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“Como estas?” she asked in rapid Spanish as she reached up to lightly tap the bottom of his chin with her fingertips.
“I’m fine,” he assured her.
She shrugged one shoulder and slightly turned her lips downward as she tilted her head to the side. Translation? She didn’t agree with him, but so be it.
The radio began to blare “Borracho de Amor” by Jose Manuel Calderon, and Chance was thankful. His mother gave a little yelp of pleasure and clapped rapidly at the sound of one of her favorite songs from the past before she grabbed the hand of her nephew Victor and began dancing the traditional bachata.
Chance took a seat at a wooden table and placed his beer on it as he watched his mother, alive and happy among her culture and her family. But as everyone focused on their dance, his attention was on the words of the song. As was common with traditional bachata music that was about heartache, pain and betrayal, it was a song of a man who turned to drinking after the heartache and pain caused by a woman’s scorn. It was said that the tortured emotions displayed in the song fueled bachata dancers to release those emotions through dance.
Chance knew about heartache all too well.
His gut tightened into a knot at the memory of his former fiancée, Helena Guzman, running off with her lover and leaving him at the altar. In the beautiful blond-haired Afro-Cuban attorney he’d thought he found the one woman to spend his life with. She’d even agreed to give up her career as a successful attorney to travel the world with him.
But he’d been wrong. And made a fool of.
His anger at her was just beginning to thaw. His mother referred to her only as “Ese Rubio Diablo.” The blond devil.
Cabrera had helped him to heal.
But now I’m headed home.
This celebration was his family’s farewell to both him and his mother.
The daughter of his best friend since their days at Dalton, Alek Ansah, and his wife, Alessandra, had been born and he’d been appointed her godfather. He’d yet to see her in person; photos and FaceTime had sufficed, but now it was time to press kisses to the cheek of his godchild and do his duty at her upcoming baptism.
In the morning they would board his private plane and fly back to the States. She would return to the house he purchased for her in New Jersey, and he would be back at his estate in a house he’d foolishly thought he would share with his wife and their family one day.
Chance looked over into the shadowed trunks of the trees that surrounded the property as his thoughts went back to the day he was supposed to wed the woman he loved...
“I’m sorry, Chance, but I can’t marry you,” Helena said, standing before him in her custom wedding dress and veil as they stood in the vestibule of the church.
For a moment, Chance just eyed her. His emotions raced one behind the other quickly, almost colliding, like dominoes set up to fall. Confusion. Fear. Pain.
“I am in love with someone else,” she said, her eyes filled with her regret.
Anger.
Visions of her loving and being loved by another man burned him to his core like a branding. The anger spread across his body slowly, seeming to infuse every bit of him as the truth of her betrayal set in.
“How could you do this, Helena?” he asked, turning from her with a slash of his hand through the air, before immediately turning back with his blazing fury.
And his hurt.
That infuriated him further.
“How long?” he asked, his voice stiff.
“Chance,” Helena said.
“Who is he?”
She held up her hands. “That is irrelevant,” she said. “It is over. It is what it is, Chance.”
“Who?” he asked again, unable to look at her.
“My ex, Jason.”
The heat of his anger was soon replaced with the chill of his heart symbolically turning to stone. He stepped back from her, his jaw tightly clenched. “To hell with you,” he said in a low and harsh whisper.
Long after she had gathered her voluminous skirt in her hands and rushed from the church to run down the stairs, straight into the waiting car of her lover, Chance had stood there in the open doorway of the church and fought to come to grips with the explosive end of their whirlwind courtship.
Chance shook his head a bit to clear it of the memory, hating that nearly eight months later it still stung. The betrayal. The hurt. The dishonor.
Damn.
“Baila conmigo,Chance.”
He turned his head to find Sofía, the best friend of Carlos’s wife, extending her hand to him as she danced in place. She was a brown-skinned beauty with bright eyes, a warm smile and a shapely frame that drew the eye of men with ease. They had enjoyed one passionate night together a few months ago after a night of dancing, but both agreed it could be no more than that, with his plans to return to the States. And his desire to not be in another relationship.
Accepting her offer, he rose to his feet and took her hand, pulling her body closer to his as they danced the bachata. “You remember what happened the last time we danced?” he teased her, looking down into her lively eyes.
Sofía gave him a sultry smile before spinning away and then back to him. “I can’t think of a better way to say goodbye,” she said.
Chance couldn’t agree more.
* * *
“Lord, help me get through this day.”
Ngozi Johns cast a quick pleading look up to the fall skies as she zipped up the lightly quilted crimson running jacket she wore with a black long-sleeved T-shirt, leggings and sneakers. The sun was just beginning to rise, and the early morning air was crisp. She inhaled it deeply as she stretched her limbs and bent her frame into a few squats before jogging down the double level of stairs of her parents’ five-bedroom, six-bathroom brick Colonial.
Her sneakered feet easily ate up the distance around the circular drive and down the long paved driveway to reach Azalea Street—like every street in the small but affluent town of Passion Grove, New Jersey, it was named after flowers.
Ngozi picked up the pace, barely noticing the estates she passed with the homes all set back from the street. Or the wrought iron lamppost on each corner breaking up the remaining darkness. Or the lone school in town, Passion Grove Middle School, on Rose Lane. Or the entire heart-shaped lake in the center of the town that residents lounged around in the summer and skated on in the winter.
She waved to local author Lance Millner, who was in the center of the body of water in his fishing boat, as he was every morning. The only time he was to be seen by his Passion Grove neighbors was during his time in the water, tossing his reel into the lake, or the rare occasions he visited the upscale grocery store on Main Street. In the distance, on the other side of the lake, was his large brick eight-bedroom home with curtains shielding the light from entering through any of the numerous windows. He lived alone and rarely had any guests. The man was as successful at being a recluse as he was at being a New York Times bestselling author.
He waved back.
It was a rushed move, hard and jerking, and looked more like he was swatting away a nagging fly than giving a greeting.
Ngozi smiled as she continued her run. With one movement that was as striking as flipping the middle finger, he confirmed his reputation as a lone wolf with no time to waste for anyone. When he did venture from his lakeside estate, his tall figure was always garbed in a field jacket and a boonie hat that shaded his face.
Passion Grove was the perfect place to come to enjoy high-scale living but avoid the bustle, noise and congestion of larger cities. Home to many wealthy young millennials, the town’s population was under two thousand, with fewer than three hundred homes, each on an average of five or more acres. Very unlike Harlem, New York. She had enjoyed living in the city, soaking in the vibrancy of its atmosphere and culture and the beauty of its brownstones and its brown-skinned people—until a year ago. A year to the date, in fact.
When everything changed.
“Damn,” she swore in a soft whisper as she shook her head, hoping to clear it.
Of her sadness. Her guilt.
Ngozi ran harder, wishing it were as easy to outrace her feelings.
It wasn’t.
She came to a stop on the corner of Marigold and Larkspur, pressing her hand to her heaving chest as her heart continued to race, even though she did not. She grimaced as she released a shaky breath. She knew the day would be hard.
It had been only a year.
Ngozi bit her bottom lip and began jogging in place to maintain the speed of her heartbeat before she finally gathered enough strength to push aside her worries and continue her morning run. She needed to finish. She needed to know there was true hope that one day her guilt and remorse would no longer hinder her.
She continued her run, noticing that outside of the echo of her colorful sneakers pounding on the pavement, the chirp of birds and errant barks of dogs occasionally broke the silence. With the town comprising sizable estates that were all set back three hundred or more feet from the streets—per a local ordinance—the noise was at a minimum.
“Good morning, Counselor.”
Ngozi looked over her shoulder to find the town’s police chief standing on the porch of the Victorian home that had once served as the town’s mercantile during the early days of its creation in the 1900s. For the last fifty years, it had served as the police station and was more than sufficient for the small town. She turned, jogging in place as she looked up at the tall and sturdy blond man who looked as if his uniform was a size—maybe two—too small. “Morning, Chief Ransom,” she greeted him as she checked her pulse against the Fitbit. “Care to join me?”
He threw his head back and laughed, almost causing his brown Stetson hat to fall from his head. “No, no, no,” he said, looking at her with a broad smile that caused the slight crinkles at the corners of his brown eyes to deepen. He patted his slightly rounded belly. “My better half loves everything just as it is.”
Eloise, his wife, was as thin as a broomstick. Opposites clearly attracted because it was clear to all that they were deeply in love. The couple resided in the lone apartment in the entire town—the one directly above the police station. It was a perk of accepting the position as chief. It would be absurd to expect a public servant to afford one of the costly estates of Passion Grove—all valued at seven figures or more.
“You have any future clients for me?” Ngozi asked, biting her inner cheek to keep from smiling.
“In Passion Grove?” the chief balked. “No way.”
She shrugged both her shoulders. “Just thought I’d ask,” she said, running backward before she waved and turned to race forward down the street.
As a successful New York criminal defense attorney, Ngozi Johns was familiar with the tristate area’s high-crime places. Passion Grove definitely was not counted among them. The chief had only two part-time deputies to assist him when there was a rare criminal act in the town, and so far that was limited to driving violations, not curbing a dog, jaywalking or the occasional shoplifting from the grocery store or lone upscale boutique by a thrill-seeking, bored housewife.
There were no apartment buildings or office buildings. No public transportation. Only stop signs, no traffic lights. There were strict limitations on commercial activity to maintain the small-town feel. Keeping up its beautiful aesthetic was a priority, with large pots on each street corner filled with plants or colorful perennial floras.
Like the police station, the less than dozen stores lining one side of Main Street were small converted homes that were relics from the town’s incorporation in the early 1900s. She jogged past the gourmet grocery store that delivered, a few high-end boutiques, a dog groomer and the concierge service that supplied luxuries not available in town. Each business was adorned with crisp black awnings. She crossed the street to ignore the temptation of fresh-brewed coffee and fresh-baked goods wafting from La Boulangerie, the bakery whose delicacies were as sinfully delicious as the store was elegantly decorated like a French bistro.
She appreciated the serenity and beauty as she reached the garden that bloomed with colorful fall flowers, and soon was at the elaborate bronze sign welcoming everyone to Passion Grove. She tapped the back of it with gusto before taking a deep breath and starting the run back home.
Ngozi successfully kept her thoughts filled with upcoming depositions or cases. By the time she turned up the drive and spotted her parents’ sprawling home, the sun was blazing in the sky and some of the chill had left the morning air. She felt less gloomy.
Thank you, God.
“Good morning, Ngozi.”
Her heart pounded more from surprise at the sound of her father’s deep voice than the run. She forced a pleasant smile and turned in the foyer to find her tall father, Horace Vincent, with deep brown skin that she’d inherited and low-cut silver hair, standing in the open door to his office. He was still in his silk pajamas, but files were in hand and he eyed her over the rim of his spectacles.
“Good morning, Daddy,” she said, walking across the hardwood floors to press a tender kiss to his cheek. “I just finished my run.”
Horace was a retired corporate and banking attorney who started Vincent and Associates Law over forty years ago. It was one of the top five hundred law firms in the country—a huge accomplishment for an African American man—and Ngozi was proud to be one of the firm’s top criminal trial attorneys.
“Ngozi!”
The urge to wince rose quickly in her, but Ngozi was well practiced in hiding her true feelings from her parents. “Yes, Mama?” she asked, following her father into his office to find her mother leaning against the edge of the massive wooden desk in the center of the room. She was also still in her nightwear, a satin red floor-length gown and matching robe.
Even in her seventies, Valerie “Val” Vincent was the epitome of style, poise and confidence. Her silver bob was sleek and modern. She exercised daily and stuck to a vegan diet to maintain her size-eight figure. Her caramel-brown skin, high cheekbones, intelligent brown eyes and full mouth were beautiful even before her routine application of makeup. She was constantly mistaken for being in her fifties, but was regally proud of every year of her age.
And she was as brilliant as she was beautiful, having cultivated a career as a successful trial attorney before becoming a congresswoman and garnering respect for her political moves.
“I know today is difficult for you, Ngozi,” Val said, her eyes soft and filled with the concern of a mother for her child.
As her soul withered, Ngozi kept her face stoic and her eyes vacant. She never wanted to be the cause for worry in her parents. “I’m fine, Mama,” she lied with ease.
Her parents shared a look.
Ngozi diverted her eyes from them. They landed on the wedding photo sitting on the corner of her father’s desk. She fought not to release a heavy breath. The day she wed Dennis Johns, she had put on a facade as well and played the role of the perfectly happy bride vowing to love the man she’d met in law school.
Until death do us part.
After only four years.
She was a widow at twenty-nine.
She blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay.
“We want you to know there’s no rush to leave,” her father began.
Ngozi shifted her gaze back to them, giving them both a reassuring smile that was as false as the hair on the head of a cheap doll. It was well practiced.
I’m always pretending.
“When we suggested you move back home after Dennis’s...passing, your mother and I were happy you accepted the offer, and we hope you’ll stay awhile,” Horace continued.
“Of course, Daddy,” she said, widening her smile. “Who wants to leave a mansion with enough staff to make you think you’re on vacation? I ain’t going nowhere.”
They both smiled, her show of humor seeming to bring them relief.
It was a pattern she was all too familiar with.
How would it feel to tell them no?
Her eyes went to the other frame on her father’s desk and landed on the face of her older brother, Haaziq. More death.
She winced, unable to hide what his passing meant for her. Not just the loss of her brother from her life, but the role she accepted as defender of her parents’ happiness. Losing their son, her brother, in an accidental drowning at the tender age of eight had deeply affected their family. Little six-year-old Ngozi, with her thick and coarse hair in long ponytails and glasses, had never wanted to be a hassle or let down her parents because of their grief. She’d always worn a bright smile, learned to pretend everything was perfect and always accepted that whatever they wanted for her was the right course of action.
“Let’s all get ready for work, and I’m sure breakfast will be on the table by the time we’re ready to go and conquer the world,” Val said, lovingly stroking Horace’s chin before rising to come over and squeeze her daughter’s hand.
At the thought of another meal, Ngozi wished she had dipped inside the bakery, enjoyed the eye candy that was Bill the Blond and Buff Baker, and gobbled down one of the decadent treats he baked while resembling Paul Walker.
Bzzzzzz.
Ngozi reached for her iPhone from the small pocket of her jacket. “Excuse me,” she said to her parents before turning and leaving the office.
