In His Arms

By R.H. Krämer

When two imperfect young adults from nearly perfect families meet and their worlds change for a better they never imagined, a love story is born.

Celine, a black first-generation Detroiter, was not always treated very kindly growing up in the high caste society. She can remember being called enough derogatory names to fill a dictionary with by girls she had come to know as her friends.

Daniel, a German devout Lutheran and perfectionist, who spends most of his time building his brand and perfecting his talents, has no time to bother with the activities and social lives of most kids his age. Celine notices that women of all ages admire his striking features and charisma, but Celine is the only woman that he can see. She is the only woman that he wants.

Tragedy strikes when Celine finds herself in harm’s way during her summer internship with a bigot that disapproves of her interracial relationship with Daniel. Who will save her and how will such a tragedy affect the fresh duo? Will the insecurity of being so inexperienced with a man that every woman wants a piece of coupled with the psychological scars of being attacked be enough to break Daniel and Celine apart?

Experience the excitement of first love all over again with this couple that have quite a few challenges to overcome along the way. Their ultimate goal is to make it through together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662421716

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In His Arms

R.H. Krämer

Copyright © 2022 R.H. Krämer

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-6624-2170-9 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-2171-6 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

This book is dedicated to two great friends. To Aretha Benson, a pure, beautiful soul taken from the world too soon. You taught me to follow my dreams. Every day I live this life, I try to honor yours. And to my dear friend Cate (Humphrey) Vickory for the love that you brought to my life. I thank you more than you could have ever known. I miss you and love, love, love you. You both left me with memories of so many great moments. Always and forevermore, rest peacefully, my friends.

Chapter One

The smile is the beginning of love. (Mother Teresa)

I tape along the lid of the last box, momentarily breaking the silence of the room. A silence which allows the volume of the thoughts in my head to amplify to their loudest. This space is usually filled with giggles and popular music. Now it is so quiet. Silent. My three suitemates moved back to their homes before I could finish my last final exam.

This cold room looks the same as the day I first moved in nine months ago. I have learned much of my schoolwork and even more about myself in this dorm room. I have learned to get along with three very different girls from three very different backgrounds. The volume of my mind begins to rise as my mind replays some of the moments I spent with my suitemates. My baby steps into adulthood. A knocking at the main door of the dorm room silences my mind, jolting me back into the present.

I search the room for anything I might have overlooked along my walk to the door. I want to be sure that I am not forgetting any of my personal things. I am sure that it is my papa, or William Scott to the rest of the world. I missed him so much. I missed home. I turn the knob, and there he is, standing about a full foot over me. His bright, magnificent smile beams as I jump into his arms.

Oh baby bear, how I have missed your hugs. Look at my college junior, Papa says as he lowers me, planting my feet back on the wooden floor. Let’s get you home. Almost as soon as my feet touch the floor, I hurry back to my bed to bring my last boxes to add to the others already near the door.

Papa has already began loading the boxes onto his shiny metal hand truck. I put on my backpack and my purse before I lift the last box. One last pause to look around the suite. Papa fastens the straps around the four boxes he has loaded. Now it looks just as it did the day that I arrived at my home away from home the first time. I walk side by side with Papa. I stop at the front desk to return my keys and sign my final paperwork. A bittersweet moment. He leads the way, holding all the doors along the way to a Bronco. I am sure he has rented it for the day. This truck is not my papa’s style at all.

I am surprising your mama with a spa day, tomorrow. I prepaid for the both of you to be serviced and have a light lunch together, Papa explains as he loads up the boxes. I hug him from the side. It has always been the little things that made me miss my family. He pats my back in between loading the boxes. Let’s get on the road, baby bear, he says. I nod and jump up into the truck.

The world blurs along the highway as we drive home. My mind wanders away from Papa’s jazz station on the radio. I can’t believe my sophomore year is done. I am already half the way done with college. Being home is going to be so strange. I have applied to a couple of internships so that I don’t have to waste too much time doing nothing, but I haven’t heard anything back. I don’t know how Mama, Cynthia Cross-Scott, stays home so much.

When she and Papa moved to Detroit, Michigan, they were so young. They arrived from the segregated South’s Tuskegee, Alabama. They were two of the few young people of color that had high school diplomas and college degrees. My papa’s parents could never see the life he and Mama had built for us, for themselves. My big daddy, George Scott, maintains a job cleaning cars for the big heads of Tuskegee. It is work that our family has done since times of slavery. Although back then, it was carts and carriages instead of automobiles. Big Mama, Ethel Scott, has always been a Sunday school teacher at a church. Seeing the fancy automobiles is what sparked my papa’s interest in cars. He had no desire to clean them. No. Papa wanted to design them, and so he does.

At twenty-two years old, Papa was an appointed engineer for Edison Motors. No application, no interview. He was appointed to the position by his mentor from Tuskegee University, who was the new vice president of operations. Papa was elevated into a higher caste society shortly after arriving in Detroit. A caste that people from my papa’s life struggled with believing in. How could they? It was unheard of for a man of color to be so successful and financially comfortable.

I only hope my life can surpass the dreams that Papa has for me like his life surpassed his father’s dreams. He is always so determined and dedicated to accomplishing brilliant things. I am proud to be his daughter, though it brings so much pressure. Mama only hopes and prays for my health and safety. I could do anything respectable, and she would be fine with it so long as my body, mind, and soul are healthy. I can’t blame her for feeling that way.

My mama’s life began in tragedy. She was the product of her mother being raped on the way home from school on one truly dark day. My grandma was a young thirteen-year-old and died during Mama’s birth. Her body was just too small to deliver without fatal damage to her organs, including her heart. After her mother’s death, Mama was sent to the church’s orphanage because her grandparents were too heartbroken to bear the sight of her. An innocent infant.

Not many people were in the habit of adopting back then because many families were overcrowded and already faced their own struggles to find work to support their families. My mother remained an orphan until she graduated from high school. She slept in the same bed from the age two until fourteen when the church was burned down in arson, ruining the orphanage as well. A tragedy that led her to the life she has now. Mama was transferred to the church that Big Mama taught Sunday school at. That is where Cynthia Cross and William Scott met and fell in love instantaneously. Her and Papa’s love story is better than any fairy tale I have read.

As a first-generation middle-class Detroiter, I have been treated unkindly growing up in the higher caste society. I have only attended the Catholic school that my father’s other colleagues sent their children to. And boy oh boy, were those kids rotten. Many of my classmates were boarded at school because their parents could barely tolerate their privilege attitudes and constant disrespect. I have been called enough derogatory names to fill my own dictionary with. Most of those names have come through the smiles of my best friends that live across the street. Ella and Emma are the evil twins that drive me insane.

I swear those two don’t like anyone in this world, including each other. But we have played together for as long as I can remember. I have found my place in our friendship as their buffer. I tried to stay away from them at one point of my life, but our fathers work together, and our mothers are close friends. Resisting their place in my life is pointless, so I, instead, embraced it. Their family is several generations of wealth, just as the others of our community.

Once I graduate from State University and begin teaching, I will not have the income to remain in the caste I grew up in, but that is okay with me. If I have only learned one lesson in college, it is how fine I am not being in my parents’ circle any longer.

I have been home for just over a week with no job offer. I am beginning to consider taking a job at the local library for the summer reading programs. It would be better on my resume than sitting around all summer with Ella and Emma, listening to their sexcapades just as the summers before. Just as I get Mama’s typewriter loaded and ready to type up my resume, I can hear Papa pulling into the driveway. I know he has a trunk full of groceries from the butcher because it is pay-Friday.

I hurry out to help him. I grab the milk, eggs, and wrapped fresh loaf of bread, bringing them in first. The heat feels distinct in the city. Every time I walk in the house, the coolness of the historical home gives me a little more gratitude.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

The phone rings before I can go out to help more. I answer the heavy receiver, trying to balance it on my shoulder. A woman’s voice speaks. Hello, I am calling for Celine Scott, please.

I continue the conversation with the woman, taking notes on the While You Were Out pad beside the phone. The call is for an interview with an office that my resume was forwarded to. My declared major at State University is education with a minor in history. I have spent the better of spring calling and mailing my resume and cover letter to summer school teaching assistant jobs, school administration internships, and a few local mentorship programs, so this call for an interview Monday morning with Washington and Wilbur law office baffles me.

I can feel my nerves exciting. I know nothing of law other than the rules of the road which I learned in driver’s education at the Catholic Church four years ago. What kind of job am I being considered for? What questions are they going to ask me? Who forwarded my resume to their office? One thing is for sure: not one of my questions will be answered standing here by the phone. I have Mama’s typewriter loaded literally with the intent to apply for an any job, so at least this one has sought me out.

I place the last dish in the cabinet after another delicious meal. I have missed Mama’s delicious unique recipes. The most traditional meals are catapulted into fresher renditions in her head. In all the meals we have shared in this home, I cannot recall a single failure.

You up for a jigsaw puzzle? I found this charming scene at the bookstore in the fall and decided it would be fun to do together, Mama says. She hands me the sealed box so that I can get a look at the picture. It is a beautiful scene of blooming pink and violet flowers along the bank of a calm river. The grassy mountains border the distant walls until the partly cloudy sky meets the tips of the most distant masses.

I am. This is not going to be easy with the sky’s reflection in the calm river, I warn.

Mama smiles and winks before she grabs the hot water kettle off the stove. I guess I better put the water on now.

I chuckle as I open the box to release all four hundred pieces. This is almost twice as many pieces as our previous after dinner puzzle counts. I sit at the breakfast table and begin separating the pieces by color, separating all of the edge pieces into their own pile. Mama prepares the tea, setting the timer for the steeping. So how was sophomore year?

It wasn’t different from freshman year, really. Lots of studying and research at the library. I read four novels for pleasure, so that was great. I try to think of anything notable from the last nine months.

Which books? Mama asks. She spirals a lemon into each of our cups for flavor.

I cannot help but smile, looking over how nice everything Mama serves always turns out. Too frequently, taste and presentation of a dish do not meet the level of superiority that my mama puts into everything she serves. She could easily teach culinary arts to skilled chefs. I almost forget the question Mama has asked me. "Oh. Sorry, Mama. I was admiring the work you are putting into the tea. I read The Bluest Eye by Morrison. It was on sale at one of the across-from-campus bookstores. I picked up L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time to read again. I remembered you reading that story to me as a kid, but it had been so long since I had taken a fantasy literary journey like that. It felt like time again." I stand to help bring my cup to the table.

"Those are great reads. They are strong reads that invoke contrasting but strong emotions. The Bluest Eye was a difficult read for me. As a half-blood black kid raised predominantly with full-blood black kids, I witnessed differences in our treatment outside the orphanage. I saw the effects of our Southern society on some of the most captivating people I have ever seen, just because they had darker skin and coarser hair than those judging them. We sit at the table and begin putting the pieces together. I am glad you had another visit with my favorite three Ms. Ws, Mama jokes, referencing the supernatural women in L’Engle’s work. Which other two books?"

"I went way outside of my comfort zone and read Pet Sematary by Stephen King." I pause for Mama’s reaction. I am not a person that generally welcomes horror or thriller literature or cinema.

And what did you think of it? she asks without looking up from the flower bed she is working on.

I couldn’t read it before bed. It wasn’t the worst, but it was evil in a way that reminded me why I stay out of that genre, I say as I try to get the border of the puzzle set. We laugh together briefly before I continue. "I also read Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice. That is a vivid story. It is weird because you sympathize with the villain shortly after they succumb to their monstrous nature and slaughter people like animals to a butcher." I summarize the non-horrific aspects of the two novels I know that my mama will never open.

We sit and talk and recreate the picture for over an hour. I missed these nights with Mama. Papa had to work on his calculations and concepts after dinner some nights, and my mama has always taken a stand against me sitting around and watching television all day and night. Now it is only natural for me to do everything before I watch television. It is a habit so deeply engrained I barely watched television while I was away at school.

I wake up early enough to take Papa to work so I can use his car for the interview. I don’t want to chance it waiting for the Woodward bus. I put on my nice new slacks Mama picked up for me from Hudson’s Department Store on Friday after I told her the news about the interview. I look myself over after I have pulled all the pieces together. This look will do.

The traffic is light on the drive to the factory. After dropping off Papa, I still have time to kill, so I decide to drive down Jefferson Avenue on the way to the law firm. I love to roll the windows down and take in the Detroit River’s cool morning breeze. The drive reminds me of the summers we would come down by the river and have lunch with Papa. The factory reserved a small park off the riverbank in its construction. The little piece of nature is surrounded by an array of tulips in every color, maple trees, dogwoods, and arborvitaes which fill the air with a relaxing, refreshing fragrance. The ancient trees always create a nice shaded spot for us to relax beneath.

Papa had been recruited by his mentor, Mr. Burksbury, once he graduated. Mr. Burksbury decided that the South was nowhere for a talent like Papa to begin his family. And let’s face it—he needed fresh new ideas for the direction the company was trying to go. Papa’s love of cars and knowledge of engineering made him an obvious choice. Less than a year after moving to Detroit, I was conceived.

Papa earned a good living wage, so my parents moved out of the apartment in the Cass-Davenport District to an exceedingly nicer home on Arden Park Boulevard. My mama frequently teaches piano to the local families to make a little extra money for us to have a taste of the more extravagant things here and there. They are not doing too badly for themselves.

I am pulled from my mind’s ramblings as I turn off Woodward Avenue. The law office is in the Midtown district, just north of the Cass Corridor district. This is the area of Detroit that landed it high marks on the highest crime cities in America. You would never think that an area so close to the downtown of a major city would be left so uncared for. The Masonic Temple is only around the corner, and the prestigious and elite public high school is just across from there, but these dilapidated buildings have provided shelter to the broken and the derelict. The office itself is situated in a less than ideal location.

As I walk in the heavy, dark wood entrance door, I am greeted by a curvy middle-aged black woman with dark skin and a graying afro puff ponytail on top of her head with big circle designer glasses and purple lipstick. She is dressed more like a librarian. Her brown and gold silk scarf is the same designer as her glasses, and she has on a yellow cardigan, not a blazer. She types while on the phone as she peers up at me over her glasses with a look of concern.

She covers the receiver and whispers to me, I am so sorry. Can I have a short moment to finish up with this client on the phone?

I nod with a smile. That would be just fine. Uh-oh, my mama’s accent is making an appearance. Though sweet to the ears, Mama’s accent is the last thing a professional office in Detroit could possibly be looking for. I must relax.

I look around at the surprisingly spacious front office as she finishes up the phone call. Dark shiny wood paneling covers the walls halfway up and then godawful orange wallpaper picks up the rest of the way to toward the ceiling. The two desks are both the same dark wood color with brown leather chairs. All the degrees, certificates, acknowledgments, etc., are on the walls framed in the same dark wood. Two large indoor green plants hang from the ceiling near the office windows in the white hanging baskets they were sold in. The office smells like pine sap, coffee, and peppermints.

I’m sorry about that wait, dear. A few cases just wrapped up, and I have been getting all the files in order. Have a seat, dear. What can I do for you?

Hello, I am Celine Scott. I am here to interview for a summer internship, I say in the most professional voice I can muster up while fighting down any remnants of Mama’s Southern accent.

Ahh. I see. For a moment there, you had me worried that you needed to sue your job. You’re much too young for the kind of problems we generally handle, she says with relief. I am Miss Clarice, the paralegal for the firm. The job is to be a secretary up here with me. The guys are picking up business, and we need someone to help with some of the office stuff around here. How does that sound to you? She peers over her glasses again.

I smile softly before I answer. I have never worked in an office, but I am smart, and I am an organized person, so I will do my best. I smile again, glad to sound more professional this time.

She begins flipping through the manila folders and papers on her desk in search of a notepad. One appears to be my resume and cover letter. Where did they get my resume from? She skims over the papers once more and make a few notations directly on the resume as we talk. The questions are overly generalized. When she thanks me and shakes my hand, I am certain by the dry interaction from such a flavorful person that my lack of experience has put me out of the running. I am glad for the opportunity to interview, even if I am not a good fit for the office.

Miss Clarice asks me one last series of questions, as we stand, about my work schedule and when classes are scheduled to resume. My schedule is probably the best thing about me as a candidate. I have wide open availability until August. Hopefully, this will put me higher up in the running for this position.

"Thank you so much again for coming in. If you are considered further, you can expect a call no later than tomorrow. Once the guys return, they will review all the interview notes together," Miss Clarice informs me as I gather my things to leave. I smile and nod as I say goodbye again. I glance at the clock. Have I really been here for an entire hour? It went by so quickly.

I get into the smoldering hot car and head back up Woodward Avenue in route home. I drive past stores, restaurants, libraries, a museum, the art institute, colleges, police stations, train stations, and so much more of Detroit’s culture. It all sits on one bus line. The drive reminds me of the last time Auntie Penelope came up to stay with us. The three of us spent an entire day at the various landmarks Woodward has to offer.

Once home, I go right up to my room and change out of these stuffy, restrictive clothes. My mind revisits my fond memory. I miss Auntie Penelope. I slip into my pink polyester stirrup leggings and my ivory tunic with the pink floral trim and matching bow at the empire waist. Mama bought this cute outfit for me while we were on one of those expeditions out to Hudson’s. I can still fit into it just as I could the day Mama bought it for me four or five years ago.

I run back down the stairs to look for Mama. I look in the kitchen, then out the back window, to see if she is tending to her vegetable garden, no Mama. Then I hear a giggle before the notes on the piano begins to fill the silence in the house. I lean against the wall and sink down and let the keystrokes take me away. With the cool wall at my back and the cool floor beneath my butt, I am pulled into a tranquil state. I miss this part of being home.

I shake out of that tranquil state halfway through the score by the banging at the door. It’s them. It’s always them! My longest friends, the twin spawns of Satan’s loins—Emmeline and Elizabeth, more affectionately known as Emma and Ella. At sight, the twins are nearly completely identical. They have the same haircut, are the same height, and often have on the same jewelry and accessories. I take a deep breath and go outside on the porch to spend time with my best friends. Today, Ella has on her lavender eyelet camisole paired with lavender stretch pants under an overalls-skirt. Her strand of pearls lies across her collarbones. Emma has on a basic black camisole with a high-end pouf mini skirt. To describe, the looks sound similar, but they are quite distinct sights. Emma is always a bit more high-fashion sexy between the two.

I had a date with the son of one of Daddy’s workmates. Let’s just say that you two nearly lost the best of this trio to the prison system, Emma says. She has no shortage of self-esteem.

I position myself on the stone exterior edge of the window. Insult aside, what happened? I ask, wanting to get through this story as quickly as possible. If I know my friend well, she is about to be inappropriate and even more offensive.

Ella shakes her head, giggling softly. You would think she was trying to hold it in. Emma raises an eyebrow but continues. The entire date was a disaster. First, he took me to the movies, but he wasn’t smart enough to buy the tickets beforehand, so we ended up going into a movie that was ten minutes in. We got seats too far to the right, so we had a horrible view of the screen. Just all the makings of a bad date. I thought to myself, he is cute enough despite not being too bright, so we can at least make out. She tells the story exasperated. She has dated more than me and Ella combined, making her expectations higher than her date is usually ready for. The idiot yelps and spills the popcorn all over both of us, she complains.

Ella and I giggle together this time. Did he seem like he was new to dating? she manages to ask.

Who gives a shit, Ella? I was wearing my white silk button-down blouse, and it is covered in popcorn butter grease because that moron doesn’t know how to handle a woman who is aware of herself and comfortable with her sexuality. I wanted to destroy him, Emma scorns.

"Maybe he was really attracted