Slow Moon Rising (24 page)

Gray met Dad and Anise the following day when they went to church with us. Afterward, Dad took us out for lunch, where he kindly peppered Gray with all the questions I imagined he would. Gray answered each one, impressing both Dad and Anise, if the looks on their faces were any indication.

That night, after the evening service, Gray and I went to a local diner for a cup of coffee and to talk.

“I like them a lot,” he told me. “I don't know why you've waited so long to introduce me.”

“You know,” I said. “And you know you know.”

Gray took a swallow of coffee. He never picks up a cup or a mug by the handle; instead his fingers loosely hold the rim, allowing it to dangle beneath the umbrella of his palm. After he returns the mug to the table, he turns it so the handle faces him, then to the left, toward me, to the right. It's his way, I suppose.

“I know what you think you know,” he said. “But after meeting your father . . . he's such a great guy. What I mean to say is . . .”

I blinked rapidly. Waited for his words to come. When they
didn't, I pushed my cup of coffee a few inches toward Gray. I didn't want it anyway. “Are you calling me a liar?”

His eyes pierced mine. “No. No, of course not.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I'm just saying . . .” He shifted the coffee cup a quarter turn. “Maybe what your brother-in-law—what did you say his name is?”

“Isaac.”

“Yeah. Isaac. I think maybe he was right. Maybe your mother was just, you know, not in her right mind at the end there.”

I felt myself flush. Anger rose to the surface. I clenched my fists. What did he know about my mother? What did he know about the dynamics of our family? I shook my head. “I don't think so,” I said, a little more cynically than I intended, especially considering that Gray didn't know the
whole
story of the conversation I'd overheard between Dad and Eliana. “I've tried to reason it that way, but I don't think so, Gray.”

Gray lifted his cup, took another sip of coffee. “You know your dad better than I do, but that doesn't matter. All I'm saying is, I like him. I like him a lot.”

My anger subsided. It made little sense to take my father's past sins out on Gray. “I'm glad you do.”

“And Anise too. Great woman.”

“I told you you'd like her.”

His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. “You know, Ami, I'm glad to have met your father because . . . you know I want to, I
hope
to marry you, right?”

The flame of anger completely dissipated. “I know.”

“We don't talk about it a lot. I've tried to stay away from the subject, to be honest with you.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Well, the thing with your father, for one.” His index finger darted back and forth between us. “This thing with us, for another.”

“What thing?”

He chuckled, fixed his eyes on his coffee mug, started turning it again. “Ami, come on, now. You know and I know that once we say we're getting married, it's going to be no-holds-barred.” His Adam's apple slid up and down in his throat. The muscles in his arms flexed. “Not that we don't have feelings for each other as it is, but I think we've done pretty good about keeping everything pure before God.”

I ran my fingers across my cheeks. “I can't believe we're having this conversation in the middle of a restaurant,” I said, leaning over so only he could hear me. I hoped.

He grabbed my hand and pulled it toward him. “I can't afford to say this anywhere else, Ami. If we talk at your apartment—if we start talking about how we feel and about being intimate once we're married—I'm afraid we'll become intimate before we're married.” He cast a glance over his shoulder. Back at me. “I don't want to talk outside in the car. Same thing. Same obstacles and temptations. I can't even afford to talk to you outside the church in the parking lot.
That's
how I feel about you.”

I blew a pent-up breath from between my lips. “Wow. Me too, Gray. I'm grateful to have met someone like you who . . . who does what it takes to wait. I know we're an anomaly. Maybe even within the church.”

“You're right there; we are. For a long time I struggled with that, I'll be honest. I'd look around at the young men and women in my church—in any young adult program—and I'd hear them proclaim their love for God, for Jesus, for his teaching. All the time, everyone knew this couple or that couple were already being intimate with each other. That used to practically torture me until I finally realized that, unmarried and completely untried at that point, it wasn't my battle. This wasn't between me, them, and God. This was between them and God.” He swallowed. Blinked. “Thing is, Ami, I want God to honor
this
marriage. That's the one God has asked me to deal with. And, difficult as it is, I'm willing to do whatever it takes now for his blessings later.”

I smiled all over myself. “So,” I said, drawing out the word. “What do we do from here?”

He sat up straight. “I'd say, Miss Ami, you and I just carry on like we have for a while. A little while.” He smiled. The brows shot up again. “A very little while. Godly as I'm trying to be, I'm still a human and you are still smokin' hot, okay?”

I laughed. “You're not so bad yourself.”

“Thank you,” he said, strutting in his seat like a bantam rooster in a hen pen. “Okay, then. When the time is right, I'll do the proper thing. I'll talk to your daddy, I'll buy you a ring, we'll pick out china and silver and crystal and linens.” He winked. “My mama is going to be tickled pink that she gets to help with this.”

My mother would have been too, I thought. But I said nothing. I just smiled and nodded.

Two months later, Gray and I went to Orlando so he could talk to Dad. The entire family—with the exception of Kimberly, who now lived in Cedar Key and was “too pregnant for the three-hour trip”—came to the house for a cookout, which Heather organized and ran while Dad stayed inside, away from the heat of the Florida summer. When dinner was over, the family had left, and the house had settled down, Gray came into the kitchen where Anise and I were sneaking another piece of strawberry shortcake.

“Caught you,” he said, laughing.

We turned from the counter, both of us gasping and giggling like schoolgirls.

“Oh, Gray,” Anise said before turning back to the bowl of sweet berries, which she then spooned onto slices of pound cake.

I stood ready with a tub of Cool Whip and a large spoon. “Want some?”

“Nah,” he said, patting his abdomen. “Like my daddy says, I gotta keep up my schoolboy figure.”

I knew the six-pack that lay under his black Hurley tee. I'd seen it a number of times when Gray stripped out of a sweaty shirt before hitting the showers at the studio. It never ceased to amaze me; as much as I worked out, there was a part of me that was still soft. There seemed to be little on Gray that wasn't solid muscle.

I winked at him before plopping the whipped topping on the berry-covered cake Anise had slid my way on a plate.

“Where's your dad?” he asked.

Anise continued with her task. “He's in his office.” She looked at me. “Today's festivities wore him out, I'm afraid.”

I turned to Gray. “You know where his office is?”

“I think I can find it.” This time, he winked at me. Mouthed, “Wish me luck.”

I nodded, all the while feeling my knees go weak.

“Here,” Anise said, extending her plate of dessert. “Whipped cream, please.” Then, “Oh my goodness gracious.”

I looked from the door Gray had just walked through to Anise. “Like I said, very Southern turn of phrase there.”

“Oh no you don't, trying to make this about me,” she said as I plopped Cool Whip onto the top of the berries. “He's going to talk to your father, isn't he?”

I smiled and wrapped my lips around the cream-layered spoon.

“Ami?”

“Yes, but don't tell Heather. Please don't tell Heather.”

Anise placed her plate onto the counter and wrapped me in her arms. “Oh, Ami!” She jumped up and down, forcing me to do the same.

We both laughed.

“And,” I added, “don't say anything once they come out of the office. He wants this to be totally old-fashioned. He's going to ask Dad. We'll go back to Atlanta, and I'll have to wait for him to propose.”

Anise looked to the ceiling. “We get to plan a wedding,” she said. Looking back at me she added, “Oh, please tell me you want a wedding.”

“Of course.”

“With all the trimmings?”

I could hardly believe I did, but I did. “Every single one. Something old, something new . . .”

“When do you think he'll ask?”

I shrugged, picked up my plate, and headed to the table with it. “Grab us a couple of forks,” I said, “and I'll get the milk. You want some milk?”

“Perfect.”

I glanced to the door again. “How long do you think they'll take?”

“Knowing your father,” she answered from the flatware drawer, “they'll be in there a while.”

“You think?” I pulled a nearly full gallon jug of milk from the top shelf of the fridge.

“Oh yeah. He's going to want to talk about virtues and what he wants for your future.”

“Virtues,” I said, walking the milk to the counter beneath the cabinet where Anise and Dad kept their glasses. All things considered, it would be an odd thing for Dad to talk to Gray about, but . . . whatever. “No worries there. Believe me.”

September slid into Atlanta with a week of thunderstorms and weather dipping to unseasonable lows. This was our kickoff month at the studio. A new school year had begun, and our official first day of the new year was the Tuesday after Labor Day. The rain started on Sunday, lingered all day Monday and Tuesday, and somehow managed to get worse on Wednesday. Dark clouds hung over the entire greater Atlanta area. Car accident reports went up and every class at the studio began fifteen minutes later than scheduled due to traffic holdups.

Gray decided that going to the Wednesday night Bible
study we'd joined was out. Instead of our leaving the studio together, he headed out first for the apartment he'd recently rented for himself—the one I assumed I'd eventually move into—and, an hour later, I left for mine. We talked on the phone for a while around nine, our usual banter.

I opened the studio doors on Thursday at one in the afternoon. For nearly an hour, I worked on the books before a few of my staff came in. An early afternoon Over 40s ballet class started at two along with Gray's Over 40s Zumba. We liked to get the older students out before school let out and the place swarmed with tots, tweens, and teenagers.

About two-fifteen the door to my office opened. Genice, the ballet instructor, stuck her head in. “Hey, Ami?”

I looked up from the August financials spreadsheet. “Yeah.”