Slow Moon Rising (23 page)

His eyes met mine. “Really?”

“Why so shocked?”

“I hear a Georgia accent.”

I chewed and swallowed. “Whenever I call home, my family says the same thing.”

“Tell me about home.”

“I have three sisters.”

He grinned. “And I thought I had it bad with two.”

“You have no idea.” I speared a shrimp and ate it. “I'm the baby. Kimberly is the oldest. She used to live not far from where we grew up, but she got a divorce and moved to Cedar Key.”

“Is that part of the Florida Keys?”

I shook my head. “Everyone asks that. No. It's in the Gulf of Mexico. West side of the state. She went there for some R & R, ran into her old high school sweetheart, and the rest, as they say, is history. They got married about a year ago, and they're already expecting a baby.”

“Ah. Sounds like the stuff chick flicks are made of.”

I smiled. “Then there's Jayme-Leigh—she's a doctor, like our dad—and then, heaven help us, there's Heather.” I speared another shrimp. “She is a pain in my rear.” I felt instant regret, but I couldn't stop how I felt. A year earlier Andre had committed Heather to a Florida rehab center for alcohol and substance abuse. I'd never even known Heather to drink and had been more than a little shocked. Then again, not really. The apple hadn't fallen far from the tree with the exception that she'd been able to get through rehab and remain sober. At least, so far, so good.

“Step eight, Ami,” Heather had said in one of the few
phone calls she and I had had since I'd moved away. “Make a list of all persons we've harmed, and be willing to make amends to them all. I know I've said some things over the years that have hurt you . . .”

Some
things?

“And I want to say I'm sorry and I hope you'll forgive me. Especially for anything I may have done while drinking.”

Since I hadn't even been aware there was a problem, I muttered, “Yeah, well. Sure. I love you.”

She told me she loved me too. Life went back to normal, which, for me, was her in Orlando and me in Atlanta, our paths crossing as little as possible.

Gray laughed easily, bringing me back to our conversation. “In what way is she a pain in the rear?”

“In the trying-to-run-my-life way. She's such a . . . a . . . little mother. But I don't need a mother so I do whatever I can, whenever I can, to avoid her.”

“Because you have a mother.”

“I did.”

He stared at me for a moment before saying, “Oh. I'm sorry, Ami.” I could tell he meant it.

“Thanks.” I tossed my hair. “Now I have a stepmother.”

“Wicked?”

“No. Marvelous, actually.”

“When did your mother pass away?”

“Nineteen-ninety-nine. I was sixteen.”

“Ouch. When did your father remarry?”

“The following year. Not even a year after Mom passed away. It was hard news to hear but . . . Anise is really and truly wonderful, and I don't blame my father for loving her.”

He took a long swallow of water. “But . . .”

“But what?”

“But, you do blame him for . . . ?”

I started to answer but stopped. I wanted to share—though I didn't know why—my heart with this man. On one hand, I told myself, Gray had shared with me the incredibly personal story of his sister's rape. In many ways, what my father had done was equal. In many ways, not. If I told him the truth, I would be swinging open a door I could never close again. If I kept it shut, then perhaps I could open a window. “Nothing,” I finally said.

“Your mother's death?”

He was reading me—
how
was he reading me?—and he wasn't letting go. “In a way.” I placed my hand over my mouth, then removed it. “I've never said that to anyone before. Not in so many words. Not in
any
words.”

“Well, then I'm honored.”

Our server came to the table, refilling water glasses and reminding us to leave room for dessert. When she'd walked away, Gray said, “Tell me about your dad.”

“He's a pediatrician, like my sister.”

“That just tells me what he does for a living. Tell me about
him
.”

I looked across the dining room filled with guests and servers. The restaurant was not typical for Mexican fare. The décor was rich and dark. Tall vases with flowers stood at the end of the bar. A row of lanterns casting off warm light hung above it. Crisp white linen tablecloths draped square tables. The aroma of the best Mexican food I'd ever eaten blended with Latin music, adding to the ambiance. For a fleeting
moment I thought that if Gray asked me for a second date, he'd have to work hard to outdo Las Flores.

When my attention returned to him, I said, “When I was a little girl, I thought my father was the man in the moon. He was handsome. Smart. Fun. Like a prince in a fairy tale.”

“What happened?”

My breath caught in my throat. “I can't believe I'm telling you this,” I whispered.

He crossed his heart. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

“Are they?”

“Yes, ma'am. One thing I can say for myself, I'm a good secret keeper.”

Twice in a matter of minutes, I found myself wanting to tell him what my heart had kept secret for so many years. Too many. I wanted to share with someone—some other human being—the hurt in my heart. My soul. I wanted not to have to carry this secret all by myself anymore. Not just about my father's alleged affair. I'd shared
that
with Isaac. Of course, he'd quickly shut it down.

But I hadn't known then what I know now. I hadn't calculated the rest of the story.

I now figured, if I shared with Gray, chances were he'd never meet my family, so the secret really was safe with him. I took a deep breath and plunged. Not too deep, just deep enough to get a reading. “When my mother was on her death bed . . . she told me something. Something about my father.”

“What?”

“She told me . . . he'd had an affair.” I shook my head. “Early on in their marriage. I don't know the other details, like how long it went on or if they were in love.”

Gray laid his fork over his plate, placed his elbows on the table, and laced his fingers. “Why would she go and do a thing like that?”

I wiped my mouth with my napkin, took another drink of water, and dropped my hands into my lap. “I talked to my brother-in-law about this years ago. Not too long after it happened. He said Mom was probably just talking out of her mind because she was so sick. But I don't know.”

“Your mother, was she on a lot of medication?”

I nodded. “I know. I know. That's what Isaac said too.”

“So, she could have been delusional.”

“She could have been.”

“But?”

Here it was. Here was my chance to say out loud to another human being what I wouldn't even say out loud to myself. “There's more.”

When my words trailed to silence, he said, “Do you want to share that part?”

Yes. No. Maybe. Once it was out, it was out forever. “Not really.”

“That's fair. After all, this is only our first date. Maybe on the second? Third?”

I looked at him. He was smiling. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Gray paused a moment. “Why don't you tell me, what did your mom say exactly?”

“That I needed to forgive my father, as she had forgiven him.”

“Forgiveness is a gift, more to ourselves than to those who have hurt us.” He blinked. “Have you? Forgiven?”

I swept my lips with my tongue. I felt tears pool in my eyes. One trailed down a cheek. When I was finally able to get my voice past the knot in my throat, I said, “I wish I knew.”

Gray became a staple in my life. We went to dinner at least twice a week—often after work—and to church every Sunday. My studio launched successfully, and Gray's class—shock of shocks—was the most popular, especially with women in the thirty-plus category. More than anything, with the busyness of starting my business and keeping it afloat, I was able to avoid going back to Orlando for pretty much any reason. That didn't stop Dad and Anise from coming to Conyers, of course. But, they always stayed at a hotel near my apartment, which meant I could manage not to have to spend every waking minute with them.

It was during a visit in June 2012 that Anise talked my roommate Shellie and me into a day of pampering. On Dad. We went out for brunch, then to get manis and pedis. Afterward, we had a late lunch, went shopping for trinkets we didn't need, and finished the day with late-afternoon massages. It was great fun, but at the end of it I was more than ready to go home and crash.

Anise wouldn't hear of it. She insisted on picking Shellie and me up later for dinner, where she asked Shellie endless
questions about her life, how work was going, who she was dating, and how often
she
got to visit her family.

I felt the sting in every question, especially the last one.

Shellie and I are roommates, but we've never been confidants. In the past months, Gray had filled that role. Shellie and I only shared a place to live and expenses along with the occasional conversation or movie when we were both bored and dateless. What
I
knew about
her
personal life was where she worked (a bank), who she dated (a guy named Bud), and where she was born and had grown up (Birmingham). Other than that—and the fact she went to visit her family at least twice a month—I knew nothing. It was that one final thing that made my heart sick.

“I go twice a month,” Shellie said.

“Of course,” I interjected across the restaurant's booth table, “she lives only two hours from her hometown.”

Anise smiled in that gentle way she has and said, “That makes a difference, for sure.” She turned back to Shellie, who seemed more interested in her high-fat dessert of red velvet cake with cream cheese and pecan icing than in catching a glimpse of the expression I was attempting to plaster across my face, the one that said, “Don't. Say. Anything. About.
Anything
.”

“So,” Anise continued, “do you have someone special in your life, Shellie?”

Shellie nodded as she took a sip of her coffee. I did the same, glaring at her over the rim of the cup. Still, she didn't take notice of me. “I do. I see a guy named Bud.” She pulled her long black hair into a makeshift ponytail, then released it before picking up her fork for another bite of cake. “Of
course, his name isn't really Bud. It's Robert. But his family has always called him Bud.”

Anise frowned. “I guess that must be a Southern thing.”

Shellie's dark eyes sparkled. “I guess so.” She took a bite of cake and said, “This cake is delicious. You two should have gotten a piece.”

I looked at Anise. “The joy of being only 105 pounds soaking wet is that you can eat cake and it doesn't matter.”

Shellie shook her head. “No, no. I'm able to eat this cake because I work out three nights a week with
your
boyfriend.”

“Ugh,” I said, replacing the cup on its saucer.

Anise's head whipped around. “Ami?”

I rolled my eyes, took a deep breath, and smiled at her. “Yes, Anise, I have a boyfriend.”

“But why haven't you told us? In all these years, you've never really mentioned a boyfriend or even dating that much.”

I could hear new hurt in her voice, which made me feel all the more guilty. “It's really not that serious.”

“Not that serious?” Shellie said.

I did my best to tap her leg with my foot under the table.

“How can you say you're not serious? You go out to a movie at least once a week, to Bible study on Wednesday, to church on Sunday.”

“Have you met his family, Ami?” Anise asked.

“Ugh,” I said again. Every last one of them, including the one remaining grandparent, his maternal grandmother, whom he called “Ga-Ga.”

“I'll take that as a yes.”

I nodded. “Yes. Okay, yes.”

The hurt look grew. “But, why not tell us? Is he a convicted felon or something?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “He's a personal trainer and a Zumba instructor, which is what Shellie was talking about when she said she takes three of his classes a week.” I frowned toward Shellie. “He's a good guy. A great guy, Anise, but . . . I've just not been ready to share him. Yet.”

“I see.”

Shellie's face held a look of recognition. She wiped her mouth with her napkin and laid it beside her plate. “I think I might need to go to the little girls' room so you two can talk more privately.” She stood, grimaced at me, and walked from the table.

Anise took Shellie's place across from me and laced her fingers as she positioned her elbows on the table, a sure sign we were going to
talk
. “Ami,” she said, so quietly that had I not seen her mouth, I wouldn't have caught my name. “I honestly don't understand. What has happened since you've moved to Atlanta? Have I done something to offend you in any way?”

“No, Anise. Of course not.”

“Your sisters? Has one of them?”

It would be so easy to pin this on Heather. To talk about her obsession with mothering me. To say that since Andre had admitted her into a recovery center, I'd felt . . . what had I felt? Guilt? Sure, guilt. Guilt at not knowing she was drinking too much. Or too often. That she'd become . . . like Mom. But Andre's declaration that he would make sure his wife didn't turn out like his mother-in-law and Heather's stint in rehab were too fresh. I couldn't blame nearly a decade of avoidance
on her. “No, not my sisters,” I said. “I talk to Jayme-Leigh a lot and sometimes Kim. And I pray for Heather.”

“You're talking quite rapidly, Ami. Are you so sure of yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Then, if it's not me and it's not your sisters, it must have something to do with your father. And please,” she said, raising a hand to stop me from interrupting, “don't say it's not. Don't think for a moment he hasn't felt it. That it hasn't hurt him.” Her eyes shimmered with tears. “From the moment I met him, he spoke of you, Ami. Said there was something—he couldn't put his finger on it—something wrong between the two of you after Joan died.”

She waited for me to say something, but I couldn't.

“When I came to live with you and your dad, you and I seemed to hit it off quite well.”

“I liked you a lot, Anise. And, now, I love you. I do.”

“And I love you. But your father . . . he
loves
you. So much more than I ever could. You and I don't have the same history. And, he's your father. He's always been your father. That's . . . you have no idea how special that is.”

“Yes, I do. I know, but—”

“If you knew, if you really knew, you would call him more. See him more. He's made excuses for years now, but I just cannot sit back anymore and let this continue. Not now. Not knowing there is someone special in your life.” She took a deep breath, but I could tell she wasn't done. “Ami, I've never really talked to you about my father.”

I shook my head. From across the room, I noticed that Shellie had found a place at another table and that she was
sipping on a tall glass of ice water. She waggled her fingers at me, letting me know she saw me seeing her.

“My father left when my brother and I were little. He met a woman—my stepmother—and went on to have other children, my half siblings. Dad didn't live
that
far away from home, but he rarely saw us, and he rarely called. He made us the smallest part of his life possible without completely ignoring us. I never knew what it was like to have a real relationship with a father, and by the time I was mature enough to pick up the phone and try, it just felt silly. But you, Ami. You do. And when I think of how you have everything I ever wanted in a dad, but you seem to be so flippant about it—”

“That's not it, Anise. I know what a good dad he is. It's just—”

“What? Tell me, Ami. I'm begging you to tell me.”

“There are things about Mom that I can't . . . things she told me before she died.”

“Like what?”

I shook my head. It wasn't my place to tell Anise this story. It was Dad's, if he would even tell her at all. For ten years I'd been unsure of who my father really was. I knew he loved me. That he loved my sisters, my nieces and nephews. There was no doubt in my mind that he'd welcome Gray into the family—if we came to that—as he'd done my brothers-in-law. But the one thing I needed to know for sure, I couldn't ask. Couldn't say. Not to this woman and certainly not here in this restaurant. The best I could do was . . . “I promise to try, Anise. I'll call more often. Come home when I can. It's hard, really it is, with the studio.”

“We know that, sweetheart. Why do you think we're so
willing to drive up so often? But, your father isn't forty anymore. With age comes the difficulty of not being able to go like he used to.” Her eyes widened. “I'm not saying he's old, but I think you know what I mean.”

I laughed lightly. “Anise, you really love my father, don't you?”

“More than my own life.” Her eyes swept over my face. “What about you and . . . what's this young man's name?”

“Gray.” Heat rushed to my cheeks.

“Ah,” she said. “I see.”

I pressed my fingertips against both sides of my face. “See what?”

“You've fallen for him, eh?”

I shrugged, but my grin felt as though it would split my face. “He's a very special man. And, Anise? He's never
tried
anything. I mean, I know he . . . he
loves
me and he . . . oh, how do I say this?”

“He wants you?”

“Yes.” I looked away. “I can't believe I'm telling you this. But I . . . I know this would be important. To you. To Dad. Gray . . . he's been very much the gentleman. He's . . . he's passionate, but appropriately so. And keeping our relationship right before God seems to mean as much to him as it does to me.”

Anise reached across the table and took my hands in hers. “Oh, Ami. I'm so happy for you.”

“Like Shellie said, we go to church. To Bible study. To dinner and occasionally to the movies. Mostly we stay with the Singles Over Thirty group in the church because Gray is over thirty even if I'm not quite there yet.”

“Wisdom. Absolute wisdom. I'm proud to hear it. Ami, can we meet him? Dad and me?”

“Ohhhh . . . Anise. Am I ready for this?”

“Are you ready for this? What I want to know is whether or not
Dad
is ready for this. His baby. In love.” She squeezed my hands before releasing them. “Have you said the
L
word yet?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“The
M
word?”

I had to ponder what she meant. “Oh, you mean marriage?”

“Mmmhmm.”

Excitement was written all over her. “Only in passing. We're not picking out china patterns or anything like that. Not yet.”

“Hmm,” she said. “I wonder what he's waiting on.”

“Yeah,” I said, as though the thought was conspiratorial. But, truth be known, I knew the answer. Gray was waiting for me to introduce him to my father. An old-fashioned guy who would only propose the old-fashioned way.

Well, as it seemed, he'd be meeting my father soon enough.