Like Slow Sweet Molasses

  “You’re forgetting one thing, Angela. I’m a risk-taker. And—you’re worth that risk.”

  “Chance—”

  “No more talking tonight.” He let her hand massage the area under his eye despite the discomfort it caused. “I hadn’t planned to, but, if it’s okay I’ll spend the night. Or what’s left of it since it’s almost two and I have to get up shortly, anyway. I’ll get up in ample time to rush home and change.”

  “I want you close to me for as long as it takes you to love me. I need you do that, Chance. Fill me with good memories of this night.”

  She wasn’t joking as she roughly charged him to lock her seeking lips on his, spurring his immense pleasure, pooling the blood in his body in his fore region. “Be careful what you ask for, Angel.” Chance didn’t bother to lift her in his arms or march her out of the bathroom. He simply clasped one corded arm around her slender waist while she lolled on his muscular frame to walk her, feet dancing above the hardwood, to her bed. He was a genie unchained from the proverbial bottle as he smirked, “Your wish is my command.”

  “Brock?”

  “Aunt Belle, what’s wrong?”

  “You’d better get over here pretty fast.” Belle stood on her porch in plain sight like the nosy neighbor in the weekly sitcoms to watch the activity going on at Angela’s. Having been given the brush-off by the tight-lipped workers, she had no choice but to call in the Calvary to get answers.

  “I’m in the middle of something and can’t get away. What’s happened? It’s Angela, isn’t it?” he surmised unhappily.

  “She didn’t tell me she planned to move.”

  “What?” he asked in a daze. “Move?” His undivided attention was now his aunt’s.

  “Men are loading up her stuff faster than the water rose during the hurricane.” She thought for a second. “I should have known something mighty fishy when she stuck the car all the way in the garage, using the weather as a flimsy excuse and secretly left the keys on the table.” Belle’s head movement emphasized the realization that Angela duped her. “On top of that, she tackled me in a hug almost crushing these old bones until they cracked. I just thought she had the holiday blues with Christmas so close and her so far from home.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Aunt Belle. I believe I missed the signals she was ready to bolt, also.” There was no response which made Chance nervous. “Aunt Belle?”

  “Would you look at that?” she said into the mouthpiece of her cordless phone. “Hey!”

  Chance heard the huffing and puffing of exertion wondering what transpired but was unable to capture his aunt’s attention. He waited on the line until he heard her ongoing conversation.

  “That’s a for rent sign,” Belle yapped in the woman’s face.

  “Yes, it is.” The realtor admitted while pounding the stake into the ground.

  “You know you have the wrong house, don’t you?”

  “I don’t believe so, Mrs.—?”

  “Never mind my name. What’s yours?”

  Chance ears intercepted everything.

  “Keitha Owens.”

  “Angela’s not going to be very happy when she learns what you’ve done.”

  “Miss Munso hired my company to oversee the property, Mrs.—?”

  “Hired me to overlook the property,” Belle mocked childishly, her head bouncing side to side.

  “Are you by chance Mrs. Thatcher?” asked the realtor with a laugh.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because Miss Munso left something for you.” She monitored the procession on the walkway calling to one of the workers. “Zee, bring that picture over here. The one leaning behind the front door.”

  “Where is Angela?” Belle demanded like the dominator she was.

  “I honestly don’t know, Mrs. Thatcher.” Keitha accepted the framed picture and handed it off to her. “She wanted you to have that. Said you had a connection to it.” Her job of hanging the sign completed, the real estate agent said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I really must get back to work.”

  Perturbed at the nerve of the young lady, Belle boisterously expressed her disapproval. “You don’t turn your back on your elders.”

  “Let it go, Aunt Belle.” Chance yelled to regain her attention, drawing unwanted attention to himself.

  “Brock? What?”

  “I said the lady’s only doing her job…following Angela’s wishes.”

  “Well, I wish she’d told me what was bothering her to make her go to these lengths.”

  “I believe I know.” He sighed. “Get out of the cold. I’ll drop by after work.”

  “But, Brock,” she objected while clutching the gift to her chest.

  “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.” He hung-up without allowing a response. “Promise,” Chance pledged aloud.

  Angela, now that he thought about it, was a little standoffish during their tranquil retreats. Her mood swings kept him guessing and on his toes. There were times of extreme familiarity and frivolity where she pleasured him with her contagious laughter. After that, her desires for him heightened to such peaks he questioned his abilities to surmount them. Lately, she wanted to cuddle with that being the only physical contact mandated during that time. He could see it clearly, now, and believed she tried to tell him that that night still bothered her, but failed to broach the subject.

  School was in Christmas vacation, now, which meant two weeks was loads of free time to indulge in the cultural activities she so loved or the shopping experiences the season demanded. When he let his mind wander back, Angela’s vivacious attitude rarely sparkled since the robbery. Her smiles weren’t as bright, dulled by the lackluster light in her eyes. Contentment scored points with her simply with the television’s constant drone and her comfy bedside seat.

  He had seen it with his own eyes—her effervescence snuffed out.

  Chance rolled his office chair away from the desk, crossed one long leg over the other and with his fingers steepled under his chin yielded to profound concentration about how to remedy the problem. The fact of the matter—he loved Angela and his profession. He couldn’t picture one versus the other at this time in his life. A compromise was in order for an elementary solution. What that was—he admitted to not knowing presently.

  First things first. He had to see for himself to what extent Angela would go to safeguard his life. Because that’s exactly what his vivid re-enactment of her need to flee revealed to him. In the cold evening light, he raced over to his aunt’s as promised determined to be objective with regards to Angela finalizing a decision to leave town without so much as advising him. All of that flew out of the window at the sight of the for rent sign taking root in her yard as he coasted to a stop.

  The electrifying energy that encompassed him whenever he drew near her place was gone. Her precious planters and white rattan porch furniture—all gone. Darkness dumped its gloom over the empty house like a supernatural entity moved in in her stead. Several steps had his face pressed against the window pane as wonderful memories flooded his being in slideshow mode. He failed to overcome the urge to twist the knob and faced disappointment when the door didn’t budge. Chance wanted proof she really absconded. Seeing was believing. Sorry to say, his desires to enter wouldn’t happen tonight.

  Chance moved his car over one drive to Belle’s and while sitting there called Angela’s cell number to get the real gist of the complexity of the situation. Summarily, the disconnect recording’s continuous loop supported his suspicions—she would protect him at all cost. Even if splitting them up consigned each to an unhappy existence.

  His boiling anger hit the roof at her audacity to shield him from unsubstantiated harm, some figment of her imagination. How dare she position herself as his self-appointed custodial guardian. He was the sentinel sworn to protect and serve. That was his job.

  “Crap, Angela,” his prolific rumble filled the space where she once sat. Chance assumed his delay in going into the house concerned his aunt for th
e floodlight at the back door lit up brighter than a stadium on game night.

  Belle peeked her head out. “Brock?” she yelled.

  The car door shut with a resounding thud in response to her call. He climbed the steps in silence knowing once he sat at the table with her, quietness would be a thing of the past. She would want definite answers and not the suppositions or theories that plagued him. She had only moved a step backwards and reversed a couple feet more as he pulled the screen shut and slammed the door.

  “Have you talked to her?” Belle ambushed. “What did she have to say for herself? This is completely out of the ordinary for her.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Aunt Belle. I tried her cell. It was disconnected.”

  Belle saw stress lines on her nephew’s face that aged him beyond his thirty-seven years. “Did you two have a fight, Brock?”

  “No, Aunt Belle.”

  “Has Angela’s father had a relapse?” Her interrogation continued.

  “Not to my knowledge, Aunt Belle.”

  “Sit down, Brock. Talk to your old Aunt Belle.”

  Looking around the kitchen where he now spent a good portion of his time visiting with his aunt brought to the forefront he had her to thank for his meeting Angela. She and Angela adopted each other and took their unrelated kinship to heart, seeing to the other’s health and welfare. Chance dropped in one of the turquoise metal-studded table chairs as he often did. This time he noticed the framed picture carefully propped against the wall.

  “Angela left that for me,” she advised sadly. “I always admired it hanging on the wall in her living room.”

  “You know she is very fond of you? Right?” He wanted to make her smile. It worked.

  Laughing, “Didn’t know me from Adam and rushed over to chop that skunk down to size. The tiny thing that she is.”

  “Small package. Big heart.”

  “What are you going to do, Brock?”

  Chance thought a moment. “I don’t have the answer to that, Aunt Belle. But, it’s not in my nature to give up on us. We love each other. I just have to figure out how to reduce her habit of worrying about me while I’m on the job.”

  “That’s what this is about? Goodness, I thought it was Kelsy and the race thing. Oh, my. That’s a relief.” Belle cackled happily to Chance’s distraught expression. “Call to see how her father is,” she suggested.

  Chance smiled. “That’s an obvious intrusion.” His fingers modeled the “Y” to imitate a phone receiver as he acted out his scenario. “Hey, Lee. How are you? Oh, by the way—how’s that scary daughter of yours?”

  “It works for me,” she crowed.

  “I’ll give her a few days to miss me. Time to see the error of her ways. Then, I’ll plead my case and throw myself at her feet for mercy,” he resolved. “How’s that?”

  “Couldn’t come up with a better program myself,” she sang merrily, signing off on the plan. “This calls for a beer.”

  Chance only hoped all went down as easily as the brew he shared while sitting across from his aunt.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “The caterers are here.”

  Thumping Christmas music from the Munso’s era piped over the sound system jumpstarted the lighthearted special occasion.

  Angela, relaxing in her pajamas in the middle of the day, belted the frumpy terrycloth robe to ensure her modesty remained intact and yelled again. “Mama, the caterers want in.” Although she clung to the granite counter the same way moss stuck to the north side of a tree and observed through the distant window as the truck passed in front of the house, she stuck to her guns for tonight’s party was her mother’s idea and one she didn’t favor.

  “Answer the door, Cookie.” The reply came from upstairs at the gong. Connie breezed past her daughter dispensing a swat to her behind, the way mothers tended to do, rushing to get the ball rolling.

  “Daddy’s not up for all of this.” She claimed to reject the idea on behalf of his recuperative stage when really everyone knew she was the dissenter.

  “We do this every year and you know it, Cookie.” Connie talked to her while directing the husband and wife cooking team to the prep area to store their purchases in the garage frig.

  Angela glanced up from her coffee as they ferried bundles inside, stored them. Consequently, her mother and the chefs bent over the menu to discuss the timing issues, cramping her space but not the center island. There would be a full course meal ready to serve buffet-style promptly at eight pm as not to hinder the start of the real party when the DJ arrived at nine. Her participation in enough of these affairs had her tying together the loose ends of her plan to enjoy this one in absentia. The thought of The Bounce, The Train and the Shing-a-Ling, to name only a few of the dances her parents’ set would inevitably revert to, made her shudder.

  She couldn’t stop the festivities. But, she didn’t have to be where the pressure to join in squashed her cool image. Angela sneaked away not getting to the living room door before her mother’s voice reeled her back in. “Shoot,” she pulled an unattractive face, grumbled under her breath and joined them with her chin nailing her elbows in place for the mundane conversation, eyes wandering over the menu bulging at one item, in particular. “We’re having fried turkey?”

  Connie recited the list. “Fried turkey, cornbread dressing, peas, potato salad—”

  “I get the picture.”

  The picture Angela tried to dispel was that of another fried turkey during another holiday. Well, not so much the bird as the bird cooker. According to Mrs. Thatcher, Angela found out later, Chance really fried the turkey to make up for her having to opt out of eating the gobbler at Pops’. The dish of leftovers Mrs. Thatcher and Kelsy brought over Thanksgiving night saw her through several meals since, at the time, she wasn’t up to cooking or even scrounging for something to eat because of her surgery.

  “No peanut oil.” Angela reminded them, sucking in a longing breath and noticed Lee watching her from study’s doorway. She knew what was coming.

  “Cookie, come show me what I’m doing wrong.”

  “I’m in the middle of something for Mama, now, Daddy.” She stretched the truth a smidgen.

  “Go see what your daddy wants. Everything’s in control here.” Connie blasted her excuse to pieces.

  Angela graced Lee with her presence not having to wait long to confirm his request was nothing more than a ruse to get her alone.

  “Want to talk about it?” He walked ahead of her and took his place at the desk.

  Stuck in the doorway, Angela simply asked, “Talk about what?”

  “Whatever it is that brought you home and has kept you in this house moping, forcing people to walk on eggshells around you.” He waited with bated breath. “Enough is enough. This is your mother’s favorite time of year. You will not spoil it for her. Do you understand me?”

  “You can’t talk to me like that,” she pouted. “I’m not a child.”

  “Lower your voice,” he chastised in a fatherly manner. “Get in here and close the door behind you.”

  Before doing so, Angela tabulated the number of Christmas figurines and villages within sight agreeing with Lee’s accounting of what this time of year meant to Connie. Their entire home was her project and she went the extra mile to be sure each room appropriately decorated to bring holiday cheer to all who entered. You couldn’t tell her some rooms went a little overboard because that was one thing about her mother. Conformity took a backseat to the holiday Christmas spirit. You either had it or she would try her best to give it to you.

  Angela finally obeyed.

  “Look at you. Half the day’s gone and you’re still in your nightclothes, puppies on your feet and hair in a ponytail.”

  “I’m entitled. I’m on break and earned the right to flub a little,” she defended.

  “Is that what you young people call it these days? Flubbing?” Lee stared at her putting two and two together at the instant crease on the bridge of her nose. “Did he hur
t you, Cookie? What did he do? Tell Daddy.”

  In the next second, she blubbered all over herself, falling into the seat facing him. “He didn’t do a thing.” Her nose ran and she ransacked her pockets for a tissue, finding none.

  “There was something he should have done but didn’t?” he pursued. Lee opened a drawer that gave a teeth grinding scrape to snatch tissue from a box squirreled away and handed her a fistful. The headshake was a no. “Something he did that he shouldn’t have?”

  “No.”

  “Listen, Cookie. A long time ago I could put a band-aid on it, smother it with ice cream and soon it all melted away.” He moved to her side of the desk where he pulled up another chair. “A father’s powers diminish over the years leaving him in a state of helplessness. I can’t help if I don’t know what the problem is.”

  Tears burned her cheeks as she scooted to the edge of her seat to lean into her father’s chest. “It’s not Chance. It’s me.”

  “What did you do or not do?”

  “I almost got him killed in the line of duty,” she breathed heavily to keep from falling apart. His compassionate pats to her back were the last thing she needed.

  “Was he injured?” Lee asked the question afraid of what she would answer.

  “Bruised up a bit,” she lamented.

  “And you—were you injured?”

  “Close to a nervous breakdown.” Her emotions were hard to shut down. “His occupation frightens me. I thought I could learn to live with it because I love him so, Daddy. Just the thought of the danger he’s in—all of the time—I—I can’t take it.”

  “So you ran away,” he summarized expecting her to fight.

  “Yes. I ran away. I packed what I could carry, hired a property manager and put my home on the market.” She hated to say it aloud. “Without talking to him or his aunt about my intent, I showed what a coward I am by doing a Houdini.”

  “I suppose you haven’t talked to Brock since you’ve been here,” he guessed.

  “He probably hates me by now.”

  “Cookie, when a man loves a woman with his whole heart, he might not understand the logic that drives the decisions she makes, but he permits allowances for her emotional upheaval. Call him. Talk it through.”