Chapter 13 Sabrina
Georgetown, South Carolina
Present Day
When I told Grandma I ran into Quinton yesterday, that he wanted to have dinner, she volunteered to babysit Kenni. “He was always a nice young man. Nice family,” she added. “I’ll be home in time for you to make your date.”
I fought the idea that it was an actual date by reminding myself that Quinton and I were old friends. We were catching up, but then I stood over my luggage, hating that all I had was one dress, a black one, and it was a rather dated thing that I considered all-purpose. How I wished I had something fresh in a summer yellow or pink.
Grandma liked to stay until Grandpa ate, but she insisted I be ready to walk out of the door when she walked in. At six fifteen Mariah arrived at the house. I heard her blaze a trail from the door to my bedroom like she was coming for some good gossip.
She stood in the door. “Where are you going?”
“Dinner with an old friend.”
“Who happens to be in Georgetown?”
“Yes,” I replied. I wanted to steer the conversation away from Quinton. “You know, I didn’t ask you yesterday. How are we going to handle desserts?”
“We haven’t talked about that yet.”
“What about my cakes?”
“Tabby’s has used that baker at Grandma’s church,” Mariah said, “for almost twenty years I think.”
“Yes, sliced pound cake, chocolate, and key lime cake. That’s boring.”
“She’s Grandma’s friend.”
“You said we were going to try new things, and if we’re saving money—”
Mariah cut into my words. “I’m overthinking about the restaurant. I need to save some of my energy for your daughter. Grandma is running late. She asked me to get here so you could go.”
I had one more protest on my lips, but as always, Mariah made her exit when she was done with what she had to say, and I felt even more insignificant than I did before she entered the room. It was her special talent—making me feel like nobody. I wondered if she knew she had that power, or was she so obtuse that she didn’t realize how much she hurt me? I expected better from my sister, but this is who we’d been to each other practically our entire lives. I had no clue when it began because it was all I ever remembered. Me talking to her. Wanting something from her and then being covered in disappointment as if someone had tossed a bucket of rank water at me.
Shedding the emotions my sister drummed up, I traded them for new ones... anxious ones over seeing Quinton. I found Quinton sitting at the restaurant bar. I approached nervously and wished I hadn’t put on makeup or this too-tight dress because I would be giving him the wrong impression. I had no idea if the man was married, if he had a girlfriend, or what. I was just some kid from years ago that he wanted to catch up with. People did that.
But his text was curious yesterday. Too soon? That sounded flirty.
I weaved my way to the bar and stopped at the stool behind him. “Hey,” I said in the lightest, most carefree voice I had.
Quinton turned. He looked me up and down from head to toe twice, and then his lips split into a smile. “Hey, yourself.”
“It’s crowded in here.”
“It just got crowded a few minutes ago. Seems like everybody rushed in at the same time.”
“Well, I guess I should have been here a few minutes earlier, and we would have had a table easily.”
“Don’t worry. I expected you to be late.”
My mouth dropped open. I was not late. “Is that a criticism?”
“No, you’re right on time, but I did expect you to be late, you know, based on your history.” He chuckled.
“What are you talking about, sir?”
He picked up his drink. “You were always late for Bible study.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You were late every week. I mean, it just became a part of your personality, which was adorable.”
“I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”
“I lived in fear that you wouldn’t show up and I’d have to do the whole thing,” he said. “You caused me to have anxiety big-time.” He raised his hand and flagged someone. “Let me get us a table.”
A pretty blonde with a ponytail that hung down the center of her back was instantly at our service.
“We’re ready to be seated,” Quinton said.
The hostess smiled at me like she knew a secret and said, “Come this way.”
We followed her to rear of the restaurant. Quinton turned to me and asked if I wanted to dine inside or on the patio.
“We’re getting special treatment. I don’t wanna be a choosy beggar,” I replied.
“No worries. I already did the begging, so just let me know what you like.”
Glad to have a choice, I said, “I’d like outside.”
The hostess opened the door and led us out to the patio where there was one table available. It was a little warm and a lot humid, so I immediately regretted my choice. My hair was going to explode into an Angela Davis afro, but we were here now. I slipped into my chair.
Quinton already had a glass of sweet tea. The waitress dashed in as the hostess left us, filled our water goblets, and took my drink order before leaving us alone with our menus.
“The food is good. I eat here more times a week than I want to admit.”
“No wonder you can get bumped to the front of the line,” I said. “But multiple times a week at these prices? Don’t you cook?” I reached for my water glass and took a sip to hide my embarrassment over talking about the prices like some country bumpkin who didn’t get out. This was expensive but obviously not for Quinton.
He said, “I was spoiled growing up. My mother made all the meals, and when she didn’t make them, my sisters did. I had meal plans in college.”
“We’re both a long way from college,” I teased, putting my glass down.
“I know, but then after college I was in a relationship with a woman who made sure I was fed all the time.” A hint of sadness washed over him. “I budget for dining out. And there are the occasional ramen noodles and scrambled eggs. I know how to fry bologna.”
I laughed. “That is pitiful. And your mother did you a disservice, sir.” I raised my index finger. “And I’m not talking about ya mama.”
An easy smile slipped on his face. “You know mothers. They mostly get it right, but sometimes...” And then he froze on the last word.
“What were you gonna say?” I asked. I realized he’d read my face. When he said, “You know mothers,” it occurred to him that I didn’t have one.
“It’s okay, Quinton. I wasn’t raised by wolves. You know I had a stepmother for a long time—practically my whole upbringing.”
“You’re right. You did. I remember that, but it’s been a long time. And I don’t know how you feel about that. Relationships change.”
Again, I thought that was sensitive of him. I liked that he anticipated my feelings and was careful of them. This isn’t a date, I told myself. I’m not dating because I don’t even know how anymore.
“What just went across your mind?” Quinton asked. “Something heavy. I saw it.”
Now he was reading me. “It was nothing,” I said. “Tell me about you being back in Georgetown. Are you here for family or the job?”
“I’m here for the job. I’ve been trying to get transferred from Columbia for the last three years. I wanted to be back in the low country—Charleston, Georgetown, Myrtle Beach... something down here. I don’t like living inland, but it took a few years for a position to come up.”
“Is it working out?” I asked, thinking of my own situation. I could stay here versus going back to Greenville.
“Absolutely. I’ve got a pretty good staff. My mother is getting older, so I like being closer.”
“Your mother. What about your dad?”
“He passed four years ago.”
I raised my hands to cover my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. There was no way for you to know that. He had a heart attack. It was hard losing him. Really hard on my mother because none of her children lived in town.”
“I can only imagine,” I said, but I could imagine a little. I’d lost Kendrick after loving him for four years. When people spent a lifetime together, it had to gut them. My parents skittered through my mind. My dad losing a wife after she delivered a baby. Me. I still saw sadness in his eyes.
Quinton was saying something. I gave him my attention.
“My parents were older when they had me. I was the last of the bunch and a surprise. My brother lives in south Florida, and my sister is in New Jersey. I’m the only one here in South Carolina, so I feel a little more responsible for Mom.”
“I’m sure she’s thrilled to have you here.”
“I think she is.” He emptied his glass before asking, “What about you? You said you were visiting your grandparents?”
“Like I told you, my grandfather had a stroke, and my grandmother needed some help from us—my sister and me—with the family’s restaurant. You remember my grandparents own Tabby’s.”
“I’d eaten there a few times, but then it closed. I had no idea it was still in your family.”
“Eighty-seven years.”
“That’s something,” he said. “How’s your grandfather?”
“In a rehab center working on regaining function. He’s better. Thanks for asking.”
“I’ll pray for him.” He bobbed his head to the seriousness of his words. “Is the restaurant still closed for renovations? I’m game to give you all some business.”
I smiled at that. “It’s still closed. My sister and I are here to get the place opened back up.”
The server arrived with my sweet tea, and she put a basket of bread on the table between us.
“Are you ready to order?” she asked.
I realized we had jumped into talking so quickly I had not even looked at the menu. Quinton asked her for a few minutes, and we both opened the menus. He looked briefly, but I was sure he already knew what he wanted because he ate here multiple times a week. I picked out a pasta dish and a salad from right at the very top of the menu, which I didn’t find particularly appetizing. Burgers and sandwiches and wings. Nothing really on the low-country order. What was the point of living down here and eating down here if there wasn’t going to be some low-country cuisine?
Quinton waved the waitress over, and she came back and took our orders. I reached into the basket for a piece of bread.
Quinton joined me. He hadn’t been particularly interested in it, but I guess he wasn’t gonna let me make a little pig of myself.
“Do you have experience working in a restaurant?”
“No, but my sister does. She manages Clark’s Diner in Hendley. Are you familiar with it?”
“Of course,” he said, impressed. “That must be a nice spot for a restaurant manager.”
“It’s owned by her husband’s family. When they first got married, the place was going out of business. Mariah turned it around. Turned it into what it is today.” Admiration for Mariah pressed into my emotions. “She’s good at what she does.”
“I can see you’re proud of her,” Quinton said.
I was, but I also wished I was more like her... surer and more focused, more intentional, but I wasn’t going to tell him about my insecurities. That was TMI. “If anyone can turn Tabby’s around, it’s my sister.”
He smiled. “She won’t be doing it alone. You have talents too. Tell me, what are you bringing to the table? Pun intended.”
“Creativity and grit.” I laughed. “Seriously, I’m just a gopher. Whatever she tells me to go for is what I do.”
“Well, you must have some skills that your grandmother thought were valuable or she would have just called your sister to come.”
“I don’t know. My grandmother is always trying to get us together. Her dream in life is that we’ll be closer.”
“I remember you weren’t close back in the day. She’s a lot older than you, right?”
“You have a great memory,” I said.
“For people who matter.” His eyes and his words were definitely giving, This is a date. I’m here to impress.
I raised my glass and took a sip of tea before answering him. He’d sucked me into his vortex. “Six years,” I said. “You’re right about us not getting along. Nothing about that has changed—in fact, it’s worse. I’ve prayed God would show me how to fix what’s between us that’s broken because I really don’t know what it is, and I’d like it to be healed.”
“I’ll be praying with you,” he said.
Warmth gushed through me. That was the second time he’d said he would pray. I liked a man who prayed. I’d seen Quinton do it in practice. He opened our Bible study with prayer. Even as a teenager, he was a powerhouse.
“So, if you’re not in the restaurant business, what is it that you do?”
This is where it got complicated, I thought. He had a nice car, a budget for dining out, a staff. He was successful. I let those thoughts run around in my head for a few seconds before pushing them out. I did have a profession. It just wasn’t successful yet or really established, but that was going to change. “I’m a baker. I make specialty cakes for parties and weddings and things like that.”
“A cake designer?”
He’d called it correctly. I said baker, but I was a designer.
“Cool,” he added. “Do you have any pictures of your work?”
I reached into my bag for my phone, swiped to the gallery, and held it up to show him a few of my most recent cakes.
“Wow,” he said when he looked at the one I’d just done. “That’s something. Did you go to culinary school?”
“No. I’m self-taught from YouTube, believe it or not.”
“Are you serious?”
“Not to insult people who studied professionally, but yes, I’m serious.” I giggled. “I didn’t finish college. I did my first year and dropped out. I couldn’t figure out exactly what I wanted to do, and I did not want to waste money.”
“That makes sense,” he said, and I could tell he meant it.
“When I dropped out, I started working in a bakery. I iced cookies and frosted simple cakes. They didn’t do anything like what I do now. I’ve baked since I was a child, but I learned how things work at a commercial bakery on a large scale—how to use larger instruments. How to scale recipes, replace ingredients.”
Quinton nodded. He was a good listener.
“And then I just started experimenting with different cakes for parties for people I knew. Eventually I started getting clients.”
“That’s cool. I like to hear when people get to follow their passion—figure it out organically.”
“Well, following your passion has its ups and downs. Like I said, I’m in business, but things have been rough. It’s not easy to get a cake business going when there’s so much competition. And then people expect decorative cakes that are expensive to make, but they don’t want to pay for them.”
“I imagine they must be pricey with the amount of work you have to put in.”
“Hours of time and expensive baking materials.”
“But you’re doing okay with it?” he asked.
I didn’t think it wise to tell him how poorly I was doing with it on this maybe a date, catching up, dinner situation, so I shrugged through it. “Business is growing. I’m not sure if I’ll keep at it though. I’ve got more bills some months than money.”
The server arrived with our salads and placed them in front of us.
“I guess we should have said grace over the bread,” Quinton teased. “We’ll show the Lord appreciation now.”
A tiny smile came to my lips. I closed my eyes. Quinton said a nice grace, thanking God for the food and the company. When he opened his eyes, he said, “It has been a desire of my heart to see you again, Sabrina. It really has.”
And with those words, I realized I actually was on a date, the first one since Kendrick died. But I didn’t feel date-type stress. Quinton and I’d always slipped into conversation easily. We talked for two hours straight—through appetizers, dinner, and dessert.
We exited the restaurant, walking and talking like we didn’t want to let each other go.
“It was nice catching up with you.”
“I agree. You know there’s one question I didn’t ask you though.” He shoved his hands in his pants pocket. “I know things are uncertain, but do you have any idea how long you’re going to be here?”
“I would say at least until my grandfather is out of rehab, which is a month or more. I’m not sure.”
He nodded. “A month is enough time.”
“Enough time for what?” I asked curiously.
“For whatever, you know.” He smiled, and I was silly enough to believe I saw my future.
I laughed at myself. “You’re being evasive.”
“I’d like to get to know you better—better than I ever did when we were kids. Is my timing okay?”
I wanted to say yes. But what was I saying yes to? Escaping the house? A jaunt down memory lane where my life was simpler? Someone who didn’t know me enough to judge me? “I don’t know. I have a lot going on.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t want to talk about what that is tonight, and maybe I won’t want to talk about it on a second date, but my life is complicated. I’m not seventeen anymore.”
He took my hand, raised it to his lips, and said, “Neither am I, beautiful. And I don’t want a seventeen-year-old.”
I melted into a puddle right on the asphalt.
He looked at my hand. “I don’t see a tan line on your finger or anything. You aren’t married, are you?”
“I’m not,” I replied.
“Engaged?” He shook his head. “Of course not. Any man who was engaged to you would put a massive rock on your finger.”
“You flatter me, sir. The answer is no. I’m not engaged.”
“Boyfriend?”
I shrugged. “No one.”
“Okay, so it’s not that complicated,” he said. “What’s complicated is me remembering you over the years and not knowing how to reach you.”
I had that, too, but I wasn’t ready to admit it.
He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you so much for having dinner with me. I’ll text you about another date.” Quinton looked off, stuck his hands in his pockets, took a deep breath, and let out a lot of confident energy. “Believe me, I’m motivated to help you uncomplicate your life.” His eyes swept my body again. “I don’t just pray. I work.”
I laughed at his corny twist on the scripture. He laughed too.
“Thanks for a good time,” I said. I stepped back. My head was swirling from his words. This guy knew all the right things to say. He couldn’t help me uncomplicate anything, but it was nice that he wanted to. I’d been alone for years with every decision, every choice, every success, and every failure resting on me. That was lonely. So even the thought of someone sharing something with me caused a rush of emotion I couldn’t describe with anything other than the tears that came to my eyes.
I hurried to the truck, got inside, and started it. As I pulled away, I waved goodbye to Quinton.
I drove down the street and pulled over. My eyes had filled with water. No one had listened to me since Kendrick—well, my dad, but he was so far away, and he was my father. He wanted to fix things, not listen to me figure them out.
I had an overwhelming desire to go home and read one of Great-Great-Grandma Tabitha’s letters. Her story was resonating with me, and I needed to know what was next.
When I arrived home, the house was dark, except for the light in Mariah’s room. I undressed and changed into pj’s before walking to my sister’s door. I wanted to knock. Like a teenager, I wanted to talk to her about my time with Quinton, but we were not teenagers, and we didn’t talk like that. As I was leaving to walk away from her door, I heard a noise. I pressed my ear closer and realized it was crying. I raised a hand to knock and then thought better of it. Mariah would not want my help or my comfort. She didn’t want to share her joy or pain with me.
I remembered my father’s words to try harder, but it wasn’t me. I wasn’t the one fighting against the closeness. It was her, so I turned and went back to my bedroom.