God Only Knows (22 page)

Julia rested her head against his shoulder again, but she said, “Cassie and I are fine. I don’t need you to worry about me,
Maxwell. I just need a listening ear.”

“No offense,” Maxwell replied, pulling Julia’s face back up toward his, “but I’m not really worried about Cassie, and I intend
to be more than a listening ear. Cassie has a husband to watch over her. Let me watch over you.”

She surprised him with a sudden laugh, though her grip on him did not loosen. “I just need a friend, Maxwell, please.”

Maxwell drew Julia closer, pecked a kiss onto her lips. “Sorry, no dice.” From the moment Pete Whitlock had hinted that some
of his classmates were involved in his quest to avenge Eddie, Maxwell had felt a strange stirring within. With Julia in his
arms now, he was fully in touch with his motivations.

In one way or another, Maxwell knew he had validated and played within the bounds of a Christian Light culture that left beautiful
black girls, like Julia, Toya, Terry, and, in her own way, Cassie, feeling undervalued, invisible, and “less than.” Was it
any wonder they had been too full of fear and cynicism to report their self-defensive acts the very night they took place?

No, Maxwell was convinced that God had brought him together with Julia for more than a few pleasant dates. This was his chance
to make up so much to her —for having made her feel unattractive, for having a “go along to get along” mentality about a culture
to which he’d never let Nia be subjected.

“Let me take some of the weight, Julia,” he whispered as he planted one kiss after another on her soft lips. “Let me protect
you.”

Just under an hour later, Maxwell and Julia separated their flush, naked bodies. Sweat still dripping from his brow, he pulled
her back to his side as she covered them both in his bedsheets. Her voice low, she had her eyes down as she quipped, “So you
think you’ll find the old saying to be true —‘once you’ve had black, you never —’ ”

“Don’t do it,” Maxwell interrupted, placing a finger to her lips. “I think way too much of you to let you even finish that
question.” He pulled her close, kissing her deeply. “If it helps, though, I’m sold on you, Julia Turner.”

She sniffed the air as if something had suddenly occurred to her. “Uh, when’s the last time you washed these linens, Doctor?”

“Well, what you’re looking at is proof that I’ve been celibate since moving in here,” Maxwell replied. “No one to impress.”

“Really?” Julia said, snapping her neck playfully. “Is that why you so conveniently had a box of Trojans in your nightstand?”

“In case of emergency,” he said. “Why do you think I needed help getting the darn thing on?”

They shared a laugh for a minute before Julia punched him in the shoulder. “What have we just done?” She shook her head, then
raised her hands heavenward. “Father, please forgive me. I got carried away.”

“Hold on,” Maxwell said, grabbing her hand. “Let me in on this, okay? We both tripped up. Let’s be on one accord about how
to avoid doing it again.”
It’s not like it’ll be easy,
he thought.

Once they had completed their prayer of confession, Julia wrapped a sheet around herself and skittered across the floor, shutting
the bathroom door behind her. Wiping his brow again, Maxwell teetered between exultation and shame until the ring of his phone
jarred him back into reality.
Oh, no —Nia.
He was over an hour late, and now he had to shower and change before he could get going.

Grabbing his phone and cautiously watching the bathroom door, he grimaced at the sight of Tiffany’s phone number on caller
ID. “Hey” was the best he could muster for a greeting.

“It’s going on two o’clock, Maxwell,” Tiffany said, her tone razor-sharp. “What happened to getting here at noon?”

“I’m on my way,” he replied, nearly falling out of bed as he searched in vain for his briefs. “Something came up. I’ll make
it up to her, don’t worry.”

“My brothers told me to call my attorney once you were an hour late,” she replied. “You’ve never been late before, so I told
them to shut up. You pull this again, though, and I will make life hell for you. Do you understand?”

“Tif,” he said, shrugging into his newly discovered briefs and still eyeing the bathroom door warily, “I’m on my way, so calm
down.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she said. “You don’t have the right.”

Grabbing a shirt with one hand, Maxwell sighed. Would she ever forgive him for not marrying her? “Tif, can we please treat
each other like the grown-ups we are?”

“You’re not a grown-up,” Tiffany replied, her tone still scalding. “You’re a racist playboy with no interest in settling down.
You may be Nia’s father, Maxwell Simon, but you are not a grown-up.”

Y
ou see, it’s all about equalizing,” Dante said to M.J. as they cooled their heels in the Mercedes. Dante pointed across the
street, a finger crooked in the direction of the old woman’s porch. “I’ve followed that pig Whitlock to this address night
after night this week, and the only other people going in and out are an old couple and a little boy who look twelve if he’s
a day.”

M.J. smiled despite himself, despite his instinct that he and his cousin should not be here. “So Whitlock’s living with his
parents, and what? His son or something?”

“That’s what my peeps say.” Dante retrieved another cigarette from his cup holder. Placing it between his lips and grabbing
his lighter, he glanced toward M.J. “What’s up with you anyway? I’m doing this for your family, dog.”

“I know,” M.J. replied, shifting in his seat and taking another anxious stare toward the home’s porch. “I appreciate all this,
Dante, I just don’t think this is the right place to step to Whitlock. Why do we need to put the man’s family in the middle
of this?”

Dante cut his cousin with a glance that said it all. “You don’t slow down a man with a gun by pulling a butter knife on him,
homes. Look, just follow the plan. When the man pulls into the driveway, we walk up to him as he’s getting out of the car.
You just stand there lookin’ all imposing and whatnot. I’ll be the one to make it clear —without even pulling my piece —that
he best leave your family alone, or our family will have to go to war with his. I guarantee you, he won’t want none of that.”

Nodding, M.J. punched Dante’s shoulder. “All right, I’m good as long as you restrain yourself. We handle the man with talk
—all talk. I got scholarships to protect, Dante.”

M.J. cut himself short as the street lit up momentarily with the flash of car headlights, followed closely by the zoom of
a silver Buick sedan as it cruised past, slowed suddenly, and turned into the home’s short driveway.

“Time to make the donuts,” Dante said, flashing a smile at M.J. as he popped his driver’s-side door open. “You can thank me
later.”

A
s much as she believed God had put her on this earth to sell houses, Cassie rarely went a month without encountering a client
who made her certainty waver. Isabel Rollins was just such a person.

“Price, price, price, that’s all I get from you,” Isabel said, her hands chopping the air defiantly as she stared across Cassie’s
conference room table. “If the only way you can sell my home is to cut the price to a bone, Cassie, I’ll do that math myself
and save the commission, thank you very much.”

“Mrs. Rollins,” Cassie replied, her hands clasped as a calming mechanism, “I have just walked you back through all of the
marketing activities we’ve enacted to get your house in front of as many buyers as possible. And we have come close twice.
Now that your home has been on the market for nearly six months, though, we have to get aggressive to ensure it gets consideration
—”

“I am not lowering the price any more,” Isabel said, her tone icy. “It won’t help. Let’s just agree to dissolve the contract
and walk away, please. I’ve had it with this agency.”

Nothing would make me happier.
Cassie’s training told her to never let a dissatisfied client break the contract early —all that did was open you to lost
revenue, since in real estate you never knew from one day to the next which house would actually sell. Let a client leave
you early, and it’d be your luck that the next week someone who first saw the house on your listing chose to make an offer.

“Let’s do this,” Cassie said, “tell me three big ideas you think our agency should try. We’ll take a shot at all of them;
maybe that will make the difference during this last month of the relationship.”

Isabel shook her head, her face contorting as if she’d whiffed a frightening smell. “Why would
I
give
you
ideas? I’m paying you, remember?”

Cassie gave a fake smile, then sighed under her breath when her intercom buzzed. “Excuse me,” she said, respectfully raising
an index finger before picking up her phone’s receiver. “Yes, Lisa?”

“Boss, so sorry to interrupt,” Cassie’s secretary said, her voice a whisper. “I know you’re having a tense sit-down right
now, but Marcus is out here with another gentleman.”

Cassie involuntarily stood, her eyes shifting away quickly from Isabel. “Is this an emergency?”

The cadence of Lisa’s words grew halting, uncertain. “Marcus would like to see you immediately, yes.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Rollins,” Cassie said, hanging up her phone but still standing. “I need to excuse myself regarding a family
issue. I —I’ll have one of my associates be right with you.”

Shutting the office door behind her, Cassie glanced first at Lisa, who pointed toward the couch where Marcus and Donald were
seated. Moving briskly, she nodded toward her husband and her cousin. “I have another conference room free down here, come
on,” she said.

When she had shut the door behind them, she nearly backed both men against the wall. “What’s going on? Are the kids okay?”

Cassie’s heartbeat faltered when Donald stepped to the side and turned away. His eyes grave, Marcus placed a hand to Donald’s
back as he spoke. “Baby,” he said, “Donald and I agreed to just come see you in person. This —this isn’t something to discuss
over the phone.”

“Oh, my God, Marcus,” Cassie said, grabbing her husband’s forearms. “What happened? Where’s M.J.?”

“The good news, I pray,” Marcus replied, pulling Cassie close, “is that we’re not sure. All we know for sure is that he drove
Dante to the hospital, or at least a young man matching his description —including his C.J. football jacket —did. I’m confident
I’ll find him eventually. Been calling all his friends for the past hour.”

“Dante’s in the hospital?” She was ashamed, but Cassie was flooded with momentary relief. It wasn’t as if this was a great
surprise. Dante had plenty of people gunning for him; her abiding fear had always been that M.J. would be in his company when
one of them finally caught their prey.

Cassie held her arms out for her cousin. “Donald, I’m so sorry. What’s Dante’s condition?”

Donald rebuffed Cassie by crossing his arms, though he let his shoulders slump. “He’s in critical condition. Doctor’s making
no promises about his ability to come through this.”

Cassie exchanged wary glances with Marcus. “I —I don’t know what to say, except to suggest we all say a prayer right now and
get to the hospital.”

Marcus grimaced. “Cassie, we’ll definitely need to be in prayer, but there are a few details to sort out first.”

“What do you mean?”

Donald turned toward Cassie, and for the first time, she could sense the anger gurgling up to her cousin’s surface. “I know
what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re thinking your son is some Good Samaritan, like Dante went to him after getting set
up by another dealer or a pissed-off buyer.”

Cassie blinked in confusion. “I wasn’t sure what to think yet, Donald.”

“Well, maybe you’ll get more ideas when I tell you who else is in the hospital,” Marcus said, his eyes hooded and drained.
“Peter Whitlock. And he may be in worse shape than Dante.”

W
ell, look who’s on time today!”

The ringing declaration met Maxwell’s ears as he climbed from his car and stepped onto Tiffany’s driveway. He took a weary
look toward her open front door and nodded defensively toward Jerry, one of Tiffany’s five brothers. He had a feeling every
last one of them was on the other side of that door; while the boys looked up to their older sister, they clearly saw themselves
as protectors of her honor. His sin last week —showing up two hours late to pick up Nia —had certainly reignited their caustic,
borderline-racist view of him.

Stepping across the threshold, Maxwell dutifully circled Tiffany’s great room to shake hands with not only Jerry but also
Justin, Dustin, Tommy, and Tony. Penance paid, he stood in their midst as they looked him over like lions appraising a freshly
discovered cut of prime rib.

Maxwell met their glares with a high-wattage smile. “What’s up, boys?”

“You’ll be the one who’s up, strung up, if you stand our little niece up again,” Justin said, spurring a wave of laughter,
which filled the room. “You better be glad you made it over here on time today, Doc. We were gonna have to rough you up.”

Maxwell heard his father’s voice in his ear, though he knew it was really the Holy Spirit moving.
“Walk on.”
There was nothing to be gained by going at it with these yokels. Tiffany had done quite well for herself in pharmaceutical
sales —hence her ability to carry the mortgage in this pricey Mason subdivision —but she was an oddity in her family. The
“boys” had not transcended their parents’ limited socioeconomic status —only two had attended college at all, and none had
finished. As latently racist as they were, the last thing their egos could take was an uppity black man who had both impregnated
and rejected their sister. He’d never win them over.

“Daddy!” The sound of his daughter’s voice made Maxwell dizzy with warmth, and he pivoted just in time to catch Nia as the
two-year-old hurled herself into his arms.