Reflections of a Faithful Heart

Marcus Being Marcus

Grace stepped out of the sleek SUV, offering one last compliment on the car that she knew would fuel Gina’s pride. She waved as her friends drove off, the uplifting energy of the church service still warming her. The feeling of renewal, however, began to curdle the moment her eyes landed on the car parked squarely in the driveway. Marcus was home.

A familiar, heavy disappointment settled in her stomach. He had chosen to stay home all day rather than join her.

Pushing the front door open, she found him exactly as she’d half-expected: lounging on the couch, a controller gripped in his hands, his entire attention captured by the blaring TV screen. The sounds of a virtual battlefield filled the spacious room.

“Hey, babe,” she greeted, forcing a cheerful tone to mask her frustration. “Why didn’t you come to church today?”

Marcus didn’t look away from the game. He offered a nonchalant shrug. “Wasn’t feeling up to it,” he replied, his tone a clear and final dismissal of the topic.

Grace sighed inwardly but held her tongue. She remembered the fervent effort he’d made when they first started dating—how he’d promised to become a Christian for her, had gone to church, accepted Christ, and spoken in tongues all in one electrifying day. It had felt like a miracle. But the fervor had faded, leaving behind the hollow shell of a performance. She’d clung to the hope that her recent 21-day fast would spark a lasting change. Clearly, it had not.

“Well, I’m starving,” Marcus’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Is there anything to eat?” He grumbled, his eyes still locked on the screen. “There’s nothing in the fridge. Would I be starving if there was? I thought you’d grab something on your way back.”

With a resigned sigh, Grace retreated upstairs. She carefully changed out of the beautiful white Dior dress—a garment he hadn't even noticed—and wiped off her makeup. Slipping into the incredible softness of her Frette pajamas, another gift from her mother, she felt a small, tactile comfort. Heading back downstairs, she resolved to push her irritation aside and make dinner.

She decided on fried rice and roasted chicken, a reliable dish that always pleased Marcus. As she chopped vegetables and marinated the chicken, the ghost of a memory surfaced: her culinary mentor, Jace, the family chef for as long as she could remember. His voice, always full of theatrical flair, echoed in her mind: "Ms. Carter, the kitchen is a shimmering dancefloor where artistry and passion intertwine. Each ingredient is a delicate step, each utensil a partner in harmony." A faint smile touched her lips.

Soon, the air was filled with the savory fragrance of sautéed garlic and ginger, a captivating aroma that wove through the apartment like a siren’s song. It drew its intended audience. Marcus appeared in the kitchen doorway, a smile finally gracing his lips.

“What would I do without you?” he asked, the words dripping with a flattery that felt practiced.

“In this kitchen? You’d be just another lost ingredient, completely out of flavor,” Grace remarked dryly.

He chuckled, not offended, and deftly snagged a piece of roasted chicken from the pan before retreating back to his game.

When the meal was ready, she set the table and began juicing fresh oranges. Marcus finally abandoned his controller and sat down. He barely looked at her as he heaped food onto his plate. “This is amazing. This fried rice went to Harvard,” he said, his compliment wrapped in his typical humor. “You really take care of me, Grace. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She smiled and thanked him, but a quiet warning bell chimed in the back of her mind. This was unusually effusive for him. She knew his patterns well enough to suspect an ulterior motive was simmering just beneath the surface.

He made small talk throughout the meal, his conversation meandering like a river searching for its delta. He mentioned how much his mom will adored her cooking.

“Well, I only cook because you don’t like Jace,” Grace joked, referring to her impeccably talented personal chef.

Marcus’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly. He didn’t respond, but she could tell her deflection hadn’t satisfied him. It was a stark moment of clarity. Their conversations were always like this—skimming the surface of his stock gambles, her therapy clients, what was for dinner. She was planning to marry a man whose soul she had barely begun to know. The thought was a cold splash of water. Perhaps I should make an effort, she thought. Get to know him and his family better. We’re getting married soon.

Once the meal was over, Marcus stood up from the table and left the room without a word, leaving his empty plate behind. The action felt profoundly symbolic. Grace sighed and began clearing the table, her mind swirling with conflicting emotions. She loved him, but it often felt like they were on opposite sides of a breakwall, with a rising tide of misunderstanding between them.

As she washed the dishes, her phone rang. Her mother’s picture flashed on the screen. She quickly dried her hands, eager for a dose of her steadying, if sometimes overbearing, presence.

“Hey, Mom,” she greeted warmly.

“GRACE WINTER CARTER.” Her mother’s voice was a controlled storm, and Grace’s breath hitched. She knew that tone. She had committed the cardinal sin: she hadn’t sent a picture in the dress.

“Do I need to remind you of your responsibilities? A mother sends her only daughter a beautiful dress for church. She waits. She expects a simple photograph. Was that too much to ask?”

“No, ma’am, it wasn’t,” Grace said, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I’m sorry, Mom. The morning was just… a lot. Marcus didn’t come to church, and I guess I got distracted.”

“Distracted from your mother who loves you?” she volleyed back, though her tone softened a fraction. “Grace, darling, you cannot let a man, even one you plan to marry, disrupt your peace or your priorities. Especially not one who chooses a video game over worshipping his Creator.”

“I know, Mom.”

For the next ten minutes, her mother employed what Grace called her Triple Threat: strong reasoning, fervent persuasion, and lavish promises. She spoke of legacy, of presentation, of the importance of maintaining standards. She ended, as she often did, with the offer of a bribe she knew Grace could never refuse. “If you let this go, I will book us a weekend at the new wellness retreat in Sedona. Just you and me. Mother-daughter spa dates, like we used to.”

It was a tempting slice of heaven. “Okay, okay,” Grace relented, laughing softly. “You win. The dress was gorgeous, and I looked fabulous in it. I’m sorry I didn’t send a picture.”

“I know I win,” her mother said, victory sweet and absolute in her voice. “And I will hold you to that spa weekend. But there is one condition.”

Grace should have known. “What condition?”

“You bring Marcus to see your father and me before the end of the month. It’s time we had a proper discussion about future plans. A Sunday dinner. And,” she added, her voice leaving no room for negotiation, “you will wear the dress.”

The line clicked off before Grace could even form a response. She stood in the suddenly quiet kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator loud in her ears. A spa weekend with her mom was a slice of paradise. But the price was a dinner that already felt like an impending inquisition. She looked toward the living room, where the sounds of Marcus’s game had resumed. He was utterly oblivious to the deal that had just been struck concerning his future.

The chapter of her life that had started to make sense in the church pews was already growing more complicated.