by Tina Martin
“I’m not a burglar.”
“I know that, but a passerby wouldn’t know that.”
“I see your point.”
I walk away from him to wash my hands thoroughly and find a container for the uncooked pot roast, then set it in the refrigerator.
* * *
After calling in the order, I realize I didn’t ask Cain what he wanted to eat. I just ordered for him like he had to eat what I was eating. Dang. Have I taken ownership of this man?
The rain starts pitter-pattering on the roof. I hear its delightful trickles sprinkling the back porch. I love the rain but hate storms. Thunder, lightning, severe weather reports of hail and tornado warnings with power outages – I can do without all of that.
But the rain, I love. There’s nothing like a chill evening with rain, food and lit candles.
I open the front door to invite the sound and smell inside. Then I light three candles on the mantle above the fireplace.
Cain asks, “Did you make those?”
“The candles?” I ask, turning to look at him. He’s sitting on the sofa with his arms stretched out behind him. He looks super-relaxed and I’m glad. It’s how I want him to feel after everything he’s been through.
“Yeah.”
“Of course,” I say, smiling. “These are lavender and vanilla scented.”
“I smell the aroma over here already. I like those.”
I sit on the sofa next to him – not on the opposite side – I sit right next to him. I’m so close, our legs almost touch.
He’s changed the channel to ESPN – typical male move. I say, “You know what I forgot?”
“What?”
“I forgot to ask you what you wanted to eat. I just ordered.”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. I don’t want to be rude.”
“It’s not rude. You’re the one paying for it. I’m sure I’ll like whatever you ordered. What did you order?”
“Wings, fried rice, egg rolls and sesame chicken.”
He nods. “Sounds about right.”
“You like all of that?”
“I do.”
“And you’re not just saying that?”
“No. We have the same taste in food.”
“Cool. Now, I don’t feel so bad.”
The doorbell sounds. He instantly moves like he’s going to answer it, then backs down when he remembers this is my house.
I walk to the door, get the bag and leave the driver, who’s wearing a yellow rain poncho, a generous tip for coming out in this weather. I set the bag on the coffee table.
“Not eating in the kitchen today, huh?”
“Nope. Whenever I order Chinese food, I like to sit on the floor right here at the coffee table and attempt to eat with chopsticks.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not kidding. It’s a tradition, and anyone who’s at my house has to do it, too, Cain Wesley.”
He smirks. “Okay. I’ll give it a shot.”
I rush to the kitchen to grab two plates, then divvy up the food among us. Imagine my surprise when Cain holds the chopsticks perfectly and eats like this isn’t his first rodeo.
“Ahh…you played me.”
“I didn’t play you. You just assumed the homeless man didn’t know how to use chopsticks. Admit it.”
“You’re right. I feel bad now.”
“No need to feel bad. You just keep forgetting that I had a life before I was homeless.”
“I know you did, but I met you like this and so it’s a challenge to look at you for who you were before.”
“I get it.” Cain scoops up rice. “I had the kind of life people envied. I was married to a beautiful woman, I worked for myself—you know—the media company I was telling you about. I thought I had it all. The house was the first to go. I think once we—or should I say, I—lost that, my wife lost all respect for me.”
“She didn’t work?”
“No.”
While chewing, I hide my mouth behind a napkin to ask, “Why not?”
He shrugs. “She just didn’t. She didn’t need to. I made all the money.”
“I’m not trying to be nosey or anything, but what did she do all day if she didn’t work?”
“She took care of the house.”
“Did she cook? Oh, wait—nevermind. You told me earlier y’all ate out all the time.”
“Well, not all the time but frequently, so in answer to your question, it was a rare occasion when she cooked.”
“Did she clean?”
“No. We had people who came by to clean.”
“Then what exactly did she do to take care of the house?”
He looks at me. I see a glow in his eyes when he says, “You are nosey, aren’t you?”
I cackle so hard, I accidentally release an embarrassing snort. That makes him laugh harder.
He says, “She didn’t want to work. She wanted to be a wife and mother.”
“But y’all didn’t have kids.”
“No. It wasn’t time. Guess she got tired of waiting because as good as our life was, it wasn’t good enough. The marriage wasn’t mature enough to fight off outside influences.”
“You can’t blame that on the marriage, though. It’s up to each individual to commit to the marriage that, come what may, they’re in it for life.”
“Wait, let me understand something here.” Cain takes a napkin and wipes his mouth corner to corner. He says, “If you were my wife, and we lost our house, tell me you wouldn’t have left me like she did.”
“I wouldn’t have, but I’m a different kind of woman.”
“Come on. Be real, Ahmalee.”
“I am being real.” I put down a chicken wing, wipe my mouth and say, “First of all, I’m not about that let-the-man-pay-the-bills life. I like to make my own money.”
“So, let me lay out this scenario again—you’re my wife. I come home and tell you we can’t afford the four-thousand-dollar mortgage this month—”
“Four-thousand dollars!”
“Yeah. That’s how much my mortgage was.”
“Wow! You were living like that.”
“I was but stay focused because I want to hear your answer to this.”
“Okay. Focused,” I say, giving him my full attention.
“So, I come home and tell you I can’t pay the mortgage and we’re going to lose the house—are you telling me you won’t look down on me as a man—a man who’s supposed to provide and take care of you?”
“The thing is, I feel like if a man can’t take care of something and he’s married, his wife should be a shoulder for him to lean on—somebody to have his back and help him out. I truly feel if that woman loved you, you would not have been homeless. Seemed she only wanted you for what she could get from you and that sucks. That’s not love. If I’m your woman and I don’t have the funds to keep us afloat after you’ve lost your job, I’m not going to leave you. We’d just be broke and homeless together.”
I resume eating by taking a bite of chicken and gathering rice with my chopsticks. I glance over at Cain since I was about to ask him another question to find that he’s staring at me. Hard.
“What?”
“You really mean that don’t you?”
“Yeah. I do. I believe in true love. It’s what my parents had. I don’t care how many times they argued or what went wrong, or who ate the last cinnamon bun—they weren’t about to leave each other or anything. Never. They couldn’t live without each other. That’s why they died together and were buried together but from them, I’ve learned that true love never really dies.”
“That’s what you want? True love?”
“Isn’t that what everybody wants?”
He shrugs. “Is it?”
I smile, just barely. “Yeah.”
“Then why don’t you have it, Ahmalee?”
“Hunh?”
“You seem like you have a good foundation for it, and I don’t wa
nt to hear anything about no cheating boyfriend because he ain’t the only man in the world.”
“I mean, it’s not as simple as running out and picking out a dude off the shelf like someone would come in my store to pick out a candle. Relationships take time. There needs to be chemical reactions, sparks, explosions and after all that, there should be commonalities. It’s difficult for two people to be on the same page like that in this world.”
“Why?”
“Too many distractions. Too much social media. Too many people—men and women—trying to be players. Folks dating for all the wrong reasons.” I take a sip of water. “Do you know why I make candles?”
He glances up at the candles I lit by the fireplace.
“Why?”
“Because it puts me in a calming, relaxing headspace where I don’t have to think about marriage, dating—none of that. Candle making requires focus. It requires the wax to be at a certain temperature before the fragrance oil can attach to it, and then it’s required to be at a certain temperature for pouring it into candle containers. I don’t have to think about whether my man’s cheating while I’m working. I’m married to this. Over the years, I got so used to it I mentally blocked out the idea of finding love. I love making candles.”
“Candles can’t hold you at night.”
“Actually, the ones I make can.”
He smirks. “Oh, you that cold, huh?”
“Yeah. My candles are da bomb. They can also read you bedtime stories.”
He grins.
So do I.
He says in a more serious tone, “Candles can’t make love to you. Candles can’t ask you how your day was. Candles can’t make you feel like a woman.”
“Okay. You got me there. But look, if I want to feel like a woman, I can light a candle and sit in a bubble bath. When I get out, I’d massage sweet almond massage oil over my body. I make that, too. Did you know that?”
“Yeah. I saw some in the bathroom.”
Getting back on topic, I say, “I know true love exists, so I can’t write it off because of one ex who didn’t know how good of a woman he had.”
“Did he ever try to get back with you?”
“Gosh, yes he did. Six months later, he came running back talking about how much he appreciated me and how sorry he was. Said he didn’t realize what he had until it was gone. I was like, okay. Carry on. I don’t want you back.”
“No second chances with you, huh?” He eats more rice.
“No—well, at least not in this instance. Did your wife ever try to contact you again?”
“No. Why would she? I had nothing left to give her.”
I shake my head. “That’s terrible, but don’t worry. Every setback is a setup for a comeback or something like that. You know what I mean.”
He flashes a quick smile. “It’s a horrible feeling to hit rock bottom. I’m a testament to that.”
“Shoot, maybe you should write a book about your experience. You could give somebody else hope.”
“Maybe. I haven’t thought about that. These days my mind is all over the place, but mostly, I’ve been thinking about—you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. I don’t know many women who would do what you’re doing for me.”
“Yeah. I don’t either.”
“Then why are you?”
“Why do you keep asking me that?”
“Maybe if you’d give me a straight-up answer I’d stop.”
“I gave you a straight answer. I felt compelled. This Wednesday, it will be one year since I buried my parents. Maybe that had something to do with it. My mother was a generous person. I kinda felt like if I could do this to help you, it would be like honoring her because she would’ve done the same thing.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. It’s who my mother was.”
“So, do you still think I’m going to kill you?”
“I didn’t say that,” I tell him, swallowing laughter. “Sonji and Jamie did. I’ll introduce you to them on Monday.”
“Wait—I’m going to work with you on Monday?”
“Oh—see, there I go again making decisions for you without your knowledge. So, let me do this right. I have orders of jars and boxes of soy wax coming in on Monday. I could use your muscles to help me unpack.”
“Yeah. That’s fine with me. I’m at your beck and call. I have nothing else to do.”
“There’s plenty you can do to get your life back on track, Cain.”
“Like what?”
“Getting a job for one thing, but that’s a discussion for another day. I just want to enjoy the candles, this food, the rain and your company.”
“Oh, you enjoy my company.”
“Yes. I do. I’m always alone here. It’s been nice having you around to talk to.”
“If you’d like, I can also show you how to eat with chopsticks.”
“Shut up,” I say, laughing. I look into his amber eyes. Into his soul. He’s a good man, and I’m no longer afraid – even after he broke into my house by way of the kitchen window and attacked my crock-pot.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ahmalee
Monday, we’re on the way to the office. This is the first time Cain’s been in my car. I don’t know why that makes me nervous – not a scared kind of nervous, but the exciting kind that comes with butterflies. He’s dressed casually today. Said he wanted to go check out some job leads after helping me at the shop.
We arrive at Ivy and Eden around nine-thirty.
“It feels weird to be back here,” he says.
“Does it?”
“Yeah. I was so lost. In many ways, I still am.”
I reach over and squeeze his forearm and say reassuringly, “I’ll help you.”
“I know. You’ve been helping me. I appreciate everything you do for me, Ahmalee.”
I glance over at him – catch him licking his lips while looking at mine. I release his arm and proceed to open the door.
We go inside. Soon after, my supplies are delivered. Cain brings in box after box to the lab. He lowers a twenty-four pack of two-ounce jars to the table and unpacks them. I’m making more candles this morning – small candles that smell like red wine. I’ve been anxious to make those.
“This place is a candle paradise,” Cain says looking around at all the fragrance oil bottles on the shelf and the inventory of candles that are curing on the racks.
“Yep. This is where all the magic happens.”
“Are you making more today?”
“Yes. I’m experimenting with the smaller ones. I bought a new fragrance oil that smells like red wine. I want to see how well it performs when it sets in with the wax.”
“I see.”
“I also have to bottle up some more soap and massage oil.”
“Sounds like a full day.”
“Yeah. It will be. Oh, and if you want to take my car to go job hunting, that’s fine. Just pick me up later.”
“No, I’m not taking your car. All the places I need to go to are within walking distance.”
“But—”
“I’m not taking your car, Ahmalee.”
“Okay, fine,” I say putting my hands up. “Can’t say I didn’t offer.”
I hear the doorbell chime.
“Good morning, Ahmalee,” Sonji sings loudly so I’ll hear her from the lab. “Jamie just pulled up, too. I didn’t realize you scheduled us both—”
Her voice falls off when I emerge from the back with Cain in tow. She frowns, darts her head back and asks, “Is this—?”
Before she can say that homeless dude, I say, “Sonji, this is Cain. Cain, this is Sonji.”
She stares up at him like she’s in awe. No, not awe, more like shock mixed with a little fear. She didn’t think I was serious when I told her he’d been helping me, but she has proof now.
Jamie walks in and says, “Mornin’, y’all. I—”
When she notices Cain, her voice falls down the same cliff as Sonji�
�s. She says. “Is this Cain?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cain says. He steps forward and extends his hand to shake hers.
Jamie cringes. She doesn’t try to hide it, either, and she doesn’t reach for his hand. Instead, she says, “Oh, I’m good. No offense, hun, but I don’t shake the hands of folks I do know. You know they say hands are the germiest part of the body?”
Cain slowly lowers his hand back to his side.
I’m embarrassed for him – pissed that Jamie would be so thoughtless. I don’t need a mirror to know that all the color has drained out of my face. What is she thinking?
Cain says, “Well…I’m going to head out. I’ll see you later, Ahmalee.”
“Okay. Thanks for helping me with the boxes.”
The chime goes off as he exits through the front. I immediately look at Jamie and Sonji and ask, “What’s wrong with y’all?”
“What you mean?” Jamie asks. “I hope you didn’t think I was about to shake that man’s hand.”
“Why not shake his hand? You act like you’re better than he is or something.”
“He’s a friggin’ bum,” she says.
Sonji jumps in and adds, “You don’t even know him, Ahmalee.”
And now, I’ve had it.
“You know what I do know? I know how to treat people with respect no matter where they came from or what their background is. That man reached his hand out to you, Jamie, and you looked down at him like he was nothing. I wouldn’t want you treating a customer like that, let alone someone I’m introducing you to. My goodness! Y’all are ridiculous! Plain, flat-out ridiculous!”
I go to the back to lose myself in some candle-making because I’m highly disgusted. As mad as I am, I probably shouldn’t be making anything, but I put myself in business mode and get crackin’. These candles are not going to make themselves.
* * *
The entire day, I was irritated because of the way Sonji and Jamie behaved, but I was more bothered about how I think Cain took it. It irritates me that I have no way of reaching out to him. He doesn’t have a phone. I don’t know if he plans on meeting me back here so we can ride back home together, if he’ll find his own way back or if he’s coming back at all? He left so abruptly, we didn’t have that conversation. Now, I don’t know where he is and that pisses me off.
