be plenty of work to do.
Circling the lot for the third time, I watched Zeely go inside. She gave me a long I-told-you-so stare before going in. Fair enough. Next time, I’d listen. Maybe. For now, I just needed to find a parking space and neither my car nor the crowd was helping me out.
Across the lot, a white van pulled out of a space and limped out of the lot. I went for it, praying my car would come through for me one last time.
I’ll take you in Monday, baby. Promise. Just let me get in here.
It would have been a great coup, grabbing that space and running inside right on time, if it weren’t for that black import with the same idea. I didn’t see it until it was too late.
The metal made a horrible crunch. This couldn’t be happening. Almost hysterical, I laughed to keep from crying.
The other driver didn’t find it funny. He tapped on my window. I stared at him for a few seconds before rolling it down. This was not Mr. Homecoming from earlier. This was a grown man wearing a dashiki that wasn’t made in China. He had the kind of locks in his hair that were somewhere on my life list, though they looked better on him. Until he started talking anyway. “Are you crazy?”
“Not technically. I have issues, but I’m working through them. You?” I could be a smart aleck when I’m nervous, but this was ridiculous.
Before I could apologize, he pulled my door open and extended his hand. When I got out, he gave my door a good slam. He shook his head at the state of my ride. “I’m surprised the door didn’t fall off.”
Me too .
He smoothed his beard a few times while I tried to figure out what color it was exactly. His skin was definitely honey. Or maybe ginger . . .
After looking me up and down, he asked if I was okay. When I said I was, he asked—with skepticism—if I had insurance. That made me a little mad. Sure my car wasn’t in the greatest shape, but I wasn’t totally irresponsible. Sometimes things just got away from me. Usually the best things.
He scribbled down all his information in the biggest Daytimer I’d ever seen. Then he shook my hand and told me his name while I tried to act unaffected. “Dr. Mayfield. Nice to meet you, although the circumstances could have been better. I guess that’s what I get for leaving home later than I should have.”
“No, it was my fault, Dr. Mayfield.” His name felt familiar in my mouth, liked I’d said it before, seen him before. But I doubted that. I would have remembered. He wasn’t the kind of man that a woman forgot. He had presence like someone who usually ran things—and liked it. “I’m Grace—Grace Okoye.”
He really looked interested then. “You’re Nigerian?”
“Something like that.” I sighed, not really wanting to get into my late husband’s genealogy with a stranger, especially not if he was one of those deep back-to-Africa brothers that could talk you to death. I was late enough as it was.
The police saved me from having to explain more. I made a mental note to look out for Mayfield kids in any of my classes. Boy or girl, any child of his wouldn’t be hard to find.
When the policeman left (who the good doctor had known by name, but whose name I’d forgotten already), Dr. Mayfield pointed to the boxes still in my backseat. “New in town? Or coming back?”
“Both.” I grabbed my purse from the car. Poor guy. He would have to meet me when I was in one of these moods. Oh well. “Let me know if I owe you anything else,” I said before straightening my dress and stepping around him.
While he’d seemed to be in a big hurry too, my last vague comment must have taken him over the edge because he grabbed my hand and spun me toward him like in some kind of black-and-white movie. I tried to duck when he—and his lips—moved closer to my face, but he was too quick. While I cringed, he planted a quick kiss on the top of my hand.
“That’ll cover it,” he said, before walking away, leaving me staring after
Circling the lot for the third time, I watched Zeely go inside. She gave me a long I-told-you-so stare before going in. Fair enough. Next time, I’d listen. Maybe. For now, I just needed to find a parking space and neither my car nor the crowd was helping me out.
Across the lot, a white van pulled out of a space and limped out of the lot. I went for it, praying my car would come through for me one last time.
I’ll take you in Monday, baby. Promise. Just let me get in here.
It would have been a great coup, grabbing that space and running inside right on time, if it weren’t for that black import with the same idea. I didn’t see it until it was too late.
The metal made a horrible crunch. This couldn’t be happening. Almost hysterical, I laughed to keep from crying.
The other driver didn’t find it funny. He tapped on my window. I stared at him for a few seconds before rolling it down. This was not Mr. Homecoming from earlier. This was a grown man wearing a dashiki that wasn’t made in China. He had the kind of locks in his hair that were somewhere on my life list, though they looked better on him. Until he started talking anyway. “Are you crazy?”
“Not technically. I have issues, but I’m working through them. You?” I could be a smart aleck when I’m nervous, but this was ridiculous.
Before I could apologize, he pulled my door open and extended his hand. When I got out, he gave my door a good slam. He shook his head at the state of my ride. “I’m surprised the door didn’t fall off.”
Me too .
He smoothed his beard a few times while I tried to figure out what color it was exactly. His skin was definitely honey. Or maybe ginger . . .
After looking me up and down, he asked if I was okay. When I said I was, he asked—with skepticism—if I had insurance. That made me a little mad. Sure my car wasn’t in the greatest shape, but I wasn’t totally irresponsible. Sometimes things just got away from me. Usually the best things.
He scribbled down all his information in the biggest Daytimer I’d ever seen. Then he shook my hand and told me his name while I tried to act unaffected. “Dr. Mayfield. Nice to meet you, although the circumstances could have been better. I guess that’s what I get for leaving home later than I should have.”
“No, it was my fault, Dr. Mayfield.” His name felt familiar in my mouth, liked I’d said it before, seen him before. But I doubted that. I would have remembered. He wasn’t the kind of man that a woman forgot. He had presence like someone who usually ran things—and liked it. “I’m Grace—Grace Okoye.”
He really looked interested then. “You’re Nigerian?”
“Something like that.” I sighed, not really wanting to get into my late husband’s genealogy with a stranger, especially not if he was one of those deep back-to-Africa brothers that could talk you to death. I was late enough as it was.
The police saved me from having to explain more. I made a mental note to look out for Mayfield kids in any of my classes. Boy or girl, any child of his wouldn’t be hard to find.
When the policeman left (who the good doctor had known by name, but whose name I’d forgotten already), Dr. Mayfield pointed to the boxes still in my backseat. “New in town? Or coming back?”
“Both.” I grabbed my purse from the car. Poor guy. He would have to meet me when I was in one of these moods. Oh well. “Let me know if I owe you anything else,” I said before straightening my dress and stepping around him.
While he’d seemed to be in a big hurry too, my last vague comment must have taken him over the edge because he grabbed my hand and spun me toward him like in some kind of black-and-white movie. I tried to duck when he—and his lips—moved closer to my face, but he was too quick. While I cringed, he planted a quick kiss on the top of my hand.
“That’ll cover it,” he said, before walking away, leaving me staring after
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