by Pat Simmons
The receptionist gave him a milk-white smile. “Your name, please, sir?” She scanned an appointment book.
Stuffing both hands in his pockets, he cocked his head to the left. “Malcolm Jamieson, Miss Dinkins’ personal Certified Public Accountant.”
An odd expression masked her face. She pushed back from her desk, stood and locked her desk. Without a word, she turned and her shoes began a two-tap rhythm across the room. She didn’t instruct Malcolm to wait, so he followed.
Unlike the common area, a maroon thick carpet arrested her noisy heels. The woman stopped at a closed door where Director of Human Resources was centered on a distorted portrait-size glass window.
Malcolm was impressed. At least he knew his baby worked in a nice environment. He hoped she liked surprises. Knocking, the receptionist stuck her head in the office and then waved Malcolm forward, aware that he had trailed her.
Entering Hallison’s domain, Malcolm’s eyes were transfixed on Hallison’s blossoming smile. “Roomy place,” slipped from his mouth, but he would get a better look around later. “I was hoping I’d get this reaction.” Strolling to her desk, Malcolm leaned over and took her lips in a slow kiss before whispering, “Hi.”
She pulled away, gulping for air. “Hi, back. What are you doing here?”
Aware of his seduction, Malcolm pecked soft kisses on her lips. “Oh, convincing my lady to have lunch with me.”
“Hmm,” Hallison moaned, lifting an eyebrow. “I don’t know.”
“Uh-huh, we have to celebrate,” he teased, meeting Hallison’s questioning eyes, “our four incredible months together. The future looks pretty good to me right now.”
Hallison blushed and rubbed her nose against his. “And, I’ve enjoyed every moment. About lunch, I may need more convin—”
Malcolm’s response was an urgent, demanding kiss before helping her to stand. He massaged her fingers. “You never have to tease me to get what you want, woman. My kisses have your name written all over them.” Hallison opened her mouth to reply, but stopped. “Baby, is Calico’s okay, or would you rather eat at the Bread Company?”
Coming around the desk, Hallison snaked her arms around his neck in a hug. “I’ll eat White Castle gas burgers just to share lunch with you, but I like Calico’s.”
“I had a taste for some Hallison Dinkins, and the sight of you satisfies my craving for now. C’mon, let’s eat.”
Surveying Hallison’s red silk suit, he whistled when she walked to a wall mirror to finger-comb her hair and check her makeup.
The long-sleeve double-breasted jacket fell below her hips. The matching skirt stopped inches above her knees with teasing splits on both sides and three-inch pumps had Malcolm’s heart pumping faster than running on a treadmill.
“You need a bodyguard, Miss Dinkins, and I’m here to offer my services.” He reached for her. “I like being with you.”
“And, I like you being with me, too.”
Hand in hand, Malcolm escorted her to the downtown Italian restaurant. It was already packed with the lunchtime crowd. As the waitress led them to a cozy window seat, he teased Hallison’s ear with his breath. “You look breathtaking.”
Looking into his dark brown eyes, she mouthed her thank you.
They ordered sodas and decided to share a house salad and pizza. While waiting, Malcolm reached over and played with Hallison’s fingers. A woman sitting behind Hallison distracted him. She made it obvious she was checking him out.
Hallison glanced over her shoulder and lifted her chin in a silent challenge before turning back to Malcolm. Only her eyes wouldn’t meet his.
“She’s not a treat or a threat,” Malcolm assured her and he stretched across the table, closing the distance between them.
Nodding, Hallison looked away unconvinced. Her beautiful lips were twisted in contemplation. He squeezed her fingers. “This lunch, this moment is about you and me. Anyway, Wabash Park is kicking off its weekly summer concerts tomorrow night. I’d love to have my lady wrapped in my arms while listening to live music under the stars.”
As she struggled to answer, Malcolm wondered if the woman’s boldness had upset her. Maybe now was the perfect time for them to plan a romantic getaway. He brought her hand to his lips and placed soft kisses inside her palm. “I want to be with you. No other woman, but you. You don’t have competition.”
“There’s always competition, always.”
“Not against you, Hali. I want just you.”
“I want to be with you, too.”
He inched his mouth closer to her lips. “They can look, but only you can touch.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear.” She kissed him.
***
For the past week, Cheney had struggled to avoid Mrs. Beacon at all costs. So far the woman was proving to be a pest addicted to pesticide. Lately Cheney had started to have nightmares. It had nothing to do with her past. It was the present, and it lived right next door. She had the strangest sensation that at night Mrs. Beacon’s neck stretched like a crane and peeped inside her bedroom with eyes like E.T.
Tuesday evening, Cheney’s nightmare became reality. Before one of Cheney’s heels could hit the driveway, Mrs. Beacon was frantically beckoning for her. Now what?
Mrs. Beacon’s hair was worn in two doughnut-shaped buns above her ears. A red housedress draped her small frame and Stacy Adams engulfed her feet.
“Heney, lace sheer curtains would be my choice in your front windows. That speaks of elegance and class.” She scrunched her nose. “Anything, but those cheap vinyl blinds.”
Her elderly neighbor had a lot of nerve. The gossip about the woman was kind. That old bat knows my name. What’s her problem, anyway? Cheney took a deep breath.
The day before, Cheney’s workweek started off terribly. A major pipe had burst over the computer room, damaging several computers used for dispatching 911 calls and medical emergency alerts. She was able to have service routed to another building while the repairs were made, so customers wouldn’t experience any phone interruption.
Then that morning, she confronted a middle-aged employee with more than twenty years of service. Rumors surfaced that he’d been cheating the company for years, charging excessive overtime for changing a light bulb, reprogramming a door code, or restarting a fan after a power outage. She could still hear Clint Kent’s stuttering excuses.
“W-well, Cheney, it’s a technical thing. It may s-sound s-simple, but it takes years of training to troubleshoot a problem and correct it.”
What Clint didn’t know was the phone company had enrolled her in property and facility management classes. Without question, Cheney was certified to fully maintain her office buildings. She knew restarting a fan took sixty seconds.
“Hmm, I see. I’ve checked your hours against your coworkers’. They seem to do the job in less time; maybe I’ll save the company money and remove you from the call-out list.” The look on Clint’s face was priceless. Cheney wanted to laugh.
Clint took a deep breath as his face turned red. “Look, you just can’t come in here and think you know how to run this department. You and I both know they hired you because they needed somebody Black.”
No he didn’t go there. Closing the distance, Cheney had braced herself for a professional battle. “First, I was hired to manage this building from top to bottom, so I run the show. Second, if you ever imply, whisper, or gossip that I’m not capable of doing this job because of the color of my skin, I’ll take disciplinary action against you for discriminatory remarks. Don’t give me two reasons to fire you. You’ve only got one left.”
She left Clint standing outside her office with clenched fists. Luckily, all the men in her crew didn’t share his viewpoint.
Now, Mrs. Beacon was like a loaded gun with plenty of ammunition ready to finish off the headache Clint had started. Cheney was not anybody’s fool. Not anymore.
“Considering I live at 947 Benton and pay the house note to prove it, I’ll choose what to put in my
bay windows. Oak wood shutters will be installed before my upcoming house-warming party. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m running late.” Whew, did I say that? Imani would be proud. Rubbing her already throbbing temples, Cheney didn’t need this stress.
Cheney was convinced everything and everybody was out to get her. You can run, but you can’t hide, she thought she heard a mocking voice she couldn’t identity. First, she was imagining things about a child who never lived, now she was hearing things when no one was around. “I am not going crazy, so what am I going?” she mumbled. Lifting her mail from the box, Cheney unlocked her front door, walked inside, and locked it without looking back to see if Mrs. Beacon was still there.
Moving back home was supposed to be easy, reconnecting with family, making new friends, and living her life to the fullest. So far, she was questioning the move. Her world consisted of no close relationships—family, friends, and definitely not men. Her sister, Janae, was busy with a family. Her dad, Roland, was always at work.
Cheney alternated between sorting through her bills and turning on lamps. Her mind didn’t stray far from her family. She wanted to confide in her older brother, Rainey, but could never form the words to describe what she’d did and what she had gone through as a result. He knew a job opportunity had brought her home.
It was she who needed to make the first move. He called and called her in Dunham, and finally took a flight to see her. Only she wouldn’t—couldn’t—see him because the abortion had left her too weak. So now here she was at home and it was payback. Cheney had made ten phone calls to her mother, Gayle, in recent weeks. Only two were returned. Gayle had even declined Cheney’s offer to visit.
“Why don’t you and Janae stop by?” Cheney had asked during phone call number seven. Working around the house on Saturday was starting to lose its luster.
“Don’t have time. Your sister and I are going shopping,” her mother had replied.
“Oh.”
“We’ll wait for your housewarming. Surprise us,” she had told her.
“I’d like to go. I’m back home now; invite me,” Cheney wanted to shout, but didn’t. Just as well. She didn’t want anyone to see her masterpiece until it was presentable.
Her house, she smiled. It would become her work of art. Cheney glided up the hardwood stairs, passing the first bedroom, which she’d painted blue, then backtracked. Folding her arms, Cheney leaned against the doorframe and admired the denim bedspreads on the bunk beds. A blue-plaid rectangular rug covered most of the room’s hardwood floor. One day, she hoped to have children to tuck in.
She stepped into the adjacent room—her favorite. She had stenciled white daisies on the walls to match the ones on twin lilac comforters on the white juvenile furniture. Colorful throw pillows were stacked in a corner, but the room’s focal point was an adorable pink dollhouse-shaped bookshelf that artistically displayed dolls from various countries.
Settling into a rocker, Cheney squeezed a teddy bear dressed in a pink ballerina skirt. “I wish I had made another choice. Since I didn’t, I’ll have to redeem myself.” Closing her eyes, Cheney imagined a teenager stretched across the bed, dressed in faded jean shorts with a red shirt with the latest designer shoes crisscrossed at the ankles.
Cheyenne chattered non-stop on a three-way call with her girlfriends, twisting a long, thick, black ponytail. Posters of teenage idols vied for wall space.
Soon Cheyenne’s skinny body would blossom into a beautiful young woman. Then her daughter would exchange her sweet girlfriends for hormone-driven boys.
“Mom says if I keep up my grades, I can have a birthday party when I turn thirteen or go on a shopping spree.” Her head bobbed. “I’ve got the best mom.”
Moisture spilled as Cheney opened her eyes. “If only I’d been a good mother and given you a chance from the beginning. I was afraid and weak. I never gave you a chance, my beautiful daughter. I vow to right my wrong with or without God.”
Wiping away the lone tear, Cheney glanced down at her watch. The reoccurring child phantoms almost caused her to be late for the home-improvement class. She sprang to her feet. She couldn’t change the past. What’s done was done.
If My people, which are called by My name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land, God spoke 2 Chronicle 7:14.
Indignation filled Cheney. “I’m not your people, God,” Cheney shouted as she raced down the hall, jumping three stairs at a time. She was behind the wheel and turning the key before she closed her car door. “Besides, I didn’t own a Bible.”
Cheney arrived minutes before the start of a ceramic tile installation class at Home Depot. She had enrolled the day she signed the title. One student was an elderly woman, dressed in white overalls and a white cap, who was eager to get home and try the techniques. Cheney snapped numerous how-to pictures, asked plenty of what-if questions, and scribbled several pages of notes. The following week, she would install a Himalayan Rock ceramic floor tile in her kitchen.
Two hours later, Cheney was exhausted, but her mental activity was full of energy. She dragged her body to her Nissan and deactivated the alarm. She reminded herself that the classes and preparations were for one thing—her housewarming. So much was riding on it. She craved the togetherness she had once enjoyed with her family prior to attending Duke. God knows she had pushed them away.
“Why aren’t you coming home?” Gayle Reynolds had asked, concerned.
“Can’t get away from my job,” Cheney had lied as she recuperated from the surgical procedure gone wrong.
“What are you hiding?” Janae had asked in a separate phone call weeks later.
“Nothing,” she told her sister.
“What’s going on up there? That boyfriend of yours isn’t abusing you, is he?” Roland demanded.
Despite her family’s concerns, she told them nothing. She had stayed in Durham for five years, living undercover as a professional who had her life together. In her darkest hour, she had rejected her family’s love. “Talk to us, Cheney. We love you. We’re your family,” her sister had consoled while she was in the hospital, unbeknownst to them.
Angry and hormonal, Cheney had pushed them to the point of no return. She was unable to deal with them or life. The shame, the guilt, and the loss continued to overpower her to the present day. The housewarming would determine if she could mend the communication she had cut off. If not, she was doomed to live alone like Mrs. Beacon. Maybe, she’ll break a leg at her salsa class, she thought amusedly.
Silly fears nagged at her every now and then. I’ve got to stay away from bad thoughts, she gave herself a pep talk as her cell phone chimed and she answered.
“How are ya, girl. Please tell me you’re on a hot date, and I’m interrupting.”
Cheney laughed at Imani. “Better. I’m leaving a workshop for installing a ceramic floor. Two weeks before the housewarming.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. I’m in Atlanta tonight, but I’m flying out to London in the morning. Are you settling in?”
Tightening her lips in frustration, Cheney drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she waited at a light. Throngs of people carrying lawn chairs, blankets, and sleepy kids, were leaving a neighborhood park. The traffic was exceptionally heavy for a Tuesday night. “The house is keeping me busy, but I’m hyped about the party.”
“Me, too. Well, hon, I’ve got to go. I’m flying with Captain Rogers tomorrow, and I must look my best.”
“Is this someone special?”
“Temporarily,” Imani purred and disconnected.
It amazed Cheney how Imani could pick up her life after living with an abusive husband for three years. Her friend was a survivor. Imani made peace with her mistakes after the divorce and was living life to the fullest.
She pulled up in her driveway. With no sign of Mrs. Beacon, Cheney turned off the ignition. After activating the alarm, she staggered to her po
rch and unlocked her front door. Cheney wondered what her own future would hold.
***
Malcolm arrived at Hallison’s Hazelwood apartment complex excited about seeing her. He would never grow tired of Hallison’s wit, honesty, and seduction. Too bad she didn’t have a sister for Parke. He shrugged as he knocked on her door.
Sucking in the night air, Malcolm patted his chest when Hallison opened the door. She stepped outside in a long beige crocheted tank dress molded to her figure. A scooped neckline teased his senses. She was stunning.
He guided her chin to his lips, murmuring, “Maybe, we should skip the concert and spend some time alone.”
Hallison batted her long lashes. “Oh no, you don’t. You promised me a night filled with music under the stars.”
Malcolm grabbed her around the waist, causing her to gasp as he pulled her closer. “Hali, what we can create is more romantic than a concert. I’ll show you stars.”
Detangling from each other, Hallison peered at him with half-closed eyes before planting a fist on her hip. “Listen, Malcolm, we both decided to just let things happen between us. You’re making it hard for me to fight—”
“Whoa, baby. I didn’t mean to charge your battery. We’re both attracted to each other, and it’s natural for that attraction to lead to affection.” Grinning, Malcolm held up both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. No more pressure. I was just making a suggestion. C’mon. Let me show off my beautiful woman.”
They looped their arms together and walked the pathway to his silver Chevy Monte Carlo. Malcolm had to cool it. Hallison confided that she hadn’t slept with a man because of her church upbringing. She needed to be sure there wouldn’t be any guilt when she slept with the man she loved. Malcolm was the man. Now he had to give Hallison time to realize that. Let the God in heaven give him strength to hold out.
“Any idea which woman Parke is bringing tonight?”
Throwing his head back, Malcolm released a deep chuckle. He opened the passenger door. “I have no idea, and I’ve stopped asking. I don’t assume names anymore or ask how she’s been since the last time we met.”