Chapter Three
Yasmen
Everything looks great, Yas,” Hendrix says, surveying Sky Square.
Food trucks boasting restaurant logos and menus ring the area. Main Street has been blocked off and café tables and chairs dot the cobblestone road. Fairy lights wind through the trees, twinkling even though the sun hasn’t set and there’s still daylight. Vendors scurry, making last-minute preparations before the great citizens of Skyland descend in the next hour seeking good food and a good time.
“Thank you,” I say, scanning the scene one last time. “I’m glad we got out here early to make sure everything’s ready to go, though.”
“Between the tostadas,” Soledad says, licking sauce from the corner of her mouth, “the hot dogs, and the pulled pork, I think I’ve had a little of everything and Food Truck Friday hasn’t even officially started.”
“I know these businesses appreciate all the revenue and the traffic tonight will generate,” Hendrix says, tossing what’s left of a taco into a nearby trash can. “How’s it feel to be Head Boss Babe again? Running thangs?”
I laugh and wave off her question, though I must admit that after barely leaving the house, being barely able to function for so long, it feels good to be doing something that benefits our community. When we first transitioned Grits from a mom-and-pop shop on the south side to our current location in the heart of Skyland, Josiah and I decided to get in good with the locals and endear ourselves to other business owners. I strategically assumed an active role with the Skyland Association, an organization designed to increase community engagement, foster economic development, and strengthen ties between the private and the public sectors. I went from being the chairwoman, spearheading community activities on the regular, to being…well, not very involved at all, but Food Truck Friday signals to the board that I’m back and ready to go.
“I think we’ve checked all the vendors except Grits,” I say, nodding toward our truck branded with the Grits logo. A few employees work the truck counter, attired in T-shirts and close-fitting caps, hair carefully hidden. There’s no scrambling. No last-minute scurrying. Vashti has achieved the same order and calm for tonight’s event that she elicits in the restaurant. I choose to be grateful. Her involvement means I’m more freed up to invest much-needed quality time with my kids without worrying Josiah has to handle everything at work on his own.
He has Vashti now.
“My people!” I say, dividing a greeting smile between the two employees behind the food truck counter. “How goes it?”
“It’s all good,” Cassie, Vashti’s sous-chef, answers, but continues checking supplies. “We’re ready for the stampede.”
A gray-whiskered man emerges from behind the truck wiping his hands on a sauce-stained apron. “Now I know you better come get this hug, Yasmen.”
I chuckle and step into Milwaukee Johnson’s long arms. My dad died long ago, and this cook Byrd hired has improbably become the closet thing I’ve had to a father since. He smells like a dozen home-cooked meals, like all my comfort foods have been sewn into the lining of his clothes. My breath whooshes then releases into his shoulder, and I tuck my head under his chin, slinking my arms around his waist. He feels frailer, smaller than when we last hugged, like time is stealing not only years, but inches and pounds from his imposing frame. I pull back to peer up into his sharp features, leathered by time, but somehow still younger than his years.
“How ya been, Milky?”
His broad, bony shoulders lift and drop carelessly, but his eyes fill with sadness. “I still miss Byrd. They lie when they say it gets better. I think maybe I’m just getting stronger, so I feel it a little less.”
By the time Byrd met Milky, she’d divorced three husbands and had just buried the fourth. She swore she’d never walk down another aisle, but Milky loved Byrd, and with what she had left, she loved him back. The food wasn’t the only thing hot in that kitchen. They flirted and fondled, chased and caught each other, not even trying to hide that they’d found something special in their twilight years. Josiah and I used to laugh and say we hoped we had that much fire when we got to be their age.
“I know, Milky,” I whisper, squeezing him a little tighter. “I miss her too.”
He nods and pats my back before stepping away. “That Vashti is a godsend, though. She got that kitchen humming. Byrd woulda loved her food.”
“Yup.” My smile dries on my face like plaster. “She’s great.”
Wise, rheumy eyes study me and a gold tooth gleams at the corner bend of his smile. I force myself to hold his omniscient stare and resist the urge to squirm.
“How yareallydoing?” he asks, gentling some of the usual gruffness in his scratchy voice.
“I’m getting there.” I squeeze his hands, knuckles oversized from years of cracking them, smattered with fading grease burns. “Promise.”
“Things won’t the same without you. Glad you’re back where you’re s’posed to be.” Milky grins and straightens his cap. “This event is something else. All the restaurants be empty tonight because the streets gon’ be full. You did the damn thang, Yas.”
“Thanks, Milk.” I tap the aluminum counter jutting out from the truck. “You guys got it looking good over here too. Thanks for representing.”
“You know if Vashti’s running the ship,” Cassie says from behind the counter, “it’ll be tight.”
“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment,” a low melodic voice drawls from behind us.
I turn to find Vashti standing there with a pair of silver tongs and a bottle of hot sauce.
“Oooh, hot sauce.” Hendrix licks her lips. “If your fried chicken is as good as I remember, you can just run an IV from that bottle right here.”
She slaps her forearm, and we all laugh. I smile in all the right places, but there is a definite tension between Vashti and me. Given the surreptitious glances she keeps sending my way, I suspect she feels it too.