“What foods do they serve for the dinner?” Nydia asked.
The three girls began talking at the same time until Evangeline put up a hand. “Girls, please. One at a time.”
“I’ll go first,” Taylor volunteered. “Every student has to pick a country and write a report and create a model, painting, or diorama of that country’s famous buildings or monuments. At the end of the week we have a dinner, and students, parents, and teachers bring in foods from around the world.”
“We ate food from Vietnam, France, Italy, Mexico, India, and even some African countries,” Kendra continued.
“I got to eat a lot of foods I never tasted before,” Morgan offered, “but there were some that tasted nasty.”
“Morgan!” Evangeline scolded softly. “I’ve told you time and time again that if you don’t like something you don’t say it’s nasty, because it may taste good to someone else.” Morgan and her mother engaged in a stare-down until the waitress approached the table and handed each of them a menu.
“Miss Nydia? Can you teach me how to makepasteles?” Kendra said, catching everyone at the table off-guard with her query. “That way I can bring them to this year’s International Week dinner.”
“Can you teach us, too?” the twins asked in unison.
Lamar rested his hand at the small of Nydia’s back. “Think before you answer,” he said, warning her just above a whisper. “Because this trio can be very manipulative,” he continued in Spanish.
Nydia paused, staring at Kendra and then the twin girls. “I can’t commit until I speak to your parents. If they agree and I decide to give you cooking lessons, I’ll start with Kendra because there are a lot of steps and it takes hours to makepasteles. Once Kendra shows me she knows what’s she’s doing, then she can assist with Morgan and Taylor.”
“Please, Mama,” the twins chorused.
Kendra rose slightly and leaned forward and flashed a look Lamar interpreted as her woe-is-me face. “Daddy?”
“Girls! We’ll talk about this later.” There was a hint of finality in Evangeline’s voice.
Seconds later Taylor, Kendra, and Morgan pretended interest in their menus.
Lamar picked up his menu. “You could’ve said no,” he said under his breath.
Nydia gave him a sidelong glance, her eyes appearing more green than gold under a sweep of long dark lashes. Staring at her, Lamar realized why her ex hadn’t wanted to let Nydia go. She’d been blessed with a natural beauty and intelligence she did not flaunt, and a sensuality that had him fantasizing about making love with her.
Nydia held him captive in a longing that was so foreign that it frightened him. Lamar had never professed to be a choirboy when it came to interacting with women; he’d sown his wild oats before settling down to become a husband and father.
Lamar had had his first sexual encounter at sixteen with an older woman who’d taught him how to please her, and she in turn made him cognizant of his body and how best to use it to bring himself ultimate pleasure and satisfaction. At that age he was very discriminating and refused to sleep with any of the girls at their school. Too many were into kissing and telling, and he wanted to avoid the pitfalls of some of his male classmates, whose girlfriends told them they were pregnant and keeping the baby. It was never an option for him to father a child out of wedlock, and he always took the precaution to use protection. Once he’d begun dating Valerie he never looked at another woman. He had remained a loyal and faithful husband throughout their marriage.
Nydia leaned against his shoulder. “I wasn’t prepared to say no because I remember myself at their age. I’d come home after school, change my clothes, and then go into the kitchen to do homework and watch my mother or grandmother prepare dinner. I’d always ask what’s for dinner. And if they were making my favorites I’d tell them I wanted to learn to make it. Mami and Abuelita were the best teachers a girl could have, and by the time I was sixteen I was able to put a full meal on the table. And that included soup, salad, bread, and entrées. When I lived on campus I had a dorm with a kitchen. I became quite the saleswoman when I cooked and sold dinners to other students.”
Lamar pressed a fist to his mouth to suppress a laugh. “You were selling dinners like folks do when hosting house-rent parties.”
“What do you know about house-rent parties?”
“Come on,cariña. Black folks have been selling dinners for generations to get money to pay their rent. And I’m certain people in your neighborhood still do, because it wasn’t that long ago that Iggy and I bought fish dinners on Fridays from one of his neighbors.”
Nydia laughed softly. “You’re right. When the word went out around the campus that Santiago was cooking, students came through with the ducats. I made enough money to pay for my books and then have some left over.”
“So, you’d become a hustler.”
“Correction, Lamar. I was theunmitigatedhustler. I’d grown up watching dudes in my neighborhood hustling everything from clothes to meat that would conveniently fall off a truck. They never sold anything to my mother because they knew my father was a cop.”
“Did he ever arrest them?”
“No. He didn’t work out of our neighborhood precinct.”
“Tell me about your hustle.”
“I’d buy large bags of rice, packages of dried beans, yellow and green plantains, and whatever meat, chicken, or fish was on sale. Every once in a while I’d roast a pork shoulder and the entire building was filled with mouth-watering aroma ofperñil. A few of the students would complain about the smell of garlic, oregano, and cumin and wanted to report me to management, but they were intimidated by my regular customers. I gave them more food on a five-dollar plate than what they’d get in the cafeteria, snack bar, or nearby fast food joints. If you want, I’ll teach Kendra to cook a few traditional Spanish dishes, and I promise not to tell her about my days as a college foodie hustler.”
Lamar offered his hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal, as long as it doesn’t interfere with her schoolwork.”
