Bring on the Blessings, Page 2

Trent eyed him over his cup but remained silent.

  “She’s been sweet on you since elementary school.”

  “Rocky and I get along just fine the way we are. I don’t want to get married, and far as I know, neither does she. Why marry and mess things up?”

  “You need to make an honest woman out of her.”

  “This from the playa of Graham County; a man who had women fighting over him in church.”

  The two women, one local and one from out of town, had come to blows over which of them would sit beside Malachi in the pew that Sunday. When the dust settled, there were wigs, earrings, and pieces of clothing all over the church floor.

  “A simple misunderstanding.”

  “Uh-huh. More like the Thrilla in Manila.”

  Rocky returned with two small plates holding pieces of her famous apple pie. She set both down and asked Trent, “Can I bring my car in for an oil change in the morning?”

  He owned the town’s only garage. “Sure.”

  She nodded. “If you all need anything else, just yell.”

  She left them alone.

  Malachi watched her walk away. “Man, if I was ten years younger.”

  “She’d still hurt you, so put your eyes back in your head and eat your pie.”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  Grinning, Trent started in on his own.

  “Bobby Lee asked me to marry him last night.”

  Rocky and Trent were lying in his bed in the dark. The revelation made his heart catch, not because he loved her, but because he didn’t want her leaving his life. “What did you tell him?”

  “Yes.”

  In the silence that followed, he could hear the sounds of the prairie through the open windows; the crickets, the dark rush of the breeze in the grass. “He’s a good man.”

  “He is.”

  She turned over to face him. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

  He studied her silently for a moment. “Do you?”

  She shook her head. “No, but he loves me. Really loves me, and I’m tired of being alone. Tired of getting up every day and having nothing to look forward to but making more coffee and apple pies.”

  “You tell Malachi?”

  “Not yet. Telling him in the morning. Wanted to tell you first.”

  “Appreciate that.” And he did. He didn’t want to think about her not being in his life anymore; at least not then. “Folks are going to miss your cooking.”

  “If Malachi finds somebody good, they’ll forget about me the next day.”

  Trent knew Bob had two boys. “Get along with his kids?”

  She lay back down and replied almost wistfully, “Yeah, I do. They’re good boys. I could do worse.”

  “When’s the wedding?”

  “I told him to give me two weeks so Malachi could find a new cook, then we’ll set a date.”

  The silence crept in again as they both mined their own thoughts. Finally, she said, “You’ve been a good friend, Trent.”

  “You too, Rock. Wish you had told me about Bob proposing before we did what we just did.”

  She laughed. “I know, but you can be so honorable sometimes, and I wanted one last go for old times’ sake.”

  “You’re gonna make us both burn in hell.”

  She chuckled in the darkness. “I know. Selfish I guess.”

  “You’re Bob’s lady now, Rocky. No more knocking boots with me.”

  “I know. It’s been mighty good though.”

  He grinned. “Go on to sleep.”

  “Good night, Trenton July.”

  “Night, Rock.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  Naked and lying on the bed in the dark, Lily Fontaine stared unseeingly up at the ceiling. Her lover, Winston, was in the bathroom with the faucets running, but the sound of the water was not loud enough to drown out his off-key singing. The song, an old-school hit by Rick James, was begging a woman to give it to me, baby. Winston sang the chorus as if he’d written the lyrics personally. She supposed the tune was appropriate—she had just given it to him, but she didn’t know why he sounded so pleased? Winston was terrible in bed.

  Lily sighed. Professor Winston Seymour had been after her for over two years to marry him, but Lily kept putting him off. Why, she wasn’t sure. They’d dated, gone on trips, seen plays; hell, even her godmother, Marie, wanted to know what the problem was? Everybody knew Winston was a catch; he wasn’t gay, didn’t live with his mama, and was a highly respected professor at the local community college. Winston had it going on. Except in bed.

  Lily sat up and tried to figure out how she was going to fix her face to lie when he asked her how it had been for her. She couldn’t tell him the truth. A woman wasn’t supposed to tell a man he had no sex skills, especially not one determined to put a ring on her finger. She sighed again. Was she so hard up that she’d marry a man who didn’t seem to know the first thing about knocking boots, as the kids used to call it? Lily had been divorced at the age of nineteen, and although she’d been without a steady man since then, needs were still important. Just because she was forty didn’t mean she was dead—or maybe she was: Winston’s version of lovemaking certainly hadn’t made her feel alive.

  She picked up her robe and slipped it on.

  Winston stuck his head around the door. He had a thin towel wrapped around his paunchy fifty-five-year-old waist. “Hey, baby doll. You want to get in here?”

  She gave him a small smile. “After you’re done, is fine.”

  He started singing the chorus again, “Give it to me baby,” complete with gleaming eyes and waggling eyebrows.

  She grinned.

  “How about another round?”

  The grin faded. “I—need to get home, Winston.”

  He studied her for a moment. “You sure?”

  She nodded.

  Their eyes met. He said, finally, “Okay. No problem. Let me get through in here, then it’ll be your turn.”

  “Thanks.”

  An hour later, Lily was showered, dressed, and ready to head back to her small townhouse on the other side of Atlanta. She was slipping on her raincoat when Winston asked, “So, what’s wrong?”

  Lily shook her head and lied, “Nothing. Why’d you ask?”

  “Because you’re not acting like a woman who just had her world rocked,” he boasted proudly.

  Lord. “I’m just tired. Been a long day.”

  “You sure, baby?”

  She fussed with the belt on her coat. “I’m sure.”

  His face said he didn’t believe her, but she looked past it. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay?” She walked over, gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “Stop worrying, you were fine.”

  After telling that lie, she left and closed the door softly behind her. On the drive home, she wondered why she didn’t just give in and tell Winston she’d marry him. No, he wasn’t any good in bed; rabbits took more time, but he was steady, dependable. He even got along with her twenty-two-year old son, Davis. Could she live life without fire? Every now and then she saw flashes of his sense of humor, but the times were so few and far between she could count them on one hand. So why was he even in the running? Because I think I am getting desperate, she admitted to herself.

  She turned onto her street. Her place was in the middle of the block nestled amongst the other townhouses and condos in the upscale subdivision. She eased the car up her driveway and into the matching brick garage, then turned off the car’s engine. For a few moments, she sat there in the dark trying to empty her mind of all the jumbled thoughts, but it was hard. So what is it that you want, girl? her inner sister asked. Lily answered truthfully: Not to be alone.

  She thought back on her life. After her unplanned pregnancy, her quick marriage, and even quicker divorce, she’d had no choice but to pick herself up and keep stepping; she had her degree in business management to finish and a baby to feed. There’d been no time to feel sorry for herself. The phone company didn’t care that her husband, Randy, had bro
ken her heart by sleeping with half the women on campus. They just wanted their money. The electric company didn’t care about her troubles, and neither did her landlord. In order to make it through those early years, she’d had had to transform herself. Life made it clear that she could no longer be the wide-eyed small town girl she’d grown up as. What she needed to do to get over was to become a walking, talking urban Black woman. Once she figured that out she embraced the role and her new self. When life shouted at her, she stuck her hand on her hip and shouted right back. She didn’t take no mess, not in school, not on the job, not in the line at the unemployment office. Lily’s late mama, Cassandra, had raised Lily to be a lady, and those parts of herself were always out front, but she’d learned to stand up for herself and for her son.

  But now, twenty-one odd years later, she was tired of being strong, tired of carrying the load alone. Davis would be graduating from college in a few weeks, then off to Silicone Valley for a good-paying job at a high-profile tech company. With him gone, she’d be able to kick back and chill, especially now that she’d taken her company’s cash buyout and didn’t have to take on another job unless she wanted to, but she had no special person in her life to chill with, and hadn’t for a very long time.

  She opened the car door and stepped out into a dimly lit, cluttered garage. As she stuck her key in the door, she told herself maybe the melancholy feelings were a result of empty nest syndrome creeping in. She didn’t believe that for a minute, but went with the assessment anyway because it was much easier to deal with.

  The message light on the phone was flashing when she entered the kitchen, so she took a moment to listen. It was her godmother, Marie Jefferson, and the sound of the familiar voice put a smile on Lily’s face. Marie had called to tell Lily about the party she was throwing to celebrate her sixtieth birthday party and wanted to know if Lily could attend. Lily decided then and there that she would. Going back to Henry Adams where she’d grown up came with its own unique issues, but hey, maybe returning to her past would help her figure out her future, so she picked up the phone to give Marie a call back.

  At Detroit’s 13th Precinct, Sgt. Greg Fisher looked up from his paperwork at the perp being brought in by two uniformed officers. “You again?” he asked in a voice filled with disbelief. The kid grinned. “Yep. How ya doin’, Sarge?”

  Fisher questioned the female officer, “Where was he this time?”

  “Freeway. I-94. Doing ninety.”

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “Nope. Car was stolen though.”

  “Of course. His last name is Steele. What was he driving?”

  “Escalade.”

  Fisher was outdone. “How can you even see over the wheel? What are you, ten?”

  “Eleven last week, and I roll with my own pillow and blocks.”

  The male officer raised a dirty black chair pillow for the Sarge to see, then showed him the short stiltlike block of wood Amari “Flash” Steele had made so he could reach the car’s pedals.

  Fisher leaned down and looked the kid in the eyes. “You know, if you’d use that sharp mind of yours for good instead of this, you could be something one day. How many times have you been arrested?”

  “Recently? Or all together?”

  Fisher knew that if he looked it up the number it would just inflame his ulcer, so he said, “Never mind. What’s your foster mother’s number, Amari?”

  “All you’re going to get is cussed out. She said if I got picked up again, don’t call her—call CPS.”

  Fisher studied the bright, engaging kid and said resignedly to one of the officers, “Call Child Protective Services. Tell them we got the ghetto’s version of Jeff Gordon in here again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Amari flashed a grin, made himself comfortable on one of the benches, and settled in for the wait.

  CHAPTER

  3

  When Trent awakened at dawn, Rocky was already gone, and he thought that was as it should be. They’d been two lonely souls seeking solace and warmth and now he would go on alone. That was as it should be too, he supposed, since every relationship in his life had left him in the same place. He and Rock had never loved each other; he’d used her and she him in a symbiotic relationship that satisfied both of their needs, but it hadn’t been just about sex and lust though: they’d traveled together, watched DVDs together, drove to Kansas City to shows and ball games. For ten years, they’d been a couple, but not in the real sense because she’d seen others and he had too, but they’d always drifted back to the familiar when things inevitably fell apart.

  He didn’t think her relationship with Bob would fall apart. Rocky wanted this marriage, and he knew she’d wade through fire to make it work. She’d been looking for someone to love her the way she deserved to be loved for a long time. Sadly, it hadn’t been him. After two failed marriages he was real gun shy about committing himself. His first wife, Felicia, a high-powered lawyer, had picked making partner over the kids he’d wanted. He hadn’t held her ambition against her, in fact he’d done everything possible to support her dream, but upon finding out that she’d had a secret tubal ligation in order to not conceive had crushed his heart. Two years later, his second walk to the altar with bookstore owner Mia ended after only six months. She and his business partner had been conducting an affair right under his nose, and the sense of anger and betrayal made him chuck life in the fast lane and move back to the place where he’d been born, a place where he could go to ground and lick his wounds. A place he’d sold.

  He sat up and looked out of the window at the sun coming up. The decision still weighed on him. Intellectually he knew selling had been the only option, but it didn’t salve the guilt he felt inside from being unable to keep the town going. Henry Adams had been handed down for five generations, and no matter what life or the country threw at it, it had survived. Until now. Now there was no tax base, no population, no schools. Farms had gone under, elders had died. The young people who’d left in search of real lives and never returned. Except for him, of course, but this wasn’t about him. It was about legacy and family and a way of life that would be no more. Back in the day, his great great-great-grandmother Olivia Sterling July had been Henry Adams’s mayor. She’d loved her town and her people. Now, because of him, she was probably spinning in her grave.

  Trent sat in the half dawn for a few moments longer, then got up to start the day. He was due to pick up Ms. Brown at the airport that afternoon, and frankly he wasn’t looking forward to it.

  After her flight from Kansas City to Hays, Bernadine walked into the terminal and followed the other passengers from the small jet to baggage claim. While waiting for her luggage to show, she glanced around for Trent July. Although she had no idea what he looked like because her lawyers had handled everything so far, she assumed he’d be Black but saw no one fitting that description.

  Once the bags arrived she grabbed her two sand-colored suitcases off the belt and followed the exit sign to the doors leading outside. After being cooped up in airports and planes since early that morning, the fresh air felt good; it was hot though. From the discreet stares she received from people walking by, she assumed they didn’t get too many folks at the airport who looked like her, but she didn’t let it bother her and continued her visual search for the man she was supposed to meet. As time passed and no July, she wondered if he’d forgotten about picking her up or just running late.

  She was digging around in her handbag for her phone just as a big black pickup eased up to the curb. A tall dark-skinned Black man wearing shades, jeans, a worn green plaid shirt, and a straw cowboy hat stepped out and went inside the terminal.

  A few moments later he returned. He glanced at his watch and then at the faces of the few people milling about as if searching for someone in particular.

  “Mr. July?” Bernadine asked, hope in her voice.

  He hesitated, looking her over. “Yes. I’m July.”

  She stuck out her perfectly manicured hand. �
��B. E. Brown. Pleased to meet you.”

  His jaw dropped. “You’re Brown? Nobody told me you were—”

  “Black?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Does it matter?”

  He sized her up. She sized him up.

  “No. No it doesn’t. Just surprised I guess. How about I pull my foot out of my mouth and we start over?”

  She decided she liked him. In this day and age, some people would rather lose a limb than own up to an apology—for anything. “I’d like that. I’m Bernadine Edwards Brown.”

  “And I’m Trenton July. Most folks call me Trent. Welcome to Kansas, Ms. Brown.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Let me take those bags and we’ll head out.”

  Bernadine let out a sigh of relief. First hurdle passed.

  “Watch your step.”

  He opened the door and she stepped up as gracefully as she could in her dark green Italian suit and matching pumps and settled into the seat.

  “Buckle up.”

  She reached for the seat belt and he closed her in.

  Bernadine had never ridden in a pickup. The interior was soft gray leather and the space was clean. It was a stereotype, of course, but she’d always associated pickups with empty beer cans, discarded jerky wrappers, and pork rind bags. This truck was nothing like that. The air-conditioning felt good too.

  The door to the driver’s side opened and Trent got in. “I put your bags in the bed.”

  With a smooth turn of the steering wheel, he guided the truck back into the traffic and drove away from the terminal.

  Although Trent didn’t express it aloud, to say that he was surprised by her race was an understatement. He naturally assumed she’d be White, and so did everyone else in town. It never occurred to anyone that B. E. Brown would turn out to be someone who looked like them, but here she was, dressed in a fancy designer suit and shoes, and sporting tasteful diamonds in her lobes and around her neck as if she were on her way to Paris or L.A. instead of a dusty little town in north-central Kansas. He just hoped she was ready.