Chapter Fourteen
Fourteen
“Blair! Oh my God, finally!”
“Hi.”
“Sorry for all the calls back-to-back,” Jamilah said, assuming that as the reason for Blair’s lackluster greeting. She knew through texts that her former chef was still in hell’s kitchen, pulling seventy-, sometimes eighty-hour shifts a week.
“Hope I didn’t disturb your sleep, but, girl… I’ve got a huge emergency. You’re not going to believe what happened.”
“I already know.”
“Know what?”
“Hold on.”
Jamilah listened to what sounded like Blair moving around, confirmed when she heard a door shut.
“Rashad’s here.”
“At your house?”
“No, at the White House, Jam.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“I imagine trying to stanch the flow of blood from the dagger thrown in his back.”
“Whoa! You can’t mean by me?”
“A hit dog will holler. How could you talk about him like that, especially about his past, a very touchy subject?”
“I didn’t intend for him to hear me.”
“Clearly, which for him was even worse.”
This was not the phone call Jamilah expected. She felt confused, experiencing remorse and righteous indignation at the same time. Already feeling lower than a whale’s belly at the bottom of the ocean, she went on the defensive.
“He’s not the only one feeling badly. Daddy did a background check, Blair.”
“And told you he’d been to prison, which you already knew.”
Jamilah looked at her phone as if the inanimate object had spoken.
“I messed up, Blair. I hired him too quickly.”
“You messed up by firing him, Jam. And talking about someone behind their back doesn’t sound like you at all.”
Jamilah imagined Blair getting dressed for work, her voice at different levels as she walked around the room.
“I thought he’d left.”
“That would have made it right, then, if he hadn’t heard you?”
“Why are you on his side?” Jamilah said, fighting back. “Along with being a decent cook”—amazing, stellar, but why be technical?—“he’s a felon. There’s no telling what would have happened had I kept him on.”
“Oh, really? Well, I have a few ideas. His high-level cooking skills and charming personality would have done wonders for your restaurant. His presence alone would have likely pulled in more female customers. Word of mouth about his cooking would have done the rest.
“Rashad isn’t just a good cook, Jam. He’s a good man. Smart. Driven. Full of ideas.”
“And just out of prison.”
“That wasn’t a secret. He told you during the interview.”
“Sounds like he told you his side of everything.”
“This isn’t about sides. It’s about right and wrong. And you feeling a type of way because Rashad has a past, one that he’s trying hard to put behind him. It’s not fair.”
“I know. You’re right. And I already get how crazy this question is going to sound, but—”
“No,” Blair interrupted. “I can’t help you with your event. Unfortunately, the only other person I know who is qualified enough to recommend on such short notice is a brothah just out of prison and still on parole. I don’t know what else to say. Hold on.”
Jamilah heard Blair tell the guys good-bye. The more her ex-chef said, the less sure Jamilah felt about the high horse she rode on.
“I’m not as bad as the person you’re painting,” she continued when the convo resumed. “I was pressured to do what I did.”
“Just how long are you going to let your father run your life?”
That was a good question. It joined the others Jamilah had shoved in a mental carry-on that would someday have to be unpacked. Meanwhile, she needed to get out of the house and out of her head. Time for some retail therapy that she couldn’t afford.
“Thanks for listening to me rant, Blair, and being honest about how you feel. Let’s talk later, okay? I need to get some fresh air.”
“What you need to do is check your ego, call Rashad, and do whatever it takes to get him back in your kitchen.”
“I’ve tried that. Sent texts last night and this morning. He doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“I hope you two can work it out. Rashad cooks better than most of the trained chefs I’ve worked with, and I’ve worked with some of the best.”
“He’s very talented. I can’t lie about that. But even if he agreed to come back, if Daddy found out he’d have a fit.”
“Okay, cool, but can your daddy cook? Can he break down those chickens, barbecue beans, fix mac ’n’ cheese?”
“Ed worked the shift yesterday.”
“As head chef?”
“You don’t have to say what I’m already thinking. As backup, he’ll have your bible.”
“Jam, no disrespect to the veteran, but the way he cooks you’re going to need the one commissioned by King James.
If you want to save your restaurant and have a chance in hell of pulling off that catering gig, you need Rashad.
This situation is less about how your father might feel later and more about what you need right now. ”
“I’ve tried reaching out to him, Blair. What else can I do?”
“Whatever it takes to save yourself from bankruptcy or worse. You need to check your ego and make Rashad your hero.”
“Cute.” Jamilah smiled, remembering Rashad’s strong presence in her kitchen. “I don’t know what I’d say to him.”
“How about the truth? That you were wrong to judge him. That you effed up. Tell him about your dad’s influence, and why you acted like a judgmental bit—”
“Hey!”
“Person.”
Jamilah smiled again, and this time her heart joined in with a tiny shred of hope on its wings.
“Tell him you’ll double his salary, take him off probation, give him full run of the kitchen, heck, give him a little, you know…kitty-kitty.”
“Blair! No, you did not just say that!”
Blair laughed. “Hey, sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve heard you mention a man. You’ve probably got cobwebs.”
“You know what, you may be right,” Jamilah said, laughing, too. “Last night I woke up to something scratching my leg. Now that you mention it, might have been a spider.”
They howled.
“Rashad is very good-looking. There could be harder sacrifices, pun intended.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I love you, too. Look, Jam, I just pulled up. Time to clock in. Now pull that Spike Lee classic out of your bag, and do the right thing. Text and let me know what happens.”
Jamilah left the house and headed for a strip mall.
Rashad stayed on her mind. By the time she reached her favorite discount retailer, she had an idea.
Her father was emphatic about Rashad not working at the restaurant he’d helped get started.
But the catering event was hers alone. She sat in her car and pulled up Rashad’s number.
Then, on second thought, she put the car back in Drive and headed to Blair’s house.
Damn her and all that talk about sex. Just the thought of seeing that “hard sacrifice” made Jamilah’s cat purr.
She saw Rashad’s SUV before she reached Blair’s house.
Once in their driveway, Jamilah hopped out of the car and marched to the porch like who she was: a woman on a mission with a dream to save.
She knocked on the door like law enforcement.
Her daddy would have been proud. After a couple of minutes—okay, seconds—she reached for her phone to call Leon.
No way was she leaving this house as long as Rashad was inside.
Leon opened the door. “Dang, girl, you’re knocking at the door like you’re running from trouble.”
Straight into it, more likely.
“Blair’s already left for work.”
“I’m here to speak with Rashad.”
Leon’s response was a slightly raised brow. He stepped onto the porch and shut the door behind him.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“It’s probably a really bad idea. But one I’m determined to see through, so would you kindly go back in there and let him know that the last woman on earth he wants to see right now will take up residence on this porch until he comes outside?”
Leon peered at her with an unreadable expression, then shook his head. “Women.”
As Jamilah waited for the outcome of her request, her bold veneer began to slip. What the heck had she been thinking to come barging over here like she had a right to conversation? She had no idea how Rashad would react. How he’d behave when he was angry.
You can’t have any wannabe thug working at your place of business.
Did Jamilah want smoke with a—
“Yeah.”
Jamilah whipped around. Deep in thought, she hadn’t heard the screen door open.
“Rashad, hi.”
He verbalized nothing, but his body language spoke clearly. Get to the point.
“I came over to apologize for what you heard the other night…and what you didn’t.”
His face was a mask.
“Your words were clear. No interpretation or translation needed.”
“True, but context might help.”
“Was that your pops on the phone?”
“Yes, that was my father.”
“He was out of line. But I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”
“I’m very sorry, Rashad, about this whole situation. I feel horrible that you overheard our conversation.”
“But not what was said.”
“I’m especially sorry for that.” A gust of wind came up out of nowhere. Jamilah looked at the sky. It looked like rain. “Is there any way we can go somewhere and talk?”
“Why?”
Rashad wasn’t going to make this easy. And why should he? She’d put him in the hot seat until she was comfortable enough to offer the grand privilege of sweating over a fryer. He didn’t owe her leniency. Turnabout was fair play.