Chapter 13 - The White Lines in the Church Parking Lot
The church parking lot was almost empty when I pulled in. It was just past four and the light was thin and gray over the asphalt. I parked near the back by the youth hall, where the lines were faded and weeds pushed up through the cracks. My hands stayed on the wheel a second too long. I hadn't slept right in two days and my back ached from the folding chair in my apartment.
Carol arrived five minutes later in her black SUV. She parked two spaces away from me, not next to me, like she wanted that empty space between us. She got out wearing dark slacks and a cream sweater, her green velvet dress gone, her short bob tucked behind her ears. No makeup except lipstick. She looked smaller without the chandeliers behind her.
She didn't wave. She walked over and stood by my front fender and waited for me to get out.
I stepped out slowly. The air smelled like wet leaves and car exhaust. Somewhere inside the church a piano was playing, muffled through brick. I zipped my jacket up over my sweater. It didn't quite close over my belly anymore.
"You came," she said.
"You said it was important," I said.
She glanced around the lot. A pickup drove past on the county road. She lowered her voice anyway. "The board meets tomorrow morning. Daniel told me you plan to speak."
I didn't answer right away. I watched her hands. She kept twisting her wedding ring.
"I told you twenty-four hours," I said. "You said you would tell them yourself."
"I know what I said." She breathed out. "Maya, I've tried. I sat down to write the statement twice. If I put my name on what really happened with the funds, the foundation is finished. The donors will pull out by Christmas. Twenty jobs, the scholarship girls — it's all gone."
That was the same line she'd used in her office. The same math where my part never counted.
"So you didn't tell them," I said.
She shook her head once. "I have another way. A better way for everyone."
The piano stopped inside. A door slammed somewhere.
"If you go in there with bank printouts and accusations against your own husband, you will look vindictive," she said. "Especially after the video. People have already seen you throw that bowl. They heard you yell at him."
My throat tightened. I could still see the red soup on his white shirt, still hear my own voice echoing off that marble floor.
"I didn't come here to rehash the gala," I said.
"Listen to me," she said, stepping closer. "If we say it was hormones, stress — a pregnant emotional outburst after he made a stupid joke — people forgive that. I can get Pastor Jennings to say you've been under strain. We do one apology post together, you and me. Smiling. I handle the budget questions quietly in January as an accounting error. No police. No reporters."
There it was. Plain. She wanted me to take the blame.
I stared at that empty parking space between our cars. An old bulletin was stuck under my tire, soaked and torn. All Souls Food Drive, it said.
"You want me to lie," I said.
"I want you to protect this family," she said. "Daniel's drinking, the shouting — I'll get him help. But if you walk into that board meeting tomorrow, you will destroy him."
I felt the baby kick, hard, just under my ribs. I put my hand there without thinking. Carol saw it and her eyes softened for a half-second.
"Please," she said, quieter. "As a mother."
That landed wrong. I thought of the gold charger under that soup bowl, the way she'd looked at me that night and said for me to leave. Not at him. At me.
I shook my head. "No."
"Maya —"
"No." My voice didn't shake. That surprised me. "I didn't steal anything. I didn't lie about the accounts. I'm not going to stand up and say I had some crazy pregnant breakdown so you can fix the books later. I recorded my timeline last night. Every date. Every transfer I found. I'm bringing it to them myself."
Her face changed. The softness went out of it. "If you do that, I can't protect you."
"I know," I said. "You already made that choice in the banquet hall."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. The piano started again inside, the same hymn from the beginning. She looked toward the church doors like she wanted to go in and pray her way out of it.
May you like
I unlocked my car. My fingers were cold and stiff on the keys. "Twenty-four hours are up, Carol."
I got in and shut the door before she could answer. In the mirror I watched her standing there in that empty lot, arms crossed against the wind, between my old sedan and her clean SUV with nothing left to offer me.
