Practicing What You Preach

Book 0: Blessed Trinity

by Vanessa Davis Griggs

Genres: International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

Delightfully mixing inspirational romance and contemporary fiction, Vanessa Davis Griggs’ novels are gripping emotional rollercoaster rides. Here, aspiring event planner Melissa Anderson falls for the handsome, successful Marcus Peeples. But there’s a catch—he’s divorced—and Melissa struggles to reconcile this with her spiritual beliefs.

“This is a romance for readers who like their books enhanced with religious teachings …”—Booklist

Release date: July 3, 2012

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

All that I am and all I ever hope to be I owe to an awesome and great God who truly loves me. Thank You, Heavenly Father, who gives me the victory and always causes me to triumph. To my mother, Mrs. Josephine Davis, and my father, Mr. James Davis Jr., who celebrated fifty years of marriage on November 23, 2008. You both have loved me and my siblings with an everlasting love, while having enough love to share with others who are blessed to know you, as you make them feel they’re just as special.

Love to my family: my husband, Jeffery, of thirty-one years; my children, Jeffery, Jeremy, and Johnathan Griggs; grandchildren Asia and Ashlynn; sisters Danette Dial and Arlinda Davis, sister-in-law Cameron Davis; brothers Terence and Emmanuel Davis. Oh, if there were only words to express how much I love you all. My life is so much richer because of all of you.

To those in our family who carry the history and memories of our past and to those who push us toward our future. My aunts: Mary Mack, Rachel Shockley, Ruth Washington, and aunt-in-law Clara Lee; uncles Joseph Lee Jr., Abraham Lee, and Daniel Lee; nieces and nephews Bart, Alexis, Ariel, Chantelle, Charisse, Christopher, Arionna, and Rechelle. The memories we make together no one can ever take away. Let’s hold the good things close to our hearts to warm us on those days when it may feel a bit cold and to hold them high to light our path when we need to see our way just a little bit better.

I am so blessed to have friends who continue to encourage me on this journey: Rosetta Moore, Vanessa L. Rice, Stephanie Perry Moore, Irene Egerton Perry, Zelda Oliver-Miles, Linda H. Jones, Bonita Chaney, Ella Wells, Pam Hardy, Shirley Walker, and Malinda Millings. There are many who read my books, and I thank you so much for that. Two people I’d especially like to acknowledge: Regina Biddings and Gregg Pelt.

To my editor, Rakia A. Clark: Do you have any idea how much I truly appreciate you and your wonderful spirit? I appreciate you! I am so blessed to know you and to be able to work with you. And I mean that from the bottom of my heart. To the staff of Kensington/Dafina: thank you for all that you do when it comes to me and my books. One plants, one waters, but God gives the increase.

To those of you who have honored me by choosing to read Practicing What You Preach: I love you much! I’ve said this before and I mean it: I don’t and won’t ever take you for granted. Many of you may know by now how much I pray about what I do before I ever begin. I know how much God loves you and how much He wants the best for you. I just want to be obedient to what God gives me to do. God told me to write this book because He cares about those who feel bound and are hurting. It’s not I but He that dwells within me. I thank God for caring so much about us the way that I know He does.

I love hearing from you. Thank you for spreading the word about my books. May you continue to walk in God’s exceedingly, abundantly, above-all-you-can-ever-ask-or-think blessings. Now, let’s get started! It’s good to be blessed, but even better to be a blessing.

 

Vanessa Davis Griggs

 

www.VanessaDavisGriggs.com

And the hand of the Lord was there upon me; and he said unto me, Arise, go forth into the plain, and I will there talk with thee.

—Ezekiel 3:22

The sunlight seemed to pour through my bedroom window even more than usual. I pulled my blanket completely over my head as soon as I realized the brightness was affecting my sleep. I didn’t want to get up today. I just didn’t. I was tired. Not physically tired (although working a full-time job while putting together an elaborate wedding is draining), but tired on the inside. Tired of people expecting things from me, tired of people asking if I can do things for them, automatically assuming I’ll do it. T-i-r-e-d, tired! I sneaked a quick peek at the clock. Twenty more minutes until the alarm was set to go off. Quick! Go back to sleep. Before there are people to please.

I don’t usually consider myself a people pleaser. In fact, I would describe myself as strong and independent. But lately, I’ve been taking on more and more. I don’t know, maybe all of this can be traced back to my upbringing—the people-pleasing part, that is. It’s what my mother prides herself on, although she likes to call it being a peacemaker…a unifier…a real leader. My mother, Ernestine, is the one everybody goes to when somebody needs something: time, help, money (especially money), and everything in between. She’s the one who takes care of the family—immediate, extended, and those who merely call themselves family. She forever places herself last on the list, which normally means there’s nothing left when her turn finally rolls around. And at fifty-two that’s what’s slowly taking a toll on her. It’s not the high blood pressure and cholesterol her doctor has her taking pills for daily. Putting everybody else’s needs and wants above her own is what’s dragging her down.

Well, I’ve decided at age twenty-eight that my mother’s fate will not be mine, no matter how much people claim I’m just like her. I want a lot out of life, and I don’t intend to put my goals on the back burner. I just need to figure out how to say no to things I don’t want to do and stick with it after I say it.

Those two letters—n and o—when knitted together form a definitive answer. But for some reason I’ve not been able to make them work for me effectively. Sure, I may start with the n but it will invariably come out as, “Now?” or “N…oh, you really want me to?” Or worse: “No problem.”

Two days ago my friend Nae-nae called and gave me a chance to test just how far I’d come with this “saying no” business.

“Peaches, I have something I have to do that I absolutely can’t change,” Nae-nae began, calling me by the nickname reserved and used only by a few family members and my closest of friends. “Can you take my mother to the grocery store for me tomorrow?”

“No,” I said firmly, fighting off my normal knee-jerk reaction to add something else to it in the form of some type of acceptable excuse.

“No?” she said as though I had no right to ever say that. “What do you mean, no?”

“I have some things I need to do myself,” I said as I began to slip back into my usual role of not wanting anyone to be upset with me because I’d dared not please them.

She laughed. “Oh! Is that all? Well, you can just take her after you finish what you have to do. It’s not like she has to be at the grocery store at a certain time or anything, although you know she is slightly disabled and shouldn’t be out too late at night. Come on, Peaches, you know I don’t have anyone else to help me out. I’ve always been able to count on you. Please don’t start being like everybody else and let me down now. Pleeeaaase?” she whined.

“Okay, fine. I’ll take her,” I said even quicker than I suspected I would. She thanked me and hurried off the phone. I had caved in yet again.

What I should have said was, “Well, if your mother doesn’t have to be there at a certain time then you can take her after you finish what you have to do.” That’s what I should have said. But no, that wasn’t what I said at all. I’d merely given in once more.

It’s so funny how later on you can always think of stuff you should have said. So my new goal is to learn how to say what I mean and stick with it no matter what. I just have a hard time telling someone I can’t do something when honestly I know that physically I can. Just one more lovely trait I can attribute to my fine upbringing.

My mother never believed in telling lies, not even the little white ones folks basically say it’s okay to tell. You know like, “No, you don’t look fat in that.” Or “Cute outfit.” What about, “Oh, no; I really do like your hair. I was only staring so hard at you because it’s so…different.”

Not my mama. It was “Girl, now you know you’re too old to be trying to wear something like that.” Or “Somebody lied to you. Go back and try again.” Or what about, “That looks good, it just doesn’t look good on you.” Still, she will do anything for you.

I started planning special events as a hobby about two years ago, but lately it appears this could someday become my real bread and butter if I continue to pursue it seriously. Everybody says I’m great at putting things together. That’s what I was doing yesterday after work—taking care of some pressing business for an upcoming wedding. A wedding, incidentally, that’s huge and could really put my name on the go-to-for-event-planning map.

I pushed myself to do what I had to do after work, then managed to take Nae-nae’s mother to the store. It took her two whole hours to shop. Two hours I really didn’t have to spare. She insisted on doing it herself. Seriously, she could have given me the list she’d already written out anyway, and I would have been done in fifteen minutes. Tops. Instead, she ended up riding in the mobile cart the store provided. She’d stand up, get an item, put it in the basket, sit down, then ride sometimes just to the next group of items, only to begin the slow and tedious cycle all over again.

I don’t know, maybe I really am as hopeless a case as Cass said. Cass is my ex-boyfriend. His real name is Cassius, named after his father who was named after Cassius Clay the boxer before he changed his name to Muhammad Ali. If you ask me, I’d say Cass thought his name was short for Casanova. But truthfully, he was the one who got me started on this self-evaluating journey I’ve been on lately. Cass flat out said I was too easy and a real pushover. Well, he should know, since he treated me like a disposable pen, then pushed me over and threw me away when he felt my ink was all but used up.

And to think he had the nerve to break up with me and make out like everything was all my fault. He claimed I was too self-centered for him. Give me a break! So I was supposed to believe that I was too easy, a pushover, while at the same time believe I was self-centered. All righty then. Looking back, the best thing Cass ever did for me was to move his narcissist-self on. Now, you want to talk about somebody being stuck on himself, then that is Cass, the guy I dated last for a whole year, to a T. After Cass, I started listening to my pastor and decided to pray that God would send the right man into my life, because I sure wasn’t doing all that hot on my own.

 

This was all too much to be thinking about this early in the morning, especially with very little time before the alarm was going to sound. But I still found a way to doze off again. I hit the snooze button three times before finally dragging myself out of the bed. Standing in front of the window, I took in the stillness of the day’s beginnings, then hurried to dress, made my way to work, and got to my desk with two minutes to spare.

Marcus Peeples was walking out of Dr. Brewer’s office when I arrived. He often comes into the OB/GYN’s office where I work. Definitely not the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen (especially with the glasses he wears), Marcus is around 5'11" and sort of lanky, particularly compared to me.

Some label my body type as thick, which means curvy in all the right places. My mother said we’re just big-boned people. “Absolutely nothing to be ashamed of,” Mama always said. It’s never bothered me. After all, Marilyn Monroe was a size fourteen, same as me.

Marcus seemed like an all right guy. He was usually trying to push (what I assumed) his pharmaceutical products on my boss, who must be too nice to tell him to buzz off. But lately, every time he has come in here with his fancy briefcase in hand, he has tried to strike up more and more conversation with me.

Two months ago, he asked if I was married or dating anyone. Having just broken up with Cass a few weeks earlier, my answer pretty much conveyed that not only was I not dating anyone, but that I wasn’t interested in dating anyone anytime soon. He promptly dropped that line of questioning for a few weeks. Then it happened. Today, in fact.

When Marcus walked into Dr. Brewer’s office, he stepped over to my desk and without his customary hi or how are you said, “How about you and I go out on a date.”

I flashed him a quick fake, polite smile, and replied, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Who says I can’t say no and mean it?

He nodded as he smiled back at me. “Oh, I see. You must only be interested in the kind of guys who like to break your heart, then leave you to put the pieces back together,” Marcus said.

For someone who reminded me at best of a reformed nerd, at worst of someone almost anyone could take down in a fight, that statement took me totally by surprise.

“No. I’m just not interested in you,” I said, pointing my finger at him on cue with the word you, not caring whether my words hurt his feelings. I was on a roll today: two no’s in a row.

Instead of scurrying away the way I expected he would do, he set his briefcase down on my desk. “And how do you know that?”

My eyes immediately went to the briefcase, then back to him. “A woman knows these things,” I said, rolling my chair back away from him just a tad. He’d gotten a little too close for my comfort.

“Just as I suspected. You’re one of those women who will never give a good man a chance. That way, you can have your beliefs validated about all the men who have hurt you and feel justified without those beliefs ever being challenged.”

What did he do that for? I was just about to say something smart like “Is that right, Dr. Phil?” when he suddenly took off his glasses. It’s amazing how glasses can change a person’s looks entirely. Right before my eyes, in just that instant, Marcus Peeples was transformed from Clark Kent into Superman—I kid you not. I noticed for the first time his hair, cut low and sort of wavy, most likely with the help of a wave cap. I took note of how perfect his hairstyle fit his caramel-colored face. His goatee, which I hadn’t paid attention to, was perfect for his triangular jaw. But it was those long, thick, black eyelashes framing those gorgeous, twinkling brown eyes that now had me completely fixated and, quite frankly, at a loss for words. Dr. Phil who?

I scooted my chair back a little bit more, smiled, then shook my head to emphasize that his assessment of me and my situation was totally wrong as I tried to right my ship. He’d gotten me a little off course.

He placed his hand on his briefcase. “One date,” Marcus said. “Come on. What do you have to lose?” He flashed me a big smile. Near-perfect white teeth, and I declare one of them appeared to have twinkled.

I maintained my coolness, breathing evenly as I began to speak. “One, huh?”

He held up his index finger. “One. And you can choose the time and the place. If you find we have nothing in common or that you don’t like me, then no harm, no foul. So, what do you say?”

I had to snap out of this, and quick. I had to take back control. “Okay,” I said slowly, not wanting to answer too quickly. “How about tonight?”

“Tonight?” He sounded as though that had caught him completely off guard. I sensed I was definitely interfering with some already laid plans.

Good! Last-minute dates usually get the ones who aren’t really serious every single time. “I’m sorry. Is that a problem for you?” I projected a look of true concern and sincerity. “Do you already have something planned for tonight? Because if you do…”

“I did, but for you, I’ll change it. Tonight works for me. So where would you like to go?”

I couldn’t help but grin. “How about Bible study, my church? And we need to be there by seven o’clock.” I crossed my arms. Body language experts would likely say I was putting up a barrier between us. I’d classify it as expressing my confidence as I had officially regained control.

He began to chuckle. “Oh,” he sang the word, “so, you’re one of those kind of women, huh?”

“Those kind? Is church a problem for you?” I could tell despite his smile and chuckle that I’d unnerved him slightly. Double good!

He continued to grin. “No problem. I said you could choose the place. I want you to see that I’m a man of my word.” He took out his business card and handed it to me.

“I’m sure Dr. Brewer already has your card on file,” I said.

“He does, but this card is for you.” He took out his Black-Berry. “Now, if I could get your home address?” He looked at me and saw what I imagine had to be a defensive expression on my face. “Miss Melissa Anderson, I need your home address so I can pick you up tonight. That’s what real men do.” A boyish grin broke across his face again.

I looked at his card before glancing back at him. He put his glasses on and he was instantly transformed back into the harmless Clark Kent. The information on his card was personable enough. He had his home address and both a home and a cell phone number listed. A home number given—not fool-proof by any means but a positive sign—was generally a good indication that he wasn’t some married man trying to find a way to sneak around on his wife. I don’t play that other-woman stuff. Got burned once accidentally. I vowed never again if I could help it.

Still, I weighed whether or not I should give him my home address at this point. After all, there are plenty of crazies running around in this world. On the other hand, I did sort of know him, so he wasn’t a total stranger. He’d been in here at least ten times that I know of—sometimes when patients were here, most times before office hours began. He seemed a decent enough guy.

I rattled off my home address as he keyed it into his Black-Berry.

All right now, Mr. Marcus Peeples. Let’s just see how much you like Bible study at Followers of Jesus Faith Worship Center as a first date. I already sensed, based on the way he had reacted when I mentioned the word “church” that this was going to be fun.

There was a man in the land of Uz, whose name was Job; and that man was perfect and upright, and one that feared God, and eschewed evil.

—Job 1:1

Any woman who will be truly honest knows at least one good man who’s gotten a bad rap about something. And this is coming from a woman who has met some real jerks in her day.

Like my friend Nae-nae, I started developing pretty early in life. My grandma said it was due to all those fast-food meals we ate all the time instead of home-cooked ones like she cooked for her children back in the day.

“When you grow chicken legs and wings the size of a turkey in that short amount of time, you know there’s something unnatural,” Grandma would say. “If you grow food on steroids and you feed it to your body, what other results do you expect to get? Back in my day, we used to say, ‘You are what you eat.’ Well, the result is gonna really show up later in life if you young folk aren’t careful and don’t stop eating so much junk.”

My mother never paid much attention to what her mother had to say, at least not on that subject. “Mama, fast food is called fast food for a reason,” she’d say.

My brother Diddy-bo, who is two years older than me, and I would sit quietly and listen to Grandma and Mama as they argued about stuff like that. I believe that’s why Mama worked so hard to help get Grandma married off and out of her house.

Diddy-bo and I would find ourselves confused about the two of them, mostly our mother. When we were in church singing, “Give me that old-time religion,” Mama would always sing the part about it being good enough for her mother therefore it was good enough for her. Diddy-bo brought that to Mama’s attention after a church service once when Mama and Grandma were going at it big time about something they didn’t agree on. Mama told Diddy-bo she was talking about Jesus when she sang about it being good enough for her mother, and not Church’s Chicken versus chitterlings or collard greens cooked with hog jowls or fatback.

“Ewww!” Diddy-bo and I said in unison. “Chitterlings!”

The thought of chitterlings still causes my nose to turn upward. Grandma lived with us for about two years, and in that time she cooked chitterlings for each of the three New Year’s Days she was at our house. Apparently, chitterlings were just one of many New Year traditions or superstitions Mama allowed that Grandma religiously subscribed to and practiced.

We had to have our Christmas tree completely down before New Year’s Day to ensure that bad things didn’t come to the house during the year. Grandma would cook either collard or turnip greens because if you eat something green on the first day of the year, it brings green (money). Black-eyed peas (what Grandma called black folks’ caviar) were for good luck. No female could step foot into the house until a man had crossed the entryway first. That, according to Grandma, was to ward off bad luck from entering the house for the brand-new year. You couldn’t wash clothes on New Year’s Day, because if you did, “You’ll wash someone out of your life,” Grandma would say. “Wouldn’t want to lose anybody we love this year, now would we?”

Chitterlings didn’t have any notable significance other than it happened to be a staple Grandma looked forward to. Like ribs, chitterlings were said to have their roots in the days of slavery when black folks took what was normally discarded and managed to make a meal out of it.

All Diddy-bo and I knew the very first time we smelled that so-called southern “delicacy” cooking, when we were ten and eight, respectively, was that it stank to high heaven. After we learned what it was, I fully understood the source of its smell. Mama said the only thing she didn’t like about chitterlings was cleaning them, and the way the odor got into her draperies and lingered in the house all day.

No kidding?!

Still, Mama happily and excitedly ate a plateful of chitterlings and always went back for seconds, sometimes thirds.

“Some people prefer to put mustard on theirs, but I like mine with hot sauce,” Mama said. “Diddy-bo, get me the bottle of hot sauce and bring it here.” When he did, she shook a little hot sauce on the gray matter bunched on her plate, cut it up, put a forkful in her mouth, closed her eyes as she smiled, then looked up and moaned the way I do whenever I eat a superbly made peach cobbler.

Diddy-bo is not my brother’s real name, just as Nae-nae is not my best friend’s real name nor Peaches mine. Diddy-bo’s name is Spencer after some famous actor from my Grandma’s day named Spencer Tracy. Nae-nae is actually Denita Wilson. She’s named after her daddy Dennis and her mama Anita. And me? Like Denita, I was sort of named after my father Melvin (whom most folks called Mel) and my Aunt Lisa. So I’m Melissa. Mama said I always went delightfully crazy whenever I ate peaches when I was a baby and I was as pretty as a peach. I guess Peaches just stuck.

Diddy-bo likes to tell me that I grew into my pretty.

When I think back on what a real brat I was (Diddy-bo says I still am), I can’t help but think about how special my brother truly is. He doesn’t let anyone mess with me, that’s for sure. Ask Cass. When Diddy-bo found out Cass had borrowed my two-thousand-dollar stereo system and refused to give it back after he broke up with me, Diddy-bo paid him a little visit. I don’t know what Diddy-bo said or did to him, but when Diddy-bo brought my system home to me, he asked me to say an extra prayer for him.

And people wonder why I love my brother so.

While they behold your chaste conversation coupled with fear.

—1 Peter 3:2

Marcus showed up fifteen minutes early for our date. He looked amazing—different than before. When he visited my boss, he mostly wore suits and ties. For our night out, he wore a lightweight pullover sweater with a geometrical design and pecan-colored slacks. He wasn’t as lanky as I’d thought. And those nerdlike glasses he always sported? Gone.

“Why aren’t you wearing your glasses?” I asked as we rode to the church. I thought for sure that after coming to my door to get me he would have put them on to drive.

He looked at me and smiled. “Oh, so you noticed?” He glanced away from the road to look at me.

“Well, yeah. I’m pretty observant. So you must wear contacts.”

“No. I wear glasses if my eyes become strained from too much reading. And I happen to read a lot. A lot. But mostly I wear them when I want to appear more serious.”

“Glasses make you look different, that’s for sure.”

He tilted his head toward me and grinned. “Is that a good different or a bad different?”

I shrugged, trying to make him think it really wasn’t that big a deal. “Just different, that’s all.” I looked over at him. With the help of streetlights, I was able to see his eyes again, and they were just as gorgeous as I remembered. I’ve never seen eyes that sexy on a man. I turned my gaze away from him. “Me? I have to have glasses to see,” I said. “Fortunately, I’m able to wear contacts, too. But I’d love not to have to wear glasses ever.”

He didn’t respond immediately. I wanted to look back over at him, but I fought the urge and continued to focus my attention on the road ahead.

“Well, I suppose it might stem from when I was a little boy. Everybody in my family wore glasses except me. It was something I was a little envious about,” he said. And although I didn’t see it, I heard the smile in his voice. “My mother used to think I was nuts because I wanted to wear glasses when I didn’t have to.”

“Then aren’t you being a bit dishonest by wearing glasses?” I turned to him. “If you really don’t need them, aren’t you merely using them to misrepresent yourself?”

“No, I don’t think I’m misrepresenting myself. My doctor prescribed them for those times when my eyes feel strained. Do I need them to read every second of the day? No. Do I need them to drive? No. But when I work a lot or late into the night, sometimes my eyes do get tired, so I put them on. My ophthalmologist says it doesn’t hurt for me to wear them all the time. So I wear them when I want to even though I don’t really have to.”

We were getting close to the church’s exit. “Turn left at the light, then right about a half mile up, and you’ll see the church on your right,” I said.

“So, Melissa Anderson, tell me. What are your dreams? What are your goals in life?”

“Now that came completely out of the. . .