Born at Dawn (20 page)

It seemed as if the earth was spinning rapidly around Cynthia. Finally, everything she worked for was going to become a reality. After spending two and half years in Richmond all the elements were lining up. She'd spent her time training under a master chef and saving every dollar, dime, nickel, and penny to save up for her deposit. It had taken her exactly a year to save up the deposit necessary to secure her loan to open the restaurant of her dreams.

Cynthia adjusted the leather trim on her purple blazer as she gazed in the window of Virginia Credit Union. She wanted to make sure she looked sharp when she signed her loan papers. She could open the restaurant and get the boys down here, she thought while applying lip gloss before stepping through the heavy glass doors. She grinned at the security guard who tipped his hat at her. She saluted the tellers with a pageant wave on her way to the loans department.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, tea, or a glass of sparkling water while you wait for Mr. Fields?” the receptionist asked.

“Water would be fine.” Cynthia sat down in the chair across from the receptionist's desk, crossed her legs, and hugged her clutch close to her body, patting her check.

“Good morning, Ms. Hathaway”

“Good morning, Mr. F . . .” Cynthia froze when she looked up into the eyes of Sam Tanner, the bank manager who had attempted to get Cynthia to work evenings helping him make night deposits so he could gain access to the treasures locked up beneath her clothes back when she was a temp at the bank.

“Mr. Fields is not in at the moment.” Sam extended his hand to help her get out of the seat. “I'll be seeing you through the rest of this loan process. Follow me.” He flicked his head of golden locks in the direction of the cubicles to the far left of the loan department.

Cynthia squeezed into the one seat located in front of the desk in the cubicle. Her knees pressed against the cold metal as she waited for Sam to remove his jacket before taking a seat in the cramped quarters.

“Let's get down to business, Ms. Hathaway.” He leaned back in his swivel chair and pulled a folder from the top drawer of his desk with her name etched across the top. He punched in his access code on the computer, popped a mint in his mouth, and sucked on it a bit before addressing Cynthia again.

“Ms. Hathaway, your loan has been denied.”

“Denied?” she asked pausing in disbelief.

“I'm sorry to inform you, but you were not approved for a loan here at Virginia Credit Union.”

Cynthia squinted at Sam. “I was completely denied? How is that possible? I did everything Mr. Fields said: I'm getting certified in culinary arts, I've held the same job for about two years now, and I have a check here for $75,000, which is the twenty-five percent minimum that he requested.” Cynthia pursed her lips together and folded her arms across her chest in her favorite “I ain't buying whatever you're selling” pose. “Get Mr. Fields on the phone this instant.”

“Ms. Barclay, Mr. Fields is no longer handling your loan, so that will not be necessary. I am the loan officer who is now overseeing this process.”

“Why? So you can finally screw me?” Cynthia shouted across the desk. Her forehead was pulsating. She was contemplating bashing him in the head with his computer, but she recalled the memory verse Cheo had been studying from this week's Bible Study, Ecclesiastes 7:9: “anger rests in the bosom of fools.” Sucking in a large chunk of air, she whipped her head around, rolled her eyes, and focused on a small snag in the drab gray material that lined the walls of the cubicle.

Sam placed his palms flat on the desk. “Cynthia . . . I can call you that right?” She nodded without looking at him while humming to herself. “Harboring events that happened in the past is not good for your soul or skin. That probably explains the frown lines and crow's feet I see beginning to form,” he said, waving one of his fingers in a circular motion at Cynthia's profile. “I try not to hold on to things like that, and I want to assure you that the bank made that decision, and it is in no way reflective of what we had or did not have. What it does reflect is your lack of a credit history.” He ran his hands through his hair and massaged the side of his neck before reclining in his swivel chair. “I'm going to be honest with you: the bank is experiencing some financial setbacks like the rest of America, and it's just too risky for us to dole out a loan for $300,000 to a new restaurant run by a new chef with no credit history. Kudos to you for keeping your slate clean. Frankly, it's a little too clean, which worries us. We don't need any skeletons jumping out of your closet that would negate your payments.”

“Is there anyone else who can help me?”

“Cynthia.” Sam waved his hand in the air like he was Vanna White. “Look around. Our loan department has been reduced. Fields is gone. I am the loan department,” he said, patting his chest, “and it would not be in the bank's best interest to lend you money.”

Cynthia leaped from her chair, prepared to make a quick exit before the tears started rolling.

Sam reached out and held her by her wrist. “Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you can get a guarantor or someone to cosign this loan for you and come up with an additional fifteen percent of the startup costs for a grand total of $120,000. Those are the only conditions under which we will grant you this loan.”

Cynthia snatched her hand back and stormed out of the bank, feeling dejected, rejected, and lost. She scrambled to her car and beat up on her steering wheel for a few minutes before verbally assaulting herself.

“This is the dumbest, dumbest thing you have ever done. Dumber than marrying Marvin, dumber than allowing him to put everything in his name, which virtually makes you a nobody. Dumber than abandoning your kids. I don't know why or how you could think this was all going to work out.”

Cynthia adjusted her rearview mirror and backed out of the parking lot, well aware of what she had to do.

 

 

Cheo knocked on her door right when Cynthia was in the midst of some heavy-duty whirlwind packing. Cynthia tossed the jeans she was folding on the floor near her suitcases and snatched the door open.

“Yes, Cheo,” she huffed.

“Doing a little redecorating?” he asked, peering into the apartment over her shoulder.

“No, I'm packing. I don't have too much time to talk. You're more than welcome to come in and help; otherwise, I have to go.”

“I don't get it. Why are you packing,
Chula?
Shouldn't you be celebrating?” he asked all smiles. “Today is the day—”

“Hush,” she said, waving her hands in a small flurry in Cheo's face. She turned her back and retreated into the apartment. Her clothes were strewn all over the backs of chairs and hanging over her tables. Cynthia resumed her position in front of the pile of jeans on her end table and began folding again.

“Do you have to move as part of the condition of the loan?” Cheo asked, tiptoeing through the obstacle course Cynthia's bags and clothes had turned the living room into.

“I'm going back to New York, Cheo.”

“
Que?
”

“I'm going back to New York. Things just aren't working out here for me. I really should have never come here.” Cynthia tried to use her eyelids to restrain the well of tears springing up inside of her as she thought of everything she had compromised: the life of her children; her marriage, although it was barely there. As Pastor David always reminded her, while there is life, there is hope, but this little trip most likely dashed all of that away.

“Cynthia,” Cheo cooed at her in a whisper.

“I didn't get the loan. I didn't get the loan. I made a bad decision, and I'm paying for it now.”

“So, you're just going to run back to New York?” Cheo stepped over a pile of sweats on the floor to get closer to Cynthia.

“I can't do this.”

“You can do all things through Christ.” Cheo stripped the jeans from her hands and locked his fingers around hers. “Is that what you do in the face of adversity, just give up when you have a chance to test and prove your faith in God?”

“My faith isn't in God right now.”

“Well, Christ wants to be in you. Why don't you just get with the program?” He scooted around her and took a seat on the arm of the sofa beside her. “Why was your loan denied? I thought you had the twenty-five percent for the startup costs.”

“I did. I mean I do, but because I have bad credit—well, no credit—they won't finance me without a guarantor or someone to cosign.”

“You're packing because all you need is someone to cosign the loan for you?”

Cynthia spun around to face Cheo. “Yeah, that and I need another forty-five thousand. You got that, Mr. My Daddy Owns the Cattle Upon a Thousand Hills?” she asked, extending her palm toward him.

“Actually, I have some savings and I'd be more than willing to cosign the loan for you,” he said, wrapping his smooth hands around her waist to embrace her.

“No way.” Cynthia backed out of his grip and stumbled a little bit on her own clothing. “I owe you more than I can repay already.”

“This is not about you repaying me. I want to help you,
mamí. Yo creo en ti,
your vision,
en su restaurante.
What is the name of it?”

“Sabor.”

“Sabor. That means flavor in
Español.
You've brought so much flavor into my life. Let me help you bring it into the lives of others.”

Cynthia stared at Cheo. His brown eyes were swollen with possibility and pleading for the opportunity to merge their lives in any way possible.

“Cheo, I can't ask you to do this nor can I accept this kind of generosity from you. This is how I wound up in this situation: by accepting things from a man that sounded good.”

She rolled her eyes as she recalled all the breathy promises Marvin whispered between the sheets for their bright future that his auto body garage would provide, and she could live her dream once they were established. At one point he too believed in her.

“I'm not him.” Cheo rose to his feet and towered over her. He cut his eyes into small sharp slits and glared at her. “I am not him. I don't want to take advantage of you. I want to love you, Cynthia. Please let me do his for you. Let me help you.”

“Cheo, I don't know. This would make us partners. Could you handle us being part—”

“I'll be your silent partner. I won't say a word. You can have complete control over managing, hiring, planning menus, and all that jazz. Besides,
mi amor,
I have my own projects to worry about.”

“Is the paper letting you do some more articles?” Cynthia asked beaming at the thought that they'd both be accomplishing their goals at the same time.

Cheo rubbed his chin as if he was thinking about keeping the information to himself. “Don't laugh. I'm working on a book proposal for one of the largest publishers in the country. I want to write a poor man's travel guide to Spain beginning in Zaragoza.”

Cynthia clapped.

“It gets better,” he said holding up one finger. “I want to work with a chef to compile a list of the cheapest eats in the country. So, you have to open your restaurant so you can work with me on this. Now here's the real question, can you handle us being partners?”

Cheo didn't give Cynthia the chance to answer. With a gentle tug, he drew her into his body and sealed the deal with a wet kiss.

Cynthia mulled it over.
Things will get messy.

She tossed her hands into air and entered into another dangerously provocative kiss with Cheo.

Cynthia lay in bed watching the blades on her ceiling fan spin as her doorbell chimed. She'd finally been able to rest comfortably after nine months of grueling work to get Sabor off the ground.

Really she couldn't complain. The bank had estimated that it would take a year to get the restaurant going between applying for the proper permits and licensing and finding a location. Cheo's connections downtown had made the process of obtaining the proper permits and licensing as easy as applying to Mickey D's. Really she couldn't complain, but it was 6:30 in the morning and someone was ringing doorbell.

Cynthia was exhausted from the festivities of the grand opening of Sabor, Richmond's premier new restaurant; her restaurant. The most difficult part of the whole affair was dealing with worrying about who the food critics were and how many were there. She conducted a brief interview with a food critic Cheo sent over from the
Richmond Sun,
but she was sure there were others present.

She closed her eyes, clicked her heels together under her maroon and sienna Egyptian cotton sheets Cheo actually brought her from his most recent trip to Egypt and chanted, “There's no one at the door. There's no one at the door. There's no one at the door.” But the bell continued to chime.

Cynthia climbed out of the bed, pulled on a robe, cinched the belt tightly around her waist, and marched to what seemed to be a crazy person waiting at her door. She did not remove the chain before opening the door in order to create a barrier in the event the person at the door was a little crazy.

Through the crack, she saw Cheo standing in front of her waving a bottle of sparkling apple cider and a copy of the
Richmond Sun
in his other hand. “You're a hit,
mi amor.
You did it. They love you.”

Cynthia removed the chain and backed away from the door as he entered. He eased it open with his foot then stepped into the kitchen. Cynthia watched him maneuver around her kitchen as if it were his own. He buried the sparkling cider in the freezer in the middle of the broccoli and mixed vegetables, pulled out some eggs, and rested them on the countertop.

“What would you like for your breakfast celebration? French toast, pancakes with bacon and eggs, or English muffins with butter and jelly? Please say English muffins.”

“Cheo, why are we celebrating at six-thirty in the morning?”

“
Tu.
You don't know, do you? Your reviews were marvelous. Listen: ‘Most people take a trip to New York to take a bite out of the Big Apple, but Cynthia Ann Hathaway brought a slice of the Big Apple here to Richmond. Hathaway is no stranger to Richmond's culinary scene. Her name may ring a bell and her face may look familiar because she is the very special and talented chef Chef Sullivan introduced to us three years ago at the mayor's twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.'

“‘If you've been craving rich, luscious foods, dreaming of Old San Juan, or dying to find out what all the fuss is about crepes, look no further than Sabor. Don't let the name fool you into thinking it is just another poorly lit Spanish restaurant because it is not. Sabor means flavor, and this restaurant is full of it. The foyer resembles an airport terminal. Guests receive their boarding tickets (the menu) stamped with their destination and are then escorted by the hostess to one of the restaurant's culinary destinations. The restaurant is divided into four dining areas, each representing a distinct part of the world: Spain where you can eat tapas, drink beer, and watch soccer. Italy where the pasta is made fresh daily, New Delhi offers patrons a plethora of vegan or curried dishes, and of course there's Midtown. A small section in the center of the restaurant for those patrons who can't decide what it is exactly they want to eat, which Hathaway says was actually inspired by her Harlem upbringing. “You hop on the train and you could have virtually anything you wanted in midtown from Moroccan food to an all-American cheeseburger deluxe.” Hathaway also credits her mother's keen sense for interior decorating as a source of inspiration for Sabor's quirky and fun décor. “Every room in my mother's apartment has a different feeling and puts you in a different mood. Food has the power to do that, thus I decided the décor should do the same thing. It should transport you to a different place and complement how you feel.”'

“‘After eating a platter of
arroz con pollo
and some flan, you may want nothing more than to take a siesta, so why not relax surrounded by palm trees and the ocean's breeze?'

“‘Now if last night's opening is an indication of what the future holds, I recommend you book your tickets in advance for a trip to Sabor. There was not an empty seat in the place, not even in Midtown where I sampled everything from Hathaway's take on fried rice, which included juicy bits of smoked salmon and Brussels sprouts. For dessert, I had pecan custard drizzled in caramel whose origin is unknown, but it made itself right at home in my belly. Sabor is big on personality and offers everything that the name suggests.'”

“You did it.” Cheo scooped Cynthia up, squeezed her, and kissed her all over her face. “This is
maravilloso.
”

Cheo returned Cynthia to her feet. She looked up at him, frozen in the moment with her hands glued to her cheeks. “Cheo, oh my God. Cheo, we did it.”

“No, you did this,
mi amor.
”

“Cheo, I couldn't have done this without you. You were so instrumental in me being successful. This is just as much my success as it is yours, partner.” Cynthia went through the checklist of things Cheo had done to orchestrate her success: he had introduced her to Chef Sullivan, got her some catering gigs with his journalist friends, fronted a significant portion of the startup costs, and cosigned for her loan. “I don't know how to thank you for this, Cheo.”

“I think you do.” He playfully tugged at the waist of her robe and used it to pull her close to him. He pecked at her lips.

“Cheo, you're not making celibacy easy. What does the Bible tell you about this?”

They'd both taken a vow of celibacy in front of the entire congregation of Dayspring Church of Divine Healing and Prophecy, but this sister still had urges and the Jesus routine wasn't working for her.

“The Bible says we should get married,” he replied. Cynthia gave him a side-eye glare.

“Trust me, I've studied that scripture, 1 Corinthians 7:9. It says, ‘But if they cannot contain, let them marry for it is better to marry than to burn.' So, we're going to have to figure out what it is we're doing.”

Since Cheo had become a member of the church, he was all about them settling down and getting married. For some odd reason, Cheo had really taken to believing he was Jacob, she was Rachel, and they were destined and ordained by God to marry. Cynthia didn't do much to convince him otherwise except avoid the issue. She still couldn't figure out the right way to say, “I can't marry you, Cheo because I am already married and have two kids.”

“Please, let's not turn this into one of those discussions,” Cynthia said, clapping her hands to her sides.

“
What? The kind where you go all psycho and throw me out for wanting to commit to you after three and half years of dating or whatever this is? No, I won't make this about us right now when it's all about you.

Recognizing his frustration, Cynthia arched her body against his and twirled one of his curly locks around her finger. “Cheo, I . . . I love you, but there are things in my past that I haven't let go of.”

“Then let them go.”

“I can't.” She clutched her chest, recognizing she was lying. She'd let Keith and James go a long time ago. “I'm trying to bury my past and build a better life. I'm sorry I just have not arrived there yet.”

“Do you want me to read the other ones?” Cheo asked softly, changing the subject.

Cynthia gasped. “There's more?”

“
Si, si. Hay más, mucho más.
You're big time now, kid,” he said lightly checking her chin with his fist. “So you better snap out of it and get ready for the lunch crowd. With these kinds of reviews, you're bound to have a line every day this week. You are aware that you did just launch the opening of one of the most captivating culinary finds in all of Virginia, according to the food critic at the
Richmond Times.
”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Cheo said, handing her the newspaper. “See for yourself. Now back to breakfast. What do you want?”

“Coffee, just coffee; and some scrambled eggs. I don't think my stomach can handle much more of this.”

Cheo retreated into the kitchen and started cracking eggs, leaving Cynthia alone with the newspapers. She fell into the sofa and just looked at the words in front of her. She'd catered every event imaginable, from baby showers to album release parties, in order to generate the funds necessary to open Sabor.

It would've taken her longer if it had not been for Cheo's generous donation of forty-five grand. Renovating and decorating the space at the Halifax Loft complex—the newest and most premier piece of property on the real estate scene in Richmond—had taken seven months and finally she'd done it. Cynthia held the papers to her chest. Now she was, as the
Richmond Times
put it, stepping out of the shadows of her mentor Chef Sullivan to demonstrate she was a pro with a reservoir of talent that would be feeding Richmond for years to come.

Carrying Cynthia's food on a bamboo stick tray, Cheo entered the living room. He placed the tray on the coffee table in front of her and kissed the crown of her head. Cynthia looked up at him, and their eyes locked, causing her to smile from the inside out, momentarily blocking the thoughts of her past that were bubbling up inside of her.

“I am proud of you.”

“Cheo, what do I do now?”

Her words hung in the air. She wasn't really asking him about the restaurant. She was asking him about her—about her sons, about a life he knew nothing about.

Despite the chaos of preparing to open Sabor, Cynthia still sent her obligatory monthly stipend to Barbara for the boys, even though her calls home were nonexistent. Sabor had become her new child, and like a good mother she petted it, fawned over it, and nursed it until it was able to stand on its own two feet.

“Cynthia, you work. You work harder than you did before, harder than you have in your whole life. Yesterday no one knew who you were, and now all of Virginia knows you and your restaurant.
Ahora,
you have a reputation to uphold.”

Cynthia pursed her lips together to form a pout and rested her chin in the palms of her hands. Cheo paced across the living room floor, rattling off all the things she would have to do now to maintain her status as Richmond's premier chef. All Cynthia could do was list the things she shouldn't be doing as grief besieged her.

As she coasted into the life she'd always wanted, she wondered about the life she'd left behind.

“
Hola, mi amor.
Did you hear anything I just said?” Cheo asked, waving his hand in front of her face.

“No, Cheo,” she said shaking her head, “I'm sorry. I was somewhere else.”

The doorbell rang, saving Cynthia from having to explain where it was that her mind had taken her. She peered through the peephole and saw that it was Mrs. Richardson who lived with her husband in the apartment directly across the hall from Cynthia.

Mrs. Richardson was the standard nosy old lady. She didn't actually knock on Cynthia's door that often, and when she did, typically it was for some milk when she couldn't make the drive down to the grocer.

Cynthia greeted Mrs. Richardson with a smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Richardson. It's awfully early. Is everything okay?”

“Oh, everything is fine, dear. I stopped by to congratulate you. Could you imagine my surprise? Here I am reading the morning papers, and lo and behold whose beautiful smiling face do I see?” Mrs. Richardson asked, pinching Cynthia's cheeks. “Congratulations! I mean my mouth was always watering when I stepped out into the hallway and smelled the aroma coming from your apartment, and you certainly did a wonderful job on Tiffany's reception, but I never knew you were a world-class chef.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Richardson,” Cynthia said graciously smiling.

“Cynthia, umm . . .” Mrs. Richardson played coy as her eyes darted side to side. Cynthia braced herself for the request she knew Mrs. Richardson was about to make. That type of hesitation only preceded a favor of some kind.

“I was wondering if I could make a reservation for this afternoon. I'd like a table in Spain.”

“Sure, Mrs. Richardson, but you have to do me a favor.”

“What is it?”

“Please don't tell anyone I did this for you.”

Mrs. Richardson zippered her mouth shut, locked it, then tossed her imaginary key on the floor, and grumbled a thank you through her sealed lips. Cynthia chuckled during Mrs. Richardson's mime act. She'd done the same childish lock-and-key bit when Cynthia gave her a discount on the catering bill for her daughter Tiffany's wedding reception.

Cynthia shut the door behind Mrs. Richardson and calmly walked into the middle of the living room and screamed. Cheo jumped up from his seat at the dining room table, grabbed Cynthia, and pinned her to his chest.

“Are you okay?”

“Cheo, I just booked my first reservation, our first reservation. Can you believe this? Oh my God. Cheo, you've got to get out of here. I have to get dressed. Meet me at the restaurant later if you can.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and darted to the bathroom.