Secret Vows (Hideaway (Kimani))

by Alers, Rochelle

  Jason glanced out the oval window when the jet began to taxi down the runway, picking up speed in preparation for liftoff and soon they were airborne. “Are you going to invite anyone other than your parents and brother?”

  “Bobby, of course, and my father’s brother and his family.”

  “You’re going to have to let me know how many are coming so we can have a final head count to make accommodations for our out-of-town guests.”

  “How am I going to plan a wedding in Florida when I’m in Oregon?” Greer asked Jason.

  “You’ll have a personal wedding planner who will take care of the menu, flowers and seating arrangement. There are always two live bands and two DJs, so there won’t be a lull in the music.”

  “Who selects the playlists?” Greer asked.

  “We’ll deal with the DJs, while the AARP crowd will give the band leaders their favorites.”

  Clapping a hand over her mouth, Greer smothered a laugh. “You can’t say all seniors and baby boomers don’t like rap and hip-hop.”

  “I’m sure some of them do. Just like I grew up listening to my father’s music.”

  “And I grew up listening to my parents’ R&B. Speaking of music, have you selected a song for our first dance?”

  Jason rested his forefinger over his top lip. “I’m kind of partial to ‘Bump N’ Grind.’”

  Greer narrowed one eye. “I’m serious, Jason. We can’t dance to that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s inappropriate.”

  Jason rolled his eyes upward and blew out his breath. “What about ‘Your Body’s Callin’ Me’ instead?”

  “Jason!” Greer admonished through clenched teeth. “What’s up with you and R. Kelly?”

  “You have to give it to him. The man’s a genius when it comes to singing baby-making songs.”

  Greer rested her hands on his knees. “Either you pick the song or I will. And nothing with baby-making lyrics.”

  He covered her hands with his. “Do you want to make a baby?”

  “Yes, but whenever we decide to make a baby, it will definitely not be on a dance floor.” She paused. “Speaking of babies, I’ve decided to go on the pill.”

  Jason’s eyes froze on her lips. “How long do you want to wait before starting a family?”

  “A year.”

  “A year?” he repeated.

  “I want us to enjoy being newlyweds for that long. After we have children, we’re not going to be able to make love wherever we want or chase each other around the house naked as the day we came into the world.”

  Jason flashed his dimples. “Nice,” he drawled. “Back to songs for our first dance. I’m partial to Tyrese’s ‘Best of Me.’”

  She scrunched up her nose. “I don’t know if I’ve heard of that one.”

  “I have it on my iPhone playlist. Do you have a song in mind?”

  Greer reversed their hands, pressing a kiss to his palms. “I have two. One is Keith Sweat’s ‘Make It Last Forever,’ and the other is Sade’s ‘Nothing Can Come Between Us.’”

  “I like them both. That’s it. We’ll have a first, second and third first dance.”

  “We can’t do that,” Greer said in protest. “What if, every year, we pick a song we can dance to on our anniversary?”

  “Baby, we can do anything you want.” He’d enunciated each word.

  All talk of planning a wedding stopped when the attendants came down the aisle to pick up their menu selections.

  * * *

  Greer parked Johnny B. Goode II in the garage at Stella’s, got out and pulled the rope attached to the rollup garage door. Not only did the restaurant need surveillance cameras but also an automatic garage door and a new coat of red paint. She likened the restaurant to an aging beauty in need of a face-lift.

  She’d wanted to sleep in late yet knew that wasn’t possible. When they’d taken off from the regional airport in the Shenandoah Valley, they had encountered blue skies and fair weather until touching down in Denver. High wind warnings with gusts reaching forty miles an hour had grounded all flights. They’d sat on the ground for three hours before they were cleared to continue on to Sacramento. It was after two in the morning when she and Jason shared a shower, crawled into bed and slept instead of consummating their union. Greer had tried to convince him not to get up, but he had insisted on making breakfast for her.

  She unlocked the side entrance, deactivated the alarm and made her way into the dining room, heading for the kitchen. Bobby sat on a stool at the preparation table, peeling potatoes. “Good morning, handsome.”

  Bobby put down the paring knife and wiped his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder. “Welcome home.”

  Smiling, Greer set her tote on the floor. “It’s good to be home.”

  He gave her a bear hug. “Missed you, honey bunny.”

  “I was only gone three days.”

  Bobby held her at arm’s length. “That’s three days too long. Did you have a good time?”

  “Yes. It was quite an adventure. The bride was beautiful, the groom handsome and the food incredible.” Greer suggested they offer a few Latin and Caribbean-infused dishes when the new chef came onboard. She told him about the horse farm and the magnificent Arabians, thoroughbreds and Lipizzans, the fallout from Nicholas’s bachelor party wherein the men had foolishly sampled a specially blended bourbon that made them see double.

  “That’s because they’re a bunch of wussies. Did Jason drink it?”

  “No. They had the party Friday night and we didn’t arrive until Saturday morning. I have something to tell you, but you must promise me it will go no farther than this kitchen.”

  A muscle quivered at Bobby’s jaw. “Please don’t tell me you and Jason broke up.”

  “Quite the opposite.” A beat passed. “We got married.”

  The beginnings of a smile tipped the corners of Bobby’s mouth before he threw back his head and laughed, while holding his belly. “Yes! Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Let me check in and put my bag away, then I’ll help you peel potatoes.”

  “By the way,” Bobby said, stopping her retreat, “the new cook is coming in today. You can talk to him as to what you want to add to our selections. I also hired a waitress over the weekend. She’s young but has had a lot of experience waitressing while awaiting her big break in Hollywood. Unfortunately it never came. Her name is Stephanie Williamson, but she calls herself Stefi. I must say she did real good Saturday night. I’ll need you to put her payroll information into the computer.”

  “What’s the cook’s name?”

  “Omar Warren.”

  Greer filed away the two names as she unlocked the door leading to the second story, the soles of her running shoes silent on the worn rug covering the staircase. She made a mental note to replace the rug. There had been a time when nothing at the restaurant needed to be replaced or repaired because her aunt Stella fussed over the building as if it were her child.

  It’d taken her some time but she had warmed to the idea of managing Stella’s. It took her back to a period when everything about her life was blissful and carefree. Bobby’s promise to give her his most prized possession meant he trusted her to continue his late-wife’s dream to establish a restaurant offering home-cooked dishes made from scratch.

  She unlocked the door to Bobby’s apartment and was met with a blast of cool air. Bobby slept with the windows open year-round. Everything was neat, in its place, a reminder of his days in the military.

  Greer opened the safe and removed the laptop. A sound coming from outside caught her attention as she booted up the computer. Walking over to the window, she stared through the screened-in window. The carting company had come to empty the Dumpsters. Her mouth dropped open when she saw Danny hand the g
arbage man something wrapped in a black plastic bag. She felt as if the breath had been siphoned from her lungs when she saw what had been in the bag. It was a MAC-10 machine pistol. The man her uncle had hired, had taken into his home, was using Stella’s for an illegal gun sale operation.

  Greer took her Smartphone from the tote and videotaped the garbage man inspecting the rapid-fire handgun. All along she’d suspected Chase when it had been Danny. She uploaded the video to her computer and then deleted it from her phone. She couldn’t risk losing her phone with the damaging evidence.

  “The Looney Tunes—playacting SOB,” she said through her teeth. The Iraqi war veteran had faked PTSD, while playing on Bobby’s sympathies. Going back to her laptop, Greer logged on to the ATF field office’s secure site, typing in an instant message.

  Identified Unsub: Daniel Poe, ex-USMC. See attached video. Please advise. Agent Evans.

  Now all she had to do was wait for further instructions. Greer knew she couldn’t tell Bobby what she’d witnessed because she didn’t want him involved in a situation that was certain to put him in the line of fire. She would never forgive herself if anything happened to him.

  She returned the laptop and tote to the safe, spinning the dial. Greer had just walked out of Bobby’s apartment, closing and locking the door behind her when she heard footsteps. Turning slowly, she smiled at Danny as he came up the stairs.

  “Good morning.”

  He nodded. “Good morning.”

  Her smile didn’t falter when she said, “How are you?”

  “Good.” The single word was a monotone.

  “I’ll see you later,” Greer said over her shoulder as she passed him on the staircase. Nothing in her expression revealed her revulsion for a man who sold stolen guns to criminals, guns used to kill innocent adults and children. Stolen guns used by those with real mental illnesses and unable to pass the background check. He’d dishonored the uniform he wore in the service of his country and made light of an emotional condition where returning soldiers experienced feelings of helplessness and anxiety. They felt sad, frightened and disconnected. Many were stuck with a constant sense of danger coupled with haunting, painful memories. Greer knew Danny couldn’t be the mastermind behind the operation, merely a link in a network spanning illegal gun sales in several states.

  Greer returned to the kitchen, washed her hands and slipped a bibbed apron over her blouse and jeans. She sat next to Bobby, telling him about the weeklong reunion the Coles had celebrated for years, and he was expected to join them because he was now considered a part of their extended family.

  Bobby gave her skeptical look. “How do you think the regulars will react when we close Stella’s for a week?”

  “They’ll have to deal with it, Uncle Bobby. Maybe the reason you’re so tired is because you don’t close for vacation. You close for Thanksgiving, Christmas and the Fourth of July. What happened to your putting the Gone Fishing sign on the door?”

  Bobby’s hands stilled. “Everything changed when I lost Stella.”

  “My aunt’s gone and I know she would want you to be not only happy, but she would’ve wanted you to take care of yourself. And keeping this restaurant open 362 days a year is ludicrous. You claim you want me to manage Stella’s, and I’m going to do that starting today. You’ve instituted some wonderful changes by going completely buffet-style and eliminating Sunday dinner. Now we have to decide what other days we’re going to close.”

  Bobby went back to peeling potatoes. “That decision will have to be yours, Miss Manager.”

  Greer hid a smile. She hadn’t expected Bobby to acquiesce so quickly. “We’re going to close between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Day. When I checked your books, I realized revenue is down during that week because most of the college students go home on break. Mother’s Day is another below-average revenue day. Most folks would rather go to a fancy restaurant with sit-down service.” She chewed her lower lip as she tried to come up with another day to close. “Beginning today I’m going to set up a graph by days of the year and chart what we take in on any given day. Next year at this time, we’ll see our peak and low periods.”

  Bobby dropped a potato in a large aluminum bowl. “What if you’re a mother next year this time? What are you going to do? Strap your baby to your back—”

  “No,” Greer interrupted. “Jason has agreed to help me.”

  “He’s a musician, Greer.”

  “He’s more than a musician, Uncle Bobby. He has an MBA,” she said when Bobby gave her skeptical look.

  “It’s obvious he’s a man with many talents,” Bobby said under his breath. The sound of the entrance bell echoed in the kitchen. He glanced up at the wall clock. “I’ll get the door.”

  Greer was on her feet when Bobby returned with Andrew and another man. Andrew made the introductions as she welcomed Omar Warren to Stella’s, wondering how many people remarked about his uncanny resemblance to Green Day’s lead singer, Billie Joe Armstrong.

  “Andrew, after lunch Bobby and I would like to meet with you and Omar to discuss possible changes in the dinner choices.”

  Andrew lifted his sandy eyebrows. “Can you give us an idea of what you want?”

  “I’d like a dedicated night for Italian, Asian-fusion, Mexican, Caribbean, Southern and Cajun cuisine.”

  Omar and Andrew smiled. “I love the idea,” Andrew remarked. “O and I will create a mock-up menu for your approval.”

  Bobby winked at Greer as the two cooks shed their jackets and shirts for a white smock. It was apparent they were receptive to modifying the obvious dishes that had become favorites. With theme night she was certain it would appeal to loyal regulars and attract new customers.

  * * *

  Greer stood at the entrance to the studio, watching Jason as he played George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue.” His head kept time with the bluesy rhythm. Listening to the tonality, she realized Diego was wrong, very wrong to compare Jason to his brother. For Greer it wasn’t about the number of awards he’d win or lose, but recognizing the genius in others. And Jason had done exactly that when he had composed the songs for Justin Glover, whose albums had gone double platinum within seven months of its release. She applauded when Jason finished the composition.

  “Bravo!”

  Jason spun around on the piano bench. “How long have you been standing there?”

  She smiled. “Long enough.”

  Jason stood, closed the distance between them and cradled her face. “You’re going to have to make some noise the next time.”

  Her arms went around his waist. “I didn’t want to spoil the mood.”

  Bending slightly, he swept her up in his arms. “You’d never spoil anything. How was your day?”

  “It was very good.”

  Greer held on to his neck, sniffing his throat. “You smell like soap.”

  “I just took a shower. What made your day very good?”

  Resting her head on his shoulder, Greer told him about diversifying the menu. She also raved about their new hires. “It’s nice when you don’t have to train someone.”

  “Who trained you to wait tables?”

  “My aunt. How was your day?”

  Jason let out a sigh. “Boring.” He said boring whenever he found himself swallowed up by a creative force field he hadn’t experienced since writing the songs for Justin Glover’s album. During that time, he had averaged about three hours of sleep. Justin, blessed with an unparalleled voice, was able to glide fluidly from one genre to another. He had the ability to scat, rap, sing ballads, upbeat tempo dance and club rhythms, as well as mellow, heart-wrenching breakup songs. Although most critics gave his inaugural album high marks, a few indicated Justin should select a particular genre. Was he hip-hop, pop, R&B or country? Justin’s response was he’s all those and more, while inviting popular vocal
ists to collaborate with him for his next album.

  “If you worked at Stella’s, you’d never be bored.”

  He dropped a kiss on her hair. “That’s because it’s a fun place to work. You get to eat free, watch television, listen to the jukebox, ride the mechanical bull or shoot pool.”

  Greer giggled. “It’s a lot more than that, sport. We bus tables, constantly fill and run and empty the dishwasher, sweep the floor, monitor the bathrooms, put out garbage—”

  “I get it, babe. You’ve made your point.”

  She kissed his stubble. “Since we have a waitress to replace me, I have time to bring Stella’s into the twenty-first century.”

  “How?”

  “I’m going to computerize the inventory.”

  Jason placed his foot on the first stair leading to the second story. “Do you suspect someone is stealing?”

  “No. I just think it’s easier to keep track of how many bottles of ketchup we have on hand before reordering. I counted sixty-five cans of crushed tomatoes. At any given time we should have only half that amount on hand.”

  “So my baby is an efficiency expert.”

  Greer blushed. “No. I just want to streamline the bottom line.”

  Jason carried her up the staircase. “Are you certain you don’t have a degree in business?”

  “Very certain.”

  He paused halfway. “You feel as if you’re putting on some weight. Are you certain you’re not pregnant?”

  “Very sure. I got my period today.”

  “Bummer. I guess we’ll have to wait a few more days before we’re able to consummate our marriage.”

  Greer tightened her hold on her husband’s neck. “Good things come to those who wait.”