Free Mama B - A Time to Dance (Book 2) by Michelle Stimpson Page A

about church folk dancing and all.
Might feel funny, ‘specially seeing as he’s a pastor. I would have felt funny,
too, if me and Frank hadn’t already had that talk about what the Holy Spirit
has already been a witness to.
    Now, my Daddy,
God rest his soul, didn’t believe in no kind of dancing, drinking, smoking,
listening to blues music. None of that. We couldn’t wear nothing but dresses
and skirts when I was a young girl. Mama couldn’t paint her face, couldn’t put
on no earbobs. I know she was crushed when my Daddy died of pneumonia, but I
reckon a tiny piece of her was glad to get back to the Baptist church and glide
on a teenchy-bit of lip color again.
    Still, she
taught me to be modest. Respectful.
    Peter and Libby
were Baptists, but he might as well have been Pentecostal ‘cause he sure don’t
believe in lookin’ like he might be doing something wrong, even if he
ain’t. There’s a verse over in First Thessalonians five that agrees with him
(depending on what version you read) so I can’t argue with the man.
    Me and Frank
were amongst the last couples on the floor. We’d lasted through seventy-five
minutes of dancing. Gavina started a round of applause for the couples who’d
made it through the entire class as well as those who’d had to conk out. Chile,
the way those folks was rubbing their knees and holding on to their backs, I
could tell there was gon’ be a shortage of Ben Gay at the pharmacy.
    “Great work,
everyone,” Gavina said as she turned off the music and grabbed a towel to wipe
her face. “Hope to see you all again soon. Goodnight.”
    We said good-bye
to more people than whose names I could remember. They were all so full of
compliments. “You’re a natural,” and, “I can’t believe this is your first
time!”
    Somebody
remarked to Frank, “Looks like you’ve found a good partner. Better hold on to
this one, buddy.”
    This one? How many women had Frank brought in
here?
    Until just then,
I hadn’t given much thought to the idea Frank might be steppin’ out, in more
than one way, with plenty other women. But I should have known. He was
handsome, fit, dark, and a doctor, to boot. Got to be plenty women barking up
his tree.
    Not that I had a
problem with it. Well…maybe I did. A little. But besides, I don’t want folk to
mistake me for part of Frank’s dancin’ harem.
    As we walked
over to the bag he’d brought, I fought to keep my mouth shut. No sense in
badgering the man. He grown. I’m grown. No strings here.
    Frank unzipped
the black bag and pulled out a bottle of water, which he held out toward me.
    “Thank you
kindly.”
    “You’re welcome,
Miss Beatrice.”
    I caught the
hint of sarcasm. “Why you say it like that?”
    “Isn’t that what
you wanted me to call you?  I mean, I know everyone else calls you B, but,
you know…I respect your wishes.”
    After a cold,
long swig, I gave in. “Frank, if you want to call me B, you can call me B.
How’s that?”
    He smiled with those
big bright teeth. I still couldn’t tell if they were all the way real. “I’d
like that very much.”
    “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome,
B.”
    On the way out
the studio, we happened on a community announcement board. There, in big bold
letters, was a sign that seemed to be written entirely for me to see it:
SENIORS – ARE YOU BEHIND ON YOUR PROPERTY TAXES?
    I took a step
closer to read the sign as Frank slowed behind me. From what I could tell,
there was some kind of county-wide charity helping people with their property
taxes, now that they were higher than ever with the new construction and
what-all going on around Peasner. The flyer listed a telephone number and a
contact name.
    I knew right
away I needed to snatch a copy and pass it on to Ophelia first thing in the
morning.
    But you know
what? All of a sudden, I felt a little ping in my chest. Instead of thinking
about what Ophelia said—about how we needed to help Henrietta in spite of
her ways—I started thinking