He felt blind. Lost. Daze. It was amazing.
“Ten,” she squealed, joining him in the white-hot bliss.
As they clung to each other and rocked together to make the nut last, both were shaken. Time faded. Neither cared. Pleasure was unleashed. It was everything.
“See, ten strokes did it, baby,” she whispered to him between kisses to the side of his sweat-soaked face.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry,” he whispered against her breasts.
Zaria froze. “Sorry for what?” she asked.
Kaleb looked up at her. Her face and body were framed by the moonlight streaming through windows at each end of the house. Her vulnerability and fear of his next words were clear. He had been lost in the moment.
Tell her, Kaleb. Tell her the truth.
But now he was clear-head. Sobered. “For being late,” he lied.
The waves of guilt came instantly and he buried his face against her to prevent his all-knowing wife from seeing the falsehood in his eyes.
CHAPTER TWO
Two weeks later
Well, isn’t this cozy?
Zaria’s eyes narrowed as she looked through the glass wall of Kaleb’s ranch office at him sitting across his desk from a pretty woman. An attractive young woman with wavy auburn hair, big hazel eyes, and plump lips.
They both laughed.
That annoyed her because she hadn’t seen any sign of Kaleb’s good humor of late.
Freeing her face of frowns, she continued into the small building serving as his office, fighting off the desire to ask: “Hehehehe. What’s so funny? Share the damn joke...and it better be hilarious.”
But she didn’t.
That would be childish.
Jealousy had a way of making grown folks revert back to immature ways and she refused to lose control. Absolutely refused.
Right?
Right.
“Hello,” Zaria said, proud of sounding pleasant.
Kaleb rose to his feet.
He doesn’t look caught being up to no good.
“Baby, this is Greyson Locke,” he said. “She’s a journalist with The Agriculturist here to discuss—”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Locke,” Zaria said, relaxing as she extended her hand to the woman she now noticed holding a small digital recorder.
“Actually, it’s Miss,” she said as she smiled.
Miss? And dimples? Really, Lord?
Zaria released the woman’s hand before she gave in to the urge to squeeze it until it burst. Chill out, Zaria. Chill the hell out.
Kaleb reclaimed his seat.
Greyson turned her attention back to him.
The room fell silent.
Am I being dismissed?
“You needed something, baby?” Kaleb asked when she remained.
“Your Mom has all the grands for the week so I thought you and I could ride to grab something to eat...but I see you’re busy,” she said.
“Actually, could you just pick up lunch for everyone?” Kaleb asked.
The smile she gave him was weak. “I guess?” she said, surprised by the turn of events. “That wasn’t the goal. But...uhm...yeah. Sure. I can make a food run.”
He came around the desk and pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his well-worn leather wallet. “Thank you,” he stressed, bending his head.
She puckered her lips but the kiss landed on her cheek. It felt cool and perfunctory. “No. Thank you,” she said, reaching in the wallet for another crisp bill.
Zaria gave Greyson one last polite wave and left, walking the distance back to the house to climb into the Range Rover Kaleb gave her for her forty-fifth birthday. She loved it and she’d made sure to show him just how much that night.
What’s on tap for the big 5-0?
It was in a few days and her curiosity was piqued. They always made sure each other’s birthdays were special. She could use a little extra attention from her husband.
The divide between them had only widened. Sometimes he came in so late that she was already in bed. And when he did get home he went right to sleep. His attention was elsewhere.
It felt like déjà vu of her first marriage.
It was nothing but her faith in his character and her love for him that kept her from thinking it was another woman. Kaleb was fiercely loyal and honest. So, although Zaria had not given up on him, nine months was a long time to be unhappy.
“Chuckle it up for me like you were Miss Locke,” she drawled as she made a comedic face as she drove down the long driveway and onto the main road.
What did he get me for my birthday?
Zaria arched a brow as she picked up her phone. The twins helped pick out the car. Had he gotten their help for this gift as well? “Meena or Neema?” she asked herself as she steered the SUV. “Both.”
She dialed Meena first.
“Hey, Momma,” she said.
“Hold on let me get Neema,” Zaria said.
“Mom—”
Zaria put her on hold and dialed her other twin daughter. She frowned when Neema didn’t answer and clicked back over to Meena. “Your sister didn’t answer—”
“Hi, Momma. This is Neema,” she said.
Zaria swerved her Range Rover on the road in shock. “Wait. What?”
The twins laughed together. It reminded her of them as kids pulling tricks and then giggling about it endlessly.
“Neema’s here at my house. We’re on speaker, Momma.”
“What are you two up to?” she asked, accelerating forward down Highway 17.
“Getting the kids dressed to take to Nana Lisha and Papa Strong,” one said. “Freedom is near.”
“Periodt!” the other added, using the term used by the popular female rappers City Girls.
At that moment she knew the latter was Neema and not Meena. They sounded alike but Neema was more prone to random moments of ratchetness.
“That decked out Sprinter Pops brought her was the best gift ever,” Zaria said. “She already scooped up all of the Holtsville grandkids. The van was packed.”
“They wanted all the grandkids, even Kadina and Lei, so Meena and I are gonna chill with them for a little while before we head back out.”
“All fifteen of y’all?” Zaria asked.
“God bless ‘em,” one of the twins said.
“Amen,” Zaria added, driving past the Family Dollar on the left and slowing down to pull up to one of three gas pumps in front of Cyrus Dobb’s storefront that was a relic from fifty years ago.
As the tiny downtown area of the small southern town began to grow, Cyrus and his small gas station remained. The townspeople were loyal to one of their own and homegrown Cyrus was definitely that. As she climbed from the car, she frowned a bit at his empty rocker on the wooden porch. Normally he would pump the gas and offer a bit of history—or gossip depending on his mood. The wizened dark-skin man with white hair and gnarled hands had to be every bit of seventy or eighty and he was a town legend.
“Hold on. Let me get gas,” Zaria said to her daughters before putting the phone down on the console.
“Tell Cyrus we said hi.”
She was thankful he had finally updated his pumps and she was able to use her bank card. She looked around at her surroundings as she waited for the tank to fill.
Zaria grown up in neighboring Summerville and moved to Holtsville when she married Kaleb. Although it lacked the conveniences of Summerville or Walterboro, she had come to love the small town. Her hometown was bursting with homes, stores, restaurants, and nightlife while Holtsville had retained its small-town charm with a population under two thousand. There were plenty of unoccupied lands filled with grass, wildflowers, and towering pine trees. Homes were more than a backyard apart. The nights were star-filled and so quiet that the sounds of tiny night creatures seemed to echo. Everyone knew everyone and gossip was rampant. Scandals, financial ruin, repossessions, arrests, affairs, and plenty of he say-she say was all fodder—especially with the addition of social media.
There were no strangers. A family could throw a cookout and everyone in the neighborhood knew they were automatically invited. Life was easy.
With one last look at the empty rocking chair, she snatched the receipt the machine printed and climbed back inside her vehicle.
“Cyrus wasn’t on the porch,” Zaria said as she pulled out and checked traffic before turning to head in the opposite direction on Highway 17. “Maybe he was inside.”
“Trust me, he’s around there somewhere,” Neema said.
“You’re right, Twin,” Meena agreed.
“So, listen, girls,” Zaria said. “My birthday is coming up.”
“Yes?” they said in unison.
“What’s Kaleb up to this year? Party? Jewelry? A trip?” she asked, looking up at the rearview mirror to check traffic before she switched lanes as she made the fifteen-minute drive to Summerville where there was more of a variety of restaurants than Walterboro.
The line went quiet.
Zaria tensed. “What?”
“We haven’t heard anything yet, Momma,” Meena said.
Zaria frowned.
“But I know he’s on it,” Neema added.
“Right,” she said, even as she felt a nervousness rise.
Zaria knew her children. All five. Through and through. This wasn’t a cute and coy act the twins were giving her to cover a surprise. They honestly knew nothing.
He wouldn’t forget? Do nothing? No. Just...no.
“Do you want us to ask?”
Zaria shook her head. “No,” she said emphatically. “A husband shouldn’t have to be reminded of his wife’s birthday.”
“Momma?” Meena asked.
“You good?” Neema added.
“Yes,” she lied, not realizing her hurt had come through in her tone.
“Kaleb won’t let you down, plus he’s good to you all the time,” Meena said.
He used to be.
“It's not about a gift, ladies. Remember that. It’s the thought. The effort. The consistency,” she said, pulling off the road in front of a storage facility as tears filled her eyes. “The love.”
“You okay?”
“Yes,” she lied again, feeling like she already told her children too much. “I’m in some traffic. Let me call y’all back.”
Zaria ended the call and went to her home screen to look down at the picture of her husband’s face.
I gave my ex-husband over twenty years of my life. Stuck on stupid. Blinded by love. I missed all the signs. I ignored them. I don’t have another twenty years to sit by and get blindsided by another man.
The last nine months of her marriage was a true test and they were failing.
Kaleb was pulling away and she was fighting hard not to give up.
“Do you, Kaleb, with all the love, commitment, patience, forgiveness, and devotion needed for a lasting union, take Zaria to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do. I do,” he said.
“Do you, Zaria, with all the love, commitment, patience, forgiveness, and devotion needed for a lasting union, take Kaleb to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do,” she said.
One lone tear raced down her cheek and landed on Kaleb’s face on the phone.
Lately, it was feeling more and more like “I don’t”.
∞
Kaleb wiped the sweat from his brow as he and Grayson Locke stood near one of his paddocks for exercising the horses used on the farm. “To me, the best sound in the world is the steady drone of my milking machines,” he said, pausing to listen to the hum in the air.
Grayson nodded in understanding. “The dairy industry—”
“Sssh,” he said softly and as politely as he could. “Just listen to it.”
She fell silent.
He lost count of just how long they listened to the whine of the machinery he purchased last year to further modernize the barn. “For so many farmers across the country—dairy farmers, in particular—that sound has disappeared. That quiet is the sound of failure and that is a hard pill to swallow.”
“May I quote you on that?” she asked.
He looked down at the petite woman with a nod. “Absolutely,” he said, seeing her and not seeing her.
He was not a man admiring a woman. He was a farmer appreciating a journalist for helping to spread the word about the current state of dairy farming in America. That was all.
Kaleb had always been not just a rancher but a student of agriculture. He researched the market, learned effective grazing methods, stayed abreast of laws and regulations that affected the industry, and was a member of many farming alliances and coalitions. He was not just a farmer but an advocate. Thus, an offer from The Agriculturist to be interviewed had been more than welcomed.
Although he’d rather be helping Lordan and the rest of the ranch hands repair fencing along the north line of his property, he continued giving her a tour of his farm. He was grateful she was dressed for the occasion in jeans and boots and knew how to ride a horse. He preferred that to the use of the many pieces of riding equipment he owned. The pace and hoofprint of a horse seemed less damaging to the natural landscape than the heavy tread of a utility vehicle.
“Milk prices are reported to be down by forty percent going back as far as 2014,” Greyson began after she followed him coming to a stop under a huge maple tree with branches that seemed to reach a hundred feet wide from tip to tip.
“They are,” he agreed. “For many reasons that seemed to have a snowball effect. Many farmers are losing the battle. Everything from the increased popularity of sports drink and soy or almond milk; the president’s tariff’s on foreign steel and aluminum impacting the foreign purchase of dairy; even a decline in the use of cheese. It’s a domino effect. All of it has been traumatic to the industry.”
“Right,” she agreed before steering the horse around to go back ten feet before using her digital camera to take a picture of Kaleb on his horse beneath the shade of the towering broadleaf tree.
Kaleb didn’t bother to pose. She got whatever shot she got. This wasn’t about personal glory, just the story of the American farmer—and, in particular, the extra weight of being African-American.
When she joined his side, he led her to his dairy store at the front of the ranch easily accessible by the road. “I never knew in 2011 that I was ahead of my time in terms securing another stream of income for the farm,” he said as they climbed off the horses and he secured them to a post several yards from the front of the store. “Even with this we have cut back to just morning hours and weekends to keep it cost-effective.”
“Kaleb!”
He glanced up at Neema’s black SUV slowing down and pulling off the main road next to the paved front yard of the store. Both twins were in the vehicle and since they weren’t in one of their sporty convertible Volvos, he hoped the kids were them.
“You mind if I talk to your employee?” Greyson asked.
“Sure,” he said, glancing over at Minnie, a high school student who worked for him every summer.
Zaria used to run and operate the store but the kids absorbed her time and he had to hire someone. He had to admit he liked when she was more involved with the farm. He missed it.
Kaleb made his way over to his stepdaughters. “Hey, Twins,” he said even as he opened the back door and leaned in to smile at four pairs of bright brown eyes.
Two sets of twins. All two years old and looking at him with happy eyes and wet smiles as they kicked their feet and reached for him from where they were strapped into their car seats. Two on the middle row and two on the rear.
“Pops!” they all exclaimed at varying times and volumes.
He was Pops and the twin’s real father, Ned, was PaPa.
Kaleb loved them. They were his step-grandchildren but he loved them fiercely and it was clear from their expressions that they loved him as well.
“Hope. Faith,” he said, leaning in to press his face against each smooth brown cheek.
Th
e girls giggled.
He walked around the rear of the vehicle, opened the door to lower the empty seat and leaned in. “Martin. Malcolm,” he greeted them, gently squeezing their round tummies and causing a burst of laughter.
“Where y’all headed?” he asked Meena and Neema as he closed the open rear door.
“Nana Lisha and Papa Strong’s,” Meena said from the passenger seat.
He squinted against the summer sun blazing down on them as he stood near the driver’s side door. “I forgot they wanted all the grands for a week,” he said. “That’s insane.”
“Absolutely,” Neema agreed. “But that’s why we love them.”
“It’s a huge house but where are they all going to sleep?” he pondered.
Meena shrugged one shoulder in the red sundress she wore. “Two or three to a bed. Sleeping bag or comforters on the floor. Who knows?”
He nodded.
He wasn’t much older than his stepdaughters and things had been rocky between them at first but his consistency with them and respect of their father had led to them having a great relationship.
They shared a look before both eyed him. It was like having double vision with them both having long hair again. It really was hard to tell them apart.
“Soooo. Momma’s birthday is this week,” Neema said tapping her hands against the steering wheel.
Kaleb grunted and winced.
“The big 5-0,” Meena added. “Please say you have something huge in the works because if not it may be lights out for you.”
Kaleb nodded. He’d forgotten. A first. He balled his hand into a fist and lightly pounded the hood of the SUV. “Thanks, Twins,” he said, before releasing a heavy breath.
They shared another look.
“Is everything okay with you two?” Meena asked, leaning forward to look across her sister at him.
“Yeah,” he lied.
Their eyes filled with disbelief.
“No,” he admitted, hating being untruthful. “But it will be.”
“As long as there is always love in the mix everything can be fixed if you want it to be.”
He locked eyes with first one twin and then the other. “There is nothing in this world that can make me stop loving your mother. Nothing,” he stressed, his voice firm and unrelenting.
Strong Loving Page 3