An awkward silence stretched between us, filled only by the ticking of the heirloom clock in the corner. What could I say? I certainly didn’t have any answers. Part of me felt bad for him—it was hard to see him hurting so much—and part of me felt vindicated. Served him right. He’d screwed up my life and my plans—now his life was screwed up. But everything I thought of saying—“You’re the one who got yourself into this mess!” or “It’ll work out somehow, Philip”—sounded either unkind or pathetic.
The grandfather clock chimed six times. I stood up and reached for my jacket. “Philip, I’m so sorry this is happening. And unfortunately, I’ve got to go. I still have to make supper for the boys. Do you have anything to eat? You should eat.”
Philip was still leaning forward, forearms on his knees, hands clasped, staring at the floor. He didn’t look at me, just nodded. “I know. You need to go. I’m okay. Got some leftovers in the fridge.” His voice was low, barely audible.
“All right. Take care. I’ll, uh, call you tomorrow, okay?”
He nodded.
But when I got to the front door, I hesitated. Philip was crying out for help. True, I didn’t have any answers. But when I had come to the end of my rope and cried out for help, my friends at Manna House had taken my case before the Almighty and prayed on my behalf, even before I knew how to pray.
Couldn’t I do at least that much for Philip?
I turned and went back into the living room. Suddenly I felt a deep well of compassion for this man who had been my husband for sixteen years—some of them good years—and who was still the father of my sons. Reaching out, I touched him on the shoulder. “Philip?”
Startled, his head turned and he looked up at me with those dark eyes, so full of despair.
“I . . . I know this is going to sound super-spiritual or something, but . . . I’d like to pray for you. God has answered some desperate prayers from me and turned things around when I didn’t see any way to go.”
He looked away. I waited, but expected any moment to hear him say, “That’s okay. Thanks, anyway, but I’ll be all right.” But he didn’t say anything. And after a few long moments, he nodded.
He was going to let me pray? I was so surprised, my mouth suddenly felt full of dry cotton. But I sank down on the arm of the couch, swallowed, and took a deep breath. “Dear God . . .” The words came out all hoarse and whispery. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Dear God, Philip is hurting right now. He’s made some big mistakes and now he doesn’t know which way to turn.
Lord, I’m asking You to give him some wisdom—wisdom that comes from You. That verse in Proverbs says that if we trust in You instead of our own understanding about things, You will show us the right path. So I’m praying for Philip right now, that he will trust You to show him the way, and that You will answer our prayer. Amen.”
Only then did I realize I’d left my hand touching his shoulder during the prayer. I withdrew my hand, slid off the arm of the couch, and started once more for the gallery. Behind me I heard him murmur, “Thanks, Gabby,” but without replying I slipped out the front door and closed it behind me.
Dandy wiggled all over when I brought him to work the next morning to spend time with Lucy, so I left the two buddies together and went downstairs, eager to talk to Estelle, who’d come in early to care for any needs Lucy might have. “Heard you and Harry had lunch with Philip and the boys at the Baxters’ on Sunday!” I blurted, leaning on the kitchen counter. I didn’t say so, but I was presuming she hadn’t broken off her engagement with Harry over the weekend if they’d had Sunday dinner together at the Baxters’.
“Mm-hm.” She handed me a potato peeler, a potato, and one of the ugly kitchen hairnets. Estelle believed in putting people to work who wanted to talk to her while she was cooking in the Manna House kitchen. “Harry and I moved Leroy into the nursing home on Saturday, so Jodi figured neither of us had any time to cook. I appreciated it. Sure did.”
“Oh, Estelle! I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask about Leroy yesterday. I was so rattled about getting Lucy to the doctor and finding a place for her to stay while her ankle heals that—”
“Stop, Gabby.” Estelle held up the big knife she was using to chop potatoes. “We all got stuff goin’ on. It’s all right. Leroy’s in a safe place for now. Insurance will pay for a month. Then we’ll have to figure something else out.”
Huh. Maybe I better keep on praying that “something else” wouldn’t mean something foolish like giving Harry his ring back. “Did, um . . . did Harry tell you about his talk with Philip when he drove him back to the penthouse Sunday evening?”
“Mm-hm.” She glared at me. “Are you going to peel that potato or not?”
“Oh, right.” I peeled furiously for thirty seconds. “Did he really offer to be Philip’s sponsor if Philip started going to GA?”
“That’s what he said.” Estelle handed me a couple more potatoes. “But if that’s what you’re concerned about, you should just call Harry and talk to him directly.” Then she eyed me. “How did you know that? Did Philip tell you?”
I nodded. “He said Mr. B talked to him straight about his gambling addiction, just like alcohol or drugs or anything else.”
“Hm. Surprised he told you. Maybe he’s serious about dealing with it.”
“Yeah, surprised me too. He said it made him hopeful—but that lasted about two seconds.” I told her about the letter that had arrived Monday notifying Philip he was being sued by Matty Fagan—loan shark, crook, and felon. “And that’s the second one. His business partner is suing him too. Philip was a basket case last night, Estelle! I had no idea what to say to him. He’s caught like a fly in a spider web. But—I did pray with him.”
Estelle’s chopping knife stopped in midair, a smile spreading on her face. “You go, girl! That’s the only thing goin’ to give that man some hope, if he just give the whole mess to God—including his own messed-up self—and let God work a few miracles.”
She pushed a bag of potatoes across the counter to me, but I pushed it back, along with the peeler. “I need to get back to work. We’re trying to expand the afterschool program, starting next week. Got a few interns from some of the city colleges looking for work. But I’ve only got a week to pull it together.”
I took off the hairnet and started to leave—then turned back. “Oh! Lucy’s birthday. I was thinking—we could do a lunchtime thing on Friday here at Manna House like we sometimes do. But if we did something Friday evening or over the weekend, maybe some other folks would be able to come, we could make it a real big deal. A surprise. But either way, would you be willing to make a banana cake?”
Expanding the afterschool program wasn’t the only thing hanging over my head. Shawanda Dixon and Celia Jones were supposed to move into the House of Hope this weekend, and neither one of them had any household furnishings. I spent the rest of the day sending out urgent e-mails to the list of churches that supported Manna House financially and the many volunteers who cooked suppers and donated supplies, attaching a list of household items ranging from bedroom furniture and bedding to pots and pans and dishes. Hopefully we’d collect the essentials, at least.
For some reason, I’d totally forgotten this was the last day of October—Halloween. Trick-or-treaters were already out in full force when I dragged myself wearily up the steps of the six-flat after work with Paul and Dandy. Tanya and Sammy were set up in the foyer with bags of candy to give out, both of them dressed in black tights, turtlenecks, and construction paper pointy ears to look—sort of—like black cats.
I thought P.J. would be home already now that cross country practice was over, but the apartment was empty. No book bag, no note. Nothing to indicate he’d been home and gone out somewhere. Huh. Should’ve talked about new expectations before this. Well, we’d do it tonight. And maybe it was time to get P.J. a cell phone so I could contact him—something I’d been putting off until it was absolutely necessary.
Paul had just taken Dandy outside for a short run when I realized the light was blinking on the answering machine. Oh, good. Maybe P.J. had left a message. But the caller ID on the handset said Philip Fairbanks. Oh dear. I’d said I’d call him today—but frankly, I still didn’t know what to say. I hoped he wasn’t upset that I hadn’t called yet. Only one way to find out.
I pushed Play. “Hi, Gabby. Just want you to know P.J.’s here. He showed up after school, but I didn’t want you to worry. Will Nissan will bring him home by six. Also, wanted to let you know that I’m giving up the penthouse. Talked to Martin today, should work out. He has some foreign guy—Japanese, I think—doing business in Chicago for a few months who wants to sublet. Guy wants it this weekend. But I also talked to my lawyer today. If I can get the money to pay off my loans, I might be able to avoid these lawsuits. I have an idea, but—well, guess you can pray it works out. All right, talk to you later.” Click.
What? I pushed Play and listened to Philip’s message again. How did P.J. get all the way up to Richmond Towers? Bus or El, probably. He just hadn’t ever done that before. And what was Will Nissan doing there again? He and Philip sure were getting tight. Nice kid, but—
Wait a minute. Will Nissan. He’s the one who said something about someone—his Great-Aunt Cindy, I remembered—running away when she was a teenager! So Lucy wasn’t the only one back then who struck out on her own, before they had shelters like Manna House. I shuddered. Wonder what happened to his great-aunt? At least Lucy survived—but there were probably a lot who didn’t.
I headed down the hall toward the kitchen, my thoughts returning to Philip’s phone message. Well, good riddance to the penthouse. I was surprised Philip kept it as long as he had. He could find a decent one-bedroom for a fraction of what the penthouse cost! Maybe a two-bedroom, since he’d need room for the boys.
I pulled a frozen pizza from the refrigerator. Didn’t feel like cooking tonight. Besides, I was gone all weekend and didn’t have time to shop. Well, I’d tell Philip he was making a good decision to cut his expenses. A step in the right direction. But what did he mean about avoiding the lawsuits if he could pay off the loans? Where would he get the money to—?
The house phone was ringing at the other end of the apartment. I sprinted back down the hall and snatched it up. “Gabby here.”
“Hey. How’s my favorite redhead? You sound out of breath.”
My heart tripped a beat and I leaned weakly against the wall. Lee Boyer. “I really need an extension in the kitchen, that’s what. Um, how are you?”
“Missing you. But I’m wondering if I could fix that. Are you free Friday evening? I found a new Thai restaurant I’d like to try, but I don’t like eating out alone. Don’t like eating alone, period.”
My mouth went dry. A night out with Lee sounded like so much fun. But we hadn’t talked about where things stood with “us” since he’d walked away from our relationship that day in the hospital after Philip got hurt. Now he was acting as if it never happened.
“Gabby? You there?”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Lee, just . . . checking my calendar.” I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to think about the upcoming weekend. First weekend in November . . . Lucy’s birthday, which we haven’t planned yet . . . Shawanda and Celia moving in . . . and seems like there’s something else. I scooted down the hall and eyeballed the wall calendar in the kitchen. I’d written HOH potluck on Saturday evening. Oh, right. We’d decided to have a House of Hope potluck the first Saturday of each month. “Um, it doesn’t look good, Lee.” Drat. “We’re celebrating Lucy’s birthday on Friday evening, a couple of moms and their kids are moving in on Saturday, and that night we’re having a potluck meal here for the House of Hope residents.”
He barely skipped a beat. “How about Sunday, then? Sounds like you could use some time away from all those high-octane activities. We’ll be low key, I promise.”
Stop being a wimp, Gabby Fairbanks. Be straight with the man. “Uh, Lee. Dinner sounds wonderful. But to tell you the truth, I feel a little awkward going out on a date. Remember what happened at the hospital? You were forcing me to choose between you and Philip at an impossible moment. Then you walked out of my life like a movie rolling the last credits, and now suddenly, here you are again in the middle of the movie, as if nothing ever happened.”
Lee cleared his throat. “Point well taken. What do you say we talk about it—over dinner on Sunday?”