by Pat Simmons
She seemed flustered, then stuttered, “We take walks together—”
“Except for this morning and the others she was here without you knowing it,” he said.
“She must have gotten tired and rested on your porch,” Miss Knicely explained.
“Umm-hmm. And that’s the story you’re sticking with?” Her excuse was too simple though forgivable—if it had only happened once, which it hadn’t. “Where do you live?”
This time, the information didn’t come so freely. She was hesitant. “On Roland Drive.”
Really? Roland Drive was the main entrance to the cluster of homes and touched every street in Pasadena Hills. Her deep-brown eyes and tentative smile silently pleaded with him to believe her. Not so fast. At thirty-four years old, Marcus had experience with good-looking ladies’ charms that had twisted his common sense in the past, so he regrouped. “Where exactly?”
“By the park.”
“What?” Marcus unfolded his arms and stood to his full six foot three. “Some houses are half an acre apart. That’s a long way for an elderly person to wander.” Beautiful or not, this woman was obviously too irresponsible to be a caregiver.
Responsibility had been drilled into Marcus as a child. When he was a little boy, three generations of Whittingtons lived under one roof. His grandparents, especially his grandmother, were kind, understanding, and stern when it came to disciplining their rambunctious grandsons. Yet Gran reminded them daily they were loved. This type of error would never have happened on his watch in his family.
Memories of his deceased grandparents touched a soft spot whenever he thought of them. Marcus would have moved them in with him without any hesitation and have twenty-four-hour monitoring, if necessary. When Gran and Pops died, he and Demetrius had bawled like infants.
Marcus would have done the same for his parents, but they had retired and relocated to North Carolina. “Older people are jewels, and I refuse to stand by and allow someone to treat them carelessly. You should know her whereabouts at all times. I suggest you keep track of your relative. Do you have any idea what could have happened to her?”
He must have hit a nerve and ticked her off. She jutted out her chin defiantly. She wore an attitude as professional as her suit. Her nostrils flared, and she cast him an angry glare.
“The jewel of my family is sitting right there.” She pointed to her car. “Unless you’ve been a caregiver for a loved one, don’t judge someone who is!” She stormed back to her car. Once there, she spun around. “You don’t have to worry about any further visits from Aunt Tweet!”
“That works for me, because if she shows up on my doorstep one more time unsupervised, I’ll contact the police. I’m sure they’ll take her into protective custody and charge you with endangerment of a senior citizen. Don’t test me, neighbor.”
“Mr…”
“Marcus Whittington,” he supplied before waving at the passenger in the car.
“Whatever. This is a test I don’t plan to fail.”
“For your aunt’s sake, I hope not.” Dismissing Tabitha, he stepped back inside and slammed the heavy wooden door for good measure, rattling the nearby windows. Her Aunt Tweet was definitely in the wrong hands.
After grabbing his computer bag, he checked his appearance, then decided to double-check his doors, just in case. Next, he activated his home security system and headed to work. During the short drive, he fumed, replaying the incident in his head. He didn’t know if he was more upset about Tabitha’s mistreatment of an elderly person or him losing his temper. That was so uncharacteristic of him.
In no time, he arrived at the business park that housed his company. Using the back entrance, he took the shortcut to the office he shared with Demetrius. Usually, he admired the layout of Whittington Janitorial Services’ warehouse. Industrial cleaning products and supplies were stacked neatly on the shelves that lined the walls. One side had spacious lockers for employees to store their personal items. At the moment, any sense of accomplishment paled, as his irritation built with each step. Those two ladies had dared to infiltrate his home safety zone.
One of three supervisors on his cleaning staff, Chester “Chess” Gray, stopped him. He glanced at his wrist as if he were wearing a watch—he wasn’t. “Something’s wrong if I’m beating you to work,” he joked.
Marcus wasn’t in the mood for humor. He needed to vent and he didn’t care who listened as he described his bizarre morning. “Who does that?” he asked, needing an answer.
“Watch it, Boss,” Chess cautioned. “Old girl might be setting you up for a burglary. There was a string of robberies not far from where you live a while back.”
Great. He gritted his teeth. The day keeps getting worse.
“She could be part of the lookout team.”
Living in a crime-infested part of the city, Chess was suspicious of anybody and everybody, which made him a good supervisor—most of the time. Other times, Chess was annoying…but Marcus’s employee could be onto something.
Continuing on his way, Marcus opened the door to the office. Demetrius was on his computer. “Nice of you to show up,” he said sarcastically.
“Yeah, well. I had a situation this morning, but I caught them.”
“Caught who?” His brother frowned. “Please tell me you didn’t hurt anyone without my backup.” Marcus had attended Pennsylvania State University on a wrestling and academic scholarship—both had full rides. Demetrius had boxed in college; together, they were a force to be reckoned with.
“No need. Evidently, two chicks have been staking out my place.” After what Chess said, he downplayed the woman’s excuse. “The older woman goes by the name of Aunt Tweet. The other was much younger.” He huffed and slid his laptop out of the bag. He had to shake the bad vibes from Tabitha Knicely, so he could review the time sheets before signing off on them. Relax and focus.
“Interesting. A female crime ring.”
Marcus frowned. “I don’t really buy that, but for good measure, I instilled fear in them that they had picked the wrong house for that foolishness. And I issued a threat too.”
“Well, sounds like those two won’t be returning. Hopefully, they got the hint they were messing with a Whittington,” Demetrius said. When Marcus didn’t add any further comment, his brother cleared his throat. “Switching to work, Terrence Scott needs a random drug test. We may have to terminate him.”
Not good. Their company had received awards for their exemplary efforts to give hope to the hopeless in low-income communities and to young men and women who had served time in prison for nonviolent crimes. Marcus labeled their choices as making stupid decisions. Whittington Janitorial Services’ mission statement referenced assisting disenfranchised workers with a way out of poverty. He and Demetrius had both witnessed how a cleaning staff seemed invisible to people with money. It was offensive how they, most of them black, were mistreated, disrespected, and stereotyped.
Although he and Demetrius believed in second chances, after three strikes, his company had no choice but to terminate an employee. Terrence had been the exception to this rule. He was barely twenty-three, his live-in girlfriend was pregnant, and he didn’t have a car. Prison had probably saved the young man’s life or he would have been another statistic of a young black man killed in the streets.
Rubbing the hairs of his goatee, he spun around to admire the framed, floor-to-ceiling corkboard. It boasted success stories of former employees. The brothers had mentored, encouraged, and sometimes gave out of their own pockets to meet basic needs, like food and shelter. Marcus shook his head.
Turning to face his brother, Marcus squeezed his lips in frustration, then said, “My day seems to be going from bad to worse.” When would people learn that responsibility wasn’t optional? First, those women set the stage for his day to go downhill, and second, Terrence seemed to be picking up the torch. “Can you believe she got an attitude after
trespassing on my property?” he mumbled, then grunted.
“Back to the lawbreakers, huh?” Demetrius chuckled, evidently straining his hearing, since their shared office space was at least twenty feet long and a short file cabinet served as the dividing line. It was a spacious office that could easily be separated into two, but neither felt the need to have a wall constructed for privacy. They knew each other’s business anyway. “So how did she look again?”
“Like a gorgeous spitfire.” He hadn’t forgotten one detail. “She was a crafty diva with curves from a good workout.”
“I got the gorgeous part.” Demetrius leaned across his desk and smirked across the room. “I was referring to the aunt.”
“Oh.” Marcus shifted in his chair and reached for the chilled bottled water their administrative assistant placed on their desks every morning. To hide his blunder, he unscrewed the cap and gulped down half the bottle as if he were dying of thirst. “Ah.” He smacked his lips. “Say what?”
“I asked you to describe this crafty diva with the great body.” Demetrius snickered until laughter exploded out of his mouth.
Okay, so his big bro had jokes. Marcus played along. “She was a nice-looking lady who seemed completely normal from her spot in the front seat of a car. Her silver-gray hair reminded me of Gran’s.” Maybe the similarity was what had sparked his outrage at Tabitha’s lack of responsibility.
His beloved grandparents, Gran and Pops, were the sweetest people on earth and lived into their eighties. When they became sick, Marcus and Demetrius had waited on them hand and foot. They were his idols, seemingly knowing everything about everything.
He pitied anyone who had to enter a nursing home, where some families abandoned their relatives instead of maintaining ties with visits and calls. He had witnessed firsthand the abuse and neglect when he had to deliver business orders to a few nursing facilities. Those images and odors were seared into his brain.
“But did you have to be so hard on her?” his brother asked.
“The situation forced my hand. When it comes to responsibilities, the Whittingtons take care of our own.” He patted his chest with pride.
“Yeah, but usually, I’m the bad guy.” Demetrius chuckled. “After your stunt today, I’d say you reign, but I understand you had to do what you had to do.”
Although they were extremely close, their personalities were like night and day. Demetrius was the no-nonsense one who had mastered the “do not dare to cross me” facial expression. On rare occasions, his brother could be a pushover. Marcus was laid back and sympathetic.
Physically, there was no mistaking them as brothers.
Marcus preferred a low haircut and trimmed goatee. Outside of work, he was a meticulous dresser and maintained a regular workout routine. Demetrius’s current exercise regimen was, at best, inconsistent—at this point, it amounted to whenever he felt like it.
Demetrius sported his shaved head and set off his look with a diamond stud in one ear. Marcus didn’t like jewelry on a man, not even a watch—that’s what his smartphone was for. He was the shade of black coffee, where Demetrius was a double dip of dark chocolate.
“Great way to start off a relationship,” Demetrius teased. When they were boys, his brother had an annoying habit of baiting him. As a man in his late thirties, he still hadn’t grown out of that trait.
“Relationship? Where in my conversation did you assume that?” Marcus frowned. “I’m not even sure if the chick is really a neighbor.”
His brother twitched his lips. “Umm-hmm. Something tells me this story with your neighbor is just beginning.” He stood and strolled toward their door, chuckling. “Chapter One: Brotha Meets Fine Sistah—I can see the fascination in your eyes. Plus, your protest is overkill.”
Grabbing a piece of paper from a stack, Marcus balled it up and aimed for Demetrius’s head, then fired. Hitting him, Marcus got the last laugh—or so he thought, until he realized it was an invoice he needed to mail to a client. Groaning, he closed his eyes. His day had to get better, right?
Chapter 3
Tabitha considered herself a people person. She had to possess a friendly personality as a pharmaceutical sales rep. By nature, she believed in making friends, not enemies. However, this morning, Marcus had pushed her buttons. She didn’t like him.
How was she to know her aunt had snuck out of the house—more than once—while she was sleeping? This was all new to her.
She was humiliated that he talked down to her as if she were a child and was frustrated that Aunt Tweet had done such a thing. Tabitha renamed him the Jerk. If the man had been an unattractive, out-of-shape slouch, she would have disposed of him with a few choice words—in a civilized manner, of course—but without shame.
No, the homeowner had to be disgustingly fine with a physique that made her notice. She had no choice but to take the whipping for #TeamAuntTweet. “Please, stop waving at the man,” she had pleaded softly as she drove away.
“He waved first, miss,” her aunt replied as if she were talking to a stranger while fumbling with the scarf Tabitha gave back to her. That was the second time Aunt Tweet had forgotten her name. Although memory recognition was symptomatic of dementia, it pricked Tabitha’s heart just the same.
Gripping the steering wheel, she turned to her aunt. “Please don’t leave the house without me again—please.” She wanted to avoid any future run-ins with the Jerk at all costs. “By the way, do you remember how many times you’ve been to that man’s house?”
“Hmm. Let me see.” Aunt Tweet lowered her brows as if mentally calculating. “I can’t remember. Three, four…a lot of times.”
Tabitha gasped for air as a migraine punched her in the eye, causing her head to throb while Aunt Tweet arranged the scandalous scarf around her neck while looking straight ahead as if nothing had transpired.
Fortunately, her aunt hadn’t overheard the man’s rudeness. She didn’t tolerate impoliteness.
Ten minutes later, they arrived in the semicircular entrance of Bermuda Place. The valet opened the passenger door and greeted Aunt Tweet. That is how a man is supposed to treat a woman, with courtesy and respect, not Marcus’s fire-breathing threats, Tabitha mused.
The upscale adult care facility had activities, supervised shopping trips, a hair salon, gourmet meals, and movies throughout the day. There was even a napping room. It was considered the elite of upscale senior living or adult care facilities, which Aunt Tweet had outlined in her living trust.
While in Philly, the sisters had paid a visit to the law firm of Krone, Keller, and Bush. Attorney Leah Krone read the contents of Aunt Tweet’s living trust: “Nine years ago, your aunt updated her will and made you all trustees on her various accounts. Miss Brownlee has savings, investments, real estate, and her 401(k). She allocated a large portion for her upkeep and health care in the event she would require a nursing facility, only after all means have been exhausted for her to live independently.”
“We have decided to share in her care.” Tabitha straightened her shoulders. “She will live with each one of us six months at a time.”
“I see.” Attorney Krone slipped on her glasses. “If that is the case, each sister will receive $5,000 a month stipend while she is in your care.” She chuckled at their stunned expressions. “She insisted on the royalty of senior care.”
In addition to the living trust, Aunt Tweet had named Kym Knicely, as the oldest, the primary agent for her durable power of attorney for health care. Tabitha was named the agent for financial power of attorney, and she had put her aunt’s home in the Rittenhouse area of Philly on the market. It sold for half a million, and the proceeds were deposited into Aunt Tweet’s trust account. Rachel was listed as their backups. All three of them were determined to follow Aunt Tweet’s requests to the letter.
Bermuda Place resembled a residential condominium or apartment complex more than an adult day care that sh
ut down at 6:00 p.m.—no exceptions, as she had been advised more than once when she completed the application.
The hours were 7:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., so Tabitha didn’t anticipate a problem. She knew there would be occasional evening events and planned to take her aunt with her.
To Tabitha’s relief, Aunt Tweet had complimented the decor and furnishings when they had toured the facility a few weeks earlier, but she still wasn’t sure how her independent aunt would feel about an undercover “babysitter.”
Escorting her inside, Tabitha greeted the staff and made sure her aunt was comfortable, wondering if she would remember the new environment. She didn’t.
Almost immediately, one of the staff members solicited Aunt Tweet’s advice on how to accessorize some outfits—personalized activities were created for each guest based on the applicants’ likes, dislikes, and hobbies to help acclimate them in an unfamiliar setting.
“I have to go to work, Aunt Tweet. I’ll be back—”
The woman, Carole, waved her off. “We’ll be fine.”
Suddenly, Tabitha’s legs wouldn’t move. Now, she was second-guessing her decision to leave her aunt in the care of…strangers. She was having separation anxiety. Moisture blinded her vision as she rubbed her aunt’s shoulder.
“It’s okay. Miss Brownlee and I will be fine.” The woman spoke in a comforting tone.
Taking a deep breath, Tabitha snapped out of it. She mimicked Carole’s nods and gave Aunt Tweet a lingering hug, then brushed a quick kiss on her cheek and hurried out the door.
Once she was in the car, she took a few minutes to breathe, clear her head, and think of something else besides deserting her great-aunt.
Blinking away a few stubborn tears, she dabbed her eyes, then drove off and exited on westbound I-70, which was the route to her new job in St. Charles—the first Missouri capital for five short years in the 1820s. It was one of those tidbits she’d learned in school on a field trip to the existing state capital, Jefferson City.
