Like Slow Sweet Molasses (13 page)

“You’re
talking to the master, Brock,” he boasted.

“I
forgot,” Chance conceded, backtracking his way out of the door. Feelings he’d
hammered deep down inside bulged just under the surface spelling danger to his
present way of life for he was going soft. “Oh, man. She’s getting to me in the
worst way.”

Angela,
curled on one end of the couch, lay with her face to the stairs as she
scrutinized his descent from the upper floor, enamored with what she saw. The
more she attempted to wean herself of him the more entangled their acquaintance
became. They were like her least favorite ride at the state fair—the bumper
cars. It appeared she and Chance was destined to collide again and again
without either having any say in the matter.

Pops’
call let them know he completed his task upstairs and was ready to swap places
with them to take on the bottom floor. Chance escorted Angela to her bedroom
divining by her timid steps the emotions she tried to hide from him.

“Don’t
leave me, yet,” she whispered.

“I’m
not going anywhere.”

She
searched the room with her eyes finally relinquishing some of that terror to
retrieve sleepwear from her lingerie chest near the bathroom door. The chest
doors opened, a drawer extracted, her moan rent the air. Chance was there in a
flash peering at the rose and note card staged in a pair of her lacy panties.
He caught her hands just as she reached to destroy the layout.

“Pops!”

The
older people came on the run.

“Log
this, too. Angela just uncovered this maniac’s true colors.”

“A
rose for a rose.” Angela read the card aloud, her hands blotting out the sight.
“He knows my name, Chance.”

Thinking
that a peculiar thing to say, he remained silent until her eyes beseeched him
to think about what she said.
Angela ROSE Munso
he remembered her mother
calling Angela on one of her messages. “A rose for a rose,” he repeated, moving
aside to allow Pops to do his job.

“Ughhhh.”
She visibly shuddered. “He’s been in my most private places. A voyeur, who has
taken the decision from me as to what part of myself I want to reveal and to
whom, has also psychologically raped me and destroyed my peace of mind.”

Once
again, he was speechless with no words of comfort.

“Get
a change of clothes, Sweet Child. You’ll stay with me tonight.”

Angela
accepted Mrs. Thatcher’s offer this time without dispute, snatching a lounging
set from the dresser drawer.

“Be
right back, Pops. I’m walking them next door.” As they stepped into the night
air, Chance revealed his plan. “I’ll stay at your place tonight. Tomorrow we’ll
go over your options for added security. Okay?” He waited for her refusal and
was astonished at her simple reply.

“Okay.”

Chance
changed the game plan to fit his mood for retribution. His two co-conspirators
went about their assigned duties setting the exterior cameras while he
orchestrated the exact dance in the interior. They worked outside by penlight
hoping to attract as little attention as possible in the darkness, taking extra
precautions mounting the video cameras in inconspicuous places that allowed for
a wider range of visibility. The whole setup came together with spare parts and
leftovers from Pops security installation business. Finishing just before dawn,
Pops and Trell joined Chance in the kitchen-slash-command center where they
tested the system.

“Ready,
set, go.” Chance chanted then used the remote control to activate the TV.
“Great! A quick fix until I purchase the proper display devices…” He stepped
back, slapped his hands together in a satisfied fashion, gave their spontaneous
handiwork an A plus grade with a thumbs up, and continued, “…later today.” The
push button action flicked one camera at a time to permit zooming in addition
to collating every camera angle.

“It
works alright,” Trell grimaced. “No need to zoom in.” Angela sashayed across
Belle’s lawn on her way to the gate. “Are you certain you can handle the pot
you’re stirring, Bro? This sister’s obstinate attitude could incite monks to
riot.”

“Angela’s
not that bad, Trell. She’s going through a difficult time.”

Trell
smiled. “So, at last, an admission she’s wearing down that crusty shell of
yours, huh?”

“Like
a pencil to a sharpener—right down to the nub.” He stroked his bearded jaw as
she advanced on the front door. Chance met her there all smiles. “You’re up
early,” he greeted.

“Had
trouble sleeping.”

“The
swelling’s diminished. Just a little puffiness…” His finger boldly traced the
outline of her lips, “…here.” He really wanted to kiss her there in front of
the whole world.

“A
sight, I know.”

Their
repartee held the witnesses motionless lest the spell be broken.

Chance
snagged her hand pulling her the rest of the way into the room. Angela, who had
no inkling they had company, tentatively decreased her pace at the smiles on
the faces in her kitchen. Chance jumped to bring her up-to-date on the progress
made during the all night session literally crossing his fingers behind his
back at which time he heard a teasing chicken cluck, confident the sound came
from his brother.

“We
installed an alarm system and video surveillance around your home.”

Angela’s
awed expression came across to him as disapproval. This she surmised as he
shuffled foot to foot. “Thank you, Chance.” Shyly, she treated him to a brief
hug. “Mr. Robinson, Trell, I can’t thank you enough.” Clapping her hands
happily, she queried, “Can I see?”

Chance
led her and her mesmerizing smile to the area for a demonstration happy to
oblige. “There are a few components I’ll pick up later this morning to complete
the job.” He pointed to the wall ready to receive the alarm control, saying,
“You’ll also have one in your bedroom.”

“And
the three of you did all of this overnight?” she marveled, her eyes flitting
from one to the other. All three blushed. “Amazing. Figure out the bill. I’ll
pay anything.”

“Angela,”
Chance exclaimed, offended. “Was compensation mentioned?” He answered before
she did. “No.”

“We’re
happy to be able to help, Angela,” Pops mediated.

She
smiled as Trell corroborated his father’s sentiments with a headshake.

“For
all of your trouble,” she became animated, prancing off as she spoke, “I’ll
make the best breakfast,” smiling at them with a quick turn, “you’ve
had…today.”

“Sounds
right on time.” Trell rubbed his hands in glee while his father overruled him.

“Unnecessary,
Angela.”

“I
know. But, it would please me if you let me do this, Mr. Robinson.”

“It’s
Pops. Call me Pops,” the older man insisted.

Chance
indulged his inquisitive nature analyzing her interaction with his family…his
Black family. She seemed to converse in a manner that showed how easily she
could engage in light dialogue with the right persons. No contentious words or
phrases thrown at them. No under-eyed glances slicing them to pieces.
Basically, they were putty in Angela’s hands and they didn’t even know it.

“Pops.”
She liked that idea. “I’ll change and be right back.”

She
sprinted up the stairs landing in a vat of imaginary cement that solidified her
feet to the hardwood floor. On top of that—Angela froze. She couldn’t move a
muscle. Her senses catapulted her rose episode to rose episode in a
never-ending
daymare
. The familiar scent of cologne yanked her to the
present. Chance stood one step down behind her leaning close to her ear.

Heads
angled upwards as Pops and Trell tuned in to the tender scene playing out on
the stairwell, their heads turning to one another and back to the couple.
Chance said something into her ear. She nodded. He spoke again and received
another nod. Father and son summed up the matter without uttering a word as the
pair parted ways.

“You
two have a spark.” Trell started in on Chance when he rejoined them in the
kitchen.

Chance
claimed a seat at the table. “Naw, man. She hates white people.” Their looks
said he was crazy. “Angela told me as much when we first met.”

“No,
son,” Pops disputed. “There’s definitely something sizzling between the two of
you.”

“That’s
only her confrontational attitude fizzing over its boundaries. She’s paranoid
about her parentage, bogged in health issues and obsessed with performing her
civic duty to the detriment of her own welfare.” What began as a criticism
molded into a compliment making him obliged to admit he wished she would give
him the time of day.

“Chance?”
She captured the attention of everyone downstairs but only one came on the run.
They nearly collided at the top of the stairs. Angela’s grin, dazzling and
inviting his kiss, was one he hadn’t seen before. “Call Miss Belle over for
breakfast. Okay?”

His
heart did an unusual pitter-patter as his eyes warmly caressed her from head to
toe. “Okay.”

Realistically,
Chance and Angela had no ESP, and therefore, no way to know that circumstances
beyond their control plotted to fuse them in loving controversy.

Chapter Nine

The
sun smiled on the day as if lighting the way for Mrs. Thatcher’s appearance.
Angela noticed her on the new video system. With the men settled into their
meals, she struck out to assist the elderly woman with the bowl of biscuits she
insisted on contributing to the feast, stepping out into the morning air not
yet thick with New Orleans’ normal humidity. Angela was now a visual on the
monitor and Chance’s eyes continued to stray in that direction no matter how he
fought the urge. She was an enigma to him—in her fitted blue jeans and colorful
sleeveless tee, gracious and giving to a fault.

However,
once shown the uncomplimentary true colors of an individual she became a
formidable opponent. All he had to do was think back to her actual meeting with
Darrell. She gauged his character at first sight, her impression of him
confirmed with yesterday’s events. He would warn her again to stay away from
him for he was bad news.

“Good
morning, good morning.” Mrs. Thatcher blew in like a fresh breath of air,
dispensing cheeriness instead of rose petals. “Who wants homemade biscuits?”

Angela
set the crock in the center of the table, frowning slightly as wisps of the
buttery aroma mixed with the heavy smells leftover from the sizzling bacon and
eggs. Hands invaded the space sending the bowl into a wobbly spin on the table.
She dished her neighbor’s plate, delivered it to the table fighting to keep the
wild lurch her stomach did from drawing attention from those in conversation
around the table. They continued the banter in a family fashion pricking holes
in her heart.

Saliva
choked her making swallowing nearly impossible. Angela excused herself with a
promise to make a quick return all the time avoiding Chance’s knowing eyes. She
mastered each step while still in their sight forgetting about the camera
angled where the stairwell met the upstairs hallway. One hand to her mouth, the
other to her stomach told Chance, whose seat at the table allowed him to see
the monitor, she was in trouble.

His
fork hit the plate.

“Be
right back,” he said, swabbing at his hands with the napkin and speeding from
the table. The tap on her bedroom door went unheeded. Alarmed, he pushed it
open a crack. “Angela?” Still no response, he took it upon himself to enter
immediately discerning the reason for her silence.

Angela
sat on the floor with an arm braced on the porcelain commode, head resting on that
arm, gagging but expelling nothing. She knew he was behind her without turning
around. “Queasy. Side effects of last night’s treatment, I guess.”

“What
can I do?” he said stooping with a cool, wet washcloth to dab her face.

“Let
me save
 
face, Chance,” she pleaded
between heaves. “Just…walk…away.”

Chance
looked at her crouched on the ceramic tile, head all but buried in the toilet,
ponytail dangling dangerously close to the water level and needed to feel her
heart beat against his chest. She started to rise, reaching out her hand for
the towel, getting much more than she bargained for when he dabbed at her mouth
then snuggled her close. “I can’t walk away, Angela. My life was hum-drum
before you stampeded in. I realize that now.”