“Well, you've said enough for me.” Paris put her hand on her hip. “Jesus called them dogs. It doesn't get any worse than
that
. Dogs? He called them dogs?”
“Sit down, Paris, and let your sister finish.” Deidra turned and smiled at Imani. “Go on and finish, Imani.”
“Yes,
please
hurry up and finish, Imani, so those of us who
don't
live here can go home.” Paris was still standing.
“Malachi, it's in Matthew 15:21â28,” Imani said. “I remember because I'm fifteen and Paris is almost twenty-eight.”
Paris laughed, then quickly looked at her mother and stopped.
“After Jesus said that, the woman said, âTruth, Lord; yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters' table.' ” Imani smiled. “Wasn't that awesome?”
Paris couldn't hold it in any longer. She burst into an unrestrained laugh. “Oh,
really
awesome! âYet the dogs eat of the crumbs that fall from their master's table!' ”
“Paris, don't you get it?” Imani beamed.
“The way you're grinning, I guess I don't,” Paris said.
“When Jesus used the term dogs, he wasn't being mean. A dog in those days meant housedog. If you were a housedog, you had a master and were allowed to sit at the feet of your master. True, the children may have been well taken care of and got to sit
at
the table. But even the dogs, as the woman correctly pointed out, were allowed to eat the crumbs from their masters' table. Have you ever seen children eat? The woman knew that even though she might not be considered family, she was still in the house. She still had access to the crumbs that fell from the Master's table.”
Malachi smiled. “And crumbs from the
Master's
table are powerful.” He went over to Imani and hugged her. “And
that
, dear Imani, was powerful!” Malachi looked down at his cell phone. “In verse twenty-eight, Jesus confirmed what Imani just told us. It says, âThen Jesus answered and said unto her, O woman, great is thy faith: be it unto thee even as thou wilt. And her daughter was made whole from that very hour.' ” Malachi hugged Imani again. “Powerful, little sister. âBe it unto thee even as thou wilt.' ” Malachi released Imani. “Dad, you can count me in. The least we can do is to help in however way that we can. If this brings attention and will help, I'm in.”
Lawrence nodded. “Thanks, Son. I appreciate that.” He hugged Malachi.
“I'm in,” Imani said with a grin. Her father went and hugged her.
“Okay, I don't suppose I can't let my children jump in and I sit out,” Deidra said. “Count me in.” Lawrence smiled at her, winked, then nodded.
“Well, you can count me in, too,” Andrew said.
Paris jerked around and stared down at Andrew.
“You already know that I'm in,” William said.
Paris looked at her father. “I thought this was just to our family?”
“I want it to begin with our family. But our goal is to bring in as many people as we can,” Lawrence said. “So, Paris. Can we count on you, as a family?”
“Sure. You can count on me, as a family.” Paris walked over to her father. “But I'm not participating in any bone marrow transplant campaign. It would just be
my
luck I end up being a perfect match. So I'm not going to even put myself in the position of finding out that I match, and then having to say no I'm not going through all of that.” She kissed her father on his cheek. “Sorry, Daddy. And
that's
my final answer. Andrew, are you ready to go?”
Andrew stood up. “I'll be in touch to find out what I need to do next.”
Deidra stood and hugged Andrew first, then Paris, escorting them to the door.
Chapter 27
But she that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth.
â1 Timothy 5:6
Â
Â
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“I
don't believe how you acted at your folks' today,” Andrew said as he walked behind Paris up the stairs to their bedroom. “That was
absolutely
something. That's the nicest way I can describe how you were. I mean, I couldn't say
anything
.”
“Oh, you said plenty.” Paris tossed her purse onto the bed as soon as she entered the bedroom. She flopped down next to her purse and started unlatching the strap of her blue left shoe.
Andrew came and stood over her. “I can understand you not wanting to participate, that I got. That's classic Paris.”
Paris slipped that shoe off, let it drop, and began undoing the other one. “Say whatever you want, Andrew, because I don't care. Everybody wants something from me, but nobody ever seems to care what I might want.”
“What are you talking about? It seems that's all everybody does: cater to what
you
want. You don't want to cook so we pretty much eat out every single night of the week. But you love boiled eggs, so we have plenty of eggs in the refrigerator.”
“We don't eat out every single night. You go over to your mother's and we go to mine's sometimes. And we order in.” Paris let the other shoe drop.
Andrew threw his hands up. “Exactly! That's exactly what I mean. Has it occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, I'd like to eat a home-cooked meal at
home
that my own wife
cooked
with her
own
hands?”
Paris laughed. “See. That proves
just
how much I think of you. I can't cook, Andrew; you knew that when you married me. So I actually do you a favor, sparing you the trouble of pretending what I've cooked is good by us eating elsewhere.”
“If you were to ever practice, you'd see that you would get better at it.”
Paris jumped up and strutted across the room in her bare feet. “That's the thing, Andrew,” she yelled back as she walked toward the master bathroom. “I don't
want
to get better at it! I don't want to cook!” She went into the bathroom and came out a few minutes later wearing a flowing, silk, tan paisley caftan. “Why would I want to get better at something I don't even like to do? Huh?”
“Personally, I think the things you said at your folks' house a while ago were kind of sad. It's no wonder God hasn't blessed us with a baby yet.”
Paris stopped and walked over to the bed where Andrew was sitting. “Excuse me? So are you saying the reason I can't get pregnant is because of the way I act? Is that what you're saying, Andrew? That because I'm honest enough to say what I think, as opposed to y'all who say what's politically correct, you're asserting that
that's
why God won't allow me to get pregnant?”
Andrew stood up; Paris pushed him back onto the bed. “Don't be getting up,” Paris said. “You can answer the question from down there.”
“Paris, I'd like to have a baby.”
“As would I.”
“But look at what you said. Do you really believe God thought highly of how uncaring you were today?”
“I don't want to be a donor of any kind. That's me being honest. What's so hard about
that
? I'm not going to pretend I'm going along with something that I
know
is pretty much a complete sham. I'm not. I'm not going to stand up there with Daddy at some press conference that William puts together, and lie about something I
know
I'm not going to do.” Paris moved her face in a bit closer to Andrew's. “So if you want to say that God is punishing me in not allowing me to get pregnant, then you need to ask yourself why
you're
being punished, too.”
Andrew stood up. Paris put her hand on his chest again, fully intending to push him back down. He grabbed her by the wrist and pushed her hand away from his chest, then started out of the room.
“Where are you going?” Paris rushed after him. He kept walking. “Andrew! Where are you going?”
She ran and caught up with him downstairs.
Andrew turned to her. “I don't get you, Paris,” Andrew said. “My mother tried to warn me about you.”
“Oh, your mother has
never
liked me.”
“My mother has tried her hardest to get along with you. But it's things like this that make it difficult for anyone to . . .” He stopped. “You know what . . . just forget it.” He headed to the kitchen.
Paris followed. “Oh, don't stop on my account! Why don't we get all of this out into the open, right here . . . right now? Come on. Bring it!”
Andrew opened the refrigerator and took out the carton of eggs and a stick of butter and set them on the counter. He went to the sink and washed his hands, then took down a small glass bowl. He looked under the cabinet next to the oven and pulled out a medium-size, nonstick frying pan.
“What are you doing?” Paris had her hand on her hip as she twisted her mouth from one side to the other.
Andrew cracked four eggs as he heated a tablespoon of butter in the pan. “What does it look like I'm doing?”
“It looks like you're cooking.”
“Okay, then.”
“Why are you cooking, and
why
are you cooking breakfast food for dinner?”
Andrew whipped the eggs with a fork. “I don't know. Maybe because I'm . . . hungry?”
“Oh, you're just being funny now! I see
exactly
what you're up to; you're trying to make a point. All right, Andrew. I get it. I get it.”
He turned the heat down to low, then poured the mixture into the pan, using a silicone spatula to push the mixture to the center, tilting the pan to allow the runny part to be touched by the heat from the stove.
“You can stop now.” Paris went to the drawer with the menus in it. “I'm ordering us something for dinner. See,” she said, holding up a menu.
Andrew continued until the eggs were 99 percent done. Only after he turned the heat off did he sprinkle salt and pepper on it. “Waiting until it's done to put the salt in keeps your eggs from being tough,” he said.
Paris picked up the phone. Andrew poured the cooked eggs into a bowl. He went and took down two plates, raking half of the cooked eggs onto each. Handing Paris one of the plates, he pulled two forks out of the drawer, put one on the plate Paris held and the other on his, sat down at the table in the kitchen, said a quick prayer, and began to eat.
“You have
got
to be kidding me!” Paris said, standing there holding her plate.
“You'd better eat it before it gets cold.”
“I'm not eating eggs for dinner!” Paris set the plate down.
“Suit yourself. But it's good, if I say so myself.”
Paris stood over him with her fists thrust into her sides. “What is your problem?”
Andrew looked up at her. “I'm not like you. I'm good. You live in pleasure, but it's like you're dead inside or something. I don't understand why you can't see that. God has blessed you so much, Paris. But for some reason, it looks like it's never enough for you.”
“This is about the baby you want, isn't it? Isn't it, Andrew?”
Andrew shook his head. “You made it clear, early on, that you really didn't want a baby. You say you want one now. But honestly, Paris, I don't know what to believe anymore when it comes to you.” He put the last of his eggs in his mouth and stood up. “Cedric warned me about you. He said everything was all about you and what you wanted. Maybe I should have listened to him.” He took his empty dish and fork to the sink, washed them, then laid them on a paper towel to dry.
“So you want to bring up Cedric, huh? You want to bring up my ex? Well, I'll have you know that he was a real loser. He didn't
have
anything, and he wasn't trying to
be
anything, other than a scrub.”
Andrew turned to look in her face. “Is that the real reason you came after me? Because you thought I
had
something? Well, surprise! I didn't have anything to offer you much, either, Paris. I grew up poor, and I've had to work hard for everything I've ever gotten. So I didn't have anything substantial to offer you when you came after me.”
“Except your heart,” Paris said.
He looked at her and his heart couldn't help but to soften now.
Paris was starting to cry. “You
have
had to work hard for everything you've ever gotten. I, on the other hand, grew up somewhat privileged.” She stepped closer to Andrew. “Still, through all of my pretending, you saw past my façade . . . you saw the real me. The girl that everybody always said was pretty, but no one ever saw I was also pretty smart.” She touched Andrew's arm. “You, Andrew Holyfield, saw that, underneath my layers of nastiness and pettiness, that I have a heart.”
“Of course, you have a heart, Paris.” He touched her face. “You just get caught up in what's going on around you and forget that what you say and do can sometimes hurt others, even though you might not think that it does.”
“I know. And you're right; I want to be a better person. But I need you, Andrew. I need someone in my life that can show me how to be better and to love me unconditionally. And you've always done that. Whether I cook or not, whether I clean or not, whether I'm nice or not . . . you seem to still love me.”
“I do love you, Paris. I do.”
“And I love you. I'm sorry for the way I've acted lately. So will you forgive me?”
Andrew smiled. “Of course.”
“Hold up a second.” Paris went over to the kitchen counter and came back holding her plate of eggs out to him.
He looked at the plate. “Why are you bringing this to me? If you don't want to eat it, just scrape it into the garbage disposal.”
She grinned and began flipping her hair back. “I was hoping I might be able to entice you to serve me breakfast in bed.”
He laughed. “Yeah, okay.”
“I'm serious,” she said. “I was thinking we could get an early start on that baby project we're working on,
if
you know what I mean.”
He grinned. “Serious? Well, now, you know . . . I think I can accommodate that request. I mean: A man's gotta do, what a man's gotta do.” He took the plate, set it down on the table, and scooped her up into his arms.
Paris let out a loud yelp. “What are you doing?”
“Isn't it obvious? I'm sweeping my baby's mama off her feet. If we're going to get this started, then I want to start it off right. You say I'm slightly a perfectionist. Well, practice makes perfect.”
Paris giggled like a teenager as he carried her up the stairs to their bedroom.