Where Do I Go? (21 page)

“The psalmist said, ‘When I am afraid, I will trust in God.' And then, in the same psalm, he turned it around and said, ‘I trust in God, why do I need to be afraid?' And do you know what,
mis
amigas
? Those are God's words to
me
today!” Edesa caught sight of Gracie and me slinking out of sight and blew a little kiss. “Because today I learned there is a big problem in the way of Gracie's adoption . . .” Her voice caught, but she blinked, smiled, and went on. “So I have to admit,
sí,
I am
asustada
, but I will trust in God.”

The women slouching in the sloppy circle of chairs and old couches seemed to straighten, lean forward. A few murmurs reached my ears, and then a voice spoke up belonging to Diane, with the big Afro. “An' if you trust in God, you don'
need
to be afraid, girl. We gon' keep you covered in prayers, so we got your back, 'Desa. Know what I'm sayin'?”

Nods and murmurs of “Got that right.”

I slipped out of the room with Gracie, my eyes blurry with sudden tears. Destitute women without homes and family, some separated from
their
children, praying for one of the volunteers and her child . . .

Whew
. Manna House was certainly an upside-down place. In fact, maybe God heard my piddly prayer after all, because Rev. Liz Handley popped in at eleven thirty as the Bible study was breaking up—all five-feet-two of her, a stocky white woman in her sixties, wire-rimmed glasses, salt-and-pepper hair cropped so short it might have passed military muster. As I returned Gracie to her foster mom, several of the residents gave “Reverend Liz” big hugs, and they laughed when she blustered, “Where's Estelle? I hope she's cooking.”

Mabel still hadn't shown up, so I stuck out my hand. “I've been looking forward to meeting you, Reverend Handley. I'm Gabby Fairbanks, hopefully the new program director.”

“Liz is fine, Gabby.” The former director of Manna House cocked her head. “So you want to get mixed up with this crew?” She laughed and we sat.

We chatted about the typical stuff—where I was from, past experience, how I stumbled upon Manna House. She seemed genuinely interested in some of my ideas for life enrichment—setting up a library, getting ESL materials, field trips to museums, even the occasional Fun Night for starters. “But I'm so new to Chicago, I'm not sure how to find resource people, or even resource materials.” I hoped my confession wouldn't disqualify me.

“You'll learn. Start with putting the word out to the board, the staff, and the volunteers. We all go to different churches. Who knows what we can come up with!” She peered over her wire frames. “And don't forget to look under your nose, Gabby. Some of these residents have talents and connections you wouldn't believe. Talk to them. Find out what they like to do.”

“I can do nails!” Hannah the Bored popped her head up over the arm of a nearby chair and waggled her long, purple nails.

I gave her a smile—but lowered my voice. Why were we having this conversation in the multipurpose room, anyway? “But . . . aren't the residents here temporarily? I mean, people like Lucy Tucker come and go like will-o'-the-wisps. Others stay here, what—a few weeks at most?”

Liz shrugged. “Some. But many stay the full ninety days allowed. And some, when they get on their feet, come back to volunteer. Look at Precious and Estelle. Both were residents at Manna House before the fire, and now look at them. Giving back. I'd start with them. Pick their brains for ideas too—oh, hey, Angela. What's up?”

The receptionist appeared waving a couple of sticky notes. “Sorry to interrupt, but Mabel just came in, said to tell you she'd be here in a minute. And Pastor Stevens's secretary called. He can't make lunch today because a teenager in their neighborhood got shot this morning—he's with the family. Oh, and there's a taxi waiting outside for you, Mrs. Fairbanks.”

I leaped up. “Oh no! What time is it?” I glanced at my watch . . . 12:32! How had the time gotten away from me? “Tell him to wait! I need five minutes.” I turned to Rev. Liz and blurted out that I needed to run, I was so glad to meet her, and please let Mabel Turner know I'd explain later . . . and suddenly realized I had no idea where I'd left my bag with the purple outfit.

By the time I found my bag in the toddler playroom, wiggled into my outfit in a toilet stall and freshened my makeup, I'd kept the taxi waiting ten minutes—with the ticker ticking. And by the time the taxi pulled up in front of Bistro 110, it was five after.

Late.

But I put on a brave face and breezed into the restaurant. No familiar faces waiting to be seated. I started to relax. Maybe they weren't here yet.

“Name please?” The maître d' looked at me inquiringly.

“Fairbanks, party of four, one o'clock?”

“Oh yes. Come this way, please.”

My chest tightened. They were already seated! They even had drinks and a bread basket. Henry Fenchel leaped up as I approached the table for four tucked in a front corner with windows. “Gabrielle! Now this party can get started.” Philip's partner gave me a flirty grin and pulled out the empty chair for me.

No such grin from Philip. My husband took a long drag from a stein of beer and leveled a long gaze at me over the top.

I'd rehearsed a little speech in the taxi.
“So sorry I'm late . . .
had a meeting with the board at my new job . . . you know how that
goes!”
But a glance at Mona Fenchel's simpering face changed my mind. I was not going to grovel in front of this woman for only being five minutes late.

Instead I laughed. “You won't believe what I had to do to get here! Had a meeting with the board this morning at my new job—had to practically walk out. But I told them this was important.” I turned a bright look on my husband. “How did the signing go? I want to hear all about it!—oh. Waiter? Can I have a lemonade please?”

Philip still held me with his gaze. “You'd know how it went if you'd been there, Gabrielle.”

“If I'd—?” I managed to look astonished. “Honey, you didn't say anything about coming to the signing. Just asked me to make a lunch reservation for one o'clock to celebrate.” I made a puppy-dog face. “Oh, dear. I'm sorry . . . one of those communication
snafus
.” I turned to Henry and Mona. “You two never have those, right?”

Henry guffawed. “Never. Ha-ha.” He slapped Philip on the shoulder. “See? I told you it was just a mix-up. A little
snafu,
the lady said. Heh-heh. I like that. Besides . . .” He winked at me. “Mona made sure your glass of champagne didn't go to waste. Ha-ha-ha.”

Mona Fenchel rolled her eyes. “Oh, pipe down, Henry.” She took a sip of her double martini. “You didn't miss much, Gabrielle. Boring, actually. The bigwigs from Robinson wanted some last-minute changes to the contract, so I had to sit around for forty minutes while they argued, with nothing to do in that—how do I say it kindly?—
provincial
waiting room. So . . . suburban
.
And not even one magazine to read.” She shook her head at the offense to her sensibilities.

I couldn't believe it. Mona Fenchel had unwittingly let me off the hook. But I turned to my husband. “Changes to the contract?” My concern was genuine. “Is everything all right?”

Philip shrugged. “Just last-minute nonsense was all.”

“Don't you believe it, Gabby.” Henry shook a finger at me. “Philip, here—he's the man. Philip refused to budge on the main points, and they backed down.” He raised his stein of beer. “Here's to Philip. He saved our hides.”

My lemonade had arrived. We each hefted our glasses in acknowledgment. I could tell Philip was starting to thaw. I got brave and laid my hand on his arm. “So everything's okay? You signed the deal?”

He nodded and broke into a smile. My heart squeezed as the tension evaporated. Gosh, he really was handsome.

“I'm so glad, honey.” And I was. Very, very glad. I lifted my glass again. “Here's to Fenchel and Fairbanks!”

My husband stiffened. Three pairs of eyes stared at me. Philip paled. Then Henry threw back his head and guffawed. “‘
Fenchel
and Fairbanks' . . . I like that. Yes, indeed. I like that!”

chapter 20

My face heated like a hot flash. Never had I so desperately wished a hole would open up and swallow me.
“Fenchel and
Fairbanks”
. . . How could I have turned the names around like that?! In front of my husband! Worse, in front of my husband
and
the Fenchels!

Henry would never let Philip forget it. Worse, Mona would probably never let Henry forget it.
“You jerk! I told you not to let
Philip bully you into putting the Fairbanks name first! Well, if Gabby
Fairbanks can call it Fenchel and Fairbanks, so can I!”

My tongue felt like cotton candy. I couldn't look at Philip. I knew my husband saw me as a traitor . . . and I felt like one too.
Oh God,
I moaned inwardly.
If only You'd rewind the last few minutes
and let me do them over.

Huh. While I was begging, might as well rewind the past twenty-four hours and take another shot.

The waiter—that God-sent apparition in black pants, white shirt, and black tie—penetrated my misery with his notepad. “How are you folks doing? Ready to order?”

I grabbed the menu, but the words swam before my eyes. I heard Henry order the bistro steak and
frites.
Mona went for the baked artichoke and arugula chicken salad. Philip was forced to speak. “Shrimp cocktail. Spinach salad. The salmon.” He flipped the menu closed like a snap judgment.

I'd lost my appetite. “Just the quiche, thank you.”

Somehow we made it through the “celebration lunch.” Henry tackled his steak and fries with concentrated attention. Philip drank too much and avoided talking to me. Mona Fenchel dripped sweetness into the chasm. “I didn't know you started a job, Gabby. Can you tell us what you're doing, or is it a deep, dark secret?” She simpered at me over a second double martini.

I did not want to talk about Manna House after my faux pas
.
It might feel like sticking Philip's nose in it. So I mumbled some-thing about doing a program for a nonprofit and let it go at that.

But Mona had the subject in her teeth. “And what nonprofit is that, dear?”

I counted to ten while hiding behind a long glug of lemonade. “Manna House. A shelter for homeless women.”

“Well.” I could feel Mona's pitying eyes on me. “That's sweet.”

Philip and I walked to the car in total silence. As the doors closed and the locks clicked, I knew I needed to say something.

“Honey, I am so sorry.”

He started the car and revved the engine like a sixteen-­­­year-old.

“I know I put my foot in my mouth, Philip, but it was totally unintentional. I'm so embarrassed.”

“Whatever.” Philip pulled into traffic, stone-faced.

I plunged on. “When I realized what I'd done, I didn't know how to make it right! It was so awkward. I was afraid saying something would just make it worse. Give it more attention than it deserved. I . . . I was hoping it'd just blow over.”

Philip snorted. “Oh, right. Just blow over.” He swiveled his head toward me, eyes dagger slits, pinning me to the passenger side door. “Awkward for you? What about me, Gabby? You know Fenchel will goad me about this, my own wife putting his name first—as if you were disagreeing about the decision to name the company Fairbanks and Fenchel.”

A horn honked. Philip jerked his eyes back to traffic, hit the steering wheel with his hand, and cussed out the other car. Or maybe me.

“I'm . . . I'm really sorry, Philip.”

Silence stuffed the car like an inflated air bag the rest of the way to Richmond Towers. And the rest of the weekend passed pretty much the same way . . . two bodies taking up physical space in the same condo, but not
sharing
it in any real sense. We went through the motions of Saturday—calling the boys at separate times, Philip talking to his mother in the den, me running clothes through the laundry, shopping for groceries at Dominick's a few blocks away, Philip taking the Lexus for an oil change.

Sunday was much the same. Gray clouds had dampened the climate outside, as well as in. Philip went for a run between sprinkles, came home, showered, went out again for hours, and then came home and holed up in the den.

I thought I might scream if I had to stay inside this tomb another hour. But where could I go? The on-again, off-again drizzle made a walk along the lake a soggy prospect. I didn't have anyone to talk to, to vent, to let off steam. Even Mr. Bentley was off duty until Monday.

As the hands on the grandfather clock inched toward four o'clock, my spirit lifted. The Sunday evening worship at Manna House . . . I'd go there, just to have
somewhere
to go. But when I called the shelter, a voice I didn't recognize picked up, then yelled to someone else, “Lady wants to know if there's a church service here tonight! . . . Oh, yeah. Okay.” The voice came back on the phone. “Sorry, it's the fifth Sunday this month. They ain't having nothin' tonight.”