Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(41)

“There’s the door.” She tilts her head toward the entrance. “If you want to run.”

I drag a glance over her wild hair, and sultry eyes, the high, full breasts straining against the sunshine silk, and the lips that beg to be kissed.

“I’ll take my chances,” I finally reply.

She doesn’t answer, but the knowing look she gives me all but says that’s what I thought. The server brings our food, giving me the chance to shift the topic to less dangerous ground.

“That looks good.” I point my fork at her shrimp and grits.

“So does yours.”

I ordered a veggie plate of black-eyed peas, collard greens, and macaroni and cheese.

“You don’t eat meat?” she asks, scooping the shrimp and grits into her mouth.

“I don’t eat fried meat generally,” I clarify. “And that seems to be their favorite thing here.”

“Well it is soul food,” she says with a laugh. “What’d you expect? Why’d we come here if you don’t eat this stuff?”

“I thought you’d like it, and Sylvia’s is one of those things you should do when you’re in Harlem.”

“I’ll have to take you around Brooklyn some time. You can never do everything in New York. And summers here are my favorite.”

“I’d love to see Brooklyn. I have to go to Philly next week to check on some business interests. Maybe when I get back?”

“Maybe. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m trying to change the conditions of our . . .” The look she sends me is half-teasing, half-earnest. “. . . friendship.”

“Friends do things together.”

“Mmmm,” is her only answer, accompanied by a smile. “So what’s so special about the Rucker?”

I go with her change to a safer subject.

“It’s a proving ground,” I answer. “All the greats go there at some point, some of them playing against local guys who never made it to the NBA, but are as talented as the professionals. If making it was purely based on talent, I certainly wouldn’t be in the NBA. It’s hard work. Staying out of trouble. Understanding the system and working inside of it.”

“Who are some of your favorite players?”’

“The Big O, for sure.”

“I’m a fan of the Big O myself,” she says with a straight face and teasing eyes.

It takes me a second to put that together, and visions of Lotus mid-orgasm make me choke on my black-eyed peas.

“Very funny,” I say, coughing and sipping my water. “But I meant the other Big O, as in Oscar Robertson, the first NBA player to average a triple double.”

“I’m sure he’s great, too.” She shrugs, and that damn strap falls away from her shoulder.

“Why the Song of Solomon?” I ask, nodding to the script tattoo on her collarbone.

“It was MiMi’s favorite. She was a romantic at heart, and the Song of Solomon is one of the most romantic pieces ever written, in the Bible or otherwise.”

“I never think of voodoo and conventional religion co-existing, but seems like MiMi figured it out.”

“She wasn’t religious, but she cobbled together her own faith in a way.” Lotus takes a sip of her drink before going on. “I make the distinction because I think religion, when abused, has been one of the most destructive forces in this world. Religion killed Jesus. Religion led to the Spanish Inquisition and the Salem Witch Trials. People conveniently organize their beliefs around their agendas. Taking money, starting wars, segregating, lynching—all of it had some scripture, some tenet twisted around to fit hate. True faith is about relationship.”

I push aside an empty bowl. “How do you figure?”

“First of all, relationship between you and God. Higher power, whatever you call it. Something bigger than you,” she says. “And second, relationship between people. The Bible says true religion is taking care of widows and those who can’t care for themselves—the most vulnerable.”

“I get that.”

“But religion, as it’s tossed around now, has so little compassion. So little humanity, and faith is first human.”

She pushes the last of the grits aside and rests her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands.

“It’s us admitting to the universe we don’t have all the answers. Too often religion says yes, I do have all the answers, and if you don’t like them, you can’t sit at my table. So we have all these tables. Too many tables, and not enough love.”

“You sound like you’ve experienced this firsthand,” I say.

“I did, growing up.” She nods, sadness, memories, something darkening her eyes. “Faith should give hope, not take it away. Church people wouldn’t allow MiMi to worship with them. They called her a witch.”

“Was she?”

“She was an old woman who wanted to celebrate her faith with her community.” Lotus shrugs philosophically. “She couldn’t sit at their table, so she made her own. Every Sunday morning, we’d sing hymns on the back porch. She’d pull out her little Bible and read to me. That thing was falling apart, pages hanging out. She kept it by her bed and read it every night.”

“And that’s how you got into the Song of Solomon?”