“I’m good right now,” Gregory says politely. “I really don’t need a drink, and I guess if I’m going to talk business with anyone, it should be with Halia, a fellow restaurateur.”
Gregory’s comment makes me smile. It’s funny to see Raynell hanging off Gregory on one side, and Wavonne trying to put the moves on him on the other. They are both working him hard, but, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear the one he has eyes for is me.
CHAPTER 17
“I’d be happy to talk shop with you anytime,” I say to Gregory.
“Gregory, are you sure you don’t want to hear about some of the new locations I’ve found for you?” Raynell asks. “And Halia, aren’t you supposed to be opening the buffet?”
“She’s got staff here to do that,” Wavonne says.
“Aren’t you part of that staff? Isn’t there some macaroni and cheese or something that requires your attention?”
“Come on, Wavonne,” I say, trying to diffuse yet another war of words that’s about to erupt between her and Raynell. “We really should check on the food.”
“I’d love to come along and see what you’ve prepared,” Gregory says.
“What about the potential restaurant sites?” Raynell continues to play tug-of-war with us.
“He can go over those with you later,” Wavonne says. “Right now, he’s comin’ with us . . . and, besides, I think you need to visit the little ho’s room and fix your weave . . . some tracks are showin’.”
“Wavonne!” I shriek.
“I’ll have you know there are no tracks on this head.” Raynell starts running her fingers through her hair, lifting sections up to reveal nothing but scalp. “This is all mine. I doubt you can say the same.”
“Well smack my ass and call me Janeka,” Wavonne says, her disdain for Raynell abruptly transforming into genuine curiosity. She sidles closer to Raynell and leans in to inspect her head. “That is some good hair. What’s your secret?”
“Girl, you have to condition, condition, condition.” Raynell’s own dislike for Wavonne seems to be temporarily sidelined as well. I guess a compliment about one’s hair can soften even the most ferocious of women.
As the ladies continue to suspend their mutual distaste for one another over a discussion of holding sprays and pomades, I notice Kimberly. She’s lingering by the bar, eyeing the two of them. She watches as Raynell tosses her hair to show Wavonne its volume. I can only imagine what Kimberly is thinking while Raynell, the woman who so cruelly robbed her of her hair in high school, stands showing off her flowing mane to Wavonne.
“Shall we check out the food?” Gregory says to me while Raynell and Wavonne are still distracted with hair talk.
“Sure.”
“I had some of the appetizers. Were those your doing as well?” Gregory asks as we walk toward the serving tables.
“Yes.”
“Those deviled eggs were killer. I wouldn’t have thought to pair smoked salmon with deviled eggs, but it definitely works.”
“Thanks! That’s one of the things I like about catering gigs—they give me a chance to try out some new recipes.”
When we reach the buffet I see my team putting out the last of the chafing dishes.
“So we’ve got the salad station over there.” I point to the far end of the line. “Then my famous sour cream cornbread and some dinner rolls.”
“Nice.”
I lift the lid off the serving tray closest to me. “My herb-baked chicken. I wanted to go with fried, but Raynell insisted on baked.”
“It smells really good.”
“Then we have my salmon cakes, mashed potatoes and gravy, macaroni and cheese, and green beans with ham hock.”
“I’m glad I came hungry.”
“Wait until you see the dessert spread—chocolate marshmallow cake and sour cream coconut cake.”
“I guess I should have worn pants with an elastic waist,” Gregory jokes.
“Please. You look like you can more than afford an indulgence or two.” I try not to let my eyes linger on his body as I say this.
“It’s a balance,” he says. “Some indulgences amass calories.” His eyes give me a quick once over. “And I guess certain other indulgences burn them.”
I let out a quick laugh and feel my face get hot. I’m not used to flirting, and I’m certainly not good at it. I’m at a loss for anything to say in response to his suggestive comment when Raynell intrudes on our banter.
“Everything ready to go?”
“Yep.”
Raynell gives a signal to the deejay, and he announces that the buffet is open.
As Gregory, Raynell, and I watch people line up and start moving through the serving stations, Wavonne appears with a fresh cocktail in her hand. “I told you to tell me before you opened the buffet to everyone, so I could get a good place in line.”
“Sorry, I forgot.”
“You know I can’t move fast in these heels. Now I’m gonna be stuck behind this herd of cows . . . there’ll probably only be scraps left by the time I get up there.”
“There’s plenty of food, Wavonne. Let’s all go get in line.”
As we move to take our place behind my old classmates, I notice Raynell’s a little unsteady on her feet. She stumbles on her heels and, at one point, grabs hold of me to keep from falling over.
“Girl’s drunk as a skunk,” Wavonne says.
“I am not. I’m just a little dizzy. I need to eat something.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” I say. “Wavonne, why don’t you help Raynell to a table, and Gregory and I will fix plates for all of us?”
“Why I gotta take that mess to a table?”
“Because I asked you to.”
Wavonne is about to protest further, but then she shifts her eyes from me to Gregory and then back to me again. “Oh. Okay. I got you, Halia.” She leans in and whispers, “I’ll let you have this one. You go on . . . get you some.”
She grabs Raynell by the elbow. “Come on. Let’s sit your drunk ass down.”
I vaguely hear Raynell insist, once again, that’s she’s not intoxicated as Wavonne leads her to a table.
While we wait for our turn at the buffet, Gregory and I get a chance to catch up. I tell him about Sweet Tea, and how it sucks up most of my time. He gives me the lowdown on how he started South Beach Burgers and leveraged it into a regional chain. Conversation between us flows naturally, and I find myself glad we are at the end of the line—it gives us more time to talk.
We eventually make it to the table with four loaded plates and sit down with Wavonne and Raynell. Alvetta is seated at the table as well with a few of Raynell’s other former high school minions. As I unwrap my silverware I notice that Raynell and her comrades have on colored neon necklaces. Alvetta’s is pink and Raynell’s, just like in high school, is green.
“You didn’t have those on earlier, did you? Where did you get them?” I ask Alvetta, pointing to her necklace.
“I brought them,” Janelle Sanders says before Alvetta can respond. “I got them online. A little nostalgia for the evening.”
“How fun,” I say before I catch sight of yet another cocktail in Raynell’s hand. “How’d she get that?” I ask Wavonne.
“She said she pay for my drink if I got one for her, too.”
I groan. “The last thing Raynell needed was another drink, and it wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world for you to slow down with the booze, either,” I suggest. But despite my displeasure with Wavonne contributing to Raynell’s further intoxication, I must say, drunk Raynell is way more pleasant than sober Raynell. The booze seems to have mellowed her out—she even compliments my food. “Halia, this macaroni and cheese is so good!” She takes another bite. “You were right.” The slight slur in her speech that I detected earlier in the evening has progressed, and her words are starting to become garbled. “This baked chicken . . . chicken . . . it’s nice chicken . . . but, like you said, we should have gone with the fried . . . yeah . . .
the fried.”
“You can come by Sweet Tea for fried chicken anytime.”
“I can?” she asks. “Thank you, Halia. You’re so nice.” Boy, is she drunk.
Raynell spends the remainder of the meal saying things that only half make sense while the rest of us at the table chat about high school and flashback to the eighties. As we begin to finish up dinner, the deejay cranks up the volume on the music, and the lights above the dance floor come alive.
“That’s my jam!” Raynell yells when Pebbles’s “Mercedes Boy” starts blaring from the speakers. She hops up from her seat and hurriedly staggers to the dance floor. She’s the only one out there, but that doesn’t stop her from busting a move . . . or, quite frankly, stop her from making a fool of herself. She more fumbles than dances as everyone looks on. She twirls around and lifts her hands over her head, swinging them from left to right. Then she starts doing a clumsy move that resembles the funky chicken. Finally, when she starts lifting her dress and swinging it back and forth like a cancan girl, I see Christy and Alvetta get up from the table and approach her. Raynell is not ready to call it quits and protests their attempts to remove her from the dance floor, but she eventually concedes and lets the two of them help her across the room.
When they come back to the table to get Raynell’s things, Alvetta suggests that Christy retrieve Raynell’s car and bring it around.
“I’m not ready to go home. I’m having fun. I haven’t even danced with Gregory yet,” Raynell slurs while putting her hands on Gregory’s shoulders.
“No more dancing, Raynell,” Alvetta says. “We need to get you home. Come with me.”
Gregory and I stand up to say our good-byes and offer any help that might be necessary to safely get Raynell to her car.
“At least let me say good night,” Raynell insists, and gives Gregory a hug—a hug that’s tighter and lasts longer than it should considering it’s between a married woman and a man who is not her husband. She even takes a moment to move her arms up and down his sides, feeling his back muscles. “I’ll see you later,” she says. “Good night, ladies . . . and Wavonne.” She starts laughing hysterically. “Did you hear that? Ladies . . . and Wavonne.”
“Yes, I heard it,” Alvetta replies disinterestedly. As she starts to lead Raynell out of the ballroom I catch sight of Raynell’s neon green necklace, which, thanks to her antics on the dance floor, is hanging down her back rather than her chest. Raynell and Alvetta are about to clear the exit when it suddenly occurs to me what was amiss about Kimberly’s painting.
“Excuse me,” I say, and get up from the table. I quickly bypass Raynell and Alvetta and stride toward the auction room.
“Kimberly, you little devil, you,” I say under my breath once I’m in the room standing in front of her canvass. I can’t help but laugh as I take in the painting a second time. I get a good look at the green pasture, the barn, the horse, the chickens. . . but it’s when my eyes zero in on the pig that my hunch about what was odd about the painting is confirmed—the pig is wearing a collar. That’s what must have struck me as unusual earlier. I’m no country girl, but I don’t think farm pigs generally wear collars. Oh, and did I mention the collar is neon green?
I’m still laughing as I pick up a pen and place a bid on the painting.
CHAPTER 18
After placing my bid on Kimberly’s painting I return to the main ballroom. By this time, without Raynell scaring everyone off by gyrating like a crazy woman, the dance floor has started to fill.
“Shall we?” Gregory asks when I reach the table and Billy Ocean’s “Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car” begins to play.
“Sure.”
“I’m comin’, too,” Wavonne says, and the three of us hit the dance floor. I haven’t been dancing in years, but boy, is it fun. When you own a restaurant your nights out are few and far between, so an evening of cocktails and dancing is a real treat. The deejay plays a mix of Top 40 and R & B hits from the late eighties. We get down to Janet Jackson, and Bobby Brown, and Madonna, and Morris Day, and Whitney Houston . . . and, yes, even Tony! Toni! Toné! and J. J. Fad. We’re all having a good time until Roxette’s “She’s Got the Look” hits the speakers. While not quite as intoxicated as Raynell, Wavonne, too, has been a frequent visitor to the bar and, let’s be honest, she’s not exactly the most inhibited person sober. The longer we stay on the dance floor the more, shall we say “ill-mannered,” her moves become—she jiggles her breasts back and forth, waves her hands in the air, and shakes her booty like a go-go dancer in a rap video.
“Look at me doin’ the Stanky Leg to white people music,” Wavonne says as she brings her knee in and pushes it out to the music of a white Swedish rock band. I definitely know it’s time to go home when I hear her call to Gregory, “Come on, let’s do the ghetto booty freak.” Wavonne maneuvers herself in front of him, and, I swear it couldn’t have been timed any better in a Saturday Night Live sketch—right when “She’s Got the Look” hits its pause . . . you know, when the music completely cuts out between “And I go la la la la la” and picks up again with “Na na na na na,” Wavonne bends over in front of Gregory—she bends over in front of Gregory, and all of us within earshot are treated to the tearing sound of nineteen dollars worth of multicolored zigzagging fabric.
My mouth drops as I see her dress literally split right along the middle of her behind. Gregory looks on, bemused, as Wavonne straightens herself up.
“Oh, Halia, please tell me what I think just happened didn’t just happen.”
I don’t answer. I just wince in response to her question.
“Those bitches at Gussini are gonna get a piece of my mind tomorrow,” she says before directing her attention to the people next to us on the dance floor. “What are you lookin’ at?!”
I refrain from saying, “It’s not Gussini’s fault you were trying to shove a size-sixteen woman into a size-fourteen dress.” Instead, I turn to Gregory. “I think it’s time to take Wavonne home,” I say to him as I watch Wavonne reach behind and try to pull the fabric back together, but the dress is too tight for her efforts to be productive. “Come on,” I say to her. “I’ll walk behind you.”
“Can I reach you at Sweet Tea? I would love to connect again before I go back to Miami.”
“Sure. Of course.”
Right then, for the first time all night, the deejay plays a ballad—Exposé’s “Seasons Change.” I hate to admit it, but I’m silently cursing Wavonne. It’s bad enough that she imposed herself on us for the upbeat songs, but now she’s wrecked my chance to get a slow dance in with Gregory.
“I’ll call you.”
“Great.” I lean in, give him a quick hug, and begin to try to discreetly remove Wavonne and her torn dress from the premises.
“All those times . . . those many, many times I’ve told you to stop ‘showin’ your ass’ . . .” I say to her as we approach the exit. “And this time I get to really mean it.”
CHAPTER 19
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” I say to Wavonne. We’re at home the morning after the reunion, and I’m sitting at the kitchen table.
“Shhh,” she says, rubbing her temples. She’s still in the oversized T-shirt she slept in.
“I told you to slow down with the liquor last night.”
She directs a hungover stare at me before making her way to the coffee pot.
I’m not sure most people who know her would recognize Wavonne when she first gets up—before she paints on the heavy makeup, plunks a wig on her head, and accessorizes herself to high heaven with flashy costume jewelry. She’s getting close to thirty, but, at the moment, without all of her trademark razzle-dazzle, she still looks like a teenager.
“Why’d you get me up so early?” She sits down across from me with a cup of coffee.
“It’s seven thirty, Wavonne. Not five a.m. I want to go by Christy’s this morning and pick up the check for the reunion catering before we head to Sweet Tea. It’s out of the way, and I’d like to
be at the restaurant by nine thirty to help set up for brunch. We need to get moving shortly. Laura covered for us last night, so she’s taking the morning off today.”
I get up from the table and set my mug in the sink. “You better get in the shower. I want to be on the road by eight thirty.”
Wavonne yawns, slowly gets up from her chair, tops off her coffee, and heads out of the kitchen with her cup.
While she’s getting showered I get up to reach for my phone, lean against the counter, and start swiping through last night’s photos. Looking at the images, I recall that I had originally planned not to go to the reunion, but now I’m certainly glad I did. It turned out to be a fun evening. I liked having a night off from the restaurant, catching up with some old friends, and especially enjoyed reconnecting with Gregory. I feel like he was flirting with me, but I’m so out of practice in that arena I may be completely off base. I’m also not sure if he has something going with Raynell. I know she’s married, but married women cheat all the time. And I don’t think she would get as territorial about Gregory as she seemed to last night if he were just a casual friend or real estate client—and the way she hugged him before she left was pretty intense for platonic friends. But, who knows—Raynell was highly intoxicated, so her behavior may have been a result of the alcohol.
I’m about to brush off the whole evening and let go of any expectations where Gregory is concerned when my phone buzzes with a text from him.
gregory here . . . got your cell number from christy . . .
good to see you last night . . .
still up for getting together to trade restaurant stories?
I have to say I can feel my pulse quicken when I read his words. As Wavonne and Momma love to point out, I don’t date much, and once you’ve crossed the line over to the less desirable side of forty without landing a man, your hopes for a relationship aren’t exactly lofty. In my twenties I was optimistic about getting married and very picky about who I dated. During my thirties the pessimism started to set in, and I began giving guys who weren’t “attractive enough” or “smart enough” . . . or “ambitious enough” a few years earlier a second look, but nothing ever panned out. By the time I hit forty, and after one too many dates with men who still lived with their mommas or thought I was supposed to be their nursemaid, I pretty much gave up on romance and decided a single life focused on family, friends, and a thriving restaurant career wasn’t so bad.
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