What Love Tastes Like

by Zuri Day

  There’d been her first love, Tony, whom she’d met her senior year of high school. He’d transferred to her school from Georgia, and she’d immediately been taken with his manners and gentle spirit. She gave him her virginity the night of graduation, the same night she’d had a terrible row with her father. She’d had only two serious relationships since then. The last one had ended when her culinary classmate decided to move to New York without her.

  Within seconds of arriving at the Parsons residence, all thoughts of ex-boyfriends, and Nick, were forgotten—replaced by the noise and chaos that typified Joy’s household. Tiffany had initially tried to get out of Joy’s invite for dinner, but Joy wouldn’t take no for an answer. Now, sitting in their living room, talking to the kids and munching on potato chips, she was glad Joy had “gone Leo” on her. For almost a month there had only been Nick and work. She’d rarely talked to her mother and hadn’t been by Grand’s house. Until now, Tiffany hadn’t realized that she missed the rest of her life.

  “Okay, it’s not bourgie, but it’s ready,” Joy yelled from the kitchen. “Lecia, I thought I told you to set the table.”

  “She can do that?” Tiffany asked. “I’m impressed.”

  “Girl, don’t be. Lecia’s setting the table consists of putting forks and napkins somewhere in the vicinity of everybody’s plate. But she wants to help Mommy,” Joy continued, making air quotes. “So I let her.”

  Joy allowed it, but Lecia’s brother, Randall, Jr., nicknamed Deuce, made sure he contributed as well. He promptly went behind his little sister and knocked the napkins to the floor as soon as she placed them on the table.

  “Mama! Deuce is messing up my places!”

  “I ain’t neither,” Deuce whispered, wanting to keep his taunting between the two of them. “Shut up, fool!”

  “Mama, Deuce is pushing me. Tell him to stop!”

  “Stop pushing her, Deuce,” Joy said without feeling.

  “She pushed me earlier,” Deuce said.

  “Don’t push your brother,” Joy responded in the same dull tone.

  “Ooh, you lying!”

  “Stop lying, Deuce.” During this, their umpteenth fight of the day, Joy was answering by rote.

  Deuce ran around the dining room table and shouted in Lecia’s face. “I ain’t lying. You lying!”

  “Your breath stinks,” Lecia said calmly.

  “Your breath smells like your booty,” Deuce yelled.

  “All right, y’all, that’s enough,” Randall drawled from in front of the stove. He was from Alabama, and everything he did was slow and easy: cook (which he, too, had learned from his grandmother), talk, walk, and according to Joy, make love. In all the years Tiffany had known him, she’d never once seen him lose his temper. Joy assured her it was a sight she didn’t want to see. Watching them interact, Tiffany saw yet again how perfectly Randall’s laid-back personality complemented Joy’s fiery style. He was the “steady Eddie” to Joy’s flightiness, and the family’s solid rock. He was loyal and dependable, had worked at UPS for fifteen years.

  After a simple yet delicious dinner of round steak, gravy, mashed potatoes, and garlic toast, the kids watched a movie in their parents’ room while Randall, Joy, and Tiffany chilled out in the living room.

  “Heard you got a man,” Randall said in his lazy verbal style. He flipped idly through the channels, but looked at Tiffany slyly with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Yeah, well, your wife has a big mouth.”

  “That she does.”

  Joy jabbed him playfully. “You’re not supposed to agree with her, fool.”

  Randall looked at her incredulously. “Woman, it’s the truth!”

  “In-tee-ways,” Joy said, turning to her husband. “Things have changed. All is not perfect in paradise. If it were,” she continued, looking at Tiffany, “girlfriend would be wearing that glow on her face.”

  “What glow?”

  “The satisfied pushy glow.”

  Tiffany’s response was an open mouth and wide eyes. In the Parsons household, “pushy” referred to one’s vagina, the word adopted after Lecia, then two years old, mispronounced what she’d heard her foulmouthed father say.

  “Girl, please, Randall knows all about the pushy glow. Don’t you, baby?”

  “You wearing it, ain’t cha?”

  “Damn skippy, baby.” Joy’s tone was sweet, but she turned to Tiffany and made a face.

  “Well, all right then.” Randall went back to flipping channels, and put his arm around Joy’s shoulders in a possessive fashion. Joy snuggled closer, and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I guess I probably should leave you two lovebirds,” Tiffany said, feeling a sudden pang of loneliness. “I only have this one day off. Tomorrow, it’s back to the grind.”

  “I thought you were supposed to get perks when you sleep with the boss?” Randall’s eyes never left the television, convincing Tiffany that he could talk and listen at the same time.

  “Even if I was sleeping with him, the last thing I’d want is to be treated differently. I want to get to the top of the culinary world on the basis of what I do in the kitchen, not in the bedroom.”

  “Damn, girl, why you fucking him, then?”

  “What a crass question, Mr. Parsons. You and Joy make the perfect couple,” Tiffany said dryly. “I guess after a while the two really do become one.”

  Randall muted the television and gave Tiffany his undivided attention. “Look, he’s getting more than being an employee out of you, you should get more than being a boss out of him. That just fair play right there.”

  “Okay, that’s it, I’m outtie.” Tiffany rose from the couch.

  “Get a raise, an extra week’s vacation or some shit.”

  “Bye, Joy. Bye, Randall.”

  “Don’t be stuck on stupid, Tiff. Hit that rich mutha-fucka up for a car, a house, or somethin’!” Randall’s rumbling laughter followed Tiffany and Joy down the hallway and out the door.

  “Girl, don’t pay him no mind. He’s just jerking your chain.”

  “I know.” Tiffany gave Joy a hug.

  “I know y’all are having a little tiff, pun intended, but you do need that brothah to throw out some major ducketts…real talk.”

  “Joy…”

  “Aren’t you ready to move to Malibu?”

  “On that note…”

  “At least let him hook you up with a pedicure. I noticed your feet tonight, and those toenails are not cute.”

  “Forget you, heifah.”

  “Bye, girl.”

  23

  “I’m sorry, Ms. King, but you can’t go in there.”

  “Excuse me, Steven, are you talking to me?”

  “Please, Angelica,” the older man pleaded. Steven had worked for Nick at another of his companies before becoming head concierge at the hotel. He’d known Angelica for a couple years, and liked her. That’s why he’d greeted her personally as she tried to step through the revolving doors. “I don’t want to do this. But it’s Nick’s orders. Not telling you this can cost me my job! I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

  “This is a public establishment. No one—you, Nick, or anyone else—can keep me out.”

  Steven’s voice dropped to a whisper. “We’re to call security if you put up a fuss. I’d hate to do it, Angelica. But Nick’s my boss.”

  “Your master, is more like it. I’m disappointed in you, Steven. I thought you had balls.”

  “Take care, Angelica.”

  “Fuck you, Steven.” Angelica took a couple steps and then whipped back around. She walked up to him purposefully and put her manicured finger in his face. “This little fling Nick is having is temporary. I’m the one who will be around when the dust stops flying. I’ll be back, Steven. And those who’ve crossed me are going to pay. You remember that.”

  “I’m sorry, Angelica.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Angelica rang Nick’s line for two straight hours. Finally, Christina
had had enough. She knocked on Nick’s door and, in an uncharacteristic move, didn’t wait for his answer before walking into his office. Nick looked up, a frown on his face.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Rollins, please forgive me. But…it’s Angelica. She’s called repeatedly, for hours. The girls at the switchboard are going nuts and try as I might, I can’t convince her that you’re not here. I was just hoping you could take just one call so that she won’t call back.”

  As if to underscore her point, the outer phone rang again. Christina walked over to Nick’s phone, which showed the blinking light announcing a call but was silent. “May I?”

  Nick nodded.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Rollins’s office. This is Christina.”

  “Put him on, bitch.”

  “Angelica, it really isn’t necessary for you to call me names—”

  Nick hit the speakerphone button and motioned to close the office door.

  “Look, I know that Nick is in there. I want you to put him on the phone, now! I’ve already been there once, and if I come back again, it’s not going to be pretty. I don’t care if you call the police. I want to talk to Nick and I intend to do just that.”

  “You’re already doing it,” Nick said. His voice conveyed the weariness he felt. “Thanks, Christina. You can go back to work now.”

  Nick waited until Christina had closed the door behind her. “All right, Angelica, you have my undivided attention. What do you want?”

  “I want to know why you’ve barred me from the hotel, as if I’m a criminal. That is a public establishment. You can’t do that, Nick.”

  “You and I are over, Angelica. Why would you want to come here?”

  “For the food,” Angelica spat, before her voice turned deceptively sugary. “There’s no restaurant like Taste, the cooking is out of this world!”

  She knows about Tiffany. In that moment, Nick was sure of it. He didn’t know how she’d found out, but Angelica knew.

  “Angelica, I’m seeing someone who works in the restaurant.” Nick tried a direct approach. “The relationship is new, and tentative. I like this woman and want to pursue a relationship with her. You and I had something special, Angelica, but those times are over. We want different things out of life.

  “You’re a good woman, and there is someone out there for you.” Someone who isn’t married, unlike Bastion Price. “When you two find each other, you’ll forget all about me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, asshole. I already have.”

  24

  Nick walked through Le Sol’s elegantly appointed lobby. He stopped to chat with Steven, the con cierge, and engaged in small conversation with a successful East Coast businessman who’d become a regular guest. Anyone observing him would have seen a calm and gracious man, his interactions more those of a host than a hotel owner. No one would have guessed the frustration that simmered beneath his placid demeanor.

  When it came to women, Nick rarely let one get under his skin. But Angelica had done it today. He’d made the choice to date her, and could deal with her attitude. But the constant calls to the hotel had burdened his staff, and Christina had borne the brunt of Angelica’s misplaced anger. His plate was much too full to have to deal with an egotistical female who refused to accept the fact that “they” were no longer “us.” Her telephone call had riled him, and reminded him of what he didn’t miss about his ex. But it had also reminded him of what he liked about someone else.

  From the time Angelica hung up on him, Nick was preoccupied with the fact that Tiffany was just two floors below, no doubt working up a sweat as she worked in the kitchen. He’d thought back to another time when her body had glowed—from the sheen of their lovemaking. As he walked through the restaurant’s dining room, he told himself that it was because of the private dinner Chef Wang was catering the coming weekend that he felt the need to visit the kitchen. But Nick knew it was because of one reason and one reason only—he missed his brown sugar.

  Tiffany wiped an errant strand of hair away from her face, and beads of perspiration along with it. Her semi-regular visits to the hair salon were among the many aspects of her personal life that were being neglected. Her hair had grown out to her shoulders, and her highlights were dull. There was no place she’d rather be than this kitchen, but Tiffany’s visit with the Parsons family yesterday reminded her of what was missing from her life. Seeing Randall and Joy together forced Tiffany to acknowledge the truth—she missed Nick. He’d been on her mind since she’d slept in his bed, and even though she’d thanked him again via a text message, they hadn’t spoken since his call had awakened her the morning after the massage.

  The holidays were over but the dining room remained full. Fortunately the lunch crowd was beginning to wane. Tiffany bantered with Roger as she helped him cook “the chow,” the crew’s name for the staff meal served before the morning shift, and again between the afternoon and evening shifts. Even though her back was to the door, she knew the moment Nick Rollins entered the kitchen.

  Before Chef called out a greeting, something about the atmosphere changed, crackled, and she could have sworn the hairs rose on the back of her neck. From the corner of her eye, she watched him, noted how he was respectful of each person’s job and their space as Chef took him to the hot prep area to taste the day’s soup special—a hearty cioppino made with a zesty, herb-infused tomato base, and filled with a variety of straight-from-the-dock seafood. Tiffany hoped that Chef would tell Nick who made the mouthwatering sauce. Maybe he’ll remember. In that moment, Tiffany did—remembered the day shortly after she’d began working, when Nick had tasted one of her first batches of tomato sauce and then a few days later, had tasted something else.

  “Ow!” Tiffany snatched back her hand from the grill, having just gotten a quick lesson in not daydreaming while testing the doneness of meat with one’s fingers. She’d missed the halibut filet and touched the grill.

  Nick was by her side in an instant. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Tiffany mumbled, embarrassed that Nick had seen her make such a dumb mistake. Thankfully, he was the only one who reacted. In a chef’s world, burns, cuts and bruises were par for the course.

  “Let me see,” Nick insisted, taking her hand before she could protest. His touch was gentle. Tiffany’s heartbeat raced, and despite her efforts to the contrary, she could feel her body grow warm.

  Nick held her wrist with one hand, and traced the red burn mark with the other. “Shouldn’t you run this under cold water? I believe that’s how to treat a burn, correct?”

  Tiffany jerked her hand away. She felt naked, exposed, even though the others in the kitchen seemed bent on their tasks. Even Chef had stepped away to speak with the pastry chef. Tiffany got the distinct feeling of being all alone with Nick, in a room full of people—a feeling that heightened her awareness of him, and shortened her breath. Especially with the way he looked at her, dark eyes boring into hers before dropping slightly and settling on her quivering mouth.

  “Tiff!” Roger quickly stepped between Tiffany and the grill, bumping Nick in the process. “Excuse me, boss, but the sous here is about to burn our chow.” Roger elbowed Tiffany playfully while turning the now overdone fish with his other hand.

  Tiffany was mortified. Not only had she burned herself but even worse, she’d almost burned the food. In front of Nick! It wasn’t like her to be a bumbling idiot, under any circumstances. She had to get away before she made a complete fool of herself.

  “You know what? I think I will go and run water on this, just to make sure it doesn’t blister. I owe you one, Roger!” she called over her shoulder, as she hurried toward the employee bathroom and away from the man who’d unnerved her.

  Chef re-entered the kitchen as Tiffany exited. He and Nick finalized the menu for the weekend meeting, and Nick returned to the second floor. But his mind wasn’t on meetings or menus. It was on Tiffany, and how he knew she’d felt the heat when he touched her, the same as him. She was a stubborn one, he’d
give her that. But Nick was determined to work things out, to get them back on track. As he walked down the hallway of the executive offices, a slight smile played across his face. You can run but you can’t hide, Tiffany Matthews. I know where you work.

  25

  “What’s that smile about, Grand?” Tiffany’s question broke the companionable silence that she and her grandmother were enjoying as they cooked shoulder to shoulder during this, Tiffany’s first in-person visit in over three months.

  “Oh, I’m just happy you got a new fella, and y’all are getting along.” Grand took the pan of marinated fish and placed it in the oven.

  “How are you so sure I have a new fella, much less how we’re doing?”

  “You think your grandmother was born yesterday? I know what it’s like to be in love, and that pep in your step gives away the fact that someone has your nose wide open.” Grand emphasized the word “wide” by spreading her arms. “I know you’re getting along because you didn’t bring that many things to chop for this visit. Even the potatoes are being baked. Yeah, child, there’s some smooth sailing happening on the home front. And I for one am happy about that. You’re not getting any younger, Tiffany Matthews. I want to see a great-grandchild in my lifetime.”

  “Well, don’t hold your breath, Grand. I’ve got plenty of cooking to do before I think about taking time off to raise a family. I don’t want to have kids just so someone else can take of them.”

  Both women became silent. Tiffany pondered Grand’s erroneous assumption about her “fella,” and wished it were true. She didn’t have the heart to reveal that the man who’d put the pep in her step yesterday was not a suitor but Chef, who’d complimented her verbally—a rarity. He’d even told her that if she continued to learn and work hard, she could someday own her own restaurant. From anyone, but especially from Chef Wang, this was high praise.