Guilty of Love

by Pat Simmons

  Parke clear his throat. “It’s a matinee, and Cheney has a date.”

  Seconds later, his beeper interrupted the growing argument as Cheney’s family shot him an annoyed look. She didn’t know if she was more stunned with her family’s behavior that was bordering on hostile, or Parke, who had lied for her again. First Mrs. Beacon, now Parke. The day was turning into an unsolved mystery.

  “I do?”

  “She does?” Imani questioned.

  Reading the message on his pager, Parke stood. “I’ll take her,” he said with finality. “Excuse me, I have another appointment. It was nice meeting everyone.” He left without a backward glance.

  Fanning her face, Deb sucked in her lips. “Girl, if you don’t go out with him, I’ll go.” She pointed out the window. “That brother is some kind of fine.”

  “What about your husband and two kids?” Cheney teased.

  “What husband? What crumb snatchers?” Deb played dumb.

  Imani positioned her hands on her narrow hips. “Don’t waste these tickets, girlfriend.”

  Gayle gathered her purse and sleepy grandson. “Well, I wouldn’t advise going anywhere with him. He seems like trouble. You know the kind who would love you and leave you. I think you’ve had enough trouble with men.”

  She gave Cheney a knowing look and walked to the door. Janae followed, dragging Natalie and Bryce. Her mother didn’t toss out an innuendo. It was an affirmation that Cheney’s family knew. How?

  It didn’t matter. She didn’t know who made her feel guiltier, God or her family. She didn’t yearn for God, but she hungered and thirsted for her family’s attention.

  Stretching out on Cheney’s brand-new sofa like he belonged there, Rainey made himself comfortable. He picked up a remote and pointed it toward her twenty-seven inch television that rested on a glass and silver stand. If her brother did know about her past, at least he understood it wasn’t anybody else’s business.

  “Rainey, aren’t you coming?”

  Looking at his watch, he shook his head. “No, I’m going to hang out with Twin for a while, Mom.”

  “I’m sure your father will want to talk to you once he’s home from the conference.” Her mother seemed annoyed.

  Janae also came up with another excuse to draw him away, “I thought you were interested in Leah. C’mon. We’re all going out to dinner.”

  Cheney watched as her family spoke in a secret code. Yes, she served finger food, but it was enough so that no one would leave hungry.

  Rainey clicked off the TV, stood, and brushed a kiss against Cheney’s cheek. “I’ll be back, Twin, when I can leave the naggers at home.” He grinned and winked.

  Giving a weak smile, Cheney hugged her brother good-bye. When she turned back to her remaining guests, Imani and Deb were examining the theater tickets and Mrs. Beacon was inspecting Cheney’s shutters.

  Imani ran her fingers through her salon-set curls. “You sure you aren’t a stepchild? At least they gave nice gifts before PMS kicked in. Remind me not to stop by the same time next month. Forget them. Go clubbing with Deb and me later?”

  “I’ll pass. I’m drained.”

  Mrs. Beacon made her presence known. “Don’t worry about them. You’ll always have me.” She grinned like she was showing off a new set of dentures.

  Cheney sighed. Maybe moving back to her hometown wasn’t a good idea. They acted as if they could barely tolerate her. Rainey was the exception unless dark and lovely ladies stepped in front of him, then he had a one-track mind.

  Deb and Imani collected their purses to leave. Both encouraged her to go see the sold-out play with the fine-looking brother to lift her spirits. If not, Deb joked, “Give the tickets to Imani to make a love connection.”

  “I wish.” Imani kissed Cheney’s cheek. “You know I don’t pass up having a good time. Anyway, I have to fly out in the morning then I’m out of the country for the next three weeks, but we’ll talk tonight and compare notes on today.”

  Imani’s hand was on Cheney’s door knob when she twirled around and stomp her foot. “I can’t help the hypocrite in me from coming out. Let’s say a quick prayer.”

  “O-okay.” Cheney frowned as Deb shrugged.

  Mrs. Beacon remained rooted in her seat. “Don’t look at me.”

  The trio bowed their heads.

  “God, we know you have the solution. Please help my friend to find it,” Imani said amen. Cheney mumbled amen, not expecting anything to come out of it.

  After they left, Mrs. Beacon looked as if she had no intention of leaving any time soon. As Cheney flopped down in the matching chair, bracing herself for her neighbor’s whiplash of words, Mrs. Beacon sprang to her feet, announcing she was going home and wobbled to the door. Turning abruptly, she almost scared Cheney when she locked her in a bear hug with the strength she must’ve gained from her morning workouts. “You’ve done a good job.”

  Cheney’s eyes widened, registering her shock at the compliment. “What? No Heney?”

  “Nah, not after the weirdoes you call a family, and you can call me Grandma BB. You’re going to need me to watch your back.”

  Chapter Nine

  Malcolm tapped on Hallison’s door, dressed in a black Christian Dior custom tailored tuxedo for the night’s silent auction. His heart pounded faster, not from his nerves, but from the anticipation of seeing her soft features again. She always stirred him.

  She opened it, wearing a gold sequin dress. Her hair was swept up. That meant he would plant kisses on her irresistible neck throughout the night. Shimmer dusted her face and neck. She is really trying to give me a heart attack, he thought. Gorgeous. His eyes descended to the dress’ fringed hem. Her gold toenail polish shimmered.

  “Can I touch you?”

  Watching his assessment, Hallison tilted her head. “Yes.”

  Under hooded lids, Malcolm brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, then repeated the ritual to her other hand, chin, neck and lips. The worship was performed methodically as he knelt and lifted her foot to kiss her ankle.

  Hallison draped her shawl around his neck, forcing him to stand. “You’re possessing me.”

  Her breathy admission forced Malcolm to smear her lipstick. Afterward, he held her chin. “And you possess my heart, my thoughts, all my days and nights.”

  Taking her key, Malcolm locked her door before leading her to his Monte Carlo. “C’mon, baby. I’m looking forward to spending every moment tonight enjoying you.”

  The seduction continued inside his car. Malcolm slipped in his CD with love ballads. He played with her fingers, returning to the ring finger.

  If Hallison was his cat, she would meow as she snuggled into his leather seats and exhaled. Her face’s blissful expression was evidence of her happiness.

  When they arrived at their destination, Hallison was quiet. Shutting off the engine, Malcolm turned in his seat at the same time a valet from Tony’s Restaurant approached her door. He twisted his finger around a curl. “Open your eyes.”

  Obeying his command, he edged closer to her lips. “I want your attention all night. I don’t want you to focus on anything or anybody tonight except me, just me. I want us to get so wrapped up and tangled up together that it will be impossible to let go.”

  Reaching over, Hallison smoothed his beard. “I’m so wrapped up in you now that I can’t help myself.”

  Malcolm escorted her to one of the restaurant’s largest banquet rooms. The annual audition not only showcased the best photographs taken by local Black journalists, it also served as a fundraiser for several underprivileged children’s programs.

  As the night progressed, Malcolm cherished Hallison with stares, touches, and soft kisses to her neck as promised. “How can I concentrate when you’re distracting me?”

  She smiled. “You’ve got to be kiddin’. I’m bidding and you’re kissing me.” She jerked her head around when the auctioneer described a black-and-white print of three kids waving from an ascending hot air balloon. “Stop it, Mal
colm. I want that picture.”

  The bidding war began with Hallison and others sitting at three different tables. In the end, the twenty-by-sixteen picture’s price tag had climbed to five-hundred dollars. Hallison shook her head, sighing with disappointment.

  Before the auctioneer could finish saying, going twice, Malcolm purchased it for seven-hundred dollars. “The sky is the limit for you.”

  “You can’t buy nor can I accept such an expensive gift from you.”

  He winked. “Watch me buy it and you accept it.”

  ***

  Parke had it all figured out, or so he thought. He would trade in his BankOne shares if Cheney was seeing anyone. Where was the guy? After the fiasco he witnessed earlier, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. “Whew! What a circus.”

  She tried too hard to give the appearance of “do-it-myself” independence. Today he saw telltale signs of a yearning. He attributed his interest in Cheney’s house to neighborhood pride. Something about her had caught his attention. It was weird because he couldn’t shake the feeling. He figured it had to be her lipstick.

  He wondered about her ancestry and if her bloodline included a royal African tribe. Cheney could be a direct descendant of Amina, the queen of Zaria, Nigeria, who in the sixteenth century, began running the country when she, ironically, was sixteen. Warriors had taught her military skills and she fought battles to protect her people during her thirty-four-year reign. Historians labeled her as “a woman as capable as a man.”

  What made Parke think about the Nigeria queen? Dismissing any possible connection, he reflected on the housewarming again. It was anything but warm and cozy. Parke’s family gatherings, on the other hand, sparked instant camaraderie. They were too busy matching wits in games and conversations to waste time with snobbish remarks.

  And what was the deal with her girlfriends? He wondered as he steered his Envoy toward the city. Imani—or Deb—had popped her contact winking at him. “Nope, it was definitely Imani. She had the best looking pair of legs he had ever seen on a White woman. He chuckled. “What’s the story behind a White woman with a Black name?”

  He looked down at the text message again. I need investment advice for my mother. Can we meet at my place? 1 hr. Dinner and dessert will be served, Roslyn.

  As Parke sat in Roslyn’s Central West End townhouse, he witnessed another woman’s attempt at seduction. His mind drifted to Cheney. She was pretty enough, but she was tall. Did I just say she was pretty? Have I lost my mind? He preferred petite women in tall heels, tight jeans, and long lashes, but Cheney’s lashes were incredible.

  For the rest of the evening, Parke couldn’t dismiss Cheney’s image from his head. It was like he was playing a game of spades and her face was on every card. He had a nagging urge to see if she recovered from her house-chill party.

  Parke went into Roslyn’s bathroom and used his cell phone to call his pager. He flushed the toilet without using it, and washed his hands. When he opened the door, his beeper sounded as planned. He snatched it off his belt and glanced at it. “I’m sorry, but I need to go.”

  She pouted. “I was hoping we could relax while you go over my portfolio.”

  “Your mother’s?” Parke was getting tired of the same games that even he played.

  “Yes, I mean Mom’s.”

  “I’ll take the portfolio with me and be in touch.” He grabbed the folder and left.

  When he parked his SUV on Benton Street, he almost jogged to Cheney’s front door and pressed the bell. She cracked open the door and looked worse than the first day he had cushioned her from a nasty fall. What had happened after I left? he wondered.

  “Parke? What are you doing here? My party was over hours ago.”

  The sadness in Cheney’s voice tugged at his heart. The puffiness under her eyes did not become her. She had been crying. Oh man, he hated when a woman cried.

  Squeezing his lips, Parke looked away to gather his thoughts then met her stare. “I thought I’d come back and check on you.”

  “Why?”

  Why? Wasn’t it obvious? Yet, it wasn’t even obvious to Parke who was at a loss for words. “Well, uh,” he stuttered, never having to give any woman a reason to visit.

  Sniffing, Cheney seemed to gather her strength to give him the woman’s attitude thing—the hands on her hips, neck rolling, and nostrils flaring. “I appreciate the tickets to the play, but I can’t go. I’ll give them back so you can enjoy them with someone else.”

  Beautiful eyebrows, lashes, and her feisty spirit enchanted Parke. He wanted Cheney to like him. Parke folded his arms. “Are you returning the other gifts?”

  “No.”

  “Then, why insult me and return mine?”

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re after, but I’m not interested.”

  Didn’t she know Black men didn’t handle rejection well? “I’m not after you. I was just trying to be friendly. I’ve got so many women chasing me, I could print a phone book.” Parke could’ve slapped himself. She didn’t need that.

  Cocking her head to the side, the resilient Cheney bounced back. Ah, let the battle begin. She seemed two seconds from going off on him, so why was he smiling?

  “Let me introduce myself. I’m the new millennium woman.” Fiery darts flashed from her eyes. “I’m realistic enough to know every woman will not marry.” Cheney pointed to herself. “I’m one of them because I’m too intelligent, confident, and independent—”

  “And you’re kinda pretty.”

  “We’re in the middle of a disagreement. You aren’t supposed to be such a contradiction.” Cheney puffed out her cheeks like she was about to blow up a balloon then clenched her teeth. “Men like you see beauty in women of other races before you’ll appreciate the richness of the brown beauties.

  “I don’t get it, but I’ve accepted that sometimes it’s best to be without a man rather than have a husband who is cheating on you with other men. We had to worry about the other woman. Today, sisters are competing with another man. Black women are the fastest growing group infected with HIV/AIDS because often our men fall short.”

  Parke held up his hands in confusion. “Whoa, how did we get from going to see Bubbling Brown Sugar to sisters with AIDS?”

  Taking a deep breath, Cheney ran out of steam. “The bottom line is—” Cheney shook her head, chuckling. “I can’t remember my argument.”

  “You wouldn’t make a good lawyer.” Tickled, Parke laughed so loud, Mrs. Beacon’s porch light flickered on and then back off. It wasn’t close to dusk. Maybe she was sending someone Morse code.

  “It’s been a long day, and I had to vent, and you did knock on my door.”

  Annette had once told him that women were emotional beings, and when they got upset, to get ready because they could reach decades back into their memory bank and pull out stuff long forgotten to everybody but them. True to Annette’s words, Cheney seemed to be yanking stuff from across the world. He better walk softly around her.

  “That’s the second time I’ve been in the line of your cross-fire, Miss Reynolds.”

  “I’m sorry, for the second time today, Mr. Jamieson.”

  Getting comfortable, Parke leaned against the door jam. “I’m curious, and you have the right not to answer, but I’ll ask it anyway. Who is he?”

  “Who?”

  “What man hurt you, Cheney? Was it your dad? It can’t be your brother. You two seem to get along. Maybe an old boyfriend or an ex-husband?” he pried.

  “All of the above except there never was a husband.”

  “Let me make a difference.” What was he saying? Roslyn must have spiked his drink.

  “I don’t need a hero, Parke.”

  “Too bad, because I’m a warrior. I’ll make a great friend.”

  “Or pest.”

  “I’m not threatened by feisty and headstrong women. Go to the play as a peace offering.”

  Wearily, Cheney spoke slower and calmer this time. “Question.”

  Parke ti
lted his head. He liked sparring with her. “Answer.”

  “Were you lying about the block house tour? I didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Yes. I believe in diffusing potentially volatile situations and the bomb was ticking during your party earlier.”

  “How embarrassing. How can I say thank you?”

  “Next Saturday at two.”

  Cheney folded her arms and grunted. “I should’ve seen it coming, Parkay.”

  “So do we have a date?”

  “No, I’m not going on a date with you.” Her eyes took on a far-away look before she bowed her head.

  “Not a date, then. I want to have a good time without a woman wanting my body.”

  A whooping laugh split the air. They turned to see Mrs. Beacon on her porch holding her stomach. “Go out with the man so I can stop eavesdropping and go to bed.”

  “I have a better idea, Mrs. Beacon. Why don’t you go with him?”

  “Chile, don’t think I won’t. I’m not too old to want his body.”

  “I must be dreaming, and you two have invaded my sleep. Good night.” Cheney shut the door and turned her deadbolt lock.

  Amused and not offended, Parke remained rooted in the same spot, fingering the contents in his pants pocket, thinking how complex Cheney was.

  “Psst.”

  Jerking his head around, Parke tried to follow the faint sound.

  “Psst.” The sound grew louder and more forceful. “Look, Parkie, I know your hearing is better than mine, so step over here.”

  His long legs reached her porch in seconds. Parke grinned as he looked down at the petite older woman. He imagined she was something else in her day. “Yes. Mrs. Beacon?”

  She gripped his arm, and forced him down closer to her face. “Yeah, you can call me that for now. Look, I’ll get to the point. I’m glad you checked on her. Poor thing, her family came lookin’ to pick a fight.”

  Shivering, he admitted, “I felt it, too.”

  Mrs. Beacon patted his hand. “Ah, don’t get too comfortable. I like Heney—my pet name for her, and I’ve got her back. I pack more than what you see, and I know how to use it.”