The Color of Hope

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Saturday, August 7





Travis was beginning to think he and Trina had lingered too long. It had seemed like an innocuous enough outing. He’d run into her at church as he was putting the final touches on his message for tomorrow. She’d come to make copies of a flyer for the choir picnic. A gourmet cook, she liked to tease him by asking his plans for dinner. As usual, he had none, and she admitted the same, so it seemed like no big deal when she said they should grab a bite.

But from there it snowballed. Instead of someplace local—his thought—they drove forty minutes to a new hot spot in Raleigh—Mama Jay’s—new, at least, to the nation. Featured on a cable show as the place to go in the area for soul food, it was known for its long waits. Travis had never been, though he’d heard Libby rave about it, which was why he offered up other options when Trina suggested it. The last thing he wanted was to run into Libby while dining with Trina.

But Trina had never been either, and after a lot of back-and-forth, she kept coming back to Mama Jay’s. He decided he was being paranoid. Libby was probably working an event tonight anyway. So they came—and loved it.

Travis balled his paper napkin and tossed it onto the wooden table beside his empty bowl of peach cobbler. “Now that I’ve eaten enough to waddle out of here, I guess we’d better head back.”

“Don’t say that.” Trina finished her Diet Coke. “I had the nerve to get mac-and-cheese and candied yams, and I don’t waddle well.”

She smiled, and a single dimple showed. Travis had found himself noticing more of her features lately, and her style. At church she usually wore a casual skirt or slacks and a top. Today she wore blue jeans and a funky tie-dye shirt. She wasn’t showy. Didn’t overdo. He liked that.

She scooted back a tad in her chair, then paused. “I enjoyed this,” she said. “I feel like I’m getting to know more of Travis the man instead of just Travis the pastor.”

He smiled slightly. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Some people don’t want to see their pastors as real people.”

“I can imagine it would be hard to let down, so to speak.”

“It is.” Travis relaxed again. “I think I put up boundaries without realizing it. The only people I’m probably totally me with—live and unedited—are the friends I’ve known most of my life.”

“Like Pastor Todd and Janelle?”

“Exactly.” Libby entered his mind as well.

“So . . . just trying to see where I fit in your boundaries . . .” Trina smiled, her hair falling partially over her face. “How often do you go to dinner like this with members of New Jerusalem?”

“If you’re talking females . . . never.” He knew the statement needed follow-up. “I’ll be straight with you. This is different for me, having a new female friend in this stage of life. I’ve never negotiated this terrain as a pastor. Actually,” he added, “I made it a personal policy not to date anyone in my congregation”—he threw up his hands—“not that this is a date; I don’t know how this happened. But seriously, I’m not sure how a new female friend in the congregation would work. Although I am sure it could get complicated.”

“It’s weird for me too, if that helps,” Trina said. “I find myself watching what I say and how I say it because you’re a pastor. Like, can I say dang?” She chuckled. “Oh, and I had to kick myself for Saturday night.”

“Why?”

“I mentioned that my brother invited you to the jazz club,” she said. “As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I thought, Oh no, what if he didn’t want people to know he went to a jazz club? My only relief was that I said it was an invitation, and maybe they’d think you didn’t go.”

“You were safe with that crew,” he said. “It wouldn’t strike them as inappropriate that I went to a jazz club.” That was the least of it.

“Oh, good.”

“But to your other point,” Travis said, “please don’t feel you have to watch what you say or how you say it. I’d rather you be yourself.” He gave a wry smile. “And I’ll try to be myself.”

Trina’s eyes were warm. “I like that.”

Travis let his gaze fall to the water glass. He took a final sip, then stood, shelling out a few dollars for a tip. “Ready? I think we pay up front.”

The restaurant was crowded still. They moved past the tables to the front and saw a long line of people waiting to enter. There was a line to pay as well, so they got behind the last person.

“This is amazing,” Trina said, looking around. “I wonder what it was like before they got national exposure.”

“From what I heard, it’s been a popular spot for a while. Probably not this popular, though.”

As they moved up in line, Travis glanced around. Lots of different people, old and young. His eyes passed over the carryout line—and he turned swiftly back around, glad it was their turn. Travis paid—they’d debated that earlier—and made his way to the door. But the way to the door was past the carryout line.

It would be silly to pretend he didn’t see her. As he came closer, he saw her eyes dead on him. But she didn’t appear to be alone. A guy behind her was saying something to her, though they could’ve simply struck up friendly conversation. They were both nicely dressed.

Trina tapped him. “Isn’t that Janelle’s cousin? The one whose basketball team you were playing for?”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s Libby.”

Trina was closest as they approached. “Hey, Libby, good to see you again,” she said.

“Good to see you too, Trina.” Libby’s eyes dusted him. “Travis.” She gestured to the guy beside her. “This is Barry. Barry, Trina and Travis.”

Barry gave enthusiastic handshakes. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

“Likewise,” Travis said.

He glanced at Libby. Didn’t she and Omar just break up on Sunday? No one told him, but it had seemed obvious by how abruptly he left. Didn’t take long for Libby to find a replacement. Or maybe she’d been seeing this Barry all along.

“You come here often?” Trina asked.

“I do,” Libby said. “I don’t live very far, and I love the food.”

“It was our first time.” Trina smiled at Travis. “And it was delicious. I wish I lived closer.”

Libby replied with a thin smile. Moving up in line, she said, “Have a safe trip back.”

“Thanks,” Trina said.

Travis nodded good-bye to them both and walked silently to Trina’s car. As Trina pulled out of the parking space, his phone buzzed with a text. He took it from his belt clip and looked at it.

Really, Travis? I know I told u I get carryout from Js most Sat nights. U had to come HERE w/ur girlfriend?

He sighed, his head knocking against the headrest.

Trina pulled onto the main road, glancing at him as he typed out a reply.

You nvr told me that. But I apologize. Didn’t mean for that to happen.

He pointed a finger at Send but decided to add a footnote.

Was that your new boyfriend?

He sent it and immediately wished he could snatch it back. Didn’t take long for Libby’s reply to appear.

My COLLEAGUE & I worked a wedding 2day & his WIFE was waiting in the car. Njoy the rest of ur date.

Travis stared at the phone, then typed one more message.

I apologize again. Wasn’t my place to ask.

He waited a moment to see if she would reply, but there was nothing.

Trina glanced at him. “Everything okay?”

Travis put the phone away. “Depends on which Travis you’re asking . . . Travis the man or Travis the pastor.”





Libby entered her apartment and kicked the door closed behind her. She walked into the kitchen, dropped her purse and carryout satchel on the counter, then walked back to her bedroom. Collapsing on her bed, she let out a tired sigh. Weddings were long days, and this one was especially long. A swanky affair two hours away at the waterfront in New Bern, there were ten attendants on each side, close to five hundred guests, and a popular local band. Thankfully, most everything came off without a hitch, but it was still long—and it didn’t help that she’d spent much of the time battling thoughts of whether she ever wanted to be a bride herself.

She kicked off her heels and rubbed her feet, picturing the beautiful bride today. She was twenty-five, almost ten years younger than Libby, and deliriously happy. For now. Libby had seen too many fairy-tale weddings that ended in ugly separations. She knew too many people her age who were single because “the one” to whom they’d pledged undying love somehow became the wrong one. No doubt she’d become a cynic. Better to keep men at a safe distance, deal with them on her own terms . . . but her own terms weren’t exactly yielding the best results.

This was the first weekend in a long time that she had no one to call and talk to. No one to catch a movie with. No one to enjoy Saturday night carryout with.

And she certainly wouldn’t enjoy it right now. She hopped off the bed and began peeling off her pantsuit, irritated afresh. She still couldn’t believe Travis came to her restaurant with someone else. She’d been talking up Mama Jay’s to him for months, telling him he needed to check it out. For him to go without her—on a date, no less—felt like a kick in the gut.

And he had the nerve to ask if Barry was her boyfriend?

She threw on a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt and headed back to the kitchen. Why did he ask that? She lifted her baked chicken from the bag, then the fried corn and black-eyed peas. Was he just curious . . . or did he care? She got a plate and spooned out a serving of each. They always gave her extra, and often it was even better the second day. She put it in the microwave to warm and leaned against the counter as she waited.

So what if he was curious, and so what if he cared? She had to get Travis out of her mind. That’s why she didn’t go to Hope Springs after the wedding, as Janelle and Stephanie had asked. She hadn’t wanted to run into Travis. Ha! What a joke that she’d run into him in Raleigh.

The microwave stopped as her cell phone began ringing. She thought of letting it go to voice mail. But what if Travis had just gotten home? What if he wanted to talk about what happened? Didn’t mean she had to listen, but . . .

She found her phone in her purse and frowned at a number she didn’t recognize. If this is one of those telemarketers . . .

“Hello?”

“Hello? Libby?”

“Yes, this is Libby. Who’s this?”

“This is your aunt Gwynn.”

It took a moment for Libby to grasp it. Her aunt rarely called her own siblings, let alone anyone else in the family. Libby couldn’t recall ever speaking with her by phone.

“Aunt Gwynn? Hi. I’m . . . surprised to hear from you.”

“I thought you might be.” Her tone wasn’t exactly casual, but friendly. “You included your number in that package you sent.”

“Oh, right. So you got it?”

Libby had done a mass mailing of the DVD she’d had made for the reunion. She sent it to everyone who’d requested and paid for one. But as she packaged them up, Aunt Gwynn came to mind, and she mailed one to her in New Jersey.

“I received it, yes. And I don’t know what made me watch, but I did.” She paused. “I’ve never been to a Sanders reunion.”

Her aunt’s every word seemed weighty. Libby took a seat at her small kitchen table. “And I don’t know what made me send it,” she said. “I didn’t know if you’d appreciate having a piece of family history . . . or not.”

She braced herself for the latter. What if Aunt Gwynn was calling to let her know how much she didn’t appreciate it? It was clear from Grandma Geri’s eighty-seventh birthday party that her aunt had no problem letting her true feelings be known.

“It took me places I didn’t expect to go,” Aunt Gwynn said. “Seeing my brothers and sisters through the years, and their kids, and their kids, and all the great-aunts and uncles and their families . . . I’ve been on the outside of such a long-standing family tradition.”

Libby waited. There seemed to be a lot on her aunt’s heart, and she wanted to hear it all.

“I was able to go years and years without facing the past, even my own family,” Aunt Gwynn continued. “And in a few short months, Jim died, then Momma, and now, it seems like the past keeps coming at me.” She grew quiet for a moment. “I want to thank you for sending it. I was sad that I didn’t know my nieces and nephews, including you. And when I read what you said in that note . . .”

“That I saw a lot of myself in you?”

“Yes. What did you mean by that?”

It was easy for Libby to write it when she was almost positive she wouldn’t get a response. “I, um . . . I can be straight with you?”

“Anything else would be a waste of time.”

Libby smiled a little. Forthrightness had to be a family trait. “Okay, here goes. I was surprised that after so much time had passed, your life was still very much affected by that one relationship, which of course produced Keisha. You never got married, and you said you’ve never loved anyone else. It seemed sad, if you want to know the truth, like you decided you weren’t going to take the risk to really live again.”

“Guess you couldn’t be much straighter than that.” Aunt Gwynn’s tone was easy. “Now what part of all that reminds you of your own life?”

“Well. Mine doesn’t involve an interracial romance. Or pregnancy. Or parents who said we couldn’t be together.” She paused, hearing herself. “Okay, now mine sounds trivial compared to yours.”

“If it’s on your heart like this, it’s not trivial,” Aunt Gwynn said. “I’m listening.”

“It’s just that . . . I dated this guy in college, and we both said we weren’t looking for anything long-term and serious. But we were together all the time, got along well. He was a daily part of my life. And then . . .” Her breath caught. “Then I dropped by one day and a friend of mine opened the door, his door, like she belonged there. It knocked the wind out of me. After months and months together, he could so easily get with someone else? I wasn’t special at all? And the worst part was that . . .”

A tear slid down her face. She’d never admitted this to anyone, not even Janelle. “I’d fallen in love with him.” She flicked the tear away, wanting to move along. “Since then, I’ve been determined not to give my heart to anyone else. You could say I’ve committed myself to being uncommitted. So, kind of like you, that one relationship has affected everything else, because I don’t want to risk getting hurt. And I’m wondering if I’ll look up in twenty years and be where you are, bitter and alone.”

“You think I’m bitter?”

“Sorry. It does seem that way.”

“So the young man from college,” Aunt Gwynn said. “You parted ways like Jim and I did, never to see each other again?”

“Not exactly,” Libby said. “We went years without contact, then I saw him last December”—she paused, realizing the irony—“at Jim’s funeral.”

“At Jim’s funeral?”

“Guess I left out part of it. The guy’s name is Travis, and he grew up in Hope Springs. I’ve known him most of my life. He moved back to Hope Springs last fall to pastor New Jerusalem.”

“Interesting,” Aunt Gwynn said. “I understand Jim’s son, Todd, is pastor at Calvary now. Sounds like a sea change happening in Hope Springs, with two young pastors. Okay, and what’s the current story with you and Travis? Did you ignore one another? Patch things up?”

“It took awhile,” Libby said, “but with Grandma Geri getting sick and passing away—she loved Travis, by the way—he and I became friends again and . . .” She sighed. “I won’t bore you with all that.”

“Or is it that it’s too painful?”

Libby stared at the table. “You’re right. See, you’re getting to know your niece better.” She smiled faintly. “At the reunion we broke off the friendship because once again I realized I had feelings for him, and he admitted the same for me. But it can’t go anywhere because, like I said, he’s a pastor now. And I’m not with the whole faith/God/church thing . . .”

“So we do have some things in common.”

“That’s where you are too?” Libby had thought they might be like-minded in this.

“I couldn’t understand how my parents and Jim’s parents—people of God, and a pastor in the case of Jim’s dad—could be so dead set against us because of the color of our skin. I knew that wasn’t in the Bible, and I said if this is what it looks like to be a person of faith, I want no part of it. And that’s where I remained until . . . well, really until this summer.”

Libby sat up. “What happened this summer?”

“Keisha’s been praying for me a long time. She said I was bitter too. And she was upset about the things I said at Momma’s birthday gathering. Talk about giving it straight . . .” She paused. “I wasn’t ready to receive it at the time. Didn’t go to my own momma’s funeral, as you know—and Keisha told me what she thought about that too.” She sighed. “Anyway, she got me to visit her church. I haven’t been going regularly, but I have to admit it’s making an impact.”

Libby felt strangely let down. She wanted her aunt to understand where she stood with not going to church, and even affirm it.

“Libby?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“What would you think about taking a trip up here?”