Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-One
“I’ve got to go, Rashad. I’ve got to try to reach Daddy.”
“I understand.” He got up and helped her into her coat. “Stay in touch so I know you’re okay. Call me if you need me.”
“Thanks for everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
Hours had passed since Jamilah had run away as her father hurled questions at her back.
The dust of anxiety had settled. Her adrenaline flow had returned to normal.
Now, with the catastrophe of potential bounced payments averted, and Side Chic’k on solid ground for at least thirty days, the gravity of the decision she’d made weighed as heavily as a cement shawl, her jewelry an albatross around her neck.
In the light of temporary solvency, the magnitude of her decision and its possible consequences loomed.
She’d given the wrong impression for all the right reasons.
Once again, in the battle of Daddy versus Rashad, Rashad was the victor.
She hadn’t left her dad hanging completely.
Once they’d driven to Anna’s house, picked up a cashier’s check, and deposited it in a new account Jamilah created (just in case the IRS decided to spin the block), she’d sent him a carefully worded text.
The message wasn’t entirely true but not a whole lie either, rather filled with creative license, the veil of open interpretation, and a generous amount of plain old CYA.
OMG, Daddy. First of all I’m okay. Please don’t worry.
So sorry for all the confusion, having to cancel the meeting and my abrupt departure.
That call I was on in the bank doorway was from an investor who wants to act as a silent partner and adviser to Side Chic’k.
I had to move quickly to secure the arrangement, one of ongoing financial support as needed, for the next few months.
You have done so much for me and this business.
I’m forever in your debt and didn’t want to add to what I already owe you.
Please send me the name of the bank manager so that I can offer a personal apology for having to cancel. I would also like to meet with you for lunch or dinner (my treat!) to give you a more detailed explanation of what’s going on. Love you so much, Daddy. Always your baby girl.
Technically, Side Chic’k did have new investors.
Jamilah hadn’t met them yet, but a couple of young Asian men with money had sent a good faith installment to Rashad for business expansion.
He’d generously decided to expand the business already in operation, upgrading his status from head chef to partner.
Silent, because this change in status would not be shared with her father.
For the next few months, or until Side Chic’k’s financial picture stabilized, Rashad had also offered ongoing financial support by funneling any extra money made from his growing catering business into the Side Chic’k coffers.
A detailed record would be kept and paid back with no interest at whatever time the business could afford it.
His real estate friend, Tyson, would be their adviser, along with another friend of his who also happened to be a CPA.
Jamilah loved her dad immensely, and remembering that vulnerable moment she’d witnessed on Thanksgiving outside the swanky steak house, she felt uncomfortable with being less than truthful.
But given his immovable stance regarding Rashad, and her growing love for the man he despised, it was the best comprise Jamilah could offer.
So far, she’d received no response.
She pulled up to her father’s well-manicured community.
It wasn’t the home she’d grown up in. Five years ago, her father had downsized and moved into a newly built grouping of single-level duplexes, all laminated wood, stainless steel, vaulted ceilings, and low HOA fees.
His truck wasn’t in the driveway. He rarely parked in the garage.
Still, Jamilah exited her car and knocked on his door.
No answer.
She returned to her car, retrieved a Post-it note and quickly scribbled a simple message.
Stopped by. Please call. Jamilah.
For the next two days, Rashad practically lived at her house.
When she wasn’t serving at Gusto and he wasn’t on a catering gig, they were at her dining room table mapping out strategies for growing Side Chic’k’s business.
She also took the time to really listen to Rashad’s plans about how he wanted to expand their enterprise—his words—by opening up a place next door.
One night, after releasing stress through a round of lovemaking, she felt especially honored when he asked her to help with a possible name for the venue.
“I want it to be something that reflects my experience,” he told her, as they cuddled under a supersoft throw. “That will resonate with brothahs who’ve been in the system and sound cool to our friends who haven’t.”
“What about the music and gaming, do you want that in there somewhere, too?”
“Would love to give a shout-out to hip-hop, a lifeline to so many in the culture. When we rap, it’s called spitting. When we write, they’re called bars. I’ve been playing around with those ideas a little bit.”
“Let’s hear what you’ve got.”
He turned to a page in his book. “Bars is the first name I came up with. It’s catchy, with a double entendre, which is a quality ingredient of a good rap lyric.”
“I like that too,” Jamilah agreed. “But it’s rather general.”
“And people might think it’s just a drinking establishment. Plus, there are so many bars that if I’m just called Bars, then potential customers could end up anywhere.”
Jamilah leaned over to look at his list. “Prison Poets, Rashad? Um, no.”
“Ha! Heard. What about Felon Foodies?”
“Ugh! Sounds like a place only for criminals. I couldn’t cop a meal.
“Music and Mayhem? Now, that’s a possibility.”
Rashad squeezed her shoulder. “I thought so, too. In fact, it’s my favorite so far.”
Jamilah sat up. “Hey! I’ve got the perfect choice—Main Man!”
From Rashad? Blank stare.
“My place is Side Chic’k. Yours is Main Man. Get it?”
“Unfortunately,” he deadpanned.
She laughed. “Heard.”
As she entered the kitchen on December’s first Friday, Rashad’s greeting was full of optimism, his overall attitude these days.
“What’s up, Boss Lady?” Rashad pulled a couple chicken packs from the fridge.
Heading over to grab an apron, she stopped midstride. “What the heck is that?”
“These,” he said holding a large pack of drumsticks, “are what the chicken runs with. These,” he said of the huge pack of wings, “are how they fly.”
“We prefer to buy and break down the whole bird. Blair says it—”
“Who said?” Rashad placed a hand to his ear. “Who?”
“It keeps the meat fresher. And I believe it’s cheaper, too.”
“Negative on both counts. What keeps the meat fresh is buying less more often, which means shopping more, and knowing where to shop to get the best buys. Now, I thought we’d resolved this whole thing about the kitchen when I tossed out Blair’s bible.”
Jamilah’s eyes went wide. “You did what?”
“Tossed it out.” He waited for impact. “Out of the kitchen and into the storage closet.”
“I can’t stand you,” Jamilah jokingly admitted, even as she allowed herself to be pulled into his arms. “You get on my nerves.”
“You love me on your nerves, and a few other places.”
“Ha-ha.”
He kissed her forehead. “Whose kitchen is this?”
Jamilah knew where this was going. He’d found ways to get her to use his rap name since opening up about that part of his life and giving her a peek into some of the contents of his precious rhyme book. She didn’t have time to stroke his big ego—his definition, not hers.
“Okay, come on. Let’s cook.”
He refused to let her go. “Whose kitchen?”
“Ra God’s kitchen,” she mumbled.
“I can’t hear you. Whose kitchen?”
“Ra God’s kitchen! Now, let me go.”
They fell into the comfortable camaraderie they enjoyed when working side by side. With about thirty minutes until the rest of the crew arrived, Rashad spoke again.
“You heard from your pops yet?”
“No, unfortunately.” Said with a sigh.
“Give him time. He’ll come around.”
“I don’t know, Rashad. What I did was pretty awful.”
“You really feel that way?”
“No, but he does. I’d bet the biz on that.”
For a few moments, the sounds of smooth jazz and neo-soul filled the room as they prepped and pondered individually.
“Boss Lady, I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s always dangerous.”
Rashad laughed. “I’ve gone over everything about your business. Inventory. Operations. I think I’ve figured out your problem.”
“What problem?”
He made a sound, a cross between a tsk and a breath. “All of them.”
Jamilah walked to the pantry and gathered the condiments that would turn regular chili beans into barbecued bliss. She tamped down the anger rising from his audacity. The guy hadn’t been at her business three months, and now he was the expert on running it?
Okay, there was that little thing about mistakes and accounting and the IRS. And being garnisheed and the falling-out with her father and Rashad’s five thousand acts of largess that had kept the lights on and the doors open.
But still.
“You want to hear my suggestions?” he asked when she returned.
“Do I have to?”
“You need to listen to somebody.”
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t stutter. You’ve got a good thing going here. Clever name, clear marketing concept, and me cooking some of the best food in the city, maybe anywhere.”
“If you must say so yourself.”
“Damn straight. If I’m not for me, how can I expect anyone else to be?”
He had a point.
“You just need to tweak a few things here and there. I have a plan.”
“You have a plan?”
“Yeah.”
“You have a plan for improving my business?”
“If you haven’t noticed already, I’m pretty good at making plans and getting shit done. I put together something, kinda like a business plan.”
“A plan for my business, the one I created, kept running through blood, sweat, and tears, and worked myself into exhaustion over.”
“Yeah, that one.” He washed and dried his hands, walked over to a leather backpack and pulled out his phone. “It’s brief, just a couple pages. I’ll text it to you.”
Jamilah crossed her arms, incredulity replacing anger. “You’re serious. You want to text me your new-and-improved business idea for how to pull my restaurant out of the two-days-a-week toilet and restore my business to a level that you don’t even know.”
“I just sent it to you,” Rashad spoke to her back. “You’re welcome!”
Jamilah exited the kitchen carrying a tray of condiments for the tables, her chagrin at his boldness quickly replaced by the humor of the situation.
Rashad was a certified trip. She’d never met anyone like him.
Cocky, all alpha, a natural born leader.
But if one could back up their self-aggrandizing comments, was it boasting or pride?
Rashad was right. She did need to make changes.
He had followed through on a dream that could very well become reality.
Jamilah didn’t want to consider his suggestions.
She hated the feeling of him being right.
It was a petty and childish position. But she didn’t want to budge.
The crew arrived. They opened for business.
The room filled up quickly. As she walked an order to the kitchen, the tinkling doorbell announced another set of customers.
She clipped the order to the order wheel, then returned to the front where a group women stood waiting.
While reaching for the one-page, laminated menus to give them, she was struck with a discomforting revelation.
She was acting exactly like her dad.
“Good afternoon, ladies. Three for lunch?”
“Is this where that cook Rashad works?” one of them asked.
“Yes,” Jamilah offered, after a slight hesitation that didn’t make sense.
It was common to tout the chef of a restaurant known for good food.
His pic added to the website had helped to boost business.
So why was she feeling some kind of way about their obvious interest?
They might drool over him at lunchtime. But most nights, he was in her bed.
The second lady in the trio, wearing loud colors, lots of makeup, and flaming red hair said, “Can you have him come out? He, um, catered a lunch for my mother’s work. She said he’s cute and single and from California. And that I need to meet him.”
The third woman said nothing. Just flipped back blond-tinted tresses and kept looking toward the kitchen.
Jamilah scanned the dining room, offering no response to their overt thirstiness. There were few seats left.
“Would y’all like to sit at the stools along the wall? I don’t think we have a table available right now. As you can see, we’re really busy, but I’ll let Rashad know you’re here.”
The woman who’d inquired about him peered toward the kitchen, then questioned her friends. “I guess that’s all right. Why’d you choose such a small place for your business?”
Jamilah swallowed a mouth full of sarcastic responses, smiled, and answered, “Because it’s chic.”
After taking the women’s orders, Jamilah entered the kitchen. “A group of admirers await your presence, great king,” she teased, before placing the order on the wheel.
“Why? They just got here. Haven’t tasted my food.”
“You catered a workplace lunch and were highly recommended.”
Rashad broke out into a wide smile. “That’s what’s up.”
Shasta delivered their drinks. Jamilah helped with their meals. “I passed on your request to the chef,” she told them. “He’ll be out shortly.”
A short time later, Rashad passed her on the way to the table.
She watched as the one who’d been the most silent sat up straighter in her chair.
She was pretty, Jamilah admitted. A manufactured beauty, but it worked.
Jamilah discreetly eyed their interaction as she moved around the room.
All of them flirted, but when the quiet one spoke Rashad looked visibly uncomfortable.
After he returned to the kitchen, the women left in a whirlwind, the kind that could pick up a house and bring it down on a wicked witch. Jamilah followed Rashad into the kitchen.
“What the heck was that about?”
“Nothing.”
“Didn’t look like nothing.”
“A misunderstanding, that’s all.”
“At one point, the conversation looked pretty serious.”
“She was mad because I’m not into her.”
“Were you ever?”
No comment.
“Is there something going on there? Wait, don’t answer. It’s none of my business. But I do have to give you this heads-up, Rashad. Having side chicks wreak havoc at Side Chic’k is the last thing we need.”