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  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 h
e 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.

  “Twenty messages is my limit. Your father and I will pay you a visit this week—”

  Chance, his attitude rising to the positive side of the weather thermometer the longer he stayed in her intimately color-infused home, raised his head from the Saturday morning paper, caught off-guard at the abrupt silence because he absently listened to the message—and yawned. He peered at the machine to see the answer light’s sporadic flash, gliding the toothpick to the other side of his mouth with his tongue.

  Angela was awake.

  He insinuated himself in her kitchen with ease brewing a pot of coffee of which he availed himself. A search of the cabinets had him now on his way to her bedroom carrying a tray bearing coffee and buttered toast. Perhaps, she could stomach something a little more substantial. He truly didn’t know.

  His hand stopped mid-air as the sound of weeping assaulted his ears. Chance puzzled. She fought a man his build for his aunt and cut him down to size in front of the whole bureau. In spite of that, a softer side revealed itself during the break-in, which by the way, he found no obvious theft or destruction but could vouch it happened and now he was certain she cried. An ear-shattering crash reverberated off the door compelling his eyes to blaze to the spot where he suspected the item hit like he had x-ray vision.

  The lady really has a temper. He inhaled a breath and knocked.

  “Go away!” she shrieked.

  “Angela, it’s Chance.” His fingers slid the splinter from his mouth. “I brought toast and coffee.” He waited. The door flung open unhinging his bottom jaw. She was beautifully dressed. Who was he fooling? She was just plain beautiful.

  “I don’t have time—”

  “I heard something break. Is everything okay?”

  “No, everything isn’t okay.” Her hands fanned each word from her mouth. “For your information, I’m going to be late if you don’t move.”

  “Late for what?” He still held the hot coffee and the now cold toast.

  She looked at him wondering why he made himself at home in her place. “Look, Lt. Alexander. I appreciate all you’ve done. But enough is enough.” She snatched the tray to set it on the hall table. “I can just make it to the bus stop and get to school for the mid-day class.”

  Houston, we have a problem.

  He let her usher him down the stairs but not before he latched onto the tray. “Angela, you have time. Sit for a moment.” He braved her wrath to push her to the breakfast table. Turning on the small flat-screen TV on the counter, he used the remote to run the channels up and down. Awareness flooded her features. She appeared primed for more frustrated tears.

  In a small voice, “It’s not Friday, is it?” Cartoons danced on the color screen. The weekday soaps were absent when the channels changed.

  “Afraid not, Angela.” He felt sorry for her. More importantly, her plight fell on his shoulders.

  “Today’s Saturday?” she asked amazed. He nodded. “I slept through a whole day?”

  “You did. And deservedly so.” Her ascent was so swift he sidled protectively closer as she struggled to maintain her balance, tilting her head to rest on the fingertips massaging her sore temple, supporting herself with the other hand on the table.

  Her job was now at stake. Or so she thought for yesterday’s unplanned absence went unreported. She waivered, calculating her chances of success if she leaned to get her attaché that fell on its side when she rose. It was as if he read her thoughts for Chance rescued the case to lay it within reach on the table.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed quietly, never looking directly at him.

  He gained a healthy respect for this woman whose barometric gauge measured her circumstances discriminately helping her choose when or when not to attack.

  Cell in hand, she searched the phonebook, pressed one button and listened to the ring. “Mrs. Dauchex, this is Angela Munso. Forgive me for disturbing you on a Saturday. I—” She paused to take in the conversation, listening intently, a tiny frown wrinkling the bridge of her nose, before stuttering a reply. “I-I’m feeling better. Thank you for asking.” More silence. “He did.” An astonished look melded to her incredulous tone when she uttered the same words as a question. “He did?” Wide-eyed wonder transmitted in the gaze boring through him. “Yes. I’ll try to recuperate. See you Tuesday. You have a wonderful holiday, also.”

  Uh-Oh. His trademark toothpick found its way between his teeth. That look he recollected seeing before. The one that wrapped around the phrase “white people” when she lobbed it off the side of his head the other day.

  “Not only did you contact my employer—you also volunteered to conduct my last two classes?”

  “You weren’t in any condition to report your accident,” he justified his actions, “let alone teach a class,” his shoulders hunched matter-of-factly, “so I pitched in.”

  “Just like that? Doing your civic duty for the downtrodden, I suppose.” She always hated it when the media portrayed the “other” people as the ones most likely to give of their time and efforts to assist the less fortunate, to the exclusion of any mention of the same charitable works by Blacks. Here he was, ingratiating himself as savior of her universe, without her permission.

  Meddling wh—

  “I hear the comment rolling around in that pretty head of yours. We’re not going to go there, again, are we?”

  Angela, appalled at how transparent he made her feel, caged her retort for later.

  Chance wanted to nip that in the bud before matters got out of hand. “I volunteer at various schools, Angela. I’ve been exercising my civic duty since right after Hurricane Katrina. All kids need guidance and not just at home. These children, with all the trauma they’ve had to handle in their short lives, require extra attention.”

  He strolled over, bent near to snatch his empty coffee mug from the table, carefully rinsed and turned it down in the sink. “It’s not much by some standards, but, I make the time to do what I can.”

  “That’s mighty white of you,” she sniped.

  He allowed this rejoinder to pass, settling for continuing his point. “Or do you begrudge me lending a hand simply because I am white?” Her fingertips flew to her mouth. “Did you present your back when you heard Aunt Belle scream? No, you went running—barefooted and bathwater wet, inclement weather and all.”


  “That’s different.” Angela deduced his aunt left nothing out.

  “Why?”

  “Because—it just is. That’s all.” There wasn’t one good reason she could offer to bat down his comparison. “Mrs. Thatcher was in trouble.”

  “So were you.” Standing a little over five feet from her, which was probably every bit as tall as she was—if she wasn’t just a tad over, he inhaled the light fragrance of her body lotion. “So are the children.”

  “Then on behalf of the children, I thank you, for scraping a few minutes out of your precious life.”

  “What is it with you?” He had enough of her belligerence. “Who broke your heart and crushed your spirit?” Chance knew he strummed the wrong chord when it took her more than a few seconds to replenish a breath.

  “How dare you?”

  “Was it a white man who shattered your faith in all of mankind?” She huffed past him headed straight for the front door.

  “Get out, Lt. Alexander,” she ordered, shaking with barely contained ferocity. The door opened wider in invitation for he hadn’t moved from his spot and stared over her head. That’s when the smell wafted under her nose.

  She turned.

  “You were in my home.” Angela’s pulse raced as she challenged the person on her porch who deigned to return to the scene of the crime.

  “Prove it.” Boldly, he sneered, the act pulling the thin layer of mottled white skin tightly over his skeletal frame. As a taunt, he added, “You can’t, can you?” Looking over his shoulder, he beckoned to someone in a parked car.

  She hadn’t noticed the vehicle because her full attention was on him. The car door opened to expose her horror of horrors. “You’re not welcome here!”

  Chance moved forward to lean casually on the door jamb beside her only when he heard her strident tone. Her look told him not to interfere. His concurred, relaying as long as matters didn’t get out of hand. His physique rose behind her like a granite pillar of support.