Guilty of Love (7 page)

“
Hmm,” Hallison moaned,
lifting an eyebrow. “I don’t know.”

“
Uh-huh, we have to
celebrate,” he teased, meeting Hallison’s questioning eyes, “our
four incredible months together. The future looks pretty good to me
right now.”

Hallison blushed and rubbed her nose
against his. “And, I’ve enjoyed every moment. About lunch, I may
need more convin—”

Malcolm’s response was an urgent,
demanding kiss before helping her to stand. He massaged her
fingers. “You never have to tease me to get what you want, woman.
My kisses have your name written all over them.” Hallison opened
her mouth to reply, but stopped. “Baby, is Calico’s okay, or would
you rather eat at the Bread Company?”

Coming around the desk, Hallison
snaked her arms around his neck in a hug. “I’ll eat White Castle
gas burgers just to share lunch with you, but I like
Calico’s.”

“
I had a taste for some
Hallison Dinkins, and the sight of you satisfies my craving for
now. C’mon, let’s eat.”

Surveying Hallison’s red silk suit, he
whistled when she walked to a wall mirror to finger-comb her hair
and check her makeup.

The long-sleeve double-breasted jacket
fell below her hips. The matching skirt stopped inches above her
knees with teasing splits on both sides and three-inch pumps had
Malcolm’s heart pumping faster than running on a
treadmill.

“
You need a bodyguard, Miss
Dinkins, and I’m here to offer my services.” He reached for her. “I
like being with you.”

“
And, I like you being with
me, too.”

Hand in hand, Malcolm escorted her to
the downtown Italian restaurant. It was already packed with the
lunchtime crowd. As the waitress led them to a cozy window seat, he
teased Hallison’s ear with his breath. “You look
breathtaking.”

Looking into his dark brown eyes, she
mouthed her thank you.

They ordered sodas and decided to
share a house salad and pizza. While waiting, Malcolm reached over
and played with Hallison’s fingers. A woman sitting behind Hallison
distracted him. She made it obvious she was checking him
out.

Hallison glanced over her shoulder and
lifted her chin in a silent challenge before turning back to
Malcolm. Only her eyes wouldn’t meet his.

“
She’s not a treat or a
threat,” Malcolm assured her and he stretched across the table,
closing the distance between them.

Nodding, Hallison looked away
unconvinced. Her beautiful lips were twisted in contemplation. He
squeezed her fingers. “This lunch, this moment is about you and me.
Anyway, Wabash Park is kicking off its weekly summer concerts
tomorrow night. I’d love to have my lady wrapped in my arms while
listening to live music under the stars.”

As she struggled to answer, Malcolm
wondered if the woman’s boldness had upset her. Maybe now was the
perfect time for them to plan a romantic getaway. He brought her
hand to his lips and placed soft kisses inside her palm. “I want to
be with you. No other woman, but you. You don’t have
competition.”

“
There’s always
competition, always.”

“
Not against you, Hali. I
want just you.”

“
I want to be with you,
too.”

He inched his mouth closer to her
lips. “They can look, but only you can touch.”

“
That’s what I wanted to
hear.” She kissed him.

***

For the past week, Cheney had
struggled to avoid Mrs. Beacon at all costs. So far the woman was
proving to be a pest addicted to pesticide. Lately Cheney had
started to have nightmares. It had nothing to do with her past. It
was the present, and it lived right next door. She had the
strangest sensation that at night Mrs. Beacon’s neck stretched like
a crane and peeped inside her bedroom with eyes like
E.T.

Tuesday evening, Cheney’s nightmare
became reality. Before one of Cheney’s heels could hit the
driveway, Mrs. Beacon was frantically beckoning for her.
Now
what?

Mrs. Beacon’s hair was worn in two
doughnut-shaped buns above her ears. A red housedress draped her
small frame and Stacy Adams engulfed her feet.

“
Heney, lace sheer curtains
would be my choice in your front windows. That speaks of elegance
and class.” She scrunched her nose. “Anything, but those cheap
vinyl blinds.”

Her elderly neighbor had a lot of
nerve. The gossip about the woman was kind.
That old bat knows
my name
.
What’s her problem, anyway?
Cheney took a deep
breath.

The day before, Cheney’s workweek
started off terribly. A major pipe had burst over the computer
room, damaging several computers used for dispatching 911 calls and
medical emergency alerts. She was able to have service routed to
another building while the repairs were made, so customers wouldn’t
experience any phone interruption.

Then that morning, she confronted a
middle-aged employee with more than twenty years of service. Rumors
surfaced that he’d been cheating the company for years, charging
excessive overtime for changing a light bulb, reprogramming a door
code, or restarting a fan after a power outage. She could still
hear Clint Kent’s stuttering excuses.

“
W-well, Cheney, it’s a
technical thing. It may s-sound s-simple, but it takes years of
training to troubleshoot a problem and correct it.”

What Clint didn’t know was the phone
company had enrolled her in property and facility management
classes. Without question, Cheney was certified to fully maintain
her office buildings. She knew restarting a fan took sixty
seconds.

“
Hmm, I see. I’ve checked
your hours against your coworkers’. They seem to do the job in less
time; maybe I’ll save the company money and remove you from the
call-out list.” The look on Clint’s face was priceless. Cheney
wanted to laugh.

Clint took a deep breath as his face
turned red. “Look, you just can’t come in here and think you know
how to run this department. You and I both know they hired you
because they needed somebody Black.”

No he didn’t go there. Closing the
distance, Cheney had braced herself for a professional battle.
“First, I was hired to manage this building from top to bottom, so
I run the show. Second, if you ever imply, whisper, or gossip that
I’m not capable of doing this job because of the color of my skin,
I’ll take disciplinary action against you for discriminatory
remarks. Don’t give me two reasons to fire you. You’ve only got one
left.”

She left Clint standing outside her
office with clenched fists. Luckily, all the men in her crew didn’t
share his viewpoint.

Now, Mrs. Beacon was like a loaded gun
with plenty of ammunition ready to finish off the headache Clint
had started. Cheney was not anybody’s fool. Not anymore.

“
Considering I live at 947
Benton and pay the house note to prove it, I’ll choose what to put
in my bay windows. Oak wood shutters will be installed before my
upcoming house-warming party. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m running
late.”
Whew, did I say that?
Imani would be proud. Rubbing
her already throbbing temples, Cheney didn’t need this
stress.

Cheney was convinced everything and
everybody was out to get her.
You can run, but you can’t
hide,
she thought she heard a mocking voice she couldn’t
identity. First, she was imagining things about a child who never
lived, now she was hearing things when no one was around. “I am not
going crazy, so what am I going?” she mumbled. Lifting her mail
from the box, Cheney unlocked her front door, walked inside, and
locked it without looking back to see if Mrs. Beacon was still
there.

Moving back home was supposed to be
easy, reconnecting with family, making new friends, and living her
life to the fullest. So far, she was questioning the move. Her
world consisted of no close relationships—family, friends, and
definitely not men. Her sister, Janae, was busy with a family. Her
dad, Roland, was always at work.

Cheney alternated between sorting
through her bills and turning on lamps. Her mind didn’t stray far
from her family. She wanted to confide in her older brother,
Rainey, but could never form the words to describe what she’d did
and what she had gone through as a result. He knew a job
opportunity had brought her home.

It was she who needed to make the
first move. He called and called her in Dunham, and finally took a
flight to see her. Only she wouldn’t—couldn’t—see him because the
abortion had left her too weak. So now here she was at home and it
was payback. Cheney had made ten phone calls to her mother, Gayle,
in recent weeks. Only two were returned. Gayle had even declined
Cheney’s offer to visit.

“
Why don’t you and Janae
stop by?”
Cheney had asked during phone call number seven.
Working around the house on Saturday was starting to lose its
luster.

“
Don’t have time. Your
sister and I are going shopping,”
her mother had
replied
.

“
Oh.”

“
We’ll wait for your
housewarming. Surprise us,”
she had told her.

“
I’d like to go. I’m back
home now; invite me,” Cheney wanted to shout, but didn’t. Just as
well. She didn’t want anyone to see her masterpiece until it was
presentable.

Her house
, she smiled. It would
become her work of art. Cheney glided up the hardwood stairs,
passing the first bedroom, which she’d painted blue, then
backtracked. Folding her arms, Cheney leaned against the doorframe
and admired the denim bedspreads on the bunk beds. A blue-plaid
rectangular rug covered most of the room’s hardwood floor. One day,
she hoped to have children to tuck in.

She stepped into the adjacent room—her
favorite. She had stenciled white daisies on the walls to match the
ones on twin lilac comforters on the white juvenile furniture.
Colorful throw pillows were stacked in a corner, but the room’s
focal point was an adorable pink dollhouse-shaped bookshelf that
artistically displayed dolls from various countries.

Settling into a rocker, Cheney
squeezed a teddy bear dressed in a pink ballerina skirt. “I wish I
had made another choice. Since I didn’t, I’ll have to redeem
myself.” Closing her eyes, Cheney imagined a teenager stretched
across the bed, dressed in faded jean shorts with a red shirt with
the latest designer shoes crisscrossed at the ankles.

Cheyenne chattered
non-stop on a three-way call with her girlfriends, twisting a long,
thick, black ponytail. Posters of teenage idols vied for wall
space.

Soon Cheyenne’s skinny
body would blossom into a beautiful young woman. Then her daughter
would exchange her sweet girlfriends for hormone-driven
boys.

“
Mom says if I keep up my
grades, I can have a birthday party when I turn thirteen or go on a
shopping spree.” Her head bobbed. “I’ve got the best
mom.”

Moisture spilled as Cheney opened her
eyes. “If only I’d been a good mother and given you a chance from
the beginning. I was afraid and weak. I never gave you a chance, my
beautiful daughter. I vow to right my wrong with or without
God.”

Wiping away the lone tear, Cheney
glanced down at her watch. The reoccurring child phantoms almost
caused her to be late for the home-improvement class. She sprang to
her feet. She couldn’t change the past. What’s done was
done.

If My people, which are called by
My name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and
turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and will
forgive their sin, and will heal their land,
God spoke 2
Chronicle 7:14.

Indignation filled Cheney. “I’m not
your people, God,” Cheney shouted as she raced down the hall,
jumping three stairs at a time. She was behind the wheel and
turning the key before she closed her car door. “Besides, I didn’t
own a Bible.”

Cheney arrived minutes before the
start of a ceramic tile installation class at Home Depot. She had
enrolled the day she signed the title. One student was an elderly
woman, dressed in white overalls and a white cap, who was eager to
get home and try the techniques. Cheney snapped numerous how-to
pictures, asked plenty of what-if questions, and scribbled several
pages of notes. The following week, she would install a Himalayan
Rock ceramic floor tile in her kitchen.

Two hours later, Cheney was exhausted,
but her mental activity was full of energy. She dragged her body to
her Nissan and deactivated the alarm. She reminded herself that the
classes and preparations were for one thing—her housewarming. So
much was riding on it. She craved the togetherness she had once
enjoyed with her family prior to attending Duke. God knows she had
pushed them away.

“
Why aren’t you coming
home?”
Gayle Reynolds had asked, concerned.

“
Can’t get away from my
job,”
Cheney had lied as she recuperated from the surgical
procedure gone wrong.

“
What are you
hiding?”
Janae had asked in a separate phone call weeks
later.

“
Nothing,”
she told
her sister.