A Private Affair Read online

  Ashley stopped in front of Carissa and grinned. “I’m so glad I caught you.” She shoved the bag at her. “I wanted to return your container to you. Thanks so much for the soup.”

  “It was nothing. I could have picked the tureen up, you didn’t have to come all the way over here.”

  “Oh, I know that,” Ashley said waving her hand in a dismissive gesture, her bracelets clanging together like chimes. “But one good turn deserves another, right?”

  “Well, thanks. I’d better—”

  Ashley snapped her fingers then squeezed her eyes shut and pounded her forehead. She used to do the same thing as a child when she got an answer wrong on a homework quiz. “I’m such an idiot. I almost forgot.” She opened her eyes then unzipped her handbag. “I wish I didn’t have to do this,” she mumbled, shuffling through the scattered contents inside. “Damn, where is it? Momma’s gonna kill me. I hope I didn’t leave it at home.”

  Carissa glanced down and noticed a small tattoo near Ashley’s ankle. It was cute, in no way distasteful, but it just solidified how inappropriate her flip flops were if she had worn them to work, not to mention the tight jeans. “Ashley, I’ve had a really bad day today, could we talk later?” she asked looking towards the front entrance with longing.

  Ashley continued to shuffle through her bag. “I heard about the takeover.” She looked up at Carissa. “My job is safe, right?”

  “I can’t make any promises.”

  She looked into her bag again. “It’s just Momma’s so happy for me and we don’t need any bad news right now. Yes, here it is!” she said with delight and pulled out a small black notebook and pen. “If you could get a man who was rich, fun and sexy would you want him?”

  “I just got rid of a man. I’m not looking for a new one.”

  Ashley looked at her surprised. “You got rid of Morris?” She shook her head. “Somehow Momma knew. So what kind of man would you want instead?”

  Carissa folded her arms. “I just told you—”

  Ashley waved her pen, which was bright pink with a fuzzy head. “Just humor me. I don’t even know if I’m doing this right. I think I’m supposed to ask you the type of man you want, but I’m not sure you know it.”

  Carissa moved out of the way to let two residents pass through the entrance. “Can’t we do this another time?”

  “I mean, there’s no harm in me trying to help you out right?” she continued, scribbling some words down as if Carissa hadn’t spoken. “You’ve done so much for my family.”

  “What are you writing?”

  Ashley held the notebook against her chest. “No peeking, it’s against the rules.”

  “What rules?” Carissa shook her head. “No, I don’t care because none of what you are saying is making sense. I have to go, I just want—”

  “Did you like my description of the kind of man you’d want?” She bit her lip and scratched one of the words out. “I don’t think ‘fun’ would work for you. You need serious, but not too serious.” She frowned. “This is harder than I thought.”

  Carissa snatched the black book from her.

  Ashley screamed.

  Carissa stumbled back startled by the outburst. “What is wrong with you?” she said in a low voice, aware of a couple leaving the building and a man locking up his car staring at them strangely.

  Ashley held out her hands in an anxious gesture, staring at Carissa as if she were holding something fragile that could break. “Give that back and don’t open it. Please.”

  “Okay, calm down,” Carissa said handing the notebook back, surprised that Ashley would be so worked up about such a simple object.

  Ashley smoothed down the front of the notebook, as if trying to wipe Carissa’s prints away. “I know you have to go. Just give me a description of a man you like—not Morris.”

  “This is—”

  Ashley pinned her with a hard stare. “You won’t regret it.”

  Carissa tugged on the strap of her handbag and decided to humor her, although she was annoyed by the question. She didn’t need someone pointing out how messy her life had become in one day. Just this morning, she thought she had a steady job and a great boyfriend she’d planned to marry. Now she had an ex-boyfriend and a new boss she couldn’t stand who may replace her with someone else. But if telling Ashley something about an ideal man would end this ridiculous conversation she was willing to do it. “Fine,” she said with a resigned sigh. “I want a man who’s willing to own me.”

  Ashley’s mouth fell open. “What?”

  Carissa laughed at the young woman’s expression, glad she’d gotten the response she wanted. Since she thought it was a silly question she felt pleased to give a silly answer. “Yes,” she said fighting to keep a straight face. “I want a man who makes me tremble when he says my name, a man who’s a bit of a throwback to a forgotten era, a man who wants to possess me and never let me go and… wait you’re actually writing this down?”

  “Yes, I don’t want to miss anything.”

  “Ashley, I was joking. A man like that likely has psychological issues.”

  Ashley closed the book and put it away. “You don’t have to worry.”

  “True, because—”

  “I’d better go.” She kissed Carissa on the cheek and gave her a tight hug. “Thanks again for the soup.”

  “It was just soup,” Carissa said surprised by her exuberance.

  Ashley looked at Carissa, tears springing to her eyes. “How could you say that?” she asked, but didn’t give Carissa a chance to answer. “Few people come by and visit Momma anymore, but you did. You not only cooked one of her favorite soup, chicken gumbo with an extra helping of smoked ham and dumplings and delivered it yourself, you stayed and talked to her. And by the light in her eyes, I could see how happy you made her. You didn’t talk just to me, you looked at her as if she were important too, and spoke to her like you always have, with respect. For that I can’t thank you enough,” she said then dashed off.

  Carissa watched her leave touched by her heartfelt words. At least she’d done something right and the bitterness of the day melted away. She walked up to her second story apartment and stopped when she saw her eleven-year-old neighbor, Malcolm Hewitt, sitting in the stairwell looking glum. She knew he didn’t enjoy summer school, but today he looked particularly miserable. He was small for his age, but lanky with a face that could switch from joy to sorrow in seconds.

  “What are you doing?” she asked him.

  “Nothing.”

  “Your mother’s not home yet?”

  He nodded.

  Carissa knew his mother worked hard, two jobs, so she kept an eye out for him, usually making sure that he had his homework done.

  “Hungry?”

  She saw his face light up. “Yes.”

  “Come on.”

  She knew he’d spent lots of time on his own but once she’d invited him over he always had a reason to come and visit. Besides, his company would help stop her from thinking about all that had happened that day.

  “Finish up your homework while I cook,” Carissa said, as she went into her bedroom to change.

  “I’m done.”

  “Then check over your answers because if I see a lot of sloppy mistakes I won’t let you back in here.”

  He quickly set his backpack on the table and took out his notebook. She liked his company. At first she didn’t think she would. His mother was a quiet woman who stayed mostly to herself. Most times Carissa wondered how she could afford to live in their apartment complex. Thankfully, looking after Malcolm was no trouble. She’d made her way through high school babysitting and she liked kids—at least most of them. She’d looked after a few terrors and was glad when she switched to office work after one terrible incident with a kid who could make a monster look like a mouse.

  She cooked his favorite meal: Pepper pot stew with cornmeal muffins. She had planned on going to dinner with Morris, so she hadn’t planned on cooking that evening. Luckily, she had left
over cubed beef steak, and lots of vegetables and spices. She set the table for one, since she’d already eaten. “Okay wash your hands dinner’s ready.”

  Minutes later Malcolm was wolfing down the food as if it were about to run away.

  “Slow down.”

  “You’re the best cook in the world Miss Carissa.”

  “Don’t let your mother ever hear that.”

  He shrugged. “She doesn’t cook so I don’t think she’d mind. Remember that peach pie you gave us?”

  “Yes.”

  “She only let me have one slice and kept all the rest for herself.”

  “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

  “It’s true. I saw her give two slices to Mr. Travis and tell him that she made it.”

  Carissa hid a laugh. She’d always wondered why of all the things she liked to bake, his mother always asked for more peach pie.

  “That’s enough talking, just eat.”

  Later, after cleaning up the kitchen, Carissa helped him go over his homework then it was time for him to go home.

  She regretted doing so because after he left, she found herself alone with her thoughts and they wouldn’t let her rest. Was she asking too much of Morris? He hadn’t said he didn’t want to marry her, she did. Was it so wrong to wait? He was a good guy when he wasn’t being a jerk. Was it selfish to want him to be just a little more daring and a little less cautious? He had a right to mention her two divorces, he’d decided to date her anyway and plan a future together. Then why did she feel as if she never really would be a part of it? That the future would remain out of reach? That it would never be ‘now’ but always someday. Perhaps she was really angry because he didn’t side with her about Riverton. The scary thing was she knew Morris would probably admire him.

  ***

  That Saturday, Carissa spent most of the day cleaning her apartment, washing the windows until they shined, and as she did so, she thought of how best she could defend Mia so that the henchman wouldn’t cut her position. After vacuuming the living room rug, Carissa checked her fridge and realized it was nearly empty so she headed to her car.

  “Where are you going?” Malcolm said jumping up from his perch on the stairs.

  “I’m going shopping.”

  “Grocery shopping or clothes shopping?”

  Carissa grinned knowing the answer he wanted to hear. “You want to come grocery shopping with me, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? You could be playing with your friends.”

  He shrugged. “I think shopping is more fun. So can I?”

  “Tell your mom—,” she was about to say ‘first’ but he’d already disappeared into his apartment. Seconds later he had his jacket on and was ready to go.

  When they arrived at the store, Carissa had to squeeze her car into a tight parking space—the only one she could find in the crowded lot—next to a large SUV inconveniently parked at an angle. Inside the store, a voice boomed over the loud speaker announcing a sale on barbecue ribs while customers weaved through packed aisles stacking various items into their baskets and hand held carts.

  “Do you want to be a chef when you grow up?” Carissa asked Malcolm as he helped her put a bag of apples into the shopping cart.

  “Nope.”

  “A food critic?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve got ten things I want to be, but Mom says I can only choose one.”

  “Well, tell me one of them,” she said pushing their cart through the produce section.

  “I want to own a fair.”

  His answer surprised her. She was about to ask him what other occupations was on his list when she suddenly saw a horrible sight.

  Riverton! He was only a few feet away looking at pineapples. What was he doing there and why did he look so ordinary? Not menacing, not cold, just like a regular guy. No, Riverton didn’t look regular, but he looked less fierce out of the office. He sported a pair of dark jeans and a cream shirt that seemed to compliment his skin making him look annoyingly attractive. She watched as he sniffed a selection he was holding. He looked a little perplexed but she didn’t care. Someone else could help him. She felt something tugging on her sleeve and looked down at Malcolm.

  “Miss Carissa, are you okay?” he asked looking worried.

  “I’m fine. Come on let’s go.”

  “But we haven’t finished everything on the list.”

  “I can finish it later.”

  He frowned. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, I’m—” About to die she thought when Riverton looked up and their eyes met. She didn’t know why she had such a strong reaction to him. She had a right to shop and so did he. There was nothing he could do to her, but all of a sudden she still felt like running away. He nodded in acknowledgment then looked back down at the fruit in his hand.

  Carissa took a deep breath. Since he saw her there was no need to hide.

  “Do you know that man?” Malcolm asked.

  “We work together.”

  “Then you’d better tell him that pineapple’s gonna taste nasty.”

  “I don’t think that’s my place.”

  “Why not? Don’t you like him?”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “That’s okay Miss Carissa, if you’re too shy I can go tell him for you,” Malcolm said and before she could grab him he left. She watched in horror as the young boy walked over to Riverton. Why didn’t he sense any danger? Didn’t he see how much this man wouldn’t care? She hoped he wouldn’t get his feelings too hurt when Riverton brushed him off. She watched Malcolm talking to Riverton and point to the pineapple he was holding then pick one up and rub his hands over the skin then smell it. To Carissa’s surprise Riverton mimicked the child’s motions then nodded. Then Malcolm started talking and Carissa again grew nervous. What was he saying? Would Riverton tell him to get lost? Why did Riverton look as if he was really listening to him? Didn’t he realize that it would only encourage Malcolm to keep talking? She had to do something.

  She pushed her cart over to them.

  “And she makes one of the best baked trout you could ever eat,” she overheard Malcolm say.

  Carissa felt her face flush. Oh no, he was talking about her? Why?

  “Okay, Malcolm time to go,” she said.

  “I was just telling Mr. Riverton about your cooking.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t want to know about that.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Riverton said.

  “He wanted to know how come I know so much about food,” Malcolm said.

  “Clearly you’re a good teacher,” Riverton said lifting up his pineapple. “I’ve been told this one is going to be sweet.”

  And if it’s not will you count points against me? “Hmmm.”

  Malcolm looked at her a little anxious. “I picked a good one right?”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  He snatched the pineapple from Riverton and handed it to her. “Check to make sure.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” she said embarrassed. It wasn’t like Malcolm to be so eager for her opinion. She tested it keenly aware of Riverton’s steady gaze. It looked ripe and smelled delicious. She knew Riverton would have a very juicy treat. “It’s perfect,” she said handing the pineapple back to Riverton, a shiver of awareness coursing through her when her fingers brushed his. “Enjoy,” she said, her voice seeming to drop an octave.

  “So what are you going to do with it?” Malcolm asked.

  Riverton looked at him a little confused. “I’m going to eat it.”

  “How?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Carissa said, taken aback by Malcolm’s insistence to keep the conversation going.

  “How many ways are there to eat a pineapple?” Riverton asked.

  Malcolm stretched out his arms wide. “Hundreds of ways! You could cube it and put it on a pizza or slice it and put it on fish or make a s
moothie or—”

  “I’m sure he gets the idea,” Carissa said.

  “Miss Carissa makes a pineapple cake that will make you lick your lips until they’re numb.”

  “And now we’ve taken up enough of his time,” Carissa said nudging Malcolm’s arm. “Come on. I have to finish my shopping.”

  “Bye,” Malcolm said.

  When they were far enough away, Carissa said, “You are sure in a chatty mood today.”

  “I was just trying to help him,” Malcolm said checking the aisles for the next item on the list. “He seemed nice.”

  Nice? “He’s anything but nice.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I told you, I work with him, remember?”

  “Maybe if you make him your peanut butter cookies, he’ll be nicer to you.”

  “I don’t need him to be nice to me.”

  And the last thing she’d ever do was cook for him.

  ***

  So, she could cook, Kenric thought with a smile as he set his shopping bag in the trunk of his car and closed it. For some reason he liked the thought of her cooking. He could use a nice home cooked meal, but knew that wasn’t going to happen. He didn’t cook and none of the women he dated did either. Most of his meals came out of a restaurant kitchen or was created at the hands of a personal chef. Not that he could complain. The food was always stellar, but one thing he missed as a boy was the intimacy of a specially prepared meal. At times he envied those who talked about their grandmother’s chicken chowder or an aunt’s roasted potatoes with chives. He wanted to know what food tasted like when it was made with love. What it was like to eat fresh food prepared just for him in a simple kitchen.