You Had Me at Good-bye Page 9

  I let Tabby take the lead on this topic of conversation. But then I remember something I read in Granny’s Bible last night before bed. “I read something like that last night.”

  Tabby gives me a frown. “Read it where?”

  “Where do you think? In the Bible.”

  A delighted smile lights her face, and there’s no hiding the fact that Tabby’s been hoping for this day. Praying for it, I’d venture to guess. “What was the scripture? Do you remember?”

  “Hang on. It’s marked in Granny’s Bible.”

  I run into my room, carefully lift the book, and bring it back into the living room. “Okay, here it is. Proverbs three, verses five and six. And this was one my granny used to quote a lot. That’s why I remembered it, probably.”

  “Read it, Dan,” Tabby prompts gently.

  I nod and direct my gaze to the written words. “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”

  Somehow saying the words aloud causes them to mean more to me than just an encouragement for my friend. I wonder if God might direct my path, too.

  We stay up discussing Laini’s situation, weighing the pros and cons of her finishing the summer semester. By the time we go to bed an hour and a half later, I’m pretty sure Laini is at least strongly considering sticking out the last part of her semester.

  Later, lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling and think about the possibility that God might be looking out for me. Or that He might be willing to take on the job if I’ll let Him in on my life’s decisions.

  “What do You say?” I whisper to the ceiling. “I could use a little path-directing. Things are changing, and I’m out here on my own, floundering all alone. I wouldn’t mind knowing someone is on my side. If You’d like the job, I suppose it’s Yours.”

  Maybe not the most eloquent of prayers, but I think I might have cracked the ceiling. And if not, at least I feel better.

  7

  Valerie disembarked in Ghana, West Africa, after a long, bumpy flight. All she needed was a hot shower, a hot meal, and ten hours of sleep, and she’d feel human again. She got to the gate and fell into the waiting arms of her parents.

  “Mom, you’re as brown as an Indian!” she exclaimed. “I hardly recognize you.”

  Mom laughed. Her face showed signs of fatigue, but her pale green eyes radiated joy.

  “Let’s go find your luggage,” Dad said. “We need to be back at the mission by dinnertime so we can serve the children who come.”

  Valerie trailed after these people she barely recognized, and suddenly she wondered what she had been missing all of her life.

  —An excerpt from Fifth Avenue Princess

  by Dancy Ames

  My mother’s face is white and strained as we sit in the living room during this little family powwow: Mother, Kale, and I sitting on the sofa, Nanny Mary and Brandon across from us on another sofa. Dad’s sitting in a tan wing chair at the head of the room, nursing a rum and Coke as usual, and looking about as guilty as a puppy chewing on the strap of a Prada bag.

  Even if I wanted to deny this new brother, there’s no mistaking the family resemblance. Brandon looks like Dad and Kale. Square jaw, slightly large ears (that gave me quite a lot of “Dumbo” ammunition during sibling fights with Kale when we were kids), and a mouth like mine—full on the bottom, slightly thin on the top—a perpetual pout, which fits the current mood. He’s leaning back, long legs sprawled in front of him, arms folded like he has better things to do and we’re severely cramping his style.

  I know how he feels. But I have to admit, my heart goes out to Mother the most. She never asked for this. And just as she’s trying to get her life and marriage back on track, Dad’s past comes back to haunt them. I look at her, standing by her man. Yes, I’m definitely feeling sorry for her while the other woman wrings her hands, even as she tries hard not to fidget. I have to say, I’m not feeling much sympathy for that one at all.

  “Can we get on with it?” Brandon asks, breaking the silence with belligerence. “I have plans.”

  “Well, I just changed those plans, young man,” Nanny Mary says. “And watch your attitude in your father’s house.”

  In my head I know my dad is Brandon’s dad, too, but hearing those words out loud in that context feels odd. Kale and I exchange looks, and I can see he’s thinking pretty much the same thing.

  “The purpose of this get-together is so you can meet your brother and sister,” my dad tells his other kid. “You’ve been wanting this for years, and now you’re acting this way?”

  What? Wait a second. I stare at my dad, then back at Brandon. The kid’s looking me in the eye, and I can tell he’s reading my mind.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” he says in a Nick-esque manner. Tough guy. “My mom doesn’t believe in keeping secrets.”

  “How long has he known, Dad?” I ask, ignoring the kid’s insinuation about my mother. The little twerp.

  My dad looks a bit pale. “All of his life.” He gulps down more of the contents of his glass. Nerves of steel.

  Kale gives a short laugh and shoots from his seat next to me. “I’m out of here.” He takes in the sight of our brother and extends his hand. “Welcome to the family, kid. Sorry it’s so messed up.”

  Brandon’s eyes light with something that makes me think he’s been waiting a long time to meet his big brother.

  “Okay, wait,” I say. Kale turns to me. As a matter of fact, everyone does. “Here’s the thing. Kale and I had our own issues with our parents’ splitting up, but at least we didn’t think we were being hidden away like something shameful.”

  “Listen, Dancy,” my dad—our dad—says. “That’s not what we did.”

  “Yeah, right,” Brandon spouts, and who can blame him?

  Mother, who up to now hasn’t said a word, speaks up with a trembling voice. “Dancy is right.” She turns to Brandon. “Please forgive me. I’m the one to blame. Y-your mother wanted you to know the children, but I—” She gathers a deep breath, unable to go on. My mother isn’t well versed in the art of apology, so I have to hand it to her, she’s definitely stepping up. I mean, sure she was wronged by my dad and the “other woman,” but after all these years . . . Well, hopefully, we can just move forward.

  “Brandon,” I say, suddenly feeling the need to leave these three to their own mistakes. “How would you like to go out and get a pizza with your big sister?”

  “And big brother,” Kale chimes in. “Let’s get to know each other. Gripe about our parents for a while. Exchange notes and figure out how Dad kept us from knowing about you. Masterful, Dad. Truly.”

  Dad refuses to play into Kale’s baiting. His face is flushed, and I’m having a tough time staying mad at him.

  “What do you say?” I ask Brandon.

  He pulls on his eyebrow ring—a sure sign of nervousness. “Anything’s better than being here.”

  He’s got that right.

  I toss a glance to Nanny Mary. “You don’t mind, do you?” I ask, hoping the expression on my face warns her that she’d better not object.

  “No, of course I don’t mind.”

  “Let’s go, sport,” I say, restraining myself from ruffling the four spikes down the middle of his half-shaved head.

  “Give me a break. I’m not six.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” I say with a rueful smile.

  “We’ll take my car,” Kale offers.

  “Dancy,” Nanny calls after me.

  I can barely stand the sound of her voice. I gather a breath as I turn back to face her. “Yes?” I say, much more politely than I feel. Times like these are when my charm-school training really comes in handy.

  “You’ll see that he gets home safely?”

  “I’m not a baby, Ma,” Brandon gripes.

  “Don’t worry,” I say drily. “We’ll deliver him to your door safe and sound.”

  “Uh—actually,” my dad says, �
�you’d better deliver him to my door. He’s moving in with me for a while.”

  “How could I forget?” I say, sarcasm masking my spiking bewilderment. Why do I keep getting surprised here? I knew Nanny Mary wanted Dad to take on more of the responsibility with Brandon. I just didn’t think it would be so soon.

  “We were just getting around to talking about it.” Dad swigs down the last of his drink and walks to the bar for another round. “You and Kale are both good ones to walk out in the middle of important moments. Now you’re teaching your little brother to do it.”

  I can’t help what I say next. “Just passing along a little family tradition. After all, we learned from the best, didn’t we, Dad?”

  “Dancy, please.” Mom’s voice sounds weary, and suddenly I feel ashamed.

  “All right. I’m sorry. I’ll get over it.” I sling my arm across Brandon’s shoulders, and of course he immediately shrugs me off. “Let’s go, brothers.”

  “Hey, can I drive?” Brandon asks.

  Kale looks like he might actually be considering it. But before I can raise my objections, he asks matter-of-factly, “Do you have your license?”

  Brandon scowls. “Naw, but I can drive.”

  Kale rolls his eyes. “Nice try, kid.”

  “Whatever.”

  Three hours later, I slide into bed, full of pepperoni and cheese bread, thoughts swimming through my mind like a school of tuna. I’ve decided something: I like Brandon. He’s smart, quick to the punch, rebellious, and in desperate need of some normalcy. We’re all a little odd, I suppose. Coming from my family sort of makes that inevitable.

  On the drive from my dad’s place to my apartment, Kale and I agreed that we need to take the kid under our wing and try to make up for all the years he’s missed. Heaven knows our dad is too wrapped up in his own life to even bother. I seriously doubt his apartment will be much more than a place for Brandon to sleep. It definitely will not be home.

  My mind starts to settle around midnight, and I feel that fuzzy warmth of drifting into a cloud of sleep. Lazy, like a low hum . . .

  Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

  “We have a deal, right?” I whisper into the darkness just before surrendering to my fatigue.

  I’m not sure if I didn’t set the alarm, or if it didn’t go off, or if I simply didn’t hear it. But I jolt awake at seven thirty, half an hour after I promised Nick I’d be at the coffee shop. “I can’t believe I’m going to be late when I promised Nick I’d help out today!” I say around a ravishing bite of warm, gooey homemade cinnamon roll.

  “Here,” Laini says, handing me a plate with a few more. “Give these to the big guy. Maybe he’ll forgive you.”

  A quick smile shoots to my lips at Laini’s naive belief that food solves whatever ails any man. She really should have been a mother in the fifties and raised a whole handful of adorable, chubby little kids.

  I give her a quick squeeze. “Thanks, pal.”

  “Anytime.”

  I swig down a swallow of coffee, then hand Laini the cup. “Gotta go. Thank goodness I’m going to a coffee shop. I’ll need it.”

  I breeze into Nick’s a few minutes later, and thankfully, he’s frazzled enough with the morning rush that he looks more relieved to see me than aggravated that I’m late. “Thought you changed your mind,” he says in passing.

  “Not a chance. Woke up late.” I set down the plate of cinnamon rolls. “From Laini.”

  A scowl crunches his brow. “Put it in back. We ain’t got room for nothin’ up here that don’t belong.”

  Am I really volunteering my vacation time (forced or not) so I can be abused by some mobster who is most likely using his shop as a front for illegal activity? I keep the comment to myself, but I can see this is going to be a long day.

  By ten o’clock the morning crowd has thinned out, and Nick and I sit down to a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll (compliments of Laini) and gear up for the lunch rush. Thankfully, Nick serves a limited menu, so we won’t have too much confusion.

  “This is pretty good,” Nick says of the cinnamon roll. “You say Laini made this?”

  “She’s a culinary genius,” I say. “I’m telling you, Nick, I think she could have her own TV show, like Rachael Ray.”

  “Ask her if she wants to send in a couple dozen of these for tomorrow morning, and we’ll see if anyone’ll buy ’em.”

  I stop and stare. “You mean you want to pay Laini for her baking?” My voice takes on a squeal as I get more excited with each word. “That’s a perfect idea!”

  “Tell her to make ’em as big as these and we can sell ’em for five bucks each. I’ll give her three-fifty for each one I sell tomorrow, and we’ll negotiate after that.”

  “Okay, I’ll let her know.”

  At eleven o’clock sharp the door dings and the lunch rush begins. Nick and I are swamped for three hours. Finally, in the afternoon we sit, each with a bowl of chicken noodle soup. Nick pours me a glass of milk, which I happen to know is 2 percent.

  “Oh, Nick, no thanks.”

  “Why not? It’s that low-fat stuff.”

  “I know, but—” I haven’t had 2 percent milk since the early nineties. It’d be like drinking cream. Mentally, I start calculating fat grams and calories.

  “Drink it. It’s good for your bones.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” I swear, Nick’s more like a dad than my own dad.

  I lift the glass and down the contents in one tilt. Oh, that’s so good! How on earth could I ever think skim milk tasted like regular milk? It’s all a lie that weight-conscious (aka, obsessed) women have bought into so we don’t feel deprived. But oh my. Fat tastes good!

  “There, I drank it,” I say to Nick. “Happy?”

  “I’d be a lot happier if I thought you might show up tomorrow and help me again.”

  “I already planned on it.” I grin and so does he.

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re a good kid?”

  “Never.” No, really. Never. Hmm.

  He frowns and looks like he’s about to say something, but just then the bell dings. From the corner of my eye, I spot a couple of long legs walking toward me. As I gaze upward, dread turns my stomach. “Hi, Jack,” I say glumly, jealous that he’s going to his job while I have to be on vacation. “What are you doing here?”

  “Late lunch?” he replies, without the decency to look ashamed for his part in my forced vacation.

  Nick grunts. “What’ll ya have?”

  Jack looks at my bowl. “I’ll have what she’s having.” He sits across from me, taking the chair Nick vacates.

  “I don’t recall inviting you to join me,” I say, wishing like anything that my heart wouldn’t thump a million beats a second every time this man is in the vicinity.

  “Come now, Dancy. Surely you’re not going to hold a grudge for a little editorial interference? I find it difficult to believe you’d be so childish.”

  “Then you don’t know me very well.” I stick out my tongue to prove my point.

  Rather than frown and walk away as I hope he will, he gives me an amused half-smile. Then, to my utter amazement, he snatches a napkin from the holder and leans forward. It takes only a second to register that he’s coming toward me with that thing.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Since we’ve just established that you are indeed nothing but a child, I assume you are waiting for me to wipe the milk from your upper lip. And about that edit—I never said you did a bad job. Everyone misses something occasionally. I was trying to help. Not interfere.”

  My jaw drops as he swipes the napkin gently over my alleged milk mustache. He winks. “There we go. All clean.”

  I’m dangerously close to bursting into tears. Rather than risk the humiliation, I push back my half-eaten bowl of soup and stand up. “See you, Jack.”

  Walking to the back, I grab my purse and m
ake my way through the dining room without so much as a glance in Jack Quinn’s direction. “See you Monday, Nick!”

  “Be on time,” he calls. Poor Nick. He’s so used to being in control, he can be a real pain at times.

  “I’m a volunteer, Nick. Don’t forget it.”

  “Well, don’t be too late, then. And you be careful out there, princess. Don’t talk to no one unless you know ’em, and . . . well, don’t get sick.”

  “Okay, Nick. See you.”

  A blast of August heat slaps my cheeks the second I step outside, and sweat starts to bead around my hairline before I’ve walked a block.

  In moments, I hear footsteps running behind me. Instinct drives me to slip my hand inside my purse and prepare for battle. After an unfortunate pepper-spray incident where I doused the cable guy, I’ve given it up, but I do carry a travel-size aerosol hairspray that they say will work just as well.

  At the first touch of a hand on my arm, I pull the miniature can from my purse in a flash and aim. At Jack?

  “Wait, for heaven’s sake!” His hand goes up to protect his eyes, and I’m really glad I hesitated for a split second. He recovers from the near panic quickly and scowls. “Put that away, will you?”

  “I thought you were eating lunch.” I stuff the hairspray back inside my purse.

  He holds up a to-go bag. “I confess, I didn’t come in for lunch per se. I actually wanted to see how you’re getting along.”

  “And you assumed I’d be helping at the coffee shop? Are you psychic and never told me?” I’m way too predictable. If I didn’t love Nick’s place so much, I’d find another place to hang out.

  “I knew you were going to say that.” Jack smirks.

  “Funny.” But I do sort of give in and crack a smile. Sometimes a girl just can’t help it.

  “Seriously, I had an early morning game of racquetball with Kale. He suggested you might be helping Nick, since you’ve nothing else to do.”

  I’m not sure I like the way Jack said I have “nothing else to do.” I mean, how does he know? Maybe I have lots to do. Maybe my schedule is so full, I needed the time off just to get caught up.