Somewhere Between Black and White (21 page)

Matthew took a couple steps onto the
porch and touched the railing, taking in the bliss of the evening. “I’m so glad
we moved here. It doesn’t get much better than this, don’t you think?”

“It’s lovely,” she answered, staring straight
ahead.

Matthew’s eyes fixed on her, but Natalie
would not return his gaze. “I’m sorry I scared you by what I said. Or . . . I
guess . . . by what I
didn’t
say.” He was referring to his failure to
respond to her question, the one about his father’s killer. 

She glanced at him briefly before looking
to the street. 

“I didn’t mean it, Nat.”

Oscar was sound asleep as she brushed
his cheek. “When you first came back home from the war, you seemed so
different,” she began. “I mean, I guess that’s not surprising. How could you
not be different? But you were different in a way I wasn’t expecting.”

“What do you mean?”

“You seemed more peaceful. More . . .
accepting?” she questioned. “Not such a hothead, which was nice.”

Matthew leaned back on the railing and
faced her, giving her his full attention.

“And then you started to tell me about
this friend you made, Ping, and all the things you talked about while you were
there. The book he gave you. . . .”

“And?” Matthew prodded.

“I didn’t like it!”

“Why? You never said anything.”

“Matty, you and I have known each other
our whole lives. We’ve been Catholic our whole lives. And then you came back
with all this Buddhist stuff! What was I supposed to do with it?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He shook his head
and turned away. “I’m starting to think now that was just a lot of blather . .
. about stuff I’m not even close to understanding.”

Natalie gently laid Oscar in the
bassinet tucked in a corner of the porch and covered him with a light blanket.
“You didn’t think any of it was blather—before your dad.”

“Why does that surprise you?” he asked
with a cynical laugh.

“Matty, it’s not your job to—”

“How can you say that?” he demanded.
“You mean to tell me, if someone took Oscar from you, you wouldn’t want to make
them pay?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what
are
you saying?”

Natalie turned back to gaze at her boy,
sleeping safely in his basket. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t want to make them
pay. I’m just saying it’s not my job.”

“Then whose job is it?”

“I was thinking . . . maybe it’s His,”
she said, looking up.

Matthew snorted. “Yeah? Well, maybe I
don’t trust Him for the job.”

“So what you’re saying is, all those
ideas you came back with so passionate about—acceptance of what is, absence of
judgment—all of that applies, except for when it’s too hard?”

Oscar woke and started crying for his
bottle. Natalie eyed Matthew for a few moments, but he remained silent. “Gotta
warm his milk,” she said softly, then she went inside.

Matthew went to the bassinet and picked
up Oscar. He gently rocked him against his chest, thinking about what Natalie
said. He
was
different when he came back. But now—how could he get that
back now? 

The baby began to quiet down, and
Matthew cradled him in his arms so that he could see his son’s face. Oscar’s innocent
eyes were wide open, his eyebrows curiously raised. As if to say,
Well?
What’s it gonna be?

Twenty-Eight

Sophie eyed Evie’s ice cream and sighed.
It was beginning to turn runny, looking more like a puddle of green soup. She
looked at her watch.
Guess I probably shouldn’t have ordered until she got
here
. Sitting near the ice cream counter located on the second floor of the
casino, she rested her chin on her hand and absently gazed at the passing hotel
guests clad in swims suits as they sipped on colorful cocktails. The scent of
chlorine trailed behind them.

Sophie turned just as Evie was coming up
the escalator.

“Sorry, I’m late.” Evie eased into the
chair across from her. “The traffic was pretty bad. There was an accident on
the freeway.” Dressed for her shift as hostess at the Foundation Room atop
Mandalay Bay, she was striking in her deep blue, sleeveless dress, her long
locks hanging loose about her shoulders.

Sophie slid a cup of pistachio ice cream
across the table. “Your favorite.”

“Thank you!” Evie’s eyes widened as she
delved in and took a savory bite. “So what’s up? And sit up straight. You’re
slouching again. I swear you’re going to look like Quasimodo by the time you’re
fifty if you keep sitting like that.”

Sophie sighed and pulled her shoulders
back. “Better?”

Evie was too preoccupied with her ice
cream to check her posture.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you.
Alone,” Sophie began. “And I figured the best way was to meet you before work.”

Evie set her cup on the table and leaned
back in her chair, eyeing her sister warily. “Is this going to be about
Christian?”

“Yes.”

“Here we go.” Evie waved her hand.

“It’s nothing bad.”

Evie’s lips parted. “
Really
.”

Sophie took a bite of her vanilla bean
ice cream and let its sweetness melt in her mouth. “Christian came to speak
with me.”

“He told me.” Evie withdrew in her
chair, her arms folded over her chest.

“So you know what we talked about.”

“Sophie, is this going somewhere?
Because if your intention is to tell me what a liar you think he is, and what a
huge mistake I’m making, then this conversation is over.”

“No, that’s not it at all.” Sophie
dropped her hands in her lap and met Evie’s eyes. “I actually wanted to tell
you I was touched by his visit. Despite myself. He
does
love you. And I
hope you guys can work through this.”

Evie blinked. “Who are you? And what
have you done with my sister?”

Sophie raised her hands. “I deserve
that. I never thought those words would come out of my mouth, but I really mean
it.”

“I can’t tell you how much it means to
hear you say that,” Evie said, her shoulders relaxing. She reached across the
table and took Sophie’s hand, then paused a few moments, checking her emotions.
“Every day I ask myself if I’m doing the right thing, if I’m just being an
absolute fool.” Straightening, she shook her head and touched the corner of her
eye. “I still can’t believe it. I can’t . . .”

Sophie considered maybe it wasn’t such a
good idea to talk about this here, but it was already a done deal. “I know. And
I’ve been super hard on you, expecting you to feel a certain way, see things a
certain way.”

Evie’s expression began to soften.

“Christian made a mistake,” Sophie
continued. “And I read somewhere that a good marriage is the union of two good
forgivers.”

Cocking her head to the side, Evie
remained silent.

Sophie fidgeted as her sister’s eyes
bore into her. “What?”  

“Sam has really gotten to you, hasn’t
he? He’s managed to put a little mush into that stubborn resolve of yours.”

Sophie heaved a deep, contented breath.

Evie leaned forward. “I think I’m starting
to get it now. This is the first time for you, the first time someone has
touched your heart enough for you to question all your hard and fast rules. All
of your easy answers.”

Sophie avoided her sister’s gaze and
watched a little boy enjoying his ice cream cone nearby. “All right. Let’s not
get carried away here.”

Evie
chuckled. “It’s a good thing, sis,” she said gently. “Not always an easy thing,
but a good one.”

Twenty-Nine

The end of the school year had finally
arrived. For the eighth-graders, it was the last dance as middle school kids,
and they were decked out like it was prom. The first year Sophie chaperoned,
she was so relieved to have asked the other teachers what to wear; she had no
idea it was such a fancy affair. She would have been sorely underdressed.

 Sophie assumed that she and Sam would
come together this year. She looked forward to an excuse to dress up and have
some fun, but he apologized about having too much grading to get done before
the last day.

The dance started the same way they have
for the past fifty years—everyone stood around in clusters, admiring each
other’s dresses and suits, but no one really dancing. However, later in the
evening, it was sure to turn into a grind fest that made every adult want to
avert their eyes.

Last year, one of the young teachers
refused to walk across the dance floor. She feared a fourteen-year-old would
mistake her for another student and start gyrating up against her.

Then there was the bathroom situation.
If you wanted to get in and out without being subjected to a rotating door of
sobbing girls and their drama, you’d better get to it early. 

The “I will not dance” spell was finally
broken when the D.J. played The Black Eyed Peas’ “I Gotta Feeling”. The song
incited a deluge of young bodies onto the floor. Sophie’s friend, Lisa, spotted
her from across the gymnasium and made her way over. “Look at you, in your
little black dress! You look great!”

“Why, thank you,” Sophie said. “You’re
pretty smokin’ yourself!”

“This old thing?” She feigned indifference,
then laughed. “Where’s Sam?”

“He couldn’t make it. Had too much work
to do.”

“You mean to tell me he couldn’t break
away for a couple of hours?” Lisa asked. Sophie shrugged.

Sophie spent the next hour or so taking
pictures of the kids. She included herself in a few, which she quickly
regretted. In each one, she had a double chin from trying to hold the camera
out far enough. She was aiming to snap a picture of Ian when he looked past her
with a knowing grin and said, “Miss Cook, I thought you said Mr. Collins wasn’t
coming.”

Sam startled Sophie as he came up behind
her. He was handsome as ever in a charcoal suit and white shirt. “Oh, my
goodness!” She had never seen him dressed so formally. He took her breath away.
“You look amazing!” 

Sam placed his hand to his heart, stopping
to admire her. His hazel eyes sparkled with a delight so contagious, she could
have stepped inside him and remained there forever. It was the strangest
feeling, wishing his heart was her own. Not figuratively, but literally. This
desire to have that accepting, funny, beautiful heart, beating in her body. A
yearning that was both exhilarating and painful at the same time.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to
make it,” Sophie stammered.

“Yeah, but I decided I couldn’t miss the
opportunity to see you dressed like this.” He stooped and kissed her cheek.

In her surprise, she hadn’t noticed when
the music stopped. Everyone was staring at them, as if in anticipation, and
Sophie suddenly felt uneasy. When a student handed Sam a microphone, she
panicked.

“Can I have everyone’s attention,
please?” Sam said.

A few girls giggled, and the blood
slowly drained from Sophie’s face as she began to experience a blacking out
sensation.

“The students have been kind enough to
let me have the floor for a couple minutes, and I just wanted to share a few
words about our lovely Miss Cook.”

Sophie’s eyes were huge, bug-eyed huge,
and a stiff, terrified smile was plastered across her face. No, there was no
mirror, but she could feel how ridiculous she looked.
What is he doing?

“The first time I saw her,” Sam
continued, “she stared me down in a 7-11 because I was the only thing standing
between her and a Code Red Mountain Dew. It wasn’t pretty, folks. She kinda
scared me.” That got a few chuckles, and Sophie allowed herself to relax a
smidge.

“The second time I saw her was in Trader
Joe’s, and I was forced to rescue her from an altercation she was having with
some tomatoes.”

More laughter as Sophie nervously scanned
the faces in the room. “That’s actually true,” she admitted to a couple of
students nearby.

“But the
third
time I saw her, I
had the pleasure of witnessing her love of karaoke. . . .” A few boys in the
crowd started howling. That’s when the intestinal distress set in. Good Lord!
Was he trying to get her to sing? For the love of all that was holy. She would
not be able to pull this off without the aid of vodka!

“However, I never got to hear her sing
the following song, which I understand was a favorite of hers. At least that’s
what Mrs. Jameson tells me.”

Lisa, otherwise known as Mrs. Jameson, stood
beside Sophie with a huge grin on her face, and Sophie shot her a dirty look.

“It’s a little tune called ‘Love Will
Keep Us Together’,” Sam said. And on cue, the D.J. started the music.

Sophie’s legs struggled to hold her up.
Lisa slowly backed away to leave her in the spotlight as Sophie fruitlessly
reached for her arm. About twenty students began dancing—a choreographed dance.
They had staged a flash mob!