Like Slow Sweet Molasses

by Like Slow Sweet Molasses

  “Tell me quickly, Chance, about your past.”

  “What?”

  She refused to let him pass the doorway knowing full well he could advance as far as he wanted—if he wanted. Shaky fingers, the nails broken and stained red, wiped at the tracks on her cheeks. “You were a troubled kid. I got that much from what you told me about your connection with the Robinsons. Tell me about the rest.”

  Chance mellowed. “What do you think you know?”

  “I want to hear it from you,” she challenged.

  “Hear what? That I was a truant as a youngster?”

  “Is that what you call it? Being a truant.” She had all she was willing to take. “Be the gentleman I thought you were and leave. Now!”

  “I’ll leave you alone if you file a complaint against whoever did this to you.”

  “That’s like striking a bargain with the devil himself as he promises to spit you out of hell if you just obey. I don’t want any more trouble. I have wagonload of that already.”

  “I don’t know what you want from me, Angela.”

  “The simple truth…about…the attempted assault.”

  “What?” he bellowed.

  “You heard me.” She stood her ground although terribly frightened by his tone and unusually aggressive manner.

  “The charges against me were false and proven so.” Chance hated reliving that time in his life. “They were juvenile corrections charges lodged against me and—”

  Angela saw the bulb go off in his head.

  “Darrell did this to you?” All the pieces fell into place. “He’s misrepresented the truth to smear me in your eyes, Angela. Have I ever laid a hand on you or given you any reason to fear me?”

  “Does our first meeting count?”

  His laugh was harsh. “You tagged me pretty good yourself, if you recall, with that acerbic tongue of yours. I only defended myself.”

  “I rather not owe you anything. Have Mr. Robinson bill me for the materials. You can leave yours for the equipment with Mrs. Thatcher.”

  Dismissing him had become a habit of hers. “Fine. I’ll do that. Now, you’ve got to do something for me and I promise not to bother you ever again.”

  “I’ll do anything to hurry this up.”

  “Get your purse. Let’s go.”

  “You must be out of your mind to think I’ll go anywhere with you after…after—”

  “Then I’ll call 911 and have an ambulance take you to the hospital instead of my taking you to the precinct to lodge a complaint.”

  “That’s blackmail,” Angela accused.

  “Call it what you want. What’ll it be?” Chance knew a record existed of everything that transpired between them that evening. Darrell sealed his own fate by continuing to pursue Angela as a way of frustrating him. His meddling would be his undoing.

  “Okay. I’ll permit you to compile your evidence if that means getting that trash off the streets and you out of my hair.”

  “Deal.”

  Darrell’s arrest on gun charges was key to having him returned to lockup for possession of an illegally obtained firearm. A convicted felon in violation of the law. Her association with him, naming him as her attacker on two consecutive occasions, on two consecutive days remained on file as a last resort maneuver. Her involvement in Chance’s case against him was unnecessary for which she was relieved. In spite of that, she was on the receiving end of whispered innuendos instigated by the one person whom she sought to protect by warning her of Darrell’s criminal record.

  Sheryl was unforgiving, criticizing Angela in front of other teachers in the lounge during lunch periods. Overtly accusing her of petty jealousy of the relationship she and Darrell shared. Matters escalated until Angela, filled to the brim with ignoring the snipes, confronted her when her amen corner was absent. Their tête-à-tête smoothed out their differences while the friendship skidded to a grinding halt.

  Angela’s days at school seemed longer than ever before due to the animosity charging the air. Now she was in a better position to escape at her convenience without depending on the bus schedule all thanks to Mrs. Thatcher’s generosity. The last act Chance committed at the termination of their friendship was to arrange for a loaner car. Mrs. Thatcher’s to be exact. Her vehicle sat unused most of the time since Chance chauffeured her whenever needed. Once all was said and done, she owed him a great debt of thanks for thinking of her safety even under their strained association.

  Chance kept his word maintaining a self-imposed exile that included his aunt’s home during the hours Angela was at home. Mrs. Thatcher’s view of the situation was their reason for calling it quits to the developing relationship was as weak as sweet water. She insisted to Angela Chance’s neglect at defending himself against her charges was because he was innocent then and hurt now that the woman he was attracted to believed him a scoundrel. Until they remedied their spat, she urged Angela to keep the lines of communication open.

  Angela wheeled into Mrs. Thatcher’s driveway, tooted the horn at her sitting in the swing with a visitor and drove to the back carport. Daylight waned giving way to dusk as she juggled her load to the front. “Good evening.”

  “Hey, Sweet Child. Come here. I want you to meet someone.”

  Angela looked at the black woman sitting comfortably in the swing next to Mrs. Thatcher. The woman looked back at her the way someone in authority sized up a suspected person-of-interest. Her cases set at her feet when she climbed the steps to the porch and waited for the introduction Mrs. Thatcher eagerly wanted to perform.

  “Angela, this is Chanté Guilridge.”

  “Nice meeting you, Chanté.” That was all she knew to say. Yet, the vibe stipulated something more needed saying, especially when the woman stood up.

  “Same here, Angela.”

  Each woman appraised the other.

  “Well, I’ll be going and leave you two to your visit.” Angela grabbed her belongings to withdraw; only Chanté’s voice stopped her.

  “I came to see you, Angela.”

  Mistrust narrowed her eyes as Angela responded, “Me? Why?”

  “I have information to share about Brock.”

  “That’s where I’ve heard the name before,” she remarked aloud. “There’s nothing you can tell me about Chance that I want to know, Chanté.”

  “You’re wrong, Angela. He’s lost some of his spunk after finally coming back to life with his relationship with you.”

  She strenuously objected to the terminology. “We were acquaintances. That’s all.”

  “Call it what you like. All I know is Brock’s interests in things other than work, motorcycles and cars revitalized after meeting you. You were a positive addition to his life. Don’t let Darrell’s lies put that fire out.”

  “There was never any fire, Chanté.”

  “Oh, yes, there was,” Mrs. Thatcher butted in. “Still is if you ask me.” At the looks of the younger women she added, “But, you didn’t,” and started the swing to moving.

  “You know what this is about, Mrs. Thatcher?”

  “Brock told me.”

  “Oh.”

  Chanté reclaimed her seat. “Please, hear me out, Angela. It can’t hurt anything. You’ve already kicked my brother to the curb.”

  “I resent that, Chanté. I’ve known your brother all of a minute. He could very well be the miscreant Darrell Williams talked about.”

  “But the fact remains—he isn’t.”

  “What makes you so sure? He’s not even a blood relative.”

  “Sometimes blood ties are irrelevant,” Chanté concluded.

  “You’re right, of course.” Angela agreed wholeheartedly thinking about the man who raised her. The only father she has ever known.

  “I’m sure of Brock’s innocence because I was the one attacked.”

  There was no recognizable shame in the voice that laid the bombshell on Angela.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Brock and Darrell were friends in high school. Scho
olyard jocks. Jocks got all the girls and craved attention. I knew Brock by seeing him on campus. I knew Darrell better for we dated a couple of times.”

  Angela broke Chanté’s train of thought. “You needn’t tell me your business.”

  “I want you to know the kind of man Brock is, Angela. I want you to know he has strong feelings for you, even now.” She let that sink in. “Now, Darrell and I had a good time together until he became possessive of my time and body. I reminded him we were just friends.”

  Chanté drifted back to high school. “One evening after practice, I was a cheerleader, you know, Darrell demanded more from me than I was willing to give up. We struggled as he tried to honey-talk me under the bleachers, pinning me to the ground. Brock didn’t do like most guys might have. He saw what was happening and took a stand—against his friend. They fought. One bullied for dominance and control. One valiantly for my honor and self-respect.”

  “I don’t need to hear anymore. This is your business and none of mine.”

  “We can thank Darrell for this conversation. After all these years his hatred of Brock persists. Darrell accused Brock of participating. That’s where the charges of attempted assault stemmed from. I cleared Brock and they dropped the charges against him. He’d spent weeks in detention put there by Darrell’s lies and came out bitter at society. That’s where he and my father’s paths crossed again. That’s how he came to the Robinson’s household after some counseling. That’s how I learned to disassociate him from what occurred. Although he was the good guy, he was part of the attack in my nightmares. Counseling helped me, too.”

  Chanté’s story was a wrap.

  “You owe my brother an apology, Angela. And another chance.”

  “Chanté, I really appreciate the fact that you just relived an awful time in your young life to clear Chance’s name. I really do. But, there’s more to what’s not going on between me and Chance. I can’t be sure I won’t hurt him in the future. Or that his relationship with me wouldn’t be a detriment to him. Thanks for your candor. I wish all of you well.”

  As Angela slowly made her way to her yard, she heard Chanté call out.

  “Think about it.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Angela knew all about cutting losses and running before the debts mounted too high for repayment. That’s why she’d written two checks, each in a very substantial amount, placed them in two separate envelopes, one each made out to Chance and Mr. Robinson. She would be indebted to no one regardless of their insistence that the deed done was a gesture of friendship. Mrs. Thatcher very diplomatically inquired as to the envelopes contents when Angela delivered them to her for disbursement, going so far as to suggest Angela broke the golden rule to never look a gift horse in the mouth. The way Angela saw it—if it had teeth why take the chance on it biting her in the butt?

  No. It was better this way. Severing all ties freed all parties involved of any further obligations.

  Another week came and went with the month of October racing into November swifter than she cared to think about. From her vantage point on the living room’s window seat facing the street, the changing season was never more obvious than the loss of leaves floating gently on the afternoon wind. Some were as green as grass while others ranged in color from golden yellows to rust reds. The temperature deigned to give way to a slight chill that the weatherman reported was only a temporary relief to the smoldering humidity on this Saturday. The change was one she happily welcomed for it put her in mind of home and her loved ones there.

  Her mother and father lived up to their promise not to call continuously to harp on the subject of whether she’d come to a decision about the request from her biological father, opting instead to badger her via text messages on her cell. They were the epitome of meddling parents whose hearts always beat a tune of love and protection for their only child. She advised them at every turn her answer was the usual: she had no idea what the answer was. The solution was to put off the inevitable for as long as she could.

  Angela looked at the messenger’s envelope in her hand delivered earlier in the day. She found the nerves to open it, dumping an engraved business card to the floor, even as the sender’s name almost sent her into convulsions. The missive, an ultimatum of sorts, contained detailed instructions for a face to face talk with her biological father.

  “Some nerve,” she hissed.

  A knock at the door startled her out of her pensive mood. It was Chance, toothpick, glower and all. So engrossed in her entanglement of the moment she completely missed his approach. Chance, who let the envelope halves plummet to the porch as she posed in the doorway, uttered not a word using the seemingly premeditated action to drive the point home. His disdainful look traveled from her head to her toes as he arrogantly mouthed the toothpick. Angela’s gaze touched on the litter on her porch then back to his ramrod carriage as he marched down her steps.

  The storm door slammed.

  “Chance?” His long frame stopped but did not turn. “I need a favor.”

  “Just like that?” He knew it took all she had stored inside to do that.

  “No. I’m aware I’m treading on thin ice. You have every right to walk out of my life and never speak to me again after the way I behaved.” His back was still to her. “You didn’t try to explain.”

  She assessed his stance watching as his fingertips pinched the toothpick in a cigarette-type hold.

  “Why explain? The fact all charges were dismissed should have been enough for you.”

  “I didn’t know you. I still don’t know anything about you,” she insisted.

  “I’m Lt. Brock Alexander of the NOPD.” He began volunteering information he ordinarily considered no one else’s business. “I was born and spent most of my life in the Montana mountains until my father relocated us here in my last years of high school. Ya-da-ta, ya-da-ta. You know the middle part. I’m divorced over five years, the father of one child, a girl just turned sixteen,” Angela smiled at that though Chance never knew it, “whom I see on most major holidays in addition to the surprise visits I make there as often as possible.”

  Chance faced her.

  “I have no convictions of any kind. Juvenile or adult. My favorite pastime is tinkering. I’m a social drinker—not a drunkard as some movies depict cops. I like motorcycles, fast cars and intelligent, intriguing women. Not necessarily in that order. I’m unattached, have been for more than a year, by my choice.” His look softened. “Anything else?”

  Angela left the porch to stand in his space, imploring eyes wide and seeking an answer in his expression. “I’ve been summoned to a meeting. The catch…if I fail to show up at the appointed hotel, today by seven pm, he says he’ll have no other choice but to visit my home.”

  “He?” Chance boomed in an irritated fashion, his own anger at her forgotten. “Who’s threatening you?”

  She handed him the letter. “Will you go with me?” He looked disgusted as he scanned the page. “I…I have no right to ask.”

  “Philip Harperiski?” he snapped.

  She elaborated. “Jason Harper’s father.”

  “Your father,” he surmised.

  “Merely a sperm donor,” Angela corrected, angrily.

  “You need a cop to guard your body.” He gave a superfluous answer, pitching the wood in the wind.

  “I need a friend.”

  “Then, I’ll go.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  Her arms encircled his waist as she melded their bodies together her way of saying she missed him. He reciprocated with a longing sigh that whistled through his teeth, certain his dream would turn into a nightmare the minute she realized what she did. To his enjoyment, Angela braced on her toes to peck his cheek. The light in her dazzling eyes, emphasizing the smile on her mouth, made him want nothing more than to sample her kiss.

  “Do you have time to take a walk with me?”

  Chance never got the chance to reply as Angela tugged
him into the house, hijacking his body and his heart, to get her money. The time to languish in her environment didn’t present itself; much to his disappointment, for her absence was all too brief. He had to settle for the leisurely stroll to the corner store for her sugar fix. Apparently, stress subsided with the taste of red flavored crushed ice on her tongue. They walked in silence periodically blessing each other with wistful glances.

  Not one to waste a second chance, Angela’s bold maneuver rested her hand in Chance’s, twisting it to get the right angle to link her fingers through his. She looked up at him for any signs of opposition, seeing pure gratification in his startled eyes that crinkled at the corners in mirth. His pace deliberately slowed as if to prolong their outing. Neither was in any hurry for the moment to end. Both unanimously agreed, in spirit, to handle whatever fate sent their way. Right now, they simply nourished their budding relationship, relishing in the feelings tingling inside.

  Angela all but disappeared into the bucket seat of Chance’s car, her noticeable agitation brought on by their current destination. Canal Street had a sprinkling of tourists gaping at the boarded up buildings that once housed thriving businesses. Today, there were a couple of open storefronts every block, compliments of the tenacity shown by their owners. Chance drove into the garage of the Riverfront Hilton a few minutes after six and had no problem parking in close proximity to the hotel walkway. The ride over was done in unbearable silence. Yet, neither forced a bland conversation, preferring support in the form of hanging onto each other’s hand.

  The motor died returning the sparsely occupied floor to its original quietness. Turning in his seat, Chance raised her hand to his lips drawing her sad eyes to his. “It’ll be okay. You know that, right?”

  An apprehensive look entered her eyes.

  “He wants something from you, Angela. That puts you in the driver’s seat. You call the shots.”

  “I call the shots,” she repeated as if hearing English for the first time. She opened her door prepared to get out when he sidelined her with a mindboggling kiss that took her breath away. “Wow!”