Chapter 2

      “How are we doing on the peach pie?” I ask Wavonne, who just stepped out of the kitchen.

      “I think I saw two or three whole pies back there. And there’s plenty of red velvet cake and a few trays of banana pudding.” She notices how fidgety I am. “Look at you all nervous,” she says with a laugh.

      “I’m not nervous,” I say, wishing it were true.

      “Mmmhmm.” Wavonne says this the same way Momma did when I was a little girl and claimed I had no idea how the crayon marks got on the wall or was not responsible for the missing chocolates in the Whitman’s Sampler she was saving for company. “Naomi Campbell’s more relaxed when police dogs start sniffin’ around her suitcase at the airport,” she adds. “You’ve been runnin’ around here like an anxious squirrel all day. We’re all used to you bein’ a control freak, Halia, but today you’ve been really over the top—hoverin’ over the kitchen staff, checkin’ and recheckin’ stock, fluffin’ centerpieces—and don’t think I didn’t see you over by the windows earlier makin’ sure every shade was hangin’ at the exact same length. You do know they make medications for conditions like yours these days?”

      “I don’t need medication, Wavonne. I just want to make sure everything is in order when Russell gets here.”

      I’m not usually one to put on airs... really, I’m not. But ever since Trudy said Russell agreed to meet here at Sweet Tea instead of the Palm, a high end steak house where power deals are struck over sirloins and lobsters, I’ve been in high gear trying to make sure we put our best foot forward tonight. Of course, I’m really proud of my restaurant—in the general scheme of things, it’s hugely successful. I have an abundance of regular customers who have been coming here for years, we regularly make the Washington Post’s and Washingtonian magazine’s top restaurant lists, and most nights, even weekday evenings, we have people waiting for tables. But I can’t help feeling like small potatoes in comparison to Russell—the man oversees a national culinary empire and apparently has his own televised show to find chefs to work in his ever-expanding collection of fine dining establishments.

      “Well, I hope you’re done... ’cause it looks like he’s here.” Wavonne points her eyes past me.

      I turn toward the front door and see Trudy, laptop in tow, and Russell, who I recognize from some photos I’ve seen of him in various magazines, stepping inside Sweet Tea. There’s a third person with them who I’m assuming is Russell’s wife.

      As I walk toward them and get a real-life look at Russell, I realize his magazine pictures must have been heavily retouched. He isn’t someone I would have considered handsome from the doctored images accompanying the various articles about him, but in those photos, someone with master Photoshop skills at least took the edge off his coarse appearance, not to mention several inches off his waistline. He’s an obese black man with a swollen nose, crooked teeth, and limbs that appear disproportionately small when compared to the rest of his body.... And it appears, since the photos I’ve last seen of him, he’s taken a cue from Al Sharpton—his relaxed hair is combed straight back until the ends curl upward behind his neck.

      “Hmmm... He wasn’t ‘all that’ when I saw him on TV, but he looks even rougher in person,” Wavonne says to me as we approach the trio. “Looks like he stole a wig from one of the Supremes... and not even a good one.”

      “Shhh,” I say as we get closer to our guests. “Mr. Mellinger.” I extend my hand to him. “Halia Watkins. I’ve known of you for years. I’m honored to finally meet you in person.”

      “Thank you.” He grips my hand with his own. “You’ve met Trudy, and this is my wife, Cynthia.” He gestures toward the striking woman of indeterminate age next to him. She has a sort of regal quality about her. Her flawless light brown skin and fit figure might lead one to believe she’s in her thirties, but there’s something about her eyes . . . a certain wisdom coming from behind them, that makes me think she’s much older.

      “Lovely to meet you,” Cynthia says. She gives me a two-handed handshake, using her right hand to return my grasp while laying her left hand on top of the whole deal. This is when my eyes make contact with a diamond the size of a macadamia nut extending from her ring.

      “You too. Welcome to Sweet Tea. This is my cousin, Wavonne. She’ll be our server this evening.”

      Russell and Cynthia, who, if you include her heels, is about four inches taller than her husband, exchange greetings with Wavonne, and I sense a bit of “and we are mingling with the help, why?” energy coming from both of them as they shake her hand with a bit less enthusiasm than they did mine.

      “Why don’t I show you to our table,” I suggest. “We’re expecting one more, right? Five of us total?”

      “Yes,” Russell says, “but Trudy has some work to do. If there’s a small table nearby that might be the best option for her.”

      “I’m sure I can arrange that,” I say, even though it seems a bit rude to exclude Trudy from sitting with us, but perhaps they see her as “the help,” too.

      I lead the group to a six top in the back and let Trudy know she can set up at the small two-person booth to the left.