by Pat Simmons
“The lovely Mrs. Dinkins, tell her I said hi.”
Wrinkling her brow, Hallison held her breath. Not on your life. “Okay.”
Hours later, Hallison parked outside her mother’s white brick colonial house. “In and out, go in, grab the package, and dash out,” Hallison coaxed herself as she followed the winding brick path to the emerald green front door that matched the window shutters.
“Hi, Mama,” Hallison managed to choke out as her mother squeezed her in a bear hug at the door. “I can’t stay long.”
Addison patted her cheek. “I know, baby.”
She relaxed. “This means I don’t have time for a prayer right now.”
“Honey, I already prayed for you this morning.” Her mother waved her hand.
Hallison cringed as she walked to the sofa table and scooped up the package. Kissing her mother’s cheek, she was ready to bolt. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Sure, baby. Remember, I love you.”
“Okay. I know, and I love you, too,” Hallison said hastily as she tried to get out the door in record time, but her mother’s grip stopped her.
“Hali, I know you’re in love with that young man.”
Uh-oh. Here it comes. Nodding, Hallison held her breath.
“You know, we’ve had many talks through the years. Not once have I suggested you use any form of birth control because you’ve always cherished God’s Word for what it was and followed His instruction on how to live holy. Something happened and you never told me what, but saints don’t leave God overnight, it’s gradual.”
“I know, Mama, but—”
“Just a reminder, sex outside of marriage is fornication. The Bible doesn’t treat it as a light topic. To indulge in it has consequences. I’ve got too much conviction to say if you engage in sex, take the pill, use a condom, or another form of protection. It’s like knowing you were going to rob a store, I’d say, I wish you wouldn’t, but if you do, use a knife instead of a gun—either way, it’s wrong. God would hold me responsible for bad counsel.”
Hallison stared into her mother’s eyes. “Mama, I’m not going to rob—”
“Sin is sin. I didn’t make up the rules.” She tightened her grip on Hallison’s hands. “The point is, a person always gets caught with the Lord.”
Beads of sweat lined Hallison’s upper lip, but she remained quiet.
“All, I’m saying, sweetie, is if you sin, be prepared for the fallout—pregnancy, HIV/AIDS, venereal diseases, and spiritual death.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll remember.” Hallison opened the door and hurried to her car. A prayer would’ve definitely been better than her words of wisdom.
Back in her apartment, she blocked out her mother’s words as she dressed enticingly. It wasn’t as if she didn’t believe the Bible, she just didn’t believe everything.
Her friend, Tavia, didn’t let the Bible, pastor, or anybody keep her from loving and marrying David, the man of her dreams. Her former pastor had the nerve to advise Tavia against marrying David because he wasn’t ready spiritually. That minister had crossed the line! We have no control over who we fall in love with.
That day was the catalyst for them walking out of church and never returning. Hallison didn’t want the pastor dipping into her business, either, all in the name of God. All she knew was Tavia and David were happily married.
Checking herself out in the mirror, she admired her tight, fitted jeans, scooped neck jersey, and new shoes as her doorbell rang. A second chime made Hallison hurry to the door and open it.
Malcolm discharged a slow whistle as he perused her from head to toe. He fingered her cheeks on his way to her soft shoulder-length curls. Eventually, his thumb nudged her face closer. She enjoyed his appraisal before he indulged her in a slow, drugging kiss. “This evening, I’ll share you with my family. Later tonight and tomorrow, I’ll share you with no one. You’re mine, woman.”
***
Parke smirked. It was a miracle that Cheney was speaking to him again. The woman moved around in Parke’s kitchen like she lived there.
“I can’t believe I’m inside your house.”
“I can’t believe you know how to cook,” he teased her.
“Whose fault is it if I don’t, Mr. Macho Man? I was looking forward to sampling the African dishes this week, but no, you told your instructor friend to let someone else have my spot. I ought to dump this tetrazzini on your conceited head.” Cheney lifted the six-quart baking pan overhead to demonstrate.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Parke held up his hand to ward off any disaster.
“Yes, you suggested that place and then you acted like a fool.”
“I apologize again, but it was your hairdo that drove me to do it and those pack of wolves acting crazy that night. You’re irresistible.”
“Whatever. I’m only cooking here because Grandma BB said your background check came back clean. So there.” Cheney stuck out her tongue.
Was she aware that she was teasing him? Parke cleared his throat. “Your neighbor is crazy.”
“Yes, she is, so be careful. How often do the Jamiesons have a party, anyway?”
“We used to have family night every week. Now that everyone’s busy—once a month. You can stay, you know.” He admired her casual attire, but smiled at her polka-dot socks. Pretending to sniff the dish, Parke leaned forward and inhaled Cheney’s subtle scent. “Man, you smell good.”
“You sure it’s not the food you smell?”
“Yep, you always smell like sweet fruits. What’s in that stuff anyway?” Parke lifted his eyebrow, eying the mess. “Please tell me you know what you’re doing.”
A mischievous grin spread across Cheney’s face. “Maybe, I’m experimenting.” They both enjoyed a laugh before she glanced around her surroundings again. “This is a fantastic kitchen, by the way. From what I’ve seen, your entire house is nice.”
Parke’s phone rang just as Cheney sprinkled Parmesan cheese on top of the dish. “You better get that Parkay. It could be a client needing a hot tip.”
Answering, he watched her work effortlessly around his kitchen. “Hello.” Parke mumbled into the phone, “Mom, she doesn’t know she’s meeting any of you, so come at seven instead of eight o’clock. I already told Malcolm yesterday.”
“PJ, doesn’t that poor girl know she’s invited? If she’s like any other woman, she’ll want to look her best and—”
“Mom, I guarantee she won’t want to impose. She’d never admit she’s lonely. Her family is more hostile than al-Qaida, and her next-door neighbor is tougher than a pit bull on steroids,” he whispered into the phone before they said their good-byes.
Smiling, Parke couldn’t imagine not having a close-knit family. Cheney continued to prepare dishes as he snuck up behind her. Stupefied, he scrutinized the contents in the pan. “I thought you said you knew how to bake a cake?”
Nonchalantly, she glanced over her shoulder and laughed at what had to be a grief-stricken expression. “It’s dump cake, Parke. I don’t need milk, water, or eggs. I spread a layer of sliced peaches, add another layer of apple-pie filling, then dump the cake mix straight from the box on top.” She demonstrated by leveling off the mound. “Cover with one stick of butter slices and viola, a masterpiece.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “It looks more like a master mess.”
Nostrils flaring, she lifted one soft, sexy eyebrow. “Never challenge a new millennium woman who’s six feet. You’re likely to get slam dunked.”
“Really?” Within inches of her mouth, Parke invaded her space. Cheney’s intoxicating scent whipped around his head, and her long lashes held power over him. He was the one who felt weak in his knees. She didn’t back away or blink.
“On second thought, I’ll give you your space.” Grabbing a dishtowel, Parke rubbed at imaginary dirt on his counter, eyeing the clock. He had to keep her there.
“Good idea, strong Black warrior chief of the Diomande tribe.”
His mouth d
ropped open like an unlocked gate. “You remember that?”
Walking to the sink, she bumped him out the way. “Of course.”
“Ouch!” Rubbing his thigh, he feigned injury. “I see you’re using your secret weapon again, brick house.”
She ignored him as she rinsed her cooking utensils before placing them in his dishwasher. “Your story was fascinating. How could anyone not remember?”
“So you’re not fascinated with me, huh?”
She tilted her head, thinking. “Nope, just your family heritage.”
“Seriously, don’t you want all this?” He swept his hand in the air.
“I already have all this, a house, and a kitchen.”
“What about a family, children to continue your heritage, your future?”
Staring through Parke, she sighed. “Sometimes, it’s not good to dream the impossible dream. At one time, I wanted a family.” She erected a wall before his eyes. “I’ve been domesticated enough today. I better head home before your family arrives.”
Wanted a family—past tense, what happened? Parke peeked at his watch. Thirty more minutes. “You leave when you know a brother needs you. I can’t remember how to make your fancy drink. I guess I’ll serve Kool-Aid with your dish.”
Cheney rolled her eyes and sighed. “Parfait, Parke. Three simple ingredients: soda, punch, and raspberry sherbet.” Shaking her head, she popped him with a wet hand towel. “You’re sad, pitiful, and slow. Give me your punch bowl.”
They were straightening the kitchen when the doorbell chimed, Cheney jumped. “Your family is early.” She quickly washed her hands and untied her checkered apron.
While she was in panic mode, Parke strolled out the kitchen. He opened his front door to greet his parents. Their chatty and cheerful voices grew louder as footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor.
Jingling keys announced Cheney’s presence. “Hello, everyone, I’m Cheney Reynolds. I live in the neighborhood.”
Everyone stopped in their tracks. Parke eyed his dad who was smiling. He had never seen the senior Jamieson grin approvingly at any of his dates. To impede Cheney’s hasty retreat, Parke made introductions. She was embraced like an old friend.
“Hmm, something smells good. I know you didn’t cook,” Hallison teased.
“The credit goes to Cheney and her tetrazzini.”
The elder Parke rubbed his hands together. “Then, why are we standing around? Let’s get this party started.”
Cheney glanced at her watch. “Give it about ten more minutes. Don’t forget to toast the almonds and sprinkle them on top before you serve it.”
His mother looked disappointed. “Aren’t you staying, dear?”
“No, Mrs. Jamieson. This is your family night. I don’t want to intrude.”
“Intrude, please intrude,” Hallison begged as everyone chuckled.
“You’re very kind to offer, but I really must go. Have a good time. Good night.” She continued to the door and Parke didn’t follow.
When the lock clicked, his dad whistled. “Your taste is improving, son. She’s a beauty with little effort.”
Charlotte grinned. “And she can cook, which means my eldest boy won’t starve.”
“What’s that I smell baking?” Charlotte’s eyes widened.
“Cheney’s dump cake,” Parke stated with unexplainable pride.
Linking his fingers with Hallison’s, Malcolm guided her to the dining room.
His dad twisted his lips, wiggling his bushy salt-and-pepper mustache. “Is something finally developing between the stalker and your prey?”
Laughter exploded. Even Parke chuckled before answering, “I’m trying, Dad.”
“Try harder. Lose the cockiness, and you might have a chance.” His dad patted him on the back. “Remember, the woman you fall in love with will determine your destiny. Don’t mess up our name. C’mon. My stomach’s growling.”
Minutes later, with a punch bowl on the counter, Parke mixed the parfait according to Cheney’s instructions.
Malcolm threaded his fingers through his curly hair. “Maybe we should go to Cheney’s house and bring her back,” he joked.
“I like her. I get good vibes from her,” Hallison said. “I think Parke’s smitten.”
Leaning close, Malcolm outlined her lips with his finger. “I know I am.”
Charlotte’s smile reached her eyes before she turned to Parke. “You know, I think your brother has an excellent idea. Let’s go.”
“Go where? Wait a minute, you plottin’ Jamiesons.” Parke stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Cheney’s a private person who isn’t accustomed to all these warm and fuzzy feelings, especially from her own family.”
Parke’s father held up board games. “All the more reason to go.”
Charlotte whispered to Hallison, then they began to pack up trays, paper plates and napkins. “If she won’t stay for our party, we’ll take the party to her.”
A grin spread between Parke’s lips. “Let’s go. This ought to be interesting.”
***
Cheney had enjoyed the harmless flirtation with Parke in his kitchen, but as soon as she stepped into her haven, her mood changed. Even a refreshing shower couldn’t cleanse her melancholy as she recalled the smiles, laughter, and love she’d witnessed.
Parke’s brother held a striking resemblance to him, except Malcolm was thicker. Mrs. Jamieson oozed with charm, classic elegance, and a warm spirit. She definitely fit an Elaine persona—beautiful and the mother of handsome sons.
Squatting by her bed, Cheney thrust her hand into a basket, grabbing a bottle of lotion. She thought about the major disconnect with her parents and siblings. She’d hurt them. Cheney’s father drilled into her head the importance of life, regardless of the quality. Exhausted from thinking, Cheney closed her eyes.
As if a lightning bolt zapped her, tears sprouted and streamed down her cheeks. Cheney covered her face, sobbing uncontrollably. “This is silly. I don’t even know why I’m crying.” Standing, she put on her Mickey Mouse pajamas for bed. Still dazed, she walked into the bathroom and systematically applied layers of cold cream to her face.
While braiding her hair, she heard a faint ringing in the distance. She wasn’t expecting anyone, so she ignored it. Heavy knocking replaced the doorbell. Her first thought was Mrs. Beacon. Cheney barely grabbed her robe as she raced out of her room and jumped two stairs at a time. Her heart pounded against her chest with anticipation of impending disaster.
Checking the peephole, Cheney flung open her door, annoyed. “Parke, why are you beating on my door?” She growled before noticing his entourage. Leaning against her doorframe, she folded her arms and waited for an explanation. “Okay, somebody, anybody, everybody, tell me what’s going on? The party’s not here.”
Parke leaned forward, close to her ear. “Ah, Cheney, if you’re trying to scare the neighborhood with that stuff on your face, you succeeded. Trick or treat.”
The man’s attractiveness always seemed to contradict his natural sense of humor, but Parke seemed to lighten her mood. She would never admit that, but she craved him. Plus, the short kiss they shared was nice. Being away from him had caused her sour mood. She ignored the mischief in his eyes and poked her finger in his chest. “See, you don’t have good sense.” She dismissed him and turned to his mother.
“Mrs. Jamieson, pardon my rudeness. I usually reserve that for Parkay.”
They cackled at his nickname. Cheney ushered them inside before they disturbed Mrs. Beacon who might open her door with a loaded shotgun. “So why are you all here?”
Mrs. Jamieson, the shortest of them, lifted her bags. “Dear, we wanted to include you in our games. I hope you don’t mind, we even brought food, and dessert.”
Cheney’s face was starting to feel oily from the cold cream. She couldn’t believe she was standing in her living room and dressed in her favorite pajamas talking to Parke and his clan. She glanced at his brother and his girlfriend. “This isn’t making any sense.
”
Swiping his finger against her cold cream, Parke whispered, “You might think clearer if you get that stuff off your face.”
She smacked his hand away. “Believe me, I can look worse.”
Chuckling, Parke agreed. “Don’t I know it?”
Hallison smiled. “Cheney, indulge us. You seem to be the only one able to keep PJ in line, so we basically invited ourselves.”
Cheney lifted an eyebrow. These people are truly crazy, like that explanation justifies them barging into my house. She conceded. “Make yourselves comfortable while I put on some clothes.”
Wanting to smack Parke’s silly pleased expression off his face, she zoomed up the stairs instead, overhearing their oohs and aahs about her house. Cheney quickly changed into her jeans and a black sweater. When she returned, food platters and a game board overtook her dining room table. The only vacant chair was next to Parke. He stood, watching her.
Once Cheney was seated, Hallison passed her a plate already filled with her own tetrazzini, breadsticks, and salad. She sipped her parfait. “Parke, you did good.”
He inched close to her face like he was going to kiss her. What is his problem? Try it at your own risk, her expression warned.
“I learned from a very talented, tall, and attractive twin,” he complimented.
The room burst into laughter as Cheney nudged him in the ribs. “Stop it.” She placed her glass on the table and took a deep breath. “Now, tell me about the game.”
“Black Americans of Achievement, one of PJ’s favorite,” Charlotte offered.
Lifting her brow, she faced Parke, and smirked. “PJ, huh?”
Mr. Jamieson chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what we call him when we’re all together.”
Cheney’s eyes strayed to Malcolm and Hallison. They were an attractive happy couple. She was drawn in by their magnetism. She detested romance books, movies, and plays, but what she was witnessing created a yearning. Cheney felt awkward. Although she and Parke were neighbors, they were gradually becoming a little more than friends.
“It does take some getting used to. The eldest Parke is given his honor. After that is PJ1, PJ2, etc,” Hallison explained.