Deadly Charm (15 page)

At least her “heart” condition had improved with the news of the twins.

Jazz leaned into me. “I'll buy you some presents, Catwoman. Let them do their grandmother thing.” He kissed me on my cheek, and for a moment I thought nothing could interfere with my happiness.

Nothing.

For a moment.

I should have known by the pensive look on Jazz's face that trouble was brewing. I'd stayed in the hospital overnight and most of Sunday until Dr. McLogan finally cleared me to go home
late in the evening. I still had residual pain, and I didn't feel like participating in the battle of the sexes with Jazz. I just wanted to get out of the Love Bug, go into my apartment, and crawl into bed with my Bible and the Sunday edition of the
Ann Arbor News
. Instead we sat in the parking lot, Jazz neither making a move to open the door nor even looking at me.

I sighed. I didn't want to ask for fear that he'd answer in the affirmative, but I had to. “Is there something wrong, Jazz?”

“I don't think so.”

“Which suggests that perhaps
I
will?”

“It's nothing. I mean, we're trying to do the right thing, right?”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘do the right thing'?”

He drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “Yo, we do what we gotta do to stay on point and make sure the babies are straight. That's how we roll. Right?”

“That was an awful lot of slang there. What exactly are you compensating for, soul brotha?”

“Who said I'm compensating for anything?”

“That's not how you usually communicate with me. What have you done? What are you trying
not
to tell me?”

He unbuckled his seat belt. “Let's go inside. I'll come back for all the toys and flowers once we get you settled.”

I didn't argue with him. I knew whatever he had to tell me I'd hear soon enough.

Ever the gentleman, Jazz carried me up the stairs once again, God bless him. I nestled my head into his neck.
God, I love this man
. He smelled of something woodsy and manly. He never
needed to wear cologne. His own scent intoxicated me—when he didn't smell like a distillery.

“Ummmmm,” I said into his neck.

“Don't start.”

“I like the way you smell.”

“I like the way you smell, too. But let's not smell each other until Dr. McLogan says its okay.”

“Is that sexual demon trying to rear its ugly head?”

“Not funny.”

“I was teasing.”

“No, you were teasing when you were talking all up in my neck about how good I smell. Mention that I'm the spawn of Satan and you kill that loving feeling in me.”

By now he'd climbed two flights of stairs. He needed to save his breath and concentrate, or I'd be walking up the last flight—which I was perfectly capable of, even if it meant I'd suffer a wee bit.

Again I curled into him, enjoying the ride. We finally made it to my apartment, and he gently set me down.

He huffed and gasped. Finally, “You okay, baby?”

“I am, but you sound like you may need to be resuscitated.”

“I'm all right.”

Honestly! Men cannot admit weakness. They have to have rigor mortis setting in before they'll think they're sick enough to go to the doctor.

He thrust the key in the door, unlocked it, and repeated the action two more times. Finally, he put his hand on the door, looked at me sheepishly. “Welcome home, Bell.”

“Thanks, Jazz. Open the door.”

He did. Reluctantly. And to my shock and horror.

A fifty-two-inch television overwhelmed my living room. Paintings were all over my walls—Addie Lee paintings—and a treadmill stood as stoic as a soldier next to my rose-colored velvet sofa. I had new throw pillows made of indigo-wax-dyed cloth that looked vaguely familiar. I scratched my head and turned my attention back to Jazz.

“You got me some new stuff?”

“Go inside, Bell.”

“But what is all this stuff?”

“Maybe you should sit down.”

I walked over to my sofa and slowly lowered myself down. My heart began to palpitate. The Addie Lee paintings were originals. And was that a Gilbert Young painting over there on the floor by my bedroom door? I'd kill several people to get some of Gilbert's work. The art fairy had also propped a huge Synthia Saint James painting next to the big-screen television. Elisa idolized her.
She'll be thrilled to see…But why are these things…

Jazz eased himself onto the couch beside me. “Bell, baby.”

“Yes?”

“I moved in with you.”

“What?”

If I thought seeing the beautiful art quickened my pulse, hearing Jazz say he'd moved in nearly took me to meet Jesus. “Whaddya mean you moved in?”

“I mean while you were in the hospital, I brought all my stuff over here.”

“Jazz, I was only in the hospital overnight. I'm gone all night and you felt like you had to drag all your stuff over here? Now you're going to have to take it all back.”

“I sold my loft, and I had my stuff at my parents' house.”

“So, why did you bring it
here
? What? Do you think I'm Bell's Storage now?”

He shifted in his seat. “I've been living with my parents since Kate died, but Jack and Addie put me out when I told them you were having twins. I mean, they actually put my stuff in a U-Haul they rented.”

“
What?
” My voice went up about twelve octaves. I could have launched my career as a soprano opera singer after this conversation.

He didn't say anything about my spectacular voice. “I prayed about it, and the Lord spoke to me.”

“
What?
” Another twelve octaves. I could sing with the cherubim now.

“What? Do you think God only speaks to Pentecostals?”

I shook my head. “I don't think that at all, Jazz. I just don't usually hear
you
say things like that.”

“All the more reason for you to hear me out. Where is your copy of
The Message
?”

“It's on top of my armoire, wherever that is now.”

“Bell, you can see I made a big effort to keep your things as close to how you had them as possible.” He got up and went over to my armoire, which was now in a corner, having been displaced by Jazz's gigantic
movie screen
!

He grabbed
The Message
and came and sat beside me again. He turned to the third chapter of Hosea.

This was going to be bad. As soon as I saw he'd gone to the Old Testament, I knew there'd be trouble, but
Hosea
?

“It's the third verse,” he said. “Like I said, I prayed and asked God for some kind of guidance. And he answered my prayer perfectly.”

Usually, I'd enjoy thinking of my husband as a praying man. That God answered his prayer should have pleased me to no end. So why were goose bumps creeping up my arms? My throat went dry. He began to read.

“Then I told her, ‘From now on you're living with me. No more whoring, no more sleeping around. You're living with me and I'm living with you.'”

My mouth flew open. It felt like the air had been squeezed out of my lungs. My eyes twitched wildly. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out.

He smiled in obvious triumph. “It's perfect! When I read that, I knew God had spoken. He wants us to live together.”

“Ooooh,” I moaned.

Jazz grabbed my elbow. “Are you in pain again?”

“Eugene!”

“What?”

“Eugene!”

He looked puzzled. “Who is Eugene?”

I started rocking to comfort myself. “Eugene Peterson. He's the paraphraser of
The Message
. He's
failed
me.”

Jazz gave me another quizzical look. “I don't know what you mean. How did he fail you?”

“That paraphrase. It allowed you to use my beloved
Message
against me. Ooooh.” I flung my hand, palm facing out, against my
forehead and let my head fall back. Then I jerked my head back up and pointed a finger at Jazz. “And I take issue with that whole
whoring
thing!”

Jazz shrugged, the rat! “I'm just sayin'…that's what God told me to tell you. I think what we need to focus on is the ‘you're living with me and I'm living with you' part. Your whoring demon got cast out.”

He ducked, no doubt waiting for me to batter him. I jumped up to stand over him, trying to assert some nonexistent power.

“It was an interracial-dating-and-adultery demon. And it didn't even exist! I'm pregnant and that horrid cologne she wears made me ill. But that's not the point. You can't move in with me.”

“Sure I can. God said so.”

“That is a blatant example of twisting the scriptures to support your argument.”

“What argument? As soon as I knew the babies were coming, I thought we should get our act together. I thought so before then, to tell you the truth. And why is it twisting scripture when God speaks to
me
? If God gave you some kind of answer to your prayer, you'd hang up a sign and declare yourself a prophetess.”

“I would not! And don't try to get off the topic.”

Jazz stood, too. Since he was a head taller, he instantly had the advantage over me. “Like Eugene said, ‘You're living with me, and I'm living with you.'”

“You are impossible, Jazz!”

“And you're rebelling. That's like the sin of witchcraft.
Witch!
”

“Oh, I'm so going to hurt you. I'm going to jack you up, Jazz Brown.” I tried to calm myself. Impossible. “You don't listen
to anything I say. Charging in here like a bull in a china shop.”

He ignored my insults and stood there glowering at me. I wondered if he'd say, “What else you got?” I didn't have a thing.

Weariness settled on me, and I felt crampy again. “I need my pain medicine now!” Oh Lord, now I sounded like Sasha. “You've stressed me out. I'm going to bed.”

His hard expression softened. “May I get you anything?”

Despite my anger, my heart softened when my alpha male went beta and so beautifully offered to serve me. “No, Jazz. You can get
yourself
some blankets, a sheet, and a pillow, unless you want Ma Brown's quilt instead of blankets.”

“I'd like to use the quilt, please.”

Those eyes. He had naughty eyes. I'd have to keep an eye on him. “I'll get it for you,” I said. I didn't want him rooting through my stuff. I tried to keep my voice soft, to turn away any stubborn wrath between us. I wanted to make peace with him.

He simply said, “Don't worry, baby, I'll get it myself.”

“It's no problem, Jazz. I'm happy to serve you.”

Okay, God, you see I'm trying. I used the “s” word
.

“You'd like to serve me?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I made vows.”

A sexy grin tugged at a corner of his mouth. “So you did.”

I felt silly standing there, the focus of his heat-seeking eyes. “You're sure I can't get you anything?”

“No need, baby. I'll be sharing the bed with you anyway.”

I gave him my most beatific, albeit fake, smile. “Um. No, you'll be sleeping on the sofa.”

“Baby, I'm sleeping with you now and until death, travel, or hospitalization do us part.”

All kinds of alarms sounded inside of me. “We're not sharing a bed, Jazz.”

“In that case, you can feel free to sleep on the sofa, Bell. I'll bring you a pillow and the quilt.”

“I can't sleep in the living room. I'm the one who just got out of the hospital and is pregnant with twins.”

He stepped closer to me and massaged my shoulders. Honestly! His hands are magical. “But, baby,” he murmured. “I'm the one who married you. I
will
sleep with you. But don't worry. Since you just got out of the hospital, we can postpone our lovemaking. We'll see how you feel tomorrow.”

I jerked away from him. “Jazz, the least you could have done was talk to me, you Neanderthal! You know I'm not comfortable with strong-arm tactics—not with my history.”

“Bell, you're afraid to be happy. You don't know how to be happy, either.”

His words rang so true, the gong could be heard round the world. It shot right to my heart, my soul, my spirit, my everything. I looked away. I couldn't let him see he was right.

“You don't trust that you can have good things in your life,” he continued. “You don't trust that I meant what I promised in my vows to you. You can't accept what God says is good, no, excellent, because of what some nutjob named Adam did to twist what sex means to you. You can't
be
with me because you're afraid it's a sin to love your own husband.”

“Isn't it wrong to sleep with your husband if you're separated?”

“We're
not
separated, Bell!” he shouted. “I'm here. I
want
to be here. I
want
to be married to
you
. And you want to be married to me. So how is being together wrong? I don't get it.”

I didn't know. The messages about sex were muddled inside my head, and I couldn't sort them out. Not now. I needed to wait.

He shook his head. “And you're supposed to be the psychologist who helps people figure these things out.”

I wanted to be mad. To be furious. To walk out on him. But he'd dismantled me, top to bottom. He
knew
me.

And loves you anyway…just like I do
. That still, small voice in my soul—the one that shows up whenever I
don't
want to hear from God—spoke gently to me. It added,
Don't let the sun go down on your wrath
.