Chapter 40
Three months later
“Uh-oh, girl, you really messed up with this one.” Yvette licked the barbecue sauce off of her fingers and downed another glass of my sparkling limeade. “You do realize that we're going to have to have our small group sessions over here all the time now.”
We were all sitting in the family room of our Canton condo, the waters of the outer harbor sparkling through the windows, boats docked by the pier below, sea gulls gliding in the horizon of the setting sun.
“I know that's right,” the girl with two long braids, dyed red, jumped in. Her name was Tina. Roman sat next to her, his eyes drinking her in as they shared a Bible on their laps. She'd just finished a two-year nursing degree at a community college and had plans to transfer to a four-year university. Maybe one out of town. San Diego was on her short list. Roman had flown all the way back home from his studies out there for Labor Day weekend, “to attend the small group session,” he said, so I knew something serious between the two of them was budding.
I liked her for my son.
“Well, if we don't do our sessions here, we at least should have Sienna do the food.” A man joined in from a folding chair set up by the gas fireplace. “No offense to your cooking, Yvette, but between these barbecued chicken wings that your sister made and the cupcakes from Brother Leon's bakery, I'm almost ready to agree to a vow renewal ceremony, just to have them cater the reception.” He leaned forward in his seat. “The key word is âalmost.'”
“Charlie, shut up!” His wife squealed as the room broke out into laughter again. Leon ran his hand up my back, rubbed my shoulder. I could smell the sugar on him from his full day at the bakery.
“Sounds like we need to have another talk about relationships,” the man with black glasses said. They called him Deac.
“Oh, Lawd, here we go,” Charlie groaned and turned toward another couple. “Go ahead, Demari, say what you got to say.”
Yvette's husband's lips were indeed parted as if he was about to speak. Everyone noticed and the roar of laughter began again.
“Seriously, though,” Deac spoke over the hoots and giggles, “maybe tonight we can go over First Corinthians thirteen again, the chapter that defines love down to a tee.”
“All you young folk ever do is talk about love and relationships.” Sister Randy frowned, her eyes looking at us all over her bifocals.
“Oh, hush, Sister Randy.” The sixty-something woman sitting next to her waved her hand. “Ain't no different than our phone conversations. What was that minister's name you had your eye on at the church banquet?”
“Sister Randy!” Tina gasped. “You were checking out that young preacher from St. Mount Carmel Ministries? He's about half your age. Ooooh.”
After the laughs died down, and the Bible pages stopped turning, after the conversation and tears stopped flowing, after the last guest was walked to the door, and the last dish was washed and rinsed, I patted Leon on the arm. “I need to go check on the baby.”
He smiled, followed me to the nursery.
I opened the door. The smell of lavender and the sound of a soft coo greeted me.
“She's up.” I smiled. We walked to the crib, but Leon got to her first.
“Ava Grace Sanderson.” He picked her up, snuggled his scratchy chin next to her soft one. She flashed her wide, toothless grin and we both smiled back.
“Who would have imagined we'd be standing here like this?” I looked at my daughter and her father.
“Who would have imagined we'd be standing here at all?” Leon smiled at me.
She had her father's dimples, my honey brown skin, and a look in her eyes that told me Roman had only been my warm-up child.
That was okay, though. I'd had forty years to get ready for this one. All I'd been through, all I'd learned, all I'd become, made me ready to mother this girl right here.
I looked up at her name on the wall, a collage made of dried flowers and bits of material: silk, satin, tulle, and lace. Shavona had created it and given it as a gift at the baby's dedication dinner. I'd had no idea that Shavona shared an interest in art like me, an interest I'd rekindled with the new book proposal I'd given my agent. “I'm not a writer, I'm an artist, and I can use my gift to change people, make a difference some kind of way,” I explained the change of direction. Instead of retelling my story, the adventures of the past few years with the crazy cases I'd managed, and the near-death situations I'd brought on myself and my family, I would use my art skills to create pictures and portraits of hope, using visual media to cover themes of healing.
The publisher thought my idea was unique enough to be a bestseller, and potent enough to be necessary. The book would be both art and therapy, the ultimate combination of the best I had to offer.
“For the record, Sienna,” Leon's voice whispered in my ear, “I always believed in you. I've always trusted your instincts. I mean, after all, you did marry me.” We both chuckled, but then he sobered. “I was going to wait until we finally go on our beach trip in a few months, but who knows what you'll have us into then.”
He passed baby Ava to me and then reached for a box stowed on the top of her closet shelf. “I never told you that I saw you leave that woman's bag near the tree by my bakery on New Year's Day. You left it there and then I took it. I never told you that I had it. I took that dirty bag of her things and held on to that pocket watch, Sienna. I want you to know that I have always trusted you, even when you thought I was not paying attention.”
He opened a shoebox I hadn't noticed sitting on the shelf. He reached into it and took out a worn black purse. It was the same purse that had been hanging from Sweet Violet's wrist on our wedding day, the day she first showed up in our lives, tapping on the glass window at our reception.
“I'll give her the watch next time I see her.” I smiled, feeling like it was the right thing to do. I opened the bag, felt for the small tear in the lining. Pulled out the newspaper that held the broken pocket watch.
Newspaper.
I'd forgotten that the watch had been wrapped in newspaper.
“Hmm.” I opened up the yellowed paper, passed Leon the watch, then smoothed down the wrinkled creases. I smiled at the scrap and what it said.
“The
Garwyn Oaks Gazette,
” I read the name of the paper, dated August, 1969. “Look, a poem, written by”âI smiledâ“by Francesca J. Dupree.” I pointed to a short column at the bottom of the scrap of paper.
“Read it out loud.” Leon smiled.
“Sweet Violet”
Â
I'm his flower, he said,
I'm his sweet violet bouquet.
And he's the bloom in my life
That brightens my day.
Without him I wilt like an untended bud,
I turn from a sweet violet blossom to a violent
bitter flood
Of broken petals scattered in a loveless wind.
But then he returns and I am planted and rooted
again.
I get drunk in his arms
and lose track of the hours
When he
Waters me,
and shines on me
like I'm the world's only flower.
“Not quite Shakespeare.” Leon smiled.
“No, but I can fully relate.” I closed my eyes thinking of the days in the past when I didn't have Leon, and now the time of my present that he was there for me to love. I opened my eyes and gave him a smile that started somewhere deep inside of me and ended on the curl of my lips.
“I love you, Leon.”
He bent down, moved closer, kissed me, from my neck, to my ear, to my mouth. “And I love you, Sienna. Always.” His arms wrapped around me, wrapped around our baby. She sighed and I realized she'd fallen asleep. I put her down in the crib and then stood back up to face him.
“And now,” he murmured, pulling me close to him.
“And now what?” Everything in me felt like hot sugar, a dripping glaze, melting in the heat of his chest, in the warmth of his arms.
“And now,” he whispered, “it's our time.”