Stand by Me (20 page)

Avis walked in . . . and was met with a loud chorus:
“Happy
birthday!
” Then the group launched into, “For she's a jolly good fellow, for she's a jolly good fellow . . .”

A decorated bakery cake sat on the conference table, fresh coffee dripped in the coffee corner, and the AWOL school secretary presented her with a large bouquet of Stargazer lilies.

Avis was tongue-tied for a few awkward moments but managed a smile for the small group of teachers, parents, and university students needing practicum credits who would be her STEP staff this summer. “I . . . I don't know what to say. Thank you. Thank you, everyone.” But she caught Jodi Baxter's eye standing over by the coffeepot and mouthed,
“You're behind this.”

Jodi shrugged and mouthed back,
“So? It IS your birthday
today.”

Adele Skuggs shut off the beehive hair dryer and waved Avis back into the chair at Adele's Hair and Nails the next morning for the process of getting her twists redone. Avis watched in the mirror as Adele wove the artificial hair into Avis's thick, kinky hair, braiding it near the roots and then twisting the rest.

“Good thing I told Peter not to take me out for my birthday until tonight. At least now I'll have my hair done.”

“
Mm-hm
. Hold still, girl. I've got to do the rest of these. I don't want to hurt you.” Adele fussed for three hours with the black twists all over Avis's head until they lined up in neat little squares, then used mousse and sprayed it with sheen to make them lie down and shine. Whisking off the black plastic cape, she gave Avis a hand mirror to check the sides and the back.

Avis nodded, pleased, as she held the mirror this way and that.
Nice
. The twists gave her a youthful look, and with her smooth skin, free of any premature wrinkles, she could pass for ten years younger than her fifty-five years. Maybe she'd get a manicure and pedicure too, if Adele's girl could squeeze her in. Just thinking about soaking her tired feet in the bubbling hot water and getting her calves and feet massaged with lotion made her want to purr.

By the time Avis got home, the nails on her fingers and toes a rich burgundy with a feathery white filigree on each index finger and big toe, it was midafternoon. But the SouledOut van was parked in front of her building, taking up her usual parking space. What was the church van doing here?

Just then Josh Baxter and the seminary student from Crista University—Nick Something—hustled out the front door and down the steps, heading for the van. “Oh, hey, Mrs. Douglass!” Josh hollered with a wave. “Just one more load and we're done. Give us a minute and you can have this parking space.”

The two young men, who seemed similar in age, grabbed the last few bundles and bags from the back of the van and disappeared once more into the building.

Avis tapped her freshly manicured nails on the steering wheel as her car idled. So. The four students were moving in. And Josh Baxter, bless his overly friendly soul, had gotten permission to use the church van to help them out.

Looked as if the students were threading their way into the fabric of SouledOut Community Church.

It would definitely be an adjustment on the home front. Both of her neighbors moved in totally different social circles. But these students wanted to be part of SouledOut, which put them in
her
life circle in more ways than one.

She sighed.
Sorry for fussing, Lord. It'll probably be fine. I just
have so much on my plate right now. I don't feel like I have the energy
to relate to new neighbors
.

Josh Baxter came trotting out the door again, waved at her with a big grin, and climbed into the fifteen-passenger van that was used mostly for youth activities. As it pulled out, she pulled in and parked, gathered up her purse and umbrella—which she didn't need after all, in spite of the iffy-looking clouds earlier that morning—and went inside.

Using her mailbox key, she fished out the mail and riffled through it . . . nothing from Rochelle. Only then did she realize she'd been unconsciously hoping that Rochelle would come by and leave another note, or mail her a card, or . . . something. Yesterday had been her birthday, after all.

Don't go there, Avis
, she told herself. Letting herself into the carpeted stairwell, she climbed the stairs noiselessly, though she could hear youthful voices, thumps, and laughter coming from the open door on the second floor. Pausing on the stairs just before the second-floor landing, Avis listened. The voices were distant, coming from another part of the Candys' apartment, so she quickly moved past the landing and up to her own door on third.

There'd be plenty of time to say welcome to the neighborhood. Maybe tomorrow. Right now, she needed to call Peter and ask what time they were going out, so she'd know when to be ready. It'd been three weeks since they'd gone out for their anniversary, which had ended rather badly, and she wanted tonight to be different.

After all, her husband had had a stressful week. Carl Hickman had been released from the hospital but started having neck spasms, which put him back in again. So Peter was without a manager, doubling his own workload. And from what she could gather, Jack Griffin was now “looking at his options”—which meant Software Symphony was only one card in the buyer's deck, not the ace.

They both could use a pleasant evening—dinner and dancing? No stress. Just enjoy each other. Enjoy the moment.

She'd just donned her favorite silk lounging pants and top after a leisurely bubble bath and was putting on her makeup when she heard knocking at the front door.
I don't believe this
. She was hardly presentable, but . . . what did she care? Had to be one of the kids downstairs.

Kathryn Davies beamed at her when she opened the door. Her thick mane of brown wavy hair had been pulled back and wound into a large, lumpy knot on her neck, and she was dressed in sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt. “Hi, Mrs. Douglass! We're all moved in. Didn't take long with Josh Baxter's help. What a nice guy he is. Oh! What I came up for is, we're making some vegetarian spaghetti and it's kind of messy, but we don't want to use Mrs. Candy's nice cloth napkins, but we can't find any paper ones.” She paused for a breath. “Do you have any paper towels we can borrow? Ha. Guess
borrow
is the wrong word, since I'm sure you wouldn't want them back with spaghetti sauce all over them.”

Avis waited to see if the girl was through, then smiled. “Of course. I've got an extra roll you can have.” She headed for the kitchen, realizing that Kathryn followed her into the apartment. Rummaging in the small pantry, she found the roll of paper towels and walked back into the living room.

Kathryn had picked up one of the framed photos on the lamp table and was staring at it. She looked up at Avis, eyes wide. “Is this your daughter? I didn't know who she was!”

Avis felt her skin prickle. “What do you mean? You
saw
her?” The photo Kat was holding was Rochelle and Conny, taken last Christmas at a JCPenny Portrait Studio. “When?”

Kathryn nodded. “Last weekend. I, uh, well . . . I came by on Saturday just to make sure we could find the address, even though our appointment with Mrs. Candy wasn't until Sunday. And this girl—the one in the picture—came into the foyer and put something in your mailbox. And . . . then she left.” Kathryn smiled big and pointed at the photo. “Really cute kid. Your grandson? I didn't realize the girl was your daughter. Do they live around here?”

Avis just stared at Kathryn, her emotions ricocheting in all directions. She wanted to cry out,
Did she look okay? Was her hair
done? Has she been eating? How did she act? Did she have her son
with her? What was she wearing? Tell me everything!

At the same time, she didn't want this white, pampered, eager-beaver grad student to know anything was wrong. Didn't want her to know she hadn't seen Rochelle in over three months. What business was it of hers?

Avis forced a calm smile. “Yes. My daughter and grandson. They live in Chicago. Oh. Here are your paper towels. You don't need to return the roll. Keep it. And, I'm sorry, but I need to finish getting ready because my husband is picking me up soon. Glad you're getting settled.” She started for the door, which still stood open. “See you tomorrow at church?”

Chapter 19

P
erfect birthday,” Avis murmured to Peter as she slipped into bed later that evening. And it was. They hadn't talked about missing daughters, business buyouts, school closings, trips to the far corners of the world, or starry-eyed white kids from the 'burbs moving into their building. Just enjoyed their shrimp and steak, a celebratory bottle of wine, small talk, and laughter. And in a burst of energy—or foolishness—showed they could still cut the rug to some good ol' Motown tunes.

She cuddled close to Peter's bare torso as he slipped an arm around her and pulled her into an embrace. “Though,
uhhh
, a few of my muscles may be protesting by morning.”

Her husband chuckled. “You were still the most gorgeous chick on the dance floor, sweetheart.”

She lifted her head from the pillow and looked at him. “I did
not
hear you call me a ‘chick.' And if I did, I ought to slap you upside the head.”

“Okay, okay.” He was still laughing. “The most gorgeous
woman
there tonight. I saw the other men looking. Jealous as all get-out that you were with
me
instead of them.”

“Oh, stop. I just turned fifty-five. Nobody's looking at me like that anymore.”

“
Humph
. I know what I know and know what I saw—and
none
of those oversexed, underdressed, painted-up
chicks
in that restaurant could hold a candle to the beautiful woman I had on my arm tonight.” He pulled her closer and nibbled on her ear.

“
Mm-hm
,” she murmured. “I can tell a line when I hear one. If you think it'll get you somewhere”—she reached up and traced his face with a finger, first an eyebrow, then his nose, then along his trim mustache and warm lips—“you know me too well.”

“
Mm
, baby—”

A sudden, deafening, electronic screech pierced the floor from the apartment below. Both Peter and Avis bolted upright in bed.

“W-what is
that
?” Avis quavered.

The screeching died as quickly as it started, but was followed by the electronic twang of a guitar, still audible through the floor. And then they heard a distant male voice crooning something about, “You are everything that I live for . . .”

“I don't believe this!” Avis vaulted out of bed, flipped on the bedside lamp, and looked around for a weapon. A broom handle, that's what she needed. But with no broom in sight, she grabbed one of the high heels she'd worn that night, fell to her knees, and pounded the heel against the bare floor not covered by the small bedside rug.
Bam, bam, bam!

The singing stopped.

Beside her the bed was shaking. Still on her knees, she lifted her head and peeked over the side of the bed. Peter had the pillow over his head to muffle the sound, but his whole body was shaking with laughter.

Avis was still steaming the next morning as she poured Peter's coffee. “I knew it! College kids. They think this is still a dorm where everyone stays up until three in the morning. You need to speak to them, Pe—”