s been hoping she could get together with ya ’fore she goes home next week.”
Cassidy was all for hanging out with Shevelle, but she prayed Shevelle left the baby at home. Last time Cassidy and Shevelle went out, Shevelle brought the baby along and insisted Cassidy hold her. It annoyed Cassidy when people with babies assumed everyone wanted to hold their little angels.
Cassidy reached for her suitcase, and the gold link bracelet she rarely took off slid to the end of her arm.
“Hold it.” Emma’s voice was uncompromising as she pounded her wooden stick on the sidewalk, the rubber tip stealing the strident sound she seemed to be after. “Robbie, come take this here suitcase,” she hollered across the two-way urban street.
Their neighbor, a boy of nine, out for an excursion on his scooter, stopped the royal-blue contraption a few inches short of Cassidy’s white canvas sneakers. “Hi, Cassidy,” he said cheerily.
“That’s
Miss
Cassie to you, boy.” Emma nudged his ankle with her cane.
Cassidy put her arm around Robbie’s shoulder and sent a smile down to the child. An ache within Cassidy’s soul intensified mercilessly, but she kept her jaw rigid, unwilling to let the agony show on her face. “Robbie,” she said, “you keep right on calling me Cassidy.”
“It ain’t respectful.” Emma aimed a sharp gaze at the youngster, further conveying that in her presence there would be no addressing adults without the preface of Mr. or Miss.
Cassidy gave Robbie a squeeze and patted his braided-to-the-scalp hair. “Your scooter looks new.”
“It is. My dad gave it to me last weekend . . . when I stayed at his house.”
“It’s very nice. I like your knee and elbow guards, too. Where’s your helmet?”
Robbie’s stare widened. “I should go put it on.”
“Good idea. I’ve got the luggage.” Cassidy watched the boy ride home, her heart still aching. She turned back to Emma. Emma’s expression was a sandwich of disbelief and disagreement.
“Ya should’ve let that chile help. It’s never too soon for a boy to learn the ways of a man.” She propped her cane on her hip and stacked her arms across a hefty bosom. “And like I’ve told ya time and time again, young lady, acceptin’ a man’s strength is not a sign of weakness.”
Out of reverence, Cassidy kept her eyes from rolling, but she had to speak up. “I’ve got the Lord, and He’s all the strength I’ll ever need.”
Emma laughed. “The Lord is the center of my world, too, baby. But the broad shoulders of an earthly man sho feels mighty good.”
Not in the mood for one of her neighbor’s love-and-marriage and how-good-a-man-can-make-you-feel talks, Cassidy hugged Emma good-bye, then grabbed her suitcase from the sidewalk and hurried to the house. Before she could drag her key from her purse, the Charity Community Church van pulled up to the curb and the driver blew the horn. Cassidy waved at Deacon Willie Linden and the three silver-haired female passengers on their way to the Knitting Circle, a club that met at the church on Friday evenings.
“Well, mercy,” Odessa Vale exclaimed, pushing open the screen door. It squeaked and slammed behind her. “Baby girl, what are you doing here?”
Cassidy wrapped her aunt in a hug that pinned them close for several moments. She was forced to give the abridged version of why she’d come home early because Deacon Linden had blown the horn a second time, and now he was on his way up the walkway to escort Odessa to the van.
“We’ll talk more when I get home.” Odessa gave Deacon Linden, barely able to bend his arthritic knees, her bag of knitting supplies so she could hold on to his elbow and the rail as she eased down the steps. “I’ll tell you all about Trevor,” she said over her shoulder.
“Who’s Trevor?” Cassidy called after Odessa, but she was engaged in a conversation with Deacon Linden and either didn’t hear the question or elected not to answer.
“Are there any questions or concerns?” No hands rose this time. Trevor Monroe clapped shut his binder and stood. “In that case, we’re done for the day. You’ll find refreshments in the lounge.” He smiled at the newest teen employees seated around the conference table as they gathered complimentary pens and handbooks, preparing to exit. It was a first job for most of them, and their uncertainty was obvious. As was his custom, Trevor had tried to keep the tone of the meeting casual. Although he let it be known that he was boss and expected professionalism at all times, he wanted his employees to feel comfortable and free to approach him. At the door, he shook each teenager’s hand. “My number is in the manual if you have concerns, job-related . . . or otherwise,” he reminded them.
Without meeting his secretary’s gaze, he knew she regarded him with dissatisfaction. Grace Armstrong had advised that his private number should remain private. The managers could handle concerns. But Trevor had disagreed. The concerns of employees, especially the teens, were paramount. Some of them couldn’t, wouldn’t, talk to their parents. He preferred they come to him rather than reach out to negative street influences.
Trevor looked Grace’s way. Above the burgundy rims of reading glasses, set so close to the tip of her nose it seemed one quick move of her head and the frames would topple off, her eyes scrutinized him. After all of the teenagers had gone, Trevor strode over and glued a kiss to the cheek of the woman dear enough that he’d given her cards and gifts every Mother’s Day since she started working for him. Trevor knew he had a special place in Grace’s heart as well. Grace had miscarried a baby thirty-five years ago, and he was the same age that baby would have been.
Grace wriggled out of his embrace, fanning her hands as if shooing flies. “That lovey-dovey stuff will get you nowhere, Mr. Monroe.”
At work, she insisted on addressing him formally, and that was one of the battles he’d let her win. “I know, but that lovey-dovey stuff sure is fun.” He winked. “Just don’t tell Houston. I’d hate to have him put a beat-down on me.”
Grace’s face softened. “It’s been ages since I’ve had men fighting over me.”
“Shattered many hearts in your day, huh, Grace?”
She chortled, not answering. Trevor could easily imagine she had broken hearts. Grace was attractive at fifty-nine. Her silver and black hair was cut in a modern style, and even with the makeup she often wore, her face appeared natural. Grace had a medium-size, well-defined figure, and her clothing, while befitting her maturity, stayed hip enough to gain oodles of compliments from younger workers. Grace was what Trevor imagined his wife might have resembled years down the line if—
Grace’s voice interrupted Trevor’s thoughts as she passed him on the way to the door. “I mailed you an invitation. Did you receive it?”
He frowned, not meaning to. “It came a few days ago.”
“I’ll be making that potato salad you eat by the ton.”
At the least, Grace deserved a halfhearted grin, and he gave one. “The offer’s tempting. I’ll let you know.” In all honesty, Trevor could have let her know right then. He would not attend the annual barbecue in honor of Grace and Houston’s wedding anniversary. With his family one member short, such a gathering would be too painful. Trevor lifted his binder from the table remembering how difficult it had been to return to church without his wife. It was a full three months before he could sit through an entire service.
Trevor locked up his office for the day and exited through the rear of his Chelten Avenue bakery and café. Car keys hanging from his fingertips, he strolled across the parking lot blacktop to a hunter-green Expedition. The hot strikes the sun bombed the region with all week were held at bay by thickening, darkening clouds, but the air was still too clingy for Trevor’s taste, and before boarding his truck, he pulled off his tie, undid his top shirt buttons, and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. After starting the ignition, he flipped on the air conditioner. A man pleased with the outcome of the workday, he drummed his fingers on the dashboard in time to the spry pulse of Bishop Colvin Culpepper and the Solid Ground Church Mass Choir. Trevor owned all four of Culpepper’s urban praise CDs. The latest he’d purchased yesterday, and as he listened to a song he was hearing for the first time, he sorted through ideas of how to spend the evening. Like most things nowadays, his plans revolved around and often included the leading ladies in his life. Trevor removed his phone from the belt clip at his waist and punched the necessary buttons.
“Hello,” a child’s voice promptly said.
“Hey, baby.”
“Daddy,” Brandi Monroe sang. “When are you coming to pick us up?”
“I’ll be there soon. And guess what?”
“What?” Brandi asked with breathless anticipation.
“I have a surprise for you and Brittney.”
“A puppy,” she squealed. “Are we getting a puppy?”
Trevor smiled, enjoying his baby daughter. “No, Poopie’s enough.” One ball of fur that tagged his toes before he could get his socks on in the mornings was all he could tolerate. “It’s not a bunny, a lamb, or a raccoon,” he said, satisfied he’d named all the critters on Brandi’s most recent pet wish list.
“I have a surprise for you, too, Daddy,” she said. “But you have to wait until Sunday.”
Father’s Day. Holidays drove the pain of loss in deeper, and whether it was Memorial Day, Thanksgiving, or Christmas, Trevor had become more of an onlooker than a participant. But God is good, he thought, determined to stay encouraged, and come Sunday, he’d wear a smile for the sake of his children. He requested gently, “Sweetheart, put Aunt Penny on, please.”
After a brief silence, another familiar voice greeted him. “What’s up, big brother?”
“Don’t tell the girls, but I thought I’d treat you three to dinner and a movie.” Penny Davies was worthy of more. She’d been a lifesaver, helping with the kids since the death of his wife. They were at Penny’s place now because she’d taken on the weekly task of washing and braiding their hair. Trevor would never forget the way tender-headed Brandi screamed her misery the first and only time
he
attempted to comb through her coarse tresses. “So are we on for tonight?”
“I’ll have to pass.”
“Don’t tell me you have a date with Kirk.”
“And if I do?”
Trevor caught an earful of attitude. “Take it easy,” he soothed, not intending to go one-on-one with Penny over this month’s loser. Since her divorce, the quality of the men Penny chose to date balanced to zero. Yet Trevor had promised to keep out of her romantic affairs. He understood how vexing it could be when people angled their radar toward the love life of another. His wife had been gone only a little more than a year yet numbers had been slipped to him, names whispered, bouquets and baskets delivered. The bulk had been from fellow Charity Community Church parishioners ready to have their daughters or granddaughters, nieces or baby cousins, pursued, courted, and wed—and not necessarily in that order.
“I’d love to go out with you and the kids,” Penny said, “but my throat’s sore. I think I’m coming down with something. I plan to order Chinese food and call it a night.”
“Just make sure you’re all better by next Saturday, or else I’m dateless.”
“I told you, I have several girlfriends who would
love
to escort my tall, so-finebrother.”
“Not interested,” he mumbled. Then in a lighter tone, he added, “I have an errand to run. Then I’ll be over for the girls.”
“Hey,” she stopped him before he clicked off. “If it isn’t too much trouble, bring a movie to go with my meal.”
Asking what kind of film to rent was a waste of time. Penny appreciated a good love story as much as he did. In fact, brother and sister, born eleven months apart, were very much like twins. They looked alike, had the same food favorites, and they could talk about anything together. But Trevor rarely talked to Penny, Grace, or anyone about losing his wife. And he had not spoken once about the cowardly decision he’d made the day she died.
T
revor crossed the video store, passing the New Releases section. He halted behind a man his height and cleared his throat. Kregg Lattimore turned, and a smile appeared on his dark-skinned, clean-shaven face as the men performed their rendition of a handshake, a little something they put together during their Central High School days. A few minutes into the conversation, Trevor wanted to know, “Did you solve your scheduling problem?” Last week, Kregg had divulged he was having trouble juggling a full-time accounting career, two graduate courses, and his new high-maintenance girlfriend.
“I’m working it out.” Kregg slid a pack of gum from the breast pocket of a knit shirt. He held the pack out to Trevor, who shook his head no. Kregg dislodged a stick, then returned the pack to his pocket. “So how’s Penny? I haven’t talked with her this week.”
“She’s coming down with a cold or something, but other than that, she’s okay.”
“Is she still going out with that jerk Kirkpatrick?”