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Authors: Michelle Stimpson

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BOOK: Someone to Watch Over Me
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His embrace was polite, yet tentative. “Good night, Tori.”
“Night.”
Chapter 18
A
nother week passed before Aunt Dottie was able to speak her first post-stroke words. She gave a written testimony at church the following Sunday. I stood next to her and read her script aloud. Halfway through the letter, my voice wavered. Though I spoke on Aunt Dottie's behalf, the truth of her message hit me.
“No matter what you think or how things look, God's plan is
always
the best way and His love is
always
true.
Always
there for you.”
I passed the microphone back to Senior Pastor Carter and let the church carry on with worship while I took my seat, shaking with emotion. DeAndre draped an arm across my back and whispered into my ear, between sniffles, “It's all right, Cousin Tori. People cry in church all the time.”
Despite the past week's after-school detention for throwing a ketchup packet across the lunchroom, DeAndre won the prize for compassion.
My Bayford weekdays now consisted of two miles on the treadmill, getting DeAndre out of the house, then running to the church to hear/view voice/e-mail messages. I was usually at Dottie's for opening, then back to the house to get the real Dottie ready for either physical or speech therapy. Library by noon, working until time to meet DeAndre after school. Help him with homework, get him settled. Back to Dottie's to work until close. Starbucks if the library was closed or if I had more than an hour's worth of online duties to tackle. The final item on my agenda, if fatigue hadn't completely won out, was to dab oil on my hair and braid it into five cornrows for a softer texture the next morning.
I'd actually gotten quite good at streamlining and prioritizing, thanks to this hectic schedule. No more junk e-mail lists, and every phone conversation cut straight to the point.
Joenetta might help out. Or not. Just depended on what Sister Meecham brought for dinner.
The only opportunity to sit down and catch my breath came when I read the Bible aloud to Aunt Dottie. She liked to revisit Proverbs eight almost every other night. Several of the verses found their way into my memory bank and resurfaced throughout the day.
Kevin called once that week to ask me if we should keep the housekeeper, since neither of us was really home much.
“Guess not,” I conceded. The housekeeper had been my idea.
“Tori, when are you coming back to Houston? We really need to sit down and sort things out.”
“You mean as in work things out or, like, figure out who's taking what from the apartment?”
“However you want it.”
Why was the ball always in my court? “So, you're fine with whatever I decide?”
“Don't have a choice.”
I muttered, “Do you even care?”
“Of course I care. What kind of question is that? You're the one who's putting us through all these changes, remember?”
He had a point. “I'll try to come home in the next few weeks. What's your schedule like?”
Kevin rambled through an impossibly full agenda that crisscrossed the country. New York, Arizona, Indiana.
“How are we supposed to spend any time together with you traveling so much?”
He chortled. “The same way we've always done it, babe.”
I wondered if this was how we'd do it if we ever got married. Had kids. “Just give me a few solid dates when you're home for at least forty-eight hours.”
We decided on the following week, which meant I'd have to find someone to take Aunt Dottie and DeAndre to church Wednesday night. Going back to Houston wasn't so easy anymore.
I texted Lexa to let her know I'd be in the office as early as Tuesday afternoon so we could have two glorious days of sit-down meetings to help her get Inner-G afloat. The more I looked at the account, the more I realized we'd need to involve Preston in some serious renegotiation if we planned to satisfy this client. The budget Lexa projected, and Inner-G had agreed to in their package, simply wasn't enough to produce the outcome she'd all but guaranteed.
As far as I was concerned, the only thing we needed to discuss the following week was how
she
was going to tell Preston that he needed to go to bat for us.
 
Cassandra and Virgie were all too willing to work more hours at Dottie's while I was out of town. For Cassandra, this meant time and a half.
“Hey, sooky-sooky now. Just in time for E-, E-, E-aster Sunday.” She scratched on an imaginary turntable. “Gonna get some extra P-, P-, Peeps!”
“No, no, no,” I bellowed while wiping down the countertops nearest the deli case. “You are not going to kill me with all these sound effects!”
“I put up with her all day long, Miss Tori.” Elgin teased as he switched off the neon sign, silencing the electric buzzing sound, which never registered until he disconnected power.
“Hey—I keep it exciting in here,” Cassandra boasted.
“That's for sure,” Virgie agreed. “But Joenetta—she blows the top off.”
Cassandra threw a visual dagger at Virgie, who immediately put a hand over her own mouth.
“What's going on with Joenetta?”
Virgie mouthed “sorry” to Cassandra.
“It's okay. Might as well clear the air.”
“What?” I bugged.
Cassandra smacked her lips. “We cut her off.”
“Oka y . . . ?”
“You remember I told you I know how, when, and what people in Bayford buy?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Joenetta buys everything—never.”
I closed my eyes. “You're not making sense.”
“She doesn't pay for things. She comes in, she gets what she wants, she leaves without paying. 'Course she only does it when you're not here.”
“How long has she been using her five-finger discount?”
Elgin piped up. “She's
always
thought her sister owed her something.”
“Did Aunt Dottie let her take things from the store before now?”
Cassandra rolled her eyes. “You know, every once in a while Joenetta'll come in and say she forgot her purse at home, or she'll pay next week when she gets her SSI. She never pays. So, in a way, Aunt Dottie puts up with it, but not like
this
. She's taking twenty-five or thirty dollars worth of groceries out of the store every other day. We're about to be in competition with Walmart. We can't be tiffy-tiffyin' no more with Joenetta.”
From the context, “tiffy-tiffyin'” meant providing hookups.
“Miss Tori, I've seen Aunt Dottie help plenty people who couldn't afford to buy food. You know how big her heart is.” Elgin got no objections. “But everybody who's able, family included, ought to pay for what they get. Even Aunt Dottie's mother, when she was alive, paid for what she got here. I saw that with my own eyes. Joenetta's downright taking advantage of Aunt Dottie's sickness.”
I shouldn't have been surprised by any of this. Nothing could be put past Joenetta. Must be why she was avoiding me, hoping I wouldn't confront her about pilfering inventory.
“The other day, I saw her taking items for her friends, too,” Virgie contributed, shifting her weight nervously. “She came with a carload of people. They all walked around the store with her, putting things in her basket. Then she led them to the door without even looking at the cash register. When I tried to stop them, Joenetta cussed me like a drunken sailor, called me everything but a child of God. Told me I had no business working in here anyway on accounta I'm white.”
“I'm so sorry, Virgie.” I apologized on behalf of the Lester family, I supposed.
Cassandra wiped her forehead. “So that's why we cut Joenetta off, Tori. Something had to be done.”
No arguments from me. Aunt Dottie, on the other hand, might feel differently. I zipped the dolphin pendant across my necklace a few times. “Well, she
is
Aunt Dottie's sister, and Aunt Dottie
did
know that Joenetta wasn't paying for some things. I need to tell her what's going on. I mean, the name of the store
is
Dottie's.”
“Uh,” Cassandra grunted, “the new name of the store will be Brokie's if Joenetta has her way while Aunt Dottie's recovering.”
Couldn't help but giggle, which actually eased the tension mounting in this small, frame-house store. “Good job, Cassandra. That was a profitable executive decision.”
She saluted. “Thank you.”
Elgin and Virgie finished their routines and said their good-byes while Cassandra and I stayed behind to run tape and balance the drawer.
“Do you think Aunt Dottie would be angry if she knew what Joenetta was doing?” I asked Cassandra.
She finished counting the stack of fives first. “I don't think she'd be angry. Hurt maybe a teench, but she's known her sister all their lives. No biggie.”
“Yeah, you're right.”
“Hey!” Cassandra nearly scared me out of my skin.
“What?”
“Your cell phone working now?”
“Yeah, when I'm at the church.”
“Nuh uh. Now. Here.” She stomped the floor. “That Walmart put up a snooty-pooty power tower. There's a man up at the Dairy Queen selling cellular phones now. I'm gonna get me one next week, if it doesn't cost an arm and leg, which it obviously doesn't since Rokeshia got one and—”
“Cassandra, stop. Are you kidding me?”
“I'm serious as a preacher trying to hide from the cameras in Las Vegas.”
Never mind her analogy. I reached beneath the counter and extracted my mobile device from the front pocket of my purse. Pressed the power icon, bouncing on the balls of my feet. Could this be true?
A moment later, three—
three!
—lighted bars. Quickly, I sent a call through to the first contact on my list. “It's ringing! It's ringing!”
Still no guarantees unless someone answered.
“Applebee's. Would you like to place a to-go order?”
“Oh my gosh! Yes!”
“Okay, what would you like?”
“No. I'm sorry, no. Bye.” I ended the call. “Yes! This is awesome, Cassandra. Thank you so much for telling me.”
I waltzed around the store with my cell phone for a partner, singing “The hills are alive with the sound of cell phones.” Neither Cassandra nor I knew all the words to the song. We improvised with more gobbledygook.
“Thank God I won't have to go to the church anymore to make phone calls,” I declared.
Cassandra lowered her forehead and feigned a European accent. “I rather thought you enjoyed a bit of dillydallying at the temple with Sir Jacob.”
“How'd you know?”
“My dear, this is a very small town.”
Stunned, I could only rub my tongue across my teeth. “For the record, I went to the church on business.”
“I see, my love, I see.” She dragged the apron over her head, ruffling the back of her hair. Cassandra didn't bother to fix it. “Well, taa-taa.”
I put a hand on her arm. “Wait! You can't just leave. When . . . I mean, what did you hear?”
Foreign accent intact, she demurred, “A true lady never repeats gossip.”
“Cassandra, you are not British. This is Bayford. I wanna know the Bayford juice.”
She gushed, “He got a thang for you, girl.”
Chapter 19
N
ow that I had a signal and could be reached at a moment's notice, I felt more comfortable leaving Aunt Dottie alone for longer periods. Her left arm could pick up a phone and dial out. Even though she probably couldn't tell me what she needed, I would know to come home.
I instructed DeAndre to call me when he got off the bus every day. He read the therapists' notes to me (if they weren't written in cursive) and made sure Aunt Dottie was comfortable. He found it thoroughly fascinating to know I was communicating with him wirelessly.
“Where are you, Cousin Tori?”
“I'm at the library.”
“
Then
where are you going?”
“Back to the store, probably.”
“Oh, can you bring me some Sprees?” As though this wasn't the main point of our conversation.
“Only if you finish your homework and your chores before I get home.”
“Yes, ma'am. And get the sour Sprees, all right?”
I nearly broke my neck trying to get to the box of sour Sprees in the back storage room. When I got home later, the beam across DeAndre's face compensated for near-death teetering.
“Thank you, Cousin Tori.”
I gave Jacob my number under the premise of him being my eyes and ears. He called me later that week, too, on his own superficial grounds. “Baseball practice starts Tuesday. We'd love to see DeAndre there.”
Just when I'd gotten one area of my life simplified, I was adding Little League sports? “What time?”
Jacob must have heard the distress in my voice. “Six—but I can pick him up, along with several other boys, in the church van. Bring him home, too, if need be.”
“That would be really great, Jacob. I'm going back to Houston.”
“Um”—panic seeped through his voice—“how long will you be gone?”
“Just a few days.”
“Oh, okay. I thought you were out of here, homegirl,” he chided.
“Not quite.”
“Will you be back in time for Wednesday service?”
What's with all these questions? “Maybe. You got something special going on?”
“No. I was hoping we could do another Starbucks run. You got me fiending for a grande frappuccino.”
Truth be told, the Starbucks concoctions didn't have anything on the memory of that hand massage. I'd drive to L.A. and back for a second appointment. “I can't promise I'll be here when church starts—just depends on traffic coming out of Houston. But I should definitely be back before you dismiss.”
“Hey”—he lowered his tone—“don't worry about DeAndre and Aunt Dottie while you're gone. I'll look out for 'em.”
“Thanks, Jacob.”
 
The last time I drove into Houston, I'd felt like I was coming home. Now, the landmarks leading back to the city struck me differently. Kind of like when you return from a weeklong vacation. Feels like you're rediscovering your own house.
Anxiety followed me into the building, but one of the scriptures I'd been reading to Aunt Dottie sprang up in defense. “God's peace guards my heart and mind.” Philippians 4:7. I don't think it had ever occurred to me before then how helpful it was to have God's word handy in my heart.
“Hey, babe.” Kevin met me at the door and relieved me of my overnight bag.
“Hey.”
He leaned in for a kiss. I pulled back, surprised. “What's that for?”
“Because I'm glad to see you,” he explained, half annoyed. He tried again.
I blocked him with an index finger. “Wait. I thought we were supposed to be talking.”
“May I speak first?” he asked.
“Give me a second to . . . unwind, okay?”
“Fair enough.”
Our place wasn't quite as fresh as when the housekeeper came regularly. Quite stale, actually, since there'd been no life inside. I set my purse on the nightstand, my work case on the bed.
I slipped my knees onto the floor, arranging myself in classic prayer position. Maybe God would know what to do about all this. All through Proverbs, He harped on asking Him for help. No time like the present.
God, thank You for a safe trip back, but that's not really what I want to talk about.You already knew, though, so here it goes: what do I do about Kevin?
“Oh my God. Are you praying?” Kevin nearly shouted at the doorway.
Glancing up, I nodded.
“Wow.” He exited the room in shock.
Sorry about that, God. Anyway, Kevin and I have been together for a while, but I don't know where things are supposed to go from here. Please show me exactly what to do.
I'm also not sure about the next step at NetMarketing. I guess I just don't know what to do with my life in general, so I'm asking for Your wisdom and help because You said You'd guide me if I asked. Aunt Dottie's always telling me about Your faithfulness, and I see what You've done in her life. I believe You can bless my life, too.
Amen.
I waited, perfectly still, for a while, hoping all the answers would miraculously pop into my head. Nothing.
What
did
appear was a string of doubt:
What makes you think He's going to answer you? He's not concerned about you. You just started going to church again a few Sundays ago. Who do you think you are, anyway—Aunt Dottie?
Fear relentlessly kicked me about the room as I fiddled around for a while, delaying the inevitable. Rebuttal came in the form of music. One of Mount Pisgah's most frequent congregational songs landed squarely on my lips. “Call on Jesus. He will answer prayer.”
A text from Lexa gave another reprieve.
When will u be in?
I replied:
an hour
I flipped outfits and stuffed my feet into a pair of pumps. Kevin, slumped on the couch watching ESPN, straightened his posture when I entered the living area. I sat next to him. Maybe
he
had a proper resolution. “I'm listening.”
“Babe, I miss you. I love you, I need you. I love the way things were. Why do we have to change everything? You had your health scare, but it's over now. Your aunt's getting better . . . right?” His eyes pleaded for the best of both worlds—comfort without allegiance.
An internal news flash scrolled across my spirit:
this is the first time Kevin has asked about Aunt Dottie.
Quickly, I scrambled through my memory bank to verify. Negative. Now I could throw this tidbit of information on the table. “You've never asked about her before now.”
“Who?”
“My aunt.”
He shrugged. “I . . . I just assumed her health was improving.”
“Does it matter to you that I love her? That she's the closest thing to family I have left on earth?”
Blankness covered his face. “I mean, we're not into each other's families. Or politics or religion—although I'm not so sure about you right now. No matter, that's what makes us so great. We don't argue, there's no drama. There's no pressure here. Don't rock the boat, Tori.”
No words came to mind. Thumbs twiddled. Ankles crossed twice. Waiting for the right answer certainly made me look stupid.
“So, what do you have to say?” Kevin pressed.
“Nothing right now.”
“You have to say
something.
”
Maybe if I'd been trying really hard to have my own way, I could have met his demand by either agreeing with him or issuing his walking papers. Neither of those options seemed appropriate. “I can't respond yet.”
The muscles in his jaw twitched as wrinkles puckered his brown. “I made a pit stop in Houston so we could have this discussion face-to-face, remember?”
“I'm sorry, Kevin. I'm not trying to be contrary. I
really
don't know what to say yet. What do you want me to do—pull the answer out of a hat?”
Anger settled over his features. “I should have caught the flight to Arizona.”
I swear, Kevin looked like he wanted to spit on me, so I left.
During the drive to work my mind streamed a constant replay of our conversation. Or was that an argument? In all the time we'd been dating, this was as close to a real clash as Kevin and I had ever come. I knew Kevin thrived on competition—had to in his line of work. But he wasn't confrontational. He'd make five phone calls to maneuver people's actions before he'd tackle a person head-on. “My approach is far more diplomatic,” he'd say.
Though I still wasn't sure where to go with the relationship, Kevin made a serious point. We were drama-free. I'd seen people fight like cats and dogs on
Divorce Court
over how to fry okra. I'd even witnessed Mr. James throwing soft objects—wadded paper or clothes—at my mother in the midst of heated disputes. They used to scare me, actually. I never could figure out how they patched up their quarrels in time for city hall meetings.
Nevertheless, I wasn't my mother and Kevin wasn't Mr. James . . .
or is he?
His little temper tantrum sure linked him with Mr. James, throwing fits when the world (or my mother) refused to follow his master plan.
So, what's Kevin's agenda?
As far as I could tell, he didn't have one, other than work. Neither did I, until after the surgery. I couldn't put all the blame on Kevin.
Our solution would have to wait until after today's business with NetMarketing. I shook my head clear of Kevin, put on my game face, and hoisted my good-to-see-you-again grin in place for the office. Several new faces peppered the department, as Preston had promised.
My cubicle, if that's what they still called it, had apparently been converted to mini-storage.
Okay?
Six boxes of copy paper, a broken chair, a small file cabinet, and a pile of unreturned U.S. Postal Service bins occupied what used to be called Tori Henderson's work space.
“Oh, Tori, I had no idea you'd be back today. Sorry about your office,” Jacquelyn acknowledged. “With all the new hires, we had to move things around. I haven't had time to send in the request to have these things stored off site, but don't you worry. I'll get this out of your way soon. Um, are you back for good?”
Sometimes a bad attitude is just an inch away. Back or not, my office wasn't Storage Depot.
Then again, a certain someone did use it as a restroom. . . .
Laughing to myself, I answered Jacquelyn's question. “No worries. I'm only here for a few days. I'll try to call you a day or two before I need the area cleared.”
Save all the hostility for Lexa.
Relief flattened Jacquelyn's features. “Okay. Thanks, Tori. And by the way”—she took a step toward me, closing the gap between us—“Preston's just about figured out we bit off more than we could chew with Inner-G, and Lexa's looking to blame somebody.”
“Would that somebody be me?”
“Bingo.”
“Great. Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Any time.”
Preston and Lexa were waiting for me in the conference room. She certainly looked the part of a competent marketer. Reading glasses, hair pulled back into a working, messy ponytail. Reminded me of how political consultants ramped up Sarah Palin to gain acceptance with the GOP.
Stacks of charts and reports covered the oblong cherrywood table, making the room look more like Santa's workshop the night before Christmas.
“Hello.” I tried a cheerful approach.
Preston's mouth tightened. He checked his watch. “We were expecting you hours ago.”
“I sent Lexa a text saying I'd be in this afternoon.”
Lexa lifted her phone from the table and scarcely glanced at the screen. “I didn't get that message.”
“I certainly sent it. I can show you—”
She stammered, “Well, you're here now. All we can do is move forward.”
I gave her the old I-know-you-know-I-know-you're-lying glower.
“Did you bring the numbers I asked you to research?” she prodded on.
“Yes. I have them.” I dealt the manila files like cards, one for each of us.
Preston opened his and took a deep, calming breath. “This is good information,” he complimented. After a battery of questions, he and I talked strategy based on data for the next half hour. Lexa tried to interject with her feelings, but Preston shot her down every time.
“What market research do you have to support your opinion?” he'd ask.
BOOK: Someone to Watch Over Me
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