6. Landon #3
She liked neo-soul. Old R&B. Some gospel. Had a strong opinion about one particular artist’s sophomore album that I thought bordered on revisionist history. I’d put the song she defended most aggressively third.
I wanted to see if she noticed.
Twenty minutes outside Self Ridge, I sent a voice text.
Twenty minutes away. Coffee secured.
Her answer came quickly.
You brought coffee too?
Diplomacy package.
Nyla says you’re doing too much.
Nyla still drinking hers?
Three dots appeared.
She said mind your business.
I laughed.
Drive safely, Landon. We’ll be waiting.
That we sounded good.
The woman who sent it sounded better.
At 1:48, I pulled into a space across from Crème & Chill.
The storefront was bright, busy, and easy to recognize.
Then Nolani stepped outside.
Yeah.
The building could wait.
She wore a pink apron over a cream dress, her curls partly pulled away from her face with enough left loose to cause a problem. The apron should’ve made her look wholesome.
It failed.
Her entire face changed when she saw me. No careful smile. No pretending she hadn’t been waiting. She came straight toward the SUV.
I stepped out with the coffees in one hand and the pastry box tucked beneath my arm.
“You made it.”
“I said I would.”
Her eyes moved over me once.
Quick.
Not quick enough.
“You looking, Hershey?”
“No.”
“Damn shame. I dressed with intention.”
Her eyes dropped to my shirt again.
“I can tell.”
“I can tell you can tell.”
“Landon.”
“Hershey.”
Her laugh came first.
Then she hugged me.
No hesitation. No checking the storefront windows. She stepped directly into my chest and wrapped both arms around me.
I got the pastry box onto the hood before instinct cost her employees breakfast, then put my arm around her waist and kissed her temple.
“Hey, love.”
“Hi.”
She held on.
So did I.
Six days had apparently been too many.
When she eased back, her palms stayed against my sides.
“You brought something for everybody?”
“I was raised properly.”
“You’re trying to charm my employees.”
“I’m establishing favorable diplomatic relations.”
“That is charming with a degree.”
“Several.”
She laughed and reached for the drink carrier. Our fingers met around the cardboard and stayed there longer than logistics required.
Her eyes came to mine.
Mine were already there.
Sharp tapping hit the storefront glass.
Nyla stood on the other side with both hands framing her face, grinning like admission had been paid.
Nolani closed her eyes.
“My sister is spiritually unemployed.”
“She owns half the business.”
“Still spiritually unemployed.”
I grabbed the pastry box. “Come on before she reports us missing from twenty feet away.”
Nolani turned toward the entrance, took two steps, then reached back without looking.
Her hand found mine.
I laced our fingers.
That worked for me.
The bell above the door announced us, and Crème & Chill hit me with brown butter before I got three steps inside.
Honey-colored floors. Caramel booths. Jazz underneath the conversations.
Black musicians, authors, and poets covering the walls.
Kids carrying books in one hand and ice cream in the other.
I looked around once.
Then at Nolani.
Of course she had built this.
“Look at Noli initiating parking-lot hugs!” Nyla called from behind the register.
Nolani pointed toward the hallway. “Go manage something.”
“I am. Your development has required years of unpaid labor.”
I put the pastry box on the counter. “From where I’m standing, the program appears effective.”
“Do not encourage her.”
“I respect evidence-based practice.”
Nyla pressed one hand to her chest. “Finally. Somebody honors my contribution.”
“You’ve contributed stress since we shared a womb.”
“And now you hugging fine men in broad daylight. My methods have been vindicated.”
Nolani tightened her hand around mine.
I enjoyed that information.
Nyla took her coffee and checked the label. “Correct milk. Extra caramel. Right size.” Her attention traveled over me. “Okay, Big Lando.”
I blinked. “Big what?”
Nolani almost dropped her drink. “Nyla.”
“Big Lando. Landon is the government name. Big Lando drove out here dressed like somebody’s husband, brought staff pastries, remembered my coffee, and been looking at you like the rest of us came with the furniture.”
I looked at Nolani. “Your sister appears committed to accurate reporting.”
“She’s committed to irritating me.”
“Recognition requires repetition,” Nyla said. “I haven’t told one lie.”
“I’m not answering to Big Lando.”
Nyla took a sip. “Give it time.”
Nolani shook her head and started introducing me to the staff.
Tasha handled the floor. Micah ran production.
Mason was working through a supplier issue.
Within a few minutes, I had enough names and roles to understand why she talked about these people like part of what she’d built instead of bodies occupying a schedule.
A young woman opened the pastry box, looked at me, then leaned toward the employee beside her.
“He fine.”
She had not whispered successfully.
I looked toward a mural.
Nolani looked directly at her. “I heard that.”
The employee immediately developed a deep interest in napkins. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You absolutely did.”
I leaned toward Nolani. “Strong observational staff.”
“They about to be unemployed.”
The woman laughed. “You love us.”
“Unfortunately.”
I looked at Hershey. “You jealous?”
“Of what?”
“The appreciation committee.”
“They have eyes.”
“So they can look?”
She held my stare.
“They can look.”
Aight.
That little edge sounded good on her.
Nyla groaned into her coffee. “This afternoon already exhausting.”
“Go own something farther away from me.”
“I own half this place.”
“Pick the distant half.”
Nyla walked away, laughing.
The shop called for Nolani almost immediately, and for the next few minutes, I got to watch her answer without turning every question into proof she was the only competent person in the building.
Mason brought over the supplier issue. She asked what he recommended, listened, and told him to go with it.
A regular waved from a booth and got greeted by name.
A kid near Scoops & Stories held up a book, and Nolani knew enough about what he’d been reading to ask whether he’d finished the previous one.
She was good at this.
More than good.
And I didn’t need six paragraphs of internal analysis to establish it.
The evidence was walking around the building.
She finally came back to me and tucked her coffee behind the counter.
“Okay. Where do you want to start?”
I looked around.
“Where did you?”
The question caught her for a second.
“The flavors. Before there was a building or a logo, there were recipes in Nana’s kitchen.”
“Then start there.”
Her smile changed.
“Come on.”
She slid her hand into mine and led me toward the production kitchen. Halfway there, she looked back and caught me watching her instead of the murals.
“What?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
I looked her over once. “You look good doing what you built.”
Her steps slowed.
“That’s what you came up with?”
“Yeah.”
“You usually have more vocabulary.”
“I’m trying not to interrupt the tour.”
She laughed. “How considerate.”
“I have layers.”
“Malcolm would say you contain multitudes.”
I stopped.
She looked back.
“How you know Malcolm said that?”
“You told me.”
“Damn.”
“I listen.”
I smiled. “I noticed.”
She tugged me through the doors.
The production kitchen was all stainless steel, copper fixtures, freezers, mixers, cooling racks, and organized movement. One wall held laminated recipe cards in handwriting that changed from card to card.
“This is where the magic happens.”
I looked around. “Magic is what people call work they didn’t witness.”
Her eyes came to mine.
“Okay, that one was good.”
“I know.”
“You could practice humility.”
“I do. Selectively.”
She laughed and led me toward the recipes.
“Nana wrote the originals. Her measurements were terrible. Everything was a pinch, a little bit, or enough until your spirit said stop.”
“Ancestral precision.”
“Culinary chaos.”
“Fed everybody, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Method defensible.”
She shook her head. “Nyla and I spent months translating them into actual measurements. We’d change one thing, taste it, take notes, then do it again.”
“Which one of y’all kept insisting it wasn’t right?”
“Me.”
“Obviously.”
Her head turned. “Obviously?”
“You don’t leave something alone when you know it can be better.”
For once, she didn’t argue.
She showed me the waffle-cone press, roasted pecans, homemade caramel, and strawberry purée they cooked down themselves instead of buying syrup.
“I wanted the strawberry to taste like somebody actually touched it before it reached the freezer.”
I nodded. “Makes sense.”
“You’re not going to turn that into a philosophy?”
“Nah. Sometimes fruit is just good.”
She laughed hard enough to lean against the counter.
Better.
We moved into Scoops & Stories next. Low shelves curved beneath an arch painted like open pages. Picture books, middle-grade novels, graphic novels, poetry, and enough Black authors to make it clear every child walking through there was supposed to recognize that imagination belonged to them too.
One handwritten recommendation card caught my attention.
For the child who needs proof that imagination belongs to them too.
“You wrote this?”
“Most of them.”
I looked around. “Why put books inside an ice cream shop?”
“Because kids come for ice cream. If they leave loving a book too, I win twice.”
I nodded.
That sounded exactly like her.
She moved along one shelf and adjusted a book that hadn’t needed adjusting.
“Some of them come after school and stay for hours. They don’t have to buy anything to sit here.”
“So you built somewhere they can just be.”
“Yeah.”
I looked at the beanbags, little tables, books, and children scattered around them.
“Smart.”
Nolani looked at me.
“That’s it?”
“What you want, a dissertation?”
Her laugh came immediately.
“Maybe.”
“Nah. It works. I can see it.”
Something in her expression eased.
Good.
“What flavor made you think this could actually work?”
“Sweet Hearth.”