Guilty of Love (15 page)

Fifty more houses?
He had lost
his mind
.
When Cheney looked as if she was going to protest,
Parke put his arm around her shoulder like an old buddy. “My
treat.”

Cheney stiffened. Parke was becoming a
little too comfortable. No man had hugged her shoulders since
Larry
.
She said the day before she needed contact, but she
wasn’t desperate
.
“If you don’t get your arm off me, I’ll
show you everything I’ve learned in my kickboxing class and then
some.”

Backing away, Parke held his hands up
in surrender. “Whoa, a woman with attitude and skills, that is a
deadly combination. C’mon, the Whistle Stop has the best frozen
custard and ice cream concretes.”

Licking her lips, Cheney gave in.
“Okay, you’re forcing me, but no more house tours
today.”

“
I doubt if anyone could
force you to do anything.”

“
Hmm,” Cheney mumbled.
He just doesn’t know
. At one time she thought the same
thing, too. “I wasn’t always strong when it counted,
Parke.”

“
But you are now. Whatever
circumstances you’ve faced, made you a survivor.”

“
How do you know that?” He
didn’t know her, but believed in her when she was still trying to
believe in herself?

“
Let’s just say our spirits
are in tune.”

“
Right.”

Fifteen minutes later, they strolled
under the Wabash train trestle to Carson Road. “This is charming.
It looks like a miniature park.” And it did. Cheney remembered
passing it when she was furniture shopping.

“
It’s also a historic
landmark.”

“
Figures. What isn’t
historic or a landmark around here?”

Parke held her elbow as they headed up
the ramp. “Oh, there’re plenty of newer businesses and houses. The
original Ferguson Station was built during the slave era in 1855.”
He opened the door. “The Whistle Stop bought the building years
ago.”

“
How do you know so
much?”

Eyes twinkling, Parke smirked. “I’m a
history buff—African, African-American, American, world, local
history. You name it, and I probably know something about it. I
guess you could say it’s part of who I am.”

“
You can talk all you want
as long as I can rest my feet. I can’t guarantee I’ll listen.” She
looked around at the one-room eatery. It did resemble an ice cream
parlor. Dozens of black square tables with their four chairs were
scattered about in no order. Cheney pointed. “I guess that’s the
original window where people purchased their tickets. Clever, I
like the nostalgia the booth and metal bars bring to the order
counter.”

Parke nodded. “See the Western Union
Telegraph and Cable office sign?”

“
And just think, I moved to
Ferguson with no idea it had any historical significance or that
crazy woman killer.”

“
You sure you don’t want to
finish the walking tour?”

“
Positive.” Cheney used to
exercise regularly, but it had been a while since she did that much
walking “Now, what do you recommend?”

“
They make a mean Italian
meatball sandwich.”

“
Okay, how about you order
for me since this is your place.”

“
I’ll share. Let’s make it
our place,” Parke suggested, smiling at the young cashier before
ordering. “We’ll take two Brakemen, one Tolono, and one Coal
Car.”

“
Our Coal Car is the best
toasted ravioli I ever tasted. You’ll like that.” She grinned,
referring to a St. Louis favorite. It was an Italian appetizer of
meat and other ingredients wrapped in square pasta.

“
Mmm-hmm, I know. Better
give us one Grinder, chips, two brownies, and one slice of frozen
custard pie,” he added.

“
Who is going to eat all
that?” She gave Parke an incredulous look.

“
I am, and if you’re nice,
I might give you a nibble.” He patted his chest.

Cheney bumped Parke out of the way and
faced the girl. “I’d like to order—”

Rubbing his hip, Parke mumbled, “Okay,
Miss Brick house. I ordered you a Brakeman. It’s the Italian
meatball with mozzarella cheese baked inside an Italian
roll.”

Satisfied, Cheney grinned. Waiting for
their orders, Parke gave her another tour inside the small parlor.
Moving from wall to wall, they viewed photos of the city in its
early days. Blacks weren’t in them, even as porters, as if the race
didn’t exist.

“
Let’s eat outside on the
train’s former deck,” Cheney suggested. Within minutes of sitting
down, Cheney stared at Parke who was consuming his food as if it
was his last meal. “You know, three balanced meals a day would
eliminate overkill.”

Parke paused and wiped his mouth. “Oh,
sorry, I guess we should pray.”

She shrugged okay, although she always
said a silent quick prayer before eating. He reached across the
table, she assumed, to touch her hand. Instead Parke cupped her
wrists with a gentle, almost endearing hold. As he closed his eyes,
contentment seemed to drape his face. Even as he prayed, she
continued to watch him.

“
God, you know I love You,
and I know You love Cheney. Bless us today and bless our food.
Amen,” he finished, opening his eyes, he met her stare.

“
Why did you pray that?”
Cheney experienced an eerie feeling.

“
I have no idea,” he said,
shrugging. “But hey, it couldn’t hurt.”

But could it help? she silently
asked.

He laughed and continued where he left
off before he caught her staring. “I have always had a hearty
appetite. Did anybody ever say there’s never a dull moment around
you?”

“
Believe me, there is
nothing exciting about me,” she mumbled, still trying to detach
herself from the prayer. She took a deep breath and released the
sensation.

“
I disagree. You are an
unusual woman, Cheney Reynolds.”

She wasn’t in the mood for a
heart-to-heart, not with a man about another man, and definitely
not with Parke. Cheney crunched on a chip. “Yeah, I’m a new
millennium woman—” she glanced at her watch, “who has a checkers
match in a few hours.”

Folding his arms, Parke leaned back in
his chair. “Hmm, I never figured you for a checkers girl. Do you
play with your neighbor, or are you in some type of new millennium
woman checkers club?”

“
Neither. Brian and I play
twice a week.” Cheney watched customers exit the parlor with
sundaes, frozen custards, and concretes—an ice cream so thick it
was like cement. “Can’t your boyfriend find anything more
stimulating than checkers?”

Men.
Gutter mind
. “Brian
is an eight year old, and if we did anything more stimulating over
the Internet, I’d be arrested as a pedophile.”

He almost choked on his soda. The
scene was hilarious. Parke always had a way of making Cheney laugh.
It was like he provided doses of healing medicine.

“
I know.” Cheney chuckled
as she tapped the table with her fingernails. “I was surfing the
Net one night and found a site for interactive games. After playing
three tic-tac-toe games against the computer and losing, I opted
for a human player. I chose checkers, an intermediate level, of
course.”

Totally absorbed, Parke listened with
fascination.

“
Anyway, my partner and I
matched wits for a few hours, brainstorming each move. At the end
of the game, we agreed to play again at a set time every week. Then
he started asking me personal questions like my name, if I had any
kids, was I married.” Cheney sipped her Coke. “That scared me a
little.”

“
You, scared? Queen Amina.
I don’t believe it.”

She wasn’t foolish enough to think of
herself as extraordinary anymore, definitely not a queen.
“Cheney, you’re so special to me. When we plan for a baby, I
want everything to be just as special as you are.”
For once,
the flashback of Larry’s words didn’t pierce her heart, so she
continued explaining, “I didn’t know what kind of sick person I was
dealing with, a stalker or a rapist. I never inquired about any
personal stuff nor did my partner ever offer.”

“
How did you find out you
were playing against a kid?”

“
Well,” Cheney started, but
dissolved into a fit of giggles. “During the middle of one game,
which I was winning, mind you, he told me his mother said he had to
go to bed.

“
Dumbfounded, I stared at
the computer screen. Before Brian signed off, I asked him just how
old was he. He had just turned eight years old. I almost fell out
the chair.”

Laughing in earnest, Parke joined
Cheney, ignoring the tears that escaped. Waving her hand, Cheney
unsuccessfully tried to make him stop, but the moment was
contagious. She joined him, laughing harder than before.
Incredibly, she felt like she was releasing suppressed anger,
depression, and pity. “I don’t know if I was more relieved or
disappointed that I couldn’t beat an eight year old.”

“
No one would believe that
story, you know.”

“
It’s true. That’s why I
better head back.”

“
The new millennium woman
plays checkers with an eight year old.” Parke shook his head. “Who
would’ve guessed? Hey, how about a pineapple concrete to keep us
cool while we walk back?”

Standing, Cheney gathered her trash.
“Sure. That sounds good. I’ve been eyeing everybody
else’s.”

“
I still can’t get over it.
Your best friend is an eight year old.”

“
Believe it. Friends are
hard to come by. Beggars can’t be choosey, although I’m not
desperate. One good friend like Imani is worth more than a bunch of
fakes.”

After making the purchase, Parke
relayed stories about his family night and the types of games they
played. Cheney was going in the opposite direction from her house
before she realized Parke had slyly walked her into another house
tour.

A few evenings later, Cheney couldn’t
get her family off her mind. Although the housewarming proved her
relationship with her mother and sister was beyond repair, she had
faith in her brother. She hoped that the service order she
requested on his phone was complete. She couldn’t deal with another
party line conversation.

Cheney arrived home from work to find
a note taped to her front door.
Stop by as soon as you get home,
Grandma BB.
She groaned. “Who will I see today, the crazy Mrs.
Stacy Adams or the sweet old lady?” Against her better judgment,
Cheney strolled across her property line and stepped onto her
neighbor’s long, spacious porch. She barely touched the doorbell,
secretly wishing the woman wouldn’t hear it.

Not waiting thirty seconds, Cheney
turned to leave, but Mrs. Beacon cracked the door.
Busted!
A
strong fragrance permeated the air. Cheney sniffed; her stomach
growled. “Mrs. Beacon—”

“
Call me Grandma BB.” She
wagged a finger from left to right.

“
Okay, Grandma BB. Is
anything wrong? I got your note.”

The woman looped her arm through
Cheney’s and tugged her inside into a large marble floor foyer.
“Chile, I’ve been watching out for you since four o’clock to offer
you dinner. Now, it’s after eight. You must be starvin’. I made
homemade beef stew with vegetables from my garden and my special
lemonade.”

Mistrusting, Cheney froze in her
tracks, causing Mrs. Beacon to slightly bounce off her like a
rubber band. “Mrs…ah, Grandma BB, why would you care if I ate
dinner?”

Releasing Cheney’s arm, Mrs. Beacon
clunked in her oversized shoes to the kitchen, turning off the fire
under a boiling pot. “Because, I admire your determination,
strength, and humble quietness.”

That was the second person to see
strength that she didn’t feel. Maybe, just maybe everything would
be okay.

“
It’s no fault of your own
you’re genetically linked to those stuck-up people you call family,
so I adopted you as kin. You’ll be grateful later.”

Cheney’s eyes could’ve popped out of
their sockets. From one crazy family to another; she was horrified.
Maybe her hearing had faded for a minute because she knew she
hadn’t heard right. She tapped her chest with her thumb.
“Me?”

Dragging her feet to the refrigerator,
Mrs. Beacon grabbed a large glass pitcher. “You remind me of
myself.”

Should I seek professional help
now?
Cheney’s keys slipped to the floor. “Then, I’m in
trouble.”

The phone rang and Mrs. Beacon glanced
at her sunflower wall clock, then squeezed her lips together as if
she knew the caller. “Hello?” Seconds later, she slammed the
receiver back on the wall without saying goodbye. “You would think
she has homework or would be watching cartoons,” she
mumbled.

There are strange shenanigans going on
in this house. Pulling two floral china bowls from the cabinet,
Mrs. Beacon began to set the table. So Cheney flopped down in a
leather chair at a small glass-top wrought-iron table. Scanning her
surroundings, she noted the updated kitchen was decorated in
off-white with splashes of bright colors. “I see we both like
pretty colors.”