She didn’t know how to explain what had happened. In the restaurant, she’d glimpsed at the tall man in the black jacket behind her in the line. He’d been talking to the teenage boy in front of him. He’d also been staring at her.
The small area she usually sat in had been crowded and thoughtlessly she’d turned to its opposite side when disaster struck. Her long shoulder bag had hit against a chair, upsetting her balance, and the young girl behind her had knocked her elbow with a muttered “Sorry,” as she went by.
One dish slid off the tray before she could catch it. Feeling like an idiot, she’d looked up to apologize and met the startled glance of the tall man whose black jacket was now decorated with her potato salad.
Thoroughly humiliated, she heard herself babbling on and on as she wiped at the salad with napkins a lady handed her.
The man had stood, tense and silent, until someone relieved him of the tray he was still holding.
He grabbed her hands to stop her dabbing at the stain, refused her offer to clean the jacket and stalked away.
Every time she thought of the incident she mentally kicked herself, again. Thank goodness it had happened in Florence, not here where everyone knew everyone else. Otherwise she’d never live it down.
It was time to get on with her work and put her personal misadventure behind her. As it was, she’d lost her appetite for what was left of her meal and had left the restaurant immediately. She didn’t want to run into him in the parking lot. He was probably on his way to Florida and she’d never see him again.
She thought she hadn’t noticed his features but as she drove home she found that his broad jaw, firm mouth, wide forehead, expressive dark eyes and heavy eyebrows had painted a picture in her mind. He had cinnamon-brown skin and his fingers were long and well shaped.
There was no getting away from it. The man she’d made a fool of herself in front of had been very attractive.
She wasn’t supposed to be on duty on Saturday, which was why she’d gone to the morning conference in Florence, but when she’d arrived home, Stanley Worden, a volunteer, had called to ask if she could fill in for him.
“The only scheduled activity is an extra quilting bee. It seems the ladies were a little behind on their present project. They promised to be out by six. Can you do it, Makima?”
Stanley was usually dependable and she thought working at the center might help take her mind off Florence so she’d agreed.
She took a folder from her bottom drawer, one of many numbered from one to ten. All were entitled Grayson Medical Clinic.
She was working on number ten. Perhaps with recent events the tide had turned and she wouldn’t have to go on to number eleven. This was her goal and her daily prayer.
Her project had begun three years ago. Her youngest sister, June, eighteen years old, had been coming from Orangeburg where she and three friends had gone to watch a football game at South Carolina State. A drunk driver had hit the car on the passenger side where June had been sitting. Everyone else had minor injuries but she had suffered the full brunt of the impact.
The only local facility for such trauma had been the volunteer fire department, which did its best to stabilize June so she could be taken to the hospital in Swinton. The multicar midnight freight train delayed them still longer and June’s life had ebbed away by the time they arrived at the hospital.
Since that day Makima had made the establishment of a medical clinic in the Grayson community her priority so no one else would lose a life because the hospital was thirteen miles away on the other side of the railroad tracks, and where emergency care would be available twenty-four hours, seven days a week.
Her work had been tireless.
“Don’t you think that’s too big a project for Grayson to take on?” Gerald Smalls had asked when she’d sought his help.
Gerald was well-meaning and pleasant, but Makima knew he rarely volunteered for hard work. That hadn’t kept her from asking. He was well liked and had a lot of friends.
“It’s a big project, Mr. Smalls,” she’d replied. “All I want you to do is talk to your friends about it. We need to spread the word so when we have the first big rally, hundreds of people will come. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Be glad to, and I’ll get my wife to talk it up, too.”
The first rally was held three months after June’s death. Her father, Arthur Gray Jr., recalled how his father had settled in the rural area of Swinton at the turn of the century, arriving from Mississippi with his wife, Ruth.
“They were looking for a better place to make a living and raise a family. They believed in hard work and used their money wisely. They bought land when they could, educated their children and helped many other people who came here. This community was named Grayson after them and it grew and prospered. Now because of this tragedy, we have an opportunity to do what they did. Working hard as a community we can give Grayson its own medical clinic so that our people won’t have to go into Swinton for every health need, especially our senior citizens who don’t always have rides.”
Makima had asked business leaders, ministers and teachers to speak. After all the questions had been asked and answered, she closed the rally with comments from the families whose children had been in the car with June. She’d asked her mother to speak but wasn’t surprised when she said she couldn’t.
A second rally had been held four months later and this time her mother had been the first to speak.
“I want to thank you all for coming out this evening. This is a special day. I want to show you the first large deposit of money for the Grayson Medical Clinic. Here is the check from the insurance company.” She waved it in the air as the filled auditorium exploded in applause. When it was quiet again she explained the money would be put in a certificate of deposit so it could be earning interest during the time it would take to pull the project together. “This is our seed money and we have faith in God that He will water this seed until its work is finished.”
So much had happened since that day. Some of the grants Makima had written had paid off. Foundations had made some contributions and in Grayson itself, many organizations had held fund-raisers.
The reason she’d gone to Florence had been to speak to a possible donor following the public-health conference. Not only had the donor made excuses for refusing to give funds to the worthy cause, he’d also had the nerve to flirt with her. It’s no wonder she’d been easily upset at the restaurant.
The remaining hurdle for the project was land. She wanted a piece of Mr. Zeke’s property. She’d spent many hours with him and Miss Sarah, his wife, before she’d passed away. Miss Sarah had often called her “my little girl,” and had given her the run of the house.
As a child, Makima had followed Mr. Zeke around, and when she grew up they’d spent time together when he was working on one of his many projects. He’d explained to her how he’d fashioned parts of the house and how he loved working with wood.
When she’d started her drive for the clinic, she’d asked if she could use part of his property. “I have a feeling this is where it’s supposed to be,” she told him.
“We’ll see,” was his answer.
As the months went by she became deeply involved in the legal and medical requirements for a clinic, necessitating long conferences with a number of people in the business, and visiting the kind of clinic she thought would be appropriate. Many other community people helped, but she was the prime mover even though there was a board made up of Grayson residents.
Occasionally she’d talk with Mr. Zeke and mention the land she wanted to buy for the clinic. “The