The Kwanzaa Brunch, a Holiday Novella

by DL White

  Anthony Thomas: You watch that game? Bron is siiiick!

  I carried the phone into the bathroom, catching the wrinkle creasing my forehead in the nearly steamed up mirror. Why was Anthony texting me so late? We could just talk in the morning. I shrugged and tapped out an answer.

  Booker: Sure did. Enjoyed that win, even though I’m not a Lakers fan.

  Anthony: A lot of non-Lakers fans sure watch a lot of Lakers games…

  Booker: LOL. Just saying, I wasn’t watching them before LeBron came to the team.

  Anthony: I’m playing with you. You got plans for New Year’s Eve?

  I paused, thinking back to lunch when Sienna had suggested that Anthony invite me to something, but he had shut that down. Quickly.

  Now I was getting an invite? Hm.

  Booker: Not yet. I was thinking about heading back to Baton Rouge, but my friends all bought tickets to some big event with their girls.

  Anthony: Well, no pressure, but my wife has ordered me to extend an invitation to our party. It’s casual. Jeans are fine. I’ll give you the details in the morning if you’re interested.

  I grabbed the collar of the polo I’d worn that day at the back of my neck and pulled it up and over my head, dropping it at my feet. My pants and boxers followed. Then, standing nude in my bathroom, the spacious, bland palate of the room blanketed in steam, I tapped out the question I was afraid to ask, that I had no business asking, with Tara still filling up my text message box.

  Booker: Sienna gonna be there?

  The text message dots bounced. Then paused. Then bounced.

  Anthony: Yep.

  Huh. Earlier he had said… but now… huh.

  Booker: Is this a thing where you’re asking to be nice, but I should refuse, cause it’s gon’ be some fuckshit?

  Anthony: LOL! No, man. It’s a nice time. And you want to taste my wife’s cooking. She goes all out for holidays. I might could talk her into making you a pot of red beans and rice if it’ll convince you to come out.

  I nodded, giving a fist bump to nobody. I’d go through hell for red beans and rice.

  Booker: Magic words. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

  Anthony: Bet. Oh, and be early. Faith has catering jobs lined up until New Year’s Eve so I’ll be getting the house ready. I’m cutting out about mid-morning. We have a lot to cover.

  Booker: Aight. Sounds good.

  I set the phone down on the counter and stepped into the shower, smiling while I pulled the glass doors closed behind me. Something had changed. I could feel it.

  7

  Sienna

  * * *

  “And! We! Are!”

  With a flourish, I pressed the enter button on my keyboard, grinning as I watched the last of my reports fly off into the ethernet. Or somebody’s mailbox. Anywhere but on my desk or on my to-do list.

  “Dooooone!” Arms outstretched, I sang out loud to no one.

  I immediately flipped the music that had gotten me through the last working day of the year from my headphones to the small but powerful speakers sitting on my desk. It was well after hours on a light staff day. Anyone who was still hanging around burning the early evening oil deserved to be treated to good music.

  Whitney Houston’s golden voice trilled as she masterfully slayed every note change in her rendition of Joy To the World. I stood, knocking my chair back, miming direction of the Georgia Mass Choir, full and beautiful in the background. As the daughter of Lighthouse Baptist’s long time choir director, I could at least pretend that I knew what I was doing.

  Just as Whitney, backed by the choir, reached a fever pitch crescendo, the door to my office popped open and Booker stepped in. He was in dark rinse jeans and a long-sleeved, light blue t-shirt, but the unexpected pop-up made my heart drop to the pit of my stomach.

  He was amused, evidenced by the grin that split his face. He dropped the folder he’d been carrying onto my desk, clapped his hands and began swaying in time as if he was in the choir I was directing.

  I screeched in laughter that was way too loud, even for a quiet office. I reached for the keyboard to press the pause button.

  “Whew!” I fanned myself, still giggling at his dancing. I’d worn an ugly holiday sweater to work — Zoraya’s idea — and it was warm in the enclosed space. Also, my handsome as fuck new coworker had just joined me in a ridiculous song and dance in my office.

  Booker took it in stride, not even breathing hard as he reached for the folder he had tossed onto my desk. “You’ll have to excuse me. Ain’t heard a good mass choir since Meemaw’s funeral.”

  “You had a mass choir at your grandmother’s funeral?”

  “Oh, she had her home going all arranged just the way she wanted it. Full of love, lots of laughing and lots of music. The sound of a choir brings real good memories for me. I got a little caught up.”

  “I don’t hold it against you at all. A mass choir and Queen Whitney? Turn up!”

  “Joy to the world, indeed.”

  He looked around, then grabbed the single guest chair and took a seat. He hadn’t even broken a sweat. And he was close enough, when he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, for me to tell.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I came to your office. Anthony said you like for people to call. But I also noticed you don’t pick up the phone when he calls.”

  I pulled my desk chair back so I could sit. “Anthony and I… well, we have a unique relationship. I promise I’ll be professional with you.”

  “I don’t need any special treatment. I just don’t want to bother you.”

  “You’re not a bother, Booker. Really.”

  “Okay, then.” He smiled, then nodded.

  “Okay then. So… you came up here for something?”

  He flipped the folder open. I recognized the account profile for Henderson Mechanics, an auto repair shop with locations all over Georgia, Florida and Alabama. “I was talking with Victor Henderson today and he asked me to check on a few application functions that he thinks he should have access to. Anthony dipped out a few days ago, but I saw your car in the parking lot—”

  I clicked a few keys, bringing up the Henderson account in the Precision database. “What can I help you with?”

  We reviewed Victor’s questions and requests, and I detailed the features that would become available to his shops as he increased his subscription rate. Henderson was still small potatoes compared to Napa Auto and their counterparts, but his goal was to have black owned repair and auto parts shops nationwide. Precision Systems Software aimed to grow with him every step of the way.

  “He can have these features tomorrow, if he wants them. All of them are enabled, just not at the level of service he’s paying for. If he wants to upgrade, which Anthony has been trying to talk him into for years, he’ll have the full software suite and it’ll open up capabilities for him.”

  Booker relaxed in the chair as well as he could relax in an uncomfortable side chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Years, you said. Anthony is a damn good salesman. If this was a money thing, he would have wrapped this up.”

  “Anthony seems to think it’s about money and Victor being cheap. I don’t, though,” I said, shaking my head. “Victor is about my dad’s age. Mid sixties, doing well for himself. He could stay comfortable if he doesn’t make any moves, makes it work with what he’s got. Or…”

  “He could stretch a little, take a risk, and see how it plays out. Then this becomes a matter of showing him how taking a leap could make his good life better. A little investment could bring him a nice payback and then some.”

  “Exactly. And that you picked right up on that? Tells me you’re just the man for the job. Not that Anthony isn’t. He’s just motivated by something entirely different.”

  I flipped the folder closed and handed it to him. He took it, but his brown eyes bore into mine. “I guess I know how that feels to face that choice. I know how good it is on the other side of that jump.”

  “I gue
ss you do. So use that, Booker.”

  “Excellent advice. So uh…”

  He tucked the folder under his arm and gave no indication that he was planning to leave my office soon. Which was fine, because while I wasn’t fond of in-person visits, I wasn’t in a hurry for him to leave.

  “So… uh….” I prodded, hiking my brow up a bit.

  “Well, the other night, you mentioned that you knew of some spots around here where we could grab a bite. I kind of dropped you in a rude way, and I feel bad about that. I hoped that I could take you up on that raincheck.”

  My mouth formed a perfectly round O. I hadn’t expected him to bring up the other night. I blushed internally at the way I fumed and stomped away from him, then called Faith and wrangled a dinner invite so I could bitch all night about the man that wouldn’t ignore a phone call to go to dinner with me.

  “I know it’s last minute, but it’s still early and I’m hungry. Since you’re here, you must be too. Unless you had plans and you were just sticking around to meet up with someone.”

  I waved a hand, dismissing that. I’d normally be out of the door at four thirty and perched up at one of my favorite haunts — a hotel lobby, a dive bar for trivia night, or one of the casual eateries near my condo. More often than not, I’d be trying not to yawn in the face of someone who thought he was impressing me with his sports car or his designer suit or his Egyptian silk socks, meanwhile hoping he was packing enough to make the evening worth my time.

  Since my conversation with Faith and Anthony, I hadn’t been interested in hanging out at my usual places in my Hot Girl Gear, trying to make do with the same old same old. I was, honestly, going to try to be better about paying attention to men who were paying attention to me.

  Like the one sitting in my office.

  “I’m starving, actually. But I have quiche and a green salad waiting for me at home.”

  “Quiche? Salad?” His face crinkled up, and he sneered, tilting his head so he was giving me the side-eye. “When you could have ribs... or whatever?”

  “Well, Faith’s party is tomorrow and I have a system. I keep it light the night before, that way I can act a fool at her table. I know some people will be wearing their New Year’s Eve best. I’m wearing my nicest pair of leggings, if that gives you any hint at the ridiculous amount of food I plan to eat.”

  “She’s that good of a cook? Hmmm. I might need to follow your lead. Not tonight, though. I’m crazy hungry.”

  Booker pushed a soft, sexy groan through pursed lips and stood, moving toward the door. He slapped the folder against his thigh and raised a hand in a wave. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Then he was gone, already headed down the hall toward the elevators. In a split second, I hopped up and hurried around my desk.

  “Booker!” I called to his retreating back. He stopped and turned.

  He’d only made it a few doors down the hall, so I walked toward him and he closed the space between us.

  “You’re welcome to join me. For quiche. I live close.”

  He chuckled, wrapping one large hand around the opposite wrist. “No offense, Sienna, but quiche and salad isn’t going to cut it for me. Appreciate the offer, though.”

  “Well, wait! I know my way around a Door Dash menu. We could order some ribs… or whatever. Unless you have plans, and you’re sticking around to—”

  “Alright, okay. Twist my arm,” he said, giving up entirely too easily and much to my delight. I grinned, feeling victorious. It was looking like a boring night for the girl, but things were looking up. “Whereabouts do you live?”

  * * *

  My condo was down the street from Booker’s apartment complex. In recent years, mixed-use developments had sprung up, surrounding Precision Software and other businesses in downtown Alpharetta, Georgia, an Atlanta suburb. Acres of retail, entertainment, and housing had created the perfect live-work-play footprint, bringing more residents and employers to the area. Most of the staff at Precision lived in one of the apartments or condos just a few miles from the office.

  I‘d shut my system down and rushed home right after Booker agreed to have dinner with me. I’d hardly been home to do more than sleep, eat and change clothes all week, so the place was looking as clean as the Merry Maids staff had left it the week before.

  I flipped the switch so that the pearl lights on the Christmas tree and around the windows glowed. I lit a few peppermint candles and positioned the plethora of red velvet bows that I’d put up in various spots throughout the place just right.

  Just before three firm knocks sounded at the door, I cued up my Holiday Soul playlist. The O’Jays, White Christmas wafted from the speakers as I pulled the door open.

  Booker was on the other side, wearing the same thing he’d worn to work, but he’d gone home first, too. His goatee had been cleaned up, his skin glowed, his low cut looked freshly brushed.

  “You found me. Come on in.”

  I stepped back and let him in, sucking in a scent I recognized — Coach Platinum. It enveloped him, tingeing the air with a spicy, manly aroma. He handed me a bottle of Veuve Clicquot while he shrugged off a worn leather jacket.

  “Precision must pay nice at your level. I looked at a model of these condos, but I decided they were too pricy right now.”

  “So you spent the extra money on champagne?” I laughed, taking the bottle, then I took his jacket and hung it on a hook near the front door.

  “I couldn’t show up empty handed,” he said. “Nah, I got that from my realtor, when I finally decided on an apartment. I don’t really drink champagne. I figured you could probably find more reasons to drink it than I could.”

  “You figured right. Thanks for the hand-me-down.”

  I waved him down the hallway and past the kitchen to the living room. “I bought this unit ten years ago and did little updates here and there. The investors that own the property started renovating the units a few years ago. If I want mine updated, I have to move out for four months.”

  I set the bottle of champagne on the coffee table next to a bright red poinsettia and dropped onto the couch, exhaling a long, loud sigh. “Make yourself comfortable,” I told him.

  He did so, having a seat on the cushion next to me. He stretched his long legs, crossing them at the ankles under the coffee table.

  “How are you liking Precision so far? I hope they’re taking good care of you. Even though they make us wear ugly shit like this sweater.”

  He glanced at my sweater and burst into laughter like he hadn’t noticed it earlier. It was an oversize blue knit with a macrame gingerbread house and two candy canes on the front of it.

  “Precision is alright so far. It’s… different.”

  He paused, an odd expression clouding his face. But then the cloud dissipated, and he smiled, pointing to my sweater. “You know, you don’t have to participate in these things. Kwanzaa lunches and themed clothing days. Zo can’t fire you for not wearing an ugly sweater.”

  “Oh, I know. It’s a solidarity thing. I can’t stand her chummy, we’re a team bullshit, like she doesn’t make a smooth hundred grand more a year than I do.” I huffed, rolling my eyes. “But our community, the software industry especially, has so few Black woman CEO’s. I want Zoraya to topple all the tech bros, so I’ll throw my support behind her. To a point.”

  “So you’re not gonna Wobble with me at the company picnic next year?”

  “Oh, I didn’t say that. I am the Wobble Queen!”

  “Aight. In the meantime, I promise not to harass you about going to potluck lunches and other corporate schmooze bullshit. And I know that’s supposed to be an ugly sweater, but… it looks mighty cute on you. So you win anyway.”

  “Thanks. That’s sweet of you to say.” My heart thumped wildly under said ugly but cute sweater. I didn’t know if he was flirting or just being nice, but I never turned down a compliment.

  I sat up, reaching for the MacBook that had been sitting on the coffee table. “We’d better or
der something for you, or it’ll take all night to get here. Did you really want ribs?”

  “Or whatever,” he answered, scooting so closely that his shoulder smashed into mine. My kryptonite was a good smelling man and his cologne danced on my nerve endings in a delicious way. “You live around here. What do you recommend?”

  “Uh…” I clicked around my Door Dash account, bringing up my recent history. “Smokestack is really good. Cue is good, too. For ribs… or whatever.”

  I glanced up, realizing too late that our faces were inches apart. My gaze met his and for a few seconds, we both froze, fully aware that the moment could go either way. I fancied myself a modern woman that went for what she wanted, so I was never opposed to making the first move, but this time, my gut told me to hang back. Let him decide which way he wanted to go.

  Booker leaned in and my breath hitched in my throat. My eyes reflexively closed, but when his lips didn’t gently press themselves against mine, they fluttered open again. He was flipping through cards in his wallet.

  “Is Smokestack the best you ever had? Like… I’m in the mood for some good food.”

  I shrugged, trying to come back from embarrassment and failing miserably. He wasn’t going to kiss me. He was pulling his wallet from his pocket. My face was in flames and I was hot, like someone had turned the temperature in my condo to 103 degrees.

  “They’re really good,” I pushed out. “Cue is better, but they’re slow.”

  “You sound like you know what you’re talking about, so I’ll let you pick.”

  He handed me an American Express black card and flipped his wallet closed. “Order something for yourself. Quiche and salad, my ass. Make sure we get some bread.”

  8

  Booker

  * * *

  Sienna went with Cue, but as promised, they were moving slowly, so she cut a few slices of that quiche I had talked shit about and warmed them up. It was savory, with spinach and onions and a flaky crust. It wouldn’t do much to satisfy my hunger, but it was tasty.