Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 73556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
“Hello, Awa.”
The conversation went as she imagined. Awa was apologizing left and right for her colleagues.
“…And I am embarrassed. I don’t treat my customers like that. She’s new, and I don’t know her that well, but I apologize for her. I didn’t know you spoke French, but it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t have happened. Fatou told me all about it. She is angry. Very angry. Several customers got up and left. This is so awful, Genesis.”
Awa sounded downright pitiful, and her apology was certainly heartfelt. The woman was always professional, and never treated her with anything less than respect. Even when Awa spoke in French, she never said anything rude about the customers.
“Awa, it’s not your fault. I know not everyone is like that. You and I have a good relationship, and you’ve never even tried to overcharge me, or take advantage. I would prefer to just come to your apartment and get my hair done from here on out, please. I’m not going back to that shop.”
Awa agreed and let her decide to come Friday after work, even offering a discount for the trouble. She hung up and reached another red light. Glancing down at her phone, she saw the notification for the CashApp still flashing.
Confused, she opened the app to see what it was for.
$500? What is this for? This must be a mistake. Who sent me $500?
She opened the transaction details to read further. There was a note along with the payment:
I don’t know what Goddess braids are or how much they cost, but I want you to get some today, since that’s what you want. If this isn’t enough, let me know and I’ll send more money as soon as you respond. Life is short. Do what makes you happy TODAY. We’re not promised Friday’s payday, or a lunch date that I’m very much looking forward to, and we sure aren’t promised tomorrow, either. Send me a picture when your hair is finished. I’d love to see it. I know you’ll look beautiful.
—Roman
CHAPTER FIVE
The Chickens Have Come Home to Roost
Roman knocked. He could tell by the presence of the red Jeep in the driveway, the one with the blue and marigold Hawaiian luau flowers hanging from the dash-cam, that she was home.
“Mama!” he yelled out, then knocked harder. Her glockenspiel was out, per the handwritten note hanging lopsided on the door with a piece of tape.
“Is that you, Roman?”
“Now, Mama, who else would it be? You live out here in the sticks. I just texted you less than five minutes ago.” He grinned as he waited for her to let him inside. He heard her laugh from a short distance away.
“I’m comin’!”
After a few slow moments, the white side door of Mama’s long country farmhouse swung his way. The home was set on a few acres of land. Mama had chickens in a coop, and plenty of stone birdbaths that she cleaned and took great care of.
He didn’t wait for her to greet him. Rather, he wrapped his arms around her plump, soft, sweet-smelling body as soon as she appeared, then slipped past her, making his way towards the living room. The cream and pink furniture was Mama’s favorite. She would change several items every few years, but the color scheme pretty much remained the same.
As always, her couch and loveseat were covered with far too many fluffy pillows and thick, frilly blankets, but comfortable and inviting all the same. Her favorite home product magazines were spread out on shiny, oak coffee table: LTD Commodities, QVC, Winston, and Lakeside just to name a few. Behind him, he heard her lock the door. He turned to see her pull the short pink and pearl valance curtains out of the way and peek out the small door window as if she were waiting for a delivery. Her dark brown hair with natural auburn highlights was piled on her head with a bunch of gold bobby pins and floral barrettes, and she was wearing a bright red apron over her long white frilly dress—looking like a mom from the 1950’s. She also had on little red ballerina slippers.
“I need to check on the chickens soon. My youngest adult hen, Yolk, is pregnant. Cluck Gable and the Colonel Feathers are the fathers.” Mama always had funny names for her chickens. She released the curtain and turned to face him, then got close to give him another hug. Her soft, silky hair rubbed against his face, and he loved every second of the affection she showered him with. It was homegrown and real. Something money couldn’t buy.
“Now what are you doin’ here, boy?” She crossed her arms and glared at him with faux suspicion. “You don’t ever just stop by outta the blue like this, Mr. Busy Pants.” She showed off a big, pretty smile on a flawless face. Not a pimple or speck in sight. Porcelain skin with high cheekbones, rouge on her skin, or whatever women called that pinkish stuff they swiped on their cheeks. Mama’s blue eyes sparkled like rare gems.