Page 16 of The Deadly Candies

“Well, I’m gonna teach you,” Daphne declared. “Of course, you can take the EL, but sometimes you gotta get around. You know?”

“I know,” Sandra said, though the idea of driving felt as foreign as the secrets buried in her mother’s diaries.

“Shit,” Daphne grumbled, slowing the car as they approached the bakery. The street was lined with parallel-parked cars, their bumpers kissing like old friends. “I hate parking out here. Folks always ding my car front to back. It’s awful. Mama gets mad when I keep taking it up to the repair shop and using her credit card.”

“There’s someone leaving up there!” Sandra pointed to a spot opening up near Kathy Sweets.

Daphne sped up, then threw the Cutlass into reverse. The driver behind them laid on the horn and swerved around, shouting something out the window. Daphne shot up her middle finger as he passed.

“Daph, really?” Sandra said, shaking her head.

“Whatever,” Daphne said, expertly sliding into the spot. “Everyone knows I’m Junior’s sister. They don’t mess with me.”

When Sandra stepped out of the car, the city rushed in on her—the cacophony of honking horns, the smell of hot pretzels and exhaust, the laughter of kids chasing each other down the block. There was city life in D.C., but this was New York. It had a texture, a rhythm, a culture that was unmatched. And now, seeing it through the lens of her mother’s diaries, Sandra felt a profound sense of pride. Her parents had been born and raised here. This was her roots.

Kathy Sweets was across the street, its neon sign flickering. Daphne was already dashing toward it, so Sandra hurried to catch up. But she nearly faltered mid-step, a sudden feeling of being watched overtaking her. She glanced back across the street and saw him—the young man from the funeral. Even with his sunglasses, she was certain it was him. He stood by his car, a sleek black1973 Pontiac Grand Prix, talking to a Black man in a dashiki. He stared. He was the one who had stood next to Matteo at the funeral.

“You coming?” Daphne called, holding the door to Kathy Sweets open.

“Huh? Yeah,” Sandra said, tearing her eyes away from the stranger. She crossed the street, her sundress swirling about her knees, and stepped into the bakery. The air-conditioned breeze carried the fragrant aroma of fresh-baked goods—sweet potato pies, peach cobblers, and buttery biscuits.

“There she is!” Ms. Gladys’s voice rang out. Over seventy, Ms. Gladys was still the merriest person Sandra knew. She had practically run the bakery for Sandra’s mother, and as a child, Sandra remembered how close Ms. Gladys had been with her grandmother. She was family.

They embraced, the weight of the funeral still lingering but lighter now.

“Come on, Mr. Sheffield is here. He a Jew,” Ms. Gladys said, her tone matter-of-fact.

Sandra laughed—tickled. Ms. Gladys always identified white people by their origins. Italians, Irishmen, Jews—it was her way of navigating their world.

“Hi, Ms. Brown,” Mr. Sheffield said, standing and pulling out a chair. He was a wiry man in a brown polyester suit, his briefcase resting on the table.

“Hello, thank you for coming,” Sandra said, taking a seat.

“My pleasure. Your mother’s will is very direct. Let’s discuss.”

The will was straightforward: Ms. Gladys was to receive a full salary and medical expenses for life, whether she worked or not. Her son was to be the bakery’s exclusive delivery driver, with a commission on any new business he brought in. The rest belonged to Sandra, with the stipulation that the bakery remain in the Freeman family as long as their descendants lived in Harlem.

Sandra signed the papers without tears. She was proud of her mother—proud of the legacy she had built.

“Baby, let’s do a tour,” Ms. Gladys said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “We made some improvements, your mom and I.”

“Are we done here, Mr. Sheffield?” Sandra asked.

“We are. You have my condolences. Your mother was a remarkable woman. She established two foundations through the church, funded by a trust she set up a few years ago. If you ever want to understand the details, let me know.” He shook her hand and left, Daphne walking him out.

Ms. Gladys led Sandra through the bakery, her cane tapping against the linoleum floor. She waddled from side to side, her movements slower now but still full of purpose. Sandra resisted the urge to help her. Ms. Gladys didn’t take kindly to charity.

“I want to see the storage room, if you don’t mind,” Sandra said as they reached the back.

Ms. Gladys paused, her eyes twinkling. “Oh, we’re fully stocked, baby. My son makes sure of it.”

“Yes, ma’am. I just want to see it for… personal reasons,” Sandra explained.

Ms. Gladys’s face softened. “Yeah, it was a personal place for your mama. Guess you never knew our Kathy that way. It was so long ago. Though the Wolf did come by a few times and always insisted he spoke with her in there.”

“He did?” Sandra asked, desperate for more information. “Were they friends?”

Ms. Gladys gave a soft chuckle. “They were something alright. Those two—I just can’t believe they are both gone. Makes no sense. Why lord. They still had so much life to live.”

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