The Middle of Somewhere by Clifford Henderson

Author:Clifford Henderson [Henderson, Clifford]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
ISBN: 9781602820470
Amazon: 1602820473
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2009-01-05T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

I hustled down the stairs from Jameson’s office, my heart pounding. I have a date! Cadence asked me on a date! The more reasonable part of my brain interjected: You can’t know this is a date. For all you know, she has a boyfriend back in Santa Cruz.

If there’s one thing I hate about being a lesbian, it’s the ambiguity. If I were a guy and she’d asked me back to her place to drink wine and watch the rain come in, I wouldn’t have had any doubts about her intentions.

Most likely she’ll want to get drunk and harp on men.

Straight women love to complain about men. They spend hours on the phone doing it, forward each other cute little male-bashing e-mails, write to Dear Abby with letters that start with “I have the most wonderful husband in the world, but…”, go to book clubs and never discuss the book, just eat chocolate and rail on men. It drives me nuts! Everyone calls me a man-hater because I’m a lesbian, but I like men. Dare I say, some of my best friends are men. I just wouldn’t want to sleep with one. Or share a bathroom.

Cadence is from Santa Cruz. She has to at least have been exposed to lesbians.

I reached the bottom step and was about to make the turn into the public part of the market when I heard the coarse, anger-soaked voice of Silas Milsap. It was coming from the dairy section, which shared a common wall with the stairs. Not him again! I stopped in my tracks. One step more and I’d be in full view. I retreated up a few steps and sat down, taking refuge behind the employees only! sign that hung on his side of the wall. He spoke quietly, his tone seething. “It don’t seem fair. Her getting the money. She ain’t even from the church.”

My chest felt tight. Why couldn’t he shut his trap about that Helping Hands money? Was he trying to turn the whole town against me?

The voice that responded was also one I recognized. Pastor Williams. He too spoke in a hushed voice. “Sometimes the scale of justice is bigger than one might be able to comprehend, Silas.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Silas asked accusingly.

I wondered the same thing.

The pastor continued, “When I made my decision to offer money to that poor unfortunate traveler, I had a multitude of things to consider.”

I had the urge to whip around the doorway and tell him where he could shove his “multitudes,” but felt I was on the verge of hearing something juicy. Silas spoke next.

“I just don’t get what’s so important it means taking food from my family’s mouths.”

“Silas,” the pastor’s voice dripped condescension, “seems to me you’re getting mighty used to receiving assistance from Helping Hands.”

I pictured Silas shifting his stance, because when he spoke next his tone had softened considerably. “I’m not meaning to sound ungrateful, Pastor. And I’d understand if you felt someone from the church was more in need.

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