CHAPTER 1
“Will we see you and Benny at the festival, Tanya?” My maternal grandmother, Genevieve Bain, sat at her dark wood folding table in Spice Isle Bakery, our family-owned business, early Friday morning. Her table stood between our customer service counter and the kitchen door, the busiest spot in the shop.
Her Grenadian heritage was in the cadence of the question she’d called across the waiting area to her longtime friend Tanya Nevis and Tanya’s beau, Benny Parsons. The retirees were always impeccably dressed. And came to our bakery in the Little Caribbean neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York, at least once a day.
Tanya’s dark brown eyes stretched wide. Her coral lips parted. “But Genevieve, how many years have you known me? You know I never miss a festival.” Her Grenadian accent threaded her words. Her tone was warm with pride.
It was the day before the Caribbean American Heritage Festival. The annual celebration took place in Prospect Park the last Saturday in June, Caribbean American Heritage Month. The park came alive with sights, sounds, and scents reminiscent of the islands. It was a wonderful tribute to our West Indian culture and traditions.
Thinking about this year’s event made my breath catch with excitement—and nerves. For the first time, my family and I would be more than attendees. We would be event vendors, selling our pastries and finger foods. It would be the realization of another of my childhood dreams. I felt like I’d been waiting my whole life for tomorrow. But today, I had guests to serve.
The scents of confectioners’ sugar, baked fruits, warm butter, nutmeg, ginger, and cinnamon floated out via the pass-through window between the customer counter where I stood and the kitchen where my parents were cooking. “Midnight Magic,” one of the songs on the benefit CD by DragonFlyZ, a local, up-and-coming reggae/calypso/soca/ska band, spun from our speaker system. Several of our guests swung their hips and rolled their shoulders to the music’s irresistible rhythms as they waited in line. A few lent their vocals to the chorus, making up with enthusiasm what they lacked in talent.
Benny looked at Tanya as though she were the only one in the bakery. His deep voice rumbled with his Trini accent. “I haven’t missed a festival, either. And I’m looking forward to enjoying this one with you.”
What a romantic. The petite woman’s round brown cheeks darkened with a blush as she gazed up at him.
Beside me, my older brother, Devon Murray, smiled. He swayed to the music as he tallied Tanya and Benny’s breakfast order of fish bakes and mauby tea. Dev and I were dressed in sea blue Spice Isle Bakery T-shirts and baggy shorts. His black chef’s hat covered tight dark brown curls. Tall with a runner’s lean build, my brother looked a lot like our father, Jacob. He had the same spare, warm sienna features and kind, curious dark brown eyes.
I favored our family matriarch. Looking at my grandmother was like seeing myself fifty-plus years into the future—if I was lucky. We were both petite, full-figured women. We had bow-shaped lips and wide dark brown eyes in heart-shaped sienna faces. My grandmother’s long silver hair was wrapped into a tidy bun on the crown of her head. I’d tucked my long ebony braids inside my black chef’s hat.
“All you holding up the line. Strups.” Grace Parke’s testy remark drained a bit of the joy from the room. Dressed in a pink top and ginger skirt with matching sandals, her tall, full figure was stiff with condemnation. I was certain the seventy-something-year-old woke up in a bad mood.
I added a few more wattages to my smile, hoping to take away at least some of the sting from Grace’s comment. “Thank you so much for coming in today, Ms. Nevis, Mr. Parsons.” I passed Benny the tray with their order. Having grown up in the United States, neither my brother nor I had a Grenadian accent.
Dev returned Benny’s credit card with a receipt for his purchase. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, you will.” Benny stepped back so Tanya could proceed him.
His words lifted my feet from the floor. My family and I were on a mission to encourage our customers to come to the festival tomorrow with their friends—and stop by our food truck. The event was an investment in our business. We needed to do better than break even.
Grace stepped up to the counter, pinning me with irritated dark eyes. Her annoyance sharpened her Jamaican accent. “I’ve said it before, all you shouldn’t be at the festival. You should be here. Instead you’re closing the shop and abandoning us. Is that how you repay customer loyalty? That doesn’t make good business sense.”
Beside me, Dev stilled. I sensed his temper stir at the hint of criticism directed toward me. I hurried to respond to Grace before Dev said something I’d regret later. “Ms. Parke, you should come to the festival. It’ll be fun.”
“Listen to my granddaughter, Grace.” Granny lowered the lavender-and-white afghan square she was crocheting. Her voice was tight with anger. “You need to get out more. And it’s free.”
Granny’s afghan was for one of the many Christmas gifts she was making for family and friends. Yes, my grandmother was making Christmas presents in June. Between extended family, godchildren, and friends, she had an extensive list, and someone’s feelings would be hurt if they didn’t get one of her handmade treasures.
Grace kissed her teeth. “I don’t like crowds, you know. Or standing in the heat.”
“My friends and I go to the festival every year.” D’André Greyson—aka the Knicks Fan—volunteered the information. He was two customers behind Grace in the line. Dev and I had finally learned his name from the credit card he used for his orders. “The parade, music, entertainment, and food make us feel like we’re in the Caribbean.”
“I know, right?” the Bubble-Gum-Chewing College Student, Carole Manor, called from the end of the line. “My friends and I always get there in time for the parade and stay until dark.”
D’André flashed a grin. “We’ll look for the mobile Spice Isle Bakery tomorrow.”
Dev’s tension seemed to ease. “Thank you.”
Grace harrumphed. “You’re making a mistake. Now, will you please take my order? I’d like a coconut bread and a mug of mauby tea. And, since you won’t be open for business tomorrow, I’ll take a loaf of hard dough bread today.”
“Eh, eh.” Granny cut her a look. “We’ll be back Sunday, you know.”
Grace gave Dev her credit card. Her voice was cool. “But I may not.”
Oh, brother.
I added a couple of currant rolls to her bag. Witnessing my actions, Granny rolled her eyes. Grace’s brow eased. Her lips softened. Her nod acknowledged the peace offering. She accepted her credit card and receipt from Dev before sweeping out of the bakery with her head high.
Granny returned to her crocheting. “How much d’you want to bet she comes to the festival tomorrow?”
“Despite everything she just said?” Dev gestured toward the space where Grace had stood. “What makes you think that?”
“Because Lynds gave her extra currant rolls.” Granny glanced at me before returning her attention to her crocheting. “Despite what Grace said, our Lynds has exceptional business sense. She knows how to sweet-talk sour people.”
Murmurs of agreement and good-natured chuckles rolled across the room. Embarrassment knotted my stomach muscles. Dev gave me a one-armed hug.
I raised my hands. “If Ms. Parke does come to the festival, will she allow herself to have a good time or will she be in a bad mood all day?”
Tanya spoke from her seat beside Benny. “How could anyone be in a bad mood during the festival?”
Granny shrugged. “There’s always at least one bad apple in the bunch, you know. One who wants to ruin the event for everyone else.”
“We can’t let anyone or anything dampen the event for us.” I already imagined my family in our food truck with a line of customers waiting eagerly to place their orders. “It’s our first festival as vendors, Granny. We need to make it a day to remember.”
* * *
Within a couple of hours, our breakfast crush had eased to a trickle of guests. A few female retirees and several young women on summer break chose to linger over their mid-morning treats in our dining area. Stray words from their easy conversations whispered across the shop. Both groups were talking about the festival, the latest gossip, and men.
Dev had joined our parents in the kitchen, preparing meals for our lunch customers. Granny remained at her table, humming and singing with the DragonFlyZ’s CD as she crocheted.
The bell above the bakery’s entrance chimed, interrupting me as I wiped the dining tables. Despite my best intentions, my heart leaped as New York Police Department Homicide Detective Bryce Jackson entered the shop. He located me in the dining area right away. How did he do that? His hazel brown eyes were like a Lyndsay Murray–seeking missile.
I’d had a crush on Bryce in high school. The lifelong Brooklynite had been handsome, intelligent, and kind. He still was. We’d overlapped two years when we’d attended Flatbush Early College High School. The ten years since then had been good to him. He’d replaced his braids with a conservative close-cropped haircut that emphasized his chiseled tawny good looks and deep-set eyes. His light gray suit, white shirt, and sapphire tie complemented his broad torso and lean hips. But looks were skin-deep. Bryce was attractive, but he and his senior partner, Detective Stanley Milner, kept trying to put me and my family behind bars.
Locking my shaking knees, I crossed to the checkout counter. “Good morning, Detective. What can I do for you today?”
“You can call me Bryce.” His half smile was tempting.
I slid him a look as I stepped behind the counter.
He addressed my grandmother. “Good morning, Ms. Bain.”
“Good morning, Detective Bryce,” Granny responded in a singsong cadence.
A chorus of greetings carried from the kitchen’s pass-through window behind me, confirming my suspicion that my parents and Dev were listening to our conversation.
“Hello, there, young man.” Daddy’s greeting was that of an old friend.
“Good morning, Bryce!” My mother, Cedella Bain Murray, called in a cheerful tone.
“Hi, Bryce.” Dev’s voice sounded closest to me.
I closed my eyes and shook my head. The burden of having a loving, meddling family. But I wouldn’t trade them for all the riches in the world.
“Good morning, everyone.” Bryce’s eyes sparkled with humor. He seemed obnoxiously pleased with himself. “Stan sent me to get mid-morning snacks. Can I have four currant rolls, please?”
Bryce’s rumpled partner had a weakness for our pastries, especially our currant rolls. He claimed his wife, whom we’d never met, also was a fan of our baked goods.
“Of course.” I took his credit card to process his order before gathering his purchases.
“Are you ready for the festival tomorrow?” Bryce’s question didn’t sound like idle curiosity. I appreciated his interest.
“I hope so.” Did he hear the nerves in my voice? “Will you be there?” I cringed. Why did I ask him that?
The pastries warmed my fingertips through my black nitrile gloves as I placed them in the green paper Spice Isle Bakery bag. The aroma of baked currants, sugar, and butter wafted up to me.
“Yes, I will. Actually, this will be my first one. Do you have any tips for me?”
I turned from the prep counter and handed him the bag of currant rolls. “Wear comfortable shoes. You’ll be doing a lot of walking.”
Granny chimed in. “Make sure they’re dancing shoes.”
“Parking’s impossible.” Dev emerged from the kitchen. He held the door for my parents, who both wore black chef’s smocks and matching chef’s hats. “Take public transportation or be prepared to get to Prospect Park ridiculously early.”
Mommy leaned her right hip against the back of Granny’s chair. “If you do come early, eat a light breakfast. You’re going to want to try all the good food and treats at the festival.”
“Especially ours.” Granny spoke over her shoulder. “And you’ll need the energy for dancing. So saying, make sure you get a good night’s sleep.”
“And make sure you wear a hat.” Daddy leaned against the wall beside Mommy. “You’ll need the protection from the sun.”
I glanced toward the entrance as the bell announced another guest. The attractive young woman who walked through the door looked familiar. She wore a loose-fitting black-and-white polka-dot summer shift. Thick dark brown curls framed her diamond-shaped brown face. Where had I seen her before?
A young man entered the bakery behind her. A smile curved my lips. “Manny!”
My cousin Manson Bain was the eldest of my uncle Alrick and Aunt Inez’s three children. Uncle Al was Mommy’s older brother.
My eyes swept back to the woman beside him. I gasped. “You’re Camille Abbey, DragonFlyZ’s lead singer! I heard your band at Nutmeg’s a couple of weeks ago. You were amazing!”
A member of DragonFlyZ was in our bakery!
Voices buzzed in the bakery as our guests expressed their awe at having a local celebrity in their midst. I’d gone to Nutmeg’s with my cousin Serena, Manny’s younger sister, and her boyfriend, Alfonso Lester. The audience had given DragonFlyZ two standing ovations.
“Thank you.” Camille’s smile was self-deprecating. Three younger women hurried from their table to ask for her autograph. The singer accommodated them while she responded to my remark. “We always have a good time performing there. The crowd really appreciates the music.”
Manny smiled at her. “That’s because you’re an excellent performer.”
I looked at my other family members, trying to read their reactions. From their wide-eyes and slack-jaws, they seemed as starstruck as I felt. But was I the only one who sensed the electricity arcing between Manny and Camille?
Granny set down her crocheting and considered the couple. “How do all you know each other?” She must have sensed their chemistry, too. Good.
I lowered my hands to my sides and crossed my fingers. Please let them be dating. That would be so cool. I could tell everyone my cousin was dating the lead singer of DragonFlyZ.
Manny dragged his eyes from Camille to Granny. “The studio’s cut her band’s last two albums and we’re scheduled to do the next one. I thought Reena had told you.”
Manny was an audio engineer with Caribbean Tunes, an independent recording studio in Little Caribbean. And he was right; Reena had bragged that her older brother was recording DragonFlyZ’s albums. But for Manny to bring the singer to the bakery was next level. Were they friends? Or something more?
I touched Bryce’s forearm to get his attention before gesturing toward one of the speakers. “We’re playing DragonFlyZ’s CD.”
The detective paused to listen to the music. “This is a great song.”
“Thank you.” Camille’s eyes lingered on Manny’s. “We’re really excited about the work. And we’re having a great time recording them with Manny’s help.”
Manny looked away from Camille. The effort seemed even harder for him this time. “I’ve told Camille so much about your bakery, she wanted to see it for herself. May we have two of your currant rolls and two glasses of sorrel, please?”
“Of course.” Granny rose from her table. “And it’s on the house.”
“I appreciate that.” Camille’s ebony eyes were warm. “Thank you.”
“Thanks, Granny.” Manny escorted Camille to the counter.
As I turned to prepare their order, I noticed my grandmother walking toward the kitchen. “Granny, is something wrong?”
Copyright © 2023 by Patricia Sargeant-Matthews
