Chapter 30
Every morning Cheo's Post-it saluted her. Cynthia stuck it to the refrigerator, and it became a haunting reminder of the night she turned into a banshee, screaming and whipping her head around, protesting Cheo's help.
She fingered the upturned edge of the Post-it and smoothed down the top right-hand corner that threatened to stop sticking to the refrigerator. She missed his lips, the curve of them and the feel of them. That morning when she woke up, she played with the thought of apologizing with a cup of
café con leche
and a knock on the door. Everything would go back to the way it was. On the other hand, she shuddered at the thought of having to admit she was wrong. Cynthia redirected her attention to the task at hand: curry waffles. They were a hit on
Iron Chef,
and she was determined to create her own version to share with Chef Sullivan that afternoon in preparation for the Thanksgiving charity event the restaurant was hosting.
The competition between apprentice chefs from the Culinary Arts Institute class and the sous-chef Chef Sullivan employed at the restaurant was heating up, and every one of them had one goal in mind: sink her battleship. Those who had been under his tutelage for years resented all the perks Cynthia received after just walking in off the street. She was creating menus instead of spending hours carving peppers and learning how to garnish plates. Her rapid ascension to apprentice chef without so much as taking a class threatened to dismantle the hierarchy of kitchens everywhere, and not one of them was willing to see that happen.
She reached up in the cabinets and began plucking spices from the shelf. She dumped coriander and curry powder in a wooden bowl and began pounding on it ferociously in an attempt to silence the thunder that was cracking in her head. Besides neglecting Cheo, she had not called Keith in the six months that she had been working at Sullivan's Eatery to check on him and James. It didn't seem like a phone call would be enough to rescind the damage she'd done by being away. She felt guilty for not being there. She felt guilty for enjoying not being there. Part of her felt like it was too late to salvage her relationship with her sons.
After a year away from them it still felt unnatural for her to be away from them. Cynthia managed to keep the boys from haunting her at night through a combination of sounds from the Amazon, a lavender-scented aromatherapy eye mask, and the occasional Ambien that the doctor Chef Sullivan had recommended prescribed to her so she could fall asleep.
She had yet to find a way to deter the boys from invading her daytime thoughts, and every now and then her maternal instinct kicked in and she found herself in dire need of taking care of someone.
Besides her calling, Cynthia found someone to mother at Chef Sullivan's. Susan, the chef's redhead daughter, had become her temporary solution. When Susan was around, Cynthia directed all of her maternal affection toward her.
Cynthia greeted Susan every afternoon with crepes and fruit skewers or a batch of crème brûlée. Once Susan finished her afternoon snack, she joined Cynthia in the kitchen. Everyone would watch Cynthia mince onions and dice peppers for one of her creations while Susan sat on a stool with her raggedy red Converses perched on the stainless steel countertop. Cynthia would swat them down while Susan cut up slices of sweet buttery Havarti cheese and stuffed them in her mouth between syllables as she expounded on the intricacies of life in middle school.
Thinking about how much her relationship with Susan had blossomed seemed to calm some of the rumbling inside of her. Her day went by so much smoother and faster when she spent it sharing tips on how to minimize pores and which boy to avoid with Susan. As thoughts of her sons surfaced between each twist of the mallet and mortar, Cynthia thought it would be great to go in early and surprise both Chef Sullivan and Susan with her curry waffles.
November in Richmond was often filled with sunny skies and sixty-degree temperatures, but the overcast sky and subtle breeze made it cool enough for Cynthia to don a bold tangerine tailored blazer over a white scoop-neck top, slim dark-rinse boot-cut jeans, and brown flats. She walked carefully to the door of Sullivan's. Balancing the platter of curry waffles in one hand she tried to push the door open with the other.
She flicked her wrist to see the time. It was ten a.m.: too early for the doors to be open but late enough for someone to be working. A gust of wind blew right through her, compelling her to get off the street before the downpour began. She pounded on the glass with her free hand, wishing she had an umbrella as she felt small droplets of water hit her head.
She gave a sigh of relief as the doors of Sullivan Eatery opened. “What took you so long?” she asked, expecting Susan to open the door for her. Instead she looked up into Cheo's dark eyes.
There was a subtle beauty to the brokenness in his eyes that completely captivated her.
“I'm sorry.”
“For what?” she asked, pursing her lips together. “It's not your job to get the door.”
“Is this how you want to play it?”
“Let's not do this now,” she said shaking her head.
“Don't you miss me at all?” he asked with sad eyes.
“Cheo, please, let's not do this now, especially not here.” She softly laid her hand on his chest. The fervency of his heartbeat shook it. Cynthia hoped he'd allow her to end things peacefully before either one of their hearts got broken.
“When can we do it then?” he implored.
“Soon. We will talk soon,” she stated flatly.
For Cynthia soon meant never. She hoped Cheo picked that up from her tone of voice.
“Well, at least let me help you inside with this.” His hand grazed her forearm as he lifted the platter from her arm. The slight touch shook her like a small pebble does when it's thrown into a pond.
On second thought I hope he didn't pick that up.
Chapter 31
Cynthia rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn't seeing things. The hexagon clock that hung on the wall in front of her bed read 7:30.
This is not possible,
she thought.
Who could be ringing my bell at this time in the morning on my only day off?
Cynthia was double booked daily. She'd been stretching herself tissue paper thin by doing some freelance catering on top of working for Chef Sullivan, and she'd finally begun taking classes at the Culinary Arts Institute.
The lack of sleep was frying her brain. She deemed it a worthy cause though. With the money she saved from the catering gigs, she planned on opening her very own restaurant and getting her boys back. Chef Sullivan's pep talk about her capabilities during their monthly meeting back in November had inspired her to seriously pursue getting her own restaurant, and she had not slowed down. It was now February, and in the three months since that meeting she'd sat down with a bank loan officer at Virginia Credit Union. Now that all her dominoes were lined up perfectly, she was prepared to make reparations.
But first she had to answer the door.
Cynthia flung on a robe and snatched her door open, prepared to give the person on the other side a piece of her mind.
“Good morning, senorita.”
Cynthia shrank back and clutched the neckline of her robe. She took a deep breath before saying his name. “Cheo, what are you doing here?” She studied him. The sight of him made her quiver. This morning there was something irresistible about him.
“I want to make peace with you,
nena.
” Cheo reached for her hand. “I miss you. I miss your laughter and your smile. I miss your voice. I miss the bounce of your hair and the sparkle of your eyes.” He delicately stroked the side of her face with his knuckles and kissed her. She collapsed into him like a building hit by a wrecking ball.
“
Lo siento, mi amor, lo siento.
Do you understand that?” Staring deeply into her eyes, he translated, “I'm sorry, my love. I'm sorry,” then drew her in for a long, passionate kiss.
Cynthia placed her hands on her lips after separating from Cheo. Never had she been kissed like that. She appreciated his honesty and willingness to take the fall for the rift she'd caused. Cynthia inhaled, filling her lungs with his John Varvatos cologne before speaking. “Would you like to come in? I haven't prepared anything yet, but I can whip you up something in a moment.”
“Actually, I wanted to take you out. I was thinking we could get some brunch and go to church,” he said gently tapping her nose.
“Church?” she shrieked like a mouse caught on a glue trap.
“Church. You know the big building, pews, hymn books, clapping, and some precious child singing. Don't tell me you're one of those atheists.”
“Cheo, why do want to go to church?” she asked, ignoring his statement.
“Why don't you want to go to church?” he shot back.
Cynthia massaged her temples. She was sure she would have to confess her sins to Cheo, and she was not prepared in any shape, form, or fashion to do so.
“Seriously, Cheo, why do you suddenly want to take me to church? You haven't arranged for me to marry one of your cousins for a green card, have you?” she joked.
“
Mi madre
always told me, â
Hijo, cuando Jesús bendice usted debe dar gracias.
' When Jesus blesses, you should give thanks.” He took her hand into his and kissed the back of it. “Cynthia, He has blessed me with you. No one has made me feel this good since my mother died, and I know that He blessed you. Your photo is in the
Richmond Sun
like every weekend. You're cooking for celebrities and politicians. You're really blowing up.
Que razón
do you have not to go to church?”
Cynthia withdrew her hand from his grasp and scratched her shoulder. “Cheo, we should probably discuss this inside. It's a long story.”
“Just put on your Sunday best, Cynthia. There's one thing I've learned in all my travels; no matter how far you go, the good Lord is always ready to welcome you home.
Vete,
go, go,” he said, waving his hands at her.
Cynthia retreated to her bedroom and probed her closet for a business suit that could double as a church outfit. She settled for a belted A-line red dress and paired it with a black cardigan for a cover up. She pulled most of her hair up and created a side bang for a little extra flair.
“You do realize we're going to church?” Cheo asked when he saw the way her dress hugged her svelte frame and the lift that her black pumps gave her.
“Cheo, don't tell me you went and got all born again on me.”
“I don't know if I would go as far as to say I'm completely saved. I'm trying to live the best life I can possibly live, and I've learned that only happens when you're obedient to God.”
“Is that why you've been taking it so slow with me?” Cynthia placed both hands around his waist squeezing him tightly.
“I've been taking it slow with you because . . . because I love you. I know how Jacob felt when he saw Rachel because that's how I felt the moment I saw you.”
Cynthia shook her head no.
“I used a lot of the time that we spent apart attending church. Just give it a chance. I'm trying to do things a little different, but I want you to be a part of my life.”
“I'm not promising you that I'm going to get all sanctified and fire baptized, but I'll go see what all the fuss is about,” Cynthia said finally giving in.
Â
Â
“Dayspring Church of Divine Healing and Prophecy.” Cynthia mouthed the words skeptically as she read the church awning when they pulled up in front of it.
Cynthia's heart sank in her chest at the thought this could be the moment she was outed. She buried her face in the palms of her hands as she pictured the pastor of Dayspring Church of Divine Healing and Prophecy walking up to her calling her out of the pew for a little prayer, a little deliverance, and a little healing. Meanwhile, he'd do some major revealing after the Spirit dropped a little word in his heart.
Cheo squeezed one of her hands. “Babe, I promise it won't be that bad. You're going to like it. Trust me.”
They were forty-five minutes late, which only left them with the option to sit separately near the front or squeeze into one of the middle rows. They squeezed into one of the middle rows. Some of the members of the congregation insisted they hurry up and sit down while the man of God was on the pulpit.
“When you're out of the will of God that is the most dangerous place you can be. It's a scary and dark place that Satan tries to decorate with your heart's desire just to keep you content, just to keep you bound,” Pastor Wyatt informed his church. Cynthia recognized him from his picture, which was neatly placed in the corner of the church's awning.
Cynthia clawed at a spot on her neck that suddenly began itching. She tried to focus on the array of colored hats and the few crying babies rather than the words that convicted her heart. Pastor Wyatt was on fire, speaking the truth, and filling the parishioners with the good news, which was bad news for Cynthia.
With only one year left on her apprenticeship and a little more than a quarter of the $75,000 a bank loan officer told her she'd have to come up with before they'd grant her a $300,000 loan and Cheo seated beside her, she knew today's Word was written for her.
Cynthia watched Cheo lap up the Word. She indulged in Cheo's profile: his defined nose, his cheekbones.
“Stop making excuses for why you can't get out of sin, why you can't give it up, and get over it. Jesus died to give you the power to free yourself from everything that seeks to destroy you and your relationship with Him,” Pastor Wyatt declared.
“Preach!” someone shouted from the back row.
Cynthia's legs shook with each word the pastor spoke. “God knows what He wants to do for you. He has plans for you to prosper and bring you to an expected end, but you keep getting in the way. Your way isn't going to work. Only what you do for Christ will last. Stop living in the past, and focus on the future Jesus has prepared for you.”
Cynthia squirmed in her seat like a worm on a hook. She could not hold still for one minute of the two-hour service, and every time she looked at Cheo, he just nodded and smiled at her as if everything was copasetic.
After the service Cheo and Cynthia drove to a nearby café for brunch. They sat in the booth in silence. Cheo dived into his platter of banana and walnut-covered French toast seemingly unaware of Cynthia's discomfort, and Cynthia focused on her buttered toast, which was all her stomach could handle after the service.
“Is everything okay? You haven't said a word since we got out of service. I am so glad to see the Lord stirring something up inside of you. Maybe now you'll be able to put your demons from the past to rest and settle into this new life and receive everything the Lord has in store for you, including me.”
“Demons?” Cynthia dropped her toast onto the platter.
“Don't be ashamed. We're all battling something. Maybe now we can face this thing together head-on.”
“Cheo, you know all of that stuff the pastor was preaching about being out of the will of God? Is that us? Is it wrong for us to start seeing each other again?”
Cheo sipped his coffee. “Love isn't wrong, Cynthia. We just have to do it God's way; you know, no hanky-panky. Hopefully we can still smoochie smoochie. I'm going to have to ask Pastor Wyatt about that.”
“Cheo, stop saying you love me.”
“
No entiendo.
”
Cynthia wiped her hands with her napkin. “Cheo, just stop it,” she snapped.
“How can I just stop loving you?”
“You can't love me, Cheo. You don't even know me,” Cynthia said so loudly the other customers in the restaurant looked back at their booth.
“Then let me get to know you. If you think your huffing and puffing is going to sway me that easily this time, you're wrong. Let's not do this here, Cynthia,” he pleaded, reaching for her hand. She snatched it away from him.
Cheo leaned in closer and seized the other hand. “Let's not do this at all today. Let's just enjoy each other.”
“Well, I'm done.” Cynthia threw her napkin on top of her half-eaten toast. “I'll be outside.”
Cynthia hurried outside, trying to block out Pastor Wyatt's distinctive deep voice. Snippets of his sermon kept replaying in her ear and her boys' faces kept circling in her head. She crossed the street, pulled her cell phone out of her purse, and dialed the number of someone she knew really loved her.
“Hello,” Marvin grunted. “Hello, you better say something or I'm going to hang up this phone.”
Cynthia flirted with saying something. As she stretched her lips to say, “Marvin, it's me,” her tongue felt like she'd licked the back of an alley cat: bristly. The phone shook in her hand making it hard for her to tap the end button. While she struggled to drop the call she could hear Keith trying to get the phone from his father.
“I got it, Dad. It's probably one of my friends and you scared them,” Cynthia heard Keith say.
“Hello. Hello,” Keith repeated. “We can talk now.”
Cynthia inhaled deeply.
“Ma, I went to church today. I hope you did too. I had a breakthrough today; at least that's what Grandma said. My heart isn't hurting so much anymore. The police stopped looking for you but I know that you're coming back. They say you ran away and they can't prove Pops had anything to do with it. I know it has to be on your own terms now. When you're ready, I'll be waiting for you. Until then, I have to go. Pops is calling me. I started calling him Pops. I think it sounds cooler. Ma, could you try to be ready soon?”