by Rhonda Bowen
He reached over and took her hand.
“I love you, too.”
And as the beauty of his words filled her ears and her heart, she rested in the knowledge that now, for the first time, they both understood exactly what that meant.
Epilogue
Sydney entered the upscale restaurant and tried not to think too hard about why her sisters had decided to have lunch an hour away from Toronto in Orangeville.
“I’m here with the Isaacs party?” Sydney said to the hostess.
The woman smiled and led her through the restaurant to the back. When she pulled away the curtain to the private reserved section, she found Lissandra, JJ, Zelia, and her Aunt Essie waiting.
“I think you’re the last of your party to arrive,” the hostess said, leaving Sydney to enter. “Your waitress for the afternoon just started her shift. She should be here momentarily.”
“Well, it’s about time you got here,” Lissandra said, taking a swig of something that looked suspiciously like red wine.
“Nice to see you, too, Sandi,” Sydney said, taking the second-to-last seat at the table, after greeting her other sisters. “Next time you guys decide to have lunch out of town, maybe you could give me advance warning.”
“Blame it on Essie,” Zelia said. “This was all her idea.”
Sydney’s eyes narrowed as she considered her aunt. “What’s going on, Essie?”
Her aunt smiled. “Just a little family reunion.”
Just then the curtain swooped open and their waitress appeared.
“Welcome to One99! I’ll be your waitress for the after—”
The rest of the words got lost as the menus slipped from the young woman’s hands, falling to the floor. Her mouth fell open as she stared at the last five women in the world she wanted to see.
“Well, well,” Lissandra said. “I guess now the whole family is here.”
“Sure looks that way,” said Zelia. With an outstretched leg, she slid the last remaining chair out from the table for Sheree, who stood frozen at the entrance to the private area.
Sydney sat forward—not sure she could believe what she was seeing
“Please, Sheree, have a seat,” Essie said, her eyes fixed on the redheaded woman’s. “I think we have a lot to talk about.”
Sheree glanced around at all of them before sighing and sitting down, a resigned look on her face. As she sat, her waistless dress shifted to reveal her protruding stomach.
Lissandra swore and Sydney’s mind spun back to three months earlier, before they knew Sheree was a liar.
“Yes, sisters,” Sheree said with a wry smile as she rubbed her pregnant belly. “We certainly do.”
A READING GROUP GUIDE
GET YOU GOOD
Rhonda Bowen
About This Guide
The questions that follow
are included to enhance your group’s
reading of this book.
Discussion Questions
1. How far would you go to right a wrong with someone who hurt you or your family? Where do you draw the line between justice and vengeance?
2. At what point do you think Sydney went too far to find out about Sheree?
3. How do you think Hayden should have dealt with his sister’s deception when he first found out about it? Should he have told Sydney what he knew?
4. Sydney’s relationship with God was weak because of the negative experiences she had in church as a child and the negative experiences related to her parents’ divorce. How much do our interactions with other Christians affect our perception of God?
5. Throughout the novel, Lissandra displays a range of questionable behavior. As her older sister, do you think Sydney responds to Lissandra as she should? What do you think of the relationship between the two?
6. JJ mentions that Sheree might not have stolen from their family if Sydney and her sisters had treated Sheree with love instead of suspicion. Do you think this is true?
7. Despite growing up in the same home, under the same influences, Sydney and her siblings have very different relationships with God. Why do you think this is? Is this common among siblings?
8. Sydney bonds with Maritza because they both love and are involved with high-profile men. Do you think dating someone with a lot of money is more complicated? How so?
9. Do you think Hayden should have forgiven Sydney? If you were in his position, would you have forgiven her?
10. At the end of the novel, the sisters find Sheree once again. What do you think they should do with her?
Don’t miss Shelly Ellis’s exciting debut novel about the gold-digging Gibbons family,
Can’t Stand the Heat
On sale in May 2013 from Dafina Books!
Chapter 1
(Unwritten) Rule No. 1 of the Gibbons Family Handbook: A woman must embody grace, sex, and glamour at all times. She is the image of perfection in the eyes of all men around her.
Not feeling very graceful, sexy, or glamorous at this early hour of the morning, Lauren was in no mood to follow the family rules today. Respectfully, the old family handbook could just go to hell right now.
Damn, it’s hot, she thought after she slammed her car door shut with her hip and made a mad dash across the nearly empty parking lot. Rivulets of sweat streamed between her breasts and down her back in the scorching Virginia sun, causing her T-shirt to cling to her like a second skin, making her silently curse her car’s busted AC. Her curvy bottom shimmied as she ran in her khaki shorts.
As sous chef of Le Bayou Bleu, Lauren tried to be one of the first to arrive at the kitchen for prep work for the lunch and dinner service, but she was running a little late today.
“Hey, Lauren!” Malik called out with a smile.
The willowy line cook leaned against the soot-covered brick wall near the doorway. His white short-sleeved shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a white tank top and a pack of cigarettes tucked in the waistband of his jeans. He tapped his lit cigarette, spilling ashes onto the concrete.
“What’s up, beautiful? You just gettin’ in?” he asked.
“Don’t remind me!” she shouted back with a laugh.
“¡Oye, mi amiga!” shouted Miguel, a plump fry chef who sat kitty-corner to Malik. He was hunched on a wooden crate with his squat legs spread wide. A cigarette hung limply from the side of his mouth.
“Hey, Miguel!” Lauren yelled back.
She didn’t break stride as she spoke, making her way toward the heavy steel door leading to the restaurant’s kitchen. She tugged the door open and stepped inside, letting it slam shut behind her. She was instantly met with the sound of clashing steel, stacking glasses, the steady churn of mixers, oven doors opening and closing, and shouting voices. To her ears, it was more melodious than a Beethoven symphony.
Lauren bypassed the kitchen and went straight to the women’s locker room. She usually shared it with the waitresses and the only other female chef at the restaurant, Paula Wakeman, who was a wizard when it came to pastries. But the room was vacant today. It was dimly lit and smelled of old grease and dirty socks.
She opened her locker door and quickly retrieved a pair of jeans, her apron, and a petite-sized chef’s coat. She took off her strappy sandals and traded them for a pair of sports socks and scuffed tennis shoes from the bottom of her locker. She put on her jeans and pulled back her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail, securing it with a scrunchie she had worn on her wrist. After tying a red bandana on her head and buttoning her coat, she was ready to go. She climbed over the locker room’s wooden benches with apron in hand and headed to the door. As she neared the exit, she glanced at herself in the room’s only full-length mirror and paused, momentarily transfixed. She stared at her reflection.
Eight months ago, she wouldn’t have been caught dead in her current ensemble. Instead, she would be wearing a tight-fitting, low-cut dress, towering high heels, and jewelry that cost more than what she could now afford with her current monthly paycheck. She wouldn’t be slaving
away in the kitchen of Le Bayou Bleu either, but would be one of the restaurant patrons, dining at one of the best tables in the house on her rich boyfriend, James’s, tab.
What a difference eight months can make, Lauren thought. Back then, she had been the happily “kept” woman she had always been taught to be—going to spas and shopping during the day, pleasing her man at night. That life seemed so long ago and so far away. She had been so scared back then, so worn down by James’s constant browbeating that it had taken her too long to realize that . . .
Lauren quickly shook her head, cutting off those dark thoughts.
“You can take your trip down memory lane another day,” she mumbled to her reflection. She hated to wallow in the past, in self-pity. It was time to move forward. “Time to get to work.”
“Mornin’, guys!” she said as she rushed into the kitchen seconds later, tying her apron around her waist.
“Morning! Mornin’. ¡Buenos días!” a few voices answered in return.
Lauren looked around the room. “Where’s Phillip?” she asked no one in particular. “Anybody seen him around?”
Phillip Rochon was the executive chef of Le Bayou Bleu. The dark-skinned, jolly, loud-mouthed man was from a small town not far from New Orleans, where he learned to cook gumbo, jambalaya, and crawfish étouffé at his grandmother’s elbow more than forty years ago. He had opened restaurants in New York City, Chicago, and Washington DC, specializing in a high-end interpretation of down-home Creole cuisine. He had decided last year to open Le Bayou Bleu in Chesterton, Virginia—Lauren’s hometown.
“Has anybody seen Phillip?” Lauren repeated, louder this time, stepping farther into the kitchen.
“I think he’s in the front of the house,” one of the cooks murmured as he laid a series of thinly sliced potatoes onto a cookie sheet covered with wax paper.
“Out front?”
That was an odd thing for Phillip to do. Usually he was elbow to elbow with the other chefs, preparing vegetables, dressings, and pasta dough that would be used later that day. He was a James Beard award winner, and had led restaurants with Michelin stars, but Phillip was far from a diva. He believed true head chefs still worked the line and shared celebratory drinks with their staff after a hard day of work.
To leave these guys alone to do prep work, something has to be up, Lauren thought. She walked through the kitchen to the swinging door that led to the front of the house.
Lauren rarely got to see this half of Le Bayou Bleu. Every time she entered it, she would marvel at how beautiful the space was. The tone of the restaurant matched the food that was served there: sophisticated but earthy, cool but classic. The two were a perfect match.
The walls were set with a rich mahogany wood paneling, and over the onyx bar was a huge chandelier dripping with crystal. Along each side wall were booths with cream-colored fabric embellished with a navy blue damask pattern. The back wall of the restaurant was lined with state-of-the-art refrigerators filled with wine bottles that had vintages dating as far back as the early 1900s. At any given time, jazz or soul music would play over the hidden speakers, giving a mellow vibe to the space despite the grandeur of the surroundings.
Unfortunately, Lauren wasn’t enjoying those grand surroundings this morning. She was too concerned about Phillip. She found him sitting alone at one of the dining room tables with a glass of red wine and a half-eaten beignet on a dinner napkin in front of him. Chairs were still stacked on the table around him.
“It’s a little early for wine, isn’t it?” Lauren asked with a wry smile as she walked toward him. “Is it starting off to be that kind of day?”
He didn’t respond.
“Phillip,” she said as she drew closer. “Phillip!” She patted him gently on his plump shoulder, making him jump in surprise. He quickly looked over his shoulder at her.
“Aww, chérie, what you doin’ sneaking up on me like that? You damn near gave me a heart attack, gal!”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” She took one of the chairs off the table, setting it beside his. She sat down. “I called you a few times. Guess you didn’t hear me.” She scanned his face. “Hey, are you OK?”
His brow was soaked with perspiration. His eyes look sunken and haunted. He seemed to be breathing hard through his parched lips.
“I’m . . . I’m fine,” he said with some effort. He swallowed loudly and wiped his forehead with a linen napkin. “I’m just . . . I’m just feeling a little peaked this mornin’.”
“You look more than a ‘little peaked.’ You look like you need to go to a doctor.”
“Naw, chérie, it ain’t nothin’ like that. Just . . . just give me a few minutes to get myself . . . together.”
She stared at him, sensing that he was vastly underplaying how bad he felt. He didn’t look like he could stand up for very long, let alone spend several hours in a steaming hot kitchen.
“Why don’t you go home, Phillip? We can handle the prep work. Come back for lunch service in a few hours.”
“Cain’t do that.” He shook his head, sending his slicked-back ponytail flying. “You know how those boys are. If I ain’t there to crack the whip behind them, who knows what kinda mess is gonna come out of that kitchen. Everything on those plates has my name on it.”
Lauren held back a smile. She and Phillip knew that the line cooks were capable of handling prep work on their own. They didn’t need anyone to supervise them, but it made Phillip feel better to believe that his presence brought order to the kitchen.
“I know, but let me crack the whip, OK? You’re no help to anyone if you’re sick. Just go home, get some rest, and come back later. We can handle it.”
He gazed at her warily, looking as if he wanted to mount another argument but couldn’t work up the energy to do so. “OK, chérie.” He slowly rose from his chair. “I’ll head home.” He pointed a finger down at her. “But you make those boys mind. Everything on those plates—”
“—has your name on it. I know.” She nodded and smiled. “I’ve got it covered, chef. We won’t let you down.”
She watched as he walked toward the center aisle. He gave one last uneasy glance over his shoulder at her before heading to the restaurant’s front door.
“Phillip! Phillip!” Nathan, the Le Bayou Bleu floor manager, shouted as he sashayed into the kitchen.
Despite his shrill cries, everyone ignored him. They were firmly in their dinner rush mode, and besides, no one was particularly fond of Nathan. He looked down on most of the restaurant staff, particularly the line cooks and dishwashers. Now that he had stepped into their domain, none of them were about to give the condescending bastard the time of day.
Nathan peered through levels of stainless-steel shelves lining the front of the kitchen. He stared at the faces that darted from counter to stove top and back again.
“Phillip! Phiiiiillip!”
He suddenly narrowed his eyes at Lauren. She was cleaning the edges of a plate of risotto with the corner of a dinner napkin.
“Hey!” He snapped his fingers in her direction. “Hey!”
“My name is not ‘hey,’ Nathan,” she replied, placing the finished plate on the top shelf. “It’s Lauren. Miss Gibbons, if you’re nasty.” She then gave an impish smile. “Black-eyed pea risotto with bacon ready to go!”
A food runner shoved Nathan aside, walked to the counter, and grabbed three plates, including the risotto dish.
“Watch it!” Nathan snapped.
The runner ignored him. Nathan let out a beleaguered sigh, like a king who had been forced to leave his castle and socialize with the peasants.
“Lauren, where in the hell is Phillip?”
If Lauren hadn’t enjoyed tormenting Nathan so much, she would have told him Phillip wasn’t there. He hadn’t returned since the morning. At the start of lunch service, she had gotten a call from him saying that it looked like he was going to have to bow out for the day.
“Not gonna make it, chérie,” he had drawled tire
dly into the phone. “Gonna have to hand my baby over to you. Treat her well.”
Lauren had immediately told him she could handle it, but the instant she hung up the phone, she stood in the kitchen, paralyzed with fear. She had never taken over a service by herself before. What if she screwed up? What if the service fell apart?
After all, when Phillip had hired her, he’d admitted that of all the candidates for the job, she was the least qualified on paper. All she had was a degree from culinary school; no professional experience behind the burner. There were several other cooks who wanted to work as one of his line cooks who had better résumés than her, but Lauren wouldn’t take no for an answer.
She didn’t use her feminine wiles to win Phillip over. (That was an old crutch that she had given up for good when she left James.) Instead, she did her research—reading old Food & Wine and Bon Appétit articles about Phillip—and showed up at his home one day unannounced with a platter of his favorites. She put the dishes in front of him, hoping he would focus more on her plating technique than her cleavage. He was surprised by her presumptuousness, but also impressed. After sampling each dish, he said he’d try her as one of his line cooks on a trial basis.
“We’ll give it a few weeks, chérie,” he had said as he shoveled another forkful of creamy shrimp and grits into his mouth, smacking his lips. “We’ll see how you get along.”
She had “gotten along” well, quickly falling into rhythm with the diverse, rowdy group of cooks. Despite her greenness, the others respected her and admired her natural talent.