58
Remember That
Hope sat at the dining room table looking as if she were back in college. She wore a light pink warm-up, her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was surrounded by books, papers, sticky notes, and files. With legs up in an adjacent chair and crossed at the ankles, she was engrossed in her second reading of
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
. Hope may never win any mother-of-the-year awards, but it wouldn’t be because she hadn’t tried to be prepared.
She was about to turn on the television when the elevator door opened. Her eyes widened when Cy walked in carrying a large 3-D mock-up of their dream house, the one that was supposed to have been a surprise, but which was now a totally open and collaborative effort between Hope and Cy.
“Baby, come look!” Cy said, his eyes sparkling. “Stan is on his game, baby. This mock-up is exactly what we put on paper.”
Stan Connors was the architect Jack had recommended to design the Taylor home. He had more than lived up to the hype.
“Look, baby,” Cy said as he rubbed his woman’s ever-widening bottom. “The veranda wraps around the entire house. And this gate here, where it ends,” Cy opened a miniature replica of a gate that actually swung back and forth, “is the entrance to the backyard and pool area. It’s even better than I envisioned.”
They spent the next half hour poring over the mock-up for their ten-thousand-square-foot, seven-bedroom, ten-bathroom home that combined elements from several architectural styles: contemporary, Italianate, Spanish, and chalet.
“Are you hungry?” Hope asked. “I think I’ll grab a bite.” She rose from the table. “Ow!”
Cy was on his feet in an instant. “Baby, what is it, what’s wrong?”
Hope was almost doubled over. “I don’t know, it feels like a cramp. Help me to the bathroom.”
Cy picked her up and carried her into their master suite. As soon as she pulled down her pants, fear jumped into her heart. Blood covered the lining.
“My baby, Cy, what’s wrong with my baby!”
“We’re not waiting to find out. Let’s go!”
Within minutes, Cy was breaking speed limits as he headed toward St. John’s Health Center in Santa Monica. En route, he conversed with their doctor, Vimba Chanakira, who tried to keep Cy calm and get him to slow down. Hope sat in the other seat trying to manage the pain with rhythmic breathing. As soon as they pulled up to the emergency entrance, Dr. Chanakira was there with a stretcher and assistants who whisked Hope inside.
Cy didn’t want to leave his wife’s side, but Dr. Chanakira insisted. “Please, Cy. We need to be focused in there. You’ll only be a distraction.”
“But what can I do?” Cy was near tears.
“Pray,” was Dr. Chanakira’s response before she hurried through the double doors.
Cy whipped out his phone and punched in Derrick’s number. “Man, you need to pray with me. I’m at the hospital. Hope’s bleeding. We can’t lose the baby!”
Derrick knew the words
calm down
would be useless and insensitive. So instead he went straight to prayer: “Heavenly Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. And we believe that it is your will, God, for Cy and Hope’s child to come through this trauma by your grace and mercy. So we ask now, dear God, to calm this storm, we utter the words of our Lord, peace be still, into this situation. . . .”
Derrick prayed for almost fifteen minutes. As he did, Cy’s heartbeat slowed, and his breathing calmed. He began praying in the holy language, underscoring Derrick’s words with his soft entreaty before the throne of grace. He reached for the simple gold cross Hope had brought him for his birthday. Fingering it, his faith grew until he could honestly add his belief to Derrick’s words.
“And so, Father God, we thank you right now for what we believe you’ve already done. We thank you that this child will grow to call you Lord. We thank you that this seed will be like the tree planted by the rivers of water and will not be moved,” Derrick said.
“Yes, God, we thank you. Thank you, Father God. Thank you, Lord.” By now, Cy was in the corner on his knees, not caring how he looked or who noticed. He was praying for his joint heir. Nothing else mattered.
After he got off the phone with Derrick, he sat in a chair, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He forced himself to continue in the calm that had come over him while his brother had prayed fervently for their child.
What’s your wife’s name?
a voice asked in his mind.
Cy knew His voice. Smiling, he whispered, “Hope.”
Remember that.
“Hope,” Cy whispered again, fingering the cross. “Hope.”
A soft hand touched his shoulder. “Mr. Taylor?”
“Dr. Chanakira,” Cy said, standing quickly. He still believed, but concern shone in his eyes.
“Your wife is fine, and so are the babies.”
“My wife is—what? Babies?”
“That’s right,” Dr. Chanakira nodded, smiling. “You’re having twins. Your son
and
your daughter are fine.”
It seemed Cy couldn’t keep his hands off Hope’s stomach. They’d arrived home an hour ago, and after running a warm bubble bath in their master-suite Jacuzzi, he’d decided to join her. He washed her gently, lovingly, toweled her dry, and then carried her to the bed.
“Cy, they said I’m okay. I can walk.”
“The doctor has put you on semi-bed rest. And even though she concluded you experienced severe spotting from a premature contraction, I’m not taking any chances.” He adopted the Africansounding accent Eddie Murphy used in one of their favorite movies. “I will carry my queen wherever she needs to go.”
“Okay, Prince Akeem.” Hope laughed. “Are you going to spread rose petals too?”
“Yes, because,” and he broke out in song just like the movie, “you’re my queen to be. . . .”
They both laughed as he stood her up just long enough to pull back the covers. Then he picked her up once again and placed her on the bed. He ran his hands over the pooch now evident in her abdomen.
“You’ve never been more beautiful than this moment,” he said, his eyes shining with tears. “My hardest job is going to be not making love to you for the next couple weeks, as the doctor recommended.”
“There’s making love and then there’s making love,” Hope said, her eyes going to his manhood as she licked her lips.
“Okay, Mrs. Taylor, behave. We remained celibate for the three months you lived here before we married. We can handle two weeks.”
“With you, I can handle anything.”
Cy lay on the bed beside her and cuddled her in his arms. “Can you believe we’re having twins?”
“No.” Hope giggled. “Two for the price of one.”
“Exceedingly and abundantly above all we could imagine.”
“Plus one of each sex. It’s perfect!”
Cy nuzzled her ear. “Are you sorry we found out?”
“No, baby. I’m glad I know. I want to help them stay safe, talk to them, call them by name. So now we can start choosing.” She paused for a moment. “I already have a girl’s name in mind. It’s from the bible.”
Cy tried to guess. “Rachel? Elizabeth? Sarah?” Hope shook her head to each name. “Ruth? Mary?”
Hope started to laugh.
“Delilah? Jezebel?”
She laughed louder.
“Rapunzel?”
“That’s not in the bible!”
“Okay, what then?”
“Acacia.”
Cy pronounced it slowly. “That’s beautiful. I like that,” he added. “I wonder what it means.”
“It’s a type of tree,” Hope explained. “One that is sharp, strong, with thorny points.”
“Wait, how are you going to call our child a thorn?”
Hope kissed Cy. “Here’s my take. Trees with thorns have to be handled with care. You can’t just rush up on them, you know? You have to show them the proper amount of respect. And while roses have thorns, they are still beautiful.”
“And so is Acacia’s mother. Now, what about our son?”
“I’ve done my work,” Hope said as she nestled into Cy’s hard body. “It’s your turn.”
59
Shall We?
Tony held the door as Stacy walked into the Getty Museum. He followed, trying hard not to notice the swaying backside deliciously filling out her Apple Bottoms jeans. She wore a lightweight red angora sweater with a pair of red, studded, cowboy-type boots. She looked amazing.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been here,” Stacy said after they’d left the information booth and stood reading the maps outlining the five wings and over one thousand sculptures and pieces of art. “This place is beautiful.”
“Hmph. None of these pieces can match the artwork I’ve got on my arm,” Tony said.
Stacy smiled. “Good answer.”
It had been only three weeks since Tony and Stacy’s relationship had gone from friendship to dating. The shift had been seamless, and what she’d heard people say was right: friendship was a perfect foundation for a good relationship. Tony and Stacy were on the same page and wanted the same things out of life. They’d both recommitted themselves to God and were determined to handle this relationship according to His principals.
The myriad of rooms and massive outdoor garden gave them plenty of time to talk.
“You know, there’s something I haven’t asked you yet,” Stacy said.
“What, another question about my babies mamas?”
Stacy swiped him playfully. “I haven’t asked much about either of those women. Only the stuff that pertains to your being with
another
baby mama! But seriously, when did you know? When did it click for you that you had feelings for me beyond friendship?”
“Honestly? When I saw the doctor at your house and wanted to jack him up for being around you. I kept telling myself you were like a sister to me, but that emotion doesn’t come up for somebody who’s just a friend. I always found you attractive, from the first time you sat next to me at the Montgomerys’ dinner table. But I’d also been hurt too many times to get caught up with a woman who’s heart was elsewhere. I never thought I’d have reason to thank somebody for being homosexual, but Darius—good lookin’ out, man! What about you? Never mind. Don’t tell me. It was love at first sight.”
“Pretty much. When I saw you at church, I liked the way you carried yourself. And when Hope told me you were going to the Montgomerys’ . . .”
“Oh, so now we’re finding out the truth. You had this whole thing planned, huh, plotting and positioning yourself to get in my good graces.”
“Okay, now you’re pouring it on a little thick.”
“So you weren’t attracted to me when we had that first conversation at the table?”
“I’ll put it this way: the baked snapper wasn’t the only thing making my mouth water.”
After walking around the grounds for two hours, Tony directed Stacy to an area of the courtyard where a jazz trio provided an elegant backdrop to the evening. A small grouping of tables for two was set with fine linen and silver. Next to one table, a bottle of Martini & Rossi Asti Spumante chilled in a silver bucket on a stand.
“Shall we?” Tony asked.
Stacy looked around. “We can sit here?”
“Why not?”
“It looks like it’s reserved.”
“Baby, my knee is acting up. If it is reserved we can sit down until whoever’s got the table gets here.”
They sat down at the center table, and soon the couple were taken to paradise on the wings of smooth jazz. A card on the table informed them that the group, the Musical Messengers, were on a twenty-five-city tour and would be at the Getty only this weekend. When they broke into a jazzy rendition of Marvin Sapp’s “Never Would Have Made It,” Stacy unexpectedly teared up.
“They’re playing gospel,” she whispered, wiping her eyes. “I love that song.”
“Me too,” Tony said. He kept his arms around her as the band played. After the bridge, the saxophone player stepped to the mic and began reciting an original poem:
“Never would have made it without God in my life,
And now I don’t want to go on without you by my side,
You are the air I breathe, the sun that shines, And I’d be so grateful if you’d be mine because . . .”
Tony, getting down on his knees, began speaking with the saxophonist. The saxophonist dropped out, and Tony continued.
“I never would have made it, and I don’t want to take it.
I know we just started this dating thing, but you’re my best friend, so please take this ring.
You have my heart. I love you. Will you marry me?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring. Stacy could barely see it for crying.
“Tony!”
“I know it may feel like I’m moving too quickly. But I’ve waited my whole life for you. I know we can work. Because even now, before we’re lovers, you’re my best friend. Marry me, baby. And make me the happiest man on the planet.”
“Yes,” Stacy whispered and then again, louder. “Yes! I’ll marry you!”
“You’ll be my wifey, baby?” he asked as he slipped the ring on her finger.
“Yes, baby, I’ll be your wifey.”