Chapter 11
“ I ’m so glad he finally ate some real food,” Daija admits.
“That’s the magic of Momma’s chicken and dumplings,” I say.
We are in the kitchen, cleaning up. It’s been four days since the services and my parents’ house is finally free of family and guests. My uncle and aunt who flew in from Tampa left this morning. After packaging up most of the food and drinks brought to the house and throwing away the inedible and questionable items, Daija and I cleaned this house from top to bottom. It was strangely therapeutic.
While we were taking a break in the kitchen, my dad came in and asked me to make chicken and dumplings. I practically jumped up when he did. He’s barely been eating. Although the house was full of food, he had no appetite; so to hear him request something was a miracle.
My mother’s chicken and dumplings aren’t traditional. She actually fries her chicken and dumplings then smothers them in a homemade, creamy gravy. It is my daddy’s favorite so I made a pan of it and surprisingly, Daija not only watched me prepare it, she helped.
“I regret not learning how to cook like her,” she says then sighs.
“I can teach you. It’s in your DNA; we just have to pull it out.”
“I wish it was. I’m nothing like you, Truce,” she says to my dismay. After turning the faucet off, I dry my hands on the drying cloth then grab her hand. “You are just like me; just a better version.”
“I can’t cook. My anxiety is through the roof and I panic in situations you are naturally calm in. You’re so strong and?—”
“You are strong too. I wish I was as brave as you sometimes. You left, moved to Atlanta by yourself, and are doing so good in school. I love you and your bravery.”
With a smile on her face, she says, “You have to say that because I’m your little sister.”
Her words cause a lump to form in my throat. I try hard to swallow it because there’s so much I want to say to her. No, I need to say to her. This has haunted me and lingered between us for far too long and the one person who stopped me from speaking on this is no longer here. It’s been long enough and now is as perfect of a time to tell Daija the truth. My truth, our truth.
When the lump goes down, I find the strength she believes I have and my voice. With my eyes trained on hers, I open my mouth to speak but the doorbell chimes throughout the house.
“It’s probably Porsh,” she says, referring to her best friend, and I nod.
She releases my hand and rushes out of the kitchen. Disappointed, I turn back toward the sink and rest my hands on it. I let out a sigh of frustration because keeping this inside has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I need to tell her. My mother forced me to keep this from Daija but I’m ready to let go of the hurt, trauma, and guilt I’ve been forced to carry all these years.
I’m still at the sink when Daija and Porsh walk into the kitchen. So I gather myself and turn around when I hear their voices. Porsh treks over to me and gives me a big hug.
“I made something. I didn’t want to bring it when all those people were here. It’s Daija’s favorite, my paella,” she says then glances back at Daija who’s holding a large plastic container.
“You didn’t have to do that bu?—”
“Um yes, she did,” Daija quickly interrupts. “I’ve missed this and I can’t wait to tear into this tonight.” She walks the paella to the fridge and places it inside. “You ready?” she asks Porsh.
“Yes, but are you wearing that?” Porsha asks as she gives Daija an overexaggerated once over.
“No. I have to change. Let’s go upstairs.”
“Where are you going?” I ask, sounding motherly not sisterly.
Daija catches my inflection too and it causes her to raise one eyebrow. Her lips purse then she says, “Um… to chill at Black Diamonds. Why?”
“Just asking,” I respond with a smile. “Have fun,” I add.
They head upstairs and I get back to the few dishes in the sink. As I’m drying the last plate, my dad enters the kitchen. He walks over and places his hand on my back. When I glance at him, he forces a wry smile on his aged face. “You need something, Daddy?”
“Nah, sweetie. I don’t need anything but the one thing I can’t have. But God knows best. I’m as good as I can be. Dinner was good; thank you.”
“Of course. There’s more in the fridge and Porsh just brought some of her seafood rice if you get hungry later. So eat, ’cause I worry so much about you and Daija too,” I say and he frowns a little.
“And what about you?” he asks pensively.
“Daddy, I’m fine,” I tell him, a little unsure of my own words. Telling Daija is weighing heavily on my mind.
“You are my daughter, sweetie. I know you, more than you think I do.” His eyes peer into mine and after staring for a moment, mutedly, he grabs my hand. While squeezing, he slowly nods then utters, “If you want to tell her now, you have my blessing.”
“What?” I question, because clearly he’s not talking about what I think he is.
“Daija,” he utters while nodding in approval.
Shocked. I’m in complete and utter disbelief.
For twenty-one years, my dad and my mother were a united front, a cohesive unit who forbade me from telling Daija. It was never an option. Never. Even up until the last day with her, my mom was adamant that our secret remained just that, a secret. So to hear my dad say these words is truly unbelievable. While my words have completely escaped me, my emotions haven’t. His blessing mends my first heartbreak and causes a tsunami of tears to erupt from my eyes. When his strong arms wrap around me, I really lose it and cry the tears I’ve been forced to shed in private.
I don’t know how long he held me but he allowed me to cry my eyes dry. When we finally break, he kisses my forehead then leaves me alone in the kitchen. It feels like a million pounds of regret has been lifted from my heart, and even in the midst of my grieving, I feel lighter, somehow knowing that tomorrow everything will finally be out in the open once I tell her.
With the second smile I’ve had since my mom passed plastered on my face, I grab the sanitizing wipes and wipe the island counter, the sink, and the kitchen dining table down. The relief I feel is indescribable. Carrying regret, guilt, and a major secret is draining. Carrying those with a broken heart is brutal but I swallowed it. Every day, I pushed it down and drowned myself in the restaurant. I worked day and night and took over at Redmond’s so Daija wouldn’t have to. She hates the idea of working at the restaurant and I did all I could to make sure she didn’t have to.
The moment I wave my foot in front of the garbage can to dispose of the used wipes, my cell rings. I trash the wipes then grab my phone from in my tote on the top of the fridge. It’s Taj.
“What’s up, Taj?” I answer.
“Hey. You still with Unc?”
“Yes, but I’m about to leave.”
“You good?” she asks with some hesitation. There’s a pause between her two words.
“I’m okay,” I admit, because I am. “Why? What’s going on?”
“I hate to even say this but I need you at the restaurant.” She sighs. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
“It’s fine. Is something wrong?”
“I mean… Not anything major but it’s still a problem,” she stammers out, triggering my anxiety.
“What is it?” I press.
“With what you have going on I really hate to bring th?—”
“Taj,” I interject. Her stalling is irritating the hell out of me. “Just tell me.”
“It’s the lemonade. We haven’t had any in eight days and the customers are starting to ask.”
“Shit!” I huff in a deep breath. The lemonade has been the last thing on my mind. “I’m coming in.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, obviously surprised at my response.
“Yes and I’m going to teach you the recipe. You’re family and somebody else needs to know how to make it. Do me a favor. Can you go to the walk-in?”
“Yeah. I’m in the office,” she says then I hear the door close a few seconds later. “I’m here.”
“I need lemons. A whole crate.”
“We got two crates,” she says.
“Good. I need two pineapples too.”
“Pineapples?” she questions.
“Yes, pineapples. The two don’t overpower the lemons and you can’t taste them. It’s one of the things people can’t figure out in our lemonade. I’ll bring the other one. We are going to make a double batch. Take one of the stock pots, the large ones we use for the greens, and five pounds of sugar. Fill it with warm, filtered water, then simmer it on low for fifteen minutes. Stir it every five. This is the simple syrup base. After fifteen, turn it off and cover so it can cool. I’ll be there in less than an hour.”
“Okay!” she exclaims. I can hear the excitement in her voice. She has been begging for the lemonade recipe for years. This evening, she will finally learn it.
I end my call with Taj then walk into the family room. My dad isn’t in here so I head upstairs. I find him in his study, sitting behind his desk, reading his Bible. Not wanting to disturb him, I don’t walk in. Instead, from the doorway, I tell him that I’m leaving.
“Good night, sweetie,” he says.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I assure him before leaving. I’ll definitely be back tomorrow to see him and finally talk to Daija.
As soon as I’m in my ride, I dial Rex, the cause of my first smile since my mom. He has been a welcome addition to my life; stepping in right when I needed him and he’s still here. He checks on me throughout each day and starts his mornings by calling me before he gets his daughter off to school. He’s so thoughtful and attentive but he’s also intentional. There’s no question or uncertainty surrounding him or his feelings for me. He wants me and makes his intentions known in every way, through his words, his touch, and even in the way he looks at me.
“Hey, beautiful,” he answers, sounding a little muffled.
“Hey. You busy?”
“At cheer practice but I can talk. You good?” he says and I find myself smiling at the thought of him and all his grandeur and sexiness at cheer practice. He’s such an involved and devoted father; I love it. It magnifies his natural sex appeal by a thousand so I’m sure he’s a distraction to the mothers and coaches at practice.
“I’m good. I’m actually heading to the restaurant.”
“To work?” he asks and his concern is loud and clear. “Are you ready to go back?”
“I have to. We can’t go another day with no lemonade. We might start to lose our loyal customers.”
“Can’t somebody else make that shit?”
“No. Only two people know the recipe and I’m not sending my dad. I got it. I’m actually a little better today. I am going to teach my cousin how to make it tonight though. Plus, I get to see you two. It’s Wednesday.”
“I knew you were checking for me and you tried to act like you wasn’t. You know my schedule,” he says and I hear the smugness in his sexy voice.
“I just know I saw you on a few Wednesdays so I took a chance and guessed,” I lie because I definitely know his schedule. Every woman on staff knows his damn schedule. His presence in the restaurant, hell anywhere, doesn’t go unnoticed. He’s a handsome walking conundrum: commanding and stern but loving and caring with his daughter, a swoon-inducing, hypnotizing combination.
“Yeah a’ight. We can rock with that; I’ll let you make it.” There’s some noise in the background and I hear him say something incoherent. Then he says, “I gotta go but we should be there in about an hour.”
“Okay. See you then.”
I end the call then start my engine. Before heading to the restaurant, I have to stop by The Marketplace to pick up the final ingredient for the lemonade batch. By the time I make it to the restaurant, the simple syrup is cooled and ready and Taj has had the cooks clean and slice the entire crate of lemons in half. That step of the recipe is no secret. Everyone knows our lemonade is made with real lemons.
Our lemonade is coveted in the city. We sell out of it every day. We’ve been offered crazy things and sums of money for the recipe but we’ve never divulged it. It’s imprinted in our brains; we don’t even have it written down anywhere. The mystic and secrecy of it is part of the history and legacy of our restaurant. Some may say it’s only lemonade but to us it’s more than that, so much more.
In a private section in the back of the kitchen, Taj and I juice the lemons on our two citrus juicers. This is the longest part of the process. Once we are done, I juice the two pineapples and strain the juice.
“Seriously? That’s the real secret?” Taj gushes when I pull out the last ingredient.
“Yeah. I said the same thing when Momma taught me the recipe. Remember, this is the doubled recipe so for a regular batch you only use one of these. That’s key because the recipe can’t be changed at all. The slightest addition or subtraction will change the taste of the lemonade and the customers will not be happy.”
“Got it,” she says while nodding. “Pineapples and this! Wow! I would have never guessed either.”
“Now you know and I’m trusting you to keep our recipe a secret. You can’t tell anyone, not even your mom,” I tell her and she nods in understanding. “I’m serious, Taj. Nobody.”
“I promise.”
After separating the batches and adding more water, we use the heavy-duty immersion blender to mix everything together. Then we pour up the gallons. Four of the gallons are immediately taken out to the dining area and a complimentary glass is offered to all the customers.
My presence in the kitchen momentarily causes a disruption. Everyone stops to greet and hug me. They also ask about my dad. The love and care is truly genuine; they’ve missed me and I’ve honestly missed them too.
When I walk into the dining area, many of the customers gladly greet me again. There are a few hugs and many more offering their condolences. The loss of my mother is felt by all and it’s heartwarming to know she’s truly missed.
As soon as I’m back in the kitchen, I get a text from Rex. He’s parking and inquiring if I’m here. I respond that I am and rush to the office to check my face and hair. Making that lemonade can work up a little sweat and I need to make sure I don’t look a mess.
Taj walks into the office right as I’m finger combing my hair in front of the large mirror on the wall.
“I was coming to tell you that your favorite customer is here but I see you already know,” she says with an amused but smug look on her round face.
“I’m aware,” I snap back playfully.
With her right eyebrow raised, she asks, “Who told you that fast?”
“He did.” I smirk and her mouth falls to the damn floor.
“ He did! What the hell did I miss? Last time we talked about him, you claimed he wasn’t your type. Hmmm, I guess that’s changed now.”
“That definitely has,” I admit with a smile.
“Seeing that smile makes me love all of this already. And you look great. Get your ass out there and claim your man. It’s too many women out there.”
She winks and I take one last look at myself in the mirror. I have to agree; I look better than I have in days. So I straighten my shirt then leave her inside of the office. When I make it out to the dining area, he’s sitting in his usual booth and his pretty little daughter, Aryel, is grabbing hot sauce and parmesan cheese from the condiments table. I watch her, and when she joins him back at the booth, I walk over to them.
Since I’m approaching from behind him, Aryel spots me first. She stops unraveling her rolled silverware and straightens. A huge smile spreads across her pretty little face.
“Hi, Miss Truce,” she says, smiling. His head turns immediately.
“Hey, pretty girl,” I respond.
He stares at me for a moment then glances back at Aryel. He’s smiling but his eyes are doing something I don’t recognize, oddly bouncing between me and her. Finally, he stands and pulls me into him for a hug.
“I want to kiss you so fucking bad but Aryel doesn’t know anything about us yet,” he whispers. “Let’s change that now so I can. Sit with us,” he adds before releasing me.
My unsure eyes silently ask if he’s sure and his unwavering gaze replies with a resounding yes, so I join them but walk to Aryel’s side of the booth. In watching their cute little interactions whenever they are here, I have learned she’s just as protective of her father as he is of her. She’s also, rightfully so, territorial. I can’t just barge my way into their space; I have to ease into it, and do so correctly, because I really like him.
“Can I sit here?” I ask and she nods while scooting over. “Thank you,” I tell her once I’m seated.
She reaches over and touches my pinky. “I like your nails,” she compliments my almond-shaped French manicure. Her own nails are painted blue, matching her red and blue cheerleading uniform.
“I like yours, too. That’s a pretty blue.”
“I have a diamond too,” she gushes while opening her hands so I can see the rhinestones on her middle fingers.
Rex watches our entire exchange intently, in silence. He doesn’t interrupt; he just lets us go on and on about our nails. At one point, I glance up and see that sexy smile of his before I give my attention back to Aryel.
“I really like those. They sparkle,” I say.
She gushes. “Thank you. We have a competition Saturday so I got them done.”