Queen Bee Goes Home Again (10 page)

“I … I wouldn't know.” Flustered, I tried to hand it back, but her stubby fingers closed around mine.

“You keep that, just in case,” she whispered. “I'm real reasonable, and I know how to keep my mouth shut.” She grinned and dismissed me with a pat. “Tell Tommy I miss him. He gets half price.”

Whoa! She was a prostitute? And my
brother
had used her services?

Judge not that ye be not judged. Love the sinner, hate the sin,
my Puritan reminded me.

But I mean, really? Mimosa Branch's local whore was a midget in Sheetrockers' stilts? Please!

I guessed she'd appeal to those looking for some novelty, but
Tommy
? Gag me with a steam shovel!

And I'd spoken with her both times I'd come in, which I'm sure had set tongues a-wagging. I made a mental note to burn or flush her number at the first opportunity.

I escaped into the back room, and who should be sitting across from Ed Lumpkin and another deacon from First Baptist, but Connor Allen.

One look at the man, and my long-comatose libido leapt to full speed, making my whole face burst into flames.

No, no, no. This couldn't be happening.

Connor stood immediately. “Well, if it isn't the lovely lady who sold me my house.” He drew out the chair beside him. “Would you care to join us, Lin?”

Remaining seated, Ed and the deacon shot me a stony look. Scalded by their disapproval, I deflected with a bald-faced lie. “Thanks, but my brother Tommy's meeting me in a few minutes. Y'all enjoy your breakfast.”

I went to the last open table, in the far corner, doing my best to ignore the whispers and curious expressions among the regulars.

As subtly as I could, I called Tommy and asked him to come join me. To his credit, he didn't hesitate to say yes. “Why don't you bring the Mame?” I suggested.

“Only if you don't want me to get there for another hour. You know how she is.”

Slow, and getting slower. “Never mind. Just come as soon as you can,” I said between my hands cupped over the receiver, then hung up.

Waiting for him, I felt as if I were in one of those dreams where you're suddenly naked in public.

The same waitress as before came back with a setup and an indifferent, “What can I git ya?”

“Just coffee for now, please. I'm waiting for my brother. We'll order when he gets here.”

She brightened. “Tommy?”

“One and the same.”

“I'll git that coffee right away,” she said with a wide smile, then left.

I wondered how she'd feel if she knew he frequented whores, especially that midget in Sheetrockers' stilts.

Oh, Lord, keep me from judgment,
I prayed with fervor.
Help me focus on gratitude, instead
.
And forgive me for lying
.
I promise, I'll repent as soon as I can.

I resolved then and there never to bring up my brother's relationship to the Sheetrockers'-stilts woman. How could I, when I had a plank in my own eye?

But I'd really appreciate it, Lord,
I prayed again,
if you could keep me from knowing these things. That would help a lot.

I could sense the Almighty shaking his head at me, as He so often did.

Speak of the devil, Tommy strode in, then stopped at Connor Allen's table. “Hi. I'm Tommy Breedlove. I hear we're going to be next-door neighbors,” he said as Connor got up to shake his hand.

“Soon as the house passes inspection,” Connor said.

“It'll pass,” Tommy assured him. “I watched them redo the place, and they did it right.”

Connor motioned to the empty chair beside him. “Would you care to join us?”

Tommy glanced my way. “Thanks, but I'm meeting my sister.”

He waved, then came to my table and sat with his back to the room. “So
that's
the new Baptist minister,” he said, his voice low. “Good-looking guy. No wonder you needed a beard. Ed never could stand you.”

He nailed it. For once, my brother was where I needed, when I needed, and I was truly grateful. “Thanks for coming,” I murmured back. “I would have left, but that would have caused even
more
gossip.”

“Glad to be of help.”

The waitress appeared with Tommy's setup and a cup of coffee. “Black, just like you like it,” she said with moon-eyes, then got out her order pad. “What can I give you?” she asked seductively.

“The usual. How about you, sis?”

“Three over medium with the whites done and the yolks creamy but not runny, and bacon, flat and crisp.” All legal on my basic Atkins regimen. I'd already dropped two of the five pounds I'd gained from Mama's welcome-home feast.

When the waitress left, I leaned closer to Tommy and said, “She's really got a case on you.”

“She,” Tommy said quietly, “is just a kid, and a party girl, at that. Definitely the last thing I need. But I don't want to hurt her feelings, so I let her flirt, but I don't encourage it.”

“Very wise,” I said. “And kind.”

He nodded in appreciation, then took a sip of hot coffee. “Aaah, caffeine.”

Connor Allen and the deacons stood to leave, and, even though I knew it was hopeless, I watched him go with the same expression the waitress had spent on Tommy.

“Uh-oh,” my brother said. “I recognize that look.”

“Why do we always want what we can't have?” I asked him, serious.

“Who says you can't have?” he challenged.

“All the deacons of First Baptist, I'm sure, and every gossip in the congregation, led by Mary Lou Perkins. Apparently, they didn't get the memo about forgiveness after repentance when it comes to the Grant thing.”

Fortunately, Grant had sold the drugstore and left soon after our fiasco, but the damage was done. “Ten years later, and I'm still notorious for my checkered past, never mind the facts.”

Tommy leaned closer. “Lin, everybody has a checkered past. God knows it, and so do I. And you certainly haven't done anything like that before or since.”

His loyalty was one of the things that had helped me get through it.

Then he frowned and asked, “You haven't, have you?”

So much for loyalty. “No!” I whispered emphatically. Then my indignation evaporated. “But I might as well have slept with Grant. I planned the whole thing. Sinned in my imagination,” I whispered, quoting Connor Allen's predecessor, whose pointed sermons about scarlet women had driven me to the Methodists. “Same thing.”

“No it's not. You came to your senses and didn't go through with it, stuck to your own values. I really admired you for that. And for keeping your head held high in spite of the gossips.”

I didn't want to talk about it anymore, so I changed the subject. “Ocee got my transcripts, so I'm going up there to make sure they're correct. Want to come with me?”

He shook his head. “I've got a meeting at ten.”

The smitten waitress brought our food, perfectly cooked.

Tommy and I ate in silence, but there was still an elephant sitting at our table.

I had an irrational crush on the new Baptist minister.

Just like with Grant, only this time, the man might very well be worthy, but I refused to be the tainted woman who came between him and his new congregation.

My mind understood that the attraction I felt for Connor Allen was irrational, but that didn't discourage my body. I barely knew the man, and there I was, feeling like a fourteen-year-old in heat.

Fourteen wasn't one of my better years. Too much adolescent angst and emotion.

Was one good-looking, smart, kind, available Christian man all it took to rob me of all common sense?

Apparently, even though my inner Puritan scolded that it could never go anywhere.

Shoot.

What in blue blazes was I going to do? I was a sixty-year-old Christian woman, not some teenybopper drooling over Justin Bieber.

Just hell.

Sorry, Lord.

 

Eleven

As predicted, Connor Allen's new house passed the inspection with flying colors, and we closed one week after the sale, much to everyone's relief—mostly mine, for the thirty-nine hundred dollars in my bank account. (Julia gave me a fifty-fifty split as a farewell gift, instead of taking her usual sixty percent.)

The more I saw of Connor, even at the closing, the bigger crush I had, so I hid behind a mask of professional indifference, reciting inwardly,
Feelings aren't facts. Feelings aren't facts. Feelings aren't facts.

This man was not for me. He needed a Debbie Boone of a woman, not a destitute blabbermouth with no filters and a bad reputation.

Oh, Lord, I was obsessing.
Please keep me from obsessing
.

Apparently, that wasn't in the plan, because I just got more obsessed as the days went on.

Practically the whole church turned out to “help Pastor move in” when his furniture arrived (translate: check out his things, down to his pants size and boxers or briefs), so my plate of deviled eggs got lost among the dozens of casseroles and desserts that bombarded him from every available woman over thirty in the congregation. He got so much food, he had to buy a small chest freezer to hold it.

(When I heard the delivery truck rumble in next door, I just happened to look through the glass pane in my apartment door and see them unload the freezer.)

Once Connor Allen was finally settled in and working at the church, I prayed that my adolescent emotions would wane. Miss Mamie and I had the whole of 1431 Green Street to disinfect, which should have provided an excellent distraction, but every time my mind wandered off course, it zeroed in on the gorgeous man next door.

So I scrubbed harder and sang good old, foot-stomping hymns to counteract it as Miss Mamie joined in.

Of all times to have my libido wake up! I'd never felt that way with my ex. But the feelings Connor Allen stirred still felt familiar, and very seductive.

Logic told me that everything I knew about Connor was surface. And as for his marriage, there were two sides to every story. For all I knew, he could be a saint one minute, then a monster the next. I'd met more than one minister who was awful to his wife and family.

Yet he seemed like a true holy man.

But trying to be logical about this didn't help.

The one thing I knew was that I was
not
the woman for that gorgeous man. That gorgeous, intelligent, honest, sexy man.

We won't even go into the obscene fanny tattoo I'd gotten during a drunken impulse on my honeymoon with the husband of my youth: two red cherries and “eat me” in script. I know. Vulgar to the max, but I was young and foolish. Marrying Phil was proof enough of that. And we won't go into the fact that it had gone a bit wrinkly when I'd lost my middle-aged spread, thanks to the divorce.

So the following night, I tried reading a few “sweet” historical romance novels at bedtime to ease the tension, but instead of transferring my crush to the heroes, all I could see was Connor Allen's face in the stories.

Which was definitely a sin, which only confirmed how wrong the whole situation was.

I took it up with God, but He just sat there, still and quiet, in silence. Not very nice, if you ask me.

I hated it when I was supposed to wait. I do not wait well at all.

I mean, couldn't the All-knowing share a way out of this? I'm just saying.

Lead us not into temptation,
remember?

Nothing.

Frankly, I think putting Connor Allen right next door was a pretty mean joke, but then again, I was the one who'd done it, so there you are.

I also hate irony when I'm the one who has to live it, which seems to happen all the time.

So when that still, small inner voice clammed up on me, I sought God's direction in scripture, focusing on the verses about holiness and purity, which just depressed me so much in my falling short that I had to quit that, too, or face major depression in spite of my antidepressants (loads of escitalopram and trazodone, with a top-off of generic Wellbutrin).

My GP said that America was one big unsupervised study of the long-term effects of antidepressants, but I silenced her with, “Shut up and give me the prescriptions, or else.”

Apparently, the threat of violence by the patient is enough medical justification to continue them, because she quickly gave me the scrips. Ditto with my bioidentical estrogen.

By the middle of my third week back home, the Mame and I had finished scrubbing down most of the roasting third floor with Windex, Clorox Clean-Up, or CitriSafe nontoxic mold killer and were working side by side on our kneeling pads in the hallway, doing the baseboards, when she leaned back and wagged her hand my way. “I don't know what you've been takin', daughter mine, but I sure do wish you'd give me some. You're wearing me out. This isn't a race, you know.”

I couldn't stop the telltale flood of embarrassment that further reddened my chest and face. I leaned back, too, swiping a stray tendril from my eyes as I noted that Mama was sheened with sweat, just as I was.
Horses sweat. Men perspire,
my Granny Beth's voice scolded
, and ladies dew.
“I'm sorry. It just helps to distract me from … things.”

Seeing that her knees were really red and swollen, I offered, “Maybe we should work in different places, so you can go at your pace and I can go at mine.”

“Don't be silly,” she said. “Then we couldn't do our hymns together. I just need you to slow down a bit so I'll have enough breath left to sing along.” She waggled the scrub brush my way. “When we run out of songs we know, I've got my Grandmama Grainger's old hymn book in the library to remind us of more.”

My Grainger great-grandmother had died when I was just two, but I remembered my paternal grandfather's second wife Granny Beth singing those old country hymns in the kitchen, early in the morning as she made our bread and biscuits for the day. Even all these years later, I still missed her dearly, yet her wisdom remained in my mind and heart, though I didn't always act on it. We'd been “cut out of the same bolt,” as she always said.