Page 34 of The Key To His Soul
I pulledinto the visitor’s parking lot of Amil’s building just as the sun had ducked behind the clouds. She’d called me in distress while I was home, practically begging me to come over. And when Milz started her dramatic shit, I knew she’d either been sitting on a million ideas too long and needed help sorting through them or a nigga had her fucked up. Either way, I was open to help because it was just who I was.
Picking up my purse and the black plastic bag I had in the passenger seat, I locked my car and walked across the street to her building. When I entered, the concierge’s head popped up.
“Good evening, Ms. Su… Kyiris.” He corrected himself before I had a chance to.
I nodded slowly, while he smirked. “You’ll get used to it one day, Lonnie. I mean, it’s been a year now. I told you I’m cool with the first name.”
Mr. Lonnie, Amil’s concierge, had to be around sixty years old. He was a nice-looking, older gentleman with salt and pepper hair that he kept in a low taper fade. He was the sweetest guy and insisted on addressing everyone using their last names, even if you weren’t a resident of the building. I had to almost threaten him to call me Kyiris.
“Force of habit,” he replied genuinely.
Leaning over the counter, I smiled. “Listen, when I become someone’s rich, put-up wife, then by all means add the salutations. Until then, Kyiris is just fine.”
“You got it.” He returned my smile and patted my hand. “Ms. Sullivan is expecting you.”
“Yeah. You can callherthat. She’s older.” I winked, tapping the counter before heading to the private elevators.
Amil had lived in the building long enough that Mr. Lonnie was familiar with our family. I’d even caught him flirting with Grandma Lettie a few times when we visited together. I never called him out about it because I thought it was cute. I’d never mentioned it to Aura though. That was one nigga that didn’t play about G.
The doors of the elevator opened on the 26thfloor, and I stepped off. Before I could make it down the hall, Amil’s door opened, and she peeked her head out.
“What, you got a tracker on my ass or something?” I laughed as I approached.
“No. Mr. Lonnie don’t play about his job. He let me know you were on your way up. Hurry up and get in here before I lose my damn mind.”
I slowed my pace just to aggravate her, and it worked.
“Stop playin’, ho!” The irritation in her voice was clear, but I could see her trying hard not to laugh.
“Alright. Alright.” I walked inside her place and kicked my shoes off, sliding them into the custom shoe rack near the door.
“I was just about to call you again when Mr. Lonnie called.”
“It’s only been thirty minutes since we got off the phone, Milz. You would’ve called on that rushing shit and got hung up on.”
“And I would’ve called right back to cuss yo’ ass out.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever is going on, it better be an emergency the way you actin’. And it smell good in here. What you made?” I asked as the smell of roasted garlic mixed with basil and other aromatics pulled me toward the kitchen.
The organized chaos on her island stopped me before I could get to the pots. It was covered in blueprints, paint swatches, and magazine clippings. Blinking, I turned slowly to Amil, who stood close behind me with her hands clasped in front of her, all innocent and shit.
“Well, I made baked chicken, wild rice, and broccolini, with a side of a new business venture.” Walking around me, she grabbed a lone glass of wine that sat on the counter and pushed it in my hand.
“I need you, and I know food gets your creative juices flowing. So, I got my pretty ass in the kitchen and got to work.”
“So, you lured me here with food?” I questioned, my posture giving offense.
“And wine.” She put her hand out and pushed the glass up to my lips.
I silently took a sip then smirked over the rim of the glass. “That’s some real Sullivan shit right there. I ain’t even mad atcha. Fill me in while I fill my plate.”
Heading over to the sink, I washed my hands and grabbed a plate. Although she owned a restaurant, Milz had never been an “in the kitchen” kind of girlie. No matter how many times Grandma Lettie had us in there growing up, teaching us new recipes and how to make different dishes from scratch, Milz wasn’t interested. Still, she learned because well, there was no telling Grandma Lettie no, and as young girls growing into womanhood, we needed to know our way around the kitchen. Along the way, she’d mastered a few dishes, and baked chicken was one of them. I’d have to see about the wild rice. That was new.
Propping herself up on one of the barstools at the island, she began explaining what all she had scattered on top of it. “Okay, so boom, you know Sullivan’s has been my baby for a few years now and is slowly becoming the new diner spot for everyone.”
“Not slowly,” I cut in, “it is. Continue.” With my plate full, I sat down next to her.
“Right. I was tryna be a lil’ humble.”
