The Someday List (9 page)

Rachelle laughed, but Aunt Irene winked at her.

"I need a little help to unwind sometimes;' she said. "Between
getting ready for this barbecue/birthday party for Indigo and
dealing with your stubborn uncle and my creaky hip, Lord knows
I need something!"

She leaned closer. "But don't tell anybody, okay? Let's keep this between us. Come on, help me set the rest of the food out and
bring out Indigo's cake:'

Rachelle wanted to pinch herself. She had to be dreaming. All
of her aunts and uncles were social drinkers except Aunt Irene,
who had always said she didn't partake so she could remain
clearheaded enough to hear from God. When had that changed,
and why? Rachelle followed Aunt Irene into the kitchen, but
decided not to question her until later, when they had some
time alone.

Before she could fret further, Aunt Melba barreled in with
a friend trailing her. Bags that overflowed with chips, two-liter
sodas, and ice filled their arms. Aunt Melba's face was nearly hidden by her packages, but her hearty laugh was unmistakable.

"I'm here now! Let's get this party started!"

Melba had never been one to use an "inside voice:" Family
gatherings weren't half as lively when she wasn't around, and
everyone teased her about it.

"Shoot, I was the middle child-I had to fight to get some attention;" she'd always respond. "That saying is the truth-the squeaky
wheel gets the oil, and I don't like being rusty or ashy!"

A little coarse sometimes, yes; but never `rusty or ashy,"' Rachelle's mother had commented years ago, after one of Melba's
weekend visits to Philadelphia.

Other than Rita Mitchell, no one seemed to mind Melba's volume or straightforwardness. She was colorful and flamboyant and
lovable. She was also gorgeous. At five foot ten, she was slender,
but thick in all the right places. She wore a short-layered haircut
that accentuated her bronze complexion and high cheekbones.

Aunt Irene was the baby sister and Rachelle's dad was the oldest of the three children, but Aunt Melba looked nowhere near
the sixty-two years she insisted her birth certificate documented. When she visited Houston for shopping trips to the Galleria and
other exclusive stores, strangers often mistook her for Rachelle's
older sister.

Rachelle still couldn't fathom why Aunt Melba hadn't fled jubilant as a teenager for the runways of New York or Paris.

Melba, Irene, and Rachelle's dad, Herbert, loved each other
deeply, which meant that loving each other's children was second
nature. Since Melba had never had any of her own, she claimed
Rachelle, Alanna, and Irene's crew by default.

Aunt Melba set her grocery bags on the granite countertop,
next to Irene, who was arranging deviled eggs on a serving tray.
She kissed her sister's cheek, then turned toward Rachelle.

"Well, look what the cat drug in. When did you get here, Rachelle?"

Rachelle grinned and trotted over for a hug. "It's great to see
you, Aunt Melba. I made a surprise visit this morning. Gabe is
away on business and the kids are with Mom and Dad for the
month, so I thought I'd drive down:"

Melba raised an eyebrow and grabbed a deviled egg. "Gabe's
away, so you can play?" She popped the appetizer into her mouth
and waited.

Rachelle smiled but didn't respond. Aunt Melba had always
been able to illuminate the heart of matters. Maybe that's why
her hair salon remained the busiest in town. It wasn't unusual for
clients who had moved away to drive several hours to jubilant for
a special occasion appointment with Melba.

Rachelle couldn't blame them. Melba was indeed a fabulous
hairstylist, but her unparalleled energy, doses of encouragement,
and the tell-it-like-it-is advice she doled out were the true magnets. Melba didn't play favorites-whoever sat in her chair had
her full attention.

Rachelle turned to the woman who had accompanied her aunt.
"Hi, I'm Rachelle."

"Hello, Rachelle." The woman smiled and extended her hand.
"I'm Cynthia, one of Melba's clients and also a friend. Nice to
meet you:'

Rachelle wondered how Cynthia had been roped into attending the barbecue. Either she was new to town, in a crisis, or had
struck Melba's fancy as someone the family would appreciate
knowing.

"Good people need to know other good people" was a Melba
catchphrase.

"This is Doctor Cynthia Bridgeforth, pediatrician extraordinaire," Melba said, satisfying Rachelle's curiosity. "Could be living
the cushy life of a private practice doctor caring for Jubilant's
well-to-do kids and instead spends her days in the toughest part
of town, helping the children most folks gave up on before they
even got here. This Cynthia, she's something else:"

Rachelle was intrigued. Before she could ask questions, though,
the birthday girl made her entrance with an entourage of lip-glosssmothered, giggling friends. The various perfumes and scented
lotions they wore overshadowed the baked beans Aunt Irene had
retrieved from the oven.

While today's gathering was a celebration of Indigo's fifteenth
birthday, it also was enough reason for the family and their extensive
circle of friends to fellowship. Most teenagers shied away from social
functions that included embarrassing adults, but Indigo seemed to
be dodging that pattern. Aunt Irene and Uncle Charles had made it a
practice to surround all three children with loved ones at every turn.
They might never know the meaning of the term nuclear family.

Indigo parted the crowd and ran to embrace Rachelle. "You
came to my party but you didn't bring my little cousins?"

She rested her skinny arms on Rachelle's shoulders and locked
eyes with her. Rachelle laughed.

"When did you get so tall? And why weren't you at church
today?"

"I slept over at my friend Sabrina's house last night" Indigo
pointed to the girl. "But if I had known the new director of music
was going to show up today and sing, I might have popped in.
`Shawty' is fine!"

Indigo and her giggling girlfriends moved as one force toward
the back door and tumbled outside. Rachelle couldn't help but
smile, despite hearing Indigo refer to Troy in that fashion. She was
just an infant when everything transpired between Rachelle and
Troy during their college days and didn't know that this "Shawty"
was her former cousin by marriage.

Aunt Melba winked at Rachelle and grabbed the baked beans.
Cynthia picked up the tray of deviled eggs and the two women
followed the girls outside.

The mention of her ex-husband reminded Rachelle of a pertinent concern. "Is ... Troy ... coming to the barbecue, Aunt
Irene? Did you invite him?"

Aunt Irene averted her eyes. She wet a dishtowel and concentrated on wiping the island countertop. "He was invited, along
with a few other folks from church. But he came up to me after
service this afternoon and told me that he and Chaundra were
having dinner with Pastor and First Lady Taylor and might not
have time to stop by."

Rachelle fiddled with the paper napkins she had folded into
triangles. "Did he ... ask about me?"

"He saw you, Rachelle," Aunt Irene said. "I saw him looking at
you. But he didn't say a word to me about you:'

Ouch. Why did that sting? Hadn't they both moved on? She had
fled church to avoid him, so her disappointment surprised her.

She was curious about what he'd been doing all these years since
they split and how he had wound up back in Jubilant. Aunt Irene
probably knew everything, but Rachelle decided not to ask.

An awkward silence filled the kitchen and Rachelle took that
as her cue. She grabbed a serving spoon and an aluminum pan
filled with potato salad and headed for the door.

She crossed the expansive lawn and placed the food on a clothcovered table under one of the tents. A couple Rachelle didn't
know sat nearby under a tree, chatting. The woman leaned into
the man and he bent down to kiss her nose.

"No newlywed hanky panky. Y'all got little eyes watching ya!"
Uncle Charles yelled from across the patio, where he was basting
ribs on the grill. The couple laughed and put up their hands in
an admission of guilt.

Rachelle smiled at them and turned back toward the house.
She froze in her tracks when Pastor and First Lady Taylor opened
the gate of the tall wooden fence and entered with their adolescent son.

Please, God, let them be alone.

Did arrow prayers really work? Maybe so, but Rachelle decided
hers must be so rusty that an instant answer wasn't guaranteed.

Troy and Chaundra stepped inside the backyard and closed
the fence behind them. The girl spotted Indigo and her friends
and trotted over to join them. Troy zeroed in on Rachelle and
paused.

Her cell phone rang before either of them could react. Thankful for the distraction, she pulled it from the clip attached to her
buckle loop and answered without screening the call. It had to
be Alanna.

"You won't believe who just showed up;' Rachelle said, with
her eyes fixed on Troy.

"Really," said a deep voice on the other end that didn't belong
to her sister. "Just where are you, anyway?"

Gabe had picked a fine time to call.

He wanted to tell her that, but since she was the one with the
attitude problem, she should be calling to set things straight. He
didn't have time to be tracking her down. Time was money.

But today he couldn't help it. He had to know whether she'd
gone back home after she snuck out of the house Wednesday afternoon. He had smashed a glass against a kitchen cabinet when
he picked up her voice mail message. If Rachelle hadn't returned
and fixed the mess, Helen would wonder what had happened
when she arrived to clean the house this week.

Surely, though, Rachelle wasn't going to be stupid. She couldn't
be planning to leave for good and give up her lifestyle.

But her complaint about "things" not being enough troubled
him. He worked hard, provided well for her and the kids, afforded
her nice vacations and entree into circles of influence most women
only fantasized about joining. His work was demanding and some times inconvenient, but he made it home for dinner often enough.
What else did he have to give? Women could be so needy.

Gabe hadn't called the house all day, assuming he would reach
Rachelle on her cell. But maybe she had come to her senses. He
tried their home number, and that call went straight to voice
mail.

"I know Rachelle is not still at some hotel;' he said under his
breath and glanced at his watch. He had another session in an
hour and would be flying home later that afternoon. Dinner and
a massage would be the perfect way to make up.

This time when he dialed her cell number, he didn't hang up.
Relief coursed through him when she answered, but it was quickly
replaced by anger.

Clearly she had been expecting to hear from someone else.
When he asked where she was, she had remained silent long
enough for him to fear that she might hang up. He also heard
voices in the background.

"Where are you?" he asked again. "Have your hormones settled
down yet? Hello?"

"Yes, Gabe, I'm here," she finally responded. "What's with the
interrogation?"

"What are you talking about?" he said. "I haven't heard from you
since I left Houston. Don't I have a right to know where my wife
is? Until the past month, I never had to ask-you made it your job
to keep me informed. Why are you tripping all of a sudden?"

Gabe felt his voice rising, along with his blood pressure. He
sat in the hotel lounge and tried to appear nonchalant. A pretty
doctor he had met at dinner the night before walked past him
and waved.

I should have gone to my room for this conversation, he thought.
Rachelle wasn't going to cut him any slack.

"Listen to you;' she said. "You're right-we haven't talked in four
days, and what's the first question you ask me? Are my hormones
normal. Then you tell me I'm tripping. That's why I `tripped' right
out the door on Wednesday."

What had gotten into her? Gabe took a deep breath and pressed
his lips together to keep from fueling her fire.

"I'm in jubilant, visiting Aunt Irene and Uncle Charles;' she
finally said.

Gabe felt sucker-punched. He sat forward in the sofa chair
and tried to remain calm as groups of physicians swirled past
him. "How long have you been there? Are they having a party or
something? When are you coming home?"

The questions flew from his mouth as rapidly as they formed
in his mind. Better get them out now before he said something
else to anger her.

Lyle Stevens, his surgery partner, stepped off the elevator. He
pointed at his watch and Gabe checked the time on his own. Forty
minutes until their presentation. Gabe gave him a thumbs-up.

He wasn't getting off the phone with Rachelle, though, until
he had some answers.

"I went to San Diego on Friday to visit Jillian and flew into
Houston this morning;' Rachelle said. "Gabe, she's dying. She
had a party to tell her closest friends goodbye:"