NETT ROBBENS, Writer …Aspiring Romance Novelist

Chapter 1

Sunday afternoon, May

In her mother’s kitchen, Octavia Middleton wept as she strategically placed seven, blue birthday candles around Spiderman’s image centered atop a sheet cake with rich whipped cream and lush strawberries.

Her baby’s favorite. His father’s favorite.

On his birthday, more than any other day, Octavia wanted to tell her son where his father was, and more importantly, why he wasn’t with them. But terror was a relentless captor, and not even Spiderman could rescue her from this sinking feeling. God help her, on each of her son’s birthdays, she died a little more.

“Tavia, what are you doing in there, child? Is the cake ready yet?” It was her mother, Dionne.

Wiping her eyes, Octavia called out, “Just about Momma.” She hurried to light the candles and made her way to the dining room holding the cake with steady hands despite the agony twisting at her heart. Placing the cake on the table, she watched as her son stepped forward with puckered lips, ready to blow out his candles. Octavia scampered to the middle of the table, out of the way, and held her breath.
Her eyes began to swell with tears—not only of pride, but of muddled regrets and mistakes—mistakes she should have given more thought to, regrets for not having the courage to stand up to what was wrong, and for letting things go unsaid and undone.

Regrets for letting her superhero slip away.
A smooth tenor note pulled at her attention and she glanced at the tall man standing at the head of the table, his lanky arms wrapped around the young dark-haired boy. As if performing in his old doo wop days, Harold Middleton led the small, tight-knit family, which consisted of his wife, three daughters and two grandsons, in a universal song of “Happy Birthday” with pride, while holding Tony close, encouraging him to enjoy the day he came into the world.

Octavia prayed that her father would speed up his soulful rendition but she knew there was no hope of that. Harold took great pleasure in making his grandsons feel special, and no one in their right mind was going to stop him—not even her. He placed a cursory kiss on top of the head full of jet-black wavy hair perched in front of him before saying, “Make a wish and blow out your candles, Tony.”
But it was Tony’s six-year-old cousin, Matty, who wiggled his way in front of the cake, his eyes never leaving Spiderman’s face. “Why come I can’t blow out the candles Grandpa?”

Harold chuckled while Octavia’s older sister, Lauren, a pediatric nurse, pulled her son away from the cake and ran her fingers through an unruly mass of sandy brown hair. “It’s how come…Matty,” she corrected, “and because it’s not your birthday. It’s Tony’s.”

“It’s okay, Aunt Lauren,” Tony said, wrapping a protective arm around his younger cousin’s small shoulders. “He can help me. Four candles for him and four for me.”

Watching them, Octavia’s heart tightened and she ran a finger across her eye, discreetly wiping away the habitual tear that fell hot and stinging against her cheek. She wished she had the good sense to rejoice, especially today. Yet, the conditions surrounding Tony’s birth made it almost impossible to do so, and for the past seven years each celebration left her feeling fretful, frightened and angry.

A delicate arm wrapped around her shoulder, startling Octavia from her thoughts. “My little man shouldn’t see you like this on his birthday.”

Dionne Middleton stood barely five foot, but carried enough authority to give a Navy SEAL pause. The head pediatric nurse at Grove Hill Memorial ruled with a light step and a firm hand—at work and at home. “It’s not good for him,” she continued in a low, firm voice. She reached up to smooth an errant curl from Octavia’s forehead. “And it’s not healthy for you.”

“I know that Momma,” Octavia said, turning away to scrape a tear from her mocha-hued cheek with the palm of her hand.

“Then snap out of it,” Dionne instructed as she leaned over to inspect the barely-touched punch. Nervous fidgeting ran in this family of high strung women, particularly when they were upset. “That cord was wrapped around Tony’s neck so tight, and his pressure dropped so fast, both of you nearly died.” There was a crack in Dionne’s voice, but she continued in the no nonsense way she had of making a point. She grabbed the plastic ladle and began stirring the fruity mixture, unintentionally striking the bowl’s crystal side. “You should be thankful you can celebrate after all that drama.”

After the rather brusque inference, Dionne allowed the ladle to slip from her fingers, and let out a sigh. A bit more compassion tempered her next words. “I know it’s difficult. But you can’t let this eat away at you every year.”

Octavia gripped the hem of her sweater as she watched her mother move to another nervous task of rearranging the triangular shaped napkins beneath the forks. Since she was a child, grabbing or flexing something had always been her way of controlling her temper. “Everything is under control Momma. I’m raising Tony.”

“And I commend you for it.” A napkin flipped back and forth twice before finding its place under a spoon. “But there’s no law that says you have to do it alone. Especially when his father is alive and well.”
“Momma.”

Her tone was harder than intended, and without looking up, Octavia could feel six sets of eyes watching her, each for a different reason, and a different reaction.

Octavia knew it didn’t matter one iota to her mother that at age twenty-seven, she was a successful day-care center owner with two degrees, one in early childhood education, the other in business administration. And although her mother thought it wonderful that she owned her own home, paid her taxes and attended parent teacher conferences faithfully, she would still smack her back into the Stone Age if she gave her attitude.

“Suga?”

Dionne’s head tilted at the endearment, and Octavia glanced to her left to see her father’s hazel eyes marred with concern.

“You and baby girl alright over there?” he asked, his smile dimming.

Dionne walked over to her husband. She patted his arm, and then wrinkled her nose—a flirty move that always returned the twinkle to Harold’s eyes. “We’re good Rolly. Just talking … you know.”

Octavia released the hem of her sweater and shook her head. Her mother was about to slice her two ways from Sunday, and all she can say is they’re “just talking?” It amazed her at how quickly her father’s pleasant disposition returned. Her parents were married for thirty-three years, and he still melted like ice cream at the mere sight of her mother. Then again, Dionne could charm the skin off a snake, so her father didn’t stand a chance.

“Excuse me, I’m going to get the ice cream,” Octavia said, making her way toward the kitchen. Yet, she knew she wouldn’t go alone. Dionne Middleton wasn’t the type of woman to back down or be dismissed.

Lauren watched her mother and sister trudge their way into the kitchen, aware of two sets of young eyes that hadn’t missed much. “Omi, I think the boys are thirsty. Why don’t you pour some punch?”

“I wanna go help with the ice cream,” said Naomi, the youngest Middleton sister, and resident artist, pointing her thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “That’s where the action is.”
Naomi attempted to get up, but Lauren quickly pressed her elbows on her shoulders, and leaned against her ear.

“Stay right where you are nosey girl,” she whispered. “That’s between Momma and Tavia. Leave it alone.” She held Naomi to the chair, until kitchen door closed completely, shielding mother and daughter from curious eyes.

In the kitchen, Dionne crossed her arms over her small breasts, and leaned against the butcher block table situated in the middle of the large room, her dark brown eyes following her daughter’s agitated moves.
“Tony needs his father,” she said as Octavia jerked containers of vanilla and strawberry ice cream from the freezer, and placed them on the counter. “And Marcus has the right to know about his son.”

Marcus. The name alone made Octavia gasp for air, lose her mind, and bawl like a baby. She loved him since her freshman in high school, when she first saw him standing on the school’s lawn. At the time, she was in the middle of an altercation with a local bully, ready to accept the repercussions of throwing a book that barely missed his eye. Before the bully could connect his angry fist to her face, Marcus grabbed him by the neck, and after few punches to his ribs and face, tossed him into a thistle of rose bushes.

From that moment on, he’d been her hero and for the next seven years, they were inseparable. Soul mates.
It never mattered that they were from slightly different worlds, from different cultures—she African-American, he Puerto Rican, she from middle-class, he from wealth and privilege. He had always been the other part of her, her partner in life. It never occurred to her that she’d be without him for the rest of her life.

“Marcus has the right to live his dream Momma with no interference.”

“Is that what you think you and my grandson are? Interference?” Dionne shook her head, her silver gray hair shining like jewels beneath the recessed lighting. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It is not. Don’t you remember what Marcus’s crazy mother said to me that day in the doctor’s office? I was nineteen years old and scared out of my mind. I can still hear her smug, superior tone. I’m not putting Tony in that kind of danger.”

“Don’t you think if Marcus knew about his son he would protect both of you?”

“Momma, I left him. Do you think he’s actually going to welcome me back with open arms? It doesn’t matter that I gave him a son. I left his engagement ring on the nightstand, and crept out of his life in the middle of the night.”

“I can’t say I approve, but I understand. You didn’t have a choice. The woman threatened to stop his inheritance if you didn’t leave him.”

“There was more to it, Momma. The woman told me to watch my back. That she’d have me—” Octavia paused and began to gnaw at her bottom lip. She’d never told her parents about the entire altercation with Mona in the doctor’s office years ago, and she wasn’t ready to tell her now. Knowing her mother, she’d probably hunt Mona down.

Octavia turned her ear toward the dining room to listen for voices, and it was only after she heard her son’s laughter did she relax. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Nowadays, paranoia was a way of life.