by Pat Simmons
Clearly, she and her sisters had taken heed from their mentor, role model, and cheerleader. They were fiercely independent, polished, free-spirited...and none of them had ever been invited to meet a man at the altar.
The next six months would sure be interesting. Tightening her robe, Tabitha stepped out of the bathroom. She glided down the winding stairwell of her childhood home. She and her sisters had called the open stairs movie-star steps when their robe or long dresses dragged on the stairs.
She sniffed the air as she strolled into the kitchen. Tabitha welcomed another cook in the house. “Good morn—” She paused in her steps.
Aunt Tweet had scrambled eggs, sausage patties on a paper-towel covered plate, and bread waiting in the toaster. Yet, her aunt was munching on a spoonful of Cheerios.
“You cooked a hot breakfast, but settled for cereal?” Tabitha chuckled as she was about to get a plate to serve herself.
“I changed my mind.”
She spied her aunt’s bowl and frowned. “Ah, you don’t have any milk in there.”
Getting the carton out of the refrigerator, Tabitha walked back to the table and poured some in the bowl. Chalking it up as another sad oddity of dementia, she kissed her aunt’s cheek.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Aunt Tweet giggled, adjusting Tabitha’s red floppy hat on her head. Since her arrival, her aunt had fallen in love with it and wore it practically every day, regardless of her ensemble.
“So how long have you been up, and what have you been doing?” She filled her plate, then reached for a mug to dilute the strong coffee her aunt had made.
“I took a little walk around God’s green earth.”
Tabitha held her breathe. She didn’t like the idea of her aunt being out of her sight. She exhaled. “Without me?” She and Aunt Tweet had taken walks together, since she’d arrived. The abundance of green space in Pasadena Hills could not only rival the nearby Norwood Hills Country Club, but the tranquil surroundings tempted residents to come out and play. Her aunt had succumbed to the enticement. She shivered. There were too many bad scenarios to consider.
“You were asleep.”
“Next time, wake me up.”
Aunt Tweet nodded. She scooped up more cereal, then dropped her spoon. “I left my scarf...I left my scarf!” Panic-stricken, she trembled.
That’s all? Tabitha patted her chest to aid her breathing to return to normal as she took her seat. “It’s okay. I’ll get it from upstairs,” she said, reassuring her that it was okay to forget things sometimes. Her sister had mentioned how their aunt had worked herself into hysterics over the vintage scarf she had gotten as an engagement gift. Her aunt boasted she’d gotten rid of the ex-husband, but held onto the expensive scarf. There wasn’t any peace in Kym’s house until she found it behind a pillow in the sofa.
“I’ll get it.” She started toward her front door.
“No!” Aunt Tweet shrieked, shaking her head. “On that porch. We’d better hurry.”
Confused, she tried to calm her down by speaking slowly. “What porch?”
“I don’t know.”
Of all the days for a distraction, this was not a good one. “Okay, wait here. Let me put some clothes on, then we’ll find it.” Tabitha raced upstairs, grateful that her clothes were ready to slip on, then grabbed her briefcase. Minutes later, she almost slipped while hurrying down the stairs in her heels.
She reentered the kitchen, and Aunt Tweet was nowhere in sight. Tabitha checked the adjacent family room, then peeped outside toward the patio. Her aunt was behind the wheel of Tabitha’s rental car. She wouldn’t be issued a company vehicle until after she completed her two-week training, which started today. It was a perk of being a sales rep.
After locking up, she convinced Aunt Tweet she couldn’t drive. While her aunt worked herself into a frenzy, Tabitha took deep breaths to stay calm.
She coaxed herself to have patience as she followed her aunt’s conflicting directions. However, all she could think about was not being late for work.
“That’s the place!” she yelled as Tabitha cruised by a stately story-and-a-half older brick house. The massive front door was centered under an archway. On both sides of the entrance were twin sets of French doors with mock balconies.
“I don’t see anything.” She cranked her neck.
Aunt Tweet snapped, “I told you that’s the porch.”
“Okay.” There is no reason for your sharp tone, Tabitha dared not voice her reprimand. This house wasn’t that close. Despite some mental deterioration, there was nothing wrong with her aunt’s physical stamina to cut through the park to this house in a short period of time this morning—unless, of course, she performed a speed walk before dawn.
Parking her car, Tabitha got out and surveyed her surroundings. The coast was clear, so she hurried toward the red scarf that was barely hanging onto a flower in a pot, flapping in the wind about to take flight. She was within inches of taking the item when the door opened, and she jumped back and steadied herself on her four-inch heels.
An imposing man filled the doorway. Under different circumstances, he would have been handsome and breathtaking. That was not the case. Judging from his snarl and piercing eyes, Tabitha felt as if she had walked into a trap.
Forget the scarf. Buy Aunt Tweet a new one. Run!
Chapter 2
M
arcus slipped on his marble floor when he spied a blue sedan creeping to the curb in front of his house. His interest piqued when a dark-skinned beauty stepped out and almost danced her way in heels to his porch. The suit fitted her well and would capture any man’s attention. Hmmm. He smirked. Even though a No-Solicitation sign was posted at the entrance to Pasadena Hills, he would place an order of whatever she was selling.
Clearing his head, he reigned in his hormones and continued to observe her. Why was she glancing around suspiciously? Was she the trespasser? Marcus had been ready and waiting for the mystery woman’s return, but recently, she had been a no-show.
Could this woman be part of a crime ring Chess had warned him about? Enough. He needed answers, so he flung open his door.
Up close, her beauty held him captive. She froze, too, as if they were a part of that once social media craze, the Mannequin Challenge. Where his limbs couldn’t move, his eyes did, cataloguing her features. She was a showstopper with her gorgeous, shapely legs—Wow! But this was not the time for distractions. He folded his arms. “May I help you?”
Her lips trembled into a smile, revealing glistening white teeth. He was a sucker for good dental hygiene.
“Ah, I’m so sorry,” she stuttered in the sweetest voice.
Keeping his eyes steady on his target, Marcus studied her expression as she seemed to contemplate her next move. In a blink of an eye, she swiped the red scarf and gave him a smug expression, then smiled.
He returned it with a smirk of his own. “You do know that I knew you were going to do that. Why is it on my porch in the first place?”
She glanced over her shoulder and pointed to the car. “This belongs to my aunt.”
“And this porch belongs to me.” He squinted at the woman in the passenger seat. He didn’t recognize her. “Why has your aunt been sitting on my porch in the mornings?”
Shock flashed on her face before she frowned. “Mornings? You mean she’s been here before?”
What was really going on here? Was this a stall tactic while someone broke into his house from the back? “Miss—?”
“Tabitha Knicely—a neighbor,” she supplied before motioning toward the car again. “That’s Aunt Tweet.”
If he had a neighbor as gorgeous as this woman, he would have known it. Marcus chided himself to stay focused. “You mean to tell me you had no knowledge that your aunt had been stalking my porch?”
She seemed flustered. “I wouldn’t call it stalking. I’m her short-term caregiver. She likes to take morning walks—”
“Without you knowing it,” he reminded her. This was worse than a neighb
orhood crime ring. A senior citizen was in danger.
Miss Knicely frowned. “Apparently she got tired and rested on your porch.” She shrugged. “No harm done.”
“Umm-hmm. And that’s the story you’re sticking with?” Her excuse was too simplistic, but 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.”
Right. Roland Drive was the main entrance to the cluster of homes and touched every street, court and drive in Pasadena Hills. Her brown doe eyes and tentative smile coaxed him to believe her. Not so fast. At thirty-four-years-old, Marcus had experience with good-looking ladies’ charms that in the past had twisted his common sense, so he regrouped. “Where exactly?”
“By the park.”
“What?” Marcus unfolded his arms and stood to his full six foot three inches. “Some houses are about a half an acre apart. That’s a long way for an elderly person to wander around and get lost.” Beautiful or not, she was too irresponsible to be a caregiver.
Responsibility was drilled into him as a child. When he was a little boy, three generations of Whittingtons lived under one roof. His grandparents, especially his grandmother, was kind, understanding and stern when it came to disciplining her rambunctious grandsons. Yet, Gran reminded them daily they were loved. This type of error would have never happened on his watch.
Memories of his deceased grandparents touched a soft spot whenever he thought of them. Marcus would move 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.
He would do the same for his parents who had retired and relocated to North Carolina. “Older people are jewels, and I refuse to stand by and allow someone to carelessly mistreat them. 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 rested a fist on her hip and jutted her doll-shaped chin. She wore an attitude as snugly as her suit. Her nostrils flared, and the angry glare she cast his way amused him, but he dared not smile. The well-being of any person, regardless of their age, wasn’t funny.
“Don’t judge me!” 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 call my bluff, neighbor.”
“Whoa.” She shivered. “Then I guess we’d better make a run for it, Mr...”
“Marcus Whittington,” he supplied before waving at the passenger in the car. Dismissing Tabitha, he stepped back inside and slammed the heavy wooden door for good measure, rattling the nearby windows. Aunt Tweet was definitely in the wrong hands.
After grabbing his computer bag, he checked his appearance, then decided to double-check his back door—just in case. Next, he activated his home security 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 and parked. 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 huge lockers for employees to store personal items. At the moment, any sense of accomplishment paled as his irritation built with each step. Someone 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 was 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 and described his bizarre morning. “Who does that?”
“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 awhile 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 to a fault, but maybe his employee was on to something.
Continuing on his way, he 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. “Vandals? Please tell me you didn’t hurt anyone without my backup.” Demetrius boxed in college; Marcus attended Pennsylvania State University on a wrestling and academic scholarship—both had full rides.
“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, much younger—gorgeous, by the way.” 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 timesheets before signing off on them. Relax and focus.
“Interesting. A Female crime-ring. Well, sounds like those two won’t be coming back to your house. 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 numerous awards for their exemplary efforts to give second chances to young men and women who had served time in prison for non-violent crimes. Marcus labeled their choices as making stupid decisions. Whittington Janitorial Services’ mission statement was to assist the disenfranchised workers with a way out of poverty, after they had witnessed how the cleaning staff seemed invisible to people with money. It was offensive how the workers, 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 employees. Terrence had been the exception to the “three strikes and you’re out” 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 from the streets.
Rubbing the hairs on his chin, he spun around to admire the framed floor-to-ceiling corkboard. It boasted success stories of former employees—men and women—who he had worked one-on-one mentoring, encouraging, and even coming out of his own pocket financially to meet their basic needs like food. He shook his head.
Turning to face his brother across the room, he twisted his mouth, then said, “My day seems to be going from bad to worse.” When would people learn responsibility wasn’t optional? First, that woman set the stage for his day to go downhill, and Terrence seemed to pick up the torch. “Can you believe she got an attitude because she trespassed 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 had bothered 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.” Demetr
ius leaned forward and smirked. “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.” Leaning back in his chair, Demetrius smirked 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. Her silver-gray hair reminded me of Gran’s.” Maybe the similarity was what 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 seventies. When they became sick, he and Demetrius waited on them hand and foot. They were his idols, seemingly knowing everything about anything.
He pitied anyone who had to enter a nursing home, because families abandoned them instead of maintaining family ties with visits and calls. He had witnessed first-hand 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 and olfactory glands.
“But did you have to be so hard on her?” his brother asked.
“I had to put some fear into her to do the right thing. You know 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.”
That was a low blow coming from his older brother. Although they were extremely close, their personalities were like night and day. Demetrius was the no-nonsense one who had mastered the “do not to cross me” mugshot until he allowed folks into his circle. Demetrius could be a pushover too. Marcus was laid back and sympathetic.
