Guilty of Love (30 page)

“
I’m not in the mood for
having a snowball fight with you right now.”

“
This is not a brawl. Our
fighting days are over. Trust me. Close your eyes and give me your
hand.”

She did as he asked, feeling the snow
gently placed in her palm. Instead of a ball, Cheney opened her
eyes to see a heart in her hand. “No pranks,” she
whispered.

“
It’s time for me to melt
your heart.” Parke leaned forward and brushed a soft kiss against
her cheek. His mustache tickled her skin. “Good night.” He backed
away.

Cheney wanted to resist his tenderness
and hold on to her anger at Larry. Parke had performed a therapy
foreign to her. His patience, concern, and gentleness soothed the
tension from her mind and body. He was such a lovable guy; what
woman wouldn’t want to be his fantasy? She hugged him tight and he
held her tighter.

“
Now, you close your eyes.”
She gave her best seductive smile.

Obeying, he puckered his lips and
Cheney’s mischievous nature kicked in.

“
Parke,” she said in a low
and husky voice, “open your eyes real slow. I want you to see this
coming.”

His lids fluttered open just as a wet
snowball kissed his lips. He yelled. Cheney laughed, narrowly
escaping his clutches before racing inside and clicking the
lock.

***

Coughing and laughing, Parke gladly
spat out the wet snow. He pounded on Cheney’s door. “Okay, you got
me this time.” He loved her playful, unpredictable nature. He
continued to bang on her door, more forcefully. “C’mon out and
play, you chicken.”

His heart warmed to the muffled sound
of Cheney’s hearty laughter.

“
Go home,” she screamed,
protected by the door.

Parke wanted to beat his chest like
Tarzan. He didn’t feel like going home, so he rolled a pile of
snowballs and started throwing them against her front door and
windows. Cheney opened her shutters, and teased him from the safety
of her living room.

“
Let her think I’m crazy,”
Parke mumbled, having the time of his life until a snowball whacked
him on the side of his head.

Turning to his left, another ball met
his neck. He used his arms to shield his face as two more snowballs
landed against his chest and leg. Parke almost slipped on the wet
grass a few times as he dodged more snowballs as he hurried to his
SUV for safe cover.

“
Take that,” Cheney’s
neighbor shouted, cackling.

Disengaging his vehicle alarm, Parke
jumped behind the wheel as Mrs. Beacon’s snowballs almost hit his
Envoy. Wet, cold, and happy, Parke drove the few blocks home
grinning from ear to ear.

“
This phone interview will
take about ten or fifteen minutes. Do you have time?” Wilma
Applewhite, the foster home licensing recruiter, asked Cheney in a
friendly tone.

“
Certainly.” Although
Cheney was behind her desk at work, she would make time. Rarely did
she take her allotted breaks.

“
Okay, first, Miss
Reynolds, are you married, single, divorced, or widowed? Do you
have any children of your own?”

“
I’m single, and no, I
don’t have any children.”

“
Do you have any experience
with children, perhaps through your profession, family, or church?”
Wilma continued.

“
No. My degree is in
business. I’m a manager at the phone company.”

“
I see. Well, why do you
want to become a foster parent?”

Think of a noble answer
. Cheney
began twirling her hair. “I believe I have so much love to give,
and I can’t have kids.”
And I have injustices to
correct.

“
Oh,” Wilma responded. “If
you’ve never been married, how do you know that?”

Afraid to divulge her past to a
stranger, especially over the phone, Cheney hesitated. If she
wasn’t truthful, any discrepancies could disqualify her. “I had an
abortion years ago.” She took a deep breath. “The procedure ruined
my chances of ever giving birth,” she rushed out.

“
Hmm. Did you get
counseling after that, and when was your last session?”

Whoa.
I thought your agency
was begging for foster parents.
“Excuse me, Wilma, what does my
past have to do with helping children who need homes?”

“
Everything, I understand
that you may be uncomfortable disclosing such personal information,
but your file will remain strictly confidential. Every prospective
foster parent must submit to a criminal, medical, and financial
background check. A psychological evaluation is included in the
medical check.”

Were foster kids worth all of this?
Cheney wondered and sighed. “Why?”

“
These children have been
exposed to repeated abuse or neglect, sometimes both. Our agency is
here to make sure we aren’t taking them from one bad situation to
another.”

Absently chewing on her bottom lip,
Cheney understood. “I guess you’re right. I’ve heard horror stories
involving terrible foster parents.”

“
So, Miss Reynolds, in
addition to your doctor’s report and recommendation, we’ll also
need five referrals.”

“
Five!’

“
Yes, professional, family,
and friends.”

Cheney felt as if a cracked open door
had just been slammed in her face. “Well, I’m estranged from my
family.”

“
Hmm, can any church
members vouch for you?”

Gritting her teeth, Cheney confessed,
“I don’t go to church.” She could hear the woman taking a deep
breath. This was not going as she had hoped.

Wilma spoke in a slow, even tone.
“Miss Reynolds, the law requires you to give us five references. I
suggest you discuss your plans with at least one family member and
find yourself a church home. All the children we place don’t come
from bad families, just bad situations. The poor things are often
frightened, confused, or angry. They need a stable, loving
environment.”

On a Saturday morning, tears trickled
down Cheney’s cheeks as she mulled over what Wilma wanted. It was
days before Christmas, and she felt as if the Grinch, Scrooge, and
King Herod had joined forces to destroy what little joy of having a
foster child would bring during the holidays.

Despite her sullen mood, Cheney
laughed when she opened a Christmas card from Mrs. Beacon who was
sitting on the laps of two Santa Clauses. Her phone distracted her.
“Hello?”

“
Cheney, this is Hali. You
didn’t need Parke as a go-between to ask me for a favor. He begged
and bribed me. Girl, you can use me as a reference for
adoption.”

Smiling, Cheney felt chastened. She
and Hallison had exchanged telephone numbers weeks ago. Within
minutes, they had built a comfortable rapport, chatting about
movies, clothes, and favorite foods, hardly mentioning the men who
introduced them. “Actually, I’m applying for foster
parenting.”

“
The
St. Louis
American
showcased three young Black boys that are up for
adoption. Adorable. I felt like picking up the phone and bringing
them home.”

“
They must’ve been real
cute to make a single woman want to adopt three block-headed boys,”
Cheney said, chuckling. “I want to start with just one.”

“
Their story was so
touching. They’re brothers through adoption, not birth. They’d
grown up together since infancy and their adoptive mother
died.”

“
Oh, how sad.” Cheney felt
foolish for indulging in her pity party earlier. Those three little
boys needed a mother. “How old were they?”

“
Three, four, and
five.”

“
Wow. I don’t know if I’m
ready for adoption and three boys, too?”

“
At least you’ll put a dent
into the up to nine thousand children needing foster
care.”

“
That’s a lot.” Without a
doubt, Cheney would subject herself to her family’s ridicule if it
meant she could help one or two children. She owed her baby that
much.

“
So, will you have any
little ones by Christmas?”

“
Unfortunately, no. Once
I’m cleared, I’ll be eligible in about four months.”

“
Four months!” Hallison
gasped. “They’ll be almost grown by then.”

“
Yeah, tell me about it.”
They chatted a few minutes longer before wishing each other happy
holiday and made plans to get together soon.

“
Don’t be a stranger.
Please consider me a friend,” Hallison said.

Later in the afternoon, she heard a
noise outside. She opened her door to check and Mrs. Beacon’s head
popped in the doorway with a block of ice planted on her
porch.

“
Chile, if you don’t want
that man, I’ll take him. Henry was romantic, but this shows passion
and imagination. Which young man from the ski trip sent
this?”

Shivering, Cheney grabbed her wool
jacket. It was twenty-five degrees, too cold for her to be outside,
but not cold enough to preserve the image before their eyes. Cheney
reached out and fingered the ice sculpture as Mrs. Beacon nudged
her.

“
I saw the truck deliver
it, so I had to come over to see for myself.”

“
It’s beautiful. Look how
each rose petal is delicately carved.”

Both women hovered over the ice
masterpiece, inspecting the ice replica of a long vase filled with
a dozen long-stemmed roses. Mrs. Beacon pointed to a sealed
envelope. “Open it, so I can get back inside.”

“
As you watch this melt,
know that I’m also melting your heart. Parke K. Jamieson VI.”
Cheney blinked. She hadn’t heard from him since the night they
walked in the snow.

“
Humph. He’s got me warming
up,” Mrs. Beacon admitted, pulling the scarf tighter around her
neck and batting her lashes. “That’s a man worth having around on a
cold wintry day.” Winking, she wobbled on her cane back to her
house.

Cheney stared at the sculpture.
“You’ve picked the wrong woman,” she whispered. Throughout the day,
she opened her door to gaze at the beauty of the ice
roses.

On Christmas Eve morning, Cheney
helped Mrs. Beacon bake cookies, pies, and cakes to the sounds of
“Joy to the World”.

“
What are you going to do
about Parke?” Mrs. Beacon asked, rolling dough.

“
Nothing,” Cheney answered,
cracking nuts.

“
You may be tall, but you
ain’t stupid.” Mrs. Beacon pointed her rolling pin at her. “I hope
he doesn’t go away. If that man hand-carved that ice, you better
marry him, or I’ll make your life miserable. A good man is hard to
find and keep.”

Cheney repeated her reasons. It was
the same story she had been telling herself for years—relationships
were not for her. The argument was losing its strength. It was
after dark when she trudged across the snow back to her
house.

Mrs. Beacon’s home illuminated the
Benton Street neighborhood like a scene from
Christmas
Vacation.
She would’ve laughed, but she kept thinking about the
woman’s advice, “Marry the man.” There was only one problem. Parke
hadn’t asked, and she didn’t know what to say if he ever
did.

“
Hello?” Parke mumbled,
grabbing the phone as he snuggled under the warm covers on his
bed.

“
Happy Jesus’ birthday!”
Annette exclaimed over the phone.

Parke shook his head. The woman had
too much energy at seven in the morning. She acted like she had
stayed up all night, waiting for Santa. “Merry Christmas to
you.”

“
Finally, after
twenty-eight years, I understand the true meaning of Christmas.
I’ve invited some of our old classmates from college to worship
service today. Nate and Kevin agreed. I was hoping you’d tag along.
It’s only for a few hours.”

He wasn’t sitting inside anybody’s
church on Christmas Day or any other holiday. Annette had truly
lost her mind. “Ah, I’ve got other plans.”

“
Did you know that
according to a recent survey, most Black women say they desire a
man with strong Christian ties?”

“
Mmm-hmm.”

“‘
The
day you hear God’s
voice, harden not your heart,’
my brother. That’s what’s
keeping so many from getting saved. They don’t want to hear from
God. Make sure you’re not one of them.”

Irritated, Parke began twisting the
hairs on his mustache. “Annette, I’ve already told you, I’m a
Christian, just not practicing.”

Softening her voice, Annette didn’t
back down. “I professed the same thing before God saved me, I mean
really sanctified me. I was a watered-down version of what the
Bible described as a true walking, talking, believing, living
Christian. I only professed when I was challenged, but my lifestyle
was everything but godly. Do you know there was a list of things I
was doing that was ensuring my spot in hell?”

Of all the fine, sexy, and intelligent
women in the world that he had known, why did Annette want to
question her faith now? “You weren’t that bad.”