The faint strains of a familiar tune wafting in from the front of the restaurant made me pause my usual hurried pace to my office. Was the pianist playing... I tiptoed down the hall, keeping as quiet as possible, and listened.
Yep. That was definitely the Divinyls’ “I Touch Myself.” Wow, he was on one tonight, and I bet the esteemed patrons of this starred establishment, one of only two in DC, had no clue.
I covered my mouth to muffle a snicker and snuck back to my office before someone found me and made me perform. I wish I could flout propriety like the pianist but—I paused, looking down at my arms, covered in tattoos that always peeked out of my coat—I guess I got away with enough.
I slipped out of my over-expensive, toe-pinching loafers, into the far more comfortable clogs I wore while working. My butt had just hit the seat when Maribel, our head chef, burst through the door, her normally light tan skin flush with exertion.
“Janice is sick,” she said, referring to our first line cook. “Or, rather, her wife is, so she’s gone home to take care of their kid.”
Whatever joy I’d taken in the pianist’s subversive musical selections faded, and I was left with nothing but a nervous energy I couldn’t parse. One of our other line cooks was on paternity leave, and rather than get someone to fill in, the CFO had decided we could make do. We had, but we were on the rails, and as executive chef, that was always my fault.
Bel cleared her throat and stepped toward me. “I’ll work her station, and you can play head chef for the night,” she began, but I waved her off.
“No. I’ll handle her job; you keep doing what you’re doing.” Yes, that was a better idea, one I liked. It might even be fun.
“DeShawn, the line cooks are scared of you.”
I snorted and fixed her with a withering look that she knew was all jokes. “They are not. I’m friendly with all of them.”
“Friendly, but you’re still the DeShawn Franklin, god of the kitchen, and we are but mere peons.” She fluttered her lashes and kissed the air, and for a brief moment in time, I wished I had those godawful loafers back on, because clogs didn’t give me the satisfying clunking sound as I tapped my foot.
“Hush, you.” I grabbed my black chef’s jacket and cap, smoothed it over my locs, and followed her out the door and to the kitchen. “You go on and be the big bad boss, and I’m gonna be one of the guys.”
She huffed and mimed flipping her hair, except it was pulled back into a tight bun with a white cap over it, so not a strand moved. “We’ll see about that.”
I laughed, the banter with her just what I needed to loosen up. I loved this job, being an executive chef at one of the hottest restaurants in town, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss actually getting to cook every now and then. That was dead last on my list of responsibilities, and while I understood, it still grated. I missed the simplicity of chilling in the kitchen all night, shooting the shit and joking with the other line cooks and sous chefs, even when we were slammed. I wasn’t nearly as fond of being bogged down by glad-handing patrons who barely touched their plates.
I slid into Janice’s station next to Graham, an absolute lumberjack of a guy who made my already short five-six look positively tiny, and he started to grin, then gulped and his body went fainting-goat stiff. “Oh, Chef, I didn’t know it was you.”
Good Lord, was Bel right? Were people actually afraid of me? Impossible. I refused to accept it.
I elbow-nudged him and gave him a grin, the one that made folks love me or whatever. “You know I don’t like being called Chef. Call me DeShawn and let’s get to work.”
Graham, eyes still saucer-round, nodded, then swallowed so hard his jaw clicked. He gripped his knife way too hard and I tried to muffle my small squeak of alarm. Apparently, that was enough to make him take a deep breath, loosen his grip, and begin cutting.
I waited for a few beats, then pulled Janice’s card and went to work chopping onions. So many onions. Diced for the mirepoix, sliced for salads and a few of the entrees. Next to me, Graham’s shoulders finally relaxed, and I watched him from the corner of my eye. He was a beast with the scallions, slicing with an efficiency I’d never been able to master. Huh, maybe he should give classes.
The door banged open, not an unusual sound, but the loud, nasally “Chef DeShawn” made my heart sink. Mine, and probably more than one person around me.
Still, I tried for a halfway decent grin as I turned and smiled tightly at Christopher. “Yes?”
Christopher—my agent slash publicist slash general pain in the ass—stomped over to me, his warm, slightly sweet cologne a sharp contrast to the pungent onions we were cutting. “We have multiple VIPs waiting to meet you. Powerful, influential. I need you out there ASAP.” He paused and frowned, like he’d just realized where he was, or rather where I was. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“Helping,” I said. “Janice is out. We’re short.”
“Your job does not involve chopping onions,” he hissed.
I straightened and turned. Christopher looked on the verge of tears. He wasn’t supposed to be in the kitchen anyway. Served him right that his eyes were watering. Because I’m a G, I didn’t smile. “My job always involves service. If they’ll wait a few minutes, I’ll be right out.”
“These are VIPs,” Christopher protested.
“And?” I ignored him and chopped half an onion while he stood there. “Every patron wants the same thing, right? The best food, the kind that got us a star, as quickly as possible. In fact, I think they’d appreciate I’m not above jumping on line and helping out.”
Christopher didn’t answer, but I felt his eyes narrow on my back. We were supposed to work together for things that benefited my career, and his by association, but that glare made me feel like a recalcitrant schoolchild. He waited until I finished before muttering, “Are you ready now?” and turning away before I could answer.
He sounded every ounce the sullen little boy, and I groaned internally. I shouldn’t goad my agent, no matter how much he irritated me. After conferring with Graham that he’d be fine on his own, and getting a squeaked “yes” in response, I followed Christopher out, slowing my step to get myself together. I ignored the knowing glance and tiny smirk Maribel gave when I passed, flicking her off as I walked out. By the time I pushed through the door, I was ready, my smile fixed in place. Christopher led me to a series of raised tables, where people who were there to be seen more than to eat sat around the table.
“Took you long enough,” one man grumbled, his face flushed, both a half-full tumbler and a full glass of wine in front of him. I smiled, the smile that made me so popular in the city, and stared at him until he dropped his eyes and coughed slightly, then mumbled he was just joking. Of course he was.
I took my eyes off him and beamed at the rest of the table, then gave a slight bow. “My sincerest apologies for keeping you waiting. We’re somewhat short-staffed and I’m a cook at heart.”
“I’d think you had better things to do than that,” one woman commented, adjusting her posture so I couldn’t help but notice the deep scoop neckline of her spaghetti-strap dress. For reasons forever unknown, I got that a lot. My being openly gay hadn’t changed it a bit.
So I smiled and even gave her a little wink, making her blush. “I hope to never be so big in my britches that I’m above helping out the line cooks who bring my fantastical ideas to life and make your excellent meals possible.”
That got a series of coos from her and the other women there, and even begrudgingly respectful nods from the men. I inquired about their meal—what, if anything, they particularly enjoyed—and, as usual, the restaurant comped their desserts. Throughout it all, Christopher stood next to me, his smile so wide and fixed it bordered on Jack Nicholson’s Joker.
After another quick bow, I decided to take one quick circuit through the main room to speak to our other patrons. Once I made it back to the kitchen, it was unlikely I’d have a chance to come back out before the night was over.
Christopher wasn’t interested in that, his face drooping the minute we were out of sight of the Very Important People. “We have to get back,” he insisted, swiping at my sleeve.
I ignored him and shook hands with the “regular” customers at another table, spending time with them, listening to their stories and answering questions, before moving to the next one. Ten minutes later, Christopher scowling at my side, I headed back to the kitchen.
“I brought you out here to meet VIPs,” he hissed in my ear.
“I did. What? You didn’t want me to make anyone else feel like a VIP, too, Chris?”
“Christopher.”
“My bad.” As much as I thought he was a pretentious douchebag on the best of days, I wasn’t an asshole about names. Given the number of times my own had been butchered over the past forty years, I was better than that. “What else do you want, Christopher? As you can see, I have work to do. You saw how short-staffed we are, and I made this round because I won’t make it back on the floor tonight. What can I do for you?”
“We have a series of events lined up, some television gigs you’ll need to be at in the next few days.”
I crinkled my nose, well past trying to hide my distaste. “Christopher, why can’t Bel do these instead of me? She’s as photogenic as y’all say I am, and she actually likes that stuff.”
He was shaking his head before I finished speaking, even though her agent worked for Christopher’s agency and they usually swapped us in and out like playing cards. “Perhaps, but she’s not...” He waved his arm vaguely at me. “You,” he finished.
In someone’s world, that was a compliment. In mine, it was a pain in the butt. I did not want, actually had no interest in, doing television segments. My desire to be on TV had evaporated after an early and disastrous pitch session, but Christopher was convinced my opinion would change once we found the right opportunity, my protests that I was over it notwithstanding. But Maribel and I had agreed with Criteria’s owners to do regular segments with DCFoodie, a local food station.
I rolled my shoulders, knowing I wouldn’t win this argument. Nothing to it but to do it.
“All right. Fine,” I said. “We’ll work it out. Let’s schedule a time later this week.”
For once, Christopher just nodded, and I pushed into the kitchen, intent on making my way back to my temporary station. Bel caught me as soon as I entered.
“DeShawn, I didn’t want to come out and tell you, but your grandmother called while you were out. She says you need to come home.”
Coming home didn’t happen for two more days, until Janice got back and I finally put my foot down and forced the CFO to get a temp line cook. I’d called Grandma to explain, but she’d always been asleep, per her BFF Miss Maxine. She’d assured me it wasn’t critical, that Grandma just needed to talk to me. Cryptic might as well have been both of their middle names.
I made the drive to Baltimore and pulled up to the small, single-story house, located smack in the middle of the block, and climbed out, taking a deep breath to let the calm wash over me. Here, I was just Lil D, Grandma’s baby, the sorry one whose mama had passed having me. It’d taken me a long time to not feel guilty, but I’d been loved beyond measure. That knowledge led to a different kind of regret. While it was common for me to talk to Grandma a few times a week, it was rare she beckoned me home, and I hadn’t made the drive up for close to six months.
I climbed the front steps and fished my key out of my pocket, leaning against a post I needed to have fixed for her. Which was just one of the many reasons I should’ve made time to get here before now. She was getting up in age, and I didn’t know how much time we had left.
I opened the door and called out immediately, “Grandma? It’s me.”
The door shut behind me, and I took a moment to hang up my jacket on the coat tree. I turned at the sound of footsteps. Miss Maxine stood in the hallway, her arms open. I wasted no time crossing the distance and engulfing her in a hug.
“Hey, Auntie,” I said.
She pressed a kiss to my forehead and patted my cheeks. “Hey, baby. Larry’s in there with her now.”
I walked in and smiled at Miss Maxine’s son. We’d grown up together, but he’d become an adult and gone into law while I played in the kitchen for a living. He sat next to Grandma, who was reclined comfortably in her bed, the adjustable-frame mattress I’d bought her apparently being put to good use, and grinned at me. “Hey, D. What’s good?”
“Not much, man. Always looking for a reason to escape the city.” I leaned over and kissed Grandma on the cheek. “Hey, pretty lady, how’s it going?”
“Good, baby. Take a seat, because we have some things to discuss.”
No lie, that sounded pretty ominous, and I paused in front of the chair I’d been about to plop down in. “What’s up?”
She wasted no time. “The cancer has metastasized and I’m not doing no more treatment.”
If I’d been holding something, I would’ve dropped it. I sucked in a big gulp of air, but it wasn’t enough. My hands tingled, like ants had taken up residence, and my shoulders ached with the sudden weight.
Not this. Jesus Christ, not this. She’d been in remission ten years, and I still remembered the fear in Grandpa’s eyes when he thought he might lose her. When the doctors told us she was cancer free, Grandpa’d cried. Broke down on the hospital floor, thanking the Lord for saving his wife. I could’ve handled just about anything she told me. I wasn’t sure if I could handle this.
I gripped the top of the chair and fought to stay upright. “Grandma, what?” Someone had taken a meat mallet to my voice, and I barely got the words out.
“I’m tired, I’ve done what I set out to do, and I’m ready to go when the good Lord is ready to bring me home. Now sit down, because I’m not finished.”
I’m glad my legs obeyed her, because they sure as hell didn’t listen to me. Or maybe it was the combined efforts of Larry and Miss Maxine pushing me into Grandma’s old sitting chair. My fingers fumbled for the little patch of threadbare fabric on the arm that I’d been picking at since I was six. It was harder to pluck at it now than then, but way easier than to accept what I’d just heard.
Larry retook his seat, cleared his throat, and spoke. “Your grandmother has redone her will and wants you to know what’s in it.”
I nodded, still a little too numb to speak. That made sense, I guess. I knew she’d done one during her first bout with cancer and chemo, but once she’d gone into remission, I’d stopped thinking about it.
Grandma speared Larry with a look, but he just smiled indulgently at her before turning to me. He was a super bigwig at a downtown DC firm. He’d come into the restaurant a few times during lunch and always left huge tips. The servers adored him. “Grandma has left the house to you. She wanted you to have a place to, and I quote, ‘get away from the madness of the city.’”
I blinked at him, then at Grandma, who gave me a quick smile. I adored this home, the quiet comfort it always brought me when the world got to be too much, but I’d assumed she’d leave it to my uncle Robert. He’d sell it immediately, because he was all about cash, and maybe that was part of her decision.
I reached out to grab her hands. “Thank you,” I said, ignoring the slight warble in my voice. “Corey will love it.”
“That dog loves anything. But I want you to love it, too.” She sniffed, but she doted on my bulldog as much as, if not more, than I did.
“We will. But he’ll especially love having this entire place to himself.”
She cupped my cheek and I placed my hand over hers, tears springing up and a few strays spilling over. She wiped them with her thumb and I sat back, then shook myself and let out a hoarse cry, the reality of the situation overwhelming. Grandma, telling me her final wishes. I wasn’t ready. Internally, I berated myself to get it the hell together, but it still took a few more deep breaths before I could face them.
Larry waited until I was done, his eyes warm with brotherly concern, before continuing. “Now, the actual cash, savings accounts, checking accounts, those liquid assets?”
I raised a brow. Me and Robert were the only family Grandma had, so if I got the house, he had to get the cash. He’d blow through it, like he’d blown through every bit of money he’d ever gotten his hands on, but it was kind of what he did. I’d long ago given up on Grandma saying no to him. Of course, she could also give it to charity. She was big into her church, and...
“Those are all going to Malik Franklin.”
I paused. Closed my eyes, swallowed hard, fought to keep the name from thunking around my eardrums. Fought to keep the memories from swallowing me whole. “Malik? My ex-husband Malik?”
My throat closed all the way up, and I hacked hard enough that Larry scrunched his nose at me and sat back. Miss Maxine came over and rubbed my back until I found my voice. “I...sure. I mean, it’s your money. Do with it what you want.”
Honestly, I don’t even know why I was pretending. No one in the room believed a word out of my mouth. I didn’t have to perform for them, and with that in mind, I blew out a deep breath and focused on what she had to say.
“So,” Grandma started, drawing the word out, “that’s really why I needed to talk to you. To tell you what we found.”
My confusion? Sky high. “What, Grandma? What did you find?” And why is my gut performing Kegels?
She cleared her throat, and that really didn’t help. “So. You and Malik’s divorce...”
My nostrils flared at the word, and I had to take a moment before I could respond. “What about it?”
“Well, there was a problem with it.”
“Okay. What problem?”
“Honestly, I’m not really sure.”
Not. Helping. “Grandma, what are you telling me?”
“That you guys did something wrong and aren’t divorced.”
“What!” I leapt off the chair and stared at Larry, then at Grandma, then back to Larry. “What are you talking about, we aren’t divorced? We’ve been divorced for years.” Seven of them, to be exact. Seven years, three months, and eighteen days. Give or take. Maybe nineteen.
Larry winced but shook his head. “No, you’re not. You were already out of the country when they sent the rejection notice. Not that it mattered, because we didn’t see it. They sent a second notice a few years later closing out the case when a new divorce wasn’t submitted. If you want one, you’ll have to refile the entire thing.”
I collapsed back in my seat and closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “How long have you known about this?” I asked Grandma, and felt like shit when her eyes got big and she shook her head rapidly. Hell, I hadn’t meant to accuse her of anything.
“Not long, baby, I swear. They sent the paperwork here, but your grandfather had just died when the second letter came and I—”
I couldn’t get to her fast enough, to sit on the bed and pull her close. She didn’t need to explain. Grandpa’s passing had been sudden, had shaken our whole world to its very core. I’d been in Barcelona and had broken down at least three times on the flight home. If I’d been here, there’s a good chance I would’ve missed the paperwork, too.
Miss Maxine picked up where Grandma left off. “We found it when we were cleaning. We didn’t want you to have to go through all her stuff the way she did Cornelius’s, so we were trying to get that done now, and...”
She trailed off, and my mind circled all the way back around to losing Grandma. To her deciding to let go and let god. And as much as I wanted to plead with her to fight, not to give in, I also thought that her making this decision and doing it on her own terms was pretty badass. Which was Grandma in a nutshell.
“So now what?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light. “You telling me I don’t get the house and he doesn’t get the money unless we reunite and are remarried within six months or something?”
She laughed, long and loud, and it was music to my ears. And I wondered if this was the last time I’d hear it. I clenched my fists, digging my stubby nails into my palms to keep the tears at bay.
“No, nothing like that. Besides, I asked, and Larry says I can’t do it.” She winked at him, and he chuckled, his unbridled affection for her evident.
“No,” she said again, settling her gaze back on me. “There’s no ultimatum. I’m telling you this so you’re prepared. Robert’s going to fight it tooth and nail, and you need to be ready. And you need to be there for Malik when Robert goes after him, too.”
I frowned, thinking about the terms she’d laid out. “Grandma, are you cutting Uncle Robert out?”
“Yes.” She punctuated it with a sharp nod. “I’ve given him more than enough, and I know he waits for my death with bated breath to get the rest. But I’ve assisted him enough in this life, and it’s time for him to make his own way.”
Wow. I had no words, couldn’t think of when I’d heard her this passionate. I mean, except for her extremely vocal disapproval of my apparent non-divorce. But yeah, Uncle Robert was going to come out swinging to challenge this.
I looked up at her. “I don’t know how to reach Malik. I don’t have his number—we haven’t spoken since the divorce.”
Grandma smiled at me gently, like she was dealing with a toddler and not a forty-year-old man, then glanced at Larry. He cleared his throat and leaned across the bed to hand me a folded sheet of paper. I opened it to find Malik’s name and number, and couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Why do you have this?” I asked her, though I didn’t know why I was surprised.
She snorted. “You two may have divorced, or tried to, but I didn’t. That boy’s been my grandbaby as much as you since the moment you brought him home.”
God, Malik had loved her. Had adored her almost as much as he had me. And as happy as I was that he still spoke to her, hadn’t let that die when we had, the sour tinge of bittersweet recriminations would haunt me tonight.
“Yeah, okay,” I said, staring down at the paper in my hands. Wondering what I could possibly say. “I’ll reach out to him.”
“Don’t dillydally, DeShawn.” Grandma’s voice was gentle, but she was serious. “This is important, and you need to reach out to him soon.”
“I will, Grandma. I promise.”