Free A Time to Keep by Rochelle Alers Page A

unbecoming is you trying to tell me how to live my life. Your daddy and I always talked about what we would do if one outlived the other. And we both decided that we wouldn’t spend the rest of our lives mourning. I’ve gone to church every day since Virgil’s funeral mass to light a candle for his soul. One morning last month Father Basil met me as I was leaving, asking whom I was lighting the candle for. When I told him that it was for Virgil, he said something to me that made me rethink my actions.
    â€œI was lighting candles for someone who couldn’t see the light, while my own light had gone out because I was mourning for what was, and would never be again. I’m saying this because Virgil’s gone and he’s not coming back. And in my heart of hearts, I know he doesn’t want me to stop living, so that’s why I accepted Augie’s invitation to go with him to the fund-raiser.” Her expression softened, making the elementary school nurse seem closer to fifty instead of sixty. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to find your own date this year.”
    Shiloh smiled at the tall, slender woman with short curly salt-and-pepper hair. She’d inherited the large expressive green eyes from her Cajun father, and the richness of her chestnut-brown  complexion  from  her African-American mother. “I already have a date.”
    The lashes shadowing Moriah’s eyes fluttered as she sat up straighter. Her heart pounding a runaway rhythm, she prayed Shiloh hadn’t reconciled with his ex-wife.
    â€œWho is she?”
    Crossing his arms over his chest, Shiloh leaned back on the chair, smiling. “You don’t know her.”
    â€œDoes she have a name?”
    â€œMiss Taylor.”
    â€œDoes Miss Taylor have a first name?”
    â€œGwendolyn.”
    It was Moriah’s turn to smile. “Where did you meet her?”
    â€œI picked her up along the road.”
    â€œAlong the road as in hitchhiking?”
    Reaching over and patting his mother’s hand, Shiloh winked at her. “No more questions, Mama. You’ll get to meet her Friday.” Rising from his rocker, he leaned over, and kissed Moriah’s scented cheek. “Good night, beautiful.”
    Moriah smiled, patting his back over the bulge of the firearm concealed under his shirt. “You be careful, son.”
    â€œI will.”
    She stared through the screen as he walked off the porch, got into his car and drove away. She’d always warned Virgil to be careful each time he left the house, and it was no different with her son.
    â€œYou’ll get to meet her Friday.” Shiloh’s words stayed with her long after he’d left. While she’d lit candles for her dead husband, she’d also prayed for her son, prayed that he would meet someone who would make him laugh again.
    She hoped this Gwendolyn Taylor would be the one who would help soften his heart.
    * * *
    It was six-twenty, and Gwen still hadn’t slipped into the burgundy Renaissance-inspired ball gown. She was partial to the gown because it was in keeping with a black lace mask adorned with burgundy silk ties. She’d found the mask in a box stacked in a walk-in closet in one of the guest bedrooms.
    Gwendolyn Pickering’s closets were a treasure trove ofclothes and costumes spanning decades. Her aunt had made her theatrical debut at the age of six in a church musical, and as she matured, went on to starring and supporting roles in dozens of independent black films until her unexpected retirement in the early ’50s. She left California for Louisiana, moving into Bon Temps.
    Sitting on a padded bench in front of a vanity mirror, the bulbs surrounding the mirror set for nighttime illumination, Gwen outlined her mouth with a shade of wine-colored lipstick. She wondered how many times her aunt had sat on the stool making up her face before putting on her evening finery to descend the