Sunday at Six

By Raye Springfield

Sunday at Six is a compelling story of friendship and love. Marin, the independent, successful lawyer, and Raleigh, the open-minded, jazz musician, college professor, are introduced by people they trust. She thinks he's the man of her dreams. Is

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bettye Springfield
• Release date: Apr 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781734272611

Raye Springfield

Raye Springfield is a writer and lawyer. After decades writing legal documents, and opinions as administrative judge, she has now authored five books, pursuing her love of writing full-time. The first edition of her historical non-fiction is in the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture, in Washington, D.C. In addition to her children's book, Raye is the author of The Legacy of Tamar: Courage and Faith in an African American Family, which documents family history as well as Haywood County, Tennessee history, and 2nd edition, both published by The University of Tennessee Press; Treasure in Jars of Clay: 100 Quotes on Joy, Life & Love; and the latest, a novel, Sunday at Six. She lives in Nashville, is the mother of a son and daughter, and somehow inspired both to also become attorneys.

Book preview

1

Choices . . . U-turns permitted

Sunday was the kind of day when all the trees of the fields clapped their hands in praise.

For all my life, as long as I can remember, Sunday was always special for me. The difference between Sunday and other days of the week was palpable, one you could feel and breathe. Sunday was quieter, peaceful and more serene. Sacrosanct.

That’s how I remember Sunday at our house during my childhood. Along with my memories of loud conversation, laughter and church music playing on the radio, filtering through the house like a constant background noise. The rituals of conversations, shared laughs and special dinners that my mother prepared were passed down to her family. I witnessed them repeated countless times. And every week I would fall in love with Sunday all over again.

Later, Sunday became the one day that I allowed myself to indulge. It was the day when I permitted myself to satisfy certain desires which I suppressed during the week – to experience the varied pleasures that life has to offer on a lazy Sunday morning or afternoon. That included the luxury of sleeping late, and on occasions spending all morning reading the Sunday paper, or enjoying a breakfast of lush strawberries and cream or homemade blueberry buttermilk pancakes. I had a choice to give to others, receive guilty pleasures, and if lucky, experience both. After meeting Raleigh, I decided to share my love of Sunday. I gave generously of myself, and in doing received so much more.

Subconsciously, my family traditions may have been the reason that I chose Sunday as the first day I invited him to my home for dinner. As more time passed, those dinners too became a ritual for us. Here we were, two people coming together to share a delightful meal, a glass of wine and pieces of ourselves. We were enjoying what I’d grown to love as a child, great conversation, good food and music. We discussed the world, shutting out anything that might disrupt or interfere with our special time together. Never mind that it was a tradition only I had known. We came to claim it as our own.

So, that day the clapping stopped made the silence all the more deafening.

Hello. My name is Marin. Not Mary, but Marin. Beth is my middle name. Not Elizabeth, just Beth. That was the way it usually went, how I began to introduce myself whenever I met someone for the first time. It’s just plain Marin Beth. Maybe it is just a name. But some people say they can tell so much just from a person’s name. As for me, I guess I wanted some grand moniker.

That’s why I never liked it, my name. As a precocious child, I decided it was more of a problem than what should have been necessary. A name should be simple, certainly not subject to misinterpretation. I didn’t need a book to tell me this. I had figured it all out long before I should have known about such things. It was at the young age of about ten, after I came to this understanding, that I first started my introduction to strangers, so they would not call me Mary Beth. I did it mostly when my mother was around. I wanted her to feel guilty for giving me this name. While it may not have been exactly cruel, I now know it was wrong. But, I was more concerned about wanting a name that would blend in, rather than calling unnecessary attention to myself.

I knew on the first day of school, when the teacher called everyone’s entire name, the first, middle and last, that I wanted my name to be Elizabeth. All the girls that we later started calling Beth, Betsy or Betty, were really named Elizabeth. My mother stuck me with a silly nickname for a middle name, because her mother’s name was Beth. Though, by the time I got to high school, I had erased Beth from my name, and I unofficially became Marin no middle name.

It’s about 8 o’clock Saturday morning when I arrive at Radnor Lake, a state park south of downtown Nashville. I quickly realize that I should have come at least an hour earlier. The morning sun is out and the temperature has already started a steady upward climb, just like my walk is about to take me. Starting with the access trail, it leads to Lake Trail, and follows the contour of the east side of the lake. It’s been designated as an easy hike.

Whenever I have a busy week at the office, maintaining a really grueling schedule, I come to the lake to get re-energized, work out the kinks in my body. After about an hour on the trail, I am usually physically and mentally refreshed. Some people come here for the passive recreational opportunities or other different reasons. This is my favorite place to come for walking, out of all the parks in the city, and other places that I have visited whenever I travel.

Since I’m alone this morning, I choose safety, taking the easy hike rather than walking the more strenuous Garner Ridge Trail that goes deeper into the woods. The latter has lots of thick underbrush with many tree branches overhanging its path. The last thing I want to worry about is finding myself alone in a secluded, potentially dangerous area, with no guarantee I can summon help.

One of the main reasons I like this park is because the trails are off limits to jogging and no pets are allowed. I begin my trek knowing that, at least, I can walk without fear of coming upon a large Rottweiler stopping me in my track, breaking my rhythm, while the owner is trying to convince me that he has the only dog in the whole world that doesn’t bite. I’ve never understood the absurd view some people take of their dogs. It’s usually not the same with other pets, just dogs. Ruling such an encounter out for this morning, I focus on the winding trail.

Maybe it’s the beautiful late spring day. Something about the weather is so similar to that day. It reminds me of the first time we met, which had now been three years ago. I still remember everything about the day, almost like it was yesterday. That was the day when I met him. His name is Raleigh. I’ve only been around him a few times. Bob is better acquainted with him; but as you know, men don’t ask personal questions of other men, so he couldn’t tell me much. Melanie, one of my best friends from college, had called me on a Saturday afternoon for one of our usual chats. We were about to hang up when she mentioned the guy she had met through her husband.

Bob thinks he’s been married because he has heard him talk about his children. He does not know how many he has, and is not really sure if he’s divorced or a widower. His children are probably grown. He’s some kind of doctor. I think a pharmacist. He plays in the same band that Bob plays string bass. It’s this group of middle-aged men trying to hold on to their youth through music. Melanie laughed and made me promise never to let either man know what she thought about their band. And I hear he’s a really nice guy.

Whether or not someone is nice depends on the person who is expressing the opinion, I told Melanie. I have to know everything. Who he is? What he does? How he looks? Okay, call me shallow if you want. You already know how I feel about being fixed up with anyone.

If it were a female who knew the guy, especially one of my girlfriends, I am sure she could give me his life history plus his vita, Melanie said. Anyway, you have nothing to lose by meeting Raleigh. He is gainfully employed, obviously intelligent, not bad looking. And there’s this other thing. She paused. You look like you two might be compatible. Okay, a girl can project...

Have you ever seen some couples, who even from the very beginning, just look like they should be with each other, like they belong together? Melanie asked me. You might not believe this, but the first time I saw him, I could picture you two together. She continued. I wanted to introduce you.

I’m remembering that exchange, as I stumble on a large rock, and decide to exercise more caution. I follow the lake trail to its end, turn around and retrace my steps. Almost back to where I started, I begin to slow down. The park itself seems to command a slower pace. Surrounded by thousands of wildflowers and hundreds of species of mosses, ferns, trees, other plants and brittle vines, it’s easy to lose track of time. I make it a practice to never wear a watch when I come here, to eliminate time becoming a factor.

Thankful that someone had the foresight to strategically install benches along the trails, I stop to stretch, for probably a good five minutes. Then I sit down, lean my head back against the wood rail. Looking up at the sky, I’m suddenly lost in the vastness of space. The day is perfect, with crystal blue skies, no clouds anywhere in site. This is an added bonus to the peaceful, placid beauty of the lake. Glancing around, I spot a rock, pick it up, hold it between the tips of my fingers and toss it into the lake. Watch the ripples. Get lost in thoughts.

The waves that start small quickly spread, the circumference growing wider and wider, moving farther and farther away from the point of entry. I remember to take a quick look across all sides of the lake to assess my surroundings. Seeing no one nearby, I lace my fingers together, prop my chin up, rest both elbows on my thighs, and allow the water to hold me trance-like for minutes. I’m always amazed that a tiny pebble can trigger such a change in water movement of an 85 acre lake. Thinking about it I smile. Then return to my thoughts.

There is going to be a free concert in Centennial Park the last Sunday in the month. Melanie told me a few weeks later. She suggested that I make plans to attend because Raleigh was going to be there. We had initially discussed something more private, like getting together over coffee or even dinner. When that did not work out, Melanie suggested the concert. Although still unenthusiastic, I had finally agreed to meet Raleigh.

I wanted it to appear that I was just going to the concert for the music, not to meet him. Melanie said Dr. Bob had told Raleigh in advance that I was coming. He didn’t want to blindside the man. So, after a few weeks of sparring over where we would meet, we succeeded in working out all the details.

Bob and I will make the introductions. Melanie sounded excited. I wasn’t sure whether it was because she was pleased that at least I was willing to meet Raleigh, or if she was happy about the prospect of me having a new man in my life. All you have to do is show up.

Oh, try not to look too much like a lawyer, Melanie had added. Then she laughed and tried to convince me that she was only joking. But my closet was mostly filled with clothes for work, and that meant conservative tailored suits. I had them in classic navy, black, gray, chocolate and every variation of those colors that I could find. What I badly needed was a shopping trip just to buy fun, date clothes. A weekend trip to Atlanta was badly needed. I couldn’t recall the last time that I had bought myself something that I didn’t wear to work. So I knew she had meant exactly what she said.

And what Melanie said only made me vacillate more about whether I wanted to meet him. Why should I allow myself to be fixed up? I vacillated every few minutes. Why on earth am I doing this? I kept repeating the same thing over and over. When I finally heard myself talking out loud, I realized that I was not just mulling this over in my head.

Not once in my whole life had I ever gone on a blind date. As much as I tried, I couldn’t think of the last time anyone had even arranged for me to meet a guy. So it had probably not been since high school that anyone had tried to fix me up. I had a huge crush on this guy and one of my friends told him that I liked him. His name was Leonard. He was cute and a junior; I was shy and a freshman. Although I was unsure what to expect, I didn’t protest. That was what all the teenagers did back then. Now, over 25 years later, this man must think I am desperate. Otherwise, why would I allow my friends to arrange a date for me? Well, Melanie did say that all I was doing was meeting him, nothing more.

Marin, people meet other people all the time, every single day, Melanie said. It doesn’t have to be a date. Think of it as a first meeting, an introduction.

You’re right, I said. It is not a date.

What the two of you decide after this is your business. So, please do me a favor and quit stressing about it, before you turn yourself into a wreck. Melanie said that Raleigh was one of the most non-threatening persons she had ever met, so there was no reason to obsess.

I had been sitting there on the bench, a few feet from the banks of the lake, for some time. Thinking. Isn’t that what Frederick Douglass had suggested we do? He said that memory is supposed to serve a wise purpose. Although I would venture to guess he had something more of a grander, historical prospective, in mind. Not what I’d been doing all morning, sitting, calling up images from my personal past, and reminiscing.

I admit that what happened back on that first day of school may not have necessarily created my particular feelings about my name. Those negative feelings preceded my going to school. But I think it could definitely be a contributing factor. It’s possible that is what planted the seed for my need to know where everything fit in my life. I’d always had the desire for every detail of my life to be perfect. That didn’t leave any room for doubt, nor let me tolerate uncertainty or self-deficiency in any area.

Another ripple effect.

Before leaving the park, I rub each hand over the opposite bicep. When I do this, the surface of my skin feels almost electric to the touch. That’s how it always is when I finish exercising. Every pore in my body feels alive, lighter, as if whatever had been blocking it has been set free. I walk the short distance back to the east parking lot, pull the key from my jogging pants, click the remote when I get within a few feet of my car, and watch as the tail lights on a charcoal gray Lexus blink on as the trunk latch is released. Lifting the trunk wide open, I pull a bottle of water from a half-used pack, which sets along with two 24 packs of half liter bottles. The water bottles are the only items inside. I turn the bottle up and don’t bring it back down until it’s empty. Then I walk over to the big green trash bin at the end of the paved lot, the one for plastic, and dump it into the bin. Some people may not take the time or energy, but I do not litter. I’ve never been able to understand why anyone else does.

I drive back home with the windows down, the warm wind blowing against my body. It triggers more thoughts of that first meeting.

I had assured Melanie I was okay, even apologized for overreacting and being so anxious about the whole thing. Unruffled as usual, she extracted a promise from me that I would show, not renege. I gave her my word, and tried to stop stressing. I didn’t succeed. Instead, I called her on Sunday morning.

I know this is last minute, but I was thinking that I should call it off. It’s not too late for you to tell Raleigh that I changed my mind and, unfortunately, would not be able to make it? I’d decided that I would just tell her. Look, he may be every other girl’s dream, but I don’t want to meet him, doctor or no doctor. Before Melanie could get a word in, I continued.

Melanie, you and Dr. Bob are really smart people. That’s one thing you both have in common, and one of the reasons you two are so good together. I added the compliment to help soften what I was saying. Girl, I know you can think of a good reason to give him for my not showing up. This might even make him happy. I’ll bet he would probably like to back out of this arranged get-together as much as I do. If I change my mind, I may be doing both of us a favor.

You really think so, huh? Melanie was clearly not convinced. And I would have actually felt better if I had a really good, legitimate excuse. I didn’t believe half of what I was saying myself. Then it occurred to me. I have to wash my hair. Don’t most women say they have to wash their hair when they break a date? Or don’t want to go out in the first place. You remember when we were in college? That was the line that all of us used. Remember that after a while, it became a running joke. With some of the guys, we knew to just say, ‘She’s washing her hair,’ and hang up the phone."

That was a long time ago, Marin. Back then there were a lot more choices from all the men on campus, it wasn’t hard to find a really good date. I’m not sure that excuse could still work.

Just tell him anyway that I am sorry, but I had to wash my hair. It should have been settled. I would find a man myself, without any friendly assistance. However, by the time Sunday afternoon arrived, I had to acknowledge the fact that I was 43, single, with absolutely no prospects for marriage.

So, I showered, put on my cutest summer dress, my nicest sandals, and got into my car. I decided not to spend a second gorgeous afternoon in a row trying to decide between spending my evening with James Patterson or a Lifetime movie. I’ve never really cared that much for watching TV, anyway, and I had read almost all James Patterson’s novels. Debate over. Here I was speeding along Interstate 65.

Well, it still wasn’t entirely over. Only this time, I continued the debate with myself the entire time that I was driving. The irrational me was saying that I could still turn around and go back home. Back home was safe territory, where I did not have to try to prove myself to anyone. I did not have to be put on display like some object, and hope that he would select me. But safe is not necessarily the means to get you where you want to go, at least not always. If I ever expected anything to change, at some point I needed to step outside that box I had painted myself into. I didn’t need a rocket scientist to tell me that if you keep doing the same thing that you have done for the last 20 odd years, you are going to end up with the same result. Believe me, I had heard that one enough, and the idea of getting the same result was really pathetic. With nerves a bit frayed, I carried on this internal debate all the way from my home in Brentwood to downtown Nashville.

Brentwood is south of our capital city, straight down Interstate 65. It’s the same interstate that crosses into Alabama, passes through Birmingham, and goes down to Mobile. Brentwood is an up-and- coming suburban community that is home to country music artists and professional football players. There are also young families trying to escape the urban metropolis, actually thinking Nashville is a large city. With the median age of residents only 40, an average household income over six figures, and the average price of homes over $500,000 and climbing, it is one of the wealthiest areas in the nation.

So, why had I made the decision to settle here? I had been asked that question more than a few times by friends and relatives. That was a whole different story, for another day. Seems I had dealt with it enough when I first moved to the area. Right now, I was just happy that the park where I was meeting Melanie was only about 20 minutes away.

People I zoomed past on the interstate were probably thinking, This woman has got to be crazy. Okay, I was slightly exceeding the speed limit. And I was beginning to question my own sanity by the time my rational self finally prevailed. This was right about the time that I pulled off onto the Broadway exit, a few blocks from the park.

Centennial Park is Nashville’s premier urban park. It sets just off West End Avenue, on the west side of the city, across the street from Vanderbilt University. It is especially beautiful in the springtime with all of its lush green grass, Magnolia trees and flowers. The nice walking paths are great for taking a stroll, and swing sets throughout the park are usually shared by lovers. Couples can also be seen lying on blankets spread on the grass. In the middle of