Second Chance for the Black Queen

Chapter 1 

Ashley

“Mommy, do I still look little?” asks Hope.

I put down my coffee mug, look across our little kitchen table, and study my daughter. She’s all creamy tawny skin, big hazel eyes, and three very askew pigtails in her shoulder-length wavy hair. She spoons the last of her breakfast cereal into her mouth. 

“Why, Hope, sweetie? All I see is my beautiful baby.”

I’m taken aback by the gorgeous child before me. Especially the way the morning light sparkles on her light brown hair.

“Mrs. Kennedy says we grow when we sleep. And I think I turned into a big girl in the night.” Her chair scrapes against the floor as she pushes it back to stand up. 

She picks up her bowl and studies the table for a few seconds. “Plus I ate my breakfast and drank my juice, and not one spill. Only big girls do that.”

Said with the confidence of a five-year-old.

My lips quiver as I try to hold back a laugh. The poor thing is unaware of the milk stains spattered all over the front of her dark T-shirt. I watch her walk to the sink, bowl in hand.

I hear her strain to get as far as her tippy toes will allow. After admirable effort, the bowl tumbles into the sink with a precarious sound, and I cross my fingers that nothing is broken.

Hope spins around and flashes a proud grin. The missing bottom tooth gives her a mischievous quality and pulls at my heartstrings.

“See! I don’t even need my step stool anymore.”

I smile and give her a short round of applause. “I can see that. But let’s still use it a teeny bit more, okay?”

“Just until I can put my bowl and spoon in gently?”

“Exactly. Now let’s get your hair done for camp. It’s almost time to get going.”

I get up from the table and tighten my dressing gown around me.

She frowns and lifts her little hands to feel the three scrunchies holding her hair together. “But my counselor at camp said my tooth fell out because I’m growing up… and that big girls do their own hair.”

I sigh and take a step toward her. “Well, I’m doing your hair today, so you’re still a little bit little. Do you want to be little or big? Anyway, I love that you want to be independent.”

“In-di what?”

“Yep. It’s a big word. It means you like doing things on your own, without help.” I wrap my arm around her shoulder and look down at her face. “You’re still my baby, and I have to help you with some things, okay?”

She nods and breaks the hug. We walk to my bedroom where I sit her in front of my dressing mirror. She tilts her head. “They are kind of wonky.”

“You tried, that’s what’s important. Maybe on Saturday, we can both wear our hair wonky if you’d like. And we can do a wonky art project.”

I pull out the scrunchies and brush her hair into a braided ponytail.

“But yours is too nice to be wonky.”

I glance at my reflection in the mirror. My curly hair is braided, cornrows meeting in a center puff that I can wear down to my waist or pull up into a bun. Cute enough for when I’m off-duty, and great for when I’m on-duty. Especially dealing with the muck of pipes and sewage, I don’t need hair in my face.

“Oh, everyone’s hair can be whacked out. We’ll find a way,” I tell her.

There’s barely enough time to change her shirt before the bus for camp hisses loudly outside.

“Beep beep,” she yells in unison with the honking blue bus.

Hope grabs her bag and flies out of the house without a goodbye. I stand in the doorway and watch her embark, hand in hand with a little girl from down the road. Another hiss and the bus pulls away from the curb and disappears around the next corner.

My big little girl. My pride in her hits me hard. It takes a few seconds to recognize the wet feeling on my cheek. I lift a balled-up fist to wipe the tears away. Then I shut the door and busy myself with clearing the kitchen.

I probably have twenty minutes tops…

A shrill ringtone interrupts my thoughts. I quickly finish wiping the surfaces then trot to my room to get the phone.

So much for twenty minutes. The day has begun.

I pick up the call and sit on my bed. A panicked elderly woman answers.

“Oh, Ashley. It’s a disaster. He said the YouTube would help him. He promised he could do it but now there’s water everywhere,” she wails into my ear.

“Hi, Mrs. Reid. Is the water spraying or leaking?”

“Spraying,” she cries. “Everywhere. My floors are ruined.”

That familiar jolt of adrenaline kicks in. A reminder that I love my job. “Just stay calm, Mrs. Reid. I’ll be there before you can say ‘burst pipes.’”

“Burst pipes! Hurry!”

I put down my phone and plod over to my closet. Anyone else and I might be in a hurry. The years I’ve spent in plumbing, in and around the East End, have given me a no-fail way of knowing when something is an emergency or not.

And Mrs. Reid? Well, she is the poster child for chronic alarmists. I take my time to pull on a beige jumpsuit, so similar to Hope’s coloring and so far from my own deep coppery skin.

One last glance in the mirror before I leave. Overalls on, boots fastened, hair tied, tool belt strapped. Then I lock up the house and jump into my van. This van, emblazoned with my company’s name, Plumb Perfect, is my second biggest achievement.

“Okay, Mrs. Reid,” I say to myself in the rearview mirror as I back out of the driveway. “Let’s see how bad your dishwasher is.”

This woman needs an intervention.

I expected to be greeted by a stream of liquid jutting from the dishwasher. Something like one of those fountains with a statue spouting water from its mouth or nether regions. But there’s no spray and her linoleum floors are intact, save for a small wet puddle on the tiles right next to the dishwashing machine.

Her husband stands sheepishly by the nearest exit. Smart man.

“Can you fix it?” Mrs. Reid asks behind me, the third time since I got here. Some of her composure has returned.

I poke my head once more into the cabinet next to the washer. “It’s the drain hose. Pretty standard stuff, very easy to fix. But first, can I get a mop to wipe this?” I point at the minuscule amount of water next to my foot.

“Let me find something.” Mr. Reid jumps to life and pulls a rag from a broom closet.

He comes over, and I step back while he bends down to mop the water.

“Okay, that’s it,” Mrs. Reid says when his help becomes overeager. She turns to me. “We’re good for whatever the estimate will be, Ashley. Please get it done before Fix-It-Felix here watches any more DIY videos.”

Her husband pulls himself up and slinks out of the kitchen.

“I’d love to, but I have to get a new hose and a few more things. I think the drain pump might also need some attention.”

“So how long will that be?”

“You’re my first call for the day and therefore my top priority. Let me just pop over to the office, then the hardware store, and I’ll be back. Before midmorning.”

My phone beeps, and I look down to read the message. Another burst pipe. Seems like an epidemic in the East End of Belmont.

I raise my head and meet Mrs. Reid’s eyes. I see that she suspects my return might be delayed.

She isn’t pleased, but I eventually negotiate my way out of her house. I drive through the historic streets of the East End, noting the homes of past and present clients. Another call comes in. I park by the side of the road to take it.

“Kelly, I’m on my way,” I say to the speaker.

Kelly is my office manager-slash-apprentice, and she holds down the fort at Plumb Perfect when my journeyman plumber, Ginny, and I are out in the field, which is most of the day.

“I’m not calling about that.” She giggles.

“What’s up then?”

“A call from Westcrest.”

“Woohoo. Big money. Who is it and what’s the issue?” I ask.

“A Charles, no last name. Sounds like a clogged drain. I’ll forward you the info.”

“Is Ginny in yet? I already have Mrs. Reid on my hands, and you know how she gets. I have to get a replacement piece for her dishwasher.”

“She got called out as soon as she walked in.”

I hear keys clacking through the phone. Kelly and her multi-tasking. I do some mental gymnastics and decide I can juggle everything.

The thing with the wealthy Westcrest residents is that work at their homes always fetches a higher price than my regular work. “Alright, I’m on it. It’s an easy part to replace at Mrs. Reid’s. I have one more house call, and then I’ll deal with Charles and his clog. Tell him I’ll be there before the end of the day.”

I start up the engine and drive off.

The other thing is that Westcrest reminds me of Luca. Beautiful, almost perfect Luca. I indulge myself with the warm feeling that bubbles in my stomach whenever I think of him.

Luca Walsh, the summer fling from a few years ago who I’ll never forget. Luca, whose portrait is under the dictionary entry for tall, dark, and handsome. Falling for him thrust me into his fast world six years ago, but I was almost as quickly thrust out when he left.

Luxury cars, champagne-filled nights, jet setting, and enough money to fix any problem in the world. More charming and generous than anyone I had ever met, and more gorgeous and more fun, too.

I sigh as I reach my next stop. The fling may be in the past, but at least I have the stories to tell my grandkids. Along with his daughter. He left before I could tell him. It was for the best.

I didn’t belong in that world. I only belong in the one I’ve built for myself. And right now my sole focus is building my business, providing for my family, and raising my daughter to be the incredible woman I know she’ll be. 

I jump out of the truck and head inside.