Bitter and Sweet

Chapter 22 Sabrina

Georgetown, South Carolina

Present Day

I set Kenni up in front of the television in our room, locked us in so she couldn’t wander, and climbed back into bed. I slept on and off for as long as my daughter would let me, and then I pulled myself together and got out of bed. I wasn’t going to let my sister ruin another day of mine. I couldn’t believe she actually threatened to leave, to disappoint our grandparents over the sweet cakes.

I received a text from Quinton inviting me to a barbecue. I enjoyed spending time with him, but he needed to know about Kenni. I decided if today was going to be a bad day, I could add him to the list of things I had to bemoan. I texted him back.

I have a four-year-old daughter.

His response.

Bring her. There will be kids there.

So he wasn’t going to reject me because I had a child? I smiled. He was still on my list of likable humans.

I stood. Kenni was sitting cross-legged staring at the television, mesmerized by Barney the dinosaur. “Are you hungry?” I asked.

She looked at me over her shoulder and said, “I want pancakes.”

I dropped to my knees and crawled toward her. I pulled her to me and walked my fingers up her belly until she giggled. “Pancakes? You always want pancakes.”

“I love pancakes, Mommy.”

“Let’s go down and make some.” I popped up and unlocked the door. As we walked to the stairs, I looked at Mariah’s closed door.

“Is Auntie here?” Kenni asked, obviously following my eyes in that direction.

“I don’t know, honey.”

“Is she feeling sick like you was?”

I was hoping Mariah was feeling regretful. “I wasn’t sick, baby. I think we’re both tired. We worked hard yesterday.”

I took her hand, and we walked down the stairs.

Grandma wasn’t back from church yet. That didn’t usually happen until two o’clock or so, and it was just one. With Kenni’s help, I fixed pancakes and then relaxed with a cup of tea.

I went to my TikTok page. This was easier for me to use because there were no ghosts on TikTok. The videos I’d taken as I shopped for supplies had a lot of views. I was so excited about my TikTok results, I popped on Instagram to see my results there. I had comments to respond to, mostly people who’d been following me for years. I remembered the advice from the social media expert I’d found on YouTube: “You have to engage with some of the people. Not all, but at least a few, or people will unfollow you.”

When I was done answering comments, I resisted the temptation to visit Kendrick’s page, instead putting my phone down. I didn’t need to look. I knew every line and curve of his face. I had memorized every word he said, the inflection in his voice, the essence of him.

He’s gone.

I’m here.

Kenni is here.

It’s time to stop mourning and live.

I didn’t know what living looked like these days, but I was going to find out.

Kenni and I bathed and dressed. Just as we were about to leave to meet Quinton, Mariah emerged from her bedroom.

“Where are you two headed?” She was not contrite at all; in fact, her tone was chipper.

“Out,” I replied.

“I can see that. I was hoping I could take Kenni to the circus. I got free tickets yesterday.”

I felt the tug of Kenni’s hand on my shirt before she squealed, “Mommy, I want to go to the circus.”

Just like that, Mariah had hijacked my daughter, which was fine. The circus trumped a barbecue with strangers for someone her age.

Mariah and I did not exchange any other words. I’d said everything I had to say to her last night. If she thought treating Kenni to an afternoon out was going to make up for what she’d done, she was wrong.

Quinton and I agreed to meet in the Walmart parking lot. Once I arrived, he popped out of his car and came over to the truck. “Where’s your daughter?”

“My sister stole her. Circus tickets.”

“That’s too bad.” He looked disappointed, which made me smile inside. I was glad he was interested in meeting my daughter and not just pretending he was. “Next time we’ll entice her with more.” He smiled. “I need to make a stop on the way. I volunteer for an organization that helps farmers keep their land during disputes.”

“I’ve heard of that. Heirs’ property disputes.”

“Right. We had a protest downtown today. I need to stop by it for a few minutes to help pack up things, if it’s okay with you.”

It was okay with me. I was his for the afternoon, no matter what he had in mind.

We settled into his beautiful BMW with its new-car smell, polished woodgrain trim, and butter soft seats. I liked the luxury, a lot. It made me wonder how many cakes I’d have to sell to own a vehicle like this. He asked me a few questions about Kenni—what she was like—and to see a picture. I had tons of those. He didn’t ask me about her father. I was glad I didn’t have to get into that. I was struggling with all my emotions today—anger, disappointment, grief, and fear. Mariah felt like the enemy. Kendrick seemed to be haunting my thoughts, and this Georgetown startup cake business was scary.

We had a brief lull in our conversation after talking about Kenni. I picked it back up with, “So you’re just packing up? You didn’t participate today?”

“I was there all day. I left to meet you.” He took his eyes off the road just long enough to smile at me. “I show up, but that’s not where the cause needs me. I handle paperwork. I make sure land deeds are right. That taxes and other county expenses are understood so people don’t lose the farms because of paperwork shenanigans.”

“That sounds important,” I said, but I was thinking it sounded complex.

“It’s rewarding,” he replied.

We reached downtown. After Quinton parked and left the car, I took my phone out and googled Georgetown heirs’ land and then reclamation of stolen land and read enough to be somewhat knowledgeable. Knowledgeable enough not to look like I lacked consciousness. Once I had a quick and dirty on the details, I put my phone down and looked out the window to see what Quinton and his people were getting into.

About fifty protesters were assembled. Most were men—young and old—but some women and children too. They carried picket signs that read: Stop Stealing Our Land, Return Our Land,andBlack Farmers Matter Too.

Two police cars were parked nearby. Most of the people walking by looked like tourists.

A reporter from a local TV station interviewed a man who appeared to be the leader. He even asked Quinton a few questions. Then Quinton and a few other men loaded coolers and tables and some other boxes into a van, and Quinton came back to the car. Just like that, they were done. It was all very anticlimactic. I didn’t see the point of it all, so I asked, “Was this a good protest?”

“It was a great one,” Quinton replied. “We got media coverage and donations. Anytime we do that, it’s all good, and no one got hurt.”

“Do people get hurt often?”

He shrugged. “Depends. Not here, but sometimes in other places.”

We headed out of the city and turned off the road to a gated property with a huge sign that indicated it was private. I marveled at the tremendous farmhouse at the end of the long driveway. “Whose house is this?”

“It’s the family home for one of the organizers,” he replied. “A friend.”

There was a beautifully appointed bottle tree in the front. It was the largest I’d seen. I took a picture of it because it was so pretty.

People from the protest were here—along with what looked like their families. The backyard was made for entertaining. There was a barbecue pit, comfortable-looking furniture, and a retractable canopy over the patio. Tables covered in picnic tablecloths were set up at the end of the patio. And there was food. Lots of food. Off to the side was a man working a second open pit grill.

The gathering was all it was intended to be—festive. There was as much food as there was joy in eating it. Quinton and I fixed plates and found a table of our own to eat at. Once we were done eating, we joined some conversations. Quinton took good care of me but also gave me space to meet other people. He spent a good deal of time huddled in a conversation with a group of men. They were looking at maps and notebooks and papers.

Quinton kept looking back at me, but then he’d get pulled back into the conversation.

My phone vibrated, and I saw it was a text from him: Sorry. There’s an emergency with some land we’ve been advocating for. I’ll just be a few more minutes.

I appreciated the fact that he realized I was still here, because the meeting looked intense. I got myself involved in a teenage spades game. I’d never learned, and that was a secret. Not being able to play spades was a crime in the Black community, nearly punishable by the loss of one’s Black card. The teens didn’t hold it against me.

When the sun went down, the music got louder. Couples danced, and the kids disappeared into the theater room inside. I was out of sorts. Being uncoupled was unnerving. I had gone from never having a man to always having one, and now I was back to having no one. Some would believe this thinking was problematic, but I liked being in a relationship. That was my truth.

Quinton gave a fist bump to the guy he was talking to and walked toward me. “This is the worst date ever, isn’t it?”

I laughed. “Not ever.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been talking business. Maybe I can redeem myself a little. Would you like to dance?”

Anticipation bubbled in my chest, but I kept my face calm. I loved to dance. Something about Quinton made me think he would be a good dancer. He had an athletic body, and he walked to the rhythm of personal theme music playing in his head. The brother had an unfair amount of swagger that went with his good looks. But I still shook my head no.

“Okaaaay, a brother can bounce back from rejection. I’ve got something better than public dancing. I want to show you something.” Quinton walked to a table. He grabbed a blanket and a small picnic basket and waved me to him. I followed him around the side of the house.

“Where did you get that stuff?” I said pointing.

“I had plans for you. My friend hooked me up.”

He was trying hard. I liked that. We entered an area where the hedges were as tall as he was. We walked on a long, winding cobblestone trail that ended at a small building on a lake. It was gorgeous.

He unrolled the blanket, popped it open, and let it settle on the ground. I followed his lead and sat. “Let’s see, we have some grilled shrimp and oysters, fresh mango slices, and plain old water because that’s your preference.”

I scrunched up my nose. I was full, but I loved oysters and mangoes. Quinton put them between us, and we snacked.

“Your friend must be really successful to own all this on a lake.”

“Actually, he’s a fifth-grade teacher. His wife has the bag. She’s a corporate lawyer. A real savage in court.”

I nodded. “Must be nice.”

“If that’s who you want to be,” Quinton said, taking a sip of his water.

I took a few pictures of the lake. The moon’s silvery glow cast a light across the water that stole my breath. We sat there finishing the food. “I understand why you brought me here. It’s pretty.”

“I’m glad you like it, but it’s not the only thing I wanted to show you.” He put our empty food containers in the basket, and we stood. He folded the blanket. When he was done, Quinton cocked his head toward the building and started walking. I followed.

The building was all windows, but there were closed shutters on the inside. It was made out of the same tan brick as the main house.

“Is this a cottage or something?”

“No.” Quinton put in a code that released the lock. He pushed the door open and flipped a switch on the interior wall. The room was flooded with a warm incandescent light.

It was an artist workshop. There were paintings on easels—at least twenty—and more hanging on the walls. In the corner a table and cabinet held paints, brushes, and empty canvases.

“Get out of here,” I said, walking to the first easel. It was a painting of two women sitting on a dock shelling oysters. I moved to another painting. The second was of a woman standing in the marsh, seagrass all around her. I moved to each canvas, becoming more and more emotional over the beautiful depictions of Gullah life until I couldn’t even see for the heavy tears that filled my eyes. I wiped them and turned to Quinton. “Who is this artist?”

“The corporate lawyer.”

I chuckled. “Are you serious?”

“This is her hobby.”

I let my eyes scan the walls, taking in each of the paintings until I was done. “This is not a hobby.”

Quinton shrugged. “It is for her.”

“She should have a showing. Open a gallery.”

She doesn’t have time. She’s too busy making the big money. And she lets fear tell her she’s not good.”

I shook my head. “That’s nuts. She’s like ridiculously gifted.”

“Kind of like you.”

I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Your cakes. You can make it as a baker. It might not give you savage money, but God will make sure you and Kenni don’t want for anything. Follow your passion.”

“You brought me here for that pep talk?”

“No, I brought you here because you love art and...” He walked to the table, took out his phone, and tapped on it a few times. “I don’t handle rejection well.” I recognized the intro music to “Satisfy My Soul.”

I pulled back my head. “Bob Marley?”

“I sat on the sidelines rocking to the new-school music, but I’m old school, baby.” He threw up his hands and swayed to the music.

“I haven’t heard this in a long time.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “It doesn’t remind you of another dude, does it?”

I laughed. “No.”

“Good. Now satisfy my soul, and show me what you got.” If Quinton had any inhibitions, I couldn’t tell. He was into this song, moving to it using his arms and torso and footwork that didn’t miss a beat.

I slipped in closer to him, and we danced in unison, imitating each other’s moves, mostly humorously at first. That was us working out silly nerves. By the time “No Woman, No Cry” came on, we were more than comfortable with each other. Quinton pulled me closer, and I followed his lead to the slower music. I loved this song. He didn’t know it, but it was one of my favorites. I closed my eyes and let the music take me far, far away but still allowed myself to be connected to this man who was making such an effort to entertain me in ways that I enjoyed.

Quinton pulled me even closer. We rocked together. My head was flat against his chest. I could feel his heart pounding against my ear. He wrapped his arms around my back, and his chin touched the top of my hair. He kissed my hair and wrapped his arms around my body at the shoulders. This was getting way too sexy. The instant closeness was too good to be true. The pounding of his heart... too intimate. I hadn’t experienced that sensation—a man’s heart beating and belly rising and falling—since Kendrick. I spun out of his grip.

“We need to slow this down.”

Quinton frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“I feel like you know me, like you know what I need and what I want.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

I tossed up my hands. “It’s too much all at once.”

He stepped toward me. I stepped back—anxiety making it hard for me to believe this chemistry was real. I’d had this before. People didn’t experience this twice. You only got one soulmate.

“It’s just a dance, Sabrina. I promise I’m not trying to steal your soul or anything.” He threw up his hands palms out like he was surrendering. He was amused, and I could see he was fighting not to laugh. He started chanting the lyrics, “Everything is going to be all right” over and over with the song. When that part of the song was done, he laughed.

I shook my head. “You see that, timing—you’re a magician or a warlock or a rootworker of some kind.”

Quinton shook his head. “A rootworker?” He reeled in his amusement. “I am a man with a good memory. I remember that you like reggae. We talked about it way back in the day. And that you like art—paintings specifically. That you love the water—oceans, rivers, lakes. That your favorite fruit is mangoes, and your favorite shellfish is oysters.” His face became serious. “I remember you.”

I nodded and said, Okay, wordlessly. I got it. He did remember.

Quinton started rocking to the beat again. “Are you gonna dance with me or what? This is the seven-minute version.”

I laughed and took his hand again. This time when he pulled me close, I let him.

***

The party broke up. Quinton and I headed back to Walmart. More music was our company on the ride. Once we arrived, he parked the car, but neither of us made a move to get out.

“I appreciate you thinking of me today.”

“It was my pleasure to spend time with you. I hope Kenni had fun, but next time”—he turned to the side so he was looking directly into my eyes—“I want to meet her.”

My tender mommy heart appreciated his interest. “Maybe the next time you will.”

A beat of silence passed. Quinton raised his arm and rested his elbow on the steering wheel. “I’m curious about her father. Is he in the picture?”

I was surprised it took him so long to ask. “Deceased. Before she was born.”

His eyebrows hitched. He wasn’t expecting that answer. People never do. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. Us too.”

“How are y’all coping?”

“Better since being here in Georgetown. There might be too many reminders of him in Greenville. I don’t think I realized how many until I came here and stopped seeing them every day.”

“Maybe you should relocate.”

I shrugged. “Maybe I should.”

“I’m sure your grandparents would love having you.”

I shrugged again. “Maybe they would.”

Quinton smiled at me. He was amused by the game I was playing with my words.

“Her paternal grandmother would miss her.”

Quinton stated the obvious. “She can visit. Or you can take Kenni to her.”

“The same way my father did with us. He brought us to Georgetown for summers.”

Quinton smiled. “And that’s how we met.”

“Seems like a hundred years ago.” My eyes drifted to the window where the view of the cloudless sky confirmed the vastness of... everything. I returned my attention to Quinton. I refused to believe he was as perfect as he felt, so I nudged him. “Are you sure you don’t mind that I have a child?”

“Why would I mind?” he asked. His eyebrows came together again. Quinton’s face hid nothing. I remembered that about him. He hadn’t changed. Not that way anyway.

“Because some men don’t date women with children.”

“Some women don’t date men with children.”

I pursed my lips and teased him. “I’m one of them, so do you have kids?”

He laughed. “No. I’m just saying it goes both ways. Anyway, I’m not like those men. Children add to your life, not take away.” He was quiet for a few seconds, thinking before speaking as he always did. “I’m sorry she doesn’t have a father. I’m sorry you both lost someone you loved.”

I’d heard that so many times from family and friends, but the words still stung.

“I like you, Sabrina. You know that. I have always thought about you. You could have six kids, and I’d still want to get to spend time with you.”

This time I was the one who laughed. “Now that...” I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

Quinton chuckled. “I mean I’m glad you don’t have six, but I’m serious. I’ve wondered about you for years. Where is she? How is she? I searched for you on social media.”

“I don’t have a page in my real name.”

“I know. I thought that was weird.” He laughed again. “And that made me even more curious. I wanted you to be okay... so badly,” he said. “I prayed for you... often.”

I reached for his hand. “Thank you. I needed someone standing in the gap for me.” Tears wet my eyes, and then the first one flowed. I swiped at it with my free hand.

Quinton leaned across the seat. He raised his hand and wiped a second tear that trailed down to my lip.

“Are you going to kiss me?” I asked, anticipating he was.

“I want to.” He hesitated a beat, and when I didn’t say no, he leaned in and pressed his lips against mine, gently, not lingering long, but leaving enough heat to imprint his touch on my memory. He smelled spicy. His cologne had clove, cedar, and some kind of floral note. It mixed with his perspiration and created a heady, warm scent that made me wish the kiss was longer.

“I want you, Sabrina.”

“What?” I asked, heart and eyelashes fluttering.

Quinton leaned back. “In my life.” He smiled. He could see he’d shaken me a little. “I say how I feel. Always. So, my intentions are... serious. But everything about us is on you. Your timing. Your way.”

His words made me feel good. All of them. Desire and patience—I needed and wanted both. “Okay.”

Quinton tapped out a little celebratory beat on the steering wheel. He nodded, and it was plain to see satisfaction filled his chest. “Okay.”

I thanked him again for getting me out of the house. He walked me to the truck, and after a quick hug, I slipped in and drove home.

My phone started pinging, and I looked at it. I had a series of text messages from Ellen. Once I pulled into the driveway, I read them.

When are you coming back?

You never said this was permanent.

I need to hear from you.

We need to discuss this.

Ellen was not a texter. She seemed to have gone off the rails, so I called her.

“Ellen, what is all this?”

“You have been gone for weeks.”

“I know how long I’ve been gone. I told you—”

“I know what you told me.” She cut me off. “But it’s time for you to bring her home.”

Home was with me, or didn’t Ellen understand that? Her house was temporary, but I needed to offer her something. She was really upset. “I’ll put her on FaceTime in a few minutes.”

“She should be asleep!” She screamed so loud her voice petered out at the end.

I snatched my head back. “Ellen, you don’t need to yell at me. I’m not a child.”

“You aren’t? Sometimes I can’t tell.”

That was nasty. I didn’t need to match her tone, so I counted to five before replying. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“We need to settle this now.”

“We need to settle it when you have a calmer head.” I pressed End and put down my phone. My heart was jackhammering out of my chest. I’d never heard Ellen sound so angry, not since the night Kendrick died. After the shock of the news about the accident, Ellen’s anger was directed at me because he’d been on the road because of me.

I closed my eyes. I shouldn’t have hung up on her. Not Kendrick’s mother. We weren’t going to fight over Kenni, not ever. We agreed. I rang her back but got voicemail. I tried again and still... voicemail. I didn’t know what to say, what I knew would make her happy. I was staying here much longer than I anticipated. I felt good about what I was doing, and I wasn’t going to apologize for it. Not to her. Not to anyone.