Free Guilty of Love by Pat Simmons Page B

for the second time, she
jogged past The Corner Coffee House, a quaint outdoor café. Funny,
his vehicle seemed similar to the one Mrs. Beacon ran off the block
the other night.
    She redirected her attention to the
old town charm that she never noticed in the months she had lived
in the area. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as the
four-lane traffic converged into two lanes under a railroad
trestle, forcing Parke to merge right. She laughed until she
blinked away a tear. Boy, her neighborhood was full of
characters.
    “ What an idiot,” she said,
shaking her head.
    A tall street clock encased with
wildflowers greeted her, announcing Ferguson’s downtown shopping
and business district.
    “ Hmm, one day my garden
will be just as beautiful,” she proclaimed as another horn honked. What is it with people honking their horns today? Turning
around, Cheney rolled her eyes, annoyed—Parke again.
    “ Are you sure I can’t give
you a ride? I’m going your way.” Parke grinned like a flirty
teenager. His brilliant white smile matched his white polo
shirt.
    “ Yep.” She pointed to the
furniture store. “I’m here.” Clenching her teeth, Cheney opened the
front door and removed her sunglasses. “Good riddance, Mr.
Jamieson.”
    An older man sauntered toward her.
With her wallet containing all her credit and debit cards, Cheney
was ready to shop until her money dropped out of her
accounts.
    “ May I help you look for
anything in particular?”
    Cheney scanned the crowded showroom.
“Yes, living room furniture. I want something unique, but
contemporary that will look just as fashionable years later—and
dining room furniture, depending on the price.”
    “ Of course, follow me,” the
salesman instructed.
    Despite the cluttered appearance, the
selection was endless. It wasn’t long before Cheney purchased a
sofa, two high-back chairs, and a coffee table. She limited herself
to three African-American pictures out of many. It would be months
before she could afford another such spree. Only after she paid for
everything, Cheney realized the pictures portrayed scenes with a
small church faded in the background. What a coincidence since
she’d handpicked the pictures because of their brilliant
colors.
    “ Now, Jim,” Cheney
addressed the salesman as if he were an old friend. “You’re sure
they’ll be delivered tomorrow evening after four? I’m having a
party on Saturday.”
    He scratched his thinning hairline.
“You have my word on it, Miss Reynolds.”
    “ Thank you. Good
night.”
    Streetlights flickered on as Cheney
stepped outside. She had been in there longer than she realized. In
the parking lot, Parke sat behind the wheel of his Envoy, bobbing
his head to music. Watching her, his stare wasn’t scary or
uncomfortable. His expression revealed more of a “you’re here so
I’m here” attitude as if he was security detail.
    “ Hey, Parke,” the salesman
yelled, stuck his head out the door and waved.
    “ How’s it going, Jim?
Thanks for that client referral,” Parke called back before Jim
locked the showroom door.
    “ This guy is worse than
Mrs. Beacon.” She groaned. So Parke was some kind salesman, which
explained why he was a professional nuisance.
    She paused, thinking about her
neighbor, Cheney realized she hadn’t seen the mean old bat of late.
Maybe she had broken a leg. Why did seeing Parke trigger thoughts
of Mrs. Beacon? Both were pests. Still concerned, Cheney decided
she would go to check on her.
    “ Need a ride home?” Parke
hurried out of his vehicle. His demeanor was still non-threatening;
his voice gentle, his appearance was casual and very nice. He was
handsome without trying. Did I just appraise a man? She was
losing focus.
    “ You expect me to say yes
and climb in?” Cheney rammed a fist in her side and glared up about
five inches at him. “Think again. Are you crazy? I don’t really
know you well enough to get inside a vehicle with someone who hangs
out of a window,