Guilty of Love (16 page)

“
Your mother didn’t know
what she was talking about.”

Cheney’s stomach growled again as if
it sensed a feast was minutes away, but she was still curious about
Mrs. Beacon’s comparison. “I’ve witnessed you dancing like Janet
Jackson. You’re in better shape than some twenty year
olds.”

Mrs. Beacon’s eyes sparkled at the
compliment. “Why, thank you, Cheney. That’s our secret. If thugs
try to prey on this defenseless over-sixty-something dame, then
they got another thing coming—like my fist in their stomach.” She
demonstrated her quick reflexes. “Or my shoe in their knee. Or—”
Mrs. Beacon grinned, “a strong grip and yank down on his family
jewels. You could learn a lot from me.”

The woman was pure comedy. Cheney
almost fell out of the chair laughing. “I might learn something
from you, indeed.”

“
No doubt about it,” Mrs.
Beacon said, scooping large chunks of beef tips, peas, carrots, and
potatoes out of a pot and into Cheney’s bowl.

Reaching for a hot biscuit, Cheney
bowed her head to say a quick silent prayer, then decided to wait
on Mrs. Beacon.

“
Go on. I ain’t got much to
say.” She waved Cheney on before turning her back.

“
So, that’s why you wear
men’s shoes…for protection?”

“
Of course not, silly. They
were Henry’s.”

Okay. She ain’t normal. I
hope she didn’t drug this stew so she can cut me up in small pieces
and eat me like Jeffery Dahmer.

Pouring lemonade into two tall
glasses, Mrs. Beacon sat at the table. “Ah, Henry.” She sighed. “We
fell hard for each other when we were young and married the day I
turned eighteen. We were so in love and so happy and did everything
together—fishing, cooking, gardening, you name it.”

Curiously, Cheney listened, sipping
the hot broth from her stew. She enjoyed hearing old-time stories
and she could tell Mrs. Beacon was itching to tell a tale, but
Cheney saw no similarities between hers and Mrs.
Beacon’s.

“
Married almost fifty
years, then God snatched Henry away from me.” She closed her eyes,
sniffing as if she would cry. “I felt like someone had ripped out
my heart.” She peeped to see if Cheney was watching and pumped up
the drama. “That’s why I ain’t speakin’ to God today,” Mrs. Beacon
confessed with a stern bitterness, sniffing.

“
You have children and
grandchildren, right?”

“
Never did…” Her voice
faded. “But I had Henry. The lack of children wasn’t as important
to us like it was for other couples. We had each other. Then Henry
was killed in a hit-and-run car accident. That’s been almost twenty
years ago, and the driver was never caught. I’ll never forget or
forgive God for that. I’m determined to be bitter until the end.
And when I get on the other side, I’ll still be mad.”

Cheney trembled at the fierceness in
Mrs. Beacon’s voice. Although she hated Larry, she didn’t want to
carry that bitterness her whole life. She changed the topic. “So
why does everybody call you Grandma BB if you don’t have any
kids?”

Staring in a far-away place, Mrs.
Beacon’s eyes watered. Cheney recognized the look as genuine,
probably resembling her own when she thought about how she had
killed her baby, ripping it away.

“
The timing isn’t right.
Think of this as a mistake, not a baby,”
Larry had tried to
console her.

Cheney patted the old woman’s
hand.

“
Years ago, I used to
baby-sit neighborhood children all the time. I liked it when they
called me Grandma, so I insisted all my friends call me that.” Mrs.
Beacon became quiet. “I don’t have anybody now, and with a family
like yours, you don’t either.”

The connection was made. Cheney knew
she had found a friend. This woman was a survivor and she really
could teach her how. As they ate and chatted, the evening slipped
into the night, Cheney stood and stretched. She patted her tight
stomach. “That was delicious, but I’d better head next
door.”

Disappointment flashed then lingered
across the older woman’s face. “Okay, but take a look at some
pictures of Henry and me first.”

Her eccentric neighbor was stalling.
She probably had a library full of pictures. “I’m just curious, you
don’t wear any of Henry’s other clothes, do you?”

Chuckling, Mrs. Beacon’s face lit up.
“No, dear, but that’s a thought. Henry was a tall, strong, and very
handsome man. Light skinned like you and wavy hair—he would’ve been
called a mulatto in slavery times. He had the longest feet I ever
did see. I’ve been trying to fill his shoes ever since he died.”
Mrs. Beacon closed her eyes. “Whew! Chile, enough of that.” Mrs.
Beacon’s nostalgia changed to anger. “God could’ve let me live out
my life with my husband. Yep! God is on my do-not-talk-to
list.”

Grandma BB won’t forgive God and
God probably won’t forgive me.
Cheney shook her head. “C’mon,
Grandma BB, show me the pictures so I can go to bed.”

Mrs. Beacon guided her to several
large wall portraits, regaling stories about each pose as if they
stood in an art gallery. Cheney didn’t leave for another hour. It
was too late to call Rainey.

Tuesday evening

Cheney mumbled and snatched another
yellow legal-size paper off the door. “Grandma BB, you’re adding a
new definition to the word pest.”

Are we still on for
Bubbling Brown Sugar this Saturday? Your number wasn’t listed, but
I was able to get it anyway. However, I won’t call since you didn’t
give it to me personally. I’ve never had to ask a woman for her
number before, so I don’t know what to do here. I will accept your
calls…

“
Ha,” Cheney choked out as
she balled up the note without looking at his phone number. “Then
you’ll be waiting until Parke Jamieson the hundredth is
born.”

By Friday evening, she still hadn’t
called Rainey as she knocked on her neighbor’s door since Mrs.
Beacon hadn’t left any more notes.

Mrs. Beacon’s tired face brightened
once she saw Cheney. “About time you came and checked on an old
woman.” She bowed her head shyly. “I didn’t want to bug you. If
you’ve got an appetite, I made meatloaf, mashed potatoes, corn
bread, and lima beans.”

Cheney chided herself for her earlier
thoughts as she licked her lips. “Not only do I have an appetite,
but I’ve got room. Why did you cook so much?”

“
I was hoping you liked my
beef stew enough to come back.”

She engulfed Mrs. Beacon in an
endearing hug. “How about I join you for dinner twice a week and I
can bring something?”

“
No need. Probably can’t
cook anyway,” she teased. “Just come starving, Heney.”

“
Don’t start,
Grandma.”

Both women laughed as they trekked to
the kitchen and talked late into the night.

Saturday morning, Cheney woke and
decided to do something nice for Mrs. Beacon just as her phone
rang. “Hello?”

“
You weren’t going to call
me, were you?”

Parke?
Cheney stifled a laugh,
realizing she’d bested him. He sounded disappointed as his voice
dropped an octave. She couldn’t resist. “I’m sorry, but I don’t
accept calls from strange men. Who’s calling?”

“
Very funny, this is Parke.
Do you mind if I call?”

She squeezed her lips shut to keep
from bursting. “Yes, I mind. What do you want?” Cheney erupted in
laughter.

Sighing, Parke joined in. “Whoa. You
had me going there for a moment. Are we still on for the three
o’clock show of
Bubbling Brown Sugar
?”

“
I never said
yes.”

“
Your lips said no, but
your eyes said yes. C’mon, woman. You know we’re going to have a
good time so dress up and get out.”

My heart says yes, too.
This is scary, I’m starting to live again.

***

Parke couldn’t explain why he had
tricked Cheney into completing the walking tour or suckered her
into attending the play. He had a list of “women in waiting,” but
he enjoyed Cheney’s wit and humor. He was curious about the
mixed-up feelings she ignited in him. The more she pushed him away,
the harder he tried to pull her closer. She was straightforward and
put great effort into offending him instead of impressing
him.

“
Doesn’t she find me
attractive and irresistible?” he asked his reflection in the
bathroom mirror as he stroked a razor against his cheek. What did
it matter? Parke wasn’t desperate enough to want more than
friendship from her. He winked at his reflection. “Although she’s
like a jigsaw with thousands of pieces.”

After he showered, Parke stood
barefoot in the middle of a room-size walk-in closet, scanning
through shirts and jackets. “Let’s see, what do the ladies like?
Black suggests sexy, devastating, and you want me.” He lifted
copper-colored linen pants off a hanger. “Yeah, this will make the
grandmamas whistle.” He selected a matching shirt and off-white
blazer. It was time to stop lying to himself and admit he was
attracted to her.

Parke steered his SUV in front of
Cheney’s house on time, expecting Cheney to keep him waiting. But
to his surprise, she was dressed—not to flatter—and standing
outside talking with her neighbor.

As he approached, Mrs. Beacon raced
toward him and kept going, without speaking. She stopped in front
of his vehicle and pulled a small notepad from her
pocket.

“
She’s writing down my
license plate number?” Parke asked Cheney. He would’ve laughed if
he thought it was a joke. “Is she serious?”

“
Yep,” Cheney answered
nonchalantly.

“
What!” Perturbed, he
gritted his teeth. Who questioned his integrity? “Why?”

Mrs. Beacon walked up quietly behind
him. “First of all, I own guns and well, every once in a while, I
like to use them. I’ll just call the police and report that you
abducted my neighbor. They’ll track you down using your OnStar
GPS.”

“
What!” He couldn’t believe
the old woman. Cheney turned her head and tried to hide a beautiful
smile, but Parke saw it. This had to be a practical joke, so Parke
decided to play along. “I’m surprised you don’t want my finger and
footprints.”

Craning her neck, Mrs. Beacon
challenged his stare. “Don’t be silly. Your feet are too big, but I
did bring a pad for a thumb print. It’ll just take a
second.”

Cheney laughed hysterically while Mrs.
Beacon wiped the black dye off this thumb with a towelette.
She
ain’t jokin’
. Grabbing Cheney’s arm, Parke almost dragged her
to his Envoy. “C’mon, before she asks about my dental
records.”

In the background, he heard Mrs.
Beacon’s voice fading. “What’s your dentist’s name and phone
number?”

Mrs. Beacon’s mistrust put Parke in an
uncommonly foul mood. The play was simply an impromptu housewarming
gift. Wounded that Mrs. Beacon would think so little of his
character, Parke was silent during the drive downtown. Cheney,
however, seemed to be in exceptionally good spirits as she listened
to his Paul Rozmus jazz CD.

The closest available spot was a block
away from the Black Repertory Theatre. After Parke parked, he
helped Cheney out of his vehicle, still fuming and unforgiving.
At least she could’ve worn a dress or skirt, so I could’ve seen
her legs.
She’s got more clothes on than a nun. He guessed
she’d never heard the phrase ‘dress to impress’.

Cheney’s three-piece pantsuit reminded
him of sapphire. As soon as the show was over, Parke would ditch
her and get a date with a real woman who knew how to dress to
entice a man. Did the woman not understand him when he told her to
dress up? He fussed inwardly. Forget an elegant sit-down
dinner.

Entering the theater’s crowded lobby,
Parke’s eyes met other men who gave Cheney appreciative stares and
smiles. Even women watched her moves as if she was a runway
model—an unusual occurrence since he was used to garnishing their
admiration. Okay. Cheney was pretty when she smiled, which she
hardly did until he irritated her.

Bubbling Brown Sugar
was
entertaining, lively, but too long for Parke. Once the music
started, the songs and dances hypnotized Cheney. She hadn’t said
another word.

A man who boldly admired beautiful
women, Parke felt like an idiot sneaking glances at her
one-of-a-kind eyebrows. Cheney again wore very little makeup, but
he could see where other men would find her lemon-colored skin
attractive. Her eyebrows were the focal point on her face. They
arched when an attitude was coming, knitted together when she was
upset, but when she was at peace, like now, her brows were still,
relaxing the look on her face. They were shiny, silky-looking, and
naturally beautiful.

When the show ended, Parke latched on
to Cheney’s hand like she belonged to him. She tried to snatch her
hand back, but he kept it in his strong grip.

“
Parke, I know my way back.
I’m not going to get lost in the crowd.”

“
I’m not worried about the
crowd. I’m worried about Mrs. Beacon.”