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  “What part of don’t contact me anymore didn’t you understand, Jason Harper? How did you find me, anyway?” She stared at the smartly dressed visitor.

  The man approaching engaged Angela in conversation as Chance kept a vigilant watch.

  “You didn’t make it easy,” he snarled. “Your parents were of no use, either.”

  He stood smack dab in front of her now and Chance wished he knew what the heck was going on. They favored enough to be kin. “Ridiculous.” His not-so-secret muttering captured her attention for a microscopic second. Same eyes. Same nose. Same twist to their pursed lips. He’s white. She’s not. But definitely kin.

  “You’re trespassing.” She wanted nothing to do with him or his problems.

  “You’re a cold-hearted bitch.” He cut to the quick.

  The toothpick snapped and air over Chance’s tongue heaved the broken pieces out of his mouth. His hand lashed out swifter than a whip. The vise-like grip on Jason’s jugular forced the other man’s attempt at rescue to fall short of victory. “That’s no way to speak to a lady. Without a doubt, inappropriate on her own doorstep.” Jason was a minnow on his hook. “Apologize.”

  Chance noticed how the weasely man stayed put as well as quiet, now.

  “Lt. Alexander.” Angela tugged at his arm. “I can handle him.”

  “You heard her.” Jason squeaked like the rat he was while trying to dislodge the spikes from his neck. He breathed his next gulp of air strictly at Chance’s generous whim.

  Prior to rewarding Jason with complete freedom, Chance tormented, “We’re waiting.”

  “I apologize.” He coughed and sputtered in discomfort when released. “I should sue.”

  “In New Orleans, B&E’s against the law. Or was I hearing things when Angela pointed a finger at your accomplice here?”

  “Like I said—” The little man’s courage returned to instantly falter again at Chance’s contemptuous look.

  “It’s too beautiful a day for a hospital stay.” Chance’s enjoyment of his own rhyme illuminated sparkling ivory. “Want me to call for backup, Angela? Trespassing sounds legitimate.”

  “Do I need to file charges, Jason? Or will you leave peacefully, of your own accord never to return?”

  He weighed his options carefully. “I’m leaving. Believe me when I say this isn’t over. Think about your answer long and hard, Angela. Make no mistake, there’s more at risk than your hurt feelings.”

  “Hurt feelings!” The door slammed shut so hard the glass rattled. Angela’s head pounded and her stomach reeled. She clutched at her face. “White people!”

  Chance took that as his cue to leave no questions asked. She heard the rustling sounds and looked up.

  “Not you.” She stopped his departure, her hand on his as he fondled the door knob, and met his unwavering stare. “This time.”

  “White people have feelings, too, Angela. The same as Black people, Asians, Latinos, etcetera, etcetera. Has that term always been your mantra?”

  He really wanted a reply.

  “Only of late, Chance,” she divulged in a melancholy dirge.

  The use of his nickname surprised him. Thus far, she only used his title and last name when addressing him.

  “Lately, nothing in my life makes any sense. I’m stuck in I-love-you-but-lied-to-you hell. My father isn’t really my father.” Her loose lips regurgitated facts she wanted no one to know before her mouth clamped shut.

  “He sounded like a father to me.” Chance comforted, tussling internally with why those words reverberated intimacy. He didn’t know her from Adam and here he was trying to protect her feelings.

  “How do—”

  “I know what he sounds like? He’s only called…like about ten or twelve times over the last day.”

  “You took my calls?”

  “Of course not. Your answering machine did.” Curious that her answer didn’t clear up his confusion, he pursued. “And this involves white people, how?”

  “I don’t want to think about it.” She quietly opened the door. “I’ve burdened you with too many of my troubles already. This is something I have to handle all by myself.”

  “You know, Angela. We chance seeing a lot more of each other, in passing, since my goal is to become the attentive nephew Aunt Belle deserves.” Chance’s eyes gleamed as he mocked her while casually leaning on the door facing outside. “I have you to thank for pointing out this oversight, regardless of your methods.”

  He moved down a step with a sly grin fastened to his face.

  Angela’s tender smile eclipsed the perfect laugh when a lofty bubble of air floated out to him as her door eased shut. That put the cherry on his cake for she was indeed a sweet confection for him to behold.

  Chapter Four

  The decision to barbeque for his aunt was a precipitous one. That’s why Chance tooled his Harley on a midnight run from the local supermarket, rainwater splashing from his biker boots up to knees. Reflections of the amber lights on his bike were prisms in the puddles along the roadway reminding him of the sunny interior of Angela’s cozy home. He liked the way each room had a color theme that flowed one to the other in perfect harmony, one hue never overshadowing the other. The atmosphere was conducive to encouraging her creativity. That was obvious to him the moment his big foot trampled over the Oriental rug; passed by the satin black console piano and his eyes skimmed the pleasant interior.

  Although structured, neat and orderly, it wasn’t to the degree of obsession. The place had a “go with the flow” feel, pretty much the way he believed she conducted her life. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be devoting her efforts to helping youngsters or the elderly when a lucrative music career was probably within her reach. Her moral tap twisted either hot or cold, the latter he suspected was a rarity, and never lukewarm. Any cause championed received her undivided attention and great passion.

  This was a woman after his own heart—one whose company wouldn’t be hard to enjoy on a regular basis.

  The motor’s fine-tuned fluctuating rumble hailed his arrival on his aunt’s block, announcing when he pulled upon the sidewalk with his long legs performing a ride-walk step until he parked on her drive. Removing the light refracting domed helmet, the calamity going on next door drew more than his attention as porch lights on both sides of the street popped on like a timed orchestration. He strode to the middle of the ruckus created by an older man nearly an inch or two over his six-one height but rounded at the belly and the attractive woman exhibiting her skills at beating down Angela’s door. She could be none other than her mother. Chance unzipped his leather jacket along the way, his groceries currently a distant memory.

  He approached the two with his badge in hand, as he pounded the steps.

  “Police. Lt. Brock Alexander.” He introduced himself, acutely aware his presence startled them. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Angela’s mother whipped her head around, never ceasing her assault on the storm door barring her entrance to the house. “We didn’t call the authorities.” He thought she would boot him off the premises. “But, I’m sure glad you’re here. Break it down.” She issued the order, moving back to give him room.

  Her husband held his stomach in laughter. “She’s punishing us, Connie. Don’t make the policeman hurt himself.” Chance let go an audible breath of relief. “He’s mortal man, Doll, not Superman.”

  “You’re wrong, Lee. She’s in pain not in the throes of a vindictive revenge. Something’s not right.”

  “I have to agree with your wife, sir.”

  Lee Munso responded, “Are you a personal friend of my daughter’s?”

  “No, sir. Just a relative of a concerned neighbor.” He went on to explain the reason he butted in. “My Aunt Belle Thatcher lives next door. That’s how I know Angela. I’m guessing you’re her parents?”

  “You guessed right, Lieutenant. Lee and Connie Munso.”

  “Formalities aside for a moment, please—what can we do?” Connie asked.


  Chance pulled his cell and wallet to retrieve Angela’s business card. The phone rang three or four times before the machine answered. His message was brief. “Your parents are here.” He left them instructions to continue knocking while he checked the doors and windows around the house. Chance didn’t let up on calling. Finally, fate rewarded him when she actually answered.

  “Chance?”

  He heard the confusion in her voice still husky with sleep. “First, are you okay?”

  “My head is killing me. What time is it?”

  “After mid-night.”

  “I took something for pain.” Her voice was ripe with panic when she spoke this time. “What’s the matter? Has something happened to Mrs. Thatcher?”

  He rushed to allay her fears marveling how she always thought of others. “No! No!” After that he worried, “Pain medicine with a slight concussion…I don’t know about that.” Then he started to laugh in her ear. “Your parents are terrorizing the entire neighborhood trying to get to you. Your mother even wanted me to do a little B&E of my own. That’s breaking and entering.”

  “I know what B&E means, remember?” she bit out. “Get back to the part about my parents.” Flicking on the bedside lamp, inexplicably, intensified the rattling coming from downstairs.

  “They’re tearing down your front door. Don’t you hear that racket? That’s coming from your porch.” He started the walk back, dipping into his watch pocket for a toothpick.

  “Oh, goodness! Tell them I’ll be right down.”

  “Hurry. Your mom’s--” he couldn’t control his mirth, “agitated enough to rip the door from its hinges.”

  Angela bristled at the laughter choking his words. “I said I’m coming!”

  She’d greeted her guests by the time he joined them, her eyes squinting with pain, her hair protected by an intricately tied black half-scarf and her shapely form enhancing the heck out of the short silk robe covering her body. Chance remained in view but out of the family’s circle as they went through the motions of shutting down their rampant emotions. At last satisfied she met with no harm, they remembered him, looking as if this was their first encounter.

  “Mama, Daddy, this is Lt. Brock Alexander. His aunt lives next door. Chance, Connie and Lee Munso.”

  The Munso’s craftiness wasn’t lost on him. They wanted to hear their daughter’s introduction before drawing conclusions of whether he was to be trusted. “Please to meet you both.” All eyes traced over him. “Well, I’ll be next door, if needed.” He backed up a step noticing that Angela followed closely. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he whispered.

  She didn’t know why but his sucking on that tiny stick irked her. Not only that, it was a dangerous habit of his—she noticed—and grappled the toothpick from his teeth, flicked it into the grass and answered, “The headaches are diminishing to a nagging nuisance.”

  He stood in stupefied silence.

  Her mother interrupted, surprised at the show of familiarity between them. “Headaches? What headaches? When did they begin? How bad?”

  “Easy, Doll. It’s just a headache,” Lee consoled his wife. “Right, Cookie?”

  The alarm was palpable. Chance intervened, “Sir, it’s more than—”

  “Chance, goodnight,” Angela almost shouted. Her parents stared between her and Chance, their silence growing as tall as a mountain. “Oh, alright. I have a slight concussion!”

  “Won’t you come in? I do believe we need to talk.” Lee Munso summoned the lieutenant, moving outside next to Chance as if he could stop him if he attempted to flee.

  Angela objected. “Daddy, it’s late?” She realized how immature she sounded. “Father, later in the day will be soon enough to interrogate Chance. He’ll be around. Won’t you, Chance?”

  She’d dismissed him, again. “See you folks in the morning.”

  Across the fence, his Aunt Belle questioned, “Brock, do you need the old lady?”

  Angela chimed in as she trotted out to the porch, not allowing him a second to respond. “Everything’s fine, Mrs. Thatcher. No need to come out in this weather.”

  “She’s referring to the shotgun.” Chance chuckled. Angela saw no humor in the situation, drawing a “Don’t you say it,” out of him.

  Connie and Lee watched the exchange with curious looks. “Get in here,” Connie demanded. “Both of you.”

  Chance, with a twinkle, crept inside, daring Angela to even think of her favorite phrase she used on him, and came under immediate attack.

  “What do you know about these headaches?” her mother clucked.

  Angela’s ‘let’s see you get out of this one’ smirk tested his patience. He prepared himself to admit she fell because of him when she took the burden on herself.

  “I slipped, hitting my head. Chance and Mrs. Thatcher got me medical attention and nursed me overnight. End of story.” Angela was too slow. Her mother’s hand whipped out to clamp her cheeks in one hand as she repositioned her head towards the light for closer examination.

  Eyes blazing, Connie Munso jumped on his case. “Did you hit my daughter?”

  He was astonished as her look said she found the exact spot on Angela’s face that resulted from the fall. It was her insane accusation that riled him.

  “Mama!”

  “I’m waiting, Lt. Alexander.” She ignored Angela’s protests, her clench pursing Angela’s cheeks together giving her mouth that fish-faced look.

  “I’ve never so much as laid a hand on a woman, Mrs. Munso. I don’t intend to break that rule regardless of how your daughter grates on my nerves. She can be quite obnoxious if not downright exasperating.”

  Lee Munso bellowed with laughter, unable to hold in his amusement.

  “Lee!” Connie countered. “This is serious.” A snicker broke free—as did Angela with a twist of her head.

  Chance gawked at Angela who rolled her eyes at her parents. “That’s the way they deal with stress. Crazy, huh?”

  “How long have you two been acquainted?” her father asked.

  Chance’s “a little over a day”, conflicted with Angela’s “we’re not” retort, instigating more questions from the older couple.

  “A little over a day, you say, Lt. Alexander. Enough time for you to analyze and conclude that my angel is an extremely opinionated young woman, I gather.” He sobered. “What branch of the department?”

  “Forensics.”

  “With a degree in…”

  “Criminology. Minor in psychology.”

  “Bingo. There it is.”

  Chance butted in, thoroughly confused. “There what is, sir?”

  “That uncanny ability of yours to decipher what a complicated person she is and also not hold it against her. That’s to be commended. Thank you for looking after her.”

  “Daddy, don’t start.” Angela’s look washed over her father and then Chance. “I don’t need another contrived intervention. Do you hear me?”

  “Cookie, you need to remain calm.” Connie recommended to her daughter who advanced on Chance, caught him between the shoulder blades with both palms and outright pushed him towards the door.

  “Please forgive my parents. They can be a little dictatorial at times.”

  “Look, I’m grilling for my aunt tomorrow, uh, today. You’re all welcome to come over.” He dug in his heels to make his invitation.

  “Thanks. But, we have plans.” She shot down any comments Lee and Connie would have made.

  “No, we haven’t,” her mother admonished. “What time?”

  “About eleven. After Mass.” He grinned at Angela’s expression. “Can’t a policeman take his aunt to church?”

  “Oh, good grief. Good-night.”

  All heads whiplashed as she impolitely sped past and stomped up the stairs. Chance surmised if her headache was gone, that tactic to reach the top floor would surely have it resurface.

  “Was it something I said?” he wondered aloud, retracing his steps to the door, crotchety that he let her get under his ski
n.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Lee volunteered. “See you in a few, Doll.” His hand searched for his cigarettes, freeing the box and a smoke in one motion and offering one to Chance. Chance gave a “no” shake unable to squelch the feeling his world was about to blow sky high. They strolled to the sidewalk languishing under the umbrella of tree limbs still dripping the last dregs of rainwater.

  Angela focused on the impromptu meeting, her silhouette faintly outlined in the upstairs window blocked only by the sheer curtain. A match flared in the darkness causing a red plume to spark as her dad inhaled a lungful of smoke. She fingered the curtain for a surreptitious view, knowing by his movements, Chance’s masterful skills detected her there. Her eyes raked over his body prior to coming to rest—after a full sweep—on his. Even in the darkness, their stares locked in confrontation. Hers warned him to stay away. His revealed a burgeoning curiosity he was incapable of ignoring.

  He was all ears if her father wanted to lighten his weighty load. Chance had nothing but time.

  Chapter Five

  The wind chimes hanging under the eaves near Angela’s window tinkled a tune, spurred by the humid breeze coming in from the south. It was a hazy start to the Sunday morning vista seen from her bedroom into the yard next door. She observed as nephew and aunt arrived in Mrs. Thatcher’s vintage Buick LeSabre, resplendent in their church-going apparel. The genteel old lady, decked out in a soft flowery dress, topped the outfit off with a wide-brimmed summer hat. She was definitely a throwback to another era as proven by the wrist-length gloves, and white pumps and handbag that likely were seeing their last wearing before Labor Day.

  Angela approved of the way he catered to his aunt as a means, she imagined, of making amends for the lack of interest shown earlier. He stepped up to her challenge and awarded his kin the attention deserving of an aged relative. Right now, he assisted her up the back stairs that entered into the kitchen, his black clothing rivaling the darkness of the hair on his head and face. In her opinion, he was one person she preferred not to meet in an alley on an inky night. She had firsthand knowledge of his pendulum-swinging mood and devil-be-damned attitude. It was as fresh as recalling how he bodily removed her from the presence of others or even his method of cowing the interloper found on her front porch. Yes, she knew him capable of violence, but to what extreme was a mystery. Yet, she also believed him competent of caring.