Think Before You Speak (12 page)

This particular neighbor had had a front row
seat to the chaos in June and likely thought the pastor was once
again up to salacious, gossip-mongering behavior – at least
according to her overactive imagination. I offered a wave instead
of the finger in return as I strode up to the front door and rang
the bell, expecting one friend.

Then got another.

“Vicki?”

My best friend Janine answered Bobby’s door,
wearing a folded scarf on her head, a pastel yellow shorts jumper,
and a smudge or two of dust on her nose and forehead. None of it
masked the blue, wide-eyed gaze of trepidation and the brows that
shot toward her blond hairline faster than charges add up on Mom’s
credit card.

“Hey, Janine,” I said trying to mask my
confusion of seeing her here. At Bobby’s. Without me. “Whatcha
doing?”

“Well, I…um…you see…”

Bobby’s six-foot-six frame loomed behind her
as he reached his long arm around my immobile friend to open the
screen door. “Hi, Vic. Glad you could make it.”

A zing of heat flashed through me like a
woman in the throes of menopause every time I was within twenty
feet of my former squeeze. Just my body’s residual memories of what
had transpired between us eleven years ago. All I had to do these
days was simply remind myself that Bobby was a pastor. Poof!
Immediate cool-down.

Hmm. Maybe a twenty-six year-old
could
go through menopause. It’d sure save me a lot of trouble popping
that daily pill.

“What exactly am I making?” I asked, walking
in the door and doing a three-sixty around the living room. Boxes
were stacked and piled in every available corner, some in varying
stages of undress – er, packing.

Bobby’s face glowed with mirth, something
he’d had little of since returning to Dallas. Maybe the shine was
more a sweat sheen. “Why the packing party, of course.”

“Packing as in moving again?”

“Yup.”

“Why’re you selling after only a couple of
months?”

He opened his arms wide. “Look at this place.
Why all this space for only one person?” The reminder of loss
faltered his jovial mood with a deep breath before continuing.
“Besides, I want to limit my personal needs from ministry
donations, so I’m looking to rent a small apartment.”

“Unlike the parents, huh?” I muttered.

“Moving in with them would save even more,”
Bobby said, completely misunderstanding the meaning behind my
mutterings. “But it wouldn’t be conducive to our relationship…or my
sanity.”

A knowing gleam twinkled in his eyes,
revealing Bobby
had
understood the deeper gist of my words.
As his father’s ministry had grown, so had the size of the Vernet
asset holdings. Their current palatial estate was a visible
reminder to the greater Dallas metroplex that Dennis and Mary Jo
lived what they preached: give and you’ll get. However, their
demonstration of that tenet better illustrated the practice of
you
give so
we’ll
get. Bobby’s more frugal plans
exhibited what I considered to be a more accurate interpretation of
those words.

Growing up together, I’d had a front row seat
of what Bobby had experienced as the son of a larger-than-life,
mega church minister. It didn’t help tensions when my dad exerted
dominance with his purse strings as a way to get something he
wanted from Pastor Dennis – or just to prove how much control he
thought he had over the ministry’s dictates. As witnesses to the
behind-the-pulpit machinations, Bobby and I had commiserated
through the years over our fathers’ shortcomings – and in the back
of his brand new Ford F-150 the summer before he left for college.
The resultant police report offered ample proof of how far our
commiseration had gone.

This past summer I’d gotten another
first-hand view of the reasons for Bobby’s current struggle to live
the command to
honor thy father and mother
– especially
considering they’d failed to bail him from jail. It left the elder
Vernets in a less than heavenly light – and solidified Bobby’s
desire to
leave thy father and mother and cleave to thy
wife
. Amy’s passing may have changed Bobby’s marital status,
but I wasn’t aware of any command forcing a widower to return to
the family fold. Besides, he’d already confessed it was easier to
practice the sixth commandment from a distance.

But hey, what did a sinful succubus like me
know, right?

A bright blush slowly crept across Janine’s
face like an advancing army of fire ants. I stood beside her in
momentary silence while she thrust armfuls of books from the
shelves into empty boxes scattered at her feet. My dear friend had
never learned the fine art of hiding her emotions, despite having
this expert for a friend since before we’d learned to piddle in a
potty. If I waited patiently, it was only a matter of time before
the guilt – real or otherwise – built up and spilled over the
dam.

“I’m so sorry,” she sputtered within a ten
second window. “I forgot to call you the other day after you got
home to tell you Bobby needed help today.”

“It’s okay,” I assured, handing over some
books.

Janine continued in a rush like water over
Niagara Falls. “My doctoral thesis is nearing a critical phase.
Mom’s been hounding me again about when I’m going to find a man and
give her grandchildren. There’s the birthday trip to Louisiana this
fall to see my grandmother, and Mother won’t shut up about how
lovely it would be if I could share some good news with her. Then
it sounds like my advising professor is going to dump so much work
on me this coming semester I’ll not see the light of day. And to
top it all off, my dog died.”

“Bunny?” I cried as the waterworks tumbled
down Janine’s cheeks in earnest.

I wrapped my arms around my bestie as she
dissolved into a tears and snot mess all over my black tee. Whoever
said black doesn’t show dirt has never surrendered the color to an
emotional avalanche from one Janine De’Laruse.

Even though I’d never much cared for her
ankle biter of a dog, my best friend had loved that yipping
Yorkshire terrorist – I mean, terrier. She’d treated it like her
very own dress-up doll, painting its toenails, doing its fur up in
bows and other bric-a-brac, even going so far as to dress it in
themed clothes according to the nearest holiday. Halloween costumes
were the worst. Figured that’s why the tiny critter always seemed
to be in a bad mood.

Or maybe it was just me.

I am more of a cat person, after all. They’re
somewhat indifferent and can pretty much take care of themselves –
as long as I remember to put out food every day, clean water, and
scoop the litterbox a couple of times a week. And if I ever tried
to put Slinky in a Halloween costume, I’d spend the following week
nursing wounds that looked like Freddy Kruger had stopped by for a
visit.

But knowing how much Janine loved her pet, I
contorted my face into one of sadness and offered condolences to
comfort her. At least I tried.

“I’m s-o-o-o sorry, Janine,” I soothed in my
best mothering voice. “It sounds like life’s been treating you
rough lately. Why didn’t you call or stop by and talk to me?”

She sniffled and hiccupped between breaths.
“You’ve had…so much going on too…that I didn’t want to burden you
with…my problems.”

I held her out at arms-length to stare her
down – and to protect my shirt from additional damage. “Listen
here, your problems are my problems. That’s what friends are
for.”

“But you’ve been busy…with the remodel,” her
voice shuddered, “…and moving…then there’s the hunk of burning Nick
issue I still need an update about.”

After working on the other side of the room,
far away from the female emotive entanglement, Bobby perked up.
“Who’s Nick?”

Janine dabbed at her moist eyes with a
tissue, careful not to disturb the perfect eye makeup job any
further. “Vicki’s boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said a little too
quickly.

“I thought Zeke was your boyfriend,” Bobby
said with a furrow of brow.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“But weren’t you staying at his place all
this time?” Bobby continued.

“Yes, but…”

Janine interrupted, “She hooks up with
him.”

“Who?” Bobby asked. “Zeke or Nick.”

“Nick,” Janine offered with a brow wiggle,
tears for Bunny forgotten. “They recently spent the weekend down in
San Antonio.”

“While you were staying with Zeke,” Bobby
clarified.

“No.” I finally got a word in. “I slept on
Zeke’s couch for five weeks, but I’m home now. We’re friends.
That’s all.”

“Then Nick is your boyfriend?” Bobby and
Janine asked in unison.

“No boyfriend,” I said firmly, shattering the
hope my friends carried for me into microscopic pieces.

“But you’re sleeping together,” Bobby
said.

“Yes,” I blurted out before I could stop
myself. Lord, help me now! A conversation about the
current
guy I was sleeping with was so not a discussion I wanted to have
with the
first
guy I’d slept with. “Do you want to take my
other confessions now, Father?”

“Actually, I’m a pastor…Protestant, not
Catholic,” Bobby said with a smirk. “But I think we’re good
now.”

I buried myself into heaving books into
boxes, with mumbles and grumbles that would make most pastors and
priests alike cross themselves with a blush. After the rush of
back-and-forth conversation, accusations, and denials, I was gonna
need a neck brace to recover from whiplash.

“I’m really sorry I forgot to tell you about
today, though,” Janine said, returning to her original
soliloquy.

“We’re good, Janine.”

“Hey,” Bobby began. “If Janine didn’t tell
you, then how did you know to come over today?”

“Actually, I didn’t,” I confessed. “I wanted
to ask you a question.”

“Oh,” Bobby said. “Well then, fire away.”

Now that I had Bobby’s
and
Janine’s
full attention, I had to focus on a way to ask without giving away
any hint of Reggie’s secret. After all, the De’Laruse clan was a
design client too, and if Mrs. De’Laruse got a whiff of scandal,
Janine wouldn’t be able to keep a secret from her mom no matter how
hard she tried. Mrs. De’Laruse could smell fear coming off her
daughter from ten miles away and draw a confession from her better
than any priest of the Inquisition.

“So,” I started out strong. “There’s this
friend who once had gang ties a long time ago. That association has
recently come back to haunt him.”

Clean. Smooth. Straight-forward. I’d
successfully kept my disease-ridden mouth in check.

“Okay,” Bobby said with confusion painted
across his features like dust smeared over sweat. “What’s the
question then?”

The question. Right. Yeah, I really needed to
stop hanging out with Nick. Ditzy was catching like a cold virus in
heat.

“In the confines of your prison ministry, I
wondered if you connected with the prisoners individually or as a
group.”

“Both actually, but that’s still not really a
question.”

“Well, then try this one on for size,” I said
with a huff. “Do you work with local gang members?”

“Ah, good question.” Bobby smiled, the little
demon. “Yes, there are several gang members I’ve spoken with in the
short course of the ministry.”

“Another question then. Do you hear any
details from these gang members? Things like why they’re in jail,
what gang they’re involved with, rivalries…that kind of stuff?”

He nodded. “Some. But if you’re looking for
specific details, I probably can’t help yet. It takes time to build
trust, and I’ve only been doing this for a few weeks now. I don’t
want them thinking I’m fishing for information to share with
authorities.”

“Well, do you think you can find out
something for me?”

Janine interrupted with a frown. “What are
you asking about gangs for, Vicki? You’re not in any trouble again,
are you?”

“Trouble? Me?” I countered. “I haven’t been
in any trouble.”

“Yeah, that was me,” Bobby offered. “What
kind of information are you looking for, Vic?”

“A name…Switch. He’s the original leader of a
gang called the Switchblades.”

Janine crossed her arms over her chest and
shook her head. “I don’t like this. Gangs? Knives? You’re
investigating for someone again, aren’t you?”

What could I say without piquing her
suspicions any worse than they already were? This was definitely
material I didn’t want to get back to her mom – or mine.

“I plead the fifth?”

Everyone was on tap at the bar on Friday
nights: Grady, Rochelle, Baby, Wanker, and of course little ol’ me.
To keep drinks flowing at bullet train speeds, Grady kept Wanker
and me behind the bar while Rochelle and Baby worked the tables –
and the crowd.

Wanker’s what we call an old codger here in
the south. He was about as true-blue a cowboy as modern times
allowed. Grizzled, long beard and matching hair straggled in a
ponytail from beneath the weathered hat. I think at one time the
fabric of the hat must’ve been white or light tan. Now it sported
stains so imbedded, the color leaned more toward grayish-brown.

But don’t let Wanker’s age or lanky frame
fool you. If things ever got out of hand, he’d be the first one in
the fray, bashing heads together and dragging carcasses outside to
sober up. In his younger days, he would’ve made a Clydesdale appear
like your average-sized filly. There was a comfort in working
side-by-side with him ‘cause I always knew he’d have my back – even
if my antics sometimes caused the commotion he had to clean up.

While Rochelle acted cool and fun like a more
mature thirty-something woman would, Baby kept things barely legal.
That girl worked the crowd like someone who had a hell of a lot
more experience than her twenty-three years suggested. Or maybe she
was a lot like me, kept in a bubble until reality exploded that
quasi-happy place like a twenty-two gauge shotgun, sending Baby on
a spiraling course toward – well, my world.