Guilty of Love Read Free Page B

a terror?
    Her neighbor’s attire was a bright
coral crocheted sweater over a dull plaid housedress. Earlobes
sparkled with tiny diamonds. Everything about Mrs. Beacon’s
appearance suggested she was in her right mind…until Cheney scanned
her feet. They were swallowed up in men’s shoes—army-polished Stacy
Adams.
    “ I’m Cheney
Reynolds.”
    The woman lifted her eyebrows.
“Cheney? Like that vice president we had a while back?”
    Cheney nodded.
    “ Humph! Thought you were a
WNBA player.”
    “ No, madam. That would have
been a great opportunity to play with Tamara Moore, who is five-ten
and Lindsay Taylor, who is six-eight in the Women’s National
Basketball Association. But I did play in college.”
    “ You didn’t steal those
clothes from a homeless shelter, did you? This is a conservative
neighborhood, young lady. We don’t take too kindly to the likes of
hippies living among us.” Mrs. Beacon stuck out her
chin.
    Now what prompted that
question? Mrs. Beacon was living up to her bold reputation.
Evidently the woman didn’t look in her mirror. Cheney had awakened
with a busy day planned. Okay, she had to admit that she hadn’t
combed her hair with care. Her jet-black, shoulder-length mane was
thick and itchy, demanding a warm shampoo and a cool conditioner. Why primp?
    “ Sorry, I grabbed the first
thing I saw,” Cheney said, looking down at her clothes, knowing she
didn’t owe her an explanation. “I didn’t know there was a dress
code to work in the yard.” She hadn’t washed a load in a few days,
but she didn’t think her mismatched socks, gray sweatpants, and
oversized red shirt were offensive.
    Mrs. Beacon tapped her walking stick.
“You should’ve. White folks might say, ‘There goes the
neighborhood’. Didn’t your parents teach you better? Anyway, I’m
Mrs. Beatrice Tilley Beacon. My close friends call me Grandma BB.
Don’t you even think about it,” she warned, squinting while
she jabbed her cane in the air at Cheney. “I’ll let you know if you
will have that privilege. I’m going to keep an eye on
you.”
    What? How do I respond to
that? Cheney rolled her eyes, but kept silent. Weren’t
neighbors supposed to be friendly, kind, and bearing gifts or
making small talk over a fence? If Cheney could move, she would,
but she had sunk a lot of money into this house. Years ago, Cheney
would’ve prayed for patience to deal with difficult people. Since
the abortion, she stopped praying and was certain God was cursing
her life.
    Mrs. Beacon grabbed Cheney’s attention
again when the woman shrugged and twisted her lips. “Humph, uppity
thang, ain’t you? Well, those weeds better not crawl my way,” she
scolded, drawing an imaginary property line with her
cane.
    Okaaayy. Let me tiptoe back to my
property and leave old Mrs. Grouchy to herself. “Nice to meet
you,” Cheney lied, restarting her weed whacker. The motor reaped
power. She scurried away. Watch it, Grandma. “Why couldn’t I
have neighbors like the Huxtables?”
    Hours later, Mrs. Beacon returned,
clanking in her oversized men’s shoes, leaning on her cane, and
carrying a tall drink. “You’ve done enough work for one day,
although more sun would do your color good.” She thrust the glass
in Cheney’s hand. “Here, quench your thirst with my homemade
lemonade squeezed with secret ingredients—a little of this, a touch
of that.”
    First impressions were lasting. The
senior citizen had the nerve to mix compassion and insult in the
same day. A little of this or that could be cherry-flavored
arsenic. The smart thing to do would be to decline. “You shouldn’t
be so kind.”
    “ I’m not.”
    Cheney eyed the glass with
suspicion.
    “ Go on, chile. I used
genetically enhanced lemons and limes mixed with fresh pineapple
juice and a slice of mandarin orange.”
    Accepting the drink, Cheney sampled a
baby sip and licked her lips. “Mmm, it’s good.”
    “ Of course.” Mrs. Beacon
nodded with pride before