Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 127715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Back in the day, Sherise and Shane were my babysitters.
And Shane was my first crush.
Ronetta also had a husband, George, who refused to retire because he was a lot like his wife. It’d be torture for him if he didn’t have a busy schedule with lots to do.
They’d given me the idea to blow out the back of my house and add on, since they’d done it ages ago so Sherise and Shane could have their own rooms, George could have a man cave, and Ronnie could have a sunroom where she drank tea, watched birds, read books and gossiped with her gals on the phone.
It was important to note that Ronetta was one half of the whole who made up my role models.
She, like Mom (and Dad and George), was always busy. It was her personality.
Mom was all about the kids she watched and the garden she grew and keeping the house tidy and looking after her family. Nearly every day, she wore dresses because they were easy and a ponytail at her nape because that was easy too (though, she was what she called “a natural woman” (and she’d call herself that right before she sang the song, which was right before Dad would sweep her in his arms and slow dance with her while she sang it) so she rarely wore makeup).
Ronetta also had a nice garden, but cooking was her thing.
And she was always turned out. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her without her hair and makeup perfect, her outfit just right, her shoes and purse and accessories coordinating like she styled movie stars.
She was also that woman you paid attention to so you could learn, because she always did the right thing.
She knew what to wear to the cinema, or to the town council meeting, or to the farmer’s market, or to a fancy birthday party. She knew the perfect gift to buy her children’s teachers or the perfect dish to bring to the potluck.
And she was that woman who entertained like she wrote the book on the subject. Just the right floral arrangements that had just the right amount of wow factor, nothing more, nothing less. Just the right hors d’oeuvres that were creative, unique and delicious. Just the right fold on the napkins that made them look elegant and told you she cared enough about you showing that she put in the extra effort. That supremely roasted prime rib sliced to perfection with a horseradish sauce you’d pay good money to have the recipe.
She could write style and etiquette books or create her own magazine. She was Martha Stewart in a braided-hair, petite, Black woman’s body (and no shade on Martha, the woman built an empire and survived an epic takedown only to launch an even more epic comeback) except Ronetta was a lot less bossy, and a lot more sweet.
I adored her.
I put on makeup every day because of her, even if I was raking pine needles.
I wore cute outfits to go to the grocery store, because I so admired that she did the same.
She was a woman who knew she was worth taking care of herself, enjoying every facet of being a woman and not caring what anyone thought of that.
And since Mom and Dad left, she’d been my touchstone.
She was super tight with my mom. But be it my age at the time, or just that she was a mother, after they disappeared, and when we heard nothing, she slipped into that role for me and never showed how worried or scared she was about what was happening.
One could say she had an unfortunately not-very-unique perspective on what could befall people at the hands of dirty cops.
And now…
Well now, she knew what might be happening in Idaho.
So now she was in my kitchen, whipping up soul food I’d be eating for the next week, and doing what she did even when Mom and Dad were here.
Looking after me.
I was supposed to be proofing a book, something I couldn’t concentrate on while Ronetta was in my kitchen, but I was faking it because she wanted me to get on with things while she saw to me.
But since I’d been faking it for a while, I decided she might be okay with me stopping.
So I looked over my shoulder and asked, “Is George coming over for dinner?”
She stopped mixing what I sensed was going to be dumplings to go into the chicken on the stove, glanced at her iWatch with its fancy tortoiseshell band, and replied, “He’ll be here in about twenty.”
George had also been tight with Dad. He was a dad, and he looked after me too, but they’d been serious buds and he hadn’t been as good at hiding his concern, then fear, and finally sadness when they vanished and never returned.