Guilty of Love (14 page)

“
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.”

Cheney woke Sunday morning,
surprisingly refreshed. Parke’s return visit the previous night
probably kept her from crying herself to sleep, and she didn’t know
what to think about her next-door neighbor Mrs. Beacon, a.k.a.
Grandma BB.

Only Imani understood Cheney’s
disappointment at the outcome of her party. The late night chat
only proved her friend’s unconditional love. Love she hadn’t felt
from family or God. Cheney had waited so long for some type of
closure and had such high hopes for reconciliation, but the party
was a debacle. She had prayed a useless prayer.

“
Take the gifts away and my
family might as well hate me.”

“
Give it time. You’ve
been away five years,”
Imani had tried to comfort
her.

“
I think they know.”
Cheney sniffed.

“
Doesn’t matter, it’s over.
That’s your body and your business.”

“
I know, but I’ve worked so
hard on the house. I wanted everything to be perf—”

“
You need to stop working
on that house, and work on you. Honey, if you don’t stop crying,
you’ll make me quit the best job I’ve ever had, and baby sit
you.”

“
It’s the only job
you’ve ever had, my privileged White friend.”
They
laughed.

“
You were privileged, too,
a doctor’s daughter. It took me years to realize your family was
Black. I always thought you were White with a tan.”

Remembering how Imani had threatened
to send her a Gideon Bible from one of her hotel rooms made Cheney
smile. Yes, Imani was a certified hypocrite. She would curse
someone out then say her prayers at night.

After yesterday’s housewarming
disaster, the last thing Cheney wanted was to mope around her
house. Recalling the brochure she grabbed at the furniture store,
she thought it might be a great day to explore the Ferguson walking
tour. She ate, dressed and headed out the door.

Ringing church bells echoed throughout
the neighborhood, announcing Sunday service. It beckoned for
neighbors to come pray, worship, and praise God.
Enter
expectantly, depart triumphantly,
she mused. The beckoning was
for folks who followed Christ. Cheney ignored the summons. She had
followed Larry instead of her heart.

Church was a building she hadn’t
stepped inside since her surgery. How could she? Cheney Reynolds
was guilty of destroying a life God had created—she made a stupid
choice fooling around with a stupid man. Church wasn’t an option.
Shuddering at her own condemnation, Cheney preceded to the corner
of Elizabeth Avenue.

The young money-hungry doctor who
performed her abortion had perforated her uterus and damaged her
bowel. At least, that’s what a doctor at Duke University Hospital
had told her in recovery.

Cheney clutched her fist as she
walked, seeing nothing, but painful memories.
I lost so much
blood.
She would never forget that pulsating pain the doctor
associated with hemorrhagic shock. The chills, the steady vomiting,
and the tubes were the most frightening experience.
Why couldn’t
I have died in that hospital bed?

Because you have a purpose,
a
voice answered.

When she turned around, nobody was
there. Despite the warm sun, Cheney trembled. Tears streamed down
her cheeks as she remembered. The tour was briefly forgotten as she
edged along down the street, dazed. After a while, Cheney realized
she had no idea if she was still on the tour path or how long she
had been walking.

She was at the corner of Darst and
North Clay. Pulling out the folded brochure from her pocket, Cheney
checked to see if any historic houses were on the block. As she
crossed the street, she heard a voice again, this time yelling,
“Cheney. Cheney, over here.”

She whirled around and through blurred
vision saw a tall, muscular guy wearing a raggedy muscle-man
T-shirt and shorts that barely hid what God had given him. Cheney
squinted, trying to recognize the half-naked man, her mind too
jumbled to focus. She didn’t know if she should stand there and
wait, or take off running.

The latter made more sense. Cheney
broke into a marathon run. She could hear her attacker gaining
speed. If she looked back, it would only slow her down.

“
Cheney,” the man shouted,
“if you run any faster, you just might kill me and win the
race.”

She stopped, recognizing the familiar
voice. Turning around, she put a hand on her hip, ignoring her
racing heart. “What is wrong with you? Why were you chasing me like
a crazy man?”

Winded, Parke collapsed against a
large tree and braced his hands on his knees. “Me? Why were you
running like a crazy woman?”

She pointed her finger. “I didn’t know
who you were, running after me half dressed.”

“
Did I not call your name?
It’s not like you’ve never seen me before. What are you doing on my
street anyway? Taking the Old Ferguson walking tour?”

Cheney gave him an incredible look.
“Your street. You mean you really do live in the neighborhood?
Right now, I have no idea where I am.”

Wiggling his brows, Parke gave a sly
grin. “I can guide you on the tour of the east and west part of the
neighborhood. I know it like the back of my hand.”

Scrunching up her nose, she eyed him
from head to toe. “I’m not walking anywhere with you dressed like
that.”

“
What’s the problem? You’re
wearing orange, I’m wearing orange. We match.”

Her previous melancholy forgotten,
Cheney lifted her shoulder and folded her arms. She was about to
open her mouth just as a Volkswagen Beetle honked its horn and the
driver waved at Parke. He flexed his muscle at the pretty female
driver like he was a contestant in a national body builder
competition. Cheney shook her head in disgust.

“
Ah, hello? Parkay,
correction, I’m wearing clothes. You’re showcasing body parts.” She
gave him a salute and did an about-face. “See ya.”

“
Hold on.” Parke grasped
Cheney’s arm and held it firmly in place. “I’ll change. C’mon, I’m
a better tour guide than a brochure.” Mischief sparkled in his
eyes.

Fighting back a smile, she conceded.
“Okay, but I bore easily, and if you become a drag, I may not know
the neighborhood like you, but I’ll leave you and walk
home.”

“
Deal.”

They strolled down a long block until
Parke stopped abruptly. “Here we are.” He waved his arm in the air
as if he was announcing “The Greatest Show in the World”
circus.

Cheney gawked at the three-story
dark-gray house, almost the color of a mouse. “Wow. This is very
nice. I’m impressed.”

“
Thanks. What you’ve done
to your house is impressive, too. C’mon inside.”

“
Not happening. How do I
know you’re not like Maury Travis?” She eyed him.

“
Who?”

“
I never liked dumb men.
That scavenger lived somewhere here in Ferguson and led a double
life. He was normal by day—a good neighbor, boyfriend, and worker,
but at night—he tortured, raped, and murdered prostitutes right in
his own home.”

Evidently Parke saw her point of view
as he rubbed his fingers through his curly black hair. “Yeah, I see
what you mean. You can’t be too careful these days. No telling what
you may try to do to my body. Give me fifteen minutes to shower and
change.”

She cackled despite her earlier mood.
“Make it fourteen, or I’m out of here.” She had to stay in
control.

Racing up the stairs into his house,
Parke left a trail of his haughty laugh. “Only a Black woman would
give a Black man an ultimatum.”

“
Humph! Only a Black man
would give Black women heartache,” Cheney mumbled, knowing her
statement wasn’t true, but many sistahs believed it.

While Parke showered, Cheney inspected
the lawn. His simple, well-maintained feminine colors of pink
geraniums and red petunias added to the home’s grandeur. She
studied the unique style of the three dormers. “One man, and this
entire house.”

Coming from around the back of the
house, Parke snuck up behind her. “Ah, but not just any man, I’m an
African prince, and this is my small palace.”

She examined his attire. Casually
dressed in khakis and a short-sleeved T-shirt, he looked nice and
smelled good. “Yeah, right, Parkay. C’mon, I’ll let you walk with
me.”

Without protest, she allowed him to
loop her arm through his. She ignored Parke’s blossoming smile as
if he had won a prize or game. Since the first time she met him, he
always pushed her buttons then acted as her parachute back to
normalcy.

Parke was in his element. He deepened
his voice, “The Atwoods were kin to the town’s second mayor. They
built this fourteen-room mansion in 1910, using walnut lumber from
a previous steamboat to construct this Gothic-style
house.”

“
It looks way bigger than
fourteen rooms.”

Parke nodded in agreement.

Four doors down, a large three-story
white house stood with huge columns at least two stories high. A
tall pine tree partially hid a screened-in sun porch on the second
level.

“
That’s different,” Cheney
pointed.

“
Yep, the columns are
remnants of the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair.”

The couple finished the block, doubled
back, and turned right on Adams Avenue. Parke stopped at the first
home on a hilly corner.

“
It’s amazing how each
house is different.”

“
Yeah, the norm of
custom-designed buildings is pretty much gone. Today we have to pay
big time to have a house that doesn’t look like every other one on
the block. That’s what drew me to the neighborhood and my house,”
Parke said, staring.

“
I didn’t realize
third-floor dormers were so popular back then.”

He pointed. “See the extra-wide front
door? Charles Ferguson had it built in the 1870s to accommodate
caskets for family funerals. It’s known as the Wake
House.”

Lifting her eyebrow, Cheney smacked
him on the arm. “Get out of here. Are you serious?”

“
Impressed, huh?” he teased
with a suggestive tone.

“
Yeah, with the house, not
you.”

For the next two hours, Parke steered
Cheney up and down streets, giving her more information than she’d
ever remember.

“
This would be a better
tour if we could peep inside,” Cheney admitted.

“
I don’t think the present
homeowners would appreciate it.”

She shrugged. “But I would. I’d get
some decorating tips.”

“
I wouldn’t change a thing
about what you’ve done to your house, single-handedly mind
you.”

Cheney’s chest swelled from his
compliment. Aside from Parke being a typical male, she enjoyed
being around him. That thought shocked her.

Staring at a large Queen-Anne-style
three-story house, Parke rattled off the details. “Note the
wrap-around veranda and the large corner square bay window with a
bay-shaped covered porch on the second floor.”

Keyed up, Parke almost left Cheney,
rushing ahead, pointing to another dwelling. “Generations of the
Crabb family lived here on Hereford for almost eighty
years.”

After two hours, Cheney was famished,
and had had enough history. “I’m becoming crabby. It’s almost noon,
and I’m starving. Thanks for the tour, but I’m heading
home.”

Shoving both hands into his pockets,
Parke twisted his lips. “You’re no fun. You’ve only seen half the
tour.” His face brightened. “How about we grab something to eat at
the Whistle Stop? It’s an ice cream parlor that used to be a train
depot.

“
There’re almost fifty
houses west of there on the tour, including one belonging to local
prominent doctor, George Case. He built his house on Wesley in
1894, for his daughter. A year later, the famous inventor of the
barbecue sauce, Louis Maull, bought it.”