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  The darkness thickened like a brooding thundercloud as Otis traveled south on Interstate 75 toward Rochester, trailing Golden by at least two car lengths. January’s frozen breath had made the misty falling snow as slick as wax. It was obvious they were headed toward Spice’s restaurant.

  Otis and Golden arrived at the restaurant close to six. After checking their coats, Golden gave the maître d’ his name. As they followed the black-jacketed gentleman into the restaurant, an outburst of laughter from a large party in the center of the dining room rose above the jangling of silverware and dishes. Seconds later the two men joined four others previously ensconced in a two-room private dining suite, already enjoying their appetizer.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Golden said as he took a seat. “Some of you may already know Otis Witherspoon, the building inspector for the city.”

  Otis said hello and then added casually, “I’m also a thirty-year member of NAABR.” The men nodded in affirmation.

  Otis was impressed. The men at the table were definitely heavy hitters: Pastors Kevin Booker and Josh Taylor, both with political clout in the community; business executive Arthur Simmons, an entrepreneur who’d bought an insignificant car dealership and made it worth millions; and Erik Cain, who worked double duty as Golden’s manager and accountant. Cain spoke first.

  “Hello, Otis. Good to see you,” he said, shaking the other man’s hand.

  Otis studied the eager-looking young man. In the years Cain had worked for Golden, he and Otis had had business dealings, although not the kind that Westbrook would approve of.

  Pellets of snow turned to rain and began streaming against the windows. Seconds later shrieks of thunder revved up behind the rain as Otis was personally introduced to the remaining NAABR members. He easily joined in the conversation about the organization’s elections already in progress.

  “First and foremost we have a spiritual thrust as our mandate.” Pastor Booker lifted his cup and sipped his coffee. “With Westbrook’s dual roles as Detroit’s chapter president and the pastor of a large church—whose congregation is sixty percent NAABR members, I might add—he is in a good position as our candidate to restore core spiritual values.” He smiled as he placed his cup back on the table. “Another point of emphasis is the quest for economic justice for our people.”

  Founded in 1913 by four black scholars and a handful of liberal whites concerned about racial injustice, the National Alliance for the Advancement of the Black Race was an advocacy group for civil rights and litigated thousands of national and local discrimination lawsuits. After two years of heavy negotiating, Golden and the NAABR members present at this meeting had recently been triumphant in winning a landmark $700 million settlement for commercial loan commitments with the National Bank & Trust of Detroit and the Fair Banking Alliance. The money was earmarked for minority businesses.

  “I agree,” Pastor Taylor broke in. “Booker and I—and I’m sure I speak for Golden as well—don’t look at our roles in the committee as being strictly political, but a holistically spiritual one that administers to the needs of our constituency.” He scanned the nodding faces surrounding the table before saying, “Our goal, gentlemen, is to mobilize voters and get them involved.”

  With one ear turned to their conversation, Otis watched Henry, the elderly waiter, pour his glass of water. He knew Spice kept him on because Henry would die of loneliness if he didn’t have this job. In the years Otis had known Henry, they’d never held a two-sentence conversation and his face was always as blank as a blind man’s.

  Smoothing his beard, as he had a tendency to do when he was thinking, Otis appraised the tempting selections that were being laid out on the Biedermeier sideboard.

  “Help yourselves, gentlemen,” the waiter said. “If you desire anything else, please press the buzzer on the floor beside the table.” He smiled, nodded at the table of men, then discreetly rolled the silver cart outside the room, closing the carved pocket doors behind him.

  The table was beautifully set, flanked by an allegorical handpainted screen and large ferns. The men formed a line, and each helped himself to the spread of turkey and dressing, ham, fried chicken, pheasant, collard greens, turnip greens, grits and greens, macaroni and cheese, coleslaw, mashed potatoes and gravy, candied yams, homemade rolls, and biscuits. Information and conversation were exchanged as the men enjoyed their meal.

  In ten short months the elections for the office of president of the Detroit NAABR chapter would be held, and it was clear to Otis that Golden was spending time and money necessary to be reelected.

  Otis was aware that various members of Golden’s campaign team assembled for dinner on a regular basis at restaurants to talk strategy for the ensuing election. Now Otis wanted to see what these men were up to, what kind of money they really possessed. It was always a good idea to be widening his net of influence. If these guys were going to open their pockets to Golden, maybe Otis could somehow share in the wealth.

  The heady aroma of ginger, basil, and sage filled the room. A quiet rustle of people talking and tittering about could be heard just outside their private chambers. After he’d finished a warming cup of coffee, Otis stretched his legs and sat back leisurely in the cushioned seat, listening to Golden stress the importance of the church’s involvement with politics.

  “Gentlemen, you are all aware that in the African American community, the church has always been at the vanguard of social justice and public policy. Out of the black church have come our colleges and universities. Out of the black church have come our black businesses and trade associations. The church was the incubator for the civil rights movements in America.”

  To Otis, the passion in Golden’s voice seemed genuine as he paused for a second to wipe the sweat from his brow. “We know that developing businesses in our communities helps to build the tax base for providing public goods and services, helps the economy, and helps to provide jobs.” At this Otis and Golden locked eyes. “Our chapter is dedicated to coming up with specific programs designed to encourage our young people to be entrepreneurs.”

  Preach, brother, preach! You just might get me to step inside a church yet. Otis chuckled quietly at his own joke, keeping his eyes on Westbrook so as not to be stared down.

  Golden folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair in conclusion. “We can get more for small-business development if we go about it the right way. We can look at this as a vehicle of economic independence and break the cycle of government dependency.”

  For the next half hour the group of men shared their ideas and visions on how they could obtain the endorsement from the thousands of UAW voters, who had the power to significantly determine the outcome of an election. Then the men pulled out their checkbooks. Even Otis. He wrote his check out for $100.

  “My Lord,” stated Pastor Booker, “we should meet here more often.” He held his large belly and laughed gleefully. “If these ain’t the meanest greens I’ve ate in years, my name ain’t Kevin Sasquatch Booker.”

  The team of businessmen and pastors concurred with a hearty laugh. Erik Cain, obviously stuffed to the gills, pushed his plate forward, his chair back, and belched. “Excuse me,” he said with embarrassment.

  Otis snickered as he gulped down the remainder of his coffee. “Kevin? Josh? Any of you gentlemen like more coffee?” he asked, noticing the brown shadows in their white cups. Without waiting for an answer, he pressed the buzzer for Henry. When the elderly gentleman didn’t appear, he opened the pocket doors and stepped into the circular dining room.

  “Miss! Miss!” Otis called to the waitress nearby.

  Watching the shapely woman shift her weight on her left hip, Otis knew who she was before she turned around.

  Upon hearing the call for service, Spice raised a single finger above her head, signaling Otis to wait a moment. She was obviously critiquing a trainee.

  “Yes, sir . . . I’ve got it,” the trainee said. “You and your wife will have the pecan-crusted turkey cutlets wit
h wild rice, and sautéed sweet peppers. And your son here would like turkey and dressing with broccoli instead of the turnip greens. Cornbread all around, or confetti muffins with your orders?” The family requested both. She thanked the customers and slid the menus under her right armpit. Spice gave Beverly a pleased smile as the young woman headed for the kitchen.

  The staff’s evening attire at Southern Spice was black tuxedos and crisp cream shirts for the men, and long black high-slit skirts with soft, off white, organdy cuffed blouses with a high neck and cameo for the women. Spice wore a black velvet evening gown and was obviously, this evening, working as hostess.

  Just as Spice started to turn in Otis’s direction, he felt the walls shudder, and the lights went out.

  Bright light from sizzling veins of lightning sliced through the curtained windows.

  “The lights will be back on in a moment,” Spice shouted into the room, but the patrons weren’t worried about the semi-darkness. The temporary loss of light merely made their dinner more romantic under the soft glow of the candlelight on every table.

  As Spice made her way toward the private dining room, he saw the golden glow of candles bathing the contours of her face. She was carrying a candelabra.

  “Hello, gentlemen.” She hiked an eyebrow when she spotted Otis. “Hello, Otis,” she said, smiling, “I didn’t know you were here.” She gave him a quick hug. “Excuse me,” she said to the group, “Otis is my brother-in-law.” She let her hand rest on Otis’s shoulder. “Now, gentlemen, may I be of service?”

  “I’m fine. The grits and greens were sublime,” Kevin said, almost humming.

  “Perfect,” said Pastor Booker, pulling the napkin from his thick neck. “Please extend our compliments to the chef.”

  “I’d like to suggest the next time you visit us you try the Parmesan collard casserole,” Spice proposed. “Our guests love it.”

  Josh Taylor, with biscuit in hand, was busily scooping up the last drop of gravy on his plate. “The southern fried chicken is worth a trip back. Never had fried chicken quite like that before—but don’t tell my wife.” Otis saw Spice was truly charmed by the compliment. “What’s the secret?”

  Spice looked around the table, engaging all eyes to focus on her. “Buttermilk. It’s marinated in buttermilk overnight. I trust you won’t tell anyone.” She winked and pressed her fingers against her lips. “If everyone’s wives knew our secrets, we’d be out of business.” She winked again at Josh, then turned her attention back to Otis, whose eyes had never left her face.

  “Everything is exceptional,” a voice said, pulling her attention back to the room at large.

  “The food, the restaurant. It’s lovely,” said Erik Cain with a broad smile.

  “It’s all in the presentation,” Spice said, now looking at Golden, the one man in the room she’d never met personally before.

  “You haven’t told us your name,” Golden stated in a calm manner.

  Before she could answer, Henry was at her side with a message from Representative Donna Bradley, asking for her. “Tell her I’ll just be a minute.” Spice paused, glancing through the door to the congresswoman’s table. “And Henry, see that couple right there? Send a cake over to table eighty-nine with my compliments.” She nodded at the couple. “It’s the McCormicks’ twenty-fifth anniversary.”

  “Sure thing, Ms. Spice,” Henry said, making a notation on his pad.

  “Spice as in Southern Spice?” Golden asked.

  She blushed. “The same.”

  “And you work the tables?” Josh Taylor jumped into the conversation. “All the years I’ve been coming here I never knew it.” The other men concurred.

  “Sometimes, like tonight, I play the part of hostess,” she said, turning away from Otis and Golden to face the younger man. “Occasionally, I like to cover the floor and talk one on one with the customers—see if they’re pleased or displeased with their meal or the service. Oftentimes I don’t let them know that I’m the owner. This evening, however . . . I didn’t think it proper, given the company of such reverent men, to hide the truth.” With a final smile for the room, she turned back to her brother-in-law. “Otis, you were asking something?”

  “Yes, we need more coffee, my dear.”

  They all smiled. “With pleasure.” Spice turned to go, stopped only by Golden’s amber-speckled eyes. “I’ll be back with a pot of fresh coffee. Help yourself to dessert,” she said, gesturing to the sideboard. She smiled at Golden. “And gentlemen, dinner’s on me this evening.” She ignored their protests about accepting the free meal.

  Henry appeared to clear the table.

  “Shall we move to the adjoining room for brandy, gentlemen?” Pastor Booker offered after their hostess had gone. “There’s a warm fire burning, and that leather chair a few feet away seems to be calling my name.”

  Otis wanted this opportunity to speak with Golden alone and pulled him to the side. “I’d like to be of help to your campaign, Westbrook.”

  “But your check is enough. Thank you,” Golden said.

  Glancing over his shoulder at Cain, who was watching them nearby, Otis lowered his voice before speaking. “If you’d consider adding another partner to the Sand Dollar project, I could guarantee at least fifteen thousand city votes—not to mention getting your approvals. My influence—”

  Just then a polite knock sounded at the door. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Spice said, reentering the room. “Fresh coffee. Help yourselves.”

  Envy, like a cold prison, benumbs and stupefies. Otis didn’t miss the connection of Spice’s eyes lingering too long on Westbrook. He also didn’t miss Golden’s husky response when he said, “Yes. Thank you.”

  Otis was outraged. Spice was flirting openly with the man! There could be no mistaking what he saw. He knew all her moves, all her gestures.

  “I appreciate your offer, Otis,” Westbrook said, continuing their conversation. “However, may I get back to you after I’ve discussed this with my election committee?”

  “Certainly,” Otis said. They watched as Spice sashayed out of the room. Both men knew the subject of a partnership would never be discussed again.

  SPICE

  There’s a time when you have to explain to your children why they’re born, and it’s a marvelous thing if you know the reason by then.

  —HAZEL SCOTT

  A t 10:30 P.M. Spice retreated upstairs to her private quarters. She was exhausted from standing on her feet all night, rushing around the restaurant, playing hostess, restaurateur, and chef adviser.

  Now her intercom was buzzing. What could they want now! “Who is it?” Spice asked wearily.

  “It’s Otis, Spice.” He breathed slowly. “Can I come up?”

  “It’s late, Otis. I can only spare a few minutes.” She didn’t understand why she gave in to her brother-in-law so easily.

  “Thanks.”

  Otis smiled at her as she met him at the front door. “Evening, Spice. I won’t stay long.”

  Spice clasped the front of her black peignoir closed and stepped to the side. “Come on in,” she said, giving Otis a limp hug.

  He followed Spice to the lower living room, made himself a drink, and offered Spice one.

  “No thanks. Excuse me a moment. I’ll get myself a glass of wine instead.” Knowing how obsessive Otis was about her private life, Spice went back upstairs and turned down the volume on her answering machine. Not that she had secrets to shock him; it was just none of his business who called her. Stopping in the kitchen, she poured a glass of cold Zinfandel from the refrigerator, then joined Otis sitting by the fireplace.

  His clear eyes glittered like sapphires as he studied her face. “Have you given my suggestion any more thought?”

  Spice sighed. She knew Otis was frustrated. He was a widower, and at least three times a year, since one year after David died, Otis would plead his case. Spice would turn him down and ask him to stop pressuring her, because her answer would never change. Then he’d start in all over agai
n.

  “Really, Spice, I think you’ve been a widow long enough. Haven’t you changed your mind yet?”

  “No,” she said, turning away from his piercing stare, “I haven’t.”

  “Spice . . .” Otis turned her face toward his and looked into her eyes. “I could be here for you, for the girls. Sterling’s giving you nothing but hell—”

  “I’m sorry you had to witness that the other day,” she said, and shrugged it away. “But Sterling is my concern.”

  He reached out and pulled her into his chest, caressing her neck and shoulders. “When you have problems, I want you to come to me.”

  Spice shrugged off his heavy hands and turned around to face him. “Thanks, but I’m managing okay by myself.”

  “Spice,” he said slowly, “I could help you with everything.” He paused. “I could make you forget—”

  “Otis, Otis . . . don’t.”

  “You need a man here. A man living here with you.” He took her hand in his. “You know I’ve always been crazy about you, Spice. David’s gone. Why can’t we—”

  “I will not—” Spice stood, covering herself as much as she could with the flimsy material of her robe. “I will not start a relationship with my husband’s brother.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that. What’s the harm—”

  “Just the thought makes me feel guilty.” Spice knew that in some cultures it was actually a tradition, but not in her book.

  “You’re a young woman, sweetheart. You can’t continue to punish yourself by being alone. David would want you to be happy. He would want you to find love again.”

  “You talked to him lately?” Spice asked jokingly. The simple truth was, she was attracted to Otis. Why wouldn’t she be? He was good-looking, intelligent, and confident. This last quality was the main attraction.