Free Where Do I Go? by Neta Jackson Page A

got out of the shower, shaved, and appeared dressed in khakis and a sport shirt, I had batter sizzling in the waffle iron, frozen strawberries thawing in the microwave, and a fresh pot of coffee dripping.
    He grinned and pecked me on the back of the neck. “Smells great. Say, what do you want to do today? I know I’ve been busy all week. What say we take in the Art Museum? Or the Museum of Natural History? Something indoors anyway. Day’s going to get nasty.”
    That kiss on the back of my neck melted all my defenses. I perked up, practically purring. “Do you mind doing Natural History?” After all, I was a North Dakota girl, more at home with animals and geologic formations than great masterpieces. But this was perfect. Spend a quality day with Philip—and then tell him I wanted to attend the Sunday Evening Praise service at the Manna House Shelter for Homeless Women.
    Getting out of the backseat of a taxi in heels and trying to get an umbrella up at the same time took more coordination than I was born with, but somehow I managed to get up the steps and into the door of Manna House just before a huge flash of lightning and a twin crack of thunder threatened to kill me on the spot.
    Maybe Philip had been right, telling me I was stupid to go out in this storm. After that comment, my courage had faltered and I’d been rather vague about exactly where I was going. “To this church nearby that has an evening service.” Well, the building did look churchy, didn’t it?
    â€œMrs. Fairbanks!” Mabel Turner turned away from the group she’d been talking with in the foyer and extended a welcoming hand. “How delightful to see you. I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”
    â€œGabby, please.” I returned her warm handshake. “Yes. I called Manna House wanting some suggestions of where to attend Easter services, and the receptionist—Angela?—kindly told me about the, uh, service here tonight.”
    â€œYes, yes, of course. We have a Sunday Evening Praise service here every week, hosted by different churches. Our residents really enjoy it, and of course guests are more than welcome. Avis! . . . Avis and Peter, I’d like you to meet someone. And bring C.J. with you.”
    Mabel motioned to the attractive African-American couple she’d been talking to earlier, and they approached smiling, along with a sullen-faced black kid, maybe thirteen or fourteen. To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure if the youth was a boy or girl. Hair braided tight to the head all over in a unisex style, jeans, sport warm-up jacket, and a heartbreaker face.
    â€œGabby, I’d like you to meet Avis and Peter Douglass and”— Mabel pulled the youth into a hug—“this is C.J., my nephew. Say hello, C.J.”
    C.J. mumbled “hello” and shook my hand limply. Okay, nephew . That answered that.
    â€œAnd this is Gabrielle Fairbanks, a newcomer to Chicago who stumbled on us by accident . . .” Mabel suddenly looked at me and then burst out laughing. “Oh! That was unintentional. But funny, oh yes, very funny.”
    By this time, Avis and Peter were looking a bit bemused. So I had to explain about tripping over Lucy in the park and coming to the shelter later to see her. We all laughed, and Mabel finally finished her introductions. “Avis comes with the worship team from SouledOut Community Church once a month to lead our Sunday Evening Praise, and Peter is one of our board members. Oh—I think we’d better let Avis go. The praise team looks like they’re about ready to begin. C.J., go sit down.”
    We pushed through the double doors into the multipurpose room, following in Avis’s wake, who excused herself with a whispered, “Nice to meet you, Gabrielle.” The couches and overstuffed chairs had been pushed aside and folding chairs set up, though many of the residents were still milling around, getting coffee