Excerpts
The Coach's Counselor (Available Now!)
One
It was a bit disconcerting to see the six-foot-six, three-hundred-plus defensive lineman for the 1993–1994 Ole Miss Rebels sobbing profusely across from her; and his watery, "I'm sorry," sounded most foreign from the usually deep, self-assured tone that belonged to Irvin Ramone.
Doctor Eunice Saunders looked next to the weeping Irvin at a man who was older, yet no less physically impressive. His large, dark-chocolate hand squeezed an even larger shoulder, and a resonant baritone voice consoled.
"We'll help you get through this, Irv, and not only because you're talented. We care about you. You are not alone." Irvin nodded, yet sobbed even harder. "Doctor Saunders and I are here for you, okay? We want you succeed and thrive, and we'll do everything we can to make sure you do."
"Coach Jenkins is right," Eunice added, backing up her colleague. "The faculty here at Ole Miss cares about its students very much, and I want you to know I'll do everything I can to help you through this difficult period."
"I just—" Irvin broke off, inhaling a long, shuddering breath. Eunice pulled out two Kleenexes and held them out for the football player. Coach Jenkins took them from her and actually wiped the tears and snot from the young man's face. Eunice couldn't stop her heart from squeezing at the gesture.
Assistant Coach Bernard "Bernie" Jenkins continued to surprise her. When she'd first stepped on campus three years ago, he'd been there in the health center's parking lot chatting up two of her would-be female coworkers. When he'd looked up and spotted her, Eunice could've sworn everything had stopped—from the cars on the road behind her; the wind through the trees; the birds in the air; her heart. Never had she been so immediately affected by a man, and her hands and fingers had lost all sensation that she had bobbled the box she'd been carrying, the gold bangles on her left arm jangling as she tried to hold on.
"Let me help you with that," he'd said, moving away from the two women and approaching her with the grace of a lion. Eunice had felt stapled to the asphalt, and when his fingers had brushed hers as he took the box, Eunice's legs had trembled and her body had sparked like a shorted circuit. The flash in his light-brown eyes had told her he'd felt the same, which further confirmed she would need to keep her distance from tall, dark, and delicious.
She'd thought since he worked in Athletics and she in Health Services it would be easy to do, but apparently many athletes needed counseling, and his best friend Addy Ellison was a fellow psychologist in the department. That meant she saw Bernie often, and every time she did, tendrils of lust would curl within her. Now, his curly black hair was closely cropped instead of in the short Afro it had been when she'd first seen him; but a moustache still lined over his full-lipped mouth, and he still had a well-muscled body that left Eunice no doubt God himself had created it.
If Bernie had just been a pretty face with an even more beautiful body, Eunice knew she would do a better job of staying away from him, but he was one of the most compassionate men she'd ever met. The fact he was here with Irvin because he genuinely cared about him and not what he could do for the Rebels proved that. Irvin's grandmother, the woman who had raised him since was three, had been in the hospital for two months after suffering a stroke. That there had been little change meant high hospital bills and low hope. According to Bernie, Irvin's church had set up a fundraiser to help with the expenses, and because Irvin was working two jobs in addition to football practice and school work, he was very close to burning out.
"She'll be home soon," Bernie said, his eyes flicking to Eunice. Given the conviction she saw in them, Eunice knew Bernie wasn't speaking empty words.
"You think so?" Irvin asked, blowing his nose such that it sounded like a foghorn.
"Absolutely," Bernie said and smoothed a hand over Irvin's bald head. "I know Miss Bethea; remember when you got here freshman year that she promised she was gonna see you walk across that stage and get that diploma?"
Irvin nodded, glancing pitifully at Eunice. "Yes, sir."
"Miss Bethea doesn't strike me as a liar, either."
"No, sir . . ."
"She's gonna be there in the audience come May," Bernie said, and Eunice thought it sounded much more than a promise. "And she's gonna be yellin' the loudest for you, other than me, and maybe Doctor Saunders here."
Irving nodded and took a series of deep, slow breaths. The tissues in his hand were soggy, but Bernie plucked two more tissues from the box on the edge of Eunice's desk and handed them to Irvin, which he took with a grateful nod.
"Thank y'all," Irving whispered, wiping his nose and face with the new tissues. "Thanks for not thinkin' I'm a punk—"
"Never that!" Eunice said emphatically. "It takes a lot of strength to do this."
Irvin looked to Bernie for confirmation, and the coach grinned. "Not many young men are so resilient against the circumstances you're facing right now. We're proud of you."
"Thank you," Irvin said again and he took another deep breath.
Eunice stood, followed by Bernie, then Irvin at a much slower pace. "I think we should meet once a week, if that's not too much for you," Eunice suggested.
"No, ma'am," Irving murmured.
"Want me to come with you the first few times?" Bernie asked, and Irvin nodded.
"Okay, then. I'll call Coach Jenkins later in the week and we'll set up a time. You two can discuss schedules and get back to me," Eunice said, writing down more notes on the legal pad emblazoned with Irvin's name and case number.
"Okay. Thank you," Irvin said, genuine gratitude in his voice.
"I believe in you, Irvin," Eunice said, slipping out of her role as counselor and talking to Irvin as one human being to another. "I wish you nothing but the best."
Irvin nodded again, and Bernie put his hand on the student's back. "Wait outside. I'll be there in a minute."
Irvin lumbered out, looking to Eunice like a large, hulking tree. The adults watched him, neither saying anything until the door closed softly behind him. Eunice put a hand to her face and let out a long breath.
"Lord, have mercy!"
"You sound like me," Bernie said, shaking his head. "Nobody should have to go through all of that alone—especially not someone that young with so much potential."
Eunice and Bernie looked at each other, both their thoughts going to Addy, whose mother had dementia. Though Wilma Ellison was in a nursing home, the emotional toll it took on Addy was apparent to everyone, especially since Wilma was the only family Addy had left.
"Thank God for Irvin's scholarship," Bernie continued, "but if he's too exhausted to study or practice, then he's in danger of having it revoked, and he's too damn bright and good for that!"
Eunice agreed. She'd studied Irvin's transcript before the session, and he excelled as a Banking and Finance major. The last thing either she or Bernie wanted was for all that potential not to come to fruition whether athletically or academically.
"He could start his own bank," Bernie muttered. "Hell, he won't be swindled like the other rookies are when they get into the League."
"He's that good?"
"I predict a top-ten pick," Bernie said with a grin, then immediately sobered. "That's why I'm so adamant about him getting help."
"I'm not a miracle worker," Eunice warned.
"No, but you genuinely give a damn. Other than Addy Lee, you were the only other counselor I trusted with this case."
To hear Bernie say that caused warmth to flood her, and Eunice was sure he could see her blush. The wicked grin he gave let her know she was right.
"Let me go," Bernie said, sounding as disappointed as she felt about him having to do so. "We've got weight training today."
"Okay."
"I'll call you," Bernie informed her, but his eyes held a deeper meaning that had little to do with Irvin.
"If I'm not here, leave a message with LeAnne or my answering machine," Eunice said, trying to inject professionalism even when part of her wished he'd call her for personal reasons. Bernie nodded, but for some reason, Eunice thought he was tempted to call her at home as well.
"Have a good one," Bernie said, and then his smile turned playful. "And tell Parker we still need that water boy for the home games."
Eunice rolled her eyes. "He is too young to recruit!" It was a running joke that Bernie was trying to get her son to play football for the Rebels, even if he was only an eighth grader at Oxford Middle School.
"And if you don't think Coach Fuller is trying to get him as a batboy, you're sorely mistaken!" Bernie said with a laugh. He waved briefly then flowed out of her office, closing the door behind him.
AJ's Serendipity (Available Now!)
One
He spotted her in the market as he was shopping for fresh ingredients for his restaurant. She was clearly an American, for Americans tended to stick out like sore thumbs, especially in Greece. It was the way she carried herself: cautious, but not nearly cautious enough, as if someone wouldn't have the unmitigated gall to approach and do something untoward to her. She was looking at the wares being sold at Monastiraki. It was clear she wasn't really interested in buying anything, but she gave the vendors shy smiles and nodded when appropriate. Before he knew what he was doing, he paid for his purchases and began following her.
She was a black woman, her skin not as dark as he had seen with other women, but there was a dark-caramel hue to her that shone beautifully against the pink sundress she was wearing. The straps were thin, and her chest seemed bountiful and full in the bodice. Her cleavage was stunning, he thought, and her skin seemed so smooth.
Her hair was in that natural Afro style, and there was a cliff rose flower tucked behind her ear. She was by no means the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and her body probably wouldn't grace a magazine cover in the near future, but she was his very definition of a woman: soft, lush, delicately strong. He thought her adorable, especially since she seemed oblivious to the looks other men were giving her. Not oblivious in the sense she knew she was getting the attention and was patently ignoring it, but in a way that seemed like she didn't even think it was possible she could enchant someone the way she was. It was as if she needed someone to help her discover all the treasures she possessed, and he was nothing if not an ardent and enthusiastic explorer of the female form.
She stopped at another booth where flowers were sold. She took time to smell them, clearly pleased by the scent of the orchids she had stopped to peruse. The vendor spoke to her, telling her more about the flora.
"Thank you," he saw her mouth form, and the corners of his mouth turned up.
She had bewitched him completely, and he was bewildered. Something about her called to him, that shyness and vulnerability he saw. Unable to ignore it, he found himself approaching the booth, his lips quirking slightly when she remained ever cautious, yet oblivious to his focus on her.
"I'd like a bouquet for the lady," he said in English to the vendor, wanting this enchantress to know he meant the gift for her. She looked at him with another cursory smile, though her eyes widened. Brown eyes. They were oval-shaped and sweet and a pretty brown, like syrup. She looked behind her, then glanced his way once more before telling the vendor, "thank you" again and leaving.
He was confused as the vendor gave him the flowers, until he looked to his right and saw an attractive brunette also perusing the flowers. He chuckled to himself. His charming pink lady had assumed he wasn't referring to her. Well, he would find her and let her know otherwise.
She wasn't hard to spot; there weren't many people of color in the market, and the pink outfit was like a beacon to him. She stopped in front of another booth where paintings were sold, but her posture was one of, "I'm just browsing, won't be staying long."
Before he allowed her to get away from him again, he approached, calling out to her as her back was to him.
"Miss, you forgot your flowers."
She didn't respond, didn't even turn to look at him. She continued looking at the knockoff paintings at her feet, her brows furrowed and her fingers tapping at her lips. He chuckled to himself, unable to believe this woman was so lost in her own world. That could be dangerous, especially since she was foreign and traveling alone. She would need an escort.
He was volunteering himself.
He went closer to her, this time bending his six-foot-three frame so he could speak in her ear. She hadn't seemed so short at a distance. "You forgot something."
She gasped and jumped, her breath coming out harshly and her hand on her chest as if it could slow down her heart rate. "You scared me!"
"I apologize," he said, his smile positively roguish as he held out the bouquet he had bought her. "You forgot these."
"I didn't buy any flowers," she said suspiciously, glancing at his eyes and the flowers before beginning to turn away.
"I know. I did. For you."
That had her turning back to him, but her expression was wary, downright mistrustful. "For me?"
"Yes."
She frowned at him. "Why?"
"You liked them. I wanted you to have them."
Her frown deepened, and she looked at the vendor as if he could clarify things for her. The vendor merely shrugged and went to help another customer. "You wasted your money."
"No such thing. Come. Take the flowers. I insist."
"But I thought that woman—"
"You were the only woman I saw."
Her eyes fluttered and she took in a deep breath. "Are you flirting with me?"
"Trying to," he said with a devilish smile. She bit her lip to hide her grin and rolled her eyes, but he cheered internally, knowing this short, spitfire of a woman thought him humorous.
"Are you trying to sell me something? Did you target me as gullible? This happened to me in Egypt once . . . got a marriage proposal, too."
"Pity you turned him down," he said with mock sadness, "but he obviously has impeccable taste to want to spend the rest of his life with you."
She scowled. "That was pretty thick."
He quirked an eyebrow. "You have no idea, sweetheart."
Again she bit her lip, and was even less successful hiding her grin. She crossed her arms underneath her chest, only serving to enhance that beautiful cleavage of hers, and he had to force himself to look into her eyes.
Her maple-syrup eyes.
"You know you want to take the flowers," he said, coming closer to her. She leaned back, but didn't move otherwise, and he was heartened even more. "And if you'd like to be even less of a target, I could escort you."
"Escort me where?"
He shrugged. "Anywhere you'd like to go. A beautiful woman such as yourself shouldn't be alone, anyway. Your husband must be a fool."
"Are you serious?"
"About him being a fool?"
"About—" She abruptly cut off her speech and shook her head. "Never mind. I really must be going, but thank you for the offer—"
"AJ," he interrupted. "My name is AJ."
"AJ," she said, as if testing it out on her tongue. Her suspicious demeanor melted and she shrugged, holding out her hand. "I'm Samara."
AJ took her hand and brought it to his lips. "A wonderful pleasure to meet you, Miss Samara."
"Miss? Just a few seconds ago you had me married."
"Are you?"
She gave a wry chuckle. "Not hardly!"
He tilted his head, his thumb rubbing the back of her hand idly. "You mean some American man hasn't swept you off your feet yet?"
Samara looked down at herself and snorted. "I haven't met many professional weightlifters in my day . . ."
AJ frowned and squeezed her hand. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Disparage yourself. I think you're lovely . . . like a woman should look. You look like a woman, Samara. Never apologize for that."
"Are all Greek men this smooth?"
He gave her a half smile. "Only when appropriately inspired."
She giggled, and it was the cutest sound he'd ever heard. "Okay . . . can I have my hand back?"
"Only if you accept these flowers. It's a gift without any strings."
"Why do I not believe that?"
"Because you are an American, and Americans are as gullible as they are suspicious."
That bottom lip went between her teeth again, and all AJ could think was how it would feel between his. He wanted to pull her close, fit her to him, protect her. There would be no reason to be suspicious as long as he was around.
She shrugged again and held out her free hand. "Okay. I accept. Thank you."
He smiled and her eyelids fluttered again. He knew he was a handsome man. He'd been told often that his golden-tan skin, green eyes, and head full of black hair made him appealing, and he wasn't blind, but something about her awed expression humbled him and made him feel pride at the same time. He was glad she found him pleasing.
He handed the bouquet to her, and she scented them automatically. "This was very sweet of you."
"You're the sweet one."
"You don't know me well enough to make a judgment call like that."
"Would you let me?"
"Let you what?"
"Get to know you a little better?"
She took a deep breath, looking down at the hand he hadn't let go of, then around the marketplace. "Okay . . ."
"Really?"
"As long as we stay here in Monastiraki, then yes. I have about an hour left before I have to leave . . ."
"Then let's go," he said, tugging on her hand and leading her through the market.
As they walked and shopped, Samara seemed to avoid eye contact with him, and had he allowed her to drop her hand, she would've probably put enough space between them that another human could separate them. However, AJ refused, loving the feel of her warm hand in his, liking the fact that it wasn't dainty and slim.
He told her of the history of the market, why it was called Monastiraki, and she asked questions that told him she had a very inquisitive mind and loved history. She also began to relax, and met his eyes more whenever they spoke. Of course, she'd get that blush on her cheeks and avert her attention quickly, but he wouldn't rush her.
"'Allo! Lovely young couple, there! Paint you and the wife!"
Once again, Samara kept walking, or would have, had AJ not stopped and held fast to her hand. "What?" she asked.
"The painter would like to paint us."
She looked at him confused, then at the painter who lifted up his brush and palette and nodded enthusiastically. "Paint us?"
"Yes! Paint a beautiful couple!"
"Oh, we're not—"
"Come on, darling," AJ said, his green eyes darkening in challenge. "He is very talented, no? Though da Vinci himself wouldn't be able to capture your beauty."
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "So bad . . ."
"I assure you, precious," AJ began, bending his mouth to her ear, the hairs of his trim goatee tickling her skin, "bad is not a critique I've ever gotten."
"You're getting it now," she said, smirking slightly.
He grinned, showing his even white teeth, and yanked her to him. "Please. Let's do the painting. I'll even pay."
"And you'll keep it."
"Unless you want it."
Her eyes dropped to his chest, and she let out a long-suffering sigh. "You really want the painting?"
"I do."
Samara closed her eyes and almost let her forehead drop to his chest before she caught herself. "Okay."
AJ sent up silent thanks for allowing this painter to extend his time with her. Because there was only one stool, AJ sat down first and, after much coaxing and the serendipitous discovery she was insanely ticklish, settled Samara into his lap. She was rigid at first, as if unused to being held by a man. Given how she had been behaving since he first spotted her, AJ guessed that was probably true.
American men are idiots, he determined, tucking her into his chest. Clearly they didn't deserve her if they couldn't appreciate what she had to offer.
"Relax, precious," he whispered into her ear.
"Relax?"
"I won't bite unless you give me permission."
She laughed and settled into him, the flowers cradled in her arms like a babe. Unable to help himself, he rested his chin against her temple and held her gently, and would have rocked her if they didn't need to remain still. Some people began to stop and stare at them, and Samara grew uncomfortable. She started wiggling, and he pressed a hand to her stomach with a hiss.
"You cannot do that, sweetheart."
"Do what?"
"Wiggle that delicious bum in my lap. You'll make me forget I'm trying to be a gentleman."
"Oh! I'm sorry!"
He laughed and kissed her temple. "You're so innocent, precious." He linked his fingers through hers, and was glad she didn't drop her eyes from his. They remained that way for the rest of the sitting, both ignoring the crowd, the painter, and the fact their hour was dangerously close to being up. His thumb caressed her hand, and he wanted to kiss her so badly. She wanted it, too, by the way she would lick her lips intermittingly. AJ, however, didn't want their first kiss in front of an audience, so when the painter finally said he was finished, he kissed her cheek and helped her to her feet.
"How much?" AJ asked in Greek.
"I give it to you free," the painter said, glancing at Samara briefly. "It's always nice to see a young couple in love."
AJ's heart constricted at that, but he smiled at thanked the man. He took the painting after the artist rolled it up carefully and gave the man a tip anyway. He turned around to see Samara still waiting, eyeing the painting in his hand.
"Will I get a chance to see it?"
He gave her a coy smile. "Maybe."
"Maybe!"
He chuckled and held out his hand. After a brief hesitation, she took it, and he kissed the back of her hand in gratitude.
Now the two merely strolled, she taking in the sights and he taking in her. Love . . . he couldn't possibly be in love with her, not just yet, but he knew she was one of those rare women who would make it easy to love her and not make a man regret it. There was a goodness about her, an honesty, that he hadn't encountered in a woman for far too long.
"How much of that hour do we have?" he asked after a few minutes. He had led them into a side street where there was less pedestrian traffic.
Samara looked at her watch and sucked her teeth. "I have to go now."
"Where are you staying?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"To escort you there, of course."
She gave him a small grin. "I walked here alone."
"Shame, that. You will indulge me in this, won't you, darling?"
Her grin widened and she inclined her head deferentially. "Marina Hotel."
It was not too far from the market, but it was still a nice enough walk he could play tour guide and point to all the places of interest that perhaps wouldn't be in a travel book. When they reached the entrance of her hotel, both weren't very thrilled and, as had been a theme of their day, he stopped and tugged on her hand to get her to do the same.
"Will I see you again?"
She turned to him; she didn't drop his hand. "You still want to see me?"
"Definitely, precious."
"I'm not here alone."
He winced; he couldn't help it. Could it be she actually was taken? He hoped not. The connection he felt with this woman . . . he couldn't promise not to be a cad and not to try to lure her away.
Maybe the American men weren't as dumb as he had thought.
"Then you should come to my restaurant," he said with a slightly forced smile. "I promise to give you a good deal."
"Ah, so there was an angle!"
She was teasing him, but for a moment, a defense sprung on his tongue. He gave her a slow grin and touched the tip of her nose affectionately. "You think you are so witty, precious."
"Not many men like you pay attention to girls like me, so . . ."
"Men like me?" She ducked her head and shrugged, but he wouldn't let that do. He tilted her head up and forced her to look at him. "What do you mean by that, darling?"
She bit that bottom lip once more, and he couldn't help but graze it with his thumb. She gasped, clearly shocked by his boldness. So was he. "AJ?"
"Yes, Samara."
"I have to go—"
"Men like me?" he asked again, moving that thumb across that lip. "What are 'men like me' like?"
She gave him a mild glare. "Oh, you know!"
"Enlighten me, dearest."
She was quiet for so long, he thought she wouldn't say anything, but finally, she whispered, "Gorgeous men."
"Ah. And since when did 'gorgeous' men not pay attention to gorgeous women?"
She was blushing and she bowed her head, and his hand moved from her chin to her cheek. He tilted her head up again, and he saw the tears pooled in her eyes. There was that vulnerability and disbelief, and it broke his heart to see it. It was obvious she didn't think herself repulsive, or else her appearance and her walk would've said that long before her mouth ever could. No, this was the look of a woman who had been ignored and passed over for so long she was shocked someone finally had noticed her. Didn't know how to deal with herself being discovered.
"Melonakos," AJ murmured, his thumb drifting over the swell of a smooth, caramel-brown round cheek. She was free of makeup, allowing her natural loveliness to shine through even more. "That's the name of the restaurant. And my last name."
She arched an eyebrow. "Is the food good?" Her voice was husky.
"The best you'll find on the peninsula," AJ said a little cockily.
She grinned and nodded. "Okay. I'll hold you to that claim."
"Great," he said, smiling as well. Goodness, all he wanted to do was lift her in his arms and rock her, comfort her. He forced himself to drop his hand and back away, or else he'd never let her go. "I recommend coming at six, right before the evening rush. I'll reserve the best table for you."
"VIP, huh?"
"The most important person," AJ amended with a wink.
A giggle slipped out, and she shook her head. "All right, Mr. Melonakos. We'll see you at six."
"I eagerly anticipate the hour," he said. He didn't leave until long after she had disappeared into the hotel, and he bounced the painting in his free hand. He might have to keep the painting for himself and frame it, a reminder of his delightful American woman.
Being Plumville (Available Now!)
Prologue
1953
The screen door burst open and bounced against the wall a few times before creaking slowly back to its formerly-closed position. Two children, the eldest being the one who first blundered through the door, talked hurriedly to the black woman in the small-print floral smock who was mixing batter for cornbread, and showed her the bleeding finger of the crying second child.
"Lawd, Ceelee, I told you you was too young to be playin' wit' them boys!" the woman replied on a sigh, setting the bowl down and taking the injured brown finger in her hand.
This child, Ceelee, sniffled, her bottom lip poking out far beyond its normal place. "They was mean, Mama!"
"They called her tar baby, Aunty Patty!" the first child said, lifting himself on the counter and dipping into the mix. Aunty Patty gave the boy a reproachful look, and he blushed, but put the offending finger in his mouth anyway.
"Mama, they pulled my hair, too," Ceelee croaked, following her mother as she led her to the sink. Patty turned on the faucet and lifted her daughter so her hands would reach the running water.
"Benny, what were y'all doin' so Ceelee hurt her finger? Y'all stayed in that backyard?"
He stood beside her, his attention focused on his friend's finger. "Yeah! We was swordfightin' with branches and stupid Tommy Birch took a swipe at Ceelee's hand 'cause she wanted a turn holdin' the sword."
Patty rolled her eyes, rubbing a soap cake over Ceelee's hands. "Told you not to play wit' them boys, now!"
"But Mama, it's fun!" Ceelee declared, her pain gone and anxious to play again.
"Yeah, and I got ole Tommy—gave him a good lick in his jaw!"
"Excuse me, young man, you did what?!"
Ceelee and Benny looked at each other with wide eyes, scared at the new voice.
"Miss Florence . . ." Patty sighed, turning off the water and setting down Ceelee to the side. The other woman wore a smart dark blue cardigan over a crisp white blouse and a black skirt. Her blonde hair was short and curled around her head, making it appear as a soft halo, and her face was perfected with flawless makeup accentuating her thin lips, narrow nose, and aristocratic eyebrows. "I was just—"
Florence's hand cut off Patty's explanation, and she regarded her son with a stern look. "Benjamin Mark Drummond, tell me you did not hit Tommy Birch! Your father and I raised you better than that!"
Benny dropped his head and nodded, shuffling his feet and putting his hands in his pockets. "Sorry, Mama . . ."
Florence frowned at him once more before turning her attention to Patty. "Is dinner almost ready?"
Patty nodded, tying a napkin around Ceelee's finger in a makeshift bandage. "Ceelee got hurt playin' outside, so I had to take care of it. It'll be ready soon as the cornbread's done."
Florence clasped her hands at her stomach and tsked. "She shouldn't be playing with boys, Patty. She's a little girl; she should be doing girl things, like playing with dolls or learning how to cook. Why doesn't she stay in here and watch you? It'll be useful lessons for her, don't you think?"
Patty's smile was tight and she went back to the cornbread mix, her wrist action more lively than earlier. "Ceelee would be bored to death just sittin' in here lookin' at me, Miss Florence. Besides, she's used to playin' with boys; she plays with Luther Jr. and his friends while at home . . ."
Florence scoffed, pulling off the lids of the pots on the stove to peek at what Patty was cooking. "But there aren't any appropriate children here for Coralee to play with—"
"She plays with me, Mama; I'm her friend! That's why I hit Tommy Birch! Because he called her a tar—"
"Ain't no use repeatin' it now, Benny," Patty said, knocking the mixing spoon against the side of the bowl for the excess batter to slide off it. "What's done is done."
"But Aunty Patty—"
"Why don't you go read Ceelee one o' yo' books, huh?" Patty suggested, giving her young charge a warm smile. "Ceelee loves to hear you read."
"Yeah!" the little girl squealed, "I wanna hear about Curious George again!"
The children left in excited chatter, and Patty grinned, secretly pleased little Benjamin treated her daughter as a true friend. Florence sighed and stood next to Patty as the housekeeper poured the mix in a square tin pan. "This is not good, Patty. Benjamin's becoming far too attached to Coralee."
Patty bit her lip, catching drops of the mix on her finger and wiping them on her apron. "They're just children, Miss Florence—"
"Benjamin is seven years old and in first grade! By the time I was his age I knew the way of the world!"
"I've nowhere to leave her, Miss Florence," Patty explained, placing the tin in the preheated oven. She turned the stove's eyes on simmer to keep the rest of the food warm. "Ceelee and Benny usually stay out of trouble; today was . . . special."
Florence's eyebrows quirked. "If they keep on going the way they are, they'll be in all sorts of trouble when they're older . . ."
Patty, who had been wiping down the counter, slowed her movements and stared at the wet streaks on the marigold countertop. "Miss Florence, they just children! Benny's at school most of the time, anyway, and Ceelee does help me here . . . but today was a holiday . . ."
Florence leaned against the counter, speaking in low tones near Patty's cheek. "Don't tell me you can't see it, how protective my son is of your daughter! He feels too much affection for someone so obviously wrong for him! I mean can you really imagine it? Benjamin in love with a nigra!"
"Miss Florence, now—"
The other woman placed her hand on top of Patty's. "I'm not saying Coralee's not a nice young girl, but she needs to be around . . . her kind . . ."
Patty looked at Florence out the corner of her eye, inhaling slowly before exhaling and starting her cleaning again. "You don't think you panickin' for nothin'? Ceelee's only four years old! Benny's seven! For all we know he probably still thinks girls have cooties!"
Florence said nothing, patting Patty's shoulder before going to the kitchen door and watching her son read to her housekeeper's daughter. Florence frowned when Benny wrapped an arm around Ceelee, bringing the girl closer to him.
She sniffed, leaving the door to stand in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed at her chest. "My son certainly does not think Coralee has cooties!"
Patty shook her head and shrugged, going to the sink and wringing the excess water out the dishrag. "He probably thinks of Ceelee as a little sister . . ."
Florence tilted her chin upward. "Nevertheless, I think you should stop bringing Coralee here. We wouldn't want this 'friendship' escalating to something indecent."
Patty laid the rag gently on the edge of the sink, clenching her jaw and counting to five before responding. "I won't bring her again."
A large smile bloomed on Florence's face, and she took a deep breath, relaxing her posture. "I'm going to freshen up. Call me when dinner is ready? And don't forget to fix Paul a plate. He's having a long day at court today. I tell you, all this 'civil rights' legislation creates so much paperwork nowadays . . ."
Patty merely leaned against the counter and gave her boss a wan smile. Florence returned it, glancing at the children before making her retreat. Patty's smile disappeared and she shook her head, pulling silverware out to set the table. People like Florence Drummond kept progress from happening in Plumville, yet as much as she didn't want to admit it, Miss Florence had a point. Benny and Ceelee's affection for one another could reach dangerous territory if it wasn't stopped. Benny proved that today with his oblivious defense of Ceelee's feelings. In fact, Benny should be right beside that Birch boy calling her daughter names, but he wasn't. It helped Patty had been working in the Drummond home for years, even before Benjamin was born. She used to bring Luther Jr. to work before he got old enough to go to school, and after Coralee was born, the three of them had grand times making up games and telling stories, though little Ceelee mostly listened and ran to her mother's knee when the boys' stories got a little too scary.
But now, it was only Coralee and Benjamin, and their friendship had manifested itself differently. It was almost as if Coralee's brother had been a buffer to the something between the other two children. Benjamin was not Coralee's brother; his relationship with her was anything but fraternal. It was as if Coralee was the most precious thing in the world to Benjamin, and she adored her playmate as well, almost talking about him constantly at home—to the consternation of her father.
Patty hummed lowly as she completed the final place setting, lifting her eyes to the ceiling as if asking for guidance. Patty was all for equality and togetherness, and saw Benjamin and Coralee as hope for the future . . . but not necessarily with the two being together that way.
The timer buzzed, jerking Patty out of her musings, and she slipped on mitts before pulling the golden brown cornbread from the oven. She allowed it to cool on a trivet and checked the other pots and pans to make sure the food remained decent.
"Mama!" Patty fixed a plate for Mr. Drummond and smiled as her daughter held up a Curious George book. "Benny say I can keep it!"
Patty put the backs of her hands to her hips, arching an eyebrow when the boy in question entered the kitchen. "That's very nice of you to give that book to her, Benny."
Benny smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "I have loads of the books, and Ceelee likes it so . . ."
A slow smile crept on Patty's face. "You really like my daughter, don't you?"
He nodded excitedly. "Yes'm! When we get older we gonna get married!"
Patty's mouth dropped open while Ceelee made a disgusted face. "Married? We gon' hafta do all that icky kissy stuff like my mama and daddy?"
Benny scrunched up his face and stuck out his tongue. "Oh no! Just we can stay in the same house and play forever and ever and ever—"
"And read Curious George?" Ceelee interrupted excitedly.
Benny grinned and nodded, wrapping his arm around the smaller girl. "Yeah! I could read to you every night!"
"All right, Benny, before you begin makin' weddin' plans go get yo' Mama and tell her dinner's ready," Patty commanded, putting Mr. Drummond's plate in the oven and closing its door. Though the oven was off, the lingering heat inside would hold the food at a comfortable temperature.
"I'm gonna tell Mama!" Benny exclaimed as he did Patty's bidding, and Patty groaned.
"Mama?"
She set the prepared dinner plates on the table for the other two Drummonds, glancing over her shoulder at her daughter. "Yeah, Ceelee?"
"How old I gotta be befo' I get married?"
Patty smiled softly, crouching before her daughter and touching her cheek lightly. "Not fo' a long while, sweetheart. Right now you just concentrate on bein' the cutest four-year-old this side of Plumville!"
Ceelee smiled, pressing a kiss to her mother's cheek. "Yes'm, Mama."
Patty stood, taking her daughter's hand and they went to the backdoor. She helped the girl put on her coat, then slipped hers on, smiling as Ceelee buttoned the bottom while she handled the top. "Thank you, sweet pea."
"Welcome Mama . . ."
"Patty! A word . . ."
Florence's face was pinched, her eyes following her son's progress to Coralee. Patty slid her purse on her arm, allowing Florence to guide her into the main dining room.
"Ma'am?"
"'They're just children,' eh?" Patty said nothing, watching red creep into Florence's cheeks. "Coralee's a nice girl, but not for my Benjamin, you understand?"
Patty nodded slowly. "Yes'm."
Florence let out a slow breath, squeezing Patty's forearm. "I know it's hard for you, but Coralee needs another place to stay during the day . . . got to nip these fanciful notions in the bud . . ."
"Yes'm."
Florence gave a sympathetic smile. "I'll see you tomorrow, Patty."
Patty gave a curt nod and walked briskly to the backdoor. "Say goodbye, Ceelee."
The little girl hugged her friend tightly, murmuring thank you for the book. Benny's cheeks reddened slightly, and he patted her back awkwardly.
"See you later, Ceelee!" Benny called, as they walked down the steps. Ceelee waved and hugged her mother's leg, an edge of the book biting into Patty's lower thigh.
Patty and Florence regarded each other, both holding onto their children as if they were lifelines. Florence nodded imperceptibly and ushered Benjamin inside, closing the door with a soft, creaking click.
Patty rubbed Ceelee's shoulders and exhaled. "C'mon, baby, let's go home."
She took her daughter's hand and they began the hour-long walk from the big, well-kept houses and businesses of downtown Plumville to the small, patched-together dwellings of its southern side. Patty listened to Ceelee chatter away about what she and Benjamin would do the next time they saw each other. Patty wondered how she would tell Coralee "next time" would never come . . .
The Beauty Within (Coming Soon!)
Tyler really wished she were more surprised to see Gunnar walking through the door than she was, but she had been expecting…hoping…he would stop by for another haircut again.
She refused to think of the implications of doing so.
Gunnar was wearing his usual leather jacket and smirk, but instead of the breakaway pants he had been wearing the last time, black jeans hugged his strong thighs and ass she knew damn well would make an excellent trampoline for a quarter. He took off the jacket and hung it on the coat rack this time, revealing a deep blue crew neck sweater that enhanced the musculature of his torso and arms.
He brushed a hand over his head. “Can I get a haircut? I know I didn’t make an appointment, but I figured it would be okay to walk in since the last time I was here it wasn’t busy.”
Tyler shrugged, trying to go for a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “Sure. You can have a seat—”
“Ah…I was wondering if I could get a wash too? I figure I should go for the full effect since I missed out on it last time.”
“Oh…”
“I mean it’s okay if—”
“Sure,” Tyler said quickly, then shook her head in bemusement. This was the strangest man she’d ever met. “It won’t cost extra if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Gunnar nodded. He was staring at her again. She had never known eyes to have such a presence of their own, but his did. It didn’t matter that the rest of him was such an impeccable specimen of the male form, his eyes ensnared her every time. He probably spoke more with his eyes than with his mouth, and Tyler admitted she tended to like what his eyes said.
Reconstructing Jada Channing (Coming Soon!)
Gentle was the first word she'd think of whenever she remembered last night. His gentleness alone had made her want to cry—soft touches of his hands and lips; soft caresses of his breath and voice along her skin; soft embraces that left her too weak to leave. There was even a soft declaration of love she had convinced herself she'd imagined, and Jada didn't have the courage to ask him to confirm it. She was so sure, now that the heat and passion of the moment were gone, the answer would change.
Jada couldn't take a retraction.
A retraction would mean her family was right, her community was right, that a white man like him could never fully understand or love a black woman like her. This was the one time she needed her upbringing to be wrong, to know what she did last night could not be a mistake, that the feelings she'd been nursing for almost two years could blossom and grow into something that would survive long after both had taken their last breaths.