Like Slow Sweet Molasses (12 page)

 
“Lieutenant,” Angela interrupted, both
perturbed and happy to see Chance. She figured Mrs. Thatcher called him even
after she asked her not to. “Would you mind giving me a lift?”

“I’ll
take a rain check on that drink, D.” Chance captured Angela’s hand in his like
it was nothing unusual, leading her in and out of the maze directly to his Cobra
parked at the curb.

“Hurry,
Chance.” She was panic-stricken. He helped her in then popped over to the
driver’s side.

He
sensed it. Something wasn’t right. “What is it?”

“Turn
on the light.” He did. She held out the badly bruised arm.

“Fuck!”
He exploded, forgetting his vow to clean up his vocabulary. His calloused hand
gripped her arm mindful not to hold her too tightly as she groped for something
in her purse. “Did he do that?”

“I
don’t believe it was intentional.” Angela withdrew an injector from her clutch.
“The nearest emergency room, please.” She jabbed the spring-loaded needle into
her thigh holding it there until all the solution drained. “I mean,” she
proceeded in a conversational tone, “he did hold me against my will unknowingly
infecting me with peanut residue from his hands.”

The
muscle car’s beefed-up motor roared to life, slingshotting them from the curb.

“What
were you doing at his place, anyway?” he grated.

“I
don’t owe you an explanation of where I go or don’t go,” she huffed. “Besides, I
didn’t know it was his place.” His disapproval burned into her as he glared in
her direction momentarily taking his eyes from the task at hand. “My co-worker
invited me to her party, if it’s any of your business.”

“He’s
bad news, Angela. Warn your girlfriends.” Fluorescent lights zigzagged across
the hood of the car. He tooled the familiar streets having to go out of his way
to locate the closest hospital—another one of the catastrophic remnants of
Hurricane Katrina.

“The
question is…what were you…doing there?” she cross-examined, each breath now a
laborious act.

“Don’t
talk.” He worried about her condition. “I’ll answer any question you ask,only
after
you’ve received medical attention.”

“So
you’ll know—any number of reactions could occur as a result of my
contamination.” She would have thought him fearful of nothing. His eyes told
her she was mistaken. “Swelling is likely to impact my face and extremities.
Minor inconveniences when the most severe trauma possible is…my death.”

His
foot hit the floorboard sending them hurtling forward faster than a bat out of
hell. “Just shut up and concentrate on breathing.” Chance demanded her
cooperation.

She
laughed, a lilting sound that wormed its way to an unsuspecting target—his
heart.

Chapter Eight

Chance
sat mesmerized by Angela’s beauty even though her facial features exhibited the
swelling she warned him about. Her care in the emergency room, of which he
convinced the staff to allow him to be present miraculously by flashing his
badge and ordering the crisis team to treat her as an attack victim, relayed
her imminent chances of demise. His education of the situation concerning her
ailments lent to the compassionate side governing his subsequent actions. He
ensured her comfort on the ride home not only with a seatbelt but by the
constant massage of the hand he released to shift gears and for no other
reason.

The
purpose of structure in her life was never more evident than after witnessing
that episode. He heard of deaths occurring from nut allergies. But to see
someone in the throes of such an ordeal was extremely humbling. Although he
lived life on the edge, his profession taught him to take precautions to
safeguard his existence. Chance wondered what Angela could do to protect
herself against this unseen predator.

“Genetics
compliments of my biological father.” She’d watched him for quite a while very
curious to know what thoughts ran through his mind. He tweaked her cheek, the
act alluding to the track of his thoughts. “How long did it take?”

Chance
didn’t have to look at his watch since he’d monitored the passage of time
beginning with the instant her body hit the stretcher. “You were under constant
care for about four hours.”

“To
make sure no subsequent flare-ups.”

“How
many times has this happened?” He checked the emotion in his voice.

She
raised her seat back to the upright position. “Never. My diagnosis detailed
ingestion. Skin contact has never been a concern of mine.” Angela’s tone turned
morose. “Evidently, it’s not enough to watch what and where I eat. I guess I’ll
have to live life in a bubble from now on.”

He
had no response and was glad when her residence came into view. “Think you left
enough lights on?” Her home stood out like a lighthouse to a floundering ship
in the night.

As
soon as they stopped in her drive, while she unbuckled without responding to
his jesting, his cell rang. Angela’s departure from the car met with resistance
in the form of his hand on hers. A look into his eyes compelled her to
wait—even though her patience was very clearly tested.

“Slow
down, Aunt Belle.” Chance listened finding Angela’s eyes in the murky darkness
of the vehicle. “It’s okay. That’s me in Angela’s driveway. I have her with
me.” The blue light extinguished when he pressed the END button.

Angela
surmised the outcome. “She’s on her way?”

“You
know it,” he laughed. “Come on. I’ll walk you inside.”

They
took the steps one at a time, climbing at the pace her stamina dictated, her
progress brought to a heart fluttering stop by the rose in the door. “Not
again.”

His
green eyes squinted. Her heart palpitated.

“Again?”

“You’ve
got to stop, Chance,” she accused.

He
was flabbergasted. “You think I placed the flower there?” Her look was his
answer. “Why would I do that?”

“My
point, exactly.” Angela crushed the rose underfoot and moved to open the door
just as Mrs. Thatcher scurried up the walk. “Thank you for your assistance. I’m
fine, now.”

Chance
doubted that was true. Instead of causing a scene, he cut his aunt off at the
pass.

“You’re
not going to let her go in there without checking inside, are you, Brock?” Mrs.
Thatcher sidestepped her nephew to march up to the porch wavering considerably
at Angela’s appearance. The tilt of her head reprimanded him for his inaction.
She swiveled to frown at Angela while addressing him. “She didn’t tell you, did
she?”

Angela
became accustomed to the way her neighbor asked a question and affirmed it at
the same time.

“Tell
me what?” he questioned.

“Someone
sneaked in on her while she bathed earlier today.”

His
stare hit the bull’s eye. Angela blinked her misty eyes dismissing him,
unlocked her door and would have shut it in their faces if not for his
lightening-like speed. “You have a stalker.”

“No,”
she denied his pronouncement. Confused, “I don’t know. I thought it was you.”

Angela
led the way sitting on the sofa to catch her breath. Her fear transmitted
throughout the living room bringing her visitors inside to surround and comfort
her. Shame surfaced when she met his eyes. She was unable to identify the
emotion she saw there. It was an uncommon event for her—to volunteer
information about herself.

“It
started with the rose left in my viola case in my class—while locked behind
closed doors. Then, the rose found in the door handle the same day—just like
today. This is the third one.”

“And
the break-in?” Chance questioned while scanning as far as the eye could see.

“I
started to think I’d imagined it. Someone lurking in my bedroom. So, I called
911, anyway.”

“Good
girl,” he praised, unaware that a white man never referred to a Black woman as
a girl.

Angela
let the slip pass. “The officer found forced entry in the kitchen.”

Chance
left the women to investigate that part of the house. Everything appeared in
order with the exception of the straight back chair braced under the knob of
the back door. “Were fingerprints taken?” he called out.

“Not
to my knowledge. He said there was no bodily injury though he did take a
report.” Softly, to no one in particular, she amended, “I can’t believe this…my
life, all of a sudden, is careening out of control.”

Belle
sat next to her giving her hand that grandmotherly pat. Angela managed a weak
smile. Chance dropped to one knee before them.

“In
view of recent happenings, I have someone coming over right away to collect any
trace evidence of the intrusion.” Her frown and pursed lips showed her
distaste. He explained, “It’s necessary, Angela, in the event fate smiles on us
and we get a nibble on an identity.”

“I
feel so…so—” The right word escaped her.

“Violated?”
he supplied.

“Yes.”

“I’m
sorry.”

Perplexed,
she looked at him. “Why are you sorry?”

Chance
internalized the question, delivering an answer after much deliberation while
remaining on bended knee. “I’m sorry you mistrust me because of what I am.”

“A
policeman?”

“A
white man,” he responded. “Otherwise, you would have point blank told me where
to get off and I would’ve insisted to you, then, I wasn’t the guilty party.”

“I
didn’t think we had anything in common, Chance. Ignoring the flowers, simply
put,” her hands lifted in supplication, “would make you go away.”

“You
really have an inflated impression of yourself, lady,” he lashed out. Three
sets of eyes looked from one to the other.

“I’m
not proud of what I’ve become over the last few months.” She couldn’t believe
they conducted this discussion in front of innocent Mrs. Thatcher, who hadn’t
moved a muscle and watched in unadulterated interest. “I’m what I sometimes
accuse others of being—a bigot.”

“That’s
not true,” he refuted her description of herself. “You’re coming to grips with
what you feel was abandonment by your biological father—”

“Chance,
please,” she shushed him. Her head lowered in disgrace. A finger lifted her
chin.

“You’ve
done nothing to cause your head to drop. It’s his loss not to know the
wonderful person you are.”

The
knock at the door abbreviated her reply.

“Come
on in, Pops.” Chance let the newcomer in. Angela went ballistic.

“Two-faced.
That’s what you are. Talking out of both sides of your mouth.” She was
trembling, now—fighting back sobs. “Show this man the respect he deserves.”

Chance,
knowing what she meant, had her entrenched in his arms in nothing flat,
crooning into her ear, rocking her sweetly while she bawled into the front of
his dress shirt. She satisfied his trepidation of holding her by circling his
waist and holding on as she quieted.

“Freddy
Robinson, it’s been a long, long time.” Mrs. Thatcher greeted the bespectacled
policeman whose full head of silver gray hair rivaled her own although he was
years younger.

“Belle,
you’re looking fine and dandy,” he returned. Turning to the couple, he asked,
“Angela?”

Chance
nodded over her head. “Angela, this is Pops. My foster-father.” Her face buried
in his chest. Every breath she took quickened his heartbeat. “It’s okay.”

“I
hear you’re having a time of it lately, Angela. I’ll get what I need and get
out of your way,” Pops said.

Chance
read the accusation in her eyes when she looked up at him, shaking his head
“no”.

“I’m
not usually so sensitive, Mr. Robinson.” Now, she knew where Chance’s desire
for wood splinters came from after seeing his foster-brother do likewise and
his foster-father chomping one as he spoke to them.

“No
explanations needed, Angela. You’re in good hands. My son will take excellent
care of you.” He hefted his oblong equipment case to commence his job.

She
heard the pride in his voice.

“Pops,
start in Angela’s bedroom upstairs. That way she can freshen up as soon as
you’re finished in there.” Her body molded into his urging him to share a
little of his strength. “I could use a cup of coffee. Do you mind?”

“Of
course not,” she told him.

“You
two stay put. I’ll make it.”

His
Aunt Belle rushed into the kitchen broadcasting her whereabouts with each slam
of the cabinet doors. Chance disengaged himself grudgingly from Angela planting
her on the couch as he went in search of his father.

“Do
a video surveillance sweep, too, Pops. Just in case.”