Chapter Thirteen
Thirteen
Jamilah paced the length of her open-concept, downtown loft, unaware of the bright sun shining through the panoramic windows that had sealed the deal for her home choice selection and helped justify the rent that hadn’t seemed so high when the restaurant flourished.
“I know it’s a lot to ask, Ed, especially after saving me today, and with your condition. But my back is against the wall. If I’m going to pull off this catering event, then everything to make that happen—shopping, major prep, and some of the cooking—has to start next week.”
“I wish I could help you. But with this pain, I don’t think so. What about Blair?”
“First person I called. I’ve left several messages, but haven’t heard back.”
Jamilah didn’t take it personally. She knew how brutal kitchens could be when trying to establish one’s place there.
“I could ask Russell,” Ed offered. “Good cook, but he drinks. War messed him up. So I don’t know if I’d trust him to be reliable.”
“What about some of the women who cook for the functions at the VFW?”
“Major grocery store chains provide those meals. The women don’t cook, they heat up. Hold on, Jamilah. Got a call coming in.”
Jamilah sat on one of her counter bar stools, scrolling through her Contacts list for the umpteenth time.
She tried hard to not feel dejected, to convince herself that what happened last night, while awkward and not how she wanted to end Rashad’s employment, was probably for the best. Her father had made a career in law enforcement.
Had spent decades around criminals. Perhaps he could see what she couldn’t.
Jamilah knew that he loved her. Had never lied to her. Had never steered her wrong.
Yet.
Restless, unresolved energy pulled Jamilah from the stool.
She walked to the window. Instead of the burst of autumn’s colors, she saw Rashad’s face.
Angry. Dejected. And something else, something that looked like hurt but went deeper.
Glancing back at the room behind her, the sun jumped off a familiar brass frame.
She walked over to the wall that held a grouping of pictures and picked up one sitting on the table, amid another collection of memories.
This one a favorite, a picture of Jamilah and her father when she’d just turned thirteen.
He’d allowed her to get her ears pierced and her hair braided, long plaits that fell in curls down her back.
His lady friend at the time had taken Jamilah shopping and helped her pick out a dress.
The age-appropriate maxi with pastel colors cinched at the waist and fell to the floor in soft pleats.
They’d gone to dinner. Not a place for kids but a real dinner, a steak house for grown-ups.
He’d opened the doors for her, pulled out her chair.
Told her that these acts were how a princess should get treated.
Jamilah had indeed felt like royalty that night.
She picked up another picture, this one at around age eighteen.
A name came to mind: Matthew Lindsay. Her first love she hadn’t thought about in years.
Artistic, sensitive, and introverted, with a slight build and bright smile, Jamilah had been smitten from the start.
They’d bonded over a love for wonderfully weird art house movies and Bruno Mars.
Daddy didn’t like him. Not manly enough.
She accompanied him to his senior dance, but the relationship fizzled under the heat of parental displeasure.
On the opposite side were the men she’d dated for longer periods, ones who met with her father’s approval.
Had she liked them more because they met her dad’s standard?
Had she endured an unhealthy relationship with Walter because their being together pleased James?
The questions hung in the air like Midwest humidity, the answers hovered like a rain cloud.
Again, an image of Rashad’s expression from that night sprang up unbidden. The feeling of being betrayed etched on his face made her heart ache all over again. She labeled the feeling compassion and embarrassment when in actuality attraction and shame were closer to truth.
There were other feelings, too, ones Jamilah could not yet explore. Ones that would surely lead to her father’s displeasure. She wasn’t ready to brave that storm.
“That was Russell. He might be able to help with the catering.”
“Thank God. And thank you, uncle.”
“Anything for family,” Ed replied. “I can help out at the restaurant. As long as I have a stool to sit on, I should be okay to help you prep and fry up chicken. I’ll talk to Russell and make a few phone calls but can’t make any promises.
Keep doing what you can to get others to help you, especially with the catering job. ”
Jamilah continued down the list, leaving messages or reaching out to people who weren’t available.
Finally, with zero remaining options, she phoned Rita, a good enough worker but messy friend who loved to gossip, speculate, and lie.
They’d met as freshmen at a local college and became friends while doing a class project together.
At first, Jamilah liked Rita’s funny, effervescent personality.
It wasn’t until the venom Rita shot at other friends became aimed at her that Jamilah understood the meaning of a forked tongue and lessened their interactions.
Rita left college, got married and, after her husband joined the navy, moved to California.
Jamilah learned they’d returned to the city by running into Rita at a grocery store.
Her husband had been honorably discharged.
Rita needed a job and had kitchen experience.
Jamilah hired her right away. It didn’t take long before the kitchen that had previously been drama free deteriorated into a bickering beehive of he said, she said, with Rita at the center of it all.
Just when Jamilah felt she had no choice but to fire her, fate intervened.
Rita got pregnant with her second child.
Jamilah attended the baby shower and knew they’d welcomed another girl but hadn’t tried to stay in touch.
As far as she knew, Rita might be a stay-at-home mom with no need for extra cash.
Nothing beat a failure but a try.
“Jamilah?” Incredulity was wrapped around the greeting. “I was just talking about you!”
Again?
“All good, I hope.” Jamilah sounded unconvinced even to herself.
“Of course! Remember Everett? That server who also wanted to learn how to cook? I ran into him the other day. He said you were still open but only on weekends. What happened? Money problems? You were doing so well.”
“You’ve never driven past Fly the Coop, the one near Eighteenth on Paseo?”
“Ooh, girl, I eat there all the time. I didn’t even think about how their business might affect you. No wonder you’re barely hanging on.”
Jamilah desperately wanted to end the call. Defying her father and rehiring Rashad would probably be easier than this.
“We’re doing fine,” she lied, proud of how easily the words slid off her tongue. “I wanted to expand my brand and have started a selective catering business for high-end clients.”
Jamilah was okay with Rita repeating this, which she certainly would, to any mutual acquaintances and maybe strangers, too. The creative storytelling sounded good to Jamilah’s own ears.
“Tell me more.”
“I have an event coming up at the end of the month, one the client booked at the last minute.”
“A Halloween party? I love those.”
“Company anniversary, but because of how close it is to Halloween, costumes wouldn’t surprise me. My usual crew isn’t available. I’m calling to see if you might be interested in helping out. With pay, of course.”
The conversation had probably removed years from her life, but once it was over, Jamilah had a potential crew of six, her employees Shasta and Caylen, Rita and Everett, five counting Ed, six if Russell was riding the wagon. There was only one critical piece missing: a real chef.
With a final swipe of her thumb she scanned the remaining names in her Contacts.
Her thumb tapped the screen when reaching the Ws, hovered over a name that shouldn’t even still be in her phone.
Her ex, Walter Overton. Walter was a Kansas City native who knew everybody.
The councilman position he held at City Hall probably gave him access to a variety of lists and groups throughout Kansas City, information that could help Jamilah save this job.
She was just about to peel off the little dignity that remained after speaking with Rita and call him when her ringtone chimed.
She couldn’t jab the phone icon fast enough and hoped she’d been saved by the bell.