Like Slow Sweet Molasses (4 page)

A
stagnant breeze tickled wisps of hair around her cheeks tempting her to smooth
strands behind each ear with a one-finger swoop.
 

Chance
held the screened door to his aunt’s house ajar on his way out. He still had
time to catch his club members at their scheduled rest stop during the first
leg of the weekend trip. As he said his goodbyes, a motion in the middle of the
street lassoed his attention. He had high hopes of catching a glimpse of her
because she manipulated his every thought since their encounter.

Glued
to the spot, he stood mesmerized by her beauty now indelibly branded on his
brain. His Aunt Belle explained away Angela Munso’s animosity towards him that
provoked her to lash out, with her excerpt of Angela’s caning, for lack of a
better description, which occurred the previous day. He figured Angela probably
incurred a painful reminder with each move of her luscious body. Chance now
knew the reason she flinched at his touch and felt it was nothing personal.

Angela
bounced up the walkway steps on her way to her front door cognizant his
watchful eyes not only cataloged but also stored all of her mundane movements
in his memory database. Instantly, her flight mechanism kicked in urging her to
speedily unlock the door to enter her safe domain. It was a long time since a
man unnerved her. Why on earth did it have to be this man? And a white man, at
that?

Meanwhile,
next door, as she raced to safety, “Aunt Belle, it’s too late to call the
agency today. If it’s alright with you,” he couldn’t believe what he was about
to suggest, nor the convoluted reason for doing so, “I’ll stay the night and
take care of things in the morning before I leave.”

Bella
Thatcher’s reed-thin frame hardly blocked the doorway as she waited on her
great nephew to take his leave. This spur-of-the-moment turn of events rallied
her confidence in him. He spoke to her, yet his eyes trained on something
beyond her view. She pivoted a bit and caught Angela bounding out of their
sight like the devil himself was on her skirt tail. She smiled a knowing smile
that wasn’t lost on him. Chance’s Aunt Belle unmasked his spontaneity for what
it was, a flirtatious lust. Chance blanched as he slunk into the house
following his aunt’s joyful retreat.

Chapter Three

Angela
enjoyed the refreshing taste of her favorite cherry flavored ICEE on the walk
home from the corner store several blocks away. Secretly keeping tabs on
Chance’s motorcycle, relief flooded her being when she peeked and it no longer
took up space at the curb. The absence was enough incentive for her to treat
herself and get out of the house for a walk to boot mainly in an effort not to
dwell on the difficulty encountered when practicing her viola.

Her
thong sandals gritted on the sandy concrete broadcasting her position to all
within hearing distance. The empty street was hers alone. The sky shed its
grayness as daylight waned; coloring the atmospheric canvas a sea-blue
sprinkled with floating cotton, sun-kissed and striped a feathery red.
Marveling at the beauty, she sipped her drink, taking her sweet time in
climbing the stone steps to her yard.

“How
are you this evening, Angela?” Mrs. Thatcher called. She and Chance sat
comfortably in the swing, keeping a constant back and forth motion, satiated
after their light supper.

Initially
unaware of their presence, she was startled to learn of her mistake. She wasn’t
alone after all. “Fine, thank you, Mrs. Thatcher,” she lied. “And you?”

“Muddling
along for an old lady.” Chastising her relative, “Don’t be so impolite, Brock.
Speak.”

“Miss
Munso.”
 
His mind drifted to the music he
heard coming from her upstairs window, a hauntingly melodious tune she had
difficulty completing—pausing at the same spot after each try. Not to be
outdone, he assumed, she finished the song by singing the notes in melodic
crystal clarity.
 

“Lt.
Alexander.” Angela decided to make her exit calling over her shoulder as she
advanced on the door. “See you later, Mrs.—” The remaining words dwindled to a
gurgle and the cup fell in slow motion from her hand. A smoky cheroot scent
assailed her olfactory senses in competition with her sense of hearing just as
one foot crossed the threshold. Alarm painted her features as she spun to look
dead at Chance, eyes silently screaming for help.

The
fine hairs on his arms snapped to attention across the distance launching his
ascent from the swing like a rocket booster, landing him beside her in a flash.
“What is it?” He heard it, too, while she backed away. Someone moved inside her
home. “Were you expecting company?”

All
she managed was a negative headshake.

The
exchange of places allowed him to feel the delicate bones in her soft hands.
“Stay out here. I’ll come for you once I’ve cleared the house.” She looked
panicked. “Understood?”

She
silently nodded her assent.

She
watched him cautiously enter on cat’s feet, his expertise in such matters
clearly exhibited. Now and again, she caught a hint of his movement as he
materialized from one room to disappear into the next. How fickle could she be
to put his life in jeopardy when she scorned him previously? Angela’s
conscience whipped up on her. So much so that she tiptoed up the stairs behind
him, against his express wishes.

The
bottom floor proved empty sending him up to the next level, senses attuned and
gun drawn. He whirled after hearing the slightest movement, leveling the weapon
stiff armed and double-fisted. She gasped. Chance rapidly raised the barrel to
the ceiling. He noted how in her flustered state she crashed backwards, bumping
her head on the descent.

“Ow-w-w,”
she groaned, vaguely aware of the swaying meadow grasses enveloping her before
the light receded and he completely disappeared.

“Cra-ap!”
That was as close to an expletive Chance could come to since turning over his
new leaf. He knew the culprit had escaped through the door to the rear of the
house for it was wide open. Yet, it was a precautionary measure to do a check
of the upstairs, just in case. “Angela? Can you hear me?” Thumbing the safety
and holstering his gun, Chance huddled over her on all fours.
 

“Hmmm?”
She moaned miserably.
 

A
rush of air expelled from his lungs.

“Don’t
move,” he ordered as she attempted to rise on her own. “Let me check you over.”
Carefully examining her limbs, satisfied there were no broken bones, he probed
the tender spot near her temple where an angry lump already raised under the
smooth skin on her face.

She
stirred again, pushing herself to a sitting position and forcing Chance to
scoot back. It was a losing battle to remain vertical when gravity yanked her
down in an unconscious heap.
  

Chance
let go an exasperated breath and called 911.

Their
acquaintance was less than a few hours old. However, if he was any judge of
character, her unpredictable nature surfaced on two separate occasions during
that time. This was his fault. He’d given her a direct order. What else did he
expect a headstrong woman of her caliber to do except disregard the command?

“Cookie?
Cookie, Sweetie?”

“Yes,
Daddy?”

“I
supported your mama’s decision back then.”

“Mama
lied to me, Father.”

“Oh,
it’s Father now, is it? Your mother didn’t lie, Cookie. When you were young,
you wouldn’t have understood. As you got older, the subject simply lost its
importance. You were our baby. Your mother’s and mine.”

“I’ve
been living the lie perpetrated by those who claim to love me for almost
thirty-two years, Daddy. Why, Daddy? Why? He needs me, now. I don’t need him.”

Chance
felt like he eavesdropped on her private conversation. “Angela, wake up.”

“Why,
Daddy, why?”

“Wake
up, Angela.” Her lids fluttered as she struggled to leave her foggy existence.
“Let me look into those alluring eyes of yours.” Aunt Belle stepped up behind
Chance, overhearing his intimate mutterings.

“Is
she responding?”

“She’s
hallucinating, I believe,” he responded, blushing deeply. “Talking to her
father.”

An
all encompassing bass resonance streamed into her consciousness.

She
remembered the flash of the penlight testing the reaction of her pupils
confidently held in the hands of the emergency room doctor and had been able to
answer all his pertinent questions related to her name, birthday, the day’s
date and address, among others. The tale of how her accident happened concurred
with Chance’s story. Now, she reclined in her own bed as the voices around her
pulled the veil from her eyes.

“Come
on, Angela. Open your eyes,” Chance cajoled. He alternated the hourly
interrogations throughout the night with his aunt after getting Angela home
from the hospital, hot as hell under the collar at the dusky raised welt angled
across the delicate skin on her back, visible above the neckline of her sleep
shirt.

“What
time is it?” She couldn’t part her lids, yet.

“Five
A.M. Friday morning.” Her eyes flew open to stare at him in the muted light.

“Friday
morning?” She noticed, luckily, someone dressed her in cotton loungewear as she
hauled the covers aside.

“What
do you think you’re doing?” he questioned harshly, looking to his aunt for
support.

“I
have classes today.” Sitting on the side of the bed, her hands kept her head
from exploding into a million little pieces as she tried to rise. The thickness
of the soft hair falling over his hands as he broke her fall coerced him to
sift the strands through his strong fingers, a feeling he abundantly cherished.

“Sweet
child, you won’t be going anywhere for a couple of days, at least,” said Belle.

“My
kids—”

“Will
understand,” he cut her off.

“They
can’t endure another disappointment. Music’s therapeutic to these kids.” She
made one more stab at gaining her feet, making it to the bathroom door.
“They’re fragile.” The contents of her stomach spewed everywhere. “Oh, God!”

Angela
swiped a towel from the rack on her way to her knees.

“So
are you. Though I suspect you’d never admit that,” he boldly admonished,
wetting a cloth to hold under her trembling chin, pleased as she leaned into
him without fighting.

“Get
her back to bed, Brock. I’ll clean up.”

Objecting,
“I can’t let you do that, Mrs. Thatcher.” She had no choice for Chance hugged
her to him on the walk to her bed. “Maybe, the older children will understand.”
She fell to the pillows, eyes closing to stop the room from spinning, a plan on
her lips as he drew the covers up. “The babies have music starting at
twelve-thirty. I’ll make it for the last two hours.”

“—room
for new messages.”

“Angela
Rose Munso. Pick up the phone this instant. Do you hear me?”

Even
in the bathroom, Angela heard her mother’s voice, promptly increasing the
water’s intensity to drown her out while putting on the finishing touches with
the makeup cover stick.
 
Dressed in aqua
chintz slacks and a snow white blouse she topped with the matching jacket and a
one-inch heel in a complementary color, Angela swung to glance at the clock
almost collapsing from dizziness. She cut it close but still had time to make
the twelve-thirty class.