Chapter 6
Hattie Williams had a taste for sweet potato pie. The morning had come and gone, filled with the routines that served well to keep her body active and her mind stimulated. Morning scriptures were read from the weathered leather Bible that had belonged to her mother. A fresh load of crisp white sheets, pillowcases, and towels had been hung to dry in the morning sun. A coat of lemon wax had been applied to the many wood surfaces that held the memories of her life. Now it was time to consider what she would prepare for dinner.
Even though Hattie lived alone, she never deprived herself of a full meal at dinnertime. The same love and skill she had used to prepare meals for her husband and their three children were applied each day to herself.
Her kitchen was awash in midday sunlight. Handmade sheer curtains provided little cover from the warmth that poured through the windows. The creamy yellow–tiled counters and the white- and minty-green-checkered linoleum floor were regularly scrubbed so clean with Pine-Sol that meals could have easily been served on them. “Just because we’re poor doesn’t mean we have to be dirty,” her mother would say. Her house always had a fresh hint of lemon in the air because of the furniture polish and the often used cleaning solution.
A circa 1950s toaster and coffee percolator and a vintage white KitchenAid mixer lined the countertop, as they had for the last fifty-some-odd years, poised and ready for duty. No microwave contraptions had ever crossed the Williamses’ threshold. “If it can’t be warmed up in the oven, then I don’t want it in my house. I ain’t in that much of a hurry to eat” was Hattie’s motto.
Wrapped in her floral-print apron, Hattie reached in the root cupboard and retrieved three large sweet potatoes. Hands that were more accurate that the most precise scale estimated that she held a total of one and a half pounds. “That should do it,” she said out loud. The large pot of boiling water on the O’Keefe & Merritt was already filling the room with steam. Hattie washed each potato under cold water, sliced each one into fourths, and then dropped the pieces into the pot.
She made the pie just as her mother and her mother’s mother had made it. No need for a recipe. No need to Google the ingredients. This recipe, like so many other family recipes, was etched on the strands of her DNA. Four beaten eggs, one tablespoon of vegetable oil, and one tablespoon of vanilla, she thought as she blended the ingredients. Half a cup of brown sugar and half a cup of maple syrup.
“Now, where did I put my cinnamon and nutmeg?” she asked out loud, rummaging through her spice rack. “There they are. A teaspoon of cinnamon and a quarter teaspoon of nutmeg.”
Hattie emptied the ingredients into the mixer and added a half teaspoon of salt and a cup of heavy cream. Her internal kitchen timer went off, and just as always, the potatoes in the pot were like butter under the knife she inserted in them. After draining the potatoes, she peeled them. The potato skins yielded under her touch, and she added the soft orange potato flesh to the mixer.
The machine whirled and whisked just as efficiently as it had the day she made her first coconut cake fifty years ago. Hattie hadn’t made a homemade crust in years. Since the day she discovered store-bought crust, she had never looked back. “That little white Pillsbury Doughboy always does just fine,” she proclaimed, rightly reasoning.
She removed a pie crust from the refrigerator, pressed it into a pie plate, then carefully poured in the sweet potato filling. With the pie crust filled nearly to the brim with the creamy, sweet goodness, Hattie checked the oven to make sure it was a perfect 375 degrees. When she opened the oven door, her face was met with a gust of heat. Perfect.
She slid the pie dish into the oven. As she closed the heated tomb containing the pie, she felt the familiar lightness in her head. She knew immediately what was in store for her in the forty-five minutes it would take to bake the pie. Hattie wiped her moist hands on her apron and slowly made her way to the kitchen table. Cleanin’ up is gonna have to wait till the Lord’s done showing me what he wants me to see, she thought.
Before the full weight of her body had rested in the vinyl chair, the vision began. The image of Hezekiah Cleaveland appeared in the sun-drenched window. He was in his usual black suit, with the tie cinched at his neck.
“Pastor,” Hattie said with a gasp. “My dear, sweet pastor.”
Hezekiah did not respond to her gentle greeting. Instead, he seemed focused on an energy that came from just out of her range of view. Hezekiah looked lovingly at the source of the energy. He slowly reached out his hand, beckoning for someone to come into Hattie’s view. And then she saw him for the first time. A young man slowly appeared. She immediately felt the love and intense affection pouring from them both.
“Is that him, Pastor?” Hattie said softly. “Is that who all this love is for?” Even though he did not speak, Hattie clearly heard the word yes echo through the kitchen. Gripped by the scene unfolding before her, she didn’t notice the aroma of sweet potato pie filling the kitchen.
A burst of light suddenly leapt from the scene at the point where the tips of their fingers finally touched. At that moment, as she became enveloped by the love exchanged between the two, a tear escaped from Hattie’s eye.
“I’m so glad you found love in this world, Pastor,” she said. “All anybody wants on this earth is to be loved.” Hattie, for the first time, looked away from the window and said, “Thank you, Lord, for blessing him with love before you called him home.”
When Hattie’s eyes returned to the vision, the figures had shifted. Hezekiah was now shielding the man from a force that was slowly eclipsing the love that was there only moments earlier. A billowing haze obscured the two men from her view. Hezekiah was pleading for the energy to leave them as he protected the cowering figure. Hattie immediately knew the source of the destructive power that now dominated the scene. It was an evil that she had felt on so many Sunday mornings. It was Samantha Cleaveland.
Suddenly Hezekiah vanished. The young man was now left cowering and vulnerable in the mist that surrounded him. Hattie could see the fear in his eyes and feel the terror pouring from his spirit.
“Help him, Pastor Cleaveland!” she shrieked. “Please help him. He needs you.” But Hezekiah was nowhere to be seen.
The man began to thrash violently on the ground, as if he were being beaten. She saw blood trickle from his mouth as each invisible blow was leveled.
“She’s going to kill him, Pastor,” Hattie called out again. “You have to do something! You have to stop her.”
But the blows continued with steadily increasing force, until the young man lay on the ground, motionless. Hattie felt helpless and weak sitting in the chair. She was an unwilling witness to such mayhem and evil.
“Lord, why did you show me this?” she cried out, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. “I don’t want to see this. He was a beautiful young man, and Hezekiah loved him so much. Why would you let her kill him too?”
When Hattie finally opened her eyes, the image had begun to gradually fade. She sat trembling and wept into a crumpled paper napkin, retrieved unconsciously from a holder at the center of the table.
When the image had completely vanished, she could once again see the tranquility of her vegetable garden and the freshly washed laundry on the clothesline gently dancing in the breeze. Hattie gripped the soaked napkin in her hand and said out loud, “You’ve got to stop her, Lord. It’s just not right.”
Suddenly the smell of cinnamon and brown sugar jarred her back into the kitchen. “Oh, Lord,” she said mournfully. “Has it been forty-five minutes already?”
Victoria Johnson stopped her silver Mercedes at the iron gate that guarded the Cleaveland estate. She looked scornfully at the security guard as he approached her window.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the uniformed man said. “May I help you?”
“You can start by opening the gate.”
“Is Pastor Cleaveland expecting you?” he responded politely.
“Don’t you have a list you can check, instead of wasting my time?”
Victoria was Samantha’s oldest friend. She was the wife of the Reverend Sylvester Johnson, Pastor of First Bethany Church of Los Angeles. Victoria was the only pastor’s wife with whom Samantha had never competed. The women were equals in every way, including their shared loathing for the men they had married. There were no secrets between them.
Samantha’s wealth far exceeded that of Victoria’s, but their penchant for spending the alms of their followers was equal in every way. Weekend shopping trips to Paris, personal jewelers, and the latest five-figure designer bags were all theirs on demand. Victoria’s claim to fame was not her oratory skills or her ability to manipulate the masses with her cunning. Instead, it was her beauty. Tall, svelte, and elegant, Victoria put all women in her presence to shame, with the exception of Samantha. Her luscious veneer hid the foulmouthed alcoholic who simmered just beneath the surface. Samantha was her friend and confidante; but the bottle was her confessional; and alcohol, the priest to whom she confessed her sins.
“May I have your name, ma’am?” the guard continued, undaunted by her growing irritation.
“Who does your list say Pastor Cleaveland is meeting at one thirty?” she replied snidely, pointing to the iPad the guard was holding like a shield.
“Mrs. Victoria Johnson.”
“Good boy. Now, open the gate.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the now befuddled guard. “May I please see your identification? It’s for Pastor Cleaveland’s protection. I’m sure you understand.”
The calming effects of the vodka and tonic Victoria had consumed before leaving her home just over the hill were beginning to wear off, causing her nerves to fray.
“If you don’t open that fucking gate right now, I’m going to ram this brand-new Mercedes-Benz right through it. I’m sure you’ll understand,” she sneered through gritted pearly teeth.
“Yes, ma’am,” sputtered the guard as he sprinted back to the gatehouse. “Right away, ma’am.”
The gate, embroidered with the steel initials HZ, glided open. As Victoria sped past the guard shed, she yelled out the window, “And don’t call me ‘ma’am’. I’m not your goddamn mother.”
The grounds were surrounded by an eight-foot-high white stucco wall. Lower points in the wall allowed passersby brief glimpses of the magnificent estate. Meticulously manicured grounds surrounded the home and seemed to spill down the hill into the skyline. To the left was a freshly painted green tennis court with sharp white lines. A whitewashed gazebo stood to the right and overlooked the Pacific Ocean, and a two-story guesthouse could be seen tucked behind a grove of trees. At the final curve of the driveway the trees unfurled like theater curtains, and the house could finally be seen. It was an off-white Mediterranean villa sitting on a sloped crest with spectacular views of the city and the ocean. Double stone stairways ascended to the grand main entrance under a covered porch, the roof of which was held aloft by four twenty-foot-high, white carved pillars.
Victoria was greeted at the door by Etta. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Johnson. Pastor Cleaveland is waiting for you in the conservatory.”
Victoria whisked by Etta without really acknowledging her presence. Her only greeting was, “Bring me a gin and tonic.”
The conservatory was three walls of glass and a glass roof attached to the back of the mansion. The sun, the lush green grounds, and the crystal-blue sky served as the wallpaper. Exotic plants and flowers, stone fountains spewing ribbons of water, wicker furniture, and ornately carved statues filled the room.
“You need to fire that fucking rent-a-cop at your gate. Son of a bitch wasn’t going to let me in. Thought I was gonna have to suck his dick just to get my lunch.”
Samantha laughed as Victoria approached and air kissed her cheeks. “He’s just doing his job, girl. He probably thought you were my psycho killer.”
“What psycho killer? Do you have another stalker?”
“Oh, you know, girl. There’s always plenty of nuts to go around. Security has been on high alert since that ugly Hezekiah incident.”
“Oh, that. Do the police think you’re still in danger?” Victoria asked, resting in an overstuffed wicker chair. “Where’s that woman with my drink?”
As she spoke, Etta silently entered the sun-washed room, carrying the requested beverage on a silver tray.
“It took you long enough. Just put it there.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Johnson. I had too—”
“Never mind, Etta,” Samantha interrupted. “Now, leave us alone and close the door behind you. I’ll let you know when we’re ready for lunch.”
As Etta walked to the door, she heard Samantha say to Victoria, “That woman is so incompetent.”
“Then why don’t you fire her?” Victoria asked, knowing that Etta could still hear them.
“Because of my dearly departed husband. Five years ago, due to his ridiculous sense of loyalty, he put a clause in his will that said if I fired her within a year of his death, she would get three hundred thousand dollars. I’d rather keep her here and make her life miserable for a year than give her that kind of money.”
Etta quietly closed the door.
“The bastard is dead, and he’s still fucking you. That reminds me, girl,” Victoria said, leaning forward in her seat. “What ever happened with that blackmail business? Did you ever hear from him again?”
Samantha looked over her shoulder at the door to ensure they had their privacy before responding, “I guess it was a hoax. I never heard from him again.”
“You must be relieved. But how do you know he won’t try it again? I told you I’ve got people who’ll sniff his punk ass out and make him regret he ever heard of you.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
“Why not? You never know what could get in that crazy fuck’s head a year or two from now. Why take any chances?”
Samantha smiled wryly and said, “I’m not worried, dear, because I have people too.”
Victoria leaned forward in the chair. “Ooh, good for you, Sammy. You can’t be too careful, especially after the way Hezekiah fucked you over. If Sylvester ever did that to me, he’d come up dead too. For the life of me, I don’t understand how you just stood by while that son of a bitch was fucking a man.”
“I didn’t just stand by, Victoria. I couldn’t. There was too much at stake. If that had come out, I would have lost everything. And you know me better than that.”
“You knew? What did you do? I hope whatever it was, you scared the shit out of him.”
“Oh, I did more than that,” Samantha said casually.
“Go on and tell me, girl. What did you do?”
“Let’s just say I arranged it so he would never fuck anybody again.”
Victoria paused briefly to ponder the true meaning of Samantha’s words. She took a sip of her drink, then another. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? And, believe me, I pray to God you are,” she said wickedly.
“I’m saying exactly what you think I’m saying,” Samantha said coldly.
“You didn’t?”
“I did.”
“Sammy, you had him . . .”
Samantha leaned forward and whispered, “What else could I do? He was about to cost me everything. The church, the house, my reputation. He gave me no choice.”
“I’m speechless. I don’t know what to say. I never knew you had it in you.”
“Never underestimate what a desperate woman will do. All those years I never cared who he fucked, until he made the mistake of telling me he was going to leave me and the church for a man. What a fool. I had to stop him, and that was the only way.”
“Fuck, yes, that was the only way. Son of a bitch. What was he thinking?”
“That’s the point. He wasn’t thinking. So, unfortunately for him, I had to do the thinking for both of us.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, Sammy, I think you made the right decision. How did you do it? I might want to do the same thing to Sylvester one day.”
“Never mind that. I’ve already told you too much.”
“Now look at you. You’re the pastor of one of the largest churches in the fucking country. This Sunday you’re going to preach in your new cathedral. You’re richer than the goddamn queen, and you got away with it all smelling like a rose. Goddamn, I envy you.”
“I’m not completely done yet,” Samantha said, standing and walking to the glass wall and looking out over the grounds. “I’ve still got two small pieces of business to take care of before it’s all over.”
“Handle your business, girl,” Victoria said, raising her glass in a toast. “Handle your business.”
“You know I will, Victoria. Now, let’s have lunch. I’m starving.”
Gideon quietly peered over the redwood gate into Hattie’s back garden. Hattie was bending over a row of plants that were bulging with yellow squash, okra, collard green stalks, and tomatoes. The yard was as tidy as the inside of her home. Pristine white sheets billowed on the clothesline. The grass was neatly manicured, and a six-foot pink brick wall guarded the sacred ground and its high priestess.
Gideon could faintly hear the hymn Hattie was singing as she scooped tomatoes from the vines and dropped them into a wicker basket hanging from her arm.
“There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Emmanuel’s veins; and sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains. Lose all their guilty stains, lose all their guilty stains; and sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.”
As Gideon listened, he vividly remembered his grandmother singing that very same song when he was a small boy in Texas. He could almost see her standing on the front pew of the little wood-framed church, wearing her favorite white straw hat with the bursting blue and yellow silk flowers.
“The dying thief rejoiced to see that fountain in his day; and there may I, though vile as he, wash all my sins away. Wash all my sins away, wash all my sins away; and there may I, though vile as he, wash all my sins away.”
Gideon was lost in the hypnotic spell of the hymn when he heard, “Don’t just stand there, boy. Come in.”
Hattie’s back was to the gate where Gideon stood. She had not looked up or turned around before she spoke, but she knew who was looking at her over the redwood gate.
Gideon was jolted back into the present by her words and called out, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Williams. I knocked on your front door, but you didn’t answer, so I thought I’d check back here to see if you were home. I hope I didn’t startle you.”
“Not at all. Take a lot more than you standing at my gate to startle an old lady like me. Now, come in. The gate’s unlocked.”
Hattie stood and turned to Gideon as he approached. The wicker basket swinging on her arm was filled with tomatoes. Her plastic garden clogs had left footprints in the moist soil.
“Now, what brings you back here, Mr. Truman? I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again.”
“I had a few more questions I wanted to ask you, if that’s okay. It will only take a few minutes.”
Hattie was pleased to see Gideon again. She quickly noted the air of desperation in his spirit as he spoke. “That’s fine. I want to help you. I told you the last time I saw you, somebody’s praying for you. Your grandmother, in fact. Have you talked to her lately? She misses you something terrible.”
“I have not.”
“Call her, boy. You need her more than she needs you right now.”
“Yes, ma’am. I think you’re right. I promise I will call her.”
“Now, as you can see, I got lots more tomatoes and squash to pick before it gets dark,” Hattie said, pointing to the plants at her feet. “So what can I do for you?”
Gideon was embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Williams. That was very inconsiderate of me. Your garden is lovely. May I help you pick vegetables while we speak? I haven’t been in a garden since my grandmother’s. It used to be my job to water it every day, after school.”
“She was lucky to have you. I’m on my own now that my children are grown. They like to eat the food but never lift a shovel to help back here.”
“I remember one summer my grandmother was away for three weeks. The last thing she told me was to not forget to water the garden. Without her there to remind me, I did forget, and when she came home three weeks later, every plant had died. To this day I haven’t forgiven myself for that.”
“You should, ’cause she never held it against you. There’s a basket over by the fence, there by the flowers. Use that one.”
Gideon navigated the rows of vegetables like a farmer in Gucci loafers. He reached around a bush with stalks of vibrant pink flowers springing from its core. “These flowers are lovely, Mrs. Williams,” he called out to her as he reached for one of the buds. “What are they called?”
“Don’t touch those, boy, ’less you want to die where you’re standing,” Hattie called out abruptly. “Those are foxgloves. One of the most poisonous flowers God put on this earth. Just a nip of the stem would kill you.”
“I’m sorry. Why do you have them here if they’re so dangerous?”
Hattie smiled. “Never know when they might come in handy.”
Gideon’s hand froze, suspended only inches away from the beautiful flowers. He looked curiously at the blossoms, then at Hattie, and took a cautious step away from the bush. Now with basket in tow he returned to the row of squash. “Shall I pick these, ma’am?” he asked, pointing down at the bushes of deep green leaves shielding yellow orbs.
“Good place to start,” she replied. “Fit as many as you can in the basket.”
“Mrs. Williams, I don’t know if you remember, but the last time we spoke, you left me with a sort of warning. You told me to be careful because I was heading toward someone who was more dangerous than I could imagine.”
“I remember. Have you met that person yet?” Hattie asked as she pulled another tomato from the vine.
“I believe I have,” Gideon said cautiously.
“And who is it?” she asked as another tomato made its way into her basket.
“Pastor Samantha Cleaveland.”
“I also told you, you was about to meet someone that you’ve been looking for your whole life. Have you met them yet?”
Gideon’s hand froze on a squash when he heard the question. “Yes, ma’am. I think I have met them,” he answered slowly.
Hattie heard the caution in his response. “I’m very glad to hear that, son. Very glad.” Hattie stood upright and walked over to Gideon, who was crouching before a plant. She placed her gentle hand on his shoulder and said, “Never be ashamed of who you love, son. Just thank God for giving you someone to love.”
Gideon looked up at Hattie. He couldn’t conceal the moisture that had formed in the corners of his eyes. He simply said, “Thank you, ma’am. That means more to me than you can imagine.”
“Good,” Hattie snapped with approval and returned to the tomato plants. “So what’s this about Samantha Cleaveland?”
Gideon felt somehow emboldened within the confines of the pink brick walls and in the presence of Hattie Williams. He stopped picking the vegetables and stood to his feet. “Mrs. Williams, I don’t want to shock you, but . . . I believe Samantha Cleaveland killed her husband.”
Gideon paused, waiting for a reaction from the old woman, but there was none. She simply continued to pluck tomatoes gingerly from the vines.
“I also believe, or rather I know,” he stammered and cleared his throat, “that Hezekiah was involved in an affair . . . with a man . . . which is why she killed him.”
Still no reaction.
“I also believe, ma’am . . . again, that is, I know . . . that Samantha tried to kill the man Hezekiah had an affair with so that he would not go public with his story.”
Gideon was shocked, but also frightened, by the lack of response to his seemingly outlandish allegations. He waited patiently for her to lash out and demand indignantly that he leave her garden.
Instead, Hattie kept her back to him and continued to slowly fill her basket. Then, finally, he heard a mournful whisper. “I know, baby. I know.”
There was silence in the Eden-like garden. A white butterfly pirouetted around the petals of the foxgloves. The flutters of a thousand ladybug wings whispered on the back of a gentle breeze that swept through the vegetables.
“You know?” Gideon finally said, breaking the spell the silence had cast. “How do you know?”
“God tells us all things, son. Some of us just listen better than others.”
“But, Mrs. Williams, if you knew, why didn’t you tell someone?”
Hattie finally stood and faced him. They now stood only yards apart across neatly hoed rows of vegetables.
“And say what, son? That I had a vision of Samantha killing her husband in my kitchen window.”
Gideon saw clearly the anguish and pain in the old woman’s face as she spoke.
“I know why God put me on this earth,” Hattie continued. “Not to interfere with His work or to tell people how they should live their lives. He put me here as an intercessor. Do you know what that is?”
Before Gideon could answer, Hattie spoke again. “He put me here to pray for others when they can’t pray for themselves. To put my spirit between them and the evil that threatens to destroy their souls. To intercede and plead their case before God when they don’t even know they’re in danger. Now, what God ultimately does is not for me to say. From the first day I met Hezekiah T. Cleaveland, I was on my knees, praying for him. I saw he was in danger, and I prayed for God to save him, but . . .”
Gideon saw the tears forming in Hattie’s eyes. Her voice began to tremble as she spoke.
“I prayed that God would spare him, but he had a different plan.” Hattie wiped a tear from her cheek with the apron that was cinched around her waist. “I did my job, son. I did exactly what God put me on this earth to do. No more and no less.”
Gideon felt her pain, but he pressed on. “But you voted to make her pastor. Even though you knew what she had done?”
Hattie sat the basket of tomatoes on the ground. The weight had become too much for her to bear. She looked at the flowers and said, “I thought it was the only way for the church to survive. Hezekiah gave his life for that church, and millions of people around the world depend on it for their spiritual nourishment. She was the only person who could keep it alive.”
Again silence took control of the garden. The ladybugs rested their wings, and the butterfly settled on the petal of a flower.
“Considering all that has happened since his death, do you still feel you made the right decision?” Gideon asked delicately.
Hattie looked at the butterfly and simply said, “I don’t know, baby. I just don’t know anymore.”
“Gideon, please, I’m begging you to leave her alone. She’s too dangerous.”
“I can’t do that, Danny. She has to be stopped. She’s killed once, that we know of. She tried to kill you, and she’s threatened me. I can’t just walk away.”
Danny sat upright on the chaise lounge when he heard the words. The sun was just setting behind the Hollywood Hills. Danny and Gideon were sitting by the pool in Gideon’s backyard. Parker purred as he lay curled in a gray ball on the tiled terrace between the two men.
“What do you mean, she threatened you? When did you talk to her?”
“Yesterday. I spoke with her yesterday.”
Danny bolted from the chaise. “Gideon, no!” Danny exclaimed.
Gideon stood and grabbed Danny’s arm to prevent him from walking away. “I had to,” he said, pulling Danny back down on the chaise. “I had to let her know that I’m on to her.”
“Did you tell her I was still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Are you trying to get me killed?” Danny said, yanking his arm free. “I’m as good as dead now that she knows. Don’t you understand? She admitted to me that she killed Hezekiah. She can’t risk me talking to the police.”
“I won’t let her hurt you, Danny. I won’t let her get anywhere near you.”
“How can you protect me? You can’t be with me twenty-four hours a day, and I can’t stay locked in this house for the rest of my life.”
“You won’t have to. As soon as I get enough evidence to tie her to Hezekiah’s death, I’m going to expose her on national television. If that doesn’t work, I would kill her myself before I let her harm you.”
Danny could not conceal his fear. He looked Gideon in the eye and said, “So you believe me? You believe that she killed Hezekiah and that she tried to kill me?”
“Of course I believe you. I always have. By telling her I know everything, she will think twice before trying to do anything to you again. Don’t you see, baby? I put myself between you and her.”
“Why would you do that, Gideon? This is my problem. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
“Can’t you guess why I did it? I’m in love with you, Danny St. John. I would do anything to protect you. Including risk my own life.”
“You can’t love me, Gideon. You don’t know me,” Danny said dismissively.
Gideon grabbed Danny’s shoulders and turned him toward his face. “You’re wrong, Danny. I know you better than anyone. You are the man I’ve held every night as you fell asleep in my arms. You are the man who helped me realize there’s more to my life than fame and ‘the next big story.’ I’ve found myself in your eyes, Danny. You’ve shown me that I am able to love, because I feel love every time you touch me. You can’t look me in the eye and tell me you don’t feel the same way, because I know you do.”
Silence fell between them. The only sound that could be heard was the gentle gurgling of the spa in the distance and the purr of Parker at their feet.
Danny finally spoke. “You’re right, Gideon. I do love you. I’m just afraid.”
“Afraid of what? You shouldn’t be afraid to love.”
“I’m afraid I’ll lose you, just like I lost Hezekiah. I loved him, and look what happened. She took him from me, and now she’s threatening to take you. I couldn’t take that, Gideon.”
“She’s not going to take me from you. I promise. No one will ever be able to separate me from you. I’ve searched my entire life for you, and now that I have found you, no one is going to come between us.”
Danny wanted to believe him. He needed to believe him. He had never imagined that so soon after Hezekiah’s death, he would be within a breath’s length of a man so warm and so loving. A man who summoned the same feelings of love from deep in his heart. It had taken a lifetime for him to find Hezekiah and only a second to lose him. And now the same feelings of warmth, security, and love were upon him again. This man had simply appeared in his world, unannounced and with no warning.
The loneliness and despair he had felt in the months after Hezekiah’s death had been slowly replaced with comfort and hope. The same reflection he saw in Hezekiah’s eyes was there in Gideon’s. Danny felt he existed once again when Gideon looked at him. He existed because Gideon could see him. He was alive because Gideon could feel the warmth from his weary body. There was value in his words because Gideon could hear him and said the same words back to him.
Danny trembled as Gideon pulled him closer. “I love you, Danny St. John,” he whispered. The words seemed to skim across the glassy surface of the turquoise pool, then echo through the palms and spill down the hill into the canyon below.
“I love you, Gideon Truman,” Danny whispered back, finally releasing the words from his heart. “Please don’t leave me.”