When I pulledonto my concrete driveway and turned off the ignition to my Hyundai, I was in a funky mood. The familiar ping of sadness and angst about the holiday season still weighed heavily on my spirit. Even my carefully curated list of old-school jazz songs couldn’t shake how down I felt.
I mindlessly unloaded the bags of groceries from my car, thankful I found eggs, milk, and bread on the nearly bare shelves. It was like the Hunger Games when temperatures got below freezing. As I entered my home and put up my groceries for the week, I pictured how crowded the town square was as members of the community celebrated the holiday at the annual Christmas parade that would start soon.
Half the kids in my class would be riding on floats and cars, throwing out candy to their friends, bundled up in warm winter coats and mittens along the parade route. As everyone else froze their hands and feet off, I’d be nestled in my home, clipping coupons and crafting, sipping a cup of hot chocolate in my favorite little porcelain cup.
Unlike my over-the-top classroom, my home wasn’t festive. If anything, it was subdued like my mood. Like a bear inhibernation, I’d retreat into my cozy cave to hide out from the world and ponder what my future might look like. Like the spinster I swore to Nick I wasn’t, I looked forward to a silent night.
I soaked in my tub with champagne and mint bath salts that had my skin feeling as smooth as silk. After rubbing myself down with cucumber-scented lotion, I slipped into the luxurious lace bra and panty set from the online adult store owned by my homegirl, Lena Langston. Sensual underwear was my guilty pleasure, although I had no one to show it to. Since comfort made sense to me too, I put on my favorite vintage housecoat, which provided the perfect amount of warmth.
I sauntered down the stairs in my slippered feet, noticing that the snow was falling quicker than when I went upstairs. I rubbed my hands in anticipation of the big pot of spicy chili I planned to make for dinner. It would be the perfect meal to comfort my soul and body after a long semester of pouring into my young charges. I’d freeze whatever was left over for the rest of the week.
I diced red onions, green peppers, shallots, garlic, jalapeno peppers, and tomatoes as my ground beef browned in my cherry red Le Creuset pot. As the self-proclaimed queen of spice, I added generous helpings of smoked paprika, garlic powder, onion powder, kosher salt, black pepper, and my secret ingredients, cumin and cinnamon.
As I always did when I cooked, I pumped my favorite local radio station in my speakers. When a medley of Usher songs dropped, I wound my hips like I was at the club. For a brief moment, I was the star of a Las Vegas show, holding my wooden spoon like a hot mic as my fans applauded my stellar voice. When the song ended, I grabbed the front of my housecoat and bent over at the waist to catch my breath.
“Heffa, you clowning Nick, but your ass needed to run some laps around the kiddie playground too. Damn.” I spoke the words in between breaths and set the spoon down before wiping my damp forehead with a couple of pieces of paper towel.
As my breathing slowly returned to normal, reality hit me that Cyrus’s crusty behind was probably going to see Usher for real in Vegas while I was tongue-kissing a doggone spoon. Why the hell was my life so different from what I planned?
I opened a bottle of chilled lime-flavored Perrier water and allowed the cool liquid to burn my throat before pulling out my phone. There, I clipped several electronic coupons in my Kroger app as I waited for the chili to finish cooking. Within twenty minutes, my kitchen smelled heavenly as my chili simmered.
My eyes landed on the paned window above my sink into the setting sun. As far as I could see, the vast snow-covered land of my ancestors met my eyes. I said a silent prayer of thanks for their investment in the sacred grounds where they tolled, celebrated, and eventually died. This was my legacy.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
At first, I thought I had imagined the pounding on my front door. When the thumping intensified, I turned down the volume on my radio and stepped toward the noise.
Who could that be when all the action was in town? I lived too far out in the country for this to be an accidental visit.
I wrapped my housecoat around my body, then placed the bowl I’d retrieved from my cabinet on the kitchen counter.
“Who is it?” I shouted my question through the door since I didn’t have a peephole.
“Amari Snowden.”
Why was he here? My first thought was about his daughter, Aspen, so I opened the door quickly. When his dark, shiny eyes met mine without concern, I released a big breath.
“Mr. Snowden, is everything okay?” I poked my head out to look out onto the empty porch.
“Yes, Ms. Starks.”
A tingle ran down my spine as he spoke in an authoritative tone. I wondered if all he had to do was breathe and blink to shift important decisions around him.
I was transported to the first day of the school year. I met his ex-wife and him when they dropped Aspen off in my class. As Mr. Snowden’s steady gaze landed on me, I smiled. He shook my hand with a combined firmness and gentleness that made me take a second look at him. Although I didn’t want to stare, I couldn’t help but notice how perfect his posture was.
Today, he was ruggedly handsome and classy, carrying himself like a man of purpose. When he stepped closer with a presence that hovered like the thick blanket of snow falling across my yard, I reached for the locket on my necklace to settle my wandering thoughts. I rubbed the thin gold chain back and forth between my fingers until the chilly air surrounding us knocked me out of my trance.
“Is this still a good time? I thought you might be at the parade, but I took a chance to drop by anyway. Sorry I didn’t call first.” Mr. Snowden eyed my housecoat, then looked back at my face.
When his breath hit the cold air, it lingered a little, drawing my attention to his soft, moisturized lips. I looked down, and for the first time, I noticed a big toolbox and workbag by his feet on the porch.
“Um, . . . yes, Mr. Snowden. Forgive me. I got caught up with the last day of school and forgot to write your appointment on my calendar.” I stepped further onto the porch and looked up into the hazy sky and onto the driveway where Amari’s Chevy Silverado was parked.
At least two inches of snow rested around his tires.
I rubbed my temples as I remembered the impromptu appointment I made with Mr. Snowden at the grocery store last week, to fix up several things around my house. That day, I felt an unspoken connection between us. He was so charming I could barely speak to him without turning away.
He stayed on my mind even after I cooked dinner and finished my hygiene routine before bed that night. I pulled out the business card he gave me months ago when he dropped Aspen off at school. That night, I prayed for him and continued to pray for the success of his business, especially as my colleagues gossiped about his nasty divorce and speculated that he had more money than he could spend after his wealthy grandfather left him as the sole heir of his dairy farm in South Carolina.
