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A knock like a boom of thunder on the front door made me leap from my seat. “It’s him!” I cried, then stuffed my knuckles into my mouth and stared at the door as if the boogeyman were about to burst through it. “Well go answer it, child,” Mama chided, shaking her head. I smoothed my trembling hands down the waist of my dress and gulped in a few brimming lungfuls of air. Then I wobbled to the front door and gracelessly yanked it open. Jackson stood on my mother’s front porch in a beautiful navy-blue suit and an ice-blue tie that exactly matched the color of his eyes. His dark hair was tamed. There wasn’t a whisper of stubble on his square jaw. In his hands he held a tiny, perfect African violet plant, the pot wrapped in cellophane and lilac tissue paper. He said solemnly, “Bianca. Good
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