Guilty of Love (20 page)

Smiling, Charlotte faced her son. “A
man only irritates a woman he’s attracted to, so stop lying to
yourself. Do I detect some seriousness in your selection? My only
requirement for a daughter-in-law is that she has her own hair and
teeth.”

“
I’ll store that
information, but there is no one, Mama.”

“
Sure there is. You’re not
telling it, yet. It’ll either slip, or I’ll get it out of
you.”

“
Dad, help me out here,”
Parke pleaded with false irritation. There was never anything too
private that he couldn’t discuss with his family until now. He had
to first figure out how Cheney could fit into his life. Was it for
him to rescue her emotionally, or for her to rescue him, and then
from what?

His father held up his hands in
surrender. “When it comes to our sons, your mother has eminent
domain.”

Parke was saved from divulging more
when Malcolm strolled in with Hallison.

The elder Parke stood and hugged his
second eldest son, then kissed Hallison on the cheek. “It’s good
seeing you, again. I trust you’ve been keeping Mal out of
trouble.”

“
Of course she has, Dad.
Hallison’s my angel,” Malcolm answered.

Stepping around her husband, Charlotte
kissed Malcolm and looped her arms with his date. “Hali, you’re
looking lovely as usual.” She leaned in closer and whispered, “And,
I’m sure Malcolm can’t keep his eyes off those sexy
splits.”

“
I heard that, Mama,”
Malcolm said.

Hallison blushed. “I hope they’re not
too offensive, Mrs. Jamieson.”

Eyes sparkling and smiling
mischievously at Hallison, Charlotte’s hand waved off her son. “No,
you’re young and beautiful. I say show what you got while you still
got it.”

Both women laughed.

Standing from the recliner, Parke
greeted his brother in a bear hug as Hallison scanned the room. He
knew who she was looking for.

“
No date, Hali,” his father
said, grinning suspiciously.

“
What!” Hallison and
Malcolm said in unison.

“
You’re not still stalking
your neighbor, are you?” Malcolm asked amusedly.

Everybody’s neck whipped around and
they mouthed, “Stalking?”

Parke laughed off their concerned
looks. “Women stalk me, not the other way.”

“
Is she beautiful?” his
father asked with merriment dancing in his eyes.

“
More importantly, does she
have her own hair and teeth?” Charlotte didn’t wink. “Because that
one woman floored me when she removed her teeth to eat.”

“
Tell me she’s taller than
five feet,” Hallison teased. “That way you don’t have to bend your
knees to hold her hand.”

“
Funny you should ask,
because she’s about six feet.”

Malcolm leaned forward, his hand
cupping his left ear. “Say what?”

“
I said Cheney stands about
six feet tall,” Parke answered not amused.

“
Ooh, is she a model?” his
mother quizzed while Malcolm doubled over, laughing
hysterically.

Finger-combing his hair, Parke glared
at his brother. “I doubt it. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure what
she does, but when we went to see
Bubbling Brown Sugar
a
while back, everyone stared at her like she was on a runway. I’ve
never seen a woman with her height move with such alluring grace. I
don’t even think she knows it,” Parke reminisced.

Charlotte put both fists on her hips.
“Why didn’t you invite Cheney—is that her name?”

Parke nodded. “She probably wouldn’t
have come.”

“
Do you care?” his mother
probed.

“
Nope.”

Malcolm and his father shouted in
unison, “Liar,” and fell into more fits of laughter.

“
Okay, okay, okay. Are we
playing any games tonight or what?” Charlotte asked as they
gathered in the dining room around the table.

“
How about Journey to the
Motherland or Black Heritage Trivia?” Malcolm suggested, pulling a
chair out for Hallison before walking to the hall closet for the
games.

Loaded with several board games,
Malcolm fumbled with an overstuffed shoebox, causing some items to
spill on the table. He laid the games on the table, and picked up
one of the colorful booklets. “What’s this?”

“
Oh, silly tracts some
customers sent to the gas company along with their bill payments.”
Charlotte dismissed the items with a wave of her hand. “Most of the
time I pitch them. I’ve been reading those. They’re religious comic
books. Some stories are scary, others are pretty good.”

The elder Parke drummed his fingers
against the table. “Charlotte, why are you wasting your time
keeping those things? People don’t know the difference between
right and wrong. Good grief. I’d rather go to church and hear a bad
sermon.”

Parke noticed Hallison squirm in her
seat, seemingly, uncomfortable. Malcolm immediately scooted closer
to her and whispered something in her ear before planting a kiss on
it. The couple stared at each other until Hallison smiled. What was
that all about?

The elder Parke got everybody’s
attention. “Okay, PJ, brief me on the latest stock tip while we set
up the Motherland game.”

“
Dad, your portfolio is
still diversified, isn’t it?”

“
It is, son, but I thought
trouble on Wall Street spelled buy low and sell high.”

Slipping into his business mode, Parke
explained, “True, but you need to invest very selectively in bonds
and real estate investment trusts. They’re doing real
good.”

“
PJ, you know I like the
tech funds.”

“
That was in the nineties
when technology was booming, Dad.”

Nodding, his father turned to Malcolm.
“How’s your job holding up, son? No one is cooking the books at
Winfield & Young, I hope.”

“
After the Arthur Andersen
fiasco years ago, firms are doing more checks and balances,”
Malcolm assured him.

The women exchanged bored looks and
deep sighs. Hallison fixed plates for her and Malcolm from the food
tray. Charlotte piled meats, salad, and breads on saucers, passing
one to her husband and the other to Parke, commenting, “If you
would’ve brought Cheney, then we could’ve picked her brain instead
of all this shop talk.”

Bowing her head, Hallison said a
record-setting silent prayer over her food while Malcolm shoved a
spoonful of pasta salad into his mouth, chewed, and barely
swallowed. “I volunteer Parke’s house for the next family night, so
we can meet this mystery lady.”

Charlotte smiled. “I second the
motion.”

The elder Parke slammed his fist on
the table like a judge calling a court into session. “It’s a done
deal.”

“
Ooh, I can’t wait to meet
the diva,” Hallison joshed giddily.

The following week, the heat was
on.

“
Cheney, I need a favor.”
That was how Parke started his week, convincing—practically
begging—Cheney to come to the next game night.

“
Just ran out,” she
replied.

Undeterred, Parke pressed on. “How
about an evening of fun with my family?”

“
Do fish fly?”

“
Actually, there are some.”
After they disconnected, Parke chided himself for aggravating
Cheney. But she seemed to come alive whenever he pushed
her.

On Thursday evening, Parke slowed his
SUV after noticing her Altima in the driveway. As he parked, he
braced for any new objections Cheney would argue for not accepting
his invitation to a family night. Feeling cocky, he was looking
forward to a face-to-face confrontation. Their spats were kin to
over-dosing on an energy drink.

When Cheney didn’t answer the doorbell
after three tries, he knocked impatiently. “Where is she?” He
knocked harder, becoming concerned. “I hope she’s okay.”

“
Of course she’s okay, you
woodpecker,” Mrs. Beacon fussed from across the lawn. “Don’t make
sense, can’t even enjoy a quiet dinner without someone banging on a
door. The mayor needs to enforce that noise ordinance.”

Cheney’s tall, slender body appeared
in the doorway, making Mrs. Beacon appear like a midget. Folding
her arms, Cheney seemed to quietly laugh at him.

“
I wasn’t that loud, was
I?” Parke questioned.

“
Yep,” the women answered
in unison.

Squinting, Mrs. Beacon eyed him up and
down. “What’s wrong? You’ve got to use the bathroom or
something?”

Parke frowned at the absurdity of the
idea. “No, ma’am, I’m on my way to the Ferguson library for story
hour and was hoping Cheney would join me.”

Mrs. Beacon twisted her mouth like she
was chewing tobacco. “Ya kinda old for that stuff, ain’t
you?”

“
It’s my turn to spin
African tales, slave adventures, and mystical folklore.”

“
What about Tracey?” Cheney
baited him.

“
I want you.” Parke engaged
her in a stare down while discreetly admiring her copper-colored
attire that highlighted her soft dark facial features. She
was
pretty. Funny he didn’t notice them when they first met.
Well, dirt can hide beauty.

Parke won the duel when Cheney glanced
away, then met his eyes again. “It’s not that depressing stuff
again?”

“
I’m a master storyteller.”
He winked. “I guarantee every child will laugh at least once. Plus,
my good looks will make women beg for my unlisted phone
number.”

“
Sounds like you’ve already
started story hour with tales about an okay-looking man whose head
is bigger than his body. You may know the character,” Cheney
teased.

“
C’mon. We’re going to be
late. You’re both invited,” Parke offered.

“
You young folks go on. I’m
going to play bingo at that big Catholic Church around the corner.
I heard they draw a big crowd; plus, that’s the only way I’ll step
foot in a chapel is to get my blessing in fives, tens, and
twenties.”

Parke folded his hands in a praying
gesture as a mock plea for Cheney to come.

Tapping her finger on her lips, Cheney
debated. “Sure, why not?”

Fifteen minutes later, Parke’s heart
swelled with pride, pleased at the number of people present to hear
African-American stories—Blacks, Whites, Latinos, and even a few
Bosnian kids were in attendance. “My name is Parke Jamieson VI.
Let’s start with a question. What color am I?”

A young teenage boy, sporting a large
Afro, raised his hand with a smirk. “That’s easy. You’re Black,
man.”

“
Oh?” Parke folded his
arms. “When did I become Black or an African- American?”

“
Huh?” The child’s face was
puzzled.

“
We’ve always been
African-American,” shouted a fair-skinned girl about eight years
old with long corn rows.

Parke expected their perplexed
expressions. “Actually, depending on what year I was born, I could
be a mulatto, Melungeon, Black, or Colored.” With wide eyes, he was
pleased to have everybody’s attention. “A fascinating question,
isn’t it? How could one group of people be called so many different
names?”

An Asian father, sitting not far from
his son, raised his hand. “Frankly, I’m confused. Since Jesse
Jackson demanded Blacks be called African-Americans, I don’t know
how to refer to your race anymore.”

“
Honest concern. It wasn’t
Black or White during slavery.” Parke leaned forward and lowered
his voice. “If a person had ancestors from three ethnic groups like
White, Negro, Native American, and so on, he was called a
Melungeon. A mulatto is one-half Negro and one-half White. In
Spanish and Portuguese, mulatto means a young mule.”

“
Sounds like a recipe for a
cake,” an elderly Bosnian woman, holding her grandson,
commented.

A conservatively dressed middle-aged
White man leaning against a bookcase raised his hand. Parke
acknowledged him. “My understanding is one drop of Negro blood
automatically makes the person Black.”

Parke’s eyes sparkled. His lips curled
into a smile. “Not always. During the nineteenth century, a person
with one-eighth Negro and seven-eighths White was considered an
Octoroon. A quarter Negro and three-quarters White was a
Quadroon.”

The man shook his head in disbelief.
“People actually measured that? It does sound like baking
instructions.”

Kids giggled. The adults
chuckled.

“
Yep. Okay, ready for a
story?” Parke asked as more people joined the group.

“
Yeah,” the children
shouted.

When a few White parents relaxed their
frowns, Parke knew he had erased the tension. He hunkered down on
the floor with their children. “Paris, a high-yalla, mostly White,
or a light-skinned Black teenager was born a long, long time ago in
the 1800s. Running for freedom was scary and hard. If they were
slick, like Paris, those enslaved would out trick the catchers and
never be returned to their old masters.”