Like Slow Sweet Molasses

  “Her ex-husband.” Connie looked him directly in his eyes. “Don’t you bring her another ounce of pain.”

  “That’s not my intent, Connie. I care very much about your daughter.” Chance wrestled with his own exhaustion by running a hand through his hair for he’d not slept in several days. His fatigue was physical. Connie and Angela persisted through it all burdened down emotionally, also. “She can’t have gone far. I’ll find her.”

  “Bring her as soon as you do.”

  Chance had his marching orders and made a beeline for the stairs tripping often as his long strides made for an unsteady descent—loping down in record time without much exertion, a benefit of the many obstacle course training sessions completed with loaded backpack. Moments later, he found her quaking in the cold.

  Standing in the elements shivering, Angela saw her prediction of being alone as reality for surely she’d chased Chance off. She hung outside counting the ambulances frequent trips to the drop-off point. The time spent served to lessen the chances of running into either man on her return to her father’s room. It doubled as punishment because she felt badly for offending Chance with the wisecrack intended to hurt Dom. But, if what Jason “accidentally on purpose” said about him was true, he wasn’t worth her apology. Still, she felt compelled.

  “I should be sorry, Chance,” she sniffled for her ears only.

  “Yeah, you should be.”

  Angela jerked around to see him silhouetted against the backdrop of light bursting out of doors.

  Chance watched her for a long while unsure of her reaction if he approached her uninvited. She bruised his ego with her taunt at her ex. Yet, he let the insult roll off his back as soon as Dom plodded unhappily past him to the elevators without any sign of Angela in pursuit.

  She amended very pointedly, “But—I’m not.”

  A fierce battle of wills ensued as their brows knitted in internal turmoil. Chance broke the spell.

  “I worried about you all the time I was gone.” He was asking her for forgiveness in his own way.

  “I’ll just bet you did,” she sniped.

  “Angela, I’m not at liberty to discuss any part of my job that requires covert activity. I never know when special circumstances will dictate me to be elsewhere at a moment’s notice. Usually, those times mean I’m incommunicado. Like I was this time.”

  “You know what, Chance,” her anger multiplied in proportion to her distress, “your behavior has lifted the rose-colored film from my eyes. Just…go…home.”

  He wondered if she’d allow him to shield her from the weather. The one way to find out was to move close enough to wrap her up in the front of his unzipped jacket. She was as stiff as a statue, at first, slowly warming to the feel of his body pressed against hers as he relinquished some of his stored energy. All of a sudden, it was like someone slapped her back to reality as he felt her resistance to his touch. For him there was no mistaking the significance of the embrace for it sealed what he felt in his heart for her. He knew she’d never submit to the feelings she had for him as long as she was in that mood.

  Chance tried another tactic.

  “I have orders to get you upstairs as fast as possible.” Her knees buckled at his statement. “Crap! No, Angela. The news is good.” He tried to correct his blunder while holding her underarms. “Lee’s awake.”

  Angela struggled to come out of the fog as her eyes fluttered and Chance’s face swam in and out of focus. She braced against the wall, held there by his large hands, faintly hearing the words he repeated.

  “Lee’s awake, Angel. They’re waiting for you.”

  Every ounce of energy expelled from her body reducing her limbs to rubbery noodles. She needed help but was too proud to ask. Angela shoved off the wall determined to sashay without his assistance only to find her muscles quivering so badly from weariness her hand reached out for the stability of the concrete wall. Instead, it was Chance who steadied her.

  “I’ve got you.” He knew better than to whisk her into his arm and carry her for she’d have none of that. “We’ll take it slowly.”

  They were the center of attention—the curvy brown-skinned beauty making her exhaustive trek to the ICU accompanied by the doting giant marking time to match her stride—as interested eyes scrutinized their slow progress to the elevators. Chance supported her elbow on the ride up, switching to a full back cradle as she tilted in his direction. She hadn’t said a word the entire journey. Even in her anger, the look in her eyes expressed her deepest appreciation to him as he pushed open the door to Lee’s cubicle. Angela weaved the rest of the way on her own.

  Chance, not wanting to intrude, leaned against the wall taking in each person’s activity in the nurse’s station. His training to memorize and compute what he saw stayed with him in all aspects of his life. For instance, he wondered if the nurse realized she tapped her foot when in conversation with another person. He’d watched her. Regardless of who approached, her right foot started a nervous tap.

  “Chance?” Angela broke into his observation. He stood soldier tall. “You’re being summoned. Just say “yes” to whatever Daddy asks to keep him calm. We won’t hold you to any promises made in there.”

  “You sound like you know what he wants. Want to give me a hint?”

  “He’s not fully coherent. Just remember that.”

  Chance entered the room, but, not before leaving her a concerned look that asked to her wellbeing. A look she ignored. The partition hung designating the spot where he stood as the anteroom. He peered around the curtain not sure what to expect. “Knock, knock.”

  “Come on in, Brock,” Connie invited.

  He nervously broke into the room where Lee reclined hooked up, wired out and smiling slightly. “Glad to see you awake.” What else do you say to your almost girlfriend’s sick father? Lee waved him closer.

  “How serious are you about my Cookie?” Lee pried.

  The question startled him.

  “Lieutenant, I need to know if I have any worries as it relates to you and my little girl.” Lee’s raspy voice got a little breathy.

  Connie moved in to smooth his wrinkled brow casting Chance a look that said his answer had better be the right one.

  “Serious enough to follow her to Chicago without her invitation.”

  A bigger smile twitched at the sick man’s lips. “Then, here’s what you’re going to do.” The door creaked before he got to give Chance his instructions. Angela appeared at the foot of his hospital bed.

  Connie broke from the group. “We’ll let your father talk to Brock for a minute. He doesn’t need three of us hovering over him.”

  Chance stood in quiet wonder as the Munsoes ran a game on their daughter.

  “Open that drawer,” Lee motioned with his head, “and get my keys.”

  Chance obeyed.

  “Take Angela home. Feed her. Chinese food. She loves Chinese.” His breath came in spurts. “Nothing with peanuts, though.”

  “I know,” Chance revealed causing Lee’s brows to cock.

  “Get her to rest, Brock. Don’t let her back here before noon tomorrow.”

  “Then, you’re asking me to keep her prisoner in her own home?”

  “I’m asking you to look out for her like the man who loves her.”

  “Love?” The word threw Chance for a loop.

  “You might not be ready to admit it to me because you haven’t really admitted it to yourself. Just look out for her. Can you do that until I get out of here?”

  This time he obeyed Angela’s instructions. “Yes. Yes, I can.”

  “Good.” Lee sank further into his pillow like a terrific weight lifted from his chest. “Call in the food order. Make sure you mention my name as they’re aware of the “no peanut oil” rule. The menu to her favorite restaurant is on the side of the refrigerator. They deliver.”

  Chance grasped the situation. “You’ll make a speedy recovery, Lee.” As if doubting the idea presented by her father, he reminded the old
er man, “Angela’s an exceptionally capable woman with smarts beyond her years.”

  “That’s true, Brock.” He continued his conversation with his eyes shut. “But, she’s also had more than her share of misfortune—clearly brought on by others—and needs to know that good things manifest, sometimes, from not so good things.”

  “Lee, you’ve got to know she won’t appreciate my sticking my nose in, right?” He watched as Lee’s eyes reopened and his expression turned sullen. “She’s not very fond of people of my persuasion.” The proper words to caution Lee that sleeping in the same house as Angela was an astronomical concern, while still so hyped up after a mission.

  “You mean bearded?”

  “No.”

  “Tall?” Lee’s look said he knew exactly what Chance meant.

  “No.” He rebuffed the joke. “White. She made that very plain on our initial meeting. And every time since…if she deemed necessary…whether appropriate or not.”

  “Yet you pursue her anyway. Why is that?”

  Chance thought he was crazy for having this conversation with her father. “She fascinates me.”

  “Because she’s black? Because of the rumored lure of exotic love?” Lee purposely pushed Chance’s buttons, letting up only when he saw the gleam of understanding spark from his eyes.

  “Because she challenges and intrigues me to no end. Because I know the wee crinkle on the bridge of her freckled nose doesn’t always mean something’s unacceptable. Because she’s vulnerable and doesn’t attempt to hide that behind a fake and vociferous bravado.”

  “I rest my case. Now, get out of here.”

  Chance’s dismissal was a conniving wink from Lee before he drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  An excruciatingly long and stressful ride is what Chance and Angela tolerated to get to the point where they now waited for the garage door to creep upwards, gradually previewing her homestead. They’d verbally fought at her insistence for him to hand over the keys once they stood at Connie’s automobile back at the hospital. He had to be extremely innovative to get her cooperation without resulting to threats of tattling on her. She gave up when realizing her stubbornness was nowhere in his league of mulish conduct. In his business, the consequences for blinking meant life or death. Plus, her stamina was no match for his.

  Chance mastered the art of war compliments of his old uncle—Uncle Sam.

  Doors slammed and her heels scuffed the treated cement floor of the garage indicating their parade up the back stairs. Angela unlocked the mud room door, keyed in the alarm code and left him standing in the darkened interior without any inducement to enter. Her whereabouts were obvious as low lighting marked her route through the house. Chance closed and secured the door leading from the garage before taking a step into the kitchen where his bag hit the floor. Angela, by that time, was neither seen nor heard.

  He slid his hand in the general area where he believed the light switch situated hitting the spot dead on. A calming ambience flooded the room exposing a kitchen any professional chef would pay a pretty price to cook in. It was dressed out in granite, stainless steel and copper with all the name brand appliances and gadgetry available to the discerning few.

  Making his way over to the commercial refrigerator, he eyed the telephone on the recipe desk across the room, located the menu right where Lee said it would be and perused the item list in detail. Her favorite dishes jumped out at him highlighted with bright pink circles. He made the request for delivery ordering them all. Chance stopped moving, closed his eyes and willed his breathing to a slow and steady cadence. That was his way of combating fatigue that threatened to surface. It wasn’t time for him to shed his armor of self-protection. It wasn’t safe, yet. Certainly, not safe for her.

  Momentarily refreshed and curious about his surroundings, he crept on soft steps to explore the downstairs, going first to the room by-passed adjacent to the mudroom. It was a small bedroom off the kitchen. The rest of the Munso’s residence was deceptively larger than it appeared in the darkness from the street. The strategically located kitchen received the ebb and flow traffic from both the formal living and dining rooms. There was a study-slash-office, books lining one complete wall while noir pictures and paintings depicting black art hung in gallery fashion along the other three walls. Their skillfully arranged display instigated interest that willed him to stand in awe of each. Of particular importance to him were the family portraits, not only of the Munsoes, but their ancestors before them—a proud looking family captured in tin-type seemingly in the late eighteen to early nineteen hundreds.

  The relevance of that wall enlightened him that although culturally different—family, pride and dignity crossed barriers to blur the color line. He circled back to soak up the section set aside to honor Angela’s accomplishments as far back as secondary school. Love shone like a lamp all around her as Connie and Lee beamed in each and every picture they shared with her. Chance found it hard to comprehend how she could imagine anyone other than Lee as her father. Fatherhood etched all over his face.

  Chance swerved towards the stairs at the slight noise he heard upstairs hoping she’d make an appearance. To his utter disappointment, she didn’t. His diversion came as the doorbell rang. After finding the right door which he hadn’t a key to open, he signaled the delivery boy to meet him at the garage entrance where he paid for his order and returned to the kitchen loaded with white paper bags. Each container was lovingly placed on the island and he popped the flaps to reveal the contents. Aromatic steam corkscrewed in the air. He fanned the drifting scent upwards and out of the kitchen.

  It was just as he hoped. Angela’s keen sense of smell coerced her down to his territory.

  “I thought I heard the doorbell,” she explained away her instant appearance, eyes glazed with exhaustion and lusting for what she spied on the island.

  She looked revived in that she no longer wore the clothes she apparently slept in for days. Teal green sweats graced her body failing dismally to lessen her appeal to him. Her hair was damp and pulled back from her face exposing cheekbones any model would die for. Angela advanced closing the distance as if she expected him to pounce on her. For reasons unknown, she was uncomfortable in his presence and became very skittish as he passed to search out the cabinets for plates. He documented this turn of events, hauled down two plates and noticed the beautifully braided, thick plait down the center of her head. It never ceased to amaze him how her physical attributes could not be minimized even in her worst of times.

  “Lee instructed me to feed you.” He shoved a plate in her direction. She reciprocated with utensils and glasses for each.

  “Check the wine cooler or the refrigerator for whatever you’d like to drink,” she said.

  “I’ll have what you have.” He decided to give her a decision to make, thereby, including her where she’d been excluded before.

  “You don’t have to do that, Chance,” she grimaced. “It’s okay to have something stronger than soda, if you like.”

  This time she passed at a wide angle to get to the refrigerator. Once more, she hurt his feelings exemplifying her blatant distrust. Out came a strawberry soda. The tab popped and she took a sip straight from the can, doing that cute little nose-crinkle-eyebrow-lift-thing—denoting—he surmised, taste bud heaven. He moved aside as she retrieved her glass to fill it with crushed ice from the refrigerator spigot. Chance opted for a glass of wine and straddled the nearest stool.

  Angela nibbled at her plate when Chance sat directly across from her, their eyes connecting like magnets. He dished a healthy portion of food surprised at his stomach’s grumble. The meal, shared in an oppressive silence, brought to light the internal sufferings each sought to keep private. In spite of that, a longing desire surfaced with every stolen glance. They ate slowly pretending to savor the fare. She finished her sweet strawberry drink and greedily started on another.

  That’s not a good sign.

  Her fork clanged to the plate
signaling the end of the meal. She enjoyed her drink, eyes closed and hand propping up her chin. The astounding phenomenon to Chance was how rapidly her head dipped and dived as she nodded off. The tip-off that the time had come for their dreaded exchange was the way her eyes tore open, zapping him with stingers as their heated glint scorched his skin.

  “My parents may be fooled by your show of concern, Chance.” Angela slid from the stool to dispose of her leftovers. “I know the ulterior motive for this visit.”

  “I don’t know what you’re rambling about, Angela.”

  “Rambling,” her voice raised a notch. Her plate crashed to the sink. Angela began storing the remaining dishes making several trips to the refrigerator and enough noise to wake the dead.

  “What do you think I’ve done this time?” His question intimated a heavy weariness.

  “Save it, Lt. Alexander. It really doesn’t matter to me anymore.” Her sights set on the stairs. “You don’t matter anymore.”

  “Don’t do this, Angela.” He pleaded to her back for she was gone. His head dropped in disbelief.

  Chance cleared the island following her example by carrying his plate to the sink for rinsing. His glass set empty and he took the liberty of getting himself a refill. A look around told him all was in order, so, he snapped up his glass and grip to march into the downstairs bedroom. The truth was she had a point about his trustworthiness. He didn’t trust himself because he craved her closeness. His door shut caging him inside the room even as his thoughts trailed her upstairs.

  Now that she lay in her bed, sleep eluded Angela leaving her flipping like pancakes on a hot griddle. She lay on her stomach, floundered on her back, curled on her side and Chance slipped his way into her thoughts, anyway. The strong feelings she had for him, emotions more grandiose than the Grand Canyon, stoked a smoldering fire she thought snuffed a long time ago. Urges settled like boiling lava in her abdomen before snaking their way down. Her legs wildly kicked the comforter away as she desperately attempted to counter the feelings. The exertion soothed her agony turning her into a madwoman wallowing all over her cold, lonely bed.