Looking For Trouble (4 page)

As they continued to drive down the hot, dusty road, John thought about how much his life was going to change once he moved back to Nedine in another month or two before opening the bank. Although the bold venture was going to make his life busier than it had ever been, John was looking forward to being home again, surrounded by family and friends. Nedine was going to provide a much-needed balance in his life that the hustle and bustle of city living couldn't. It was also going to allow him the opportunity to take things slow, settle down, and perhaps start a family, which was something he'd been thinking about while traveling on the road yesterday.

John glanced over at Madeline's attractive profile, and he wondered if she was really marriage material. He also wondered what kind of wife she would make and what kind of mother she would be. He wasn't even sure if she wanted children, because they'd never had those kinds of discussions. Most of their conversations centered around business, which jazz spots they'd go to, which restaurants they'd try, and what new sexual positions they'd explore.

He knew that after a year of being with this woman he should know the answers to what she wanted in life beyond a successful career and a good time out on the town, and the fact he didn't made him pause.

“I thought you said we'd be there soon,” Madeline said, breaking John's thoughts. “This town is small, but it's taking us forever to go from one end to the other.”

John pointed in the direction of tall, luscious trees in the distance. “Well, you're in luck. My parents' house is coming up right around this bend.”

Chapter 4

J
ohn could see that Madeline was impressed as they turned onto the private road that led to the grand estate his parents owned.
THE SMALL PROPERTY
was written in black calligraphy on a large white placard that hung from a tall pole, announcing entry to all guests coming to visit.

John eyed Madeline closely as they approached the majestic brick colonial-style structure, where he'd been raised. He took inventory of her facial expression, which was one of awe. He chuckled when he saw her eyebrows nearly rise to her forehead. He studied her as she admired what was old hat to him—an expansive, professionally landscaped yard, which complemented the abundant rose and azalea bushes and magnolia shrubs his mother had cultivated over the years—all flanked by a massive wraparound porch, which greeted them as they walked up to the front door.

John had told Madeline that he'd grown up in comfort and that his parents had money, but he could see that she hadn't expected the type of wealth she saw in front of her, especially after taking in a good portion of Nedine during their drive across town.

“Here we go,” John said as he rang the bell. The grand door slowly opened and an imposing figure consumed the entire space.

“He's here, Henny!” Isaiah Small smiled as he called out behind him. “And he's got company with him, so set another place at the table.”

The phrase “like father, like son” was coined especially for men like Isaiah and John. They were both tall, with broad shoulders and hands the size of baseball mitts. They shared the same intense brown eyes, which could bore holes through their targets. Their deep baritones sounded as though their voices boomed from the heavens above, and their striking, coal black skin resembled polished iron. The only difference between the two men was the visible signs of aging, which had sneaked up quietly on Isaiah's face and body. His hair was snow white, his skin had begun to wrinkle, and his back was not as straight as it had been a year ago.

Isaiah welcomed his son into the house as Madeline glared at John. It was obvious by the look on Isaiah's face, and by the way he'd announced her presence, that John hadn't told his parents he was bringing his girlfriend home for a visit.

John avoided Madeline's stare as they entered the beautifully furnished living room.

“Your mother'll be out directly,” Isaiah said to John. He looked at his son and waited.

“Excuse my manners,” John said, clearing his throat. He smiled as he reached for Madeline's hand and held it in his, knowing that gesture would defrost her chill. “Pop, this is Madeline King.”

Aside from John's good looks, one of the things about him that women couldn't resist was his dazzling charm, and Madeline was no exception. John knew the simple show of holding her hand and saying her name in a way that made her tingle would erase the full-on annoyance she'd shown just seconds ago.

“It's mighty nice to meet you,” Isaiah said with a smile.

“Likewise.” Madeline nodded in return.

Just then, Henrietta Small walked into the room. She was proof positive that the Smalls were a family of giants. At five feet eleven inches in stocking feet, she towered above most men. And like her husband and son, her broad shoulders and commanding presence dominated any space she entered. Her thick body was erect, and her skin was the same chocolate brown complexion as Madeline's, and just as smooth despite being twice the younger woman's age. Henrietta walked up to John and wrapped her strong arms around her youngest child. “It's so good to see you, baby!”

“Good to see you, too, Mama,” John said, rocking back and forth in his mother's tight embrace.

“Well, who do we have here?” Henrietta asked as she slowly released her son.

“Mama, this is Madeline King.” John smiled and motioned to his side. “Madeline, this is my mother.”

The two women greeted each other with a cordial handshake and friendly smiles. Their exchange was nothing short of the Southern hospitality that John was accustomed to seeing his mother extend to strangers; but even so, he could tell that something wasn't quite right.

Mama doesn't like Madeline,
John thought. He watched his mother closely as she nodded and grinned, engaging Madeline in polite conversation as they headed toward the kitchen. John stood to the side and observed the two women even more. Sure enough, no matter how hard Henrietta tried to be pleasant, tried to appear mannerly, and tried to put forth valiant efforts of courtesy, her eyes confirmed what John's gut had already told him. And his gut was never wrong.
Not only does Mama not like Madeline, she can't stand her. Damn!

Chapter 5

A
lexandria sat cross-legged on her couch as she sipped from her cup of lukewarm lemongrass tea. It was a bright and sunny Saturday afternoon, but she had yet to venture outside the confines of her apartment to enjoy it. Normally, she would have been out and about hours ago, running weekend errands, which included shopping for much-needed groceries, browsing a few of her favorite flea markets, and then finally dropping by her parents' house for a quick visit before heading over to Peter's for the evening. But today she was off to a slow start because she hadn't been able to sleep the night before, partly because of the way she'd left things with Peter, but mostly because of the incessant voice ringing in her ear.

This was the first time a spirit voice had come to her without revealing who it was or exactly what it wanted. She'd been hearing the whispers—from a person who she now knew had to be a Southern woman—for the last four weeks.

It had started as a quiet hum, barely audible enough for Alexandria to register the words as more than a few annoying, disjointed mumbles. But as the days went on, the sound grew, and now it was coming to her louder, with more frequency and greater urgency.

As Alexandria sat in silence, sans the voice still speaking into her ear, she realized two very important things. The first was that she could hear the woman's words so crystal clear that if she closed her eyes, she could swear someone was literally sitting beside her. And the other was that the woman talking to her was someone she knew. The voice, with its calm, warm timber, began to sound as familiar to her ear as her own voice. And although the woman's accent was thickly layered in a rural Southern dialect, there was something about the comfort of it that reminded her of her mother's.

She could tell the voice belonged to that of an old woman, and it carried a mixture of tones and inflections—rugged but kind, sturdy but tender—that resonated with her in a place deep down in her soul. And as Alexandria continued to concentrate, she had no doubt that she was somehow directly connected to whoever was trying to contact her.

“I'm ready for the fight,”
the voice repeated.

“Please show yourself to me,” Alexandria spoke aloud. “Tell me who you are and what you want of me.”

“I'm here to protect you, baby,”
the voice gently whispered.

Alexandria sat perfectly still, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. “Show me what you want me to know.”

Images began to flash in front of her eyes: a long dirt road, tall pine trees, a rocking chair on a tiny front porch, a blue cloudless sky. Then, before she could place the surroundings, Alexandria was staring into the eyes of a woman she'd never seen; yet she felt she knew her. She could tell the woman was old; but because her wrinkles were faint, it was hard to determine her age. Alexandria felt comforted when she saw the old woman smile and nod, as if she could see her, too. Then without warning, her brief vision disappeared.

When Alexandria opened her eyes again, she could feel her heart pounding inside her chest. At that moment, she knew exactly to whom the voice belonged.

Chapter 6

 

 

T
hey all settled in at the medium-size rectangular-shaped table in the large eat-in kitchen. Isaiah and Henrietta sat on one side, while John and Madeline took their seats on the other. Pristine white linen covered the table, complementing the bone china and sparkling silverware that marked each person's place setting, all arranged in perfect five-star–restaurant fashion.

John took in the freshly cut yellow roses and white daisies, which his mother had carefully arranged in a glass Mason jar in the center of the table. But the artistry of the display paled in comparison to the presentation of each mouthwatering dish she'd prepared from scratch and then placed in handcrafted serving bowls. It was classic Henrietta Victoria Small, through and through. Her trademark style was a delicate combination of understated elegance mixed with a splash of down-home simplicity.

John smiled, noting his mother's distinctive flair. She paid attention to the tiniest of details, making ordinary things seem special. From the signature touches she imparted in decorating the house, to the natural Southern charm and good manners she exercised when dealing with people, Henrietta was the consummate Southern belle, and always spot-on. “It's the little things that add up in big ways,” she'd always preached.

John knew his mother took pride in her handiwork, and in being an efficient homemaker. She was a traditional Southern woman, who enjoyed decorating her home, cooking delicious meals, cultivating her garden, and, most of all, entertaining. Not many women in Nedine possessed her skills, nor could their wallets support such endeavors. But Henrietta was married to one of the wealthiest men—and certainly
the
wealthiest black man—in the entire county. Isaiah afforded her any indulgence she so desired.

“I would have set the table in the dining room, instead of here in the kitchen, had I known John was bringing company home,” Henrietta said, looking at Madeline.

John felt the uncomfortable glint of Madeline's changing mood as she twisted her mouth, casting her eyes upon him. She clearly wasn't pleased that he'd neglected to tell his parents she was coming for this visit.

“This is just fine, Mama.” John smiled. “And everything looks and smells delicious. I've been waiting to eat your food all day. There's nothing like a good home-cooked meal.”

“I'm glad you brought your appetite,” Henrietta said with a smile. “As you can see, there's plenty to eat. I made fried chicken, collard greens, macaroni and cheese, candied yams, hot-water corn bread, peach cobbler, and sweet ice tea.”

John gave his mother a kiss on her cheek. “My mouth's watering already.” These Southern delicacies were all his favorites, and Isaiah's as well.

“Should we wait for your grandmother?” Madeline asked, looking at John and then his parents.

“No,” Isaiah answered. “She comes over for dinner every Sunday after church. She's restin' at home today.”

“We'll go by and visit her later this afternoon,” John said.

“I'm looking forward to it. I think it's so nice that your family is close. Having lost my parents at an early age, and then my aunt during my senior year of high school, I understand the importance of what it means to be connected by blood. There's nothing like family.”

John was slightly shocked by her words. Never had he heard Madeline espouse the virtues of family. He wanted to tell her that it wasn't necessary to try to impress his mother and father with what she thought they might want to hear, especially since her words were untrue. But he decided to keep his mouth shut. His parents had only met her five minutes ago, so they didn't need to know the whole truth of the matter: Madeline had an older brother, whom she never saw, never spoke of beyond vague references, or even took the time to contact by phone.

Henrietta nodded. “Yes, there is nothing greater than family and the ties that bind us.”

After Isaiah said a short but heartfelt grace to bless the food, they were ready to eat. As head of the house, Isaiah took the lead, lifting one of the large serving platters from the middle of the table. “Let's dig in,” he said happily as he passed around the first dish.

John loaded his plate with three pieces of tender, golden fried chicken. But when the platter came around to Madeline, she declined and passed it along to Henrietta. John eagerly piled a generous helping of macaroni and cheese next to his chicken, while Madeline eked out only a tiny dollop from the heaping bowl of savory noodles. When the collards came his way, John licked his lips as he ladled the dark greens and pieces of seasoned pork beside the rest of his food. Madeline, however, scrutinized the dish, picking around the pieces of fatty meat, allowing only a few sparse leaves to make their way onto her plate. After they all had finished serving themselves, Madeline was the only person at the table whose plate was practically bare.

John knew that Madeline was picky about most things, and that she was especially selective when it came to food. She watched her weight closely, priding herself on being fashionably slim, with just the right amount of heftiness in the strategic places he loved.

Although John was well aware of her predilection for fussiness, he'd hoped for diplomacy sake that she would at least make an attempt to appease his mother by sampling the food she'd put obvious time and care into preparing. He knew that every woman wanted to be on the good side of her man's mother, but he'd underestimated Madeline's steely resolve for unconventional boldness.

“You're not hungry, Madeline?” Henrietta asked.

“Well, honestly . . .”

“Madeline's watching her weight, Mama,” John spoke up, not sure of what might fly out of his girlfriend's mouth. He wasn't in the habit of feeling uneasy about anything, but right now, he felt more uncomfortable than a sinner in the front pew on Sunday morning.

“For heaven's sake, child,” Henrietta said, making a tsking sound with her teeth. “You don't need to watch your weight. You're as thin as a rail.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Small!” Madeline brightened, not realizing that Henrietta's statement wasn't exactly a compliment. “I've always been very careful about my weight, and now with so much information available about proper diet and nutrition, I try to make the best choices about what I put into my body. It's my temple,” she said, looking at her small portion of macaroni and cheese as if the noodles were going to bite her.

Henrietta tilted her head to the side. “I see. So, Madeline, what kinds of food do you like to eat?”

“Mostly fresh fruits, vegetables, and lean meats. I was starving when we woke up this morning.” Madeline smiled, looking at John. “And I really had my heart set on a nice big salad, but—”

John shook his head in disbelief. “You eat takeout nearly every day. The Chinese restaurants know you by voice.”

Madeline batted her long lashes. “Yes, but I always order steamed vegetables, and never ever anything fried,” she corrected, looking at the platter of chicken.

Henrietta nodded. “I see.”

“Mrs. Small, I'm not trying to be rude. I know this is what you call ‘Southern comfort food,' but it's really the kind of stuff that can kill you, you know? I can share some delicious low-calorie recipes with you, if you like?”

“You don't even cook,” John said, “so how are you gonna share a recipe for anything other than how to mix a cocktail?”

Henrietta and Isaiah looked at each other, then at their son.

“Why are you getting upset?” Madeline asked. “I was simply trying to help your mother so she and your father won't end up with high blood pressure from the food she cooks.”

John was so embarrassed that his cheeks became hot. “Madeline! You're way out of line,” he said in a low, serious tone. He was going to tell her to apologize to his mother when Henrietta gently stepped in.

“I completely understand,” Henrietta said in a soothing voice. She smiled, tossing her eyes from Madeline to John. “Everything isn't for everyone.”

John knew exactly what his mother's seemingly innocent double entendre meant. She was talking about Madeline, and she had just told him in so many words that his fancy new girlfriend wasn't the one.

“You're so right, Mrs. Small,” Madeline responded, apparently oblivious. “I tell John all the time that taste is a matter of individual choice.”

Henrietta eyed her son. “Yes, indeed.”

The shift in Henrietta's eyes and the twitch of her lower lip confirmed John's gut feeling. It was official. His mother had no use for his girlfriend; and after the exchange they'd just had, he couldn't blame her. Now all he could do was pray that they would make it through the meal without things turning ugly. He knew his mother would keep her cool—that was just her way. But Madeline was another matter. He'd never realized until now that she was such a loose cannon; and in spite of all her finishing-school education, she lacked common courtesy and manners. He'd never cursed at a woman, but right now he felt tempted.

“So, young lady, whereabouts are you from?” Isaiah asked, tying to lighten the mood. “I can tell by your accent and your clothes that you ain't from anywhere around these parts.”

Madeline smiled broadly, holding her regal head high as she ran her slender hand over the silk fabric of her paisley print caftan. “I was born and raised in New York City.”

“Oh, my. New York City,” Henrietta repeated. “It's a fascinating place. John seems to like it up there.”

Madeline leaned into John's shoulder. “Yes, he's grown to become quite fond of the city. You'll have to come up for a visit sometime soon.”

John stuffed a forkful of collard greens into his mouth and chewed in silence. Neither he nor Henrietta had the heart to tell her that Henrietta had visited him just two months ago when she'd flown up to attend the wedding of the daughter of her best friend from college.

Madeline moved her plate to the side as she continued to speak. “I'm so glad to finally meet you and visit John's hometown.”

Isaiah and Henrietta responded with a quiet and collective nod.

“Although I know you're a very important part of John's life, he rarely talks about his family . . . in detail, I mean. You know how close to the vest he is.” Madeline smiled, pausing for emphasis. “That's why I've been dying to find out more about you two.”

“Really?” Henrietta said, glancing toward her son. “What would you like to know?”

Madeline drank a small sip of her ice tea, wincing as the sugary sweetness took her by surprise.

“Too sweet for your taste?” Henrietta asked.

“
Quite!
But I'll manage.”

John threw Madeline a cautionary stare. He couldn't believe the rude and disrespectful way she was acting, and he was starting to see her in an entirely new light—one that was dim and uninviting.

Madeline set her glass next to her untouched food. “Did you two meet in college?”

Isaiah looked at his wife through loving eyes as he answered. “No, me and Henny been knowin' each other since we was five years old. We grew up in a small town about a hundred miles east of Nedine.”

“Did you attend the same college, too?” Madeline prodded.

“Henny went to a fine school.” Isaiah smiled proudly. “Spelman College, down in Atlanta. But my schoolin' stopped in the fifth grade.”

Madeline looked as if someone had just told her that the Earth was flat.
“Really?”
she blurted out, looking around the beautifully decorated room.

John could see that Madeline's mind was racing with questions. He knew it was inconceivable to her that an uneducated person could possess the apparent wealth that Isaiah laid claim to.

“I come from a family of sharecroppers,” Isaiah said.

Madeline swallowed hard, a mortified look overtaking her face.
“Sharecroppers?”

John aimed his eyes toward the ceiling as he let out a sigh. He'd had enough of Madeline's rudeness, and he wondered what had gotten into her that was making her act so unmannerly toward his parents.

“Yes,” Isaiah spoke up, his deep baritone booming with pride. “When I was a little boy, I remember, I would watch my daddy work the fields from sunup to sundown. He picked cotton, tobacco, beans, potatoes—anything that would put food on our table. He was one of the strongest men I ever did know. He died when I was ten, and that's when I had to come outta school so I could work and help support our family. It nearly kilt my mama, but we had to eat.”

Isaiah went on to explain that he'd quickly adapted to the demands of the backbreaking work, and that he'd also discovered he had a great fascination with business. He watched how things were done, and he listened and paid close attention to everything around him. He worked longer and harder than the rest of the hands in the field, earning him a reputation as a solid, dependable young man. His efforts caught the attention of the wealthy white man he worked for, who eventually came to treat Isaiah like a son.

When the old man died, he left Isaiah a small portion of land and a little money, to boot. At eighteen years old, Isaiah became the only black landowner in his tiny town. From there, he carefully charted what would become his path to success. He was smart, and he aligned himself with people who could help him as he quietly grew into unprecedented wealth.

“By the time I was in my mid twenties, I had quite a few parcels of property and more than three dozen men workin' for me, but they didn't know I owned the land they lived on or the crops they was pickin', 'cause I worked right alongside of them,” Isaiah said.