Knowing

by Rosalyn McMillan

  “No.” Ginger scanned the church, her heart suddenly beating wildly. “Are you sure you saw Daddy, sweetheart? The church was pretty crowded today.”

  “It was Daddy, Mommy. He gave me the sign.”

  “What sign?” Ginger asked, confused.

  Ginger took Autumn by the hand and they ventured out into the crowded aisle toward the back door. “It’s our secret code, our secret.”

  “You keep secrets from Mommy?”

  “Sometimes.”

  When Ginger exited the church, the fresh air kissed her cheeks. The clear sky was an effervescent crystal blue. Walking toward the van, she and Autumn passed budding rosettes of plants circling the ground. Small beads of rain still clung to the tender blossoms.

  She hesitated a moment, musing over the clear pink, sweet alyssum. The luscious perennial landscape reminded Ginger that her oriental garden would be almost blooming back at home.

  Standing beside the minivan, Ginger and Autumn stood looking and waiting, waving good-bye as friends boarded their cars and drove away. A gentle breeze caressed the folds of her dress. Golden rays of sunlight suddenly painted the air.

  Autumn’s white-gloved finger pressed into her cheek. “Where is he, Mommy?” she asked adamantly.

  “Let’s go, Autumn. If he were here, he would have found us by now.” Ginger tried her best to hide her disappointment as she suggested to Autumn that maybe they’d call Daddy when they got home.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Ginger said, taking her eyes off the road for a second. “What did you say?”

  Driving home from the church, Ginger could hear the sounds of motorcycles. She could tell now, without Jackson’s coaching, the purr of a Harley from the hum of a Kawasaki or the roar of a Honda. She thought of him, sleek on his Harley. How she missed his wisdom, his knowledge, his maturity, his quiet knowing.

  The memory of her last ride with Jackson was as clear as the sky above. She remembered the freedom of holding her head back, feeling the wind blow over her face. Beholding the magnificence of an orange ball merging with the darkening gray sky.

  “There’s a package in the backseat,” announced Autumn, pointing back to a box wrapped in brown paper. “Can I get it?”

  “Wait till we get home, baby. We’re almost there.”

  Once they were inside their apartment, Ginger couldn’t wait to open the box addressed to her. She could tell the handwriting was Jackson’s, and her breath threatened to stop as she tore away at the paper. Autumn had been right. He was at church today.

  When Ginger opened the top of the box, she found an envelope taped on top of the tissue paper along with a deed to a commercial building. The note read: Ginger, An invitation to “Miss Lilly” for a private viewing of an old Western. The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing. Talk show during intermission. Forgive me for not believing in you — in the strength of our love. I love and respect you. Please allow me the privilege of showing you how much. Again, I love you. “Bronco Billy.”

  Tears flowed down her cheeks as she opened the tissue paper. Inside were her worn, pink leather cowboy boots. There was another smaller note saying: I know your feet must be tired because you been running through my mind for months.

  Ginger’s conflicting feelings tore at her chest. It was more than a loving gesture. But Jackson still didn’t understand that in giving her the deed to a property, he’d neglected to allow her the privilege of accomplishing something independently. She knew that she needed to prove to herself that she was capable of creating her own future. Why was it so hard for him to understand that?

  Autumn peeked at the scarred pink boots inside the box, checking to see if there was something inside for her, oblivious to her mother’s dilemma.

  The phone rang, interrupting Ginger’s thoughts. She hesitated, knowing it was Jackson. And knowing that nothing had really changed between them.

  The ringing persisted. Autumn looked up from the box to see her mommy crying, knowing something was wrong. The sorrow she saw in her mother’s face was a mixture of tenderness and truth. Autumn kept silent, and waited.

  Scared that if the phone stopped ringing, it wouldn’t ring anymore, Ginger picked it up, her smile bordered by a tear. Walking toward the beams of warm light that shone through the wall of glass, she placed her hand over the receiver, holding her breath, and heard a man speak her name. Fear tugged at her heart strings. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled slowly, hesitating once again. “Hello Jackson. . . .”

  A single white butterfly floated past her view. Ginger pressed her hand against the window, watching its flight.

  Please see the next page

  for a sneak peek

  from

  One Better

  by

  Rosalyn McMillan

  Published by

  Warner Books

  Spice

  Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older, they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.

  — Wilde

  Dozens of cars are lining up for the valet service at the corner of University Drive and Pine Street in downtown Rochester, Michigan. By 8:30 A.M. scores of BMW’s, Mercedes, Lexuses and Acuras are being parked by the finest red-jacketed valets money can hire. By 8:50 A.M the lot is packed. Anyone new in town would think there was a party going on. Locals, however, know that 9:00 A.M. is when the five-star, multimillion-dollar gourmet restaurant, Southern Spice, opens for breakfast. Renowned for its superb southern cooking, it is considered one of the finest eating establishments in the States.

  The four-story, 27,000-square-foot Victorian mansion which houses the restaurant had once contained sixty-three rooms and twenty-six bathrooms. Its gable roof is covered with decorative tiles in different shapes and colors. The same pattern of tiles is repeated above doorways and over the tops of the many bay windows. The steeply pitched roof, topped with pointed spires and turrets, adds to the Victorian opulence. Inscribed in beige into the brick, “Southern Spice” dominates the grand entranceway.

  Once inside, the scintillating aromas from the kitchen have caused many a belly to rumble. Orange and pineapple juice are freshly squeezed every morning. Country-cured ham from Virginia, bacon with the rind on and egg-white shrimp omelets with a tropical citrus butter sauce are some of the house favorites.

  There is always something different on a menu that changes four times a year, in concert with the seasons. Southern Spice is elegant enough to serve Russian Seruga caviar, and down home enough to have fresh catfish for breakfast.

  It is also a place where the Pistons’ Grant Hill and Joe Dumars and legendary superstars like Aretha Franklin and Anita Baker can eat without being interrupted by people asking for their autographs.

  “Rosa Parks, The Winans, Mayor Quincy Cole . . . hmmm,” Spice said to her oldest friend, Carmen, as she perused the morning paper and sipped her coffee. “There’s quite a few more black folks on the list this year.”

  Taking a break from preparing a celebratory brunch for her elder daughter, the restaurant’s owner, Spice, was reading the list of the Detroit News’ Michiganians of the Year. The list had begun in 1978, and for the third year in a row, Spice Witherspoon’s name was on it. As one of the nation’s leading restaurateurs, she had received numerous culinary, civic and philanthropic awards over the past ten years. She was especially proud of the fact that her efforts in the community were appreciated.

  The two women were two floors above the restaurant in Spice’s personal kitchen. Spice stood in the room’s center, her smooth black hair pulled back into a pony tail that hung past the nape of her neck. Her tall, lithe body, kept supple by daily exercise, looked ten years younger than her forty-one years, especially shown off in a tight-fitting denim jumpsuit. But her best feature was her eyes. Her deep-set velvet-brown eyes appeared sleepy, but behind this facade of sweet drowsiness she was always utterly present. Spice was robust, in the full bloom of her life.

  The left side of the huge room was a well-equipped commercial kitchen with a double g
lass-door Traulsen refrigerator, a $14,000 French La Cornue range and twin smoked-glass ovens. In the far corner sat a wide butcher’s block curio cabinet that held an assortment of All-Clad pots and pans. Arranged along the cream-colored Corian counters above the stained-glass–fronted cabinetry were various sizes of cutlery and the latest Cuisinart and mixers. A long island, with back to back twin black porcelain sinks and a wine rack underneath, was at the center of the room. On the right hand wall was an arched barbecue pit and brick fireplace where at the moment a low fire was scenting the air with hickory. Right next to it, floor-to-ceiling built-in shelves were filled with cookbooks.

  By living upstairs in the converted mansion, Spice was able to stay close to work. The kitchen was her favorite room in the two-story duplex, carved and refurbished from fourteen of the mansion’s original rooms. As Spice read the paper the aroma of smoking meat brought her mind back over a decade earlier to when her daughters were still in elementary school. Her favorite time of day was when she’d prepare them breakfast and then walk them to the bus stop on the corner.

  Her elder daughter, Mink, was the straight-A student, the one with her daily homework assignments always ready for her mother to check and sign. Her younger daughter, Sterling, was another matter altogether. While her grades mirrored Mink’s, her priority, even at age six, was always her appearance.

  Only David, Spice’s now deceased husband, thought Sterling’s obsession with how she looked was cute. Everyone else saw it as saying a lot about Sterling’s future character. And they were right.

  At the thought of David Spice was thrown back to their wedding on June 9, 1972, at the courthouse in Midnight, Mississippi. David, at twenty-six, was eight years Spice’s senior. Spice remembered how badly his hands were shaking as they stood before the judge.

  “Having second thoughts?” she remembered asking him.

  There were tears in his eyes when he answered her. “Of course not. I love you.”

  David had known that when she agreed to marry him, she hadn’t been in love with him. With two small children, she had needed a husband, security and a home; David offered all three. And together they had worked to open Southern Spice.

  Five years later, the clientele of the restaurant had doubled. They were serving two hundred and fifty customers at each seating. By then, her feelings had changed. Both Spice and David had been working eighteen-hour days for the three years that the restaurant had been opened. Spice was the head chef then, and David had to manage everything else. One evening, Spice looked at David cleaning the kitchen after the restaurant had closed. With a warm flush of feeling she realized then and there that he was the only man she would ever love.

  “Baby, you’re exhausted. I’ll finish.” He kissed her lightly on the neck. “You go on upstairs.”

  “No. You’re exhausted, too.”

  Loosening her apron, he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tightly. “I’m okay. Now go on. I’ll be up in about an hour.”

  Hesitantly, Spice walked away. Just before opening the door, she remembered, she stopped and turned back around. As softly as a shadow she said, “I love you, David.”

  “I know,” he answered, meeting her gaze and smiling.

  For twenty years, their marriage was perfect. Spice’s love had grown for David every year. With the girls entering college, Spice and David began fantasizing about future grandchildren, and how they would fit into their potentially glorious business plans.

  But it was not to be. On his way home from a weekend trip to Midnight, David had fallen asleep on the freeway and run into the back of a semi. His white Lincoln crunched up like an accordion, he was killed instantly. To protect her, David’s brother, Otis, begged Spice to let him identify the body.

  Now, widowed for five years, Spice still believed she would never again experience such an honest love as the one she’d shared with David.

  “Who else made the list, Spice?” Carmen asked, her voice calling Spice back to the present. Dipping a wooden spoon inside a mixing bowl, the pixielike Carmen finished sprinkling English toffee over the top of the caramel pie cooling at the stove and placed it inside the refrigerator.

  Spice called off five more names, listed alphabetically, and stopped at the last entry: Reverend Golden Westbrook. “I’m not familiar with that name. I wonder —”

  “Mr. Westbrook is the pastor at Divinity Chapel in Detroit,” Carmen answered. “He’s the Detroit Chapter’s President of NAABR. He’ll be running again this fall.”

  “Really? I wonder if he’s looking for a wife?” Spice was impressed. The National Alliance for the Advancement of the Black Race was a major advocacy organization. Its leaders held power positions high up in all kinds of business and government committees. “Now that’s the kind of man Sterling should be dating.”

  “Sterling?”

  “She may be needing a husband sometime soon.” There was a bitter note in Spice’s voice when she continued. “She’ll be twenty-six in February, and she’s still costing me a fortune every month.” Spice flexed the paper forward. “Sit down and take a break, will you? You’re making me feel guilty sitting here like this.”

  Carmen took a pull from her flask, which Spice knew was filled with vodka. Any time of day or night, no matter what the circumstances, something would cause Carmen to “need” a drink. For the twenty-seven years Spice had loved her friend, Carmen had always leaned on alcohol. And while Spice understood why Carmen felt the need to throw her life away, she was powerless to help her.

  Spice waited until Carmen was seated. “I’ll pay her bills for one more year, until she gets her degree — if she gets a degree, which I doubt. Degree or not, one year, then she’s on her own.”

  Carmen uttered a short laugh. “I can just see Sterling with a preacher.” Carmen removed the flask from her apron and took yet another quick sip.

  “I think it’s time for Sterling to change, don’t you?” Spice put the paper away and headed back to the task at hand.

  “What about you, Spice?” Carmen smiled. “When are you getting married again?”

  “I’m not ready.” Carmen’s smile faded. “April marks the fifth anniversary of David’s death. And to be perfectly honest with you, I enjoy my freedom and making all the business decisions around here. I married David because I needed a man to take care of me and my kids. My kids are grown now. I’ve since learned how to take care of myself. I don’t need a husband anymore.”

  Carmen didn’t believe Spice was so independent. She knew Spice missed David terribly, but she also knew her friend could not afford to reveal her vulnerability.

  When the timer went off, Spice removed the roast from the oven. Immediately the kitchen filled with the fresh scents of apricots, pecans and thyme. She added a subtle splash of bourbon to the robust sauce simmering on the range. Everything was ready for the succulent Apricot-Pecan Stuffed Pork Loin.

  Soft steam formed on the windows, clouding the outside view as the women worked. With the subject of husbands dropped, they moved on to a safer topic — food.

  “Don’t you think this is a lot for just four people?” Carmen asked while stirring three pounds of fresh jumbo shrimp and lobster into the bubbling red pot of gumbo on the stove’s front burner.

  “Of course not! It’s time for a celebration.” Spice paused. “How often does a mother see her black child promoted to captain with a major airline, and a female child at that.”

  Spice expertly sliced the piping-hot pork roll then began arranging the circles of meat around a platter of roasted new potatoes, leeks and baby carrots. “However,” Spice added, “whatever food is left over, we can wrap up and deliver to the Mother Maybelle’s Soup Kitchen downtown in the morning.” As she poured a hefty amount of the hot glaze into a separate dish, Spice dipped a finger in and gingerly sampled the tangy bourbon sauce. “Mmmm,” Spice said, “perfect.”

  Carmen gave the gumbo one final stir, then replaced the cover on the pot and lowered the flame. “Everything else shou
ld be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

  Spice moved to the refrigerator and looked inside at its contents once again. On the top shelf, a Spinach Salad with Apple-Onion Vinaigrette glistened in a glass bowl. She checked Carmen’s work of art on the lower shelf: five lotus-shaped stemware goblets filled with Peach Melba. She breathed in the sweet scent of raspberries, kirsch, and mint through the plastic wrap.

  “I haven’t even worked my usual shift yet, and I’m exhausted,” Carmen said, sitting down and putting her feet in the opposite chair, and once again removing her small flask from her apron pocket.

  Spice and Carmen had been cooking since six that morning. It was now 11:10 A.M. The brunch was set to begin in just under two hours. Everything would be perfect except for the fact that Carmen refused to come. Spice thought she’d try one more time to convince her. “Carmen, I’m having a problem with you not joining us. You know how important you are to this family. It won’t be the same without you.”

  “Not today, Spice.” Carmen rose to bring a dish into the living room. Stepping back, she automatically smoothed the swirled gold moiré skirt draping the buffet table that she and Spice had accented with gold silk bows. Fabergé silverware was laid out next to the red china. Ivory linen napkins were rolled through glittering cylinders of jewel-studded rings. “However,” Carmen said teasingly, “if you’d like to offer me a bottle of your private cognac, I could be persuaded into accepting one of those.”

  “Of course,” Spice said, hesitantly moving toward the bar.

  The south wall of the living room was dominated by an elegant black lacquer Yamaha. Beside it sat three of her most prized possessions: two papier-mâché gilt, mother of pearl and cane side chairs with a similarly painted papier-mâché mother-of-pearl cave à liqueurs. Though she rarely drank, Spice kept the bar well stocked. There were several bottles of Dom Perignon and Cristal, along with the usual stock beverages. But what Spice was particularly proud of was the case of Louis XIII cognac, valued at $1,355 a bottle, which David had given her for their twentieth anniversary.