The Sweetest Thing

by Deborah Fletcher Mello

  Tossing back the bedcovers Harper threw her legs off the side of the bed. Rising, she opened the blinds to peer outside. Everything outside the window was bright white, blanketed in a heavy coating of snow. Snow and ice hung heavy from the tree branches in the one tree in the rear yard and the green grass that had been there the day before was now nowhere to be found. Harper laughed, already knowing that Quentin was going to have a field day bragging about having told her so.

  Dropping back to the bedside she reached for the iPad beneath the pillow and signed into her e-mail. After checking her messages and responding to a number of inquiries, she couldn’t help but take a peek at the file of photos she’d been coveting like gold, and smile.

  By the time Harper was showered and dressed it was almost noon. She couldn’t begin to imagine why Quentin had let her sleep so long. When she opened the room door she could hear the low, woeful hum of a saxophone coming from the floor below. The slow, soft, bluesy tone made her feel sad and content in the same breath and she instinctively knew that the music captured every emotion the man playing had probably ever felt.

  Standing in that hallway Harper suddenly had the overwhelming sense that there was something more that she was meant to find in good ol’ Memphis. The revelation was suddenly haunting and then as easily as the music had swept through the home, it stopped. The house grew quiet save for the sound of the floorboards creaking beneath her feet.

  Moving down the short length of hallway and then the few short stairs, she found Quentin in the family room, undoing the instrument’s single-reed mouthpiece. The instrument had been polished to a high shine and seemed almost new from the care it had been given. Quentin looked up as she came into the room and a gentle smile filled his handsome face.

  “You play beautifully,” she said, her soft tone causing a shiver of energy to course along his spine.

  An expression of gratitude flickered in his eyes but he only shrugged as he dropped the instrument back into its case and closed the top. He tossed her another smile and Harper felt a quick flutter in the pit of her stomach.

  “I used to love to watch Pop play when I was little. I wanted to be just like him so I begged him to teach me. When he finally did he made me practice twenty-four seven. It was all I could ever do. He said that if I really wanted it I had to work hard for it, no exception. I realize now that he thought if he was hard enough on me I’d either give it up or I would be the best sax player that I could ever be.”

  “I bet he was very proud that you didn’t give up,” she said, moving to his side. She ran a manicured hand over the black leather container. Lifting her eyes to his, something neither one of them could articulate passed between them. The wealth of emotion was intoxicating and consuming. Without thinking Quentin took a step closer to her.

  Harper took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of him. The aroma, a light, sweet musk, was teasing and sensuous. His breath seemed to be coming in a heavy pulse and she stood watching his chest rise and fall, thinking of the warm brown flesh that lay beneath the black T-shirt he was wearing. She felt her own breath quickening. Both could feel a rise of tension billowing between them.

  “You owe me something,” Quentin suddenly said, shifting the energy. He put some distance between them as he dropped down into one of the cushioned chairs.

  “Owe you what?”

  “It snowed, girl! I know you looked out the window,” he exclaimed. His enthusiasm was infectious.

  Harper laughed. “So it snowed! What about it?”

  “I’m sure we made a bet on it and you lost.”

  “Well you’re wrong. We did not bet on it.”

  Quentin snapped his fingers, pretending to be disappointed. “Shucks! I know I should have bet you something,” he said with a deep chortle.

  She shook her head. “So, is the bakery officially closed?”

  He nodded. “We are. I opened for a few hours and one or two regulars came by for coffee but that was about it. The roads are really bad. It’s not worth being open the whole day.”

  She nodded. “I really can’t believe it snowed!”

  “The roads will be clear by Monday. It really isn’t that bad.”

  “It’s still snow,” Harper said. “In Memphis!”

  Quentin laughed. “So, how about something to eat. Are you hungry?”

  Harper giggled a second time. “You must think that all I ever do is eat!”

  “I like a woman with a healthy appetite.”

  “I think I surpassed ‘healthy’ two meals ago!”

  He gestured for Harper to follow him into the kitchen. “I figure we can have something light to eat and then go play. We can have something else when we get back.”

  Her eyes widened. “Play? Play what? Where?”

  Quentin’s face broke into a full tooth-filled grin. “In the snow of course, where else?” he chimed excitedly.

  With the very first throw both Quentin and Harper kicked into competitive mode. Quentin had been certain that he was going to be on the winning end of their playful rivalry but he wasn’t at all prepared for the onslaught of snowballs she was hammering him with. With her small stature she was quick on her feet, fast as lightning, and her aim was near perfect.

  He cursed as he swiped a boatload of snow from his eyes and mouth. Harper was laughing heartily, tears rolling from her eyes. She was beet red from the cold but joy shimmered in her warm gaze knowing that she’d bested him.

  “Okay! Okay! You win!” Quentin chimed as he tossed his hands up in the air in surrender.

  Harper jumped up and down excitedly, clapping her gloved hands together. “Oh, yeah!” she cheered. She was doing a little victory dance in the center of Beale Street, a moonwalk-cabbage-patch choreography that made him laugh out loud.

  He shook his head. “Where did you learn to throw like that?”

  “I pitched for the Lady Lions softball team. We were state champs three years running.” She broke out into a cheer. “Go, Harper! Do your thing, girl! Go, Harper!”

  Quentin shook his head and turned his back on her, moving toward the bakery’s entrance. One last snowball popped him good on the back of his head. The shock of it stunned him as he turned back in her direction. Harper pointed a finger at him as she laughed heartily. The challenge was on as Quentin suddenly gave chase. Harper darted between two parked cars to avoid his catching her. Both were laughing hysterically and when she spun right expecting him to go left, he caught up with her, grabbing her by the waist and sweeping her into the air.

  He dropped her onto a mound of snow and fell down against her, pinning her to the ground with his body. Harper struggled but he held her tight, his body pressed nicely against hers. Both were breathing heavily. Quentin stared down at her, completely mesmerized. He smiled as she gasped for air, fighting to catch her breath. Small gusts of air blowing past her lips felt hot against his cheeks. His face was just inches from hers and as he held her hostage by her wrists he couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to kiss the cold from her lips, to taste her mouth as it warmed beneath his own.

  He suddenly pushed himself from her. His gaze was still locked with hers as he wondered if she might have been thinking the same about him. And as if she’d read his mind she smiled that sweet smile, the sensuous lift to her lips almost teasing.

  Harper extended her hands for some assistance and he reached out to help her to her feet. He watched as she brushed the snow from her new jacket and swiped at the moisture that had damped her backside.

  “We good?” he questioned, one eyebrow raised high.

  “I still beat you,” she chimed, her singsong tone moving him to shake his head at her.

  Inside the building Harper took a seat at the back table, peering outside as she peeled out of her winter clothes and rested them on an empty chair. Quentin moved behind the counter and put a pot of coffee on to brew. He glanced over to where the beautiful woman sat staring out to the snow-covered street, something about her moving his spirit. It had been
a long time since he’d had so much fun and he said so.

  She turned to look at him, jubilance gleaming from her eyes. “I had a really good time, too!” she responded.

  And she had. Harper couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so invigorated. Quentin was more fun than she’d imagined and when they’d both finally let their guard down, she discovered that not only was she attracted to him but she liked him. She liked everything about him.

  Minutes later he joined her, two cups of hot coffee and a plate of fried peach fritters in hand. “They’re still hot,” he said, gesturing to the sugar-coated pastries.

  Harper shook her head from side to side. She trailed a finger across the edge of the china plate, capturing the white powder with the tip of her finger. She drew it to her mouth and smiled as the burst of sweetness teased her tongue. The seductive gesture caught Quentin off guard and heat flushed his face. He took a deep breath, eyes wide as he struggled to keep the discomfort from showing in his expression. Focused on the sugary dessert Harper’s attention was distracted and Quentin was thankful for it.

  “This has got to stop,” she said. “You can’t keep feeding me like this. I love anything sweet but sweet things don’t love my hips,” she said, tapping at the curve of flesh below her thin waist.

  His broad shoulders jutted skyward in a deep shrug. “A little treat every now and then won’t hurt you.”

  “Except you do this every day, not just every now and then.”

  He smiled as he settled down in his seat and took a sip of the hot brew in his mug. “So, tell me,” Quentin asked, deliberately turning the subject away from her body. “What made you want to become an event planner?”

  Harper smiled as she rested her own mug back against the table, lifting her eyes to his.

  “As a little girl I always loved to plan a good party. Then a few years ago one of my sorority sisters was getting married but she and her fiancé had a very limited budget to work with. She asked for my help and needless to say I gave her a five-star event and Harper’s Southern Soirée was born.”

  “And you said you have a partner?”

  “My best friend, Jasmine. We grew up together. And we employ a small team to help us pull our spectacular events together.”

  Quentin nodded. “Do you have one bakery in New Orleans that you work with?”

  “I do and two others that I use as a backup.”

  “How does Just Desserts compare?”

  “To be honest with you I’m thinking that I may have to rethink who we’re partnering with. Taste-wise, my sources are good, but you are much, much better!”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  Quentin continued to ask her questions, genuinely interested in Harper’s opinions. The woman was smart and skilled and her insight into the party-event business afforded him some helpful information on what he might do differently for his own customers.

  They were knee-deep in conversation when something outside the window caught Harper’s eye. She leaned forward in her seat then suddenly jumped to her feet as she grabbed her coat. Quentin turned to stare where she stared and as she bolted for the door, heading back out into the cold, he followed.

  An elderly woman was leaning against the hood of an old Dodge Caravan. Two tote bags rested at her side. Her coat was well worn but her bright red knit toboggan and gloves appeared brand new. With the forest-green knit scarf wrapped around her head and mouth she seemed to be bundled warmly. But her breathing was slightly labored and when she pulled the scarf from her face her warm breath formed a small cloud in the cold afternoon air.

  “Ma’am, are you okay?” Harper asked as she rushed to the woman’s side.

  “Lord, have mercy!” the old woman exclaimed.

  Quentin eased next to Harper’s side and grabbed the woman’s arm. “Mrs. Todd, what are you doing out here?” he questioned.

  “Who’s that?” she asked, fighting to focus her gaze on Quentin’s face.

  “It’s Quentin Elliott, Mrs. Todd.”

  “Quentin? How you doing, baby?”

  He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he met Harper’s concerned stare.

  “I’m fine. How are you? What are you doing out in this weather?”

  “Mr. Myers had some vegetables he got at the market for me. I walked down to get ’em so I could make me a pot of soup.”

  Harper smiled at her thick dialect, her words muddled in the midst of a thick Southern accent.

  “It’s too cold for you to be walking out here by yourself,” Quentin admonished.

  “Oh, foots!” Mrs. Todd exclaimed. “I ain’t that old, boy!”

  Quentin shook his head as he raised his voice an octave. “I said cold, Mrs. Todd. It’s too cold! Why don’t you come inside for a minute and get warm. Then I’ll take you home.”

  “Bakery ain’t open today, is it?”

  “No, ma’am, but you come on inside anyway,” he said as he guided her back across the street.

  Harper gathered the woman’s bags and followed them back inside. As Mrs. Todd sat down, Quentin hurried to get her something warm to drink.

  “Who’s this pretty little thing?” Mrs. Todd asked, her gaze finally resting on Harper. “Who you?”

  “Harper Donovan, ma’am.”

  Quentin pressed a warm cup of coffee into the woman’s aged hands. “Mrs. Todd, this is Pop’s daughter. Harper came in for Pop’s funeral.”

  “This is Everett’s child?”

  “Yes, ma’am, she is.”

  Mrs. Todd gestured for Harper to come closer and Harper slid into the seat at her side. She pressed her wrinkled hands against Harper’s face, her cataract eyes studying her intently. “Lord, Lord, Lord!” she chimed. “You look just like your daddy. Just as pretty, and your daddy was one pretty, pretty man!”

  Harper smiled politely. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Todd dropped the hold she had on Harper’s cheeks and reached for her cup. She took a big swallow and then dropped the container back down to the table. She pointed at Quentin then tapped at the edge of the mug.

  “Needs something special,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Quentin shook his head. “You sure, Mrs. Todd?”

  The woman nodded, tapping at her cup a second time.

  Harper looked from one to the other, not having a clue what they were talking about. Still shaking his head Quentin moved behind the counter into the kitchen. A few seconds later he returned with a glass bottle in hand, a decanter of dark bourbon moving Mrs. Todd to cackle with glee. Harper met Quentin’s gaze, her own giggles steeling past her lips.

  Unscrewing the cap Quentin tipped the bottle into Mrs. Todd’s cup as she leaned forward in her seat to gauge what he was doing. As he drew the bottle back she gave him a wide-eyed glare.

  “Needs something more special!” she said, emphasizing the word more.

  Quentin poured a second shot into the cup, stopping when Mrs. Todd’s deep cackle returned. The old woman palmed the heavy mug and took a second deep sip. A look of satisfaction crossed her face and Harper couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

  Quentin replaced the cap on the bottle and sat himself down in the seat across from the two women. “Mrs. Todd, you know I don’t have a liquor license,” he said.

  “You ain’t selling none,” she replied. “Besides, don’t nobody know what I have in my cup if you don’t tell. Ain’t like the store open no way.” She swatted a dismissive hand in his direction.

  Quentin turned his gaze to Harper. “Mrs. Todd and Pops were old friends and they used to sing together for years.”

  “That’s right. Folks would line up to hear me and your daddy perform. We had us some good times! Him and my husband, Martin, was old friends. Martin died in 2008. Old age took him. After that, me and your daddy would have our special coffee together at least once every week.” She took another sip of her drink, savoring the flavor against her tongue.

  Mrs. Todd suddenly turned to stare at Harper, her eyes widening. “You Ev
erett’s baby, ain’t you?” she exclaimed excitedly. She suddenly grabbed Harper’s hand and pulled it to her chest, pressing it over her heart. The gesture was hard and fast as she squeezed Harper’s fingers tightly. She tapped both of their hands with her free palm, tears welling up in her dark eyes and then she started to hum, a low mournful moan that echoed around the room.

  Harper’s eyes widened in surprise and she looked from Mrs. Todd to Quentin, whose own expression was a collage of curiosity and concern. He met Harper’s nervous gaze and shrugged.

  Mrs. Todd began to rock her frail body back and forth, Harper’s hand still clutched tightly to her chest. She closed her eyes, tossed her head back against her neck, and began to sing. Her aged voice was crystal, a deep alto timbre that had been fostered by years of struggle and a distinct love for the shimmering sultry style that was pure Memphis blues.

  Lost my baby down by the Mississippi

  I dream of her, does she dream of me?

  Would give my life to see her free

  Her daddy’s baby she’ll always be.

  Want to hold her hand and wipe her tears

  Walk her to school and calm her fears

  Supposed to be, her very first love

  I wish that prayer to the Man above.

  Through and through, the best of me

  I love her. Will she ever love me?

  Can’t turn back time, or change what be

  She’s her daddy’s baby, the best of me.

  Lost my baby down by the Mississippi

  I dream of her, does she dream of me?

  Would give my life to see her free

  Her daddy’s baby she’ll always be!

  Mrs. Todd sang and tears filled Harper’s eyes. When the old woman was done with her song she opened her eyes, pressing her wrinkled fingers against Harper’s cheek.

  “Your daddy wrote that song. Yes, he did. Wrote it and sang it down here on Beale Street for years. Everett surely did love you. He used to say on the regular that you was going to come home to him one day.” She tapped Harper’s cheek, her gray head bobbing earnestly against her thin neck.