An awkward silence fell over the inside of the car as he pulled out of the parking space into traffic. Harper closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The delicate scent of vanilla teased her nostrils. When she reopened her eyes she caught Quentin watching her, his gaze flitting between her and the road.
She drew her left hand over her chest, nervously clutching the collar of her blouse between her fingers.
“Sorry,” Quentin muttered. “I didn’t mean to stare. You just look so much like Pop.”
“Pop?” Confusion washed over her expression.
“Our father. Troy and I called him Pop.”
Harper nodded her head. “Interesting,” she said, taking another deep breath.
Quentin cut another eye at her, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly.
“Are you expecting a large crowd?” she asked, trying to make conversation.
He nodded. “Pop was a community fixture. He was well loved and respected down here on Beale Street.”
Harper rolled her eyes. “Not by everyone, I’m sure,” she muttered between clenched teeth. There was no missing the hint of hostility in her tone.
“How come you two weren’t close?” Quentin dared to ask as they sat idle at a stoplight.
“He never told you?”
“He never told us that he even had a daughter.”
“I guess that answers your question. We weren’t close because Everett Donovan didn’t care that he had a daughter. He didn’t care enough to even mention that one existed,” she hissed through clenched teeth. Tears suddenly clouded her view, moisture rising in her eyes.
Quentin turned to stare at her. There was another awkward silence before he responded. “Pop wasn’t that kind of man,” he said matter-of-factly.
Harper stared back, meeting his gaze evenly. And then she turned to stare out of the window, suddenly hating that strangers knew more about her father than she ever had.
The first hints of a Tennessee winter adorned the city streets. The trees that lined the neighborhood blocks were bare, the last remnants of fall lying on the ground. The air was crisp and cold, the smell of new snow in the midday air. The weatherman on the radio was predicting a light dusting, enough to make the morning commute an annoying inconvenience. Quentin predicted more.
“I think we’re in for a bigger storm,” he said nonchalantly as he opened the car door for her. “You can feel it in the air,” he said. It had been the first thing either of them had spoken since his comment about her father.
“You mean it actually snows here in Memphis?” she asked.
Quentin nodded his head. “We’ve been known to see an inch or so here and there. Pop used to say they got way more back in the day. But right now the air feels really heavy. Something tells me we’re going to see way more than everyone anticipates.”
Harper’s expression was suspect. She lifted her eyes to the cloud-filled sky but said nothing. If the baker believed he was a weather professional, too, then good for him, she thought.
Quentin extended his hand to help her down from the vehicle. His hands were large and he had the fingers of a piano player. His touch was heated and as soon as Harper’s feet touched the ground she pulled her hand from his, tightening it into a hard fist. A quiver of heat coursed down her spine and she found the sensation unnerving.
Harper pulled her wool blazer closed around her torso to ward off the chill and to hide the fact that her nipples had sprung full and hard against her silk blouse. Embarrassed, her face was flushed, a deep red tint rising in her cheeks. She blamed her body’s reaction on the falling temperatures.
Quentin didn’t seem to notice as he turned and led the way to the brick-front building. The bakery sat at the intersection of Beale and South 2nd Streets, and from where she stood Harper could see that they were in walking distance of B.B. King’s infamous blues club and a bevy of other small businesses.
Harper followed behind the man as he used his keys to open the door. The celadon green and chocolate brown were continued on the bakery’s front canopy and inside the space. As Quentin crossed the way and flicked on the lights Harper stood in the room’s center and looked around. The aroma of vanilla and chocolate was abundant, mixed with an array of spices. The decadent fragrances made her feel like a little kid in a candy shop.
Celadon had been someone’s favorite color, the distinct green tint covering the one wall that wasn’t stripped down to the red brick. The floors were highly polished concrete and looked like a swirling vat of melted chocolate. Tables lined the windows, each adorned with cloth tablecloths in varying green prints beneath cut-glass tops. A massive glass counter spanned the width of the room. The glass doors were open and the empty unit was meticulously clean. There was also a stage in the far right corner, surrounded by theatrical curtains in a luscious burgundy velvet and an upright piano against the wall. The décor was warm and welcoming, feeling both vintage and contemporary.
Moving behind the counter Quentin gestured for her to follow him into the kitchen. The space was a plethora of high-end appliances, all in stainless steel. The entire area was polished to a high sheen, everything appearing as if you could have eaten off any of the surfaces. The A-plus grade on the food license posted in a silver frame on the wall indicated that such a thing might actually be possible.
“This is very nice,” Harper said as her eyes skated from one side of the room to the other.
“Thanks,” Quentin answered, a hint of pride rising in his tone. “We’re all very proud of the renovations. This was Pop’s dream.”
“So, how long did you know him?” she suddenly questioned, leaning her body against the counter.
Quentin paused. “You really don’t know, do you?”
She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.
“I was eight and Troy was twelve when Pop took us in.”
“He took you in?”
“He was our foster father. We were in the system, living in a group house and one day he showed up and took us home. We’ve been with him ever since.”
“Wow,” Harper said, no hint of sentiment in her tone. “Lucky you.”
Quentin bristled. “I was very lucky,” he snapped.
The two stood staring at each other, a wave of emotion passing between them. Quentin wanted to be angry, enraged that she could even fathom questioning Pop’s integrity. But there was something in her gaze that gave him pause. Her hurt was palpable and he could see it in her eyes. It suddenly bothered him that such a beautiful woman could have so much pain flooding her spirit; because she was beautiful, exquisitely so with her warm tawny complexion, wide dark eyes, and a mouth that was full and pouty.
She’d clearly inherited her father’s looks and for the first time Quentin understood why, even in old age, the women had flocked around Pop like flies to honey. Harper’s lusciously curvy frame however had to have come from her mother because Pop had been tall and lean like a racehorse, no hint of a curve anywhere on his frame. But Harper had extraordinary curves. Heat suddenly rained south, the beginnings of an erection lengthening in his pants. Quentin turned abruptly, embarrassed by his body’s reaction, suddenly feeling as if he didn’t have any self-control. He took a deep breath and then a second.
He moved back to the counter and the set of keys he’d dropped against the surface. He flipped through them until he found one particular key, then moved back to stand in front of her as he took it off his key ring. He struggled not to lose himself in the look she was giving him.
“Pop lived in the apartment upstairs. Why don’t you go explore while I set out the food,” he said as he passed the key to her. He pointed to a stairwell at the back of the room. “It will probably be at least another hour before folks start arriving,” he finished.
Harper gave him a slight smile. But before she could express her gratitude, Quentin hurried in the opposite direction, disappearing back into the storefront.
The second floor boasted a family room, a kitchen with a breakfast nook, and a mudroom. There
was also a third floor with a master bedroom and bathroom, a guest suite, a home office, and a deck that sat atop a garage and looked out over a garden. The calming green color flowed throughout the space.
The walls were decorated with black-and-white photographs; images of Everett and friends, Everett with Quentin and Troy as kids, Everett in front of the bakery, Everett and his life that had never included her. As Harper slowly eyed each of the images against the wall her tears finally fell in abundance, the saline streaming from her eyes.
She sat down on the family-room sofa, still crying, not sure who it was she wanted to be angry with, because she was angry. But more than anything, Harper was overwhelmingly sad. She swiped at her eyes, reaching for a tissue from a Kleenex box on the end table.
Harper had only been five years old the last time she saw her father. It had been Halloween. Her grandmother had taken her trick-or-treating in the pink princess costume her daddy had brought for her and when they’d returned Everett was in the front yard of their Louisiana home gathering up his personal possessions off the lawn. Her mother had been intermittently screaming profanities at him and throwing his clothes out of their second-floor window. Everett had picked up his belongings, tossed them into the back of his 1985 Nissan Maxima, and had driven off.
Harper remembered that he had tried to say good-bye, attempting to lift her into his arms just before her mother had pushed between them. Janie Donovan had snatched her up by the arm and had pushed her and Mama Pearl both into the house. “Your daddy loves you, Harper!” he’d screamed before spinning his tires out the driveway.
From that moment, right up until the day she died, Janie had made it her mission to prove to Harper and anyone else who would listen that Everett Donovan had no love at all for his family. Harper had grown up learning to believe the denigrations, so when her father had reached out to her the year after her mother’s death, she’d refused to reach back. That had been two years ago and now Harper didn’t know what to believe about the man who’d left her everything he possessed. She dropped her head into her hands and sobbed.
Quentin stood in the hallway of the home and quietly watched her. His own tears had left a damp trail over his cheeks and as he leaned his large frame back against the wall, his torso hunched with sorrow, he swiped at his face with his hands. He took a deep breath and then another.
Everett Donovan had been the only father Quentin and his brother had ever known. Lost in the Tennessee foster care system when their drug-addicted mother had abandoned them, Everett had stepped in to be both mother and father, affording them a life neither had ever imagined. Good music, great food, and NFL football had been Everett’s pleasures and he’d passed down those loves and much wisdom to the two men who had always thought of him as their father.
Everett had insisted that both of them attend college. Troy had graduated from Fisk University with a degree in sociology. A year later he’d gone on to the University of Tennessee’s College of Law for a Juris Doctor. Quentin had followed his brother to the University of Tennessee for a business degree. When Everett had first considered opening a bakery Quentin had gone to L’École Culinaire for a degree in culinary arts with certifications in pâtis-serie and baking. Pop, as they affectionately called him, had instilled in them a strong work ethic, the importance of education, respect for others, and the value of family. Quentin now regretted that he had never been able to give back to Everett half of what the patriarch had given to them.
He stole another glance at Everett’s daughter. She was an anomaly in their lives. He couldn’t begin to fathom why Everett had never once mentioned her to them or why she hadn’t been in his life. The man he knew would have done anything for any child of his so he couldn’t begin to believe that Everett had willingly been a deadbeat, absentee parent. He refused to accept that his Pop had been that kind of man. But there was no denying that Everett had kept her existence a secret from them. And his bequeathing her everything he had built had suddenly brought her crashing into his and Troy’s lives.
He took another breath, pulled his shoulders back, and cleared his throat to announce that he was in the room. Harper jumped at the intrusion.
“Sorry,” Quentin muttered softly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
She shrugged her narrow shoulders, pushing them toward the ceiling. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you okay?” he asked, genuine concern in his tone.
Harper shrugged one more time. “I will be as soon as all of this is over.”
Quentin hesitated then nodded his understanding. “Miss Alice is here,” he finally said. “People will be arriving soon. I thought you might want to come back down.”
“Who’s Miss Alice?” Harper asked. She grabbed another tissue and patted her eyes.
He hesitated as he met her curious stare. “She’s family, too,” he said finally.
Harper took a deep breath and nodded. “I need to freshen up my makeup,” she said, gesturing toward her tear-streaked face.
He pointed down the back hallway. “Bathroom’s that way.”
She eased around him and headed where he pointed. As she passed, Quentin took a deep inhalation, the soft scent of her perfume teasing his senses. The charming fragrance was sweet and decadent, a beguiling blend of chocolate and patchouli. In that moment it felt right and perfect, seeming to soothe and comfort his soul.
“Your perfume . . .” he started.
She tossed him a look over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“May I ask what you’re wearing? It’s very nice.”
“Thank you,” Harper said as she tossed him an easy smile. “It’s called ‘Angel.’”
3
Alice Moore was round, plump, and gregarious, an extroverted spirit who instantly wormed her way into Harper’s heart.
“We’re all going to miss your daddy,” Miss Alice exclaimed as she wrapped Harper in a deep bear hug. “That son of a bitch was one hell of a man!”
“How did you and my father know each other?” Harper questioned.
Miss Alice flipped a hand in Harper’s direction and tossed her an easy wink of her eye. “Baby girl, your daddy was the only addiction I have ever had. I couldn’t get enough of that sweet, sweet man. I loved me some Everett Donovan!”
The older woman turned her attention to Quentin and a staff of friends who were helping to set up a spread of food. “Quentin, put that chicken and them ribs in the oven on low. That meat is already hot and we just want to keep it all warm.”
Quentin chuckled as he shook his head. “Yes, ma’am!” he chimed back.
Miss Alice turned back to Harper. “Did you ever hear your father play that saxophone of his?”
Harper shook her head. “No, ma’am.”
“Everett could play that saxophone. He even taught both of them boys. Quentin plays really well, almost as well as his daddy. Troy never really took to it! Everett could play that music so sweet that he had women coming out of their clothes just hoping for a minute of his attention. But your daddy was gold! Pure gold! That man ain’t never once did me wrong in all the years we was together. I loved me some him!” she said with a sad sigh.
Miss Alice still had her arms wrapped tight around Harper. She guided her to a side table near the stage. A band was setting up to perform; three gray-haired, old men polishing and tuning their instruments. Miss Alice pointed. “That there is Willie Burtman. He plays the bass. The old coot behind the piano there is Jack Taylor. We all call him Black Jack ’cause when he’s not playing that piano, he’s playing cards. And, that cutie-patootie in the jeans and sandals there with the horn is Mr. Pratt Brooks.
“Yo, fellas!” Miss Alice called out. “Come say hello to Everett’s daughter. This here’s Everett’s baby girl.”
Miss Alice continued to talk as each of the men came over to shake Harper’s hand. “Your daddy and these old boys played together since forever. That’s how I met Everett. He was playing with this lot down at this little blues club over in Germanto
wn.”
“Dat right, dat right,” Pratt Brooks chimed in. “Best sax player in dese here parts!”
Harper couldn’t stop herself from smiling as she enjoyed the banter between them all. Across the room Quentin and Troy stood side by side watching her.
“She seems like a nice girl,” Troy said as he cut an eye toward his brother.
Quentin shrugged. “I guess.”
“Did you two get a chance to talk some?”
“Some. I guess. Not really,” Quentin said in one breath.
Troy nodded. “Hopefully once things settle down we’ll have an opportunity to get to know her better.”
“Do you really want to get to know her?” Quentin questioned.
Troy chuckled softly. “Obviously she was important to Pop or she wouldn’t be here. So, yes, I want to get to know her. You do, too.”
Quentin shrugged, not bothering to respond.
Troy tossed him a look then stole another glance at Harper. “She’s very pretty.”
“She’s okay.”
“I saw how you were looking at her. Any other time and you’d be trying to hit that.”
Quentin’s gaze narrowed as he tossed his brother a look. “She is not my type.”
“Didn’t know you had a type,” Troy teased.
Their conversation was interrupted by a wave of mourners coming through the front door to pay their respects. Both men stopped to greet the many friends offering their condolences. In no time at all the room was full but the energy was anything but sad. The band played softly in the background. The food was abundant: fried chicken, burgers, Memphis-style barbecue, and the best pastries Harper had ever tasted.
Harper was overwhelmed by the wealth of love that was being shown to her and the Elliott brothers. Her father’s friends, customers, business associates, and neighbors had all come to show their support. And with her wicked sweet tooth every one of the delicious desserts she was given to taste felt like comfort food. She took the last bite of the chocolate pie on her plate. Troy had insisted the bakery was renowned for its cream pies and as the delicate filling melted against her tongue she didn’t have any doubts that he was right.
The Sweetest Thing Page 2