Chapter Seven
1264 Words
Chapter Seven
“So you don’t know what to do about it?” Sylvester Montclair cut an imposing figure for a man of his age. Late sixties, with a head of neatly cropped gray hair and the beginnings of a bald spot at his crown, he exuded integrity.
“I don’t have that many options at the moment.” One kept springing to mind, but it was an option Adalia would never take.
She didn’t want handouts, and she certainly wouldn’t turn to the billionaire who saw her as a conquest, or whatever else he wanted to call it.
“My girl, you’ve got to do what’s best for your future.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do, Dad, but I don’t know how. I’m lost. The bank wants the money back, I’ve got no one working for me, and the customers just aren’t coming in.”
“What about your regulars?” Her father scratched his chin, then handed her a bowl of mashed potatoes. She dished up for herself and passed him the green beans in return.
“I’ve got two and that’s about it.”
Sunday night dinners were their tradition. They connected over deep fried Cajun chicken or roast beef, and ended with apple pie and cream. The cooking part was the best. Adalia would arrive early and help her father prep and cook everything.
The apple pie was definitely her favorite part of the endeavor, but she’d hardly enjoyed making it that afternoon.
There was too much to worry about.
“Adalia, we aren’t a family of quitters. Your brother has fallen on hard times before and we supported him through it. Do whatever it is you need to do to make it work.”
She nodded thoughtfully and popped a forkful of mashed potatoes and gravy into her mouth. It was delicious and she chewed slowly, considering her options.
“I guess the real problem is –”
There was a knock at the front door, followed by a strange whooping noise.
“What the hell?” Sylvester Montclair rose with a frown. He was the papa bear, protective to a fault, and he’d been there for the kids no matter what.
“Adalia!” DeShawn’s voice rang out through the front hall, and her heart sank into her stomach. “Adalia, are you in there? Come on out, babe, we gotta talk about this. I don’t want to hear no excuses, this is fo’ real.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She stood quickly but her father waved for her to stay put.
“I’ll handle this, don’t you worry.” He stretched his neck and strode out of the dining room and into the hall.
Adalia crept after him and stood in the doorway, eavesdropping on the conversation. She peered around the corner, careful not to be seen by her ex-boyfriend.
Sylvester opened the door and placed his hand on the doorjamb, blocking DeShawn’s entry with his arm.
DeShawn glared at Sylvester through a haze of pot and reddened eyes.
“What up, old man.”
Sylvester clenched his jaw and released. He’d never liked DeShawn, and Adalia sorely regretted not listening to her father’s advice sooner. “That’s Mr. Montclair to you, boy. What do you want?”
“I’m looking for Adalia. I know she always at your house on a Sunday, man.” DeShawn craned his neck and tried to see past her father.
Sylvester clicked his fingers under the stoner’s nose. “You deaf as well as drugged, boy? Adalia ain’t here. Now, get off my front porch before I call the cops.”
“You think you better than me?” DeShawn guffawed. “You just some old dude who can’t even make no money.”
Sylvester was a plumber. He’d finally set up his own business and made just enough money to support himself. They’d grown up poor but there’d always been food on the table.
“Think long and hard about what you say next, DeShawn,” he said, and the warning tone he used when he was seconds from getting serious set off alarms in Adalia’s head.
“Man, back outta my way,” DeShawn answered, and gripped a handful of the old man’s shirt.
Sylvester calmly balled up his fist and punched DeShawn in the center of his chest, causing the unwelcome visitor to stumble back and land on his a*s. He glared up, swaying slightly from side-to-side, and choked.
“Get out of here, punk.” Sylvester slammed the door shut and locked it, then returned to the dining room.
“What if he doesn’t leave?” Adalia murmured, taking her seat again, but her father seemed totally unfazed by the entire encounter.
“He will. He’s a coward, my girl. He’ll take on an old man because he thinks he has a chance, but you can bet he won’t want to mix it up with the cops.”
Adalia left her plate untouched and stared dead ahead. “Dad, it’s like everything is conspiring against me right now. Wherever I turn, somebody’s there to make things more difficult.”
Sylvester folded his hands on the table then smoothed the white cloth she’d laid on it earlier in the afternoon. “Nobody has time for a victim. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get on with it. Figure out what you have to do to make it work. What are you going to do? Curl up in a ball and die?”
“No, of course not,” she said, straightening up in the dining room chair. It creaked beneath her. Her dad had had the same set since she was a kid, and she bit her lip.
“Then figure it out, girl. We’re here to support you.”
“I guess I need to find a way to market the business, get my name out there and bring in more business. But all of that costs money, and that’s the one thing I don’t have.” She pushed her food around on her plate and tapped her cheek with her nail.
“There must be a potential investor you can turn to for help.”
She could think of one, but he wouldn’t like it.
“I met a billionaire.”
“Huh?” Sylvester stopped chewing and placed his fork on the side of his plate. “A billionaire?”
“His name is Trent Dawson. He was a customer of mine, and he invited me to cater at one of his charity events. He’s interested in helping others.” Her heart beat faster, and she studied her father, leaning her chin on her fist.
“Trent Dawson,” he repeated, then shook his head with a sour grunt. “I don’t like it, girl.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did this man invite you to an event when he barely knows you?”
“I catered, Dad. Chocolate éclairs.” She gritted her teeth then calmed herself. Why did it bother her that he didn’t like the sound of Trent?
“He swoops in out of nowhere? I don’t like it one bit. He sounds like he’s got a hidden agenda. I guarantee it, you take a loan from him and you’ll be paying it back for the rest of your natural life.” Her father stood and removed his plate then offered to take hers.
“But Dad,” she began, passing it over.
“But Dad nothing. Don’t you talk to that man again.” Sylvester turned and made for the kitchen, as if that was the end of the matter, as if she didn’t have a brain or the right to choose for herself.
“You want some apple pie, Dalie?” It was his pet name for her, and had always made her feel the princess.
“Yeah, thanks, Dad.”
Adalia stared out the window at the front lawn, which was empty – no DeShawn, thankfully – much like her bank account.
Trent Dawson might have a hidden agenda. Trent Dawson might just want a quick lay.
But what other options did she really have at this point?
She stood and went to help her father whip the cream, but her mind wasn’t in it. All she could think of was his arms around her and the soft warmth of his lips on her skin.
- Writer
