Page 35 of Truce Of The Matter

“Hey. You busy?”

“At cheer practice but I can talk. You good?” he says and I find myself smiling at the thought of him and all his grandeurand sexiness at cheer practice. He’s such an involved and devoted father; I love it. It magnifies his natural sex appeal by a thousand so I’m sure he’s a distraction to the mothers and coaches at practice.

“I’m good. I’m actually heading to the restaurant.”

“To work?” he asks and his concern is loud and clear. “Are you ready to go back?”

“I have to. We can’t go another day with no lemonade. We might start to lose our loyal customers.”

“Can’t somebody else make that shit?”

“No. Only two people know the recipe and I’m not sending my dad. I got it. I’m actually a little better today. I am going to teach my cousin how to make it tonight though. Plus, I get to see you two. It’s Wednesday.”

“I knew you were checking for me and you tried to act like you wasn’t. You know my schedule,” he says and I hear the smugness in his sexy voice.

“I just know I saw you on a few Wednesdays so I took a chance and guessed,” I lie because I definitely know his schedule. Every woman on staff knows his damn schedule. His presence in the restaurant, hell anywhere, doesn’t go unnoticed. He’s a handsome walking conundrum: commanding and stern but loving and caring with his daughter, a swoon-inducing, hypnotizing combination.

“Yeah a’ight. We can rock with that; I’ll let you make it.” There’s some noise in the background and I hear him say something incoherent. Then he says, “I gotta go but we should be there in about an hour.”

“Okay. See you then.”

I end the call then start my engine. Before heading to the restaurant, I have to stop by The Marketplace to pick up the final ingredient for the lemonade batch. By the time I make it to the restaurant, the simple syrup is cooled and ready and Taj has hadthe cooks clean and slice the entire crate of lemons in half. That step of the recipe is no secret. Everyone knows our lemonade is made with real lemons.

Our lemonade is coveted in the city. We sell out of it every day. We’ve been offered crazy things and sums of money for the recipe but we’ve never divulged it. It’s imprinted in our brains; we don’t even have it written down anywhere. The mystic and secrecy of it is part of the history and legacy of our restaurant. Some may say it’s only lemonade but to us it’s more than that, so much more.

In a private section in the back of the kitchen, Taj and I juice the lemons on our two citrus juicers. This is the longest part of the process. Once we are done, I juice the two pineapples and strain the juice.

“Seriously? That’s the real secret?” Taj gushes when I pull out the last ingredient.

“Yeah. I said the same thing when Momma taught me the recipe. Remember, this is the doubled recipe so for a regular batch you only use one of these. That’s key because the recipe can’t be changed at all. The slightest addition or subtraction will change the taste of the lemonade and the customers will not be happy.”

“Got it,” she says while nodding. “Pineapples and this! Wow! I would have never guessed either.”

“Now you know and I’m trusting you to keep our recipe a secret. You can’t tell anyone, not even your mom,” I tell her and she nods in understanding. “I’m serious, Taj. Nobody.”

“I promise.”

After separating the batches and adding more water, we use the heavy-duty immersion blender to mix everything together. Then we pour up the gallons. Four of the gallons are immediately taken out to the dining area and a complimentary glass is offered to all the customers.

My presence in the kitchen momentarily causes a disruption. Everyone stops to greet and hug me. They also ask about my dad. The love and care is truly genuine; they’ve missed me and I’ve honestly missed them too.

When I walk into the dining area, many of the customers gladly greet me again. There are a few hugs and many more offering their condolences. The loss of my mother is felt by all and it’s heartwarming to know she’s truly missed.

As soon as I’m back in the kitchen, I get a text from Rex. He’s parking and inquiring if I’m here. I respond that I am and rush to the office to check my face and hair. Making that lemonade can work up a little sweat and I need to make sure I don’t look a mess.

Taj walks into the office right as I’m finger combing my hair in front of the large mirror on the wall.

“I was coming to tell you that your favorite customer is here but I see you already know,” she says with an amused but smug look on her round face.

“I’m aware,” I snap back playfully.

With her right eyebrow raised, she asks, “Who told you that fast?”

“He did.” I smirk and her mouth falls to the damn floor.

“Hedid! What the hell did I miss? Last time we talked about him, you claimed he wasn’t your type. Hmmm, I guess that’s changed now.”

“That definitely has,” I admit with a smile.

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