“You can tell people you made them, Halia,” Momma says as we stand back and admire our finished work. “If these cakes can’t land you a man, nothing can.”
CHAPTER 12
I can’t believe I’m pulling up in front of Raynell’s house to pick up the desk she’s donated to the silent auction like I’m some sort of moving service. I’m already catering the reunion at zero profit. You’d think that would be enough. I guess I could have just said no and told Raynell to make other arrangements, but she’s a hard person to say no to. Besides, I did want to see her house, which I now see I correctly assumed would be quite impressive. And yes, I thought of asking Wavonne to make this run, but my understanding is that this desk is an antique and might be fragile. Wavonne can be careless, and I’m sure I’d never hear the end of it from Raynell if the desk ended up being scratched or otherwise damaged in transit.
Oh well . . . I guess it’s for a good cause—at least I hope the Raynell Rollins Foundation is a good cause and not one of those charities with operating expenses sucking up all the donations before they get to the people they are actually supposed to help. For all I know, the donations go to subsidize Raynell’s salon appointments and first-class vacations.
I step out of my van and take in the sheer size of Raynell’s home. My first thought is damn, that’s a lot of windows. I start counting them—fifteen windows along just the front of the house and three more in the rooftop dormers overlooking the expertly landscaped yard. Most of houses in newer suburban neighborhoods have brick facades in the front, but the sides and rear are generally covered in siding to save on cost. But this is not the case for the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Terrence Rollins. I can’t see the back, but both sides are brick from the roof to the ground.
I walk toward the double front doors, and, based on my experience shopping for wooden tables and chairs for the restaurant, I suspect they are mahogany.
I press the doorbell and hear it chime inside the house. A moment later I’m surprised to see Raynell open the door. I was sure it would be a housekeeper.
“Halia. Hello.” Her eyes veer past me toward the driveway. “Gosh. The neighbors are going to wonder who’s here in that ramshackle thing,” she says of my van, which I’ll admit is no Mercedes, but it’s only five years old with a few minor nicks on it. “Come in.”
I step inside onto gleaming hardwood floors and look up at the foyer ceiling that goes clear to the top of the house. A large window above the front doors carries beams of light onto a mammoth contemporary chandelier dripping with a few hundred thin rectangular crystals. To the left I see a formal dining room with yet another smaller, but no less exquisite, chandelier hanging over a shiny dark wood table (also mahogany I believe) that seats ten people. To the right is a formal sitting room with lush carpet and contemporary furniture.
“The desk is in the family room.”
I follow Raynell as we walk alongside the staircase to the kitchen, which opens into a two-story family room with exposed beams and a stone fireplace. The entire wall along the back of the kitchen and the family room consists of floor-to-ceiling windows. I remind myself to lift my jaw back up as I examine the kitchen. It’s better equipped than some of the commercial kitchens I worked in earlier in my career. It’s a regular utopia of rich wooden cabinets offset with metal hardware, stainless-steel appliances, and glossy granite countertops. There’s a large island in the middle and a long glass-top table in the dining area in front of the windows. I guess you might call the area with the table “the breakfast nook,” but that term doesn’t seem to do it justice.
“I love your kitchen.”
“We never use it,” Raynell says with zero enthusiasm, and continues walking toward the adjoining family room.
I want to shout what a crime that is—to let such a lovely well-appointed kitchen go to waste—but I keep my mouth shut and follow Raynell.
“Here it is.”
I look down and see an ornate piece of furniture . . . what you might call a “period piece.” While quite handsome, it is decidedly out of place among all the modern furnishings in Raynell’s home. It hosts a bunch of cubbies and drawers and stands on thin legs that descend into claws—I think they are called ball-and-claw Chippendale legs. It’s adorned with metal pulls and outlined with a trim that looks like a detailed wooden rope.
“It’s lovely,” I say. “How old is it?”
“I had it appraised a few weeks ago. The appraiser thought it was at least two hundred years old. I gave Christy the paperwork with the details. She put together a description that we can display with the desk at the auction. It’s valued at more than a thousand dollars, so I’ve suggested twelve hundred as the minimum bid. We’ll see who of the trifling fools we went to high school with has that kind of money.”
“That’s nice of you to donate it,” I say, wondering what her angle is. Raynell is not the kind of person who does things out of the goodness of her heart. Maybe she’s tried to sell it and can’t, or maybe she’s lying about its worth . . . who knows.
“It’s nothing. And honestly I’ll be glad to have it out of my house. I’m all about clean lines and modern furniture. This thing just clashes with my whole decorating theme.”
“What made you buy it if it’s so dissimilar to the rest of your décor?”
“Oh, I’m always picking up things that I think might have value—not necessarily to keep. One of the perks of being a real estate agent is I often get first dibs on the possessions divorcing couples are trying to get rid of. They put their house on the market after the divorce papers are filed. Often one of the spouses will sell me things below market value just to be spiteful—the stories I could tell. There’s less drama on an episode of Scandal than in some of my business dealings with couples who’ve decided to separate.” She looks to the right of the desk. “I bought that painting from the same client who sold me the desk.” Raynell points to what can only be described as a stunning portrait of a young black woman in a lovely one-shoulder evening gown. She’s poised in front of an old-fashioned microphone. The painting manages to capture her both singing and smiling at the same time. It immediately makes me think of the 1940s . . . or maybe the early fifties.
“Wow,” I say. “What a beautiful painting . . .” My voice trails off as I realize that beautiful doesn’t really do it justice. “Exquisite . . . it’s truly exquisite,” I add as I think about what a shame it is to see it just sitting on the floor leaning against a bookcase rather than being displayed on the wall.
“Meh,” Raynell says, unimpressed. “It’s worthless, and I overpaid for it. I’m not sure if I’ll keep it.”
“Who is the painting of? She looks familiar.”
“Sarah Vaughan. Apparently, she was a jazz singer or something back in the day.”
“Sarah Vaughan!” I exclaim. “My mother played her version of ‘Send in the Clowns’ when I was a kid. She had an amazing voice. I remember Momma referring to her as ‘The Divine One.’ ”
“I thought her heyday was more in the forties and fifties.”
“Her career spanned decades. I only know because Momma is a big fan. ‘If You Could See Me Now’ was another big song of hers—that’s a really old one I think . . . from the forties, maybe.”
“Well, apparently she’s dead.”
“She must be dead for more than twenty years now.”
“You’d think that would make the painting worth something—even if it isn’t a Keckley.”
“Keckley?”
“I thought the painting might be an original Keckley. Arthur Keckley was a well-known black artist who painted portraits of performers at the Lincoln Theatre on U Street in D.C. during its prime. He painted all the greats: Duke Ellington, Pearl Bailey, Ella Fitzgerald, Cab Calloway, Billie Holiday . . . and I was hoping that this one was the rendition he did of Sarah Vaughan.”
“It’s not, I take it?”
“No. I had Christy find me an appraiser. He evaluated the desk as well. I was actually more ex
cited about the painting, but it turns out only the desk has any real value. And even that is only worth a couple of thousand dollars. The painting is just one of many copies of the Lincoln Theater portraits that were done by unknowns. I could probably sell the painting for a few hundred bucks. But, really, I guess it’s not half bad. I’m thinking of switching it out of the antique-looking gold frame into something more modern. Maybe then I’ll hang it and see if I want to keep it.
“You should keep it. It’s rich with history even if it’s not an original.”
“History shmistory. Show me the money.”
I’m about to offer to buy it from her, thinking that Momma would love it, or that it might be a nice addition to the artwork at Sweet Tea, when there’s a faint knock on the front door.
“Hello?” we hear Christy call out.
“In here,” Raynell responds.
Christy walks into the family room. “Hi,” she says to me.
I’m about to say hi back, but Raynell starts running her mouth before I have a chance. “Christy’s here to help you move the desk. I would lend a hand, but I just had my manicure done. Doesn’t it look nice? OPI’s Vampsterdam.” Raynell holds up one hand with nails done in a deep reddish brown polish.
“Yes.” Somehow the color fits her—much like Raynell, it’s sort of dark and witchy.
“Christy will also help you transport it and unload it at the hotel. I need to stay back and get ready.”
I guess she assumes I don’t need any time to get ready, or that I’m planning on showing up to the reunion in a garbage bag and a pair of Birkenstocks.
Christy looks at me, nods, and we both grab a side of the desk from underneath the top. Raynell watches as we lift it out of the room and past the staircase toward the front door.
“Careful,” Raynell says as she opens the front door for us.
Christy and I carefully descend the front steps with the desk, maneuver it out to the van, and set it down for a moment while I open the hatch. We take a breath, manage to raise it level with the floor of the vehicle, and slide it inside. As I close the hatch I see Raynell disappear back into the house, and think it’s rude of her to not even say good-bye or thank you, but then again, it’s Raynell.
Christy and I walk around to the front of the van, get inside, and buckle up.
“I hate to ask, but since you have the van, Raynell wanted me to see if we could swing by my place and pick up a few more items your classmates have donated.”
“Why is the stuff at your place?”
“Raynell didn’t want people bringing things here. I believe her words were something to the effect of, ‘I don’t want those trifling fools I went to school with coming here. They’re liable to case the place and rob me blind when I’m not at home.’ ”
“Sure. No problem.”
I’m about to drive off, when, once again, it dawns on me how out of character it is for Raynell to be donating a desk worth more than a thousand dollars to charity. I’m still wondering what’s in it for her when I see her scampering out of the house holding a glossy poster the size of a large pizza box.
“Be sure to display this on the desk,” she says as Christy opens the door and accepts the sign. It has an inappropriately large (and heavily Photoshopped) photo of Raynell and her contact information, and reads “Donated by Raynell Rollins, Realtor. Please contact Raynell for all your real estate needs in the finer neighborhoods of Prince George’s County.”
Raynell heads back into the house, and after reading the sign I look at Christy. “Well, I guess it’s better than saying, ‘Donated by Raynell Rollins. I don’t work in none of the Heights.’ ”
RECIPE FROM HALIA’S KITCHEN
Celia’s Chocolate Marshmallow Cake
Chocolate Cake Ingredients
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
1½ teaspoons baking soda
1¾ cups sugar
¾ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
½ cup whole milk
½ cup sour cream
1 stick of butter (½ cup)
3 eggs
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 cup strong hot coffee
• Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
• Generously grease and lightly flour two 9-inch round cake pans.
• Sift flour, salt, baking powder, baking soda, sugar, and cocoa into bowl. Mix on low speed until combined.
• In another bowl, combine milk, sour cream, butter, eggs, and vanilla. With the mixer on low speed, slowly add the dry ingredients to the wet until well combined.
• With mixer still on low speed, add coffee and mix until well combined.
• Pour batter into the prepared pans and bake for 25–35 minutes, until a toothpick comes out clean.
• Cool in the pans for 30 minutes, then turn out onto rack and cool completely.
Marshmallow Icing Ingredients
4 sticks of butter, softened (2 cups)
2 cups powdered/confectioners’ sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 jars marshmallow creme (14 ounces total)
• Cream butter in a mixing bowl with an electric mixer on medium speed until soft and fluffy.
• Gradually beat in powdered sugar.
• Beat in vanilla extract.
• Add marshmallow creme until thoroughly incorporated.
Eight Servings
CHAPTER 13
“Would you come on,” I say to Wavonne as we approach the hotel from the parking lot. As usual, she’s moving at a snail’s pace as she tries to balance her Rubenesque frame on a pair of heels that clearly value form over function.
We’ve just stepped out of Momma’s Toyota Avalon—it’s not exactly a Mercedes, but it’s better than showing up to the reunion in my aging utilitarian minivan. I had some things to take care of at the restaurant and was then running behind getting ready for the event, so we are later than I had wanted us to be. My catering team has been onsite for more than three hours setting everything in motion, but I had hoped to be here at least an hour ago to supervise the final food and serving preparations. I’m technically a guest at this event, but I’m sure I won’t be able to help myself from checking in on the food here and there.
I don’t like to think of myself as one of those women who cares what former classmates she hasn’t seen in more than twenty years think of her, but I have to admit I made way more of a fuss over my appearance tonight than I have in a long time. Wavonne and I went for hair and makeup at my friend Latasha’s salon this afternoon, and I bought a new outfit from Nordstrom last week—an Adrianna Papell purple lace overlay dress. It’s lovely and a bargain at less than two hundred dollars. The sales lady in the Encore section even talked me into a Spanx waist and thigh shaper. It was quite the devil to get on, and it’s not the most comfortable thing in the world, but it does help smooth out my curves. I think it even gives my caboose a lift. I thought it might help me squeeze my size fourteen frame into a size twelve dress, but I guess even Spanx has its limits. I’ve paired the dress with some low-key gold hoop earrings and simple black pumps. Tomorrow I’ll be back in my khakis and no-slip unisex kitchen shoes, but, I must say, it does feel nice to be gussied-up like a real woman for the first time in a long while.
“These shoes are made for posin’, Halia. Not walkin’. When Terrence tells all his football player friends about me the description needs to be off the chain.”
I guess my pumps would be considered high heels, but I’m managing a more hurried pace as mine are maybe two inches or so compared to the five- or six-inch beasts Wavonne has shoved those canoes of hers into. I don’t even know how to describe them. I think Wavonne called them “platform booties.” They are bright yellow and, with no fewer than six straps, one wouldn’t think they’d need a zipper in the back, but apparently they do. The outlandish shoes are an appropriate match for her dress—an ankle-length fitted sheath of a thing with a multi
colored zigzagging pattern and a wide scoop neck that shows off Wavonne’s ample cleavage.
“How do I look?” I ask Wavonne when we reach the door to the hotel lobby.
“Dope as hell. You might just get lucky tonight, Halia.”
I laugh. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
We walk through the main entrance and down the hall, and I immediately recognize my friend Nicole Baxter sitting behind a welcome table in front of the main reception room.
“Halia!” She hops out of her chair, shimmies her full-figured self around the table toward me, and wraps me in her arms. “You look gorgeous!”
“Thanks. So do you.”
Nicole, who’s white, was one of a handful of students, like myself, who crossed the racial divide at my high school. While the student body there is now almost exclusively African American, back in the late eighties there were still a fair number of white kids on the rolls. And, by and large, the black kids socialized with the black kids and the white kids socialized with the white kids. The few Asian and Hispanic students were generally lumped in with the white students. Outside of class, we mostly only crossed paths through student activities and sports. Off-campus outings and parties were not known for their racial diversity. But Nicole and I were both joiners with no athletic ability, so we served together on the debate team and the poster club and the drama club . . . and the student council . . . and who can remember what else. Nicole is naturally very social and, while I’m not exactly shy, her gift of gab was a good match for my somewhat reserved personality. We both share a sharp (some may say “caustic”) sense of humor. We became fast friends, and she’s actually the only person from my senior class that I’m still in regular touch with. And, if there’s one person to still be in touch with, it’s Nicole.
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