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Her face was curled in contempt as she watched them leave, then turned to where I’d already picked up my mission statement again.
“You think that was a good idea?” she asked. “Riling him up like that? It’s begging for trouble.”
“Fuck him,” I countered, shaking my head. “He’s an old man, trying to cling to anything he can. I’m not worried about him.”
“Maybe you should be though. You’re marrying his daughter.”
I sighed. “You might have a point, but… I don’t get the feeling he’s on her good side right now anyway.”
“Wouldn’t be if I was her.”
“Exactly. Now, no more interruptions. I need to get this done.”
Shiloh’s mouth opened, probably to tell meshewasn’t the one who facilitated the interruption anyway, but… she didn’t say it.
“Yes, your majesty,” she chose instead, rolling her eyes. “Anything else before I go?”
I laughed. “Yes,please,” I added, which softened her expression. “Find out where Nalani is planning to spend Christmas.”
SIX
NALANI
“Nowwhotoldyou to come in here looking this cute this morning?!”
An expansive grin spread over my lips at the sound of my Aunt Lucinda’s voice. Every year, Blackwood Community Center hosted a Christmas morning “breakfast.” Tons of hot, delicious food, yes, but also dinner boxes and plates people could take home, blankets, toiletries, and wrapped presents for the kids, categorized by interest. It was all free of charge for the community, powered by donations from Black businesses near and far.
Every year,justlike my mother had, I made sureNectargave a financial contribution,Imade a financial contribution, and I showed up to serve in whatever capacity the organizers needed.
It was something my mother and I used to do together.
Even as a kid, I loved spending Christmas mornings like this. Sure, presents were waiting for Soren and I at home, but they’d always be there. This kept us firmly grounded in reality we wouldn’t have otherwise seen from our private schools and tutors and exclusive neighborhoods.
My fatherhatedit.
But we showed up anyway.
“Hey, Auntie,” I greeted, gladly submitting to the tight hug and air kiss she sent my way. She’d never risk messing up her flawless lipstick for a real one. “You doing alright this morning?”
“Blessed as always, baby. You wanna come help me with these hand pies?”
“Lead the way,” I insisted, then followed to the crowded kitchen, where other volunteers were already hard at work. She led me to her workstation, already set with a neat assembly line for the little mini pies we’d be rolling out, filling, deep frying, and then packing into parchment paper pouches.
“Am I cutting, filling, frying…?” I asked, moving to the prep sink to wash my hands and grab a clean apron.
“I’ll cut, you fill. We’re making the afternoon batch for the next shift,” she explained, already back in position.
By the time my clothes were protected, and my hands were clean and dry, she already had a stack of perfectly floured circles of the Joyce family signature pie crust ready for me to fill.
Nectarwasn’t the only business that had been passed down.Sweet Ambrosiawas an expansive, full-service bakery that had been operating since… basically forever. My mom and her sister loved to tell the story of flipping a coin to see who was going to take which business.
They both—lovingly—claimed the other sister had won.
“You haven’t been coming by for your pecan croissant in the mornings, what’s going on?” Aunt Lucy asked as we worked side by side, with her adding new circles of dough faster than I could spoon a perfect serving of sweet potato filling inside, fold it all over, and crimp the edges.
I shrugged. “I’ve just been grabbing it at the shop inside the store,” I explained, unsurprised that my answer got a little derisive grunt in response.
“That ain’t the same thing and you know it.”
