20. Soul & Sapori
Chapter twenty
Soul & Sapori
Seeing my sister and her family after so long was a breath of fresh air, a fleeting reminder that life wasn’t entirely shadowed by grief.
At the airport, my nieces ran into my arms and squealed with excitement. They’d grown so much I could hardly believe it—taller, with new hairstyles and even bigger personalities.
My oldest niece, Madison, had a confidence that reminded me so much of her mother, while little Tasha still clung to the edges of her childhood, giggling shyly as I hugged her.
Jerome, my brother-in-law, was as funny as ever, cracking jokes the moment he spotted me. “Look who’s still the coolest aunt around! Let me know if you want these girls. I’m selling them half off this week. It’s a good deal too. Family discount.”
His easy humor always had a way of breaking the tension, and I was grateful for it as we loaded their bags into the car and headed to see Mom.
That visit was the hard part.
The moment in the day that broke my heart.
Mom didn’t recognize us—not me, not my sister, not her granddaughters.
And most of the time, she just sat in her chair by the window, staring out at nothing.
Madison and Tasha tried to smile through their sadness, but I saw the way their faces fell when she didn’t respond to their voices, didn’t light up the way she used to when they visited.
Tasha kept glancing at me, as if hoping I’d fix it, make Mom remember.
My sister, Denise, stayed quiet.
Too quiet.
I could see it in the way her hands trembled slightly as she held Mom’s hand, how her shoulders sagged when Mom turned away without a word.
Denise was crumbling inside, and I knew she was trying to hold it together for the girls.
We stayed as long as we could before the mournfulness became too much.
Dinner was a welcome distraction.
We needed something to pull us out of the heartbreaking fog and headed to Mom’s favorite restaurant, a spot called, Soul & Sapori.
The name itself was a mix of two cultures, soul representing the rich, comforting traditions of African-American cuisine and sapori served as a nod to the bold and distinct tastes of Italian cooking.
Obsidian Bay drowned in Italian restaurants—pizzerias, trattorias, high-end bistros, and even mom-and-pop spots that boasted “authentic Nonna recipes.”
Soul & Sapori was different because it was the only soul food restaurant in town.
Marcus and Renata Carter owned the spot, and they’d been my mother’s best friends for ages. Marcus was originally from Atlanta, growing up around his uncle’s smoked ribs, and his mother’s sweet potato pie. Meanwhile, Renata was born and raised in Naples, Italy, where her family owned a small trattoria.
When they fell in love, they decided to open up this place, and my mother would work on the weekends sometimes to take care of any bills that happened to pop up.
Either way, going to Soul & Sapori felt more like visiting Mom than actually going to see her at her new home.
The restaurant sat on a cobblestone corner. The building's exterior was painted in bold black with gold lettering that shimmered in the streetlights.
A neon sign shaped like a fork and spoon glowed in the window.
The warm aroma of spices, herbs, and something unmistakably fried wafted out every time the door opened.
Inside, the vibe was intimate but lively—soft jazz played over the hum of conversation, and a mural on the back wall depicted a fusion of cultures: a soulful jazz band jamming under the Tuscan sun.
Marcus and Renata greeted us with sad hugs. They’d apparently visited her earlier that day, and she hadn’t recognized them either. Either way, they guided us to her favorite table right by the window and overlooking the bay and told us that we didn’t have to pay for anything.
Mom, I wish you knew how much everyone loves you.
The air was rich with the scent of garlic, smoked meats, and the unmistakable sweetness of candied yams.
Tables were adorned with simple red-and-white gingham tablecloths, but the plates being carried out to us were anything but simple— spaghetti and fried chicken meatballs , collard green stuffed cannelloni , smoked oxtail ravioli , and catfish parmesan .
We damn sure ate away our emotions.
Jerome—ever the clown—made everyone laugh as he recounted a ridiculous story about a co-worker trying to pass off store-bought cookies as homemade at the office bake sale.
Denise smiled faintly, and I caught a glimmer of the sister I knew—the one who could hold her own in a battle of wits with her husband.
But it was the wine that loosened her up.
We ordered a bottle. . .no, two. . .actually maybe three.
Either way, we shared quiet toasts to better days and the memories of the mom we once knew.
And even though we were stuffed, we still ordered several plates of red velvet cannoli .
By the time dessert rolled around, my sister and me were tipsy and giggling like teenagers.
Denise leaned her head on my shoulder. “You are the best sister in the world. You did it all, Celeste. Everything.”
“I didn’t—”
“Girl, you did. How were you able to take care of Mom like she is now? I would have been crying every damn day.”
“Some days I did cry.”
Denise poured me a glass of wine. “I’m glad you put her in that place. Everybody seems so nice, and it is super high-end. The room was luxurious. Why won’t you let me help you pay? Jerome said you refused to take his card.”
“Because I’m not even paying, Denise. Father Cassian is paying for everything.”
“Father Cassian.” She chuckled and poured the last bit of wine in her glass. “That sexy priest from Mom’s church?”
Clearly spying in on our conversation, Madison gasped. “Mama!”
“Fine is fine.” She chuckled. “If the priest fine, it’s not a sin to say so.”
But it is a sin to suck him off in the confessional. I’m going straight to Hell.
Still, I laughed along with her, shaking my head. "Yes, that fine priest. Mom did a lot for the cathedral, and when she got sick, they wanted to help. In fact, he insisted."
Denise held up her glass in a toast. "To Father Cassian then. And to you, Celeste. You've gone above and beyond and I love you so much. I appreciate you, and I owe you."
“You don’t owe me.”
“I do.”
“Fine. Then, your next daughter you name after me.” I winked.
She widened her eyes. “I am not having any more kids.”
Jerome jumped in, “You mean you want us to name our son after you. Third try has to be a boy. All these females. I’m outnumbered in my own house.”
Denise shook her head. “We are done with babies.”
Jerome gestured to his glass. “You just keep sipping on that wine. We’ll see about that.”
I laughed and raised my glass. “To my new nephew. Celestial?”
My nieces chuckled.
When we finally left Soul & Sapori, it was late and my sister and I were pretty tipsy. Honestly, I didn’t even remember Jerome wrangling us both to the car. I just knew that he drove us home.
By the time we got home, my nieces were asleep and I went straight to bed.
And. . .as I lay under the covers. . .a small regret tugged at me.
I should’ve texted Cassian and let him know everything was okay.
The thought of him filled my heart.
He’s the only reason I could keep on going today. I’m so glad I went by the Cathedral. If I hadn’t, I might have picked up everyone at the airport and been crying the whole time.
Yawning, I considered rolling over to pull out my phone, but my eyes closed, and I fell into the darkness.
Slowly, a dream formed around me, unfurling like smoke within the corners of my mind.
I opened my eyes to a strange room—a bedroom in this ancient tomb.
Sunlight poured in from an opening high above, yet I couldn’t see where it was coming from.
I lay on this bed, naked.
The sheets over me were soft.
The scent of something faintly sweet lingered in the air—myrrh, maybe?
Or frankincense?
The thought flitted through my mind, but before I could hold on to it, a shadow moved in front of the tomb’s opening
And then I saw him.
Jesus.
At least, I thought it was Jesus.
A man stepped into the light, his form towering and commanding in a way that stole the air from my lungs.
His hair was dark, long, and curling at the ends, framing a face so breathtakingly handsome it bordered on unreal.
And his body. . .
Good Lord.
Muscles rippled beneath bronzed skin.
His shoulders were broad and arms powerful.
A simple sheet was wrapped loosely around his waist, draping just enough to be modest but leaving little to the imagination.
Uh. . .yeah. . .I’m dreaming because. . .that’s Jesus, and he is. . .fine as hell. . .
My eyes widened, my pulse quickening as he moved closer.
I blinked, struggling to reconcile the figure before me with the images I’d grown up seeing in church.
This wasn’t the Jesus from stained glass windows or illustrated Bibles.
I mean damn. . .I don’t remember this description in the Bible.
Jesus smiled—a small, knowing curve of his lips that made my cheeks flush.
I bet he heard that.
Without a word, he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. The warmth of him radiated toward me, and I found myself holding my breath.
Then he did something that made my heart nearly stop.
Jesus lay down beside me.
Uh. . .okay. . .so. . .I’m about to have a freaky dream about Jesus? I’m just trying to get a first-class ticket to Hell today.
The sheet shifted slightly as he settled. His arm brushed against mine, and the heat of his skin was impossible to ignore. My body tensed, my mind racing with a thousand questions, none of which I could find the courage to ask.
“Celeste, you’re not going to Hell.”
I blinked.
His gaze met mine, and in that moment, I felt like he could see straight through me—every thought, every doubt, every desire laid bare before him.
He smiled. “You’re troubled, my child.”
I swallowed hard. “Apparently. . .I am. . .”
He reached out and brushed his fingers lightly against my cheek.
A shiver ran down my spine.
“You carry too much. More than you should.”
Tears stung at the corners of my eyes. “I’ve been working on that, Jesus.”
He chuckled softly, shifting to prop himself up on one elbow. His eyes never left mine, the gentleness in them somehow soothed the turmoil that swirled within me. "So you have, Celeste. So you have."
I found myself mirroring his position, lying on my side and gazing at him. "Are you here about. . ."
“About what?”
“Father Cassian.”
“I am, but not for the reasons you think.”
“I wasn’t trying to disrespect you today. I’m really sorry.”
Jesus tilted his head. “What are you sorry for, Celeste?”
“You know.” My throat tightened. “The. . .the stuff I did in the confessional.”
He raised a brow. “The stuff ?”
Heat flooded my cheeks. “You know. . .I shouldn’t have done what I did. . .in there. . .to Father Cassian. . .”
A soft laugh rumbled from him. “Why do you think holiness and purity must deny what is natural?”
I blinked, unsure how to answer.
“What you felt, what you did—it was natural.”
“Natural?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached up, fingers brushing lightly against my cheek.
The touch sent a jolt through me.
“All that you are—your body, your desires, your love—is natural. It is a gift from the Creator. Why would you be given these feelings, these urges, if they weren’t meant to be understood, cherished, and embraced?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but the words caught in my throat as he shifted.
“It is all natural.” Slowly, he reached for the sheet draped around his waist, undid it. And then, with a grace that was both startling and reverent, he pulled it away, exposing himself to me.
Oh! Am I really about to see. . ?