Here for You Read online

  Nicholas tried not to take their rudeness personally. This was his godly calling, and he was going in to see Miss Brownlee. He gritted his teeth and was about to knock again when the woman slowly opened the door with a sheepish expression. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  Clearly. He kept that to himself, then relaxed. He smiled again to ease the tension, and she returned his smile, although hesitantly. “Your sister in St. Louis called our church office.”

  “Tabitha,” she mumbled, then squeezed her lips together.

  That somewhat explained her reaction. “Since I’m here, do you mind if I visit with Miss Brownlee?”

  “She was alert a few days ago, but she’s shut down again. I’m not sure if she’ll know you’re here.” Rachel grunted. “I’m not even sure if she knows I’m here.” The look of hurt didn’t go unnoticed.

  “I’m sure she feels your presence,” he said, trying to console her. “You’re Miss Knicely?”

  “Yes, I’m Rachel Knicely,” she confirmed.

  “Nice to meet you. Again, I’m Nicholas Adams.”

  Before his eyes, Rachel’s sluggish demeanor disappeared, replaced with alertness as she leaned on the doorjamb, crossing her arms. “First, may I see your ID?” As he reached into his back pocket for his wallet, she added, “I have a photographic memory.”

  Nicholas contained his amusement at her personality swing from fear to fierceness.

  A Yorkie and a cocker spaniel appeared at her side, barking and wagging their tails, undecided if Nicholas was a friend or foe. He kept a straight face, trying not to show his amusement at their veiled threat as guard dogs.

  Back to Rachel. He wasn’t offended by her request. Despite the tight security to get to her door, a woman could never be too careful, whether a man was carrying a Bible or not. He only had a younger brother, Karl, but if he’d had any sisters, he would have taught them the same precautions.

  He handed over his license. She glanced at it, squinted at him again, then handed it back, reciting his license number, height, weight, and eye color to prove she wasn’t kidding. Did she say his weight? Seriously, hey, he had lost ten pounds since that was taken. He was lean and all muscle. She didn’t need to know that, but he decided to tell her anyway. The woman had some serious skills. “Just so you know, I was ten pounds heavier then,” he said in defense.

  “And you had a bad haircut,” she sassed back and stepped aside for him to enter. He couldn’t tell if she was joking about his hair then or now. He refrained from asking and sized her up as well—about five feet four or five inches to his six feet two, messy dark brown hair—wig or weave—tired brown eyes, curly lashes, and a face that probably could use a morning wash. All in all, she was cute—very.

  He stepped in and noticed the richness of her hardwood floors; they looked as if no one had ever walked across them, much less pets. He admired her living space, which was an open design with the dining room/eating area and kitchen on one side.

  Nicholas followed her along a hallway that turned a corner as the dogs trailed behind them. They stepped down into a spacious living room with a nice decor and floor-to-ceiling windows. The sunlight was streaming through.

  They climbed a few steps to a loft overlooking the living room, offering little privacy, except for a trifold room divider. Massive bedroom furniture held court. The dogs had beaten them and scrambled to a spot at the foot of the bed. “Nice place,” Nicholas said, and he meant it.

  “Thank you,” she said without looking at him. Her attention was on the woman in the bed. “Aunt Tweet,” she called softly. “Nicholas Adams is here to see you. He’s a minister.”

  Her loved one didn’t respond. The slight rise and fall of the cover was proof she was still alive. Whew. Nicholas had never witnessed someone taking their last few breaths. He didn’t want to see it today.

  Chapter 2

  How embarrassing. Rachel couldn’t believe she had slammed the door in a man’s face—and a minister at that. The doorbell had rescued her from the vortex of a nightmare about a Death Angel trying to get inside her house.

  She could thank her best friend, Jacqui, for putting that image in her subconscious. She had mentioned her family called a priest to administer the last rites to her grandfather, then minutes later, Mr. Rice died. Her mother said it was as if the priest had summoned the angel of death.

  Still shaken from the dream, Rachel remained leery about whether the minister was there to give Aunt Tweet her last rites, despite not being a priest. She watched Nicholas from the doorway as he perched on the chaise that she had slept on for many nights. Leaning closer, he rested his hand on Aunt Tweet’s forehead and softly called her name. “Miss Brownlee, I’m here to pray for you.”

  God, please let his prayer make a difference. The moment was tranquil, and she noted his gentle manner. Something she wouldn’t expect from a man who had a handsome face with a fierce expression and the physique of a bodybuilder. His tenderness was endearing.

  Aunt Tweet moved slightly but didn’t open her eyes. Excitement, hope, and anticipation swirled in Rachel at her response. Next, Nicholas opened his worn leather-bound Bible. The pages seemed to part without a bookmark, as if they knew the passage he wanted.

  As he began to read from Psalm 23, the softness of his voice deepened to a rich baritone. The sound was like a sweet melody. Rachel closed her eyes, drifting into serenity as she listened.

  “‘He makes me to lie down in green pastures: he leads me beside the still waters,’” Nicholas continued. “‘He restores my soul…though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…’”

  Death. Wait a minute! Rachel’s eyes opened in horror. Her aunt was very much alive, and she was hoping his prayer would keep it that way. Was the minister summoning death for Aunt Tweet? This was too much talk about death—the doctor, her sister, her friend, and now this minister.

  The thought ignited a sob from somewhere deep within her, and Rachel couldn’t stop the floodgate. She felt weak in the knees.

  “Are you all right?” Nicholas looked at her and asked in a concerned tone.

  She shook her head, unable to answer. He coaxed her to sit on the ottoman. She felt the seat shift as he sat next to her. When she inhaled, the faint scent of his cologne acted as smelling salts and revitalized her. It was a familiar brand that some of her colleagues and male acquaintances wore. The distraction was only temporary.

  “Can I get you some water?”

  “Yes,” she choked out, as if he knew the layout of her kitchen. Let him find his way. She opened her eyes in a daze and glanced at Aunt Tweet. She was still alive, and Rachel exhaled in relief.

  He returned quickly with ice water in a crystal glass. Her best dishes were reserved for entertaining, but she didn’t care as she accepted the glass with trembling hands. Nicholas’s hands steadied hers so she could drink. Rachel gulped down the water as if she’d been parched for days. “Thank you.”

  Nicholas took the seat next to her again. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know.” She turned and stared into his eyes and noticed their unusual shade of brown. They weren’t light or dark but almost sun-kissed, as if sunlight was drawn to them. “I lost it when I heard you say ‘death.’”

  Nicholas nodded his head, but she doubted he understood what a blow Aunt Tweet’s passing would be, losing the last connection to her father’s side of the family. “Death is part of life,” he told her, then stood. “If you’re all right, do you mind if I pray for both of you before I leave?”

  “Sure.”

  Returning to the bedside, he smiled at Rachel, then at Aunt Tweet, who appeared to be resting quietly. Reaching inside his jacket, Nicholas pulled out a tiny bottle no bigger than a sample size of perfume or scented oil. Unscrewing the top, he placed a dab of oil on Aunt Tweet’s forehead, then looked at Rachel inquiringly. “It’s anointed oil.”<
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  She declined to take part in the anointing but joined him at the bedside. Closing her eyes, Rachel bowed her head and waited for the prayer.

  “Lord Jesus, let this household feel Your presence and be at peace. All power is in Your hands, and nothing can be done without Your permission…” His short prayer was as soft as his reading voice, which had lulled even her cocker spaniel, Shelby, and Aunt Tweet’s Yorkie, Sweet Pepper, to sleep, and finished with, “Amen.”

  “Amen,” Rachel repeated, then exhaled.

  Nicholas faced her. “If you’d like another ministerial visit, don’t hesitate to call the church office.”

  You mean if my aunt is still alive, Rachel thought fearfully. Since that dream, she was having a hard time shaking this death thing.

  “If you promise not to slam the door in my face,” he added with mirth dancing in those brown eyes, breaking through her reverie. When he smiled, his dimples peeked out from his beard.

  So he had a sense of humor. She returned his smile. “You spooked me.” Rachel had only seen a woman slam the door in a man’s face in the movies. That had been a first for her. She looked away in embarrassment before she tilted her head in a challenge. “You’re not going to let me forget that, are you?”

  “Consider it forgotten.” He gathered his Bible and waited for her to show him to the door. He offered a slight wave, then walked down the hall to the elevator.

  After closing the door, Rachel leaned against it and sighed. Of course, death was a part of life, but she didn’t want it to happen on her watch. She needed more time with Aunt Tweet—just like her sisters had created recent memories with their great-aunt, Rachel had that right. She might not get her full six months with Aunt Tweet, but if God could give her a couple more weeks…

  She sighed. “I’ll be so thankful.”

  Yawning, she pushed off the door and headed back to Aunt Tweet’s room. Passing by the hall mirror, she backtracked, then screamed at the haunting image staring back at her. Her curls were a matted mess, her face needed attention, and her lounge clothes were wrinkled. She’d taken unkempt to the next level.

  If Aunt Tweet were alert, she would take Rachel to task about her appearance. “A woman should always get a man’s attention, whether she wants to or not. Honey, take it as long as your beauty lasts” was Aunt Tweet’s mantra.

  Before Nicholas had arrived, Rachel had pushed all thoughts of men and the dating world aside to focus on caring for her auntie. How Nicholas Adams had broken through her resistance was a mystery.

  Maybe it was because he was a man a woman could not easily dismiss, including Rachel. She had appreciated the eye candy for about thirty seconds—no, make that twenty-nine—but he was a minister. She doubted Nicholas had given her a second glance.

  Back in the bedroom, Rachel checked on Aunt Tweet, who hadn’t stirred. Neither had the two dogs. She had adopted her cocker spaniel from a shelter less than a week after she’d moved into her condo, and her pet had taken to Aunt Tweet the moment she’d arrived but not to Aunt Tweet’s dog, Sweet Pepper. Then, oddly, a few weeks ago, the two made some sort of dog truce to live in harmony at her side.

  Rachel bent and brushed a kiss against her aunt’s cheek. For an eighty-five-year-old, Aunt Tweet retained her natural beauty. Flawless dark skin complemented her silver-and-white hair. She was a classy lady with a larger-than-life personality and the right of amount of sass to make a stranger crave to be counted among her circle of friends.

  “I hope God answers this prayer. Love you, Aunt Tweet,” Rachel whispered and descended the loft. She would shower, then prepare a light breakfast in case Aunt Tweet opened her eyes and was famished again.

  Three times a week, Rachel employed a home health aide to assist with Aunt Tweet’s care, so Rachel could go to the firm in the afternoons. The other two days, she worked from home to be close by.

  Rachel had come to depend on Clara Rodgers on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, not only to do light housekeeping and patient assist but also to guide Rachel as a caregiver—even if that meant Clara had to endure Rachel venting her frustrations. Besides Clara, there was her best friend, Jacqui, who always had a listening ear, and her sisters were only a phone call or flight away.

  Initially, it wasn’t the Knicely sisters’ plan to have outside help. They thought the three of them could handle Aunt Tweet’s care on their own. Kym had sailed through her six months, but Tabitha’s six months had been an eye-opener. No medical textbook could have prepared her for the practicum. Rachel expected a less mobile aunt but instead got living a nightmare with whispers of death. None of them were prepared for the dementia symptoms that plagued Aunt Tweet.

  When Rachel’s sister Tabitha had cried out for help, her friend and neighbor, Marcus Whittington, had answered. The two of them felt a home health aide would relieve some stress. At first, Rachel and Kym had been incensed about Tabitha leaving Aunt Tweet in the care of a stranger, but the woman turned out to be attentive and trustworthy, so Rachel hadn’t thought twice about getting help when she’d brought Aunt Tweet to Nashville.

  Since Rachel hadn’t set her alarm, the minister’s visit had been a lifesaver. She pinched the bridge of her nose. That sounded too much like a pun, but she needed to prepare updates on a project that was almost complete. She couldn’t ask for a better boss and company, both allowing her work flexibility during her brief tenure as caregiver.

  It was after two when Rachel breezed through the doors of Gersham-Smith, one of the oldest and most successful engineering firms in Nashville. Rachel was respected among her peers and management.

  She could probably credit Aunt Tweet for inspiring her to study math and science in high school and college before the STEM curriculum—science, technology, engineering, and mathematics—became popular. The subjects were so easy, and as a teenager, she had often been one of the few black girls in a class.

  Aunt Tweet was Rachel’s “shero”, instilling her with confidence so she wouldn’t be intimidated by men in the workplace. She preferred to impress with her brains, wit, and beauty—in that order—so she didn’t believe in leaving the house without being polished from head to toe, not even to walk the dogs. She wanted her appearance to be as exquisite as her intellect. She was fashion-forward and could manage complex projects as though they were building blocks or simple puzzles.

  Her boss, Harlan Goode, appeared as she stepped out of the elevator. “Afternoon, Rachel. How’s your aunt?”

  He was an older man with thinning hair on the crown of his head and a thick mustache. His father had started Gresham-Smith, and Harlan had expanded the firm to include offices in fourteen states and two overseas. The firm had drawn big-name clients to its roster with cutting-edge designs, including winning the bid to design a deep pump station project for the Metropolitan St. Louis Sewer District.

  As a St. Louis native, Rachel took personal pride in handcrafting the design for the sump, dry wells, and other components for a structure that would be 180 feet belowground. It had been an honor to give back to her childhood city in the form of jobs and better living conditions.

  The company stressed work-life balance, which Rachel had never fully appreciated until she became Aunt Tweet’s caregiver. The past four months had been a roller-coaster ride, and it didn’t look like the next few months would be any better, considering Aunt Tweet’s deteriorating condition.

  “About the same.” She mustered a smile. Rachel believed in keeping a professional demeanor with her colleagues and tucked away the meltdowns until she was at home, behind closed doors. “My sister had a local minister come to pray with her.”

  “Good. They say prayer changes things,” he said, then continued to his office for the afternoon briefing.

  She believed prayer changed things—if only she could see a change with her aunt. Although Rachel was hopeful, she was realistic. The body required food and water to thrive, and Aunt Tweet nee
ded to be alert in order to receive both.

  Once in her office, Rachel had to force her mind to focus as she switched to job mode. Her team had been assigned to find solutions to ease Music City’s congestion and reduce travel time for the ever-growing population and tourists. Millennials wanted no part of long commutes. They were attracted to communities where residents could work, live, and play, like she had been. One politician suggested adding more highway infrastructure. That would be a quick fix but wouldn’t solve long-term problems.

  Although Rachel was licensed as a civil engineer, her area of specialty was structural. While the client wanted to preserve some historical aspects in the area, Rachel wasn’t convinced their request to build a tunnel for a walkway was sound. She and her team had a brainstorming session to determine whether the addition was possible and within budget.

  After the meeting, Rachel delved into her RISA-3D program to analyze the structures. It was impossible to cram eight-plus hours of work into a five-hour shift, but she had to get home to Aunt Tweet so Clara could go to hers. The aide was a nursing student and single mother of an eight-year-old girl.

  With only a short commute, Rachel slipped behind the steering wheel in her car, and a craving hit. Although she practiced healthy eating, a serving of Monell’s skillet fried chicken was her guilty pleasure. It wasn’t far, but it would close in twenty minutes.

  She called Clara. “I know you’re off within an hour, but my senses got a tracker on some of Monell’s skillet fried—”

  “Chicken.” Clara smacked her lips and laughed. “Bring me some and all is forgiven.”

  “Got it, and I’ll get some extra in case Aunt Tweet ever gets an appetite again. Any change?”

  “Sorry, no, there hasn’t been, but her vitals are stable.”

  Rachel’s reality was her aunt’s failing health. Suddenly, her appetite dulled, but she’d practically promised Clara, so she turned north on Second Avenue for the short drive to Bransford Avenue.