And everybody is smiling.
“Freaky,” I say.
Zander has apparently inhaled the Kool-Aid because he’s not paying me any attention. Too busy looking around, beaming like a kid who just stumbled into Santa’s workshop. “Is it like this every week?”
“Goodness no!” a frighteningly familiar voice rumbles from behind us.
We slowly turn around.
Oh God…I mean, gosh.
“I thought that was you two!”
It’s the security guard from Checker Cab.
“Officer Kenny! Wow!” Because who could forget the man? “Fancy meeting you here!” I look to Zan for help, but he’s still smiling and tossing waves at random strangers.
“Welcome to VFC!” Kenny says. “So good to see y’all in the house of the Lord this morning!”
“Uhh…” What to say? “Good to be here!”
“You’ve chosen a fabulous Sunday to visit. Today is our Parade of Nations!”
“Parade of Nations?” Zan is utterly in awe.
“That’s right! We’ve got ninety-three nations represented in our congregation. Most multicultural house of worship in Greater Atlanta!”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as proud as Kenny is right now.
“Amazing,” Zan says.
Trying really hard not to side-eye him.
“Glad you think so, young man.” Kenny gives Zan’s shoulder a shake, and Zan stumbles forward a good couple of feet.
Then Kenny looks at me. “Did you ever find your locket, young lady?”
And crap.
“Ummm…”
“That’s why we’re here,” Zan says. (So he is still on planet Earth.) “We’re trying to track down the woman who was in the cab after my friend here. Maybe you know her? Driver said he dropped her off here on Christmas Eve.”
Well damn, Macklin.
“Really now?” Kenny replies.
“Mm-hmm. It was her first time here, apparently.” He pulls out the picture…if you can even call it that. More like a series of grayscale blobs on an 8.5x11-inch piece of paper with multiple creases from Zander’s folds. “Sorry the photo isn’t great. Retrieved it from some security footage at a convenience store. You can kinda see her, right?”
Kenny squints and rubs his chin as he looks at the paper. “We get a lot of visitors for the holiday services.”
Trying not to panic. (Because I suddenly care?) “She was a little old black lady with a white Afro and light-up sweater—”
“You’ve seen her in person?” Kenny says.
Oops.
“Yes…” I look at Zan. “I work at the convenience store where we got the picture. The driver was dropping me off as he picked her up.”
Kenny lifts an eyebrow. “She caught a taxi from a convenience store?”
Crap, crap, CRAP. “Yep.” I gulp. “No clue how she got there.”
He narrows his eyes and visually volleys back and forth between Zan and me. “What’d you say she looks like?”
This is going south super fast.
There’s a giant clock over the entrance. Service starts in four minutes.
“Small frame, brown skin, large glasses, little white Afro…”
Kenny opens his mouth to say something else, but a petite lady with big, bright eyes and the most stylish tapered bob I’ve ever seen materializes at his side (thank God). “Who do we have here, Kenneth?”
Kenny smiles. “Pastor Darlene! This is…” He gestures for us to introduce ourselves.
“Gustavo Maxwell,” Zander says, thrusting a hand forward. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Gustavo Maxwell?
“And you?” She smiles at me.
I glance at Zan. “Oh. I’m…Reneé.” I say. “Reneé…Banger.”
Zan chokes and starts coughing.
“Oh my! Are you all right, young man?” Pastor Darlene says. Kenny smacks Zan on the back a little too hard and he stumbles forward again.
“Fine, fine,” Zan says once he recovers. “Saliva went down the wrong pipe.”
“Ah.” Pastor Darlene blinks a few times and clasps her hands in front of her. “Well, welcome to Victorious!”
Good gracious, we are so busted.
“Thank you!” Too enthusiastic? Probably too enthusiastic.
“I’m glad you’re here, Pastor,” Kenny says. “These two are looking for a congregant…Older African American woman. Very small with large spectacles and a white Afro…that right, Ms. Banger?”
Zan chokes again.
I hate him I hate him I hate him.
“That’s right,” I say. “She was a first-timer on Christmas Eve.” Please don’t let her ask why we’re looking because I cannot lie to a pastor twice.
“You’ll have to speak with Ms. Maybelle,” she says. “She’s our visitor coordinator…Don’t think she’s here this week, though.”
Of course she isn’t. Motherfu—lover!
“Ms. Maybelle?” Zan says.
And I’m thankful. I certainly can’t speak right now.
“That’s right. Ms. Maybelle Carver. Pleasure meeting you all. I’ll see you inside.” She winks and bounces off.
* * *
—
I’m pretty much a sizzling, sparking ball of nerves through the whole service and ride home, but once we’re back outside my apartment, Zan tells me to wait so he can come around and “let me out.” (Hmm.)
Once my feet are on the ground and the door is closed, he crosses his arms and leans against the Jeep. There’s a wicked little glimmer in his eye. “So I was thinking,” he says.
And that’s it.
Why is my heart racing? “Do I get to know what you were thinking, or is it ‘classified’?”
“Oh, shut up.”
I laugh, and he blushes.
So my face gets all warm too.
“As I was saying, since the commencement of our quest, we’ve already broken the law, taken a road trip, slept together—literally—and gotten our Jesus on. As such, I really feel we’ve reached a point where it’d be wholly appropriate to part with a brief embrace.”