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Authors: Michelle Stimpson

BOOK: Someone to Watch Over Me
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Cassandra and I stood side by side now and exchanged a bit more small talk, then she asked, “So, when are we going to bust Aunt Dottie up out of here?”
“Well, right now we're trying to figure out who's going to care for her when she gets dismissed.”
Cassandra raised her hand as though in a classroom. “I can check on her in the evenings, when I'm not watching my nephews.”
“That would be great,” I sighed, linking arms with Cassandra instinctively. Right about then, I was ready to link up with anyone willing to prove their love for my Aunt Dottie.
I waited a moment for other volunteers to step forward and pledge to Aunt Dottie's care. “So, is there anyone else who can help out?” Everyone present was just as quiet as Kevin when I initated one of those state-of-the-relationship talks. Dead silence.
My brain scrambled for a solution. “Okay, how about hiring a nurse? Does anybody know someone we could trust to help Aunt Dottie around the house?”
“I could do it, like, part-time,” spurted out of Joenetta.
I fired back, “You just said you couldn't help.”
“Well, if you gon' pay somebody, might as well pay family.”
“How much you thinkin' 'bout payin'?” from Uncle Billy.
Okay, how is it that the Lesters were interested in money while the church folk and an employee were willing to give of themselves freely? I could have bopped myself on the head for thinking I had missed out on something in Bayford. The Lesters were still triflin'. As I stood there watching their gazes hit the floor, I recalled the few times they'd called out of the blue, shortly after I finished college. They'd ask how I was, if I was still in school; Joenetta even asked once if I had gotten myself pregnant again. They'd eventually gotten around to a sob story ending in an urgent financial request.
Back then, Aunt Dottie had told me that family and money don't mix. “Tori, don't play this game with them. Some folks don't know how to handle money. Don't matter what you give 'em Monday, they'll be broke by Friday. Best thing you can do is pray for God to teach them how to steward what He's already given 'em.”
“But Uncle Pete said his lights were going to get cut off tomorrow,” I pleaded on his behalf. This man was Aunt Dottie's own brother, for goodness sake.
“So what?” she'd asked.
“And then he won't have lights,” I'd reasoned.
She'd prompted, “Okay, and then what?”
“And then he'll be . . . inconvenienced.”
She finished the scenario. “And then he'll go stay with his girlfriend until he gets his next check, and then he'll pay to get his lights turned back on, and then he'll think twice about buying all those Lotto tickets next time, or maybe not. Either way, he'll be all right.”
Against my sense of compassion, I refused Uncle Pete's request. He had a few choice words for me and hung up in my face.
Aunt Dottie knew her family well. She must have known none of them would step up to the plate to help with her recovery, yet she probably wouldn't say anything to them about their lack of assistance. Somebody had to speak up.
“I think it's a shame that so few people in this room have agreed to help. I remember when she was the only store on our side of the tracks. Aunt Dottie wouldn't let any family in Bayford starve, least of all her own. She's always been there for us.”
“She's always been there for
you
,” Joenetta piped up. “She took
you
in when you got pregnant and she put
you
through college. She even sent
you
money to get
you
started after
you
finished college. All that for
you,
but she wouldn't even bail her blood nephew out of jail!”
Cassandra tagged into the rink. “So why are you here now, Miss Joenetta?”
“'Cause she's my sister.”
I laughed. “Yeah, right. The sister you won't take care of for free.”
“Don't talk to
my
sister that way.” Uncle Billy's body struggled to a standing position. “All she sayin' is, if you want to throw some money at the problem, might as well let it land on us.”
“Aunt Dottie is not a problem. She's . . . she's Aunt Dottie,” I clarified. “Don't y'all care about her? She's raising your grandson anyway, Joenetta.”
Joenetta came toward me with her index finger swaying side to side. “Now ain't that the pot calling the kettle black?”
“Shhhh!” Sister Meecham caught our attention, signaling Aunt Dottie's return to the room.
Aunt Dottie must have been fully aware of the tension because she maneuvered her bed to an upright position when the nurse left. She blinked a few times, looking everyone in the eyes as though trying to read the jury before a verdict. She signaled with her left hand that she'd heard us yapping.
My heart sank for her. Again, I stood by her side and grabbed her left hand. “Aunt Dottie, we're just trying to work out the details, that's all. Don't worry. Everything will be all right.”
She nodded and sweetly kissed my hand, then drifted off to sleep.
Slowly, the room cleared of visitors. Cassandra was the first to go. She said she had to get back home before her sister dropped off the nephews. Joenetta and Uncle Billy followed. Sister Meecham lagged behind to comfort me. “What you told Aunt Dottie was right, you know? Everything will indeed work out.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I want you to know, no matter what your family says, Aunt Dottie has always been so proud of you. And don't worry 'bout Joenetta 'nem. They might act ugly, but they love you, too. Every last one of 'em still brags about their cousin who got a degree and moved to Houston. You're the one they hold up as an example for the kids in the family.”
I chuckled. “Could have fooled me.”
“Don't be fooled. They do love you in their own funny way, hear?” Sister Meecham gave me one last hug and excused herself.
I sat alone, watching Aunt Dottie's chest rise and fall while thinking about Sister Meecham's words. How could they love me and yet be so mean? For that matter, did anyone really love me? My mom's love allowed her to leave me with another caregiver. Kevin loved me enough to live with me, barring commitment. How is it that everyone had this “funny” way of showing love toward me?
Everyone except Aunt Dottie. If I left her to fend for herself in Bayford, she wouldn't get the care she deserved. Between Cassandra, Sister Meecham, and probably a few more church members, they'd do the best they could. Still wouldn't be good enough. Somebody had to return Aunt Dottie's love with the same consistency she'd always doled it out.
Apparently, that someone would have to be me.
Chapter 8
T
he task of calling Preston to tell him I would be in Bayford longer than I'd planned proved my first major hurdle. My cell phone wouldn't keep a steady signal while I was driving through town, forcing me to scramble all over the city looking for the hot spot. My first thought was to find a Starbucks and hop on the Internet since my phone was nearly useless.
Hello! You're in Bayford.
I hadn't seen a Starbucks sign on the road for miles or leading into town.
I pulled into a gas station to ask for directions to the nearest . . . tower? Weird question, but I'd learned from previous Bayford experience that gas stop attendants and hairdressers knew everything about the town and its inhabitants.
“Excuse me, do you know where I can go to get a cell phone signal?”
The frizzy-haired brunette wearing bright red lipstick squinted her eyes and squawked, “A what, honey?”
I wielded my cell phone and shook my head to demonstrate the inquiry. “I can't get this phone to work, and I was wondering—”
“Oh, you want your phone to work,” the attendant repeated with a gentle smirk. “You must be new in town.”
“Something like that.”
“Where are you from? What brings you to Bayford?”
I was at her mercy. “I live in Houston, but I spent some time here in Bayford several years ago. My aunt just had a stroke. I've come to check on her.”
“Aunt Dottie, you mean?”
I nodded.
“She's your
real
auntie?”
“Yes.”
This, of course, led to a five-minute adulation about how Aunt Dottie had helped this woman and her children get settled again after Hurricane Katrina. “If it hadn't been for Aunt Dottie, I don't know what we would have done. She put in a good word for me and the manager hired me on the spot, paid me in cash until I got copies of all my documents to prove I was legal and everything.”
“That's wonderful. Really wonderful. Now, can you tell me—”
“Tell her I'm praying for her.”
“Sure will.” This woman's testimony warmed my heart, but I still needed to get a line out of Bayford. I read her name tag. “So, Virgie, how about that phone signal?”
Virgie pointed west. “The only place you can get a good signal is up at the church on the hill. You can talk to God or talk to somebody else, either one, but I think talking to God's a whole lot better.” She laughed at her own advice. I wondered if she told everyone that, or if a HEATHEN sign was plastered across my forehead.
Not sure how to respond, I grinned and thanked her. I'd almost forgotten how freely people in small towns discuss God and religion, both off-limits for me in the corporate world, which was where I spent most of my waking hours.
You're in Bayford for real now, Tori.
I drove westward, following a steep incline to higher ground. A big yellow house with a white picket fence on a corner lot suddenly jogged my memory. Virgie was sending me straight to Aunt Dottie's house of worship, Mount Pisgah Missionary Baptist Church. The road's sharp turns sparked flashbacks of long-winded preachers and long-skirted saints.
Before moving to Bayford, I'd only attended church sporadically. Mr. James had said it was important to belong to church, so we showed our faces to maintain his political facade. I liked church and wished we could go more often. Mr. James said regular attendance wasn't necessary—just membership.
Aunt Dottie's dedication to her Mount Pisgah congregation, however, placed me in service at least twice a week. I enjoyed being there, except when they talked about sin. The big ball of baby sitting on my lap screamed, “I'm a sinner! I did it!” Even if no one else heard the condemnation, I perceived it.
The hallowed building lay just up ahead, its steeple soaring high above all Bayford. The church campus was somewhat isolated. Only a few cars littered the grass-covered parking lot. Growth overtook the wheels of one vehicle, a testament to the car's prolonged idleness. Another car, a late model Camry, gleamed in the midday sunlight and assured me that someone else was in the vicinity.
I shifted my gear to
P
and held my phone up toward the windshield. Three bars and a well-lit Internet icon. Good enough to make calls, send texts, retrieve voice mail, and check e-mail. Already, I had missed three calls and seven messages populated my in-box.
After responding to less pressing matters—dry cleaner issues and an unsolicited ad for an MLM—I tackled NetMarketing. Jacquelyn answered the phone in our department and seemed pleasantly surprised to hear my voice. We exchanged routine chitchat, then I asked, “So tell me, Jacquelyn, how are things
really
going around the office?” Jacquelyn was not one of those blabbermouth administrative assistants, but she had been known to spill the beans when prompted privately.
I'd hoped she would convey a tale of woe, how the office was falling apart at the seams without me—botched publicity campaigns, clients threatening to take their business elsewhere. What she actually said was, “Things are just fine here. No problems, work as usual. How's it going with you?”
How could everything be fine when
I
wasn't there? People had to be complaining about the extra work incurred due to my absence. Surely Preston had been forced to meet with my coworkers and assure them the inconvenience would only be temporary.
“Has Preston called any meetings?” I poked around the issue.
“No. None lately. Why, is something wrong?”
“Oh no, nothing.” I had to think of another route. “Have you heard anyone . . . say anything about me being absent? Or maybe . . . complaining about the extra work load?”
“Goodness no, Tori. Everyone's been picking up the slack. No worries.” She inadvertently launched the panic button inside me.
I tried once again. “I guess what I'm trying to ask is . . . how can I say it . . . ?”
“Has anyone missed you?” Jacquelyn finally pulled the truth out of me, chuckling.
I admitted, “Yes.”
Jacquelyn's voice softened. “Tori, if you ask me, I'd tell you to get back to work as soon as possible, before Preston figures twenty-two people can do the work of twenty-three. Somebody, I'm not saying you necessarily, but
somebody
always loses a job when things like this go on too long.”
Oh, great. The entire department was at stake now. “Thanks, Jacquelyn. Could you put me through to Preston?”
“He's not in at the moment.”
“Man,” I lamented, “I really needed to talk to him.”
“I can give him a message,” she volunteered.
I sighed. “No thanks. I'll have to call him back later because I may not be in an area with a signal.”
“I see. Is there anything you want me to tell him in the meanwhile?”
Movement near the church door snatched my attention from the conversation. A deep chocolate, clean-shaven man wearing jeans and a white T-shirt emerged from the building, cleaning supplies in tow. His muscles bulged just below the cuff of his shirt. He wiped sweat from his forehead, dropped the buckets and mop, and walked toward my car. Looking at this man, I suddenly remembered how much I would miss working out at the gym. I've never been one to go for the popular, hot guys, but bodies can be so beautiful.
The visual examination finally classified his body in the top 20 percent and then scanned the man's face. Boyishly handsome, except for the slight graying at his temples. Definitely premature. The sun beat down on his forehead and, suddenly, I recognized fine-man.
Jacob Carter III. Preacher's kid. Correction,
pastor's
kid. Every girl at Bayford High School had suffered through a crush on Jacob Carter at least one day in her life. I had for weeks, actually, but I gave it up. No need in me pining for the pastor's son, being pregnant and whatnot.
Jacob's father was a good pastor, but First Lady Carter had her moments. Aunt Dottie said First Lady's bark was a lot worse than her bite, but she could bark up a storm. First Lady and Aunt Dottie sat on the advisory board of Mount Pisgah, butting heads often about the ushers' uniforms, choir robes, and bake sales. They always seemed to work things out, though, before Sunday.
I'll never forget the night I learned First Lady didn't want Jacob around me, for obvious reasons. I never really knew how or why Aunt Dottie and First Lady were even discussing me, but after an earful of eavesdropping on one of their conversations, I knew better than to call myself liking Jacob. We'd be fellow congregation members, and that was to be the entire scope of our relationship.
Still, Jacob was fine, and by all appearances the fineness had only gotten better with time.
Automatically, my eyes scanned his ring finger. Bare.
Behave! I already have a boyfriend. I am not here for a high school reunion.
“Tori? Are you there?” Jacquelyn broke the reverie.
“Yes, I'm here. I'll call Preston later. Thanks.”
Jacob knocked on my window as I ended the call. I pressed the down arrow on my door's panel. “Hi.”
His teeth gleamed more than humanly possible—or maybe it was just my imagination. “Hello. Can I help you with anything?”
“No, thanks. Virgie, at the gas station, told me this was the only place I could get a consistent signal.”
He smiled again. “Yeah, she's right about that. Bad thing is, some people wait until Sunday morning service to make long-distance calls.”
I hadn't heard the term long-distance in so long, the humor nearly escaped me. “Sorry to hear that.”
“I'll be in the church finishing up on some work if you need me. My name is Jacob. I'm the assistant pastor.”
I extended one hand and used the other to pull my shades back. “Tori Henderson.”
He clapped a hand over his mouth. “You're Aunt Dottie's niece, right?”
He remembered me?
“Yes.”
Jacob took the liberty of quickly looking me over while I sat in the car. “Good to see you again! How have you been?”
“I'm fine. How about you?”
He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Great. Just working and helping my parents with the church.”
“That's good.”
“Nice ride,” he commented, tapping the hood. “You must be putting that college degree Aunt Dottie's always talking about to good use.”
“Can't complain.” What happened to my conversational skills?
“Amen and amen,” he agreed.
Was I supposed to say something back to him?
Selah? Peace? Right on, my bronze brother?
Church jargon always made me nervous—like there's some secret code language shared only by lifelong members, a code that automatically identifies the reprobate by unorthodox response to insider phraseology.
Jacob ended my uncertainty with a question. “How long will you be in town?”
“Not sure. Depends on what Aunt Dottie needs when she's released from the hospital.”
His features slackened with concern. “Aunt Dottie has done so much for my parents and this congregation. So would you please, please let us know what the church can do to help?”
“Sure, certainly.”
Jacob reiterated, “I know the hospitality board sent her a card and flowers, but I mean
anything
—money, meals, transportation. I'll see to it personally that her needs are met.”
“Thank you, Jacob.”
“No problem. And feel free to use our signal waves whenever you need them.” He shook his hands in the air.
Talking to Jacob almost made me forget why I'd come up the hill in the first place. “I'm sure I'll be up here again.”
He shrugged. “Well, if you see my car in the lot—the blue Camry—you're welcome to come on inside so you won't have to run your AC. Idling is hard on the environment, you know.”
“Thanks.”
He stepped away. “It really is good to see you again, Tori.”
“Same here.”
With that, Jacob retreated into the building, allowing me to regain my wits.

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