Who Do I Lean On? (16 page)

I let the screen door slam behind me. I was stalling and I knew it. This was the third time this week Philip had left a message, and I still hadn't returned his calls. Had to admit, that in itself was enough to annoy any normal person, me included.

Okay, I'd call him back—but first I dialed Jodi Baxter's number. She sounded a bit breathless when she answered.

“Hey, Jodi. It's Gabby. Philip's been calling. He wants to meet tomorrow before he picks up the boys. I still haven't called him back. Thought I could use that prayer we talked about . . . and, uh, I have a favor to ask.”

“A favor? Sure, if I—hey, hey, hey! Isaac! Don't bang that on Havah's head! That is not a toy! Gabby? Hang on a minute . . .” Jodi put the phone down, and I could hear the screeching of some little kids and Jodi's teacher voice sounding as if she was distracting them with something. Then she was back. “Sorry. I'm babysitting Ruth Garfield's twins while she gets her hair done at Adele's. Cute little buggers, but hoo boy. Mischief is their middle name. Now, what were you saying about needing a favor?”

I told her I'd decided to talk to Philip, probably tomorrow, but Estelle didn't think I should talk to him alone. Would she consider going with me?

Jodi didn't answer right away.

“I mean, if you can't, I understand,” I blathered. “Estelle just said—”

“No, no, it's not that. I was just trying to think. If Denny and I were having a problem and he wanted to talk, he'd shut up like a clam if I showed up with someone else. Would Philip be willing to talk to you if I came along?”

Denny and Philip.
Huh
. That was like trying to compare Chicago hot dogs and
fois de gras
. Still, maybe they had a few guy things in common. I sighed. “Probably not. In fact, highly unlikely. But . . .” I was grasping. “What if you ‘just happened' to drop by wherever we decide to go, act all surprised, say hi and go sit somewhere else?”

“Mm. I don't know, Gabby. He'd see through that in a minute. Look, why don't you just call him and ask what this is about. If he wants to talk divorce or legal stuff about the kids, tell him you want your lawyer present. Otherwise . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Otherwise what?”

Jodi gave a short laugh. “Otherwise, we better pray! Because I've run out of my half-baked wisdom and I think we need to ask God for some of His!”

Jodi's prayer calmed my spirit. Didn't God have my back? She prayed those words from Psalm 56: “When I am afraid, I will trust in You . . . in God I trust; I will not be afraid.” And it was true. In the past few months, when I'd trusted God for the things I didn't understand or when I didn't know what to do, God always came through. Somehow.

I made sure the boys were busy, went outside to sit on the flat cement “arms” that hugged the outside landing and front steps, and called Philip on his cell. Couldn't believe it when he answered. “Gabrielle! I've left several messages. Why—”

“I know, Philip. I should have called before now. But I don't know if I want to talk about us. Can you tell me what this is about?”

A brief silence. “It's . . . personal. I'd rather talk face-to-face.”

Take the initiative, Gabby
. “Look, if it's about our legal situation”—ouch, why didn't I just say “divorce”?—“I think I'd like to have my lawyer present.”

“Don't need our lawyers. Like I said, it's personal. Can we just talk? You name the place. I'll meet you there. Like five o'clock tomorrow? I'm supposed to pick the boys up at six. Just one hour, Gabby.”

He called me Gabby
. I let a moment of silence go by. Then . . . “All right. I'll meet you at the Emerald City Coffee Shop. It's right under the Sheridan El Station, a few blocks north of Wrigley Field.”

The wall clocks at Manna House seemed to crawl on Friday. Nine hours until my meeting with Philip . . . eight and a half . . . eight . . .

This was stupid! You'd think I was in a hurry to talk to him . . . No, that wasn't it. I was in a hurry to get it over with.

I'd wanted to sit in on Edesa Baxter's Bible study she'd started on
Bad Girls of the Bible
, using a book by Liz Curtis Higgs. The ladies who attended last week, I'd been told, had eaten it up like chocolate. But I only caught the tail end of her study about Lot's wife and the consequences of momentary disobedience after doing my midmorning run to get P.J. from Lane Tech. Maybe Edesa would loan me the book and I could catch up.

I concentrated on work to make the time go faster. Getting the afterschool program up and running by the time school started was the main priority right now. Kids whose lives had been uprooted needed a lot of extra help to not fall through the cracks at school. Avis Douglass, Jodi's principal at Bethune Elementary, had sent us some helpful math and reading materials for grades one through five. But I needed at least two volunteers to be here daily . . . and so far I only had Precious, who'd be great with the younger kids. She only had a high school education herself, but she was the queen of trivia—what's new in NASA's space program . . . who just got traded in the NBA . . . the latest squabble at Chicago's city council . . . the sorry state of bridges in the U.S.— you name it, Precious had the latest facts. Or opinions, anyway.

But her daughter Sabrina had two more years of high school, and the girl would need a
lot
of help with schoolwork once that baby got here. Had to be someone besides her mother—
wait
. What about Carolyn? She'd been at the shelter when I first came and only recently got her own apartment. But Carolyn had been a lit major and former librarian, for goodness' sake! She said she wanted to come back to Manna House to volunteer and we'd been talking about starting a book club . . . why not ask her to put together an honest-to-goodness afterschool program
and
tutor Sabrina? For that matter, why didn't we run our own GED program for our residents? Seemed like half of the adult women hadn't finished high school.

Two o'clock—my quitting time until the boys went back to school—galloped across the finish line before I knew it. I'd managed to get hold of Carolyn and she agreed to come in Monday to talk about it. I gathered up my things, collared Paul—whose enthusiasm for entertaining half a dozen bored kids seemed to be fading—and took P.J. and Paul out for ice cream and a swim at Foster Avenue Beach. When we got home, they flopped in front of the TV and the fans and didn't seem the least bit curious when I said I had to go “out” at quarter to five.

“Don't forget to pack your duffel bags with a change of clothes and underwear,” I reminded them, freshening my lipstick and giving my auburn curls a comb-through in front of the hallway mirror. “Your dad will be here to pick you up at six.”

On the dot. Philip had one hour to underwhelm me.

chapter 14

I arrived at the coffee shop ten minutes early. No way did I want to arrive late and apologetic. I ordered an iced latte and looked around for a seat. The couch by the window? No, too cozy. But most of the small tables were occupied.
Rats
. Maybe I should have suggested something like that funky retro place Lee Boyer had taken me to after he showed me the six-flat . . .
no, no, no
. Meet Philip at the same place I'd been with Lee? Too weird. This would have to do.

A middle-aged guy with a shock of uncombed hair packed up his computer, stuffed it in a messenger bag, and vacated a tiny table by the opposite window. I zipped over and claimed the space, swiping crumbs off the table with a napkin he'd left.

I sipped my latte, letting the creamy cold coffee soothe my nerves. Philip's black Lexus slowed outside just as an El train rattled into the station overhead, unloaded and loaded, and pulled out again. New customers fresh off the train trailed in. The Lexus disappeared from sight . . . but a few minutes later Philip pushed open the door and walked in.

Several heads turned as he entered. The glances of the females lingered. Couldn't blame them. Even at forty-one, Philip Fairbanks had movie-star good looks. Tall and slender, his dark hair and tan skin complemented the pale green dress shirt he wore with an open collar, topping a neat pair of black slacks and black loafers.

Two twentysomethings at a nearby table wearing Gap-inspired wrinkle-look tops, short skirts, and flip-flops gave each other
gosh-darn-it
looks when Philip headed for my table and sat down across from me. For a nanosecond, a smug smile tugged at the corner of my mouth—that age-old rivalry when The Man chooses The Alpha Woman over the other females in the herd. I'd dressed carefully—white slacks, russet cotton top that complemented my reddish-gold auburn hair, russet-colored beaded earrings that dangled, and gold strap sandals. But reality snuffed out the smug smile.
If they only knew
. I had to stifle the urge to toss out,
“You want him? You can have him!
”

“Thanks for meeting me, Gabrielle.” Philip took off his wraparound sunglasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket.

How did we start this talk anyway? “Do you want to get a coffee? Something to drink?”

He shook his head. “I'm fine. Everything okay with the boys this week? Do they have everything they need to start school?”

Okay, safe start. Talk about the boys. “Pretty much. They still need backpacks. Might need some sports equipment, depending on what they sign up for. And winter coats and boots when the time comes.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what? Are you offering to get that stuff for the boys?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”

I wanted to say,
“See? We should have met with our lawyers to iron out all the child support stuff, get it down on paper
.” But I sipped my iced latte to keep from filling up space with empty chatter.

“I—” Philip glanced out the window a moment, then back at me. “I know this might sound phony after everything that's happened, but I really am sorry about your mother, Gabrielle. Sorry she died staying in a shelter. I, uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “At the time, I thought it'd be better for everyone if she had her own place, a retirement home or something. Didn't think you'd put her in the shelter. It's just . . . everything felt out of control— summer plans for the boys falling through, losing an important client at work, the house suddenly crowded . . .”

I didn't trust myself to speak. What was he saying? Was he apologizing for kicking my mother out? Not really. Sorry things worked out the way they did? I was supposed to feel sorry for him because things felt out of control?

My hand holding the tall latte started to shake. I set it down and put my hands in my lap.

Philip actually kept eye contact. “It's been a rough time for all of us. But in the long run, you seem to be doing good, Gabby. The money from your folks . . . that was a surprise. Who would have thought? I'm glad things are working out for you.”

I hardly knew how to respond. He actually sounded glad— relieved?—I'd gotten myself together. But I still didn't trust myself to speak. Or maybe I didn't trust what he was saying.

He glanced at the tables near us and lowered his voice. “But to be honest, things haven't been going too well on my end. The business . . . well, a start-up company has its highs and lows. Just can't sustain too many lows. And personally . . . I'll be frank. I've gotten myself in kind of a jam. Which is why I wanted to talk to you.”

I all but snorted. Philip—confident, bold, over-the-top, I-can-do-anything Philip Fairbanks—was actually admitting things weren't going well? If the business was floundering, what did that have to do with me?

But my thoughts must have been plastered all over my face because he held up both hands, palms out, as if begging for patience. “Just hear me out, Gabby. I need a loan—a personal loan. I've got a debt I need to pay off, and—”

“A
loan
?” I found my voice. So
that's
what this was about! “You want
me
to give you a loan? Good grief, Philip, you've got all kinds of credit! Just ask the bank for a loan.”

He shook his head. “It's not that easy. Uh, things have gotten complicated. I've let business and personal stuff overlap . . . when you own the company, it's easy to do, you know. Anyway, while that's getting sorted out, a loan the size I need would take a whole lot of paperwork and collateral I can't afford right now. And time. Time is an issue. I need this loan right away.”

My eyes narrowed. “It's a gambling debt, isn't it?”

He threw open his hands. “I've made some mistakes. Right now I just want to take care of my debts and get back on track.”

“Mistakes. Uh-huh. Exactly what size loan are you talking about?”

He tried to be casual. “Twenty-five thousand. Fifty would be better. Would get me back on track faster. Just need to get over this hump.”