Free Rhythms of Grace by Marilynn Griffith Page A

come. I’d had no tears at my husband’s funeral either. Some people thought that callous of me, though they’d never say it to my face. Even my mother, who’d never liked Peter when he was alive, seemed disturbed. “You should show some emotion,” she said. “Even if things weren’t the best between you, cry or something.”
    Something was what I chose and not because things were bad between us either. Things just . . . were. Peter was a good man, strong and steady in his own way. We had some things in common: a love of good books, long trips, and fine wine. Faith was not something we shared. I’d even debated over having his funeral in a church, but it felt right. And now with a dirty envelope in my lap and dandelions in my hair, I wondered if anything would ever feel right again.
    I heard a car pull up behind me. I forced myself to stand, just before a kiss landed on my neck. Strong arms circled my waist.
    “I waited for you. You didn’t come,” he said.
    An uninvited tear slid down my face. I clutched the envelope to my stomach, not knowing quite what to say. Explaining to Malachi Gooden, my boyfriend-fiancé or whatever he was, never quite worked out the way I planned. Like my mother, he was a fast talker.
    “I forgot.”
    It wasn’t true exactly. Before the mail came, I’d flat ironed my hair and put on my good girl skirt. My shoes were sensible but sexy and my eyelashes curled. I’d forgiven all the times Mal had canceled on me and grabbed my wedding notebook, grateful that he’d taken the time to finally set a date.
    Then, the mailman came and here I was, bushy haired and barefoot, wondering what would happen next.
    He came in closer, his smooth cheek against mine. “Grace? Are you all right? And what are you doing out here anyway? Pulling weeds? I told you I’m paying someone for that. He just hasn’t made it over—”
    “I’m okay.” I shook a leaf out of my hair, no longer shiny and straight, but curled tight and held back with a scarf from a vintage store in Beverly Hills. I’d packed it away with some of Peter’s things, but this afternoon had sent me digging through my house. And myself.
    Malachi stood up too, for once speechless at the sight of me. “Are you going to a costume party or something? Some neo soul club?” He stared at my feet, decked with toe rings instead of their usual safe French manicure.
    “I’m not going anywhere today.” I turned from him, anxious to get the envelope inside the house, under something. I needed somewhere to hide myself too before Diana showed up, wings and all. Mal would hate her. Peter had too. Grace was easier to deal with. Peter had been the one to suggest that I go by my middle name. In my heart, I would always be Diana, even if it had taken until now to admit it.
    He stepped over my piles and tools and followed me inside. It was time for this. If he was going to marry me, he had to know it all. I really wanted to run to my bedroom and bellyflop onto my bed, but that would be too easily misconstrued. Malachi spent his nights as a youth pastor and his days teaching junior high. Sometimes I thought their hormones rubbed off on him. I certainly wasn’t up for playing octopus tonight. There were other things to be done. To be said. I put the package in a basket by the door and headed into the kitchen. While I forced a mango through the juicer, Mal riffled through my mail.
    “Please don’t do that.” I spoke quietly, but firmly, the way I did with my students.
    He went on, picking up another piece of mail, a postcard this time, in response. I closed my eyes. It was an invitation to lead a group of children in a dance piece at the Black Cultural Festival on the riverfront. “I thought you were done with this?”
    It was my turn not to respond. I poured myself some green tea from the refrigerator and stirred in the fresh mango juice. It was Mal’s favorite and I should have offered him a glass, but it’s hard to be hospitable when someone is