Like Slow Sweet Molasses (37 page)

Angela,
now that he thought about it, was a little standoffish during their tranquil
retreats. Her mood swings kept him guessing and on his toes. There were times
of extreme familiarity and frivolity where she pleasured him with her
contagious laughter. After that, her desires for him heightened to such peaks
he questioned his abilities to surmount them. Lately, she wanted to cuddle with
that being the only physical contact mandated during that time. He could see it
clearly, now, and believed she tried to tell him that that night still bothered
her, but failed to broach the subject.

School
was in Christmas vacation, now, which meant two weeks was loads of free time to
indulge in the cultural activities she so loved or the shopping experiences the
season demanded. When he let his mind wander back, Angela’s vivacious attitude
rarely sparkled since the robbery. Her smiles weren’t as bright, dulled by the
lackluster light in her eyes. Contentment scored points with her simply with
the television’s constant drone and her comfy bedside seat.

He
had seen it with his own eyes—her effervescence snuffed out.

Chance
rolled his office chair away from the desk, crossed one long leg over the other
and with his fingers steepled under his chin yielded to profound concentration
about how to remedy the problem. The fact of the matter—he loved Angela and his
profession. He couldn’t picture one versus the other at this time in his life.
A compromise was in order for an elementary solution. What that was—he admitted
to not knowing presently.

First
things first. He had to see for himself to what extent Angela would go to
safeguard his life. Because that’s exactly what his vivid re-enactment of her
need to flee revealed to him. In the cold evening light, he raced over to his
aunt’s as promised determined to be objective with regards to Angela finalizing
a decision to leave town without so much as advising him. All of that flew out
of the window at the sight of the for rent sign taking root in her yard as he
coasted to a stop.

The
electrifying energy that encompassed him whenever he drew near her place was
gone.
 
Her precious planters and white
rattan porch furniture—all gone. Darkness dumped its gloom over the empty house
like a supernatural entity moved in in her stead. Several steps had his face
pressed against the window pane as wonderful memories flooded his being in
slideshow mode. He failed to overcome the urge to twist the knob and faced
disappointment when the door didn’t budge. Chance wanted proof she really
absconded. Seeing was believing. Sorry to say, his desires to enter wouldn’t
happen tonight.

Chance
moved his car over one drive to Belle’s and while sitting there called Angela’s
cell number to get the real gist of the complexity of the situation. Summarily,
the disconnect recording’s continuous loop supported his suspicions—she would
protect him at all cost. Even if splitting them up consigned each to an unhappy
existence.

His
boiling anger hit the roof at her audacity to shield him from unsubstantiated
harm, some figment of her imagination. How dare she position herself as his
self-appointed custodial guardian. He was the sentinel sworn to protect and
serve. That was his job.

“Crap,
Angela,” his prolific rumble filled the space where she once sat. Chance
assumed his delay in going into the house concerned his aunt for the floodlight
at the back door lit up brighter than a stadium on game night.

Belle
peeked her head out. “Brock?” she yelled.

The
car door shut with a resounding thud in response to her call. He climbed the
steps in silence knowing once he sat at the table with her, quietness would be
a thing of the past. She would want definite answers and not the suppositions
or theories that plagued him. She had only moved a step backwards and reversed
a couple feet more as he pulled the screen shut and slammed the door.

“Have
you talked to her?” Belle ambushed. “What did she have to say for herself? This
is completely out of the ordinary for her.”

“I
couldn’t agree more, Aunt Belle. I tried her cell. It was disconnected.”

Belle
saw stress lines on her nephew’s face that aged him beyond his thirty-seven
years. “Did you two have a fight, Brock?”

“No,
Aunt Belle.”

“Has
Angela’s father had a relapse?” Her interrogation continued.

“Not
to my knowledge, Aunt Belle.”

“Sit
down, Brock. Talk to your old Aunt Belle.”

Looking
around the kitchen where he now spent a good portion of his time visiting with
his aunt brought to the forefront he had her to thank for his meeting Angela.
She and Angela adopted each other and took their unrelated kinship to heart,
seeing to the other’s health and welfare. Chance dropped in one of the
turquoise metal-studded table chairs as he often did. This time he noticed the
framed picture carefully propped against the wall.

“Angela
left that for me,” she advised sadly. “I always admired it hanging on the wall
in her living room.”

“You
know she is very fond of you? Right?”
 
He
wanted to make her smile. It worked.

Laughing,
“Didn’t know me from Adam and rushed over to chop that skunk down to size. The
tiny thing that she is.”

“Small
package. Big heart.”

“What
are you going to do, Brock?”
 

Chance
thought a moment. “I don’t have the answer to that, Aunt Belle. But, it’s not
in my nature to give up on us. We love each other. I just have to figure out
how to reduce her habit of worrying about me while I’m on the job.”

“That’s
what this is about? Goodness, I thought it was Kelsy and the race thing. Oh,
my. That’s a relief.” Belle cackled happily to Chance’s distraught expression.
“Call to see how her father is,” she suggested.

Chance
smiled. “That’s an obvious intrusion.” His fingers modeled the “Y” to imitate a
phone receiver as he acted out his scenario. “Hey, Lee. How are you? Oh, by the
way—how’s that scary daughter of yours?”

“It
works for me,” she crowed.

“I’ll
give her a few days to miss me. Time to see the error of her ways. Then, I’ll
plead my case and throw myself at her feet for mercy,” he resolved. “How’s
that?”

“Couldn’t
come up with a better program myself,” she sang merrily, signing off on the
plan. “This calls for a beer.”

Chance
only hoped all went down as easily as the brew he shared while sitting across
from his aunt.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“The
caterers are here.”

Thumping
Christmas music from the Munso’s era piped over the sound system jumpstarted
the lighthearted special occasion.

Angela,
relaxing in her pajamas in the middle of the day, belted the frumpy terrycloth
robe to ensure her modesty remained intact and yelled again. “Mama, the
caterers want in.” Although she clung to the granite counter the same way moss
stuck to the north side of a tree and observed through the distant window as
the truck passed in front of the house, she stuck to her guns for tonight’s
party was her mother’s idea and one she didn’t favor.

“Answer
the door, Cookie.” The reply came from upstairs at the gong. Connie breezed
past her daughter dispensing a swat to her behind, the way mothers tended to
do, rushing to get the ball rolling.

“Daddy’s
not up for all of this.” She claimed to reject the idea on behalf of his
recuperative stage when really everyone knew she was the dissenter.

“We
do this every year and you know it, Cookie.” Connie talked to her while
directing the husband and wife cooking team to the prep area to store their
purchases in the garage frig.

Angela
glanced up from her coffee as they ferried bundles inside, stored them.
Consequently, her mother and the chefs bent over the menu to discuss the timing
issues, cramping her space but not the center island. There would be a full
course meal ready to serve buffet-style promptly at eight pm as not to hinder
the start of the real party when the DJ arrived at nine. Her participation in
enough of these affairs had her tying together the loose ends of her plan to
enjoy this one in absentia. The thought of The Bounce, The Train and the
Shing-a-Ling, to name only a few of the dances her parents’ set would
inevitably revert to, made her shudder.

She
couldn’t stop the festivities. But, she didn’t have to be where the pressure to
join in squashed her cool image. Angela sneaked away not getting to the living
room door before her mother’s voice reeled her back in. “Shoot,” she pulled an
unattractive face, grumbled under her breath and joined them with her chin
nailing her elbows in place for the mundane conversation, eyes wandering over
the menu bulging at one item, in particular. “We’re having fried turkey?”

Connie
recited the list. “Fried turkey, cornbread dressing, peas, potato salad—”

“I
get the picture.”

The
picture Angela tried to dispel was that of another fried turkey during another
holiday. Well, not so much the bird as the bird cooker. According to Mrs.
Thatcher, Angela found out later, Chance really fried the turkey to make up for
her having to opt out of eating the gobbler at Pops’. The dish of leftovers
Mrs. Thatcher and Kelsy brought over Thanksgiving night saw her through several
meals since, at the time, she wasn’t up to cooking or even scrounging for
something to eat because of her surgery.

“No
peanut oil.” Angela reminded them, sucking in a longing breath and noticed Lee
watching her from study’s doorway. She knew what was coming.

“Cookie,
come show me what I’m doing wrong.”

“I’m
in the middle of something for Mama, now, Daddy.” She stretched the truth a
smidgen.

“Go
see what your daddy wants. Everything’s in control here.” Connie blasted her
excuse to pieces.

Angela
graced Lee with her presence not having to wait long to confirm his request was
nothing more than a ruse to get her alone.

“Want
to talk about it?” He walked ahead of her and took his place at the desk.

Stuck
in the doorway, Angela simply asked, “Talk about what?”

“Whatever
it is that brought you home and has kept you in this house moping, forcing
people to walk on eggshells around you.” He waited with bated breath. “Enough
is enough. This is your mother’s favorite time of year. You will not spoil it
for her. Do you understand me?”

“You
can’t talk to me like that,” she pouted. “I’m not a child.”

“Lower
your voice,” he chastised in a fatherly manner. “Get in here and close the door
behind you.”

Before
doing so, Angela tabulated the number of Christmas figurines and villages
within sight agreeing with Lee’s accounting of what this time of year meant to
Connie. Their entire home was her project and she went the extra mile to be
sure each room appropriately decorated to bring holiday cheer to all who
entered. You couldn’t tell her some rooms went a little overboard because that
was one thing about her mother. Conformity took a backseat to the holiday
Christmas spirit. You either had it or she would try her best to give it to
you.

Angela
finally obeyed.

“Look
at you. Half the day’s gone and you’re still in your nightclothes, puppies on
your feet and hair in a ponytail.”

“I’m
entitled. I’m on break and earned the right to flub a little,” she defended.

“Is
that what you young people call it these days? Flubbing?” Lee stared at her
putting two and two together at the instant crease on the bridge of her nose.
“Did he hurt you, Cookie? What did he do? Tell Daddy.”

In
the next second, she blubbered all over herself, falling into the seat facing
him. “He didn’t do a thing.” Her nose ran and she ransacked her pockets for a
tissue, finding none.

“There
was something he should have done but didn’t?” he pursued. Lee opened a drawer
that gave a teeth grinding scrape to snatch tissue from a box squirreled away
and handed her a fistful. The headshake was a
no
. “Something he did that
he shouldn’t have?”

“No.”

“Listen,
Cookie. A long time ago I could put a band-aid on
it
, smother
it
with ice cream and soon
it
all melted away.” He moved to her side of the
desk where he pulled up another chair. “A father’s powers diminish over the
years leaving him in a state of helplessness. I can’t help if I don’t know what
the problem is.”

Tears
burned her cheeks as she scooted to the edge of her seat to lean into her
father’s chest. “It’s not Chance. It’s me.”

“What
did you do or not do?”

“I
almost got him killed in the line of duty,” she breathed heavily to keep from
falling apart. His compassionate pats to her back were the last thing she
needed.

“Was
he injured?” Lee asked the question afraid of what she would answer.

“Bruised
up a bit,” she lamented.

“And
you—were you injured?”