Second Sunday by Michele Andrea Bowen

Author:Michele Andrea Bowen [BOWEN, MICHELE ANDREA]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000, Religious, Fiction
ISBN: 9780446550116
Google: W6iGUbGk3EkC
Amazon: B001RW10TU
Publisher: Hachette Book Group
Published: 2009-03-01T17:04:01.313000+00:00

V

Mozelle did as Louise suggested and cooked Christmas Jefferson a good old traditional chitlin dinner. The menu would have made any respectable black St. Louisan’s mouth water: chitlins with a few hog maws mixed in, mustard and collard greens, a mustard-based potato salad, spaghetti, corn bread, and dessert. In this case, dessert was two lemon icebox pies—one for Christmas and another one for Oscar.

Having a fancy St. Louis chitlin dinner in the middle of the week put Oscar in such a good mood that he didn’t pick at Miss Mozelle while he was eating. And the dinner was so good, he asked her if she would fix him an extra plate to take to the club, making Miss Mozelle wonder if he was taking those psychedelic drugs that so many people were concerned about. He had to be half out of his mind to believe it was okay or even safe to ask your wife to fix a plate for your woman.

But since she had some plans of her own, she cheerfully fixed the plate, making it look extra pretty and even including little packets of salt, pepper, and hot sauce, fancy paper napkins, and a plastic fork and knife. As she wrapped the food in wax paper, she also wondered about Queenie Tyler. She didn’t know of too many women who would eat food a man brought to her piping hot from his wife’s kitchen.

When Oscar had been gone a good hour, Christmas Jefferson pulled up in his shiny black Lincoln Continental and strutted up to the front door. He was dressed up extra special in a hot pink silk, Superfly maxi coat with matching pants, dark purple silk shirt with a matching tie, and a black hat with a pink and purple silk ribbon around the crown.

“Evenin’, Mozelle darling,” Christmas greeted her, in that smooth voice that blended the Mississippi Delta and North St. Louis street. “Mighty sweet of you to fix me a meal on a weeknight.”

“Well, Christmas,” Mozelle said carefully, “Sometimes you led to do something nice, and I was led to cook you dinner.”

“I see,” Christmas replied, and followed her into the kitchen.

When he took a seat at the table in the kitchen, Mozelle had to be careful not to stare too hard at his socks and shoes. They were so snazzy, they were kind of sexy-looking. He was wearing some sheer silk men’s hosiery in hot pink with dark purple specks, and his shoes were made out of the softest, shiniest patent leather she had ever seen.

“No wonder Christmas has so many women,” Mozelle thought. “I’d bet some money at the racetrack that boy starches his draws.”

Mozelle watched Christmas carefully while she was fixing up his plate. When she knew he couldn’t see her face clearly, she caught him looking at her bosom, hips, and thighs like he was thirsty and wanted a drink. When she faced him, Christmas checked himself and sat back in the chair, leaning on his elbow and gazing into her eyes.

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