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Uncorrected Excerpt, Copyrighted with all rights reserved by Kimani Press, Harlequin.

Takin’ Chances for the Holidays available on bookshelves October 2006

Her first

"They said they were sending out a new physical therapist today," my mother said. 
I looked across the kitchen table at Mama sitting in her wheelchair.  "What happened to Melissa?"
"She broke her fool leg skiing."   Mama rolled her eyes. 
"That’s too bad.  I know she’s going to hate being off her feet.  She’s so active."
"Humph.  It’s her own fault.  The silly heifer strapped sticks of wood to her feet to slide down a mountain in ice-cold snow and for what?" 
I hid my smile behind my cup of coffee.  Mama was working herself up to rare form this morning.
"For what, girl?"
"I don’t know, Mama."
"To climb back up the cold-ass, snowy mountain and slide down it again.  It’s insane, I tell you.  Back in the day, black folk had more sense."
"Times change."
"And not for the better," Mama grumbled.  "Lord knows what sort of fool I’m going to get up in here to replace her."
"I’m sure whoever they send will be fine."  At least I hope they’ll be fine once Mama gets done with them.
Mama had been staying with me ever since she had her stroke.  I wished she’d sold the house in Eskridge and come to Atlanta sooner.  But Mama was stubborn. 
Damned if I live off my children.  Besides, y’all get on my last nerve, she’d say.
Mama was a mess.  Like she thought she didn’t get on my last nerve too. 
"What day are you off work this week?" she asked.
"I’m off next Friday."
"I can never tell when you’re coming or going.  I see why there’s a nursing shortage if they put all of y’all through this hoohah."
"My schedule is regular, Mama.  I work every other weekend, and I have every other Monday and Friday off."
"How are people supposed to keep track what’s every and what’s other?"
"It’s on the calendar on the refrigerator."
"Humph.  There’s a sale at J.C. Penney’s this weekend.  I have some Christmas shopping I have to finish.  I wanted you to go and get me some things."
"Why not have May do it?" 
"May is one of the ones I need to shop for—besides I never see you since you hired that other part-time aide."
I have to guard my off days.  Otherwise, I know Mama’d drive me crazy.  I need time to escape to my room, read a book, get on the computer or simply get away from the house.
"We see each other all the time.  I got the other aide so I could have a bit of breathing space."
"A waste of money is what I call it."
"Do you want more coffee, Mama?"
"I’m all right."
"I’m going to shower and dress."
"Hurry up, I need you to help me to the bathroom soon."

* * *
A few minutes later, I was in the shower, warm water sluicing over my skin.  I wished it could wash the fatigue out of my bones too. 
I don’t know how I was going to get in everything I need to do.  I need groceries, and I have Christmas shopping to do.  The season was closing in on me and I don’t feel a bit festive.
There was no way I could get anything done before I had to be at work at three p.m.  I’d been working second shift ever since I graduated from nursing school. 
Now I wished I worked day shift.  It felt as if I put in a full shift at home before I went to work and put in another.  I was up early every morning to get my mother up, get her dressed, and feed her breakfast.  I got up at least twice during the night to turn her so she didn’t get bedsores. 
But despite everything, I appreciated the opportunity to pay back the love.  Mama got up more than twice a night for me once upon a time.  She’d woke up early to feed me breakfast and get me dressed for years. 
My brother helps to supplement Mama’s limited income and he pays for the nurse’s aides, but he has a growing family and he lives in Californa, so the physical help he’s able to give is limited.    
"Sharyn!"
Ah, Mama bellows.  I turned off the water and hurried out of the shower.  "You all right?"
"I need to go to the bathroom now."
I pulled a robe over my damp body and rushed to take care of my mother.  
I’d just gotten Mama settled into the wheel chair when the doorbell rang. 
"Let the new girl in," Mama said.  "I can’t wait to see what kind of fool they sent me this time."
I pitied the physical therapist, whoever they were, that had to deal with my mother.  Mama was always cantankerous at best, but she was impossible now she was wheelchair and homebound. 
I pulled my robe tighter and wished I’d had time to get dressed before the new therapist arrived. 
When I opened the door, instead of the therapist, a handsome white man stood on the doorstep.  He didn’t look like the salesman type, but I supposed the better ones didn’t.  He looked like a movie star, all sun-streaked hair, blinding white teeth and expensive everything. 
"Can I help you?" I asked.
"My name is Nick Cohen.  I’m here to see Betty Silvers."
"She isn’t interested."  I wonder what he was selling?  What kind of door-to-door salesman affords a slammin’ suit like that?
"What?"
"She isn’t interested in anything you have to sell.  Thank you." 
I started to push the door shut, but to my astonishment, he blocked it with his foot.  

"Take your foot out of my door," I said, incredulous.
"I think Mrs. Silvers will be interested in what I have to offer."
"Take your foot out of my door before I knock it out."
Was I gonna have to call 911 on this fool?  I’d heard of persistent salesmen, but dang.
"You misunderstand." 
Misunderstand what?  Did he think he was talking to a child?
"I have an appointment with your grandmother.  I’m going to be doing her therapy."
Oops.
"Betty Silvers is my mother," I said.  "You don’t look like a therapist."  That was an understatement.  "How are you going to do therapy in a suit like that?" 
I know suits, and that one cost more than a dime.
"Would you like to see my badge?" he asked.
"Please."
He dug through his wallet and handed me a card.  His hands weren’t Hollywood.  They were the hands of a man who worked, rough and calloused although clean, rather than the manicured fingers of a suit-wearing fancy-model dude. 
"I’m sorry, I should have been wearing this badge, but I hurried here from a meeting," he said.
I glanced at his picture and the logo of the therapy company.  Yep, he apparently worked there and he had initials after his name.  He was a certified physical therapist. 
"Maybe we should reschedule this appointment anyway."  With another therapist.  Mama wasn’t about to let some white man with salon-scissored hair and a thousand dollar suit lay a hand on her. 
"That’s not possible.  I’m here to provide the therapy Mrs. Silvers rehabilitation doctor ordered."  He cleared his throat.  "Are you going to let me in?"
Alrighty then.  Nobody could say I didn’t try to save him.  I stood aside. 
"I’ll introduce you to my mother."  Lord help the man.
As I led him inside, all of a sudden, I was acutely aware of my nakedness under the bathrobe, the rough terrycloth rubbing against my skin.
"Who is this?" Mama demanded as soon as we entered the den.  "My therapist is supposed to be here now."
"This is the therapist, Mama.  Nick Cohen, this is my mother, Betty Silvers."
Mother didn’t say a word, but studied him from the top of his light brown, sun-streaked hair and blue eyes, down his expensive-as-hell Savile Row suit to the tip of his Barker Blacks. 
"What the hell is this white man doing in our house, Sharyn?" Mama finally asked.
Nick Cohen flinched.
"He’s here for your therapy, Mama," I repeated.
"The hell he is.  What fool is going to come to bend and sweat with some old lady wearing that get-up?  You thought you was going to a party, boy?"
I noticed Nick Cohen’s cheeks pinkened up nicely. 
"No ma’am."
So Nick Cohen wasn’t dumb.  That was the only right answer, as far as Mama was concerned. 
"Then what’s wrong withcha, boy?"
"Nothing that I’m aware of, Mrs. Silvers."
"Humph.  Well, it’s your suit that’s gonna get ruined, fool.  I leak.  Sometimes us old ladies do.  Anytime, any where, any orifice might start leaking, just like that. Leak, leak, leak, all over the place.  Can you deal with that, boy?"
His eyes widened.  "If I must, ma’am."
I tried not to grin and scored him a point. 
She chuckled.  "He’s not too bad.  Take off that jacket.  Do you want Sharyn to get you a pair of her sweatpants and a T-shirt?  They’ll stretch.  He’s a tall one, isn’t he, Sharyn?  Look at those muscles."
I’d been looking.  He must work out.  Tall, well built and fine was a nice combo anyhow you wrapped it. 
"No, I’ll be all right," he said, as he swept off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.  I turned to leave.
"Where are you going?" Mama asked.
"I need to get dressed."
"You’re not going to leave me alone with this strange man.  He could be a rapist or something."
I tried not to giggle at the strangled noise that emanated from Nick Cohen’s direction.
"A rapist?  Mama, please."
"You get over here and help this man."
"Really, I don’t—"
"Shhhhh.  Be quiet, girl.  First rule of the Silvers household.  Never interrupt Mrs. Betty Silvers."  She gave the therapist a meaningful look.  "You got that?  Under no circumstances mess up my train of thought because once it’s lost, I might not be able to find it again.  Now, as I was sayin’, Sharyn, go and get me my gait belt hanging on the back of the bedroom door."
There was no point in arguing with Mama in this mood.  I went.
Nick was perusing Mama’s chart when I returned with the belt a moment later. 
"Put down that chart, boy," Mama ordered.  "I know my own routine.  First we walk to the bedroom, and then I take a little rest while you bring me hot sweet tea and cinnamon toast.  You have enough sense to make cinnamon toast?"
"I believe so," he said. 
"Good.  Where’s that gait belt, Sharyn?"

***

Fifteen minutes later, I decided Nick Cohen knew what he was doing.  He expertly supported Mama, so she was safe and felt secure, but she still did a good deal of work. 
He was better than Melissa, who coddled Mama too much.  By the time Mama reached the bed, she was breathing hard.
"Sharyn, come over here and help me lie down."
"I’d also like to observe your transfer technique," Nick said. 
He must have no idea that I’m an RN and heaving heavy patients around by myself is my bread and butter.  I’m small, around 110 pounds, and short, while my mother weighs at least 200 pounds.  I forgave him because at first, everybody thinks I’m going to have trouble.
I locked the wheelchair brakes, locked my knees against Mama’s and flexed my hips. With one easy motion I leaned over and pivoted Mama around to the bed. 
He cleared his throat. 
I almost dropped Mama when I realized my robe had fallen open and the entire curve of my breast was visible.    Mortified, I tightened the belt to my robe before I moved around the bed, adjusting my mother’s position.  Mama closed her eyes and fell blessedly silent.
"Nice. . . nice technique.  The way you moved really saved your back muscles and spine," Nick said, his voice husky. 
I darted a glance at him.  He was leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets. 
"If I didn’t know what I was doing, I’d probably be in a wheelchair myself.  I work med-surg at St. Margaret’s Hospital.  Speaking of, I better get dressed for work."
"Show him what he needs to make the cinnamon toast and tea," Mama said without opening her eyes.
I met his gaze and a wave of sexual awareness passed between us.  Our gazes lingered, too long, filling me with a warm, wet needing. 
Nick’s eyes were narrowed, his cheeks flushed, his hands deep in his pockets, hiding the arousal I knew without a doubt was present.  Oh Lord.  He must think I expose myself to every man who comes in this house.  That I was stuck in here caring for my invalid mother, desperate for some . . .  
"The kitchen is that way," I said.  "I have to get dressed."
I turned and fled.