Who Is My Shelter? (48 page)

I nodded. “And he wants to take me to dinner. And I said yes.” I stepped into the elevator and turned around just in time to see Precious's eyes pop and her mouth drop before the door closed between us.
Good
. I wanted somebody to feel as shocked as I did.

Philip had made dinner reservations for seven that night at the Café Bernard, a French bistro on Halstead. But he showed up at my door at six thirty a bit flustered, asking if he could shave in our bathroom. “Somehow my shaver got lost in the move,” he said sheepishly. “Had to stop at a drug store and buy a cheap razor.”

He'd picked up Paul and P.J. that afternoon when he'd come by with his moving crew—Denny Baxter and some of his Bible study guys—to get his personal things out of the House of Hope basement, then brought the boys back when he came to pick me up. The boys thought losing the shaver was hilarious, but once shaved, Philip looked as handsome as ever in black slacks, an open-necked white shirt, and a blue-gray sport coat. “Just be glad I'm not showing up in sweats,” he said. “I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find any of my clothes after Denny's crew got done moving me in.”

He seemed pleased at the turquoise two-piece I'd chosen, one of the better colors that complimented my hair—a belted rayon tunic with a boatneck and flared pants that hung in soft folds like a long skirt. I kissed both boys good-bye with reminders about the leftover turkey in the fridge and that Josh Baxter would be checking in on them. “And don't walk Dandy by yourself before bed,” I told Paul, smoothing an unruly curl on top of his head. “I'll take him out when I get home.”

“Glad you're going out with Dad instead of that other guy,” P.J. muttered to me as we headed out the door. I glanced anxiously at Philip, who was holding the foyer door for me, wondering if he'd heard, but he didn't say anything on the way to the restaurant.

The French café was nice, with cloth-covered tables and romantic, recessed lighting, though somewhat crowded. I ordered a beef tenderloin salad and Philip had a steak, adding a nice bottle of red wine because it was a special occasion. We chatted about this and that—Sabrina's baby, Lucy going missing again, where Philip might go to school to be able to teach brilliant young minds like Will Nissan's—but the evening felt a bit schizophrenic. Here we were, celebrating our sixteenth wedding anniversary when we'd been separated for six months and had had no discussion about our future.

As the waiter cleared our entrée dishes and brought dessert and coffee, my cell phone rang with a strange ringtone, and a text message appeared in the little window—something I hardly ever used. I glanced at it in case it had something to do with the boys, but it was from Jodi Baxter, and it just said, “Come 2 church Sunday. Important.”

“Everything okay?” Philip asked.

I showed it to him and shrugged. “Have no idea what it's about. Guess I'll find out.” I turned the phone off and put it away. No more interruptions.

When I looked up again, I realized Philip was watching me. He suddenly leaned forward and looked into my eyes. “Gabby, I—I want to ask you something—something important.”

O-kaay
. I lifted my cup of coffee and sipped. Waiting.

“I would like your permission to court you.”

My cup jerked and coffee slopped onto the cloth tablecloth. I nervously mopped up the spill with my napkin. “What—what exactly do you mean, ‘court' me?”

He laughed self-consciously. “Not exactly a word used in today's dating scene, I realize. But . . . if there's going to be any hope for us, for you and me, I know I need to start all over again. At the beginning. So I'd like your permission to court you—to take you out, to spend time together, getting to know each other all over again. Not rushing it, going as slow as would be comfortable for you. But I'm not talking about just dating for kicks. I'd like to court you with the hope of one day renewing our marriage vows. The vows we made sixteen years ago.”

I was so taken aback, I couldn't speak for several long minutes. But I finally found my voice. “But why, Philip? Why do you want to court me?”

I knew he might misunderstand my question, might just repeat what he'd said about hoping we could renew our marriage vows down the road. But there was something I needed to hear— desperately needed to hear before I could say yes.

But he didn't misunderstand. “Why?” His brown eyes softened. “Because I love you, Gabby Shepherd Fairbanks. I had no idea how much I loved you until I lost you. And I want a chance to win your love back.”

Tears crowded into my eyes and slid down my cheeks, and for a few moments I was too choked up to do anything but mop my face with the now-mangled napkin. But finally I smiled through the tears and reached across the candlelit table, taking his hand. “Yes,” I whispered. “You may court me, Philip Fairbanks. From the beginning.”

The smile on his face was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, just holding hands, absorbing the immensity of the decision we'd just made. Then, knowing I risked spoiling the sweetness of the moment, I cleared my throat. “We need marriage counseling, too, Philip. Which will mean work.
Work
. . . not just wine and roses. Are you willing to do that?”

He nodded soberly. “Whatever it takes.”

One of the wait staff came by with a fresh pot of coffee, and our hands slid apart as he filled our cups. We both sipped the fragrant coffee in silence, gazing at each other over the rims of our cups, hugging our private thoughts. It occurred to me with sudden clarity that when I got home that evening, I needed to make an important phone call. Or maybe a letter would be better. A “Dear John” letter to Lee Boyer.
“Dear Lee . .
.”

I finally put down my coffee. “Can I tell you where I'd like the beginning of our courtship to start?”

Philip looked at me curiously. “Well, sure. Your call, Mop Top.”

I smiled at the familiar nickname. “Come to church with me on Sunday. Come to SouledOut with me and the boys.”

He nodded. “All right. I will. When should I pick you up?”

The hospital released Sabrina and the baby on Saturday afternoon. I picked them up, bringing one of the infant car seats donated to Manna House. “His name's Timothy,” Sabrina said proudly as she strapped the tiny little boy into the car seat. “It's from the Bible. So Mama's happy. But I like it too.”

“What about a middle name?”

“Gonna let him choose that himself when he get old enough.”

I winced. If it didn't devolve into “Lil' Timmy Turkey” before then.

True to his word, Philip picked us up in his Lexus SUV at nine Sunday morning. Since we had a ride, I let the Baby Baxters use my Subaru to get to church. They brought Tanya and Sammy too. Nice. Maybe Tanya would find the extended family she needed at SouledOut.

All four of us Fairbankses walked in together and sat in the same row, Philip on one side of Paul and P.J., me on the other. I knew eyebrows were raising, but people just greeted us with handshakes, hugs, and smiles. Before the service started, Josh motioned to P.J. and asked if he could man the soundboard that morning since they were short a man. Now only Paul sat between us.

Jodi came by before the service started and asked about Sabrina's baby. “They finally gave him a name,” I said. “Timothy.”

She beamed. “Great name! Timothy means ‘One who honors God'! Tell Sabrina that, okay? This little boy might be a blessing, just like the biblical Timothy.”

I grabbed her hand before she left to find her own seat. “What's so important about today? The text message you sent, I mean.”

Jodi just grinned. “You'll see.”

Avis Douglass was worship leader that morning on the theme of “Give thanks!” and the scriptures and songs of praise and thanksgiving wove together like a tapestry. We sang “Awesome God” and “We Bring a Sacrifice of Praise” and “Give Thanks with a Grateful Heart,” lifting the music with such heartfelt joy that passersby shopping the mall all around us started peeking in the windows and the door. Philip did not know the songs, but I saw his fingers tapping in time to the music on the back of the chair in front of us.

As the worship band wound down the music, Pastor Joe Cobbs practically bounced up to the front, followed by the older and more sedate Pastor Clark. I loved seeing the black and white pastors together, though they did make a funny pair. Pastor Cobbs was short and energetic, Pastor Clark taller, thin, and his shoulders tended to hunch over like a tree bending in the wind.

Facing us, Pastor Cobbs said, “On this Thanksgiving weekend, we have a very special occasion to celebrate—two people who have every reason to give God thanks for bringing them together. Will the musicians come forward?”

“ 'Scuse me,” Paul said, and climbed over Philip and walked to the electric keyboard up front. Philip and I looked at each other.
What in the world—?
And then we saw Jermaine Turner, Mabel's nephew, join Paul at the electric keyboard. I swiveled my head— there was Mabel in a row behind us. What was going on? She was a member at Salem Baptist down on the South Side. I gave her a questioning look, but she just smiled. And I turned back as Paul and Jermaine began playing a duet that I recognized as Bach's “Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring,” the same one they'd played at Lucy's birthday party.

“Will everyone stand in honor of the bride and groom?” said Pastor Cobbs over the music.

What—?
Bride and groom? With everyone else, my head swiveled toward the double doors that led into the back rooms of SouledOut—and saw Estelle Williams and Harry Bentley walk out together holding hands, both of them dressed in beautiful African dress. Estelle was wearing a cream-colored caftan and head wrap with huge gold swirls that seemed to sparkle under the fluorescent lights, and she was carrying a white rose. Harry was wearing a man's tunic of the same material, looking a bit shy and embarrassed. But one side glance at the woman beside him, and he strode down the middle aisle with her, beaming.

I strained my neck looking for Jodi and gave her a
why-didn't-you-tell-me!
glare when I caught her eye, but she just grinned back.

Estelle and Harry stopped when they reached the two pastors standing on the six-inch platform at the front of the room, and the music faded. Pastor Cobbs had to take a step or two to the side to be seen by the congregation. “You all may be wondering why we are having a wedding in the middle of a worship service here at SouledOut. Well, why not? Estelle Williams and Harry Bentley, who are members here, decided they're not getting any younger— and they told Pastor Clark and me they wanted to put their time and energy into building a good marriage, not a big shindig wedding that would last one day and run them into debt.”

Laughter rippled through the congregation.

“And second, what better time to say vows to each other and before God than in a service dedicated to God, in the presence of their brothers and sisters in Christ?”

Now spontaneous clapping erupted around the room. I was so excited, I could hardly sit still. Harry and Estelle were actually getting married! I might even forgive them for not telling me ahead of time.

Pastor Cobbs held up his hand for silence. “This won't take long, but I have a word for the bride and groom. Estelle, God has not only given you a talent for the traditional gifts of sewing and cooking that used to keep a woman at home—but He has also given you a compassionate heart, and you have used those gifts to make a home for homeless women at the Manna House Women's Shelter—not to mention dressing up this ex-cop so fine that he's barely recognizable.”

Again we all laughed as Harry ducked.

“Harry, you've been a police officer most of your life and seen a good many rough things go down. But you always tried to protect the innocent and do what is right. You've even taken your grandson, DaShawn, into your life and your home, and given him love and shelter. Now, God is giving you a good woman—a woman who has lost her home and, in a sense, her family. Be her shelter, Harry Bentley, the way God is our shelter and covers us with His wings.”

“Amen!” . . . “Say it, pastor!” rang out all over the room.

“Pastor Clark will now lead Harry and Estelle as they exchange their vows. Can we have the rings?”

DaShawn, dressed in a white shirt and bow tie, stood up and, with a big smile on his face, fished in his pants pocket and pulled out two gold bands, handing them to Pastor Clark.

As SouledOut's copastor started the brief ceremony, Philip scooted into Paul's empty seat between us. He leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Gabby, I want to learn how to be that for you—a shelter, not the storm.”

Turning my face toward him, I saw the sincerity in his eyes. Maybe God
was
doing a new thing in Philip's life . . . and mine. It would take awhile. We had a lot of rebuilding to do, a lot of trust to regain, a lot of old patterns to change. If it were going to work, we'd both need God at the center this time. Maybe we could change the words to my favorite gospel song . . .

When
we
need a shelter, when
we
need a friend

We
go to the Rock
.

As Harry and Estelle, bless them, said their vows with the whole church as their witnesses, I reached out, put my hand in Philip's, and whispered back, “I've got a song I want to share with you . . .”

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