Faithful (16 page)

Phyllis turned in surprise. “Yeah. How do you know?”

Rod chuckled. “This is so wild. I love Dr. Lyles. I do his Bible studies and listen to his CDs. I always said I would love to go to his church.”

Huh. Can't drag my husband into the place
.

“I forget people know him from his Bible studies. His teaching is awesome.”

“Definitely,” Rod agreed. “I love my own pastor too—Pastor Collier. Every Sunday and Wednesday night, I'm right there. Between him and Pastor Lyles, I'm tight.” Rod laughed.

They fell into silence, eventually hitting the Dulles Toll Road. Rod slowed to toss some coins into the bin. So many thoughts vied for Phyllis's attention, so many places beckoned, like the one that wished she and Rod were both single, able to have these conversations for days on end, getting to know one another, going deeper. He was it—her dream, the man she'd been praying for Hayes to be, a man in love with the Lord.

Why was life so unfair? She was dealing with pain and disappointment at home because she couldn't have these kinds of conversations, this kind of bond. And now there was someone with whom she could—but she couldn't.

Rod pulled into Stacy's neighborhood and found her house, letting the engine run out front. Phyllis looked up at the windows. All was dark.

She couldn't bring herself to say good-bye.

She noticed he was silent, too, that they both were sitting there, unhurried. Finally she said, “I'm glad I got to know you a little better this weekend, Rod.” It came out: “Maybe we could keep in touch.”

He surprised her with a humorless chuckle as he examined the steering wheel. “I don't think so.”

She stared at him, hiding her disappointment, waiting.

He met her gaze. “I like you,” he said simply, and she thought her insides might never find calm again. “You're the first person I've met since Michelle who I could actually see myself getting to know better. But I can't, not that way. So I had just been asking myself as we drove up, ‘Okay, could we be friends? Should we keep in touch?' And I'm thinking no, not when temptation could just sneak in. You know?” He let his gaze fall back to the steering wheel.

Phyllis was a few sentences back. Did he say he
liked
her? That he would want to get to know her? The evening was instantly more surreal. To hear that it wasn't one-sided, that he felt something, too, was more than she could fathom, especially when this was Rod, the enigmatic wonder.

She tried to focus on the rest of what he said, after the part about liking her. She spoke carefully. “I don't see how temptation could be a problem—I'm clear across the country. Picking up the phone or shooting an e-mail every blue moon . . . not a big deal, is it?”

Rod thought a moment, rested his arm on the door. She wished she could read his mind.

“You're probably right.” He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small pad and pen. “Kind of silly to be extreme about it,” he said, writing.

He shot her a smile, and goose bumps rode her arms. “You can't be too dangerous way out there in St. Louis.” He tore out the paper and handed it to her.

She folded it and tucked it in her purse. Her hand on the door handle, she brought her eyes to his one last time. “Thanks for bringing me out here, Rod. I really appreciate it.”

“Glad I could help.” He was leaning back in the seat, his head against the headrest, eyes holding hers.

She kept up the gaze, wanting suddenly to go to those deeper places, wanting him to lean over, hug her good-bye. And if he kissed her . . .

But he broke the stare and looked ahead.

Phyllis opened the door and stepped out. Even as she closed it, she hoped he would get out, too, come around to her side, hold her.

But he stayed in the car as she walked to the front door and waited until Phyllis let herself in with the key. As she walked inside, she heard him drive off.

Eleven

Cyd stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a luxurious peach bath towel, ambivalent still about the evening ahead. She hadn't been able to bring herself to pray about it in there. Prayer would have opened wide the issue, reminding her of all she'd felt at the reception, the desires that had flitted through her mind. Prayer would have forced her to face the truth that she had no business going out with this man tonight, and that the only reason she'd agreed was the passion in the moment.

She knew she couldn't go there tonight. But she couldn't deny the buildup of anticipation inside. She would see him again in fifteen minutes.

Every move raised a question. Why was she putting on perfumed body spray? She never wore that. Why the black jersey skirt and boots, when pants were always her preference? Why was she leaving her hair down when it was getting on her nerves—because Cedric thought it was sexy?

Cyd hurried down the stairs with a purse, almost tripping over the puppy bounding between her legs. In the kitchen, she threw a few items from a tote into the smaller purse and glanced at her watch— six forty-five. The doorbell rang seconds later, and Reese ran to it, barking at the intruder. Cyd herded her to her crate and returned to answer the door.

She pushed open the screen door. “Hi.”

Cedric smiled. “Hi yourself.” He wore a brown sweater and beige slacks. As he came inside, he brought a bouquet of roses from behind his back, all lavender.

“Oh, Cedric.” She told herself he'd done this for every woman he'd ever gone out with, same color and all. But the thrill shot through her nonetheless. “Thank you.” She took the roses and inhaled their fragrance. “They're gorgeous.”

Cedric surveyed the living area to the left of the foyer. It wasn't very big, but it was cozy, with hardwood floors, a cream-colored overstuffed sofa and chair, a glass-top table, framed art, and lots of plants. He was nodding his head. “I'm impressed. You know how to give life to a place.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I have a long list of things to do in this house, and plants are cheaper than gutting the kitchen.” She smelled the roses again. “I'd better put these in water.”

Cedric followed her toward the kitchen, chuckling. “What have you done to that little dog you were telling me about? She sounds awful upset.”

“She's in her crate. That's why she's making all that noise. That and the fact that there's an unfamiliar voice in her midst.”

“You didn't have to lock her up on my account. I grew up with two dogs.”

“I didn't want her to jump on you,” Cyd said. “She doesn't have good manners.”

Cedric walked into the kitchen and unlocked the crate. “Hey, pup-pup. Reese, right?” Kneeling, he stroked the puppy until she turned over on her back with her paws bent in complete comfort and submission. “You're a cutie. You do look like a peanut butter cup.”

Cyd retrieved a vase from an upper cabinet. Felt weird to have a man in the house. Well, this kind of man. Scott had been over with Dana, and Hayes came by with Phyllis from time to time when she needed handyman help, but in the seven years she'd lived here, no one had been by for a . . . What exactly
was
this?

She filled the vase with water. It wasn't a date, because she would never date a man like Cedric. She never went for the slick, handsome, player type. She had one real requirement—that the man be truly committed to God—which is why she never got far with most men. She could tell from the get-go where their head was. Just like she could tell where Cedric's head was within a nanosecond of interaction. Without an intervening circumstance like the wedding, her world never would have collided with his. Now here he was in her kitchen.

The roses arranged beautifully in the vase, Cyd turned to him. “She would be in dog heaven if you rubbed her tummy like that all day.”

He gave the dog a couple more strokes. “I wish I could, pup. I'll have to see you when I get back.” Cedric went to the kitchen sink to wash his hands.

He'd be in for a surprise. Cyd had no intention of entertaining him in her home after dinner.

Cedric turned from the sink and took a good look around. “Why did you say you needed to gut this? I was expecting something horrible. This must've been updated recently.”

Cyd looked around herself. “The previous owner did update it, about twenty-five years ago. It's not too bad . . . if you like hospital gray.” The cabinets and drawers were white with gray pulls, and the floor was linoleum with a white and gray design.

He inspected a cabinet, pulled on the door, and looked behind it. “What would you do if you could change it?”

“I'd get a warmer color, maybe a light cherry,” she said. “Why? You do remodeling on the side?”

“Just trying to see if we had similar taste,” he said. “I would've said light cherry myself.” He winked at her and headed to the door.

Cyd smirked and followed him out.

They walked down her walkway to the BMW convertible parked at the front curb. Cedric opened the door, and Cyd lowered herself inside, moved the seat back. Tamia was a tad shorter than she.

It took less than ten minutes to ride to the restaurant. The host greeted Cedric by name.

Cedric shook his hand. “Good evening, George. Is Francesca working tonight?”

“Reserved your table in her section, Mr. London.”

They were taken to a semicircular booth in a secluded alcove.

Cyd slid in toward the middle, and Cedric sat close beside her. George handed them the dinner and wine menus and filled their glasses with ice water. He tipped his head. “Enjoy your dinner.”

Cyd noted the chic décor, the soft recessed lighting, and the smooth jazz playing in the background. “This is nice.”

“Wait till you taste the food.”

A server greeted them with a basket of assorted bread. “Mr.

London, it's good to see you this evening.” She placed it on the table.

“I brought a fresh batch from the oven.”

“Thank you, Francesca. It's good to see you as well.” He gestured to Cyd. “This is my guest this evening, Cyd Sanders.”

“How do you do, ma'am?”

Cyd smiled. “Fine, thank you.”

Wonder how many women he's brought here this week alone
.

“Will you be starting with an appetizer this evening, Mr. London?”

Cedric fingered his menu. “Absolutely. I have a taste for calamari tonight.” He looked at Cyd. “You'll share it with me, won't you?”

“I love calamari,” Cyd said.

Francesca made a note. “Your usual bottle of wine?”

“Yes, please.”

“Very good. I'll return shortly to take your order.”

Cedric passed the basket to Cyd.

She chose a wheat roll and set it on her bread plate. “So how long have you lived in the Central West End?”

He chose the bruschetta. “Almost two years. I had a condo farther west, but I like this location a lot better. It's much closer to the office.”

“What do you do?” She pinched a piece of bread and popped it into her mouth as her mind flashed to this afternoon. She'd shared an intimate dance with this man and barely knew anything about him.

He drizzled olive oil on his plate and dragged the bread in it. “In layman's terms, I'm a head hunter.” He took a bite.

“And in your terms?”

He donned a look of importance. “I'm a vice president with an executive search firm.” He chuckled. “I like to call myself a matchmaker. When one of our corporate clients needs a new chief executive, for example, I try to find the perfect qualified candidate to fill the position. I'm very much in the people business.”

No doubt about that
.

“Do you work with universities? I get calls sometimes from head hunters—or whatever I should call them—asking if I'm interested in certain faculty positions.”

“There are people in our office who handle education, yes. Not as lucrative, though.” He shrugged. “Universities don't pay their presidents what Fortune 500 companies pay theirs. And since we get paid a percentage . . .” He saturated his bread again and took another bite.

Francesca returned with a bottle of wine and popped it open. She poured a small amount into Cedric's wine glass and allowed him to taste it. When he nodded, she poured more, then held it over Cyd's glass.

She raised her hand slightly. “No, thank you.”

The woman questioned with her eyes. “No?”

Cyd smiled and shook her head.

A different server came from behind and set the calamari and two plates before them.

When they both had left, Cedric reached for her hand and bowed his head. “Thank You, Lord, for this food. And thank You for the company of this beautiful woman. Amen.”

Cyd said, “Amen,” brow raised. She decided to seize the opportunity. “I'm impressed. Didn't know you were a praying man.”

He thought a second. “I wouldn't exactly say I'm a praying man.

My mother prayed over the food when I was young, so I guess it became a habit.” He speared a piece of calamari and dipped it into the sauce. “You've got to try this.”

Cyd had no idea he would feed it to her. He passed the fork slowly to her lips, teasing up a slow gaze . . . and a pull she had to fight to resist. She looked away as she tasted it. “That's really good.” She transferred some to her plate. “So how long have you been going to Living Word?”

“About ten months.”

“What made you start coming?” She dipped a piece of calamari and ate it.

“I'd been courting this client, and he told me about Living Word. Said I should check it out.” He stabbed several calamari. “Then I realized it was the same church Lindell went to,
and
it had a late service so it wouldn't be too painful. I figured I could score some points with the guy if I started coming.” He ate them all at once.

Cyd took a sip of water. “So now that you've been there almost a year, what do you think?”