Chapter 14
14
K athy Sweets, Harlem, 1978
Nicolas sat in Kathy Sweets’ corner booth, his fingers drumming a soft beat on the table. The bakery hadn’t changed much since he was a kid. The same warm scent of cinnamon and sugar hung in the air, the same faded floral wallpaper clung to the walls, and the same hum of quiet conversation filled the space. But Sandra—she was different. Back then he called her ‘Sandy’.
Time had passed. She wasn’t the little girl he teased anymore. She was a woman now, and the sight of her stirred curiosity and something in him he hadn’t expected. Interest. His sister Nina balked at the idea of this meeting. Refusing to join him. But Aunt Kathy was gone, his father was gone. Even Nino, his beloved uncle was gone. What was left in their world now was of their own making. And he had a debt to settle.
Sandra moved behind the counter with a grace that reminded him of her mother. She had a glow to her under the soft light of the bakery. Her hair was now picked out into a full afro-style, unlike the long curls she wore at the funeral. It framed her face in a way that made her beauty clear to any and everyone. She was delicate and feminine in a way that felt timeless, like the kind of beauty you’d see in old photographs or hear about in blues songs. But there was something else in her eyes—a missing light or vacancy of something stolen, almost haunted. It was a look he recognized in his mother before she remarried and found happiness again.
Earlier, he had surprised Sandra. She called him by his name and asked if he’d have a seat so they could talk. So, he did. He waited. She remembered. He had hope that time healed old wounds, especially the ones she carried.
When she approached his table with a cup of sweet tea and a slice of pie, he felt his throat go dry. The tea, she explained, was her mother’s recipe, passed down from Big Mama back in Mississippi. She set the cup and plate in front of him, then slid into the booth seat across from him. The stir of air brought up the fragrance she wore. Something decadent like sin. Her presence was both comforting and unnerving, like a melody he hadn’t heard in years but still knew by heart.
“Your name is Nicolas, right? I was right?” she asked, her voice soft.
He smiled, though it felt strained. “So, you do remember me?”
“Why are you in my bakery today? I saw you across the street, and I saw you at the funeral,” she said.
“I thought you said you remember me?” his brows furrowed.
“I—I guess. I remember your name. I think we were kids or something,” she said, her gaze averted to the door of the bakery instead of his eyes. It was avoidance. He knew that trick. He often used it on his uncle Matteo when he demanded to know what secrets his father left behind. She was avoiding for a different reason. Maybe searching through that empty head of hers to make sense of their connection.
Then she spoke: “I remember we used to play in the bakery and… outside. The three of us. You and your… sister?”
Nicolas nodded, though the mention of his sister made his stomach twist. “Nina. Yeah.”
“Aah, Nicolas and Nina. Twins! But you didn’t like being called twins because you were a boy and a girl. Yes, yes, I remember you…I guess.”
“We were always running around, getting underfoot. Your grandma Brenda used to chase us out with a wooden spoon from the kitchen where we snuck the cookies.”
Sandra laughed, but it was a hollow sound, like she was pretending at their connection. He found that curious. Who was playing who? Did she really remember him? Or was this a trick?
“The last time I saw you was at the funeral. Your grandma Brenda’s funeral, I meant to say,” he clarified.
She nodded in agreement and blinked her doll-like eyes with long lashes at him. The innocence behind them was remarkable. She smiled for him and remembered the good memories; did she recollect any of the bad?
“You needed time to recover. The grief was too much for you,” he echoed, his voice quieter now. “After that, you went away back to ah… school. That’s what my father called it. We never saw each other again. Even after my mother and father divorced. Never.”
“Until yesterday,” she said, her smile still bright. There was no accusation in her eyes. “Are you… Matteo’s kid?”
Nicolas chuckled, though there was no humor in it. “No. Matteo has other kids. My father was Carmelo Ricci. The Wolf of Harlem. Remember that?”
Sandra frowned, her brow creasing in confusion. “Carmelo… I knew him?”
“Of course, you knew him. You used to spend time with him as a kid. He’d take you to the zoo. You had this zebra he bought you that you loved. Told me once he was going to take you to Africa. Things he never promised to do with me and my sister,” Nicolas said with a tinge of bitterness.
“Huh?” Sandra asked.
Nicolas looked up into her eyes. And then a light went on. Suddenly, she had access to memories she had carefully locked away. Was it him? Did he cause her to have some kind of breakthrough? Wouldn’t her mother’s death have done that?
“Yes. I remember him now. The zoo. He knew a lot… about animals. I called him Uncle Carm,” she said.
Nicolas nodded. “That’s right. Uncle Carm.”
“Strange. He was around, but Mama…” She trailed off, her expression clouding over. “Why is it so hard for me to remember him, and… then it’s not? Carmelo Ricci is Uncle Carm?”
Nicolas hesitated. he glanced around to see if anyone was close enough to hear them. Uncle Matteo had threatened to cut off his balls and throw him in the Hudson River if he approached her. And he knew his uncle meant it. But he had to see her. He had to try. His fingers tightened into a fist. “You had an accident,” he said slowly, watching her face carefully. “Do you remember that, Cassandra? The accident? The doctors?”
“What?” Her frown deepened, and he could see the sheen of panic in her eyes. He had fucked up. Matteo would cut his throat, for sure. He told him to let Debbie and him handle her memory issues through diaries. That sounded weird. How could he, when he was the cause of it all?
“It was in front of the bakery. “We were kids, playing in the street and running in and out of traffic like idiots. You got hit by a car. Bang your head really bad. Had to have surgery on your head.”
Sandra stared at him, her lips parting slightly as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. The color drained from her face, and for a moment, she looked like the little girl he remembered—scared, vulnerable, lost—dared to do something by two bullies—him and his sister. Something that changed their lives forever. But then she shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the memory. “That’s a lie. I don’t… I don’t remember that.”
Nicolas leaned forward; his voice low. “You were hurt pretty bad. Like I said. Head injury. You were in the hospital for weeks. After that, you… changed. You didn’t remember a lot of things. Not me, my father, or even your mother, sometimes. So, they sent you to more doctors. They called it school. It wasn’t.”
Sandra’s hands trembled as she reached for her tea, but didn’t drink. She just stared at the cup, her mind clearly racing. “I remember you. You weren’t nice to me. I only wanted to be friends,” she said, finally looking up. “But there are so many gaps. I always thought it was just… a dream. You know how dreams fade.”
“It wasn’t,” Nicolas said, his voice heavy with guilt. He felt himself on the verge of tears. He hadn’t cried since he was a kid begging the Wolf for forgiveness. “I’m so sorry, beautiful. It was the accident that stole everything from you. And it was my fault. I have hated myself ever since. I have wanted to see you. Dreamt of that day, over and over. How you smiled and trusted me. What I did. What I… caused.”
He closed his eyes and shuddered with guilt and the sick feeling of being unworthy of her presence or forgiveness. “We were so confused back then. Our parents. Who they were. What they were to each other. We couldn’t figure it out. We were kids. We… I’m so fucking sorry.”
Her head snapped up, her eyes locking onto his. “I don’t want to talk about this! Not with you!”
He looked away, unable to hold her gaze. “Listen to me. Aunt Kathy protected you, and so did my father. But all of that is over. We aren’t kids anymore. And they are dead. I need your help.”
“You should go,” she started to leave the booth.
“I was a stupid kid. Jealous of this bakery and how much my father loved coming here. It made my mother cry—a lot. I didn’t understand what was going on between my father and your mother. I thought… I thought if I caused trouble or made you get hurt, it would change things, and he would focus on my mom. But it didn’t. It just made everything worse. He hates me, hates the family, hates all of us, and he’s dead or deadish, or just the fucking bastard he has always been.”
Sandra pulled her arm back as if his words had physically stung her. “You’re saying you caused some accident that I never had.”
“Not on purpose,” he said quickly, though he knew it didn’t make much difference. “I was just a kid. We were eleven, and I’ve carried the guilt ever since. Your mother—Aunt Kathy—she forgave me. She understood. But my father… he never looked at me the same after that day.”
Sandra sat back; her arms crossed over her chest as if to shield herself from his words. “Are you saying my mother had an affair with your father?”
Nicolas lowered his gaze. “I would never say that about Aunt Kathy. Your mother was a very sweet person. She did her best to save this bakery, and her and my Mom were friends in the end. My father. He was… not sweet; he was the man everyone was afraid of, except Aunt Kathy. He was obsessed with her. If it weren’t for Aunt Kathy, I don’t know how I would have made it through some tough times.”
He looked up at her and gave a sad smile. “I wouldn’t disrespect Aunt Kathy to say they had an affair. My father moved out of our home the moment your mother and you came to town, and I was too young to know why. We saw him less and less. Each time my mother would bring him back to our home, we saw how much he didn’t want to be with us. He did try at first, after the accident with you, but he never really put that level of effort into being a good father to us again. Ma would plead with him to be a family. That went on for years. But—he just wouldn’t come back. I don’t know what happened, but I do know my father… wasn’t a father to me. After the accident, the church gave my father the divorce he demanded. And then I don’t know what happened between your mother and him. Not really. Because I stopped seeing him.”
“Why are you telling me this now? Why is everybody so interested in my memory?” Sandra asked.
Nicolas ran a hand through his hair. “Because you have something my father was trying to find. I heard him and Matteo when my uncle got out of prison. They said you had to remember. This was before he died. There is something my uncle Matteo wants, and I need you to tell me what it is. You can’t trust anyone. My father trusted no one, and I understand why.”
“And I’m supposed to trust you?” She studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she stood. “We’re done now. I need time to process… all of this.”
Nicolas nodded, eased out of the booth. “I understand. But if you want to talk, if you want to know more… I have access to my father’s house and his things. Some things I want to show you.” He scribbled his number on a napkin and handed it to her. “Call me. I love my dad. There are reasons he is the way he is . Reasons I’m guessing you might know better than me. I want to know what happened to my father, and what uncle Matteo is up to.”
“Is?”
Nicolas frowned.
“You said is instead of was . As if he’s alive?” she asked.
“Like I said, call me,” he replied and eased out of the booth.
She took the napkin, her fingers brushing against his for the briefest moment. “I’ll think about it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
As he walked out of the bakery, Nicolas couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d opened a door neither of them was ready to walk through. But it was too late to turn back now. The past had a way of catching up to you, no matter how fast you ran. Someone should have told his father that before he decided to burn the Ricci empire to the ground.
* * *
“Goodbye, Sandra,” said Lily and Sam, the last of her staff to leave the bakery. She looked up from the register and smiled, having agreed to close out the system and lock up the safe. As they stepped out, her cousin Daphne returned. Sandra greeted her with another smile, and Daphne exchanged a few words with Sam and Lily before locking the door behind them.
“You ready, cuz?” Daphne asked.
“Yeah. What do you want to eat for dinner? We can stop by Ms. Bee’s and grab a plate, then head home to watch Baby I’m Back . It comes on tonight.”
“I love that show,” Daphne said, pouting playfully.
Sandra headed to the safe in the back of the bakery, Daphne trailing behind. “Can’t, though. Ma called Ms. Gladys’s house. She’s calling a family meeting. After I drop you off, I’ve got to hit the streets and find Junior. She wants us all at the house in an hour.”
“Really? What’s wrong now?” Sandra asked.
Daphne shrugged. “My guess? It’s something Junior’s done.”
Sandra began shutting off the lights. She went to the safe, the one she’d seen her mother lock and unlock for years. She took her time and put up the cash and receipts for her Uncle Brother to come and collect when he did his bank rounds.
“How was your day? I mean, the lawyer, then working the bakery without Auntie here?” Daphne asked. “I just feel sad every time I walk inside here.”
“Me too,” Sandra said. “But today kept me from crying or reading diaries. It made me feel like maybe there’s hope.”
“Hope, yeah, we need that now,” Daphne mumbled.
“Oh, and I had a visitor,” Sandra chirped.
Daphne’s brow lifted. “Really? Who?”
“Nicolas Ricci,” Sandra said.
Daphne glanced back at the door, then at her cousin, her face frozen in surprise. “When? When was he here?”
“About an hour ago,” Sandra replied.
“What did he say? What did he want?” Daphne pressed. “Was he looking for Junior?”
“Junior? No. He talked about us being kids and some accident I had. Said it was his fault I got hit by a car, according to him. I don’t remember any accident, though—just him and his sister coming to the bakery.”
Daphne stood frozen.
Sandra slowly turned and faced her. “Funny thing though. He was insistent that I had been hit by a car, and everyone knows it. And you guys are keeping it from me.”
“I—I—I—” Daphne stammered.
Sandra crossed her arms. “Listen to me. You can’t go through life with Swiss cheese for a brain and not know you’re different. I never knew why Mama gave me half-truths, but I know more than you think I do. I know who he is, and I know your Ma and mine have enough secrets to bury this family. I’m not playing this game anymore. Everyone wants something from me. I have my own plans, and I need to know, like my cousin, that I can trust you.”
“I’m sorry, Sandra. We were always told not to discuss it. You went to those fancy schools, and you seem just to forget. That’s why I didn’t want you reading those diaries. Some secrets are better left alone.”
“It’s fine. I didn’t say anything to Nicolas Ricci, and I’m not going to say anything to Auntie. You and I are going to figure this out. Family.” Sandra put up her pinky.
Daphne looked relieved. She hugged her instead. “You not mad at me? For never talking about it?”
“No. Mama’s gone. I want to find her before they do. That’s all I care about right now,” Sandra said.
Daphne looked at her watch. “Mama wants this family meeting. I think we should all sit down as a family and talk about the past. The accident you remember sometimes, and then don’t sometimes. Really talk. Okay? At least put it on the table.”
“No. You aren’t listening. I have learned a lot from Mama’s diary. She and Carmelo were honest kids, faithful to their beliefs, respectful of others. Now I see the pain they went through. Not just being separated, but constant pain, marriages, lies, and secrets. I didn’t think before that my Mama was alive. It is making sense to me now, though. Why wouldn’t they run from us all? Disappear and have the life they never could have? And they may be in trouble too. So don’t say anything. I’m going to figure this out. My way.”
“I swear it. I won’t say a thing,” Daphne promised.
Sandra nodded. “Let me get my purse.”
Daphne helped lock up the bakery, and the two left in silence. Sandra wrestled with her strange inability to confront her family and the secrets. Every time a revelation came, she digested it but rarely questioned it. Strong bouts of anxiety kept her frozen in ways she couldn’t explain as a young girl.
Memories surfaced and faded even during the short drive. She grew tired of trying to reconcile the gaps in her life, which she’d always accepted as dreams. The schools she attended and the kids she spent time with in her younger years were from wealthy families and troubled, but the professionals made the bad things better, tolerable, and eventually go away. Even her life in D.C. and her years at Howard—there was always something just out of reach, something she could almost grasp before it slipped away. Was Nicolas right? Was trusting her family, even her cousin, a mistake? She wanted the truth more than ever now. She wanted her mother.