On god, if one more person interrupted me, my cheerful persona was going to crack like a poorly installed induction cooktop.
All I wanted to do was get through this day. I was off tomorrow, but I wasn’t even waiting till then to get to Grandma. Me and Corey were going up there tonight. The knot at the pit of my gut had been building since I’d last seen her, and was now the size of a small boulder. I kept saying I’d call, but the past week had been full of sixteen-plus-hour days, and by the time I got to my apartment at night, I was barely capable of rational thought, let alone serious conversations. Thank god for dog walkers, because at least Corey was good.
“Chef DeShawn, I need your opinion on this sauce.” The sous chef who’d made it looked apprehensive, and that was never a good thing. He gave me a clean spoon and I tasted it.
“I understand this is a lower sodium meal, but we need to increase the flavor. What herbs did you put in?”
“The usual: parsley, thyme, sage, and a bit of rosemary.”
“Fresh or dried?”
He looked nearly offended by the question. Must be a newbie here, because I had a love/love relationship with dried herbs. “Fresh, of course.”
“Add some dried to it. Stronger concentration of flavor. Let it steep. I’ll be back to check on it soon.” Once the shock wore off his face, he nodded and went back to it.
I made my way over to Maribel, standing at the front with a clipboard, her eyes seeing everything and checking things off. “How’s it going here?” I asked.
Her snort mirrored my feelings. “I’m through with just about everybody, to be honest.”
I chuckled softly. “You don’t have to tell me.”
Bel’s face softened as she looked me over. “I know you know. Have you done whatever your grandmother asked?”
She was the only person who had even a hint of what was going on, the only person who actually cared about me outside the restaurant. After all these years, it didn’t sting the way it had when I first started. But even then, I hadn’t talked about my life pre-Criteria. I’d been single when I met her, and had spent years deflecting questions and jabs from other cooks about my love life. Trying to explain now that I’d been divorced, but somehow now wasn’t, was more than I could take. It didn’t even sound real to my own ears.
To her, I shook my head. “I haven’t, and before you chastise me, I know I need to.”
“DeShawn,” she said, her voice dropping that polite facade we normally maintained in earshot of other people, “she called you to her house to tell you about her will. She told you she wasn’t getting more treatment. Why are you acting like this isn’t happening?”
“Because I don’t want to lose her.” My voice broke on the last word, and Bel sighed, her face creased with sympathy, before she placed a hand on my elbow.
“I know you don’t,” she said, her voice gentling, “and I understand. But we need to prepare, to game plan for when you’re gone for a few days, few weeks, whatever, so things don’t fall through the cracks.”
She was right, and I was damn lucky to have her on my team. I ran a hand over my face, but before I could say anything else, Christopher barged in. There was little I hated more than non-cooks in my kitchen, but getting that through to him was like having a deep and meaningful conversation with a steel door.
He found me and his nose twitched, and for a second I wished we were by the onions again. “DeShawn,” he began without preamble, “I’m sure your attention could be better utilized elsewhere, correct?”
For him, better utilized was typically code for schmoozing the patrons. Which I did regularly, and wasn’t a reason for him to come to the kitchen. So there had to be something else. “Once we get this prep settled, I’ll be out to do rounds. Might be the last time for a while, because I need to head home.”
“Excellent. We need you to do a segment for the show.”
But it was Tuesday evening, and I taped segments on Thursday mornings. “I...what?”
“Now, if you can,” he went on as if I hadn’t interrupted. “Shouldn’t be long, only fifteen or twenty minutes.”
I blinked, then closed my eyes to keep my expression neutral. Christopher was singularly focused; I had to give him that. Right now, all that attention was on the weekly segment I did for DCFoodie, and everything funneled into that, while I was still stuck wondering what the hell “excellent” had been referring to.
I raised a brow and shared a look with Maribel. She understood me. When I’d first been named executive chef of Criteria, I’d been thrilled about being on TV. It was a spotlight, but it was controlled. I thought it’d be my jam, and my real struggle would come with the nightly interactions with customers. It wasn’t. Quite the opposite.
I loved meeting the patrons who truly enjoyed the meals we prepared. I loved interacting with people on a real and genuine basis. I’d wanted to do that on television, too, but the network heads had balked at my ideas. They were much more interested in playing off the tattoos and locs and piercings, and not in building legit connections with local businesses. Not that Christopher cared about such things. I was the “pretty, bad boy” executive chef, and viewers loved it. As long as I kept my tongue and my face in check, he could care less what I did or did not like.
“The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can get back to”—Christopher paused and looked around—”whatever it is you do here.”
I bristled, and Maribel stiffened next to me. This, of course, was why I didn’t like him in my space. He didn’t know anything about how kitchens ran, and honestly, he didn’t care. As long as it—scratch that—I was popular and made money, he got his cut, and that was the entirety of his focus.
“You got this?” I asked Bel, and she gave me a curt nod, back to being her usual reserved self.
I looked at Christopher and straightened, then grabbed the double-breasted white chef coat that I only wore to do the segments. Apparently the white was more approachable, especially to older audiences. I draped it over my arm and nodded at him. “Let’s get this over with.”
The studio was a few blocks away, and we walked at a quick clip down the block. As was becoming familiar, though no less disconcerting, people who recognized me stopped to point and smile, and I immediately returned their waves.
“Chef DeShawn! We love you!” one young lady called out, surrounded by friends nodding their agreement.
I waved and gave them a slight bow, slowing but not stopping. “And I love you guys, too.” I’d never gotten used to being recognizable, but I preferred meeting people organically rather than at formal events. It didn’t feel as staged, wasn’t as intrusive, and didn’t last as long. Win-win-win, as far as I was concerned.
They squealed and bent their heads together, then one sprinted down the block and tapped me on my shoulder. “Can you sign this?”
“DeShawn, we have somewhere to be.” The rapid thudthudthud of Christopher’s shoes on the pavement made the woman shift closer to me and away from him. I ignored him and signed four sheets of paper, one for her and each of her friends, posed for a selfie, then kissed the back of her hand before she ran off.
“You never listen to me, and one day it’s going to get you in trouble,” Christopher whispered tightly once she was gone and we’d started walking.
I didn’t break stride. “If getting in trouble means I don’t have to do any more TV spots, I’m here for it.”
Christopher narrowed his eyes but didn’t respond. He knew I wasn’t lying. If I never saw myself on television again it would be too soon.
Before long we’d wound our way through the front lobby into the studio, all bright lights and pristine white kitchen with that aggravating herringbone subway tile backsplash and stainless steel everything. Christopher left to do whatever he did while I worked, and the makeup artist hurried over to me.
“Just a bit of blotting and powder, then you’re ready to go,” he said, pressing blotting papers to my T-zone.
I grinned at him and his cheeks pinkened. Or that could be blush. Whatever it was, it looked good on him. “You flatter me.”
“Never.” He brushed my forehead and nose with the tiniest bit of powder—more would make me ashy, he said—then popped me on the arm and pointed. “Go.”
My phone buzzed as I walked to the kitchen. I normally kept it on silent during the day, and I almost ignored it. I should’ve ignored it. When I pulled it out of my pocket, I saw a message from Larry.
LJ: It’s go time. Robert’s filed suit.
I stumbled to a stop and almost fell, then reached out to grasp the side of the producer’s chair.
“You okay?” she whispered. I shook my head, my throat too clogged to speak.
“DeShawn! Places.” That wasn’t even the director, that was Christopher, and I cringed at his strident tone. My heart raced too fast for me to respond.
Was Grandma gone? She had to be, right? Robert wouldn’t be filing for anything if she was still here, and Larry wouldn’t tell me she passed in an email. Or maybe she’d taken a turn for the worse and needed a power of attorney? That could be what Larry meant. I needed more information. I stared at the message again, but the words didn’t change, didn’t shift into something that made sense, and I was spiraling.
The producer leaned in toward me again. “Do we need to find someone else?”
Boy, I was tempted to say yes, but I shook my head. Right now, I needed the distraction. These segments were short, and it’d keep me from mentally cycling into ever more grim scenarios. Christopher was by my side and in my ear in a flash. “We have work to do. Why are you dillydallying?”
He was truly on my last nerve, but his complete obliviousness to my distress was the push I needed to keep going. “What are we doing today?” I asked the producer, pulling on my classic, devil-may-care persona as I slipped into my coat and fastened it, then donned a white toque saucier.
She launched into their segment plan with the director and host, and I worked through a short segment about ensuring a steak’s proper doneness without cutting into it and losing the flavor. We went over various types of meat thermometers to check temperature, and I pulled the steak off to a perfect, medium-rare doneness, to finish it off. The host’s moan of pleasure was not faked, and I smiled. I did make a pretty bomb-ass steak.
The minute cameras cut off, I removed my cap, peeled out of my jacket, and sprinted toward the exit.
“Where’re you going?” Christopher demanded as he maneuvered through people to reach me.
“I’m leaving, I have to go back home. I’ll be in touch with Maribel shortly. She knows how to handle things.”
“Handle things?” Christopher leaned over and grabbed my elbow, but at the pointed look I gave him, dropped it and herded me into the corner. “You can’t just up and leave.”
“I have a family emergency. Which I tried to tell you earlier, but you weren’t listening.” That I wasn’t quite sure on the exact nature of the emergency wasn’t his business. “Maribel and I were planning for it when you came in today, and I’ll follow up with her when I get home.”
“I expect you back here in three days.”
Wasn’t going to happen. “No. If that’s your expectation, prepare to be disappointed.” I walked off, not caring what else he had to say. I needed to call Malik. He’d for sure be mentioned in the suit, maybe even made a defendant. God, Grandma was going to kill me. It’d been about a month since she’d told me to call him, and his number had branded itself on my brain.
What did I say, though? Hey Malik, remember how we thought we were divorced? Surprise, we’re not! I still didn’t believe it myself, and no matter how many times I repeated the words, they sounded ridiculous. Never mind that Malik made me tongue-tied, enough that I choked on my spit the first time I tried to approach him. We’d dated for one year, been engaged for another, and I’d still been awestruck at our wedding that he’d picked me. I’d be less than surprised if I acted the same way when I spoke to him again.
I shot Bel a text, telling her I’d reach out soon, then hurried to my office, grabbed my stuff, and left. I needed my dog, and then I had to deal with the fact that my world seemed to be crumbling all around me.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t focus on the spreadsheet in front of me. It wasn’t that there was a discrepancy, or the numbers were off somehow, or anything that made sense. But my mind was somewhere else. I’d called Grandma last night, and she sounded more tired than usual. Longer pauses and deeper breaths between answers, and her voice was softer and slightly strained when she spoke. She assured me nothing was wrong, but I didn’t believe it. I didn’t care what she said: Bruno and I were going up there this weekend and parking our butts on her couch.
Someone knocked on the door, and I knew it had to be Sheila. She was the only one who knocked. “Come in,” I called out.
She poked her head through, then stepped inside. “How’s it going?” she asked.
“It’s going. I’m here,” was about all I could say.
“I don’t even know why. No one’s here but family.”
I nodded. This wasn’t the first time lunch service had consisted of family and no one else. Our regulars would show up later, closer to the dinner service we’d once been known for. This was too bustling a neighborhood for that, and James refused to take advantage of it. And our parents, having turned over the reins, refused to intervene. I wondered if, watching people hurry up and down the streets, ignoring our door, they could finally see what I’d been trying to say about shifting our focus. Not that it’d do much good if they insisted on remaining hands-off.
“We could be doing so much, but James doesn’t listen to me,” I told her, and she plopped in the chair and nodded.
“Same. We’ve never had to really advertise before, and now we do. It’s a tough reality, but that’s where we are. Else we’re not going to make it another year. Stubborn ain’t doing us a stitch of good.”
Despite being the youngest sibling, James was probably the most old-fashioned. He wasn’t interested in expanding or branching out into new directions. With our parents, that had been sustainable, but we’d passed that stage years ago. And despite both my and Sheila’s efforts, James so far refused to acknowledge, accept, or prepare for that eventuality, other than his “big name” suggestion, which I’d ruthlessly shoved in the back of my mind.
“What should we do?” I asked, and wanted to smack myself for not talking with her sooner. She had a business degree, too, but loved cooking enough that it was easy to forget. Hell, Sheila was bar none the sharpest of us. Together, maybe we could come up with a plan James couldn’t ignore.
She sat back and draped her arms over the chair. “Ideally, we’d have a mix. Indoor dining, patio service when the weather’s nice, online ordering for pickup, and delivery options. Our goal should be to meet our customers where they are and”—she straightened and pointed her finger at me—”if they trust us, that puts us at the top of the list for holiday parties, special events, all that.”
I huffed at the last suggestion. “I already talked to James about catering, and he’s flat-out against it.”
“He’s a fool, then.” Her nose crinkled in disgust, even as her bottom lip jutted out.
“James’s idea is to bring in a big name and use that to give the place a boost.”
“Like what? To do some showcase of the food and get people in because so-and-so mentioned it?”
My snicker slipped out. “That’s pretty much what he said, actually. It’s what comes after the celebrity endorsement he stalled on.”
Sheila waved her hand. “I love that boy, but I don’t understand how he became CEO. All he thinks about is short-term, huge immediate profit, and then the tail drops off the map.”
“Probably because he was the only one who wanted the job,” I said, fixing her with a pointed look.
She handed that look right back at me, then stuck her tongue out for good measure. “You would have been just as good a CEO as him.”
I shook my head. “Nope. You would’ve been superior, plus you actually like talking to people.”
“But I like cooking more.”
“And that’s why no one fought you about it.”
I closed my eyes. Maybe I should’ve fought harder but, outside of Christmas cards, I hadn’t spoken to my family for years before I popped back up out of the blue. Vying for the CEO job had felt like cutting James off at the knees, because that was the only thing he really wanted to do at the restaurant. I hadn’t pressed, which seemed to be a running theme for my life.
I looked up to find Sheila watching me, her eyes narrowed, her elbows on her knees. “What’s going on with you, Malik? You’re down about something, and I can’t figure it out.”
The answer fumbled on my tongue, but another knock came. That was odd. I stood and crossed to open the door, and an unfamiliar man stood in the doorframe. “You Malik Franklin?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I raised a brow and folded my arms across my chest, which didn’t seem to faze him in the least.
He thrust an envelope at me. I took it with wary hands. “Consider yourself served.” He walked down the hall and out the restaurant without a backward glance.
“Served? The hell is he talking about?” Sheila asked as soon as I shut the door.
“No clue. Let’s find out.” I flicked up an edge of the envelope and ripped it open. “Robert Moore versus Malik Franklin. Fraud in the Inducement of the Will of Anna Mae Belle Moore.” I flipped through the rest of the pages, not seeing a single word, before letting them fall to the ground. Sheila scooped them up, and then walked me back to my chair and pushed me into the seat.
It was quiet while I let her read the document. A dull thud started in my ears and steadily increased, and I dropped my head back to suck in a few breaths. Grandma knew this was coming. This had to be why she’d been insistent on me and DeShawn talking. I’d deleted the text with his number, but it had fused itself to my heart and whispered across the edges of my brain for weeks now. The numbers weren’t whispering anymore; now they were screaming.
“Malik,” Sheila said, and I couldn’t tell if she was whispering or if I just couldn’t hear her over the roar in my head. “Honey, what’s all this about?”
“Grandma.”
The family knew about Grandma, that she was the grandmother of one of my friends from when I was in school, but no one knew the full story. Grandma got a special kind of kick out of that. Mom, Dad, Sheila, and James had all spoken to her at least once, and they all knew how special she was to me. Sometimes I felt bad about obscuring my relationship with DeShawn, but Grandma had no such compunctions. She was a wily one, to be honest.
Sheila took her seat, the papers still in her hand. “It says here that you tricked her into cutting off her son and naming you as a beneficiary?”
“Which I damn well didn’t do.” Then her words hit me. I was a beneficiary? Holy mother of god.
Sheila’s face softened. “Of course not. But why would he even say that?”
Because Robert was an ass who thought the world owed him. What, exactly, I didn’t know, but I remembered the disdainful way he glared whenever our paths crossed. Like me and DeShawn were scrubs for going to school and getting jobs instead of “hustling,” which he had the nerve to put on a business card. Robert Moore, Professional Hustler.
I didn’t know how to encapsulate all that, so I just shrugged and said, “That’s who he is.” And I was more worried than ever about Grandma. Robert was an asshole, but he could be charming as hell when he wanted. No doubt he’d try to sweet-talk her into making modifications, and if that’s what she wanted, great. But I had to make sure.
“I need to get up there. I need to see her and spend time with her. She made these vague references about things I have to do, but wouldn’t tell me what they are, and I don’t know if I’m more concerned or irritated right now.”
“Concerned,” Sheila said without hesitation. “Definitely concerned.”
I blew out a noisy breath. “You’re right.”
We fell silent, and I tilted my head to the ceiling and closed my eyes. Once again, I’d refrained from mentioning DeShawn’s name. But there was no way I was getting through this without spilling the beans on that relationship.
Our divorce had been amicable—on the surface at least. Underneath, fears and frustrations had nearly swallowed us whole, and we’d put duct tape and Flex Paste and Gorilla Glue on years’ worth of hurt. The idea of picking up the phone and facing those fears again nearly made me nauseous.
I needed to read the paperwork. I needed to pick up my big boy pants and call DeShawn, like Grandma had implored me to do. This wasn’t to catch up or shoot the shit. No, this was business only. Surely we could handle that.
I cleared my throat and sat up straight. Sheila still sat there, nibbling her lower lip and watching me with worried eyes. She’d set the document on the desk. I grabbed the pages and started to read, but was startled by a yell. We stared at each other, then I rounded the desk and we sprinted to the front of the restaurant.
The entire family was circled around a stranger, and when his eyes darted up and he saw me, the faintest smile graced his lips. And my body jolted in a way I didn’t have a chance in hell of hiding.
“Malik. Malik!” James yelled, waving me over, excitement pouring off him in waves. “Do you know who this is? This is the DeShawn Franklin. This is—”
I finished the sentence for him, imagining the beans spilling all around me. “My ex-husband.”