Made Of Honor. Marilynn Griffith

      We’ll see about that.

      I stood and started out of the room, both hurt and happy when Rochelle didn’t follow.

      It had nothing to do with anything that had happened today. The anger in my tone had been simmering for years. Sure, Sandy was gone, but was I just supposed to forget how he’d cut me off after our time together, my first time no less?

      The painful memory drove me to the kitchen, hoping there would be a spoonful of ginger spice chai caked in the container. The way Adrian had played me then, so true to the Biblical account of Tamar and Amnon…It seemed that after we were together he’d hated me more than he had loved me. Understandably so, as he was the Christian then and I, the pagan soul. How could I blame him for running when I’d wrecked his faith?

      I fell for that until Sandy took the distance between Adrian and I as separation and went for him, full throttle. And he went along for the ride, all the way to the altar, dragging my mother, my friends and even me.

      “The first thing he asked me was if you’d started your business yet. He so believes in you. That’s hard to find in a man.” Rochelle’s voice startled me.

      I stopped short, my hand on the cabinet. “I doubt it’s support. He just wants me to do something so he can come and steal my ideas…again.” Adrian’s business credibility wasn’t the best with me, either.

      Rochelle banged the chai container on the counter while I heated water. “Are we back on that? Adrian’s store? Dana, you know that he didn’t deliberately steal ideas from you. Whatever you told him a zillion years ago was just brainstorming. People do that. It’s part of business.” She blew out a breath. “It’s not like you were going to do anything with those ideas anyway.”

      Was that the point? What I did with them? No. The point was the ideas were mine, something I could never seem to get Rochelle to understand. Let somebody come in there and “brainstorm” a pair of those shoes. It’d be all over. “We weren’t in business, Chelle. We were in love. Even more, we were friends. Two friends on the stoop with big dreams…and he stole mine.”

      Even as I said it, Adrian’s store, Kick! Candles, flashed through my mind. It was a woman’s refuge, intimate and relaxing, swathed with tulle and fresh flowers: roses in summer, amaryllis and poinsettias in winter, anything from daffodils to handpicked wildflowers in spring, when like a garden, the place buzzed with color.

      It was October now. In a few weeks, his store back in Chicago would be decked in velvet, from the tapestries dripping off the walls onto the small couches beneath them. Ladies’ boots would line the edge of the deep shag as tired shoppers soaked their toes into its depths and bored husbands sipped cocoa and watched cable sports in massaging chairs. Overhead lanterns and die-cut sconces lined the walls, filling the store with a new scent every hour. A few times a year, Rochelle and I snuck up there and bought all the stuff we could on Adrian’s days off. I always wanted to kick off my shoes and stay longer, but never dared.

      It was a place girlfriends loved, boyfriends needed and husbands feared. A place I’d described to Adrian on a rainy Sunday while he rubbed my feet after one of Daddy’s Sunday dinners. Our place.

      Only he’d built it with Sandy instead of me.

      And now Chelle wanted me to brush that away and jump into his arms, the very act that drove him away in the first place. “You know, this is why Adrian is off-limits. Of all people, you should be able to appreciate that some things just don’t need to be discussed.”

      Not with people anyway. God and I would have a long chat about this tonight.

      Rochelle added a swirl of milk to the already weak chai and walked into my dining room, taking a zigzag pattern to get around the boxes of bath and body supplies strewn around the space, chosen for its disuse and out-of-the-way location. All the time Tracey had lived with me, I don’t remember her messing with my supplies, except to clean around them.

      Leave it to Chelle.

      “What’s all this?” Rochelle demanded, taking inventory with her eyes. I looked, too, a bit ashamed at my excess, but it had all seemed necessary at the time. Shea butter, rose petals, calendula, chamomile, lye for soap along with coconut and olive oil…and then there were those boxes under my bed.

      “Just some supplies.” I shrugged. “My clicker-finger went a little mad.”

      She rolled her eyes. “A lot mad, I’d say. I know you think you’re getting a deal from those online companies, but the shipping is killing you and there’s always something better locally if you talk to people face-to-face—”

      “Don’t start.” One-track mind, that one. If she wasn’t trying to marry me off, she was trying to motivate me into the marketplace.

      I took a closer look at the receipt dangling from Rochelle’s fingers. Four hundred and thirty-eight dollars. An order I’d obviously made while rapt in the buzz of my promised-but-never-delivered promotion at Scents and Savings. Rochelle did have a bit of a point. I was going to have to get a little more mileage out of that small business license or forget this stuff altogether.

      “Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, though checkered with failure, than to take rank with those poor souls who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.”

      I grimaced. “Uh, Marcus Garvey?”

      She shook her head.

      “Winston Churchill?”

      “Theodore Roosevelt. It’s at the bottom of all my e-mails. Just goes to show how much attention you pay me.”

      She had me there. “Sorry. I sort of glaze over all that stuff.”

      “Whatever. Look, you can say whatever you want about Adrian, but at least the guy stepped out and took a risk.”

      My teeth set on edge. “Risk? What would you know about it? If you’re not at work or church, you’re home hiding behind that computer.”

      Rochelle flinched, then pressed the receipt back onto one of the boxes. “At least I can afford to. You don’t hear me complaining about not being able to pay my bills. I’m not afraid to charge what I’m worth. If you come to Shoes of Peace, you won’t find any pumps hidden in my back room. They’re in the display window, where they belong.”

      I hunched a little, like a crazed kitten driven into a corner. “Complaining? I haven’t asked you for a dime. You’re always the one pushing, trying to make me something I’m not. Don’t you know this isn’t about money to me? This is something I can predict, something I can control. I can throw it out and start over if it doesn’t work out.”

      Clutching my chai, I tried to get a grip. Why couldn’t Rochelle understand? Tracey never bothered me about this stuff. I took a sip of the tea. Tepid. Ugh. I set it aside, ready to try once more to express my muddled feelings.

      “Soap can’t lie to me or—or show up smelling like oranges and daydreams, waiting to break my heart—”

      “Oh, honey.” Rochelle touched my shoulder.

      “All these years you’ve waited, surely you know. Surely.” I shrugged off her touch, realizing I’d crossed her boundary by mentioning Jericho’s father. For once, I didn’t care. I had to get it out.

      “This is my risk…and my safety.” My teeth nipped my bottom lip as if my subconscious were trying to shut me up. A staple gun would have been more appropriate. Why had I shared so much with Rochelle, shown her so much of my heart? She’d just use it against me in some subtle way, some devotional about the mouth showing the condition of the heart. Maybe if I actually talked to her about it instead of complaining to Tracey, she might realize what she’s doing and how it hurts me. If she only knew, I’m usually well aware of my heart’s condition before saying a word. “Now let’s just let it go.”

      “Fine.” She sounded wounded.