“Well . . . it’s none of my business.” I headed for the hallway.
“Too bad you think that way, ’cause it ought to be,” said Justine.
I turned at the doorway. “Why?”
“’Cause, he likes you. He didn’t say anything more than that, but I can tell. He was struck something powerful by you, and, girl, I know you was struck something powerful by him too.”
I just stared at Justine without acknowledging her comment and with papers in hand went down the hall to Mr. Tomlinson’s office.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Christopher-John called. He said he and Becka were going to be married the Sunday after Christmas at Great Faith following church services. That is how most couples married, right after the services, and the congregation attending the services just stayed on for the wedding. No invitations were sent out, just the announcement was made in church and everybody was invited. I wished I could be there. Christopher-John told me he wished that too, but Stacey and Man were going south with him. He planned to bring Becka back to Toledo and the two would be staying in one of the upstairs rooms. I was happy for him.
Mr. Tomlinson closed the office during the holidays and I went to Oakland by train to be with Uncle Hammer and Aunt Loretta. Aunt Loretta had family in the area and she invited them all over for Christmas dinner. It was a good time to be around family and it helped take my mind off Flynn. I returned to Los Angeles New Year’s Day and went back to the Tomlinsons. The children were happy to see me, and so was Mrs. Tomlinson. Mr. Tomlinson was polite and smiling. I kept my guard up.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
There was nothing specific I could put my finger on about the way Rowland Tomlinson was with me. I knew I was in so many ways naïve around men. I had always been protected, sheltered, by Papa, Mama, Big Ma, by my brothers. I kept telling myself that maybe I was reading more into Rowland Tomlinson’s movements, his looks toward me, his choice of words to me than there actually was. I kept thinking I needed to give him the benefit of the doubt. But I also kept telling myself I was not stupid. Then there came a Friday afternoon in late January when Rowland Tomlinson asked me to work late. He said that there was a contract that had to be finished. He said he would need my help to do it. I asked Justine if she was staying to help with the paperwork. She said she was not. Rowland Tomlinson hadn’t asked her to stay. Her eyes narrowed. “You staying here alone with him?” Her voice was full of apprehension.
“The contract’s got to be done,” I explained, choosing not to voice my concern.
“Uh-huh.” She was silent a moment, then said, “You want me to stay? I can find something to do.”
I thought for a moment about asking her to stay, but then decided against it. I figured I was probably being foolish about Rowland Tomlinson. So far, there had been nothing overt in his actions. “No, there’s no need for you to do that. Besides, Deacon Barnett will be here. He always cleans up on Friday.”
Justine nodded hesitantly. We both trusted Deacon Barnett, who was deacon at the church I attended and a close friend to Mr. Strickland, and who also worked as janitor at the office. “So, I guess I’ll go on, huh?”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
Justine gathered her things. “S’pose if you work later, Mr. Tomlinson, he’ll take you home too?”
“If it’s not too late, I can still take the bus. I’d like to go to the library.”
“On a Friday night?”
“Well, that’s what I’ll tell him.” I didn’t say anything further. I did not want to confide in Justine. I did not want her becoming my ally; yet, as she studied me, I felt that she was.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
At the end of the day, after Justine and the rest of the office staff had gone, Deacon Barnett had not yet arrived. On Fridays, like clockwork, he arrived just before five o’clock, quitting time for the rest of us. But today, as I checked the wall clock at ten past the hour, he had not arrived. I chose not to worry about it as I tackled the pile of papers before me. They were handwritten papers that Mr. Tomlinson said needed to be typed so that he could file them on a trucking bid with city hall first thing Monday morning. The forms were familiar and I knew from my weeks working in the office that Mr. Tomlinson always submitted such forms typewritten.
I typed steadily for more than an hour, and during that time Rowland Tomlinson stayed in his office. As I made my way through the pile of papers, I kept checking the clock. Deacon Barnett still had not come. I concentrated on my work and tried to dismiss the time and Deacon Barnett’s absence. But with half the typing finished, Mr. Tomlinson emerged from his office. “So, how is it going, Cassie?” he asked.
He came around the side of the desk to stand behind me. I didn’t look up at him. I just kept on typing. “I should be finished soon,” I said.
“How soon?” he asked.
Still not looking up, I replied. “Maybe another hour.”
Rowland Tomlinson stood behind my chair and looked over my shoulder. I felt nervous with his standing there, but I continued typing. Then, after a minute or two, he reached over my right shoulder and placed one hand on the desk to the right of the typewriter, and then placed his other hand to the left of the typewriter, enclosing me between. My back was to him. I stopped typing. He leaned down close and whispered, “You think that’ll give us enough time?”
I was naïve, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew exactly what he meant. I jerked backward, attempting to rise, but Rowland Tomlinson blocked me with his arms.
“Oh, come now, Cassie. You didn’t answer my question,” he said softly, his breath against my ear. “I know you want this as much as I do.”
I pushed back in the chair and tried to stand, but he laughed at my effort, keeping his hands firmly on the desk, his body obstructing my movement. Then suddenly his laughter stopped and he released me. He stepped back and I immediately sprang from the chair, looked into his face, and stepped away from him. He was no longer looking at me. I followed his gaze.
Flynn stood on the landing.
“How’d you get in here?” asked Rowland Tomlinson, clearly irritated. “We’re closed, and that front door’s locked!”
Flynn looked at me, then at Rowland Tomlinson, and there was no smile this time. He studied us both. “Man downstairs let me in from the back. Says he’s here to clean.”
“Deacon Barnett?” There was surprise in Rowland Tomlinson’s voice. “He’s not supposed to be working tonight.”
“Well, he is,” said Flynn.
Rowland Tomlinson looked dismayed. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”