by Zuri Day
“And I thought I told you that I couldn’t stay away,” he responded. “Besides, I wanted the chef to taste the wine and confirm its appropriateness with her dish before I poured our glasses.”
Tiffany turned and smiled. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
Nick smiled, nodded, and poured a small amount of the chilled wine he held into a stemmed glass. Tiffany took it, swirled the liquid around, sniffed it, and then took a sip. She held the liquid in her mouth for a second before swallowing slowly so that she could taste the “textures” inside the drink. She detected fruit, especially apple, and smiled when the citrusy flavor fought for recognition. It would bring out the blood orange essence in the scallops and provide the kind of bite her grandmother would call “heaven on a plate.” She finished the small amount he’d given her. “It’s perfect,” she said. “Now get out. I’m ready to serve our first course.”
Tiffany kept the plating simple. First, a light drizzle of aged balsamic vinegar creating an Asian-inspired design topped with a wispy sprinkle of pistachio crumbs. These items simply served as the backdrop for the showstopper—two perfectly seared scallops, one sitting slightly atop the other, in the center of the dish. A sprig of mint and a celery flower finished the presentation. She picked up the plate and walked to the dining room.
With a great flourish, she set the plated scallops in front of Nick. “Dinner is served.” Tiffany sat down next to the head table seat Nick occupied.
“Where’s yours?”
“I wanted to serve you first.” She placed her chin in her hand and watched him with the same anticipation as a child who was watching someone open a Christmas present.
Nick leaned over, placing his nose near the plate, and inhaled. “Wow…baby, this smells delicious.” He sniffed again. “So there’s mint…”
“Good job, Sherlock, since there’s a sprig of it directly under your nose…”
“And some citrus, lemon, I’m guessing.”
“Keep on guessing,” Tiffany said with a smile.
Nick gently pricked the scallop with his fork. “Did you coat this with something or is this crust from the cooking process?”
“Will you eat it already? Before it gets cold?”
Nick laughed. He picked up his knife and cut the scallop in half. Tiffany’s heart beat a little faster as she watched him lift the morsel up to his mouth. Nick closed his eyes as he chewed the food, slowly, thoughtfully. He swallowed, nodded, and brought the other half of the scallop to his mouth. “Unh,” he said as again he chewed slowly, licking his lips after he’d finished.
When he started on the second scallop without having said a word, Tiffany could stand it no longer. “Well?” she asked, with barely veiled exasperation in her voice.
“Well, what?” Nick answered. His eyes danced with glee. He knew Tiffany was waiting for a verdict, knew that he’d been given the honor of being the first one besides her to taste the dish she planned as the signature dish for the establishment he’d given her.
“Dominique Rollins,” Tiffany said as she narrowed her eyes and picked up her knife. “Don’t make me…”
“All right, all right,” he said, laughing. “Let me have one more bite.” He halved the remaining scallop on his plate. “Baby, this dish is exceptional.” He ate the remaining scallop half, groaned his satisfaction, and placed a light kiss on Tiffany’s mouth. “Baby this is what love tastes like.”
Tiffany’s eyes sparkled with happiness. “So you like it?”
“I love it.”
“You think it’s good enough to be my signature dish?”
“It’s good enough to be your only dish.”
“Even better than Chef Riatoli’s?”
“Chef who?”
Tiffany laughed even as she got up to hug Nick. “I’m so happy you like it,” she said. “You’ve eaten at some of the best places in the world, so your opinion means a lot to me.”
“It’s amazing, baby. I think Taste Too is going to have a long waiting list.”
Tiffany started for the kitchen to get her plate, but Nick grabbed her wrist and pulled her into his lap. “Nick, come on, I want to taste my signature dish…my Scallops Tiffany!”
“And I want my brown sugar.”
They kissed. And after a candlelit dinner of scallops, a kale and blood orange salad, fall-off-the-bone baby back ribs served over gold Yukon rosemary mashed potatoes, and a caramel cake dessert, Tiffany Matthews and Dominique “Nick” LaSalle Rollins assuaged another appetite by enjoying the dishes they loved best—each other.
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Lessons from a Younger Lover
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Lessons from a Younger Lover…
1
There were two things Gwen Smith never thought she’d do. She never thought she’d move back to her rinky-dink hometown of Sienna, California, and she never thought she’d come back as a forty-year-old divorcée. Yet here she sat in the middle seat of a crowded plane, at the age where some said life began, trying to figure out how the boring and predictable one she’d known sixty short days ago had changed so quickly.
The first hitch in the giddyup wasn’t a total surprise. Her mother’s dementia had become increasingly worse following the death of Gwen’s father, Harold, two years ago. Her parents had been married forty-four years. It was a tough adjustment. At the funeral, Gwen told her husband that she knew the time would come when her mother’s welfare would become her responsibility. That she thought Joe would be by her side at this crucial time, and wasn’t, was the fact she hadn’t seen coming.
But it was true nonetheless. Joe had announced his desire to divorce and packed his bags the same evening. Two months later she was still reeling from that okeydoke. But she couldn’t think about that now. Gwen had to focus on one crisis at a time, and at the moment, her mother was the priority.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the seat belt sign indicating our final descent into Los Angeles. Please make sure your seat belts are securely fastened and your seats and tray tables are in their upright and locked…”
Gwen stretched as well as she could between two stout men and tried to remove the crook from her neck. Still, she was grateful she’d fallen asleep. Shut-eye had been all too elusive these past few weeks, when ongoing worries and raging thoughts had kept true rest at bay. Fragments of a dream flitted across her wakened mind as they landed and she reached into the overhead bin for her carry-on luggage. Gwen didn’t know if she wanted to remember it or not. Lately, her dreams had been replaced by nightmares that happened when her eyes were wide open.
“Gwen! Over here, girl! Gwen!”
Gwen smiled as a familiar voice pierced the crowd roaming the LAX Airport baggage claim area. She turned and waved so that the short, buxom woman, wearing fuchsia cutoffs and a yellow halter top straining for control, would know that she, God, and everyone within a five-mile radius had heard her.
“Gwendolyn!” Chantay exclaimed, enunciating each syllable for full effect as she reached up and hugged her childhood friend. “Girl, let me look at you!”
“You just saw me last year, Tay.”
“That visit went by in a fog. You know the deal.”
Gwen did, and wished she didn’t. Her last time home was not a fond memory.
Chantay stepped back, put her hands on her hips, and began shaking her head so hard her waist-length braids sprayed the waiting passengers surrounding them. “What are we going to do with your rail thin behind? You couldn’t find enough deep-dish pizzas to eat in Chicago? No barbeque or chicken and waffle joints to put some meat on your bones?”
Gwen took the jab good-naturedly. Her five-foot-seven, size-six body had caused her heftier friend chagrin for years. No matter that Gwen had never mastered how to show off her physique, put on makeup, or fix her hair. The fact that she could eat everything, including the kitchen
sink, and still not gain a pound was a stick in Chantay’s craw.
Chantay enveloped her friend in a big bear hug. “You look good, girl. A day late and a dollar short on style with that curlicue hair straight out of A Different World, but overall…you look good!”
Gwen’s laugh was genuine for the first time in weeks. “You don’t look half bad yourself. And opinionated as always, I see.”
“Honey, if you want a feel-good moment, watch Oprah. I’m going to tell you the truth even if it’s ugly. And speaking of the u word, those Leave It To Beaver pedal pushers—”
“Forget you, Tay! C’mon, that’s my luggage coming around.”
A half hour later, Gwen settled back in Chantay’s Ford Explorer as they merged into highway traffic for the two-hour drive to Sienna. The air conditioner was a welcome change to the ninety-degree July heat.
“I still can’t believe you’re here.”
“Me either.”
“You know you’ve got to give me the full scoop. First, I never thought you’d ever get married, and if you did, you’d never, ever get divorced!”
“Obviously life wasn’t following your script,” Gwen muttered sarcastically.
“Oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch, sistah, you know what I’m saying. And I’m not the only one. Who did everyone vote the least likely to, uh, get married?”
“I believe the exact description in the high school yearbook read ‘would die an old maid.’”
“Well, I was trying to save you the embarrassment of quoting it verbatim but…who was it?”
They both knew the answer was Gwen. But rather than help make the point, Gwen answered the question with one of her own. “Who did they say would probably have ten kids?”
“Hmph. That’s because those nuckas didn’t know that fornicate does not equal procreate. After being stuck with raising one accident and another oops by myself, I had my tubes tied. I told the doctor who did the procedure that if a ‘baby I pulled out’ number three showed up in my pee sample, his would be the name in the father line. So believe me, if there’s a sperm bad enough to get past the Boy Scout knot he tied, then that’s a baby who deserves to be born.”
Gwen looked out the window, thought about Chantay’s two daughters, and watched the world whirl by while Chantay pushed past seventy and flew down the surprisingly light 405 Freeway. While Chantay had often said she didn’t want kids, Gwen had always looked forward to motherhood. She was still looking, but couldn’t see any bassinet or baby bed because a divorce petition was blocking the view.
Chantay scanned for various stations on the radio before turning it off altogether. “Why are you making me drag the details out of you?” she whined, exasperation evident in her voice. “What happened between you and Joe?”
The name of Gwen’s soon-to-be former husband elicited a frown. “You mean Joey?”
“Who the hell is that?”
“That’s what he calls himself now.”
“I call him ‘bastard,’ but I digress. What happened?”
Gwen sighed, sat up, and spoke truth straight out. “He met somebody else.”
“You have got to be kidding. Corny-ass Joe Smith, the computer nerd who could barely pull the garter off at y’alls’ wedding?”
“That would be him.”
“What fool did he find to listen to his tired lines?”
“You mean besides me?”
“Girl, I didn’t mean that personally. Joe has some good points. He seems to know his way around a computer better than anybody.”
“That’s one.”
“We’ve got ninety minutes of driving left. I’ll think of something else.”
Gwen laughed, appreciative of the levity Chantay brought to a sad situation.
“So…who is she?”
“Her name is Mitzi, she’s twenty-two and works in his office. They both like motorcycles, Miller Lite, and poker. He tattooed her name on his arm and moved into her studio apartment last month. But I don’t want to talk about him right now.”
“Whoa, chick! You’re sure going to have to talk about him later…and her. That was way too much information to leave me hanging. But I can wait a minute, and in the meantime change the subject to somebody you can talk about…Adam ‘oh, oh, oh, oh’ Johnson!”
“Chantay, you are too silly! I haven’t thought about that line since we left high school.” Gwen, Chantay, and a couple other misfits used to substitute his first name in Ready for the World’s hit, “Oh Sheila.” Chantay would hum it as he passed in the halls and the other girls would break into hysterical laughter, making them all look like fools.
“That is the single welcome surprise I’ve had these past few weeks—that Adam is the principal at Sienna. Can you believe it?” Gwen said.
“No, because I never thought a brothah with that much weight in his lower head would have any brains in his upper one.”
“Well, there’s that, but even more the fact that he’s back living in our hometown. After being such a standout at Texas A&M and going on to play for the Cowboys? I guess a lot happened to him since he was sidelined with an injury and forced to retire early.”
“I can’t believe his wife would agree to move back to such a podunk town. She looks too hoity-toity for Smallville, but I only saw her one time on TV,” Chantay said.
“They’re divorced.”
“What? Girl, stop!”
“Yep, he told me that when we talked. He was nice actually, not the cocky, arrogant Adam I remember. He wouldn’t admit it, but I know he’s the reason why my getting this post is, to use his words, ‘in the bag.’”
“Don’t give him too much credit, Gwen. You’re a first-rate teacher, and it’s not like our town has to beat off qualified educators with sticks.”
“Maybe, but the way everything happened…I’m just happy to know I have a job secured, or at least I will after my interview next week. Mama has some money saved up but that’s all going into her assisted living expenses. I still need to support myself, and pay half the mortgage on the condo until it’s sold.”
“How’s Miss Lorraine doing?”
Gwen shrugged. “Mama’s about the same, I guess.”
“Isn’t she a bit young for what the doctors say is happening to her?”
“From what I’ve learned, not really. The disease usually comes with aging, but can actually occur at any time, from a variety of causes. It’s usually given a different name when it occurs in someone, say, under fifty-five. But whatever the title, the results are the same—a long-term decline in cognitive function.”
“Just be glad she’s still here,” Chantay replied. “You can always hug her, whether she knows you or not.”
“Oh, she recognizes everybody, and remembers more than she lets on, I’m thinking. But I hear what you’re saying, Chantay, and I’m grateful.”
They were silent a moment before Chantay changed the subject. “Joe’s a lowlife. He could have stayed in the condo and split the rent with the fool he’s sleeping with until somebody bought it. He’s just an asshole.”
“That would have been too much like right. But it is what it is. Don’t get me re-pissed about it.”
Chantay started humming “Oh Sheila.” “Wouldn’t it be ironic if you moved back to town and snagged its star player after all these years? Now, we’ll have to give your dated butt a makeover, but by the time I’m done with you…you’ll move over all those other silicone-stuffed heifas in town.”
“I wonder who else from our class still lives there.”
“Girl, it don’t even matter. Keep your eye on the prize.” Chantay shot another sideways look at her friend. “Um-hmm. If it’s Adam Johnson you want—trust, I can help you get him.”
Gwen had thought about Adam, and what a nice balm he might be for the hurt Joe had caused her. Not that she’d get into anything serious right away. It would be months before the divorce came up on the backlogged Illinois court docket and was finalized. But since speaking to Adam, she’d fantasized a t
ime or two about the heartthrob she remembered: tall, lanky, chocolate, strong, with bedroom eyes and a Jheri curl that brushed his shoulders. She never dreamed she’d get another chance with someone like Adam. But as she’d learned all too painfully in the past few months—life was full of surprises.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2010 by Zuri Day
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-6192-2
