LITMIR.BIZ

      After the security alarm was disabled, Ebony shut the door behind her and kicked off her four-inch heels. There was nothing she loved more than returning home after a grueling day of work. She lived on a quiet street with other impressive homes in Linden Hills, a first tier suburb ten miles southwest of downtown Minneapolis. In the winter, the normally short commute was a killer, but Ebony didn’t mind. The privacy and solace that came with living in a respected and valued community outweighed all inconveniences.

      Charmed by the elegance of the four-bedroom, three-bathroom home, Ebony had fallen in love with it on sight. It had all the features and amenities she had been searching for: lofty, ten-foot ceilings; colossal picture windows; hardwood maple floors; and a small pool with an adjoining hot tub. Ebony loved the warmth and the light of the sun, and the surplus of oversize windows guaranteed daily doses of sunshine.

      Ebony had listened with half an ear, as the rail-thin Realtor lectured about the history of the house, the most recent renovations and the previous owners. After a brief walk-through, she had concluded that this was the house of her dreams. It was four thousand square feet of paradise and she was willing to do anything to call it home.

      “A single woman could go mad in a place of this size and magnitude,” the Realtor had teased. Ignoring him, she had strolled through the French doors and into the tree-shaded backyard. It was the size of a tiny forest. The Realtor chatted on, and was so unenthusiastic about her buying the Tudor-style house, Ebony started to think he had other clients lined up for it. Making note of his pessimism and mentally slashing his commission, Ebony ordered him to put her offer in. This was the house she wanted, and no one was going to dampen her enthusiasm. By the close of the month she had finalized the deal and moved in five weeks later.

      Dragging herself up the stairs, she stripped off clothes as she went. The master bedroom was the size of the apartment Ebony had lived in when she was a freshman in college. The light, open bedroom was an explosion of bright colors. Fuchsia bedding. A maroon area rug. Flower vases overflowing with every color of roses imaginable. The room was boldly decorated, ultrafeminine and perfectly Ebony. A full bathroom, completely outfitted in white; an enormous walk-in-closet; and a balcony wide enough for lounge chairs and a dainty glass table were her favorite aspects of the opulent master bedroom.

      Not wanting her sanctuary to be muddled, Ebony had selected a few choice pieces from an antique furniture store. A mahogany dresser, a steel vanity table, an iron-rimmed chair and a pair of glass nightstands framed her elevated sleigh bed. In the adjoining office, alabaster walls were adorned with African art purchased in Manhattan at the legendary Abuja Art Gallery. Her favorite painting was positioned beside the elliptical mirror, and at the peak of day, sunshine bounced off its golden frame and reflected off the opposite wall. A shapely Nigerian woman in traditional dress, balancing a water bucket on her head, and her offspring on her hip, served as a reminder to Ebony that there was nothing she couldn’t do. As she reflected on the potency and resiliency of her evocative female ancestors, self-respect stirred within her spirit. She was proud of who she was. Proud of her heritage. Proud of the legacy of her people. And proud of where she had come from.

      Ebony turned away from the picture. Clad in nothing but a black silk robe and slippers, she returned to the main floor to get a drink. En route to the kitchen, she passed the family room, which housed a fireplace which she had yet to use—comfy chairs and couches and a fifty-inch plasma screen TV. Ebony entered the kitchen and after opening the window above the sink, poured herself a drink. Ceramic tile counters, stainless steel appliances and a center table that seated eight made it a chef’s paradise. Ebony didn’t cook, so the less time she spent in the kitchen, the better off she was.

      Back in her bedroom, sipping peach-flavored iced tea, Ebony selected CD number three on her stereo. Jill Scott’s hypnotic voice filled the room, offering a sweet escape. Closing her eyes, she sang along. She bobbed her head fluently, feelings of tranquility washing over her. But Ebony’s peace didn’t last long. The telephone interrupted her thoughts and yanked her back into the here and now.

      “Hi, suga. Did you just get home?” Not bothering to wait for a response, Mae continued. “I called your office and that precious little receptionist of yours told me you were gone.”

      “I had a nail appointment.”

      “Are you okay? You don’t sound like yourself, honey.”

      “I’m tired,” Ebony replied. “Wednesdays are typically hectic days and today was no exception. I was about to step into the tub for a soak when you called. Everything all right?”

      Mae coughed. “Just fighting off this flu bug that’s been going around.”

      “Do you need me to bring you anything?” Ebony loved aunt Mae with all her heart and she would do anything to put a smile on her face. When her husband died from heart failure, Mae had packed up her load and moved to Minneapolis to be closer to her brother and his family. Out of respect for her husband, she had never remarried or had children of her own. But the seventy-four-year-old woman would tell anyone who listened that her feisty niece was the daughter she had always wanted. Ebony had quickly grown attached to her father’s sister. And when her parents had died in a horrific car accident at the hands of a drunk driver, it had been aunt Mae who nursed her through the ordeal and welcomed her into her home.

      “I’m all right, suga. I don’t need you to bring me anything, but I do need a small favor.” She paused, then added, “That is, if you don’t mind.”

      “I don’t mind, Auntie. What is it?”

      “I hate to have to bother you,” she began, her voice growing faint, “but I promised to cook tonight for the Changing Lives Through Meals program at Jubilee.”

      “What are you asking me to do, aunt Mae? You know I can’t cook.”

      “No, no, chile. Don’t be silly.” The thought of Ebony in the kitchen, wearing an apron and all, made her laugh. Her shoulders juddered uncontrollably. Once her chuckles subsided, she continued. “I prepared the food this afternoon, suga. Everything is ready to go. All I need for you to do is pick it up and run it over to the church for me.”

      Ebony didn’t want to go back outside. It was hot enough out there to cause a serious case of heatstroke. And tonight was the first time in months she had managed to leave the office at a decent hour. There were only two things on her agenda for the evening: peace and quiet. The season finale of CSI Miami was on at eight o’clock and Ebony had been looking forward to it all week. No, there was no room on her schedule to drive halfway across the city to deliver food.

      As if she could hear the deliberations going on in her niece’s mind, Mae injected her voice with cheer. “It’s for a good cause, Ebony, and it won’t take more than an hour if you leave the house right now. All you have to do is give the food to Brother Xavier, and then you can be on your merry little way.”

      Ebony checked the time. Her aunt’s town house was a ten-minute drive, the church twenty. If she took a quick shower instead of a lengthy bath, she could drop the food off at the church and

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