All Up In My Business (6 page)

“Oh, really? Then why don’t you give him some? I’m trying to come up with somebody like Toussaint.”

“Toussaint? Please, you’re never going to get a man like him.”

“Humph. You’re just saying that because you want his ass. Girl, let me get off this phone. Yak is trying to beat his sister in the head with a rib bone. Don’t tell nobody what I told you.”

“Who am I going to tell? Bougie Shyla Martin? I might have to ask her how she liked the cabbage, though.” Zoe started laughing again.

“Heifah, you’d better keep your mouth shut. I ain’t playing.”

“Girl, your secret’s safe with me. I’ll holla later.”

The conversation she’d had with Zoe stayed with Chardonnay for the rest of the evening, even while she bathed her kids and got herself ready for bed, and even as she rolled up a blunt and settled on the couch to watch another crazy episode of
Bad Girls Club
. She thought about what it would be like to sleep with Bobby. And then she thought what it would be like to ride a fine brothah like Toussaint all night long. It was a no-brainer. If she was going to delve into the company dick pool, Chardonnay decided she’d aim straight for the top.

T
oussaint smiled as he snuck up on his mother. He tiptoed up to the island in the center of the designer kitchen and placed a light kiss on her neck.

Candace screamed as the Caesar salad dressing she’d been making flew off the whisk and landed everywhere. “Boy! What is wrong with you?” She took the whisk and popped Toussaint in the middle of the forehead. “Trying to give your mama a heart attack?”

“Dang, Mama!” Toussaint said, still laughing as he walked over, calmly reached for a paper towel, and wiped the dab of salad dressing off his face. “You’re about to turn that whisk into a deadly weapon.” He reached for a few more paper towels and began looking on the floor for liquid spots to clean up.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Beverly can clean it up later.” Candace was referring to the Haitian housekeeper she’d hired the year she turned fifty and decided she’d washed enough dishes and swept enough floors for her lifetime. She’d further justified the decision with the knowledge that the salary she paid Beverly fed her six family members who were cramped into a two-bedroom apartment on Atlanta’s west side.

“I’m still adjusting to the fact that you have hired help,” Toussaint said. He’d ignored his mother’s suggestion and was
now wiping a bit of dressing off the stainless-steel refrigerator door. “If you don’t watch out, people are going to think you’re bougie … trying to keep up with the Joneses.”

“Please, son, you know better than that. We’re Livingstons. The Joneses are trying to keep up with us.”

Toussaint stuck his finger into the bowl of salad dressing. “This is good, Mama.”

“Boy, get your finger out my food. You haven’t changed a bit—still that rambunctious child who shot your cousin in the back of the head with a BB gun.”

“Ha! That’s why you love me, Mama.”

“That I do, son. That I do. That’s probably your brother,” Candace said when the doorbell rang. “Unlike you, who walked into our home as if you still lived here and scared me half to death, your brother has manners and is ringing the bell.”

A half hour later, Adam, Candace, and their two sons were seated around the massive mahogany and cherrywood table that anchored the Livingston’s dining room. They’d just finished the Caesar salad and were digging into Candace’s seafood lasagna with gusto.

“Victoria is going to be sorry she missed this, Malcolm,” Toussaint said around a mouthful of food. “I bet y’all’s cook can’t compete with this dish … no way.”

Malcolm shrugged. “Chef does all right. Of course, nobody can compete with Mom’s cooking.”

“I’m sorry she and the kids couldn’t join us,” Candace said, repeating what she’d said earlier when learning that only Malcolm would be joining them. “That new church she joined sure keeps her busy. But then again, it’s been a long time since there’s been a Sunday dinner with just the four of us.”

“I can’t believe July is around the corner and the year is halfway over,” Adam said.

Toussaint nodded his agreement. “Fourth of July next week. Time flies when you’re having fun.”

Speak for yourself, Romeo
. Malcolm reached for another slice of the bread Candace had made from scratch. He took a bite and groaned his pleasure. “Remember Malcolm Mondays and Toussaint Tuesdays? When y’all would have to eat what we cooked?”

“How could we forget?” Adam asked. “Some of the stuff y’all made could have killed me! Like that almost-raw pork you served covered in barbeque sauce? I think some of those worms are still crawling around inside me.”

“Naw, Dad,” Malcolm countered. “I think you’ve drunk enough cognac to kill anything living down there. Besides, I was, what, seven or eight years old when I baked that first slab of ribs?”

“And you were so determined,” Candace added, smiling. “You looked so proud as you brought in that platter and set it on the table. Your father and I didn’t have the heart to tell you that we couldn’t eat that meat.”

“You didn’t have to. Toussaint spitting his bite back onto the plate was hint enough.”

Everyone at the table cracked up at that memory and at the fact that Candace had diverted the boy’s attention long enough to secretly microwave the ribs to a level of doneness. The conversation continued, largely revolving around cooking and food.

“Yeah, if your last name is Livingston, you’ve got to be able to burn,” Adam concluded. “And thank God that now I’ll gladly park my feet under Malcolm’s table and eat anything he fixes.”

“Well, you better make sure it’s Malcolm and not Victoria cooking,” Toussaint joked. “That girl’s been in the family for over ten years and still can’t boil an egg!”

Malcolm joined in the laughter, but the smile on his face didn’t match how he felt inside. The family had often joked about Victoria’s lack of cooking skills, but her stellar pedigree, good looks, and large bank account had overruled what would
have been a deal breaker with a more common woman. Malcolm was embarrassed by the fact that hiring a chef had been a move of necessity as much as convenience—and not because Victoria was busy being a mother to four children. She was also a spoiled only child who had been the apple of her late father’s eye, and she had always lived the life of a prima donna. From the second year of their marriage, Malcolm and Victoria’s home had never been without a cook, housekeeper, or chauffeur, and after the first childbirth, they added a nanny. Malcolm’s grandfather had put the situation into succinct order after tasting the omelet his granddaughter-in-law attempted during his first visit to their home after the wedding. The eggs were almost burned on the outside, runny on the inside, and she’d failed to wash the vegetables that were mixed in.

“Well, it must be what she does in the bedroom,” his grandfather had said somberly after forcing himself to eat a few bites.

“Excuse me?” Malcolm had asked, confused. “You obviously didn’t marry her for her skills in the kitchen, son. If you didn’t know how to cook, your family would starve to death.”

“I’m looking forward to the Fourth and heading to Hilton Head,” Malcolm said, changing the subject. The Livingstons owned a rambling, eight-bedroom, ten-bath home on this tony island, on land that had been in the family since purchased from the master who freed Malcolm’s great-great-grandfather. “Even Justin is excited,” he continued, speaking of his oldest son. “He’s asked to bring a couple playmates along.”

“Well, everybody’s welcome,” Candace said. “We’ve already reserved an additional villa to handle any last-minute additions to the guest list. It has four bedrooms, with two beds in each, so that should accommodate everyone. Toussaint, will you be inviting a guest? Shyla, maybe?”

“Shyla? Why would you think I’d invite her?”

Candace fixed her youngest son with a knowing look. “Not much gets past your mother. I noticed the way Shyla looked at you during the planning meeting. She handled herself quite professionally, mind you, but while you were presenting the expansion plans, love was written all over her face. And hers wasn’t the only one,” she finished, mumbling under her breath.

Toussaint chose to ignore the last sentence. He knew that Zoe also had a thing for him. And while he preferred dark chocolate, he rarely turned down a tasty sweet treat, no matter the flavor. Toussaint had wondered more than once how Zoe’s administrative efficiency would translate in the bedroom, and he hadn’t totally dismissed the idea of finding out. But she wasn’t coming to Hilton Head, and neither was Shyla. “I might bring someone,” he finally answered.

“Who?” Malcolm asked.

“You’ll just have to wait and see, big brother,” Toussaint answered, already envisioning Alexis in a skimpy yellow bikini. She’d turned down his first date request, but Toussaint was persistent and determined. When it came to challenges, he didn’t back down, especially when the object of said challenge looked so delicious.

I
t was a rare day off, and Alexis St. Clair was bored to tears. She sipped coffee that had been liberally doused with hazelnut cream and wondered for the umpteenth time why she’d turned down Toussaint’s offer to spend the Fourth of July with his family. It definitely wasn’t because of the excuse she’d given him, that she never dated clients, even though it was true. No, the reason she’d turned down the oh-so-charming Toussaint Livingston was because she saw him for what he was—trouble with a capital
T
. She’d been caught off guard at their initial meeting, having forgotten the name of the man whose car she’d tried to protect months before. But she hadn’t forgotten one detail about
him
—that tall, lean body, killer smile, and gorgeous eyes that had made her mouth water and her kitty cat wet. She’d never reacted to a man the way she had to Toussaint and knew she was treading dangerous waters by taking him on as a client. At the end of the day, it was an astute business decision. But personally …

As if it would help her erase these thoughts, Alexis shook her head and stepped away from the large bay window in her two-bedroom condo. She continued to sip coffee as she surveyed her kingdom—a cunning combination of Spanish modern and American contemporary, comfortably formal with
hints of eclectic whimsy that showcased Alexis’s style. The condo was small, less than a thousand square feet, but everything in it was quality and classy, much like its owner.

Alexis eyed her cell phone sitting on one of the ebony blocks. She thought about calling her best friend, Kim, but knew she’d be with her in-laws. Another best friend had joined the peace corps. Alexis had to wait until that friend called her. “Maybe I should call Mama,” she mused out loud, picking up her cell. She held the phone in her hand and contemplated the possible outcome of the call. Would Mrs. Barnes be in a rare good mood, or would she be talking about Alexis’s brothers and the latest trouble surrounding them? And how much money would she ask for? That was how the calls usually ended, with Mrs. Barnes asking for some money “to hold until the first.” Of course, Alexis always sent the money, knowing she’d never see it again. It wasn’t that Alexis minded helping her mother. She didn’t. It was that much of the money went to support her unemployed brothers and alcoholic stepfather that Alexis couldn’t stand. No, she concluded, calling Missouri was not a good idea.

“That’s it, Alexis. Go … anywhere!” She finished her coffee as she strode to her room, thinking of what she could wear that didn’t need ironing. When she turned the corner and entered the hallway to her bedroom, her eyes went to where they often did—to the grouping of photos that artfully lined the wall on both sides. She stopped, focusing on one picture in particular. It was of a handsome, dark-skinned man looking proud and distinguished in a double-breasted navy suit. He wasn’t smiling, but a devil-may-care twinkle in his eye belied the picture’s serious tone. His evenly shaped lips were framed by a tidy mustache, and his hair, which was liberally streaked with gray, was combed away from his face. Thomas Alexander St. Clair was the first man to tell Alexis she was beautiful, the first to take her on a date, and the first man she’d loved. Her father was
also the reason she was afraid to love again. But Alexis didn’t want to think about that now.

Thirty minutes later, a casually dressed Alexis walked into Taste of Soul. The sounds of Archie Bell & the Drells immediately welcomed her. This quartet thumped out a mean beat, using drums, bass, guitar, and organ, and encouraged everyone to “tighten up” and “make it mellow.” She reached for a takeout menu and began to scan her choices.

“You gotta do the ribs, pretty girl.” A skinny, plain-looking man wearing a stark white apron spoke to her from behind the counter. “I cooked them myself, just for you.”

“Then I guess I should try them,” Alexis politely countered.

“Yeah, and you should try going out on a date with me too!”

“Stop harassing our customers, Bobby!” Chardonnay said, playfully smacking him upside the head as she walked up to the register. “Don’t pay any attention to him, ma’am. He’s
special.”
Chardonnay and Alexis shared a laugh. “But he’s not lying about the ribs. I just had them for lunch and they are bangin’!”

“Then ribs it is!”

“The James Brown Baby Back Big Snack or a whole slab?”

“Um, I think I’ll take a whole one.”

“And your sides? You get three.”

Alexis reopened the menu. “Let’s see … I’ll have the barbe-qued beans, the collard greens, and the mac and cheese.”

“You chose exactly right, sistah. Anything to drink?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“For here or to go?”

“To go.”

Bobby, who’d been standing by Chardonnay this entire time, took the printout from her hand. “Just sit and relax, pretty lady. I’m going to handle this order personally.”

“Thank you, Bobby.” Alexis couldn’t help but smile as he spun on his heels and marched into the kitchen. She knew he was teasing, but the attention felt good, as did the camaraderie. Good food wasn’t the only thing behind Taste’s success. It was the people too.