Page 21 of The Best Man: Unfinished Business

Chapter Nine

Robyn

“What the hell?” Robyn said. Her staff was using big push brooms to sweep the water away as fast as they could.

Her heart sank to see the buckets strewn about between the lovely coffee brown wooden tables she’d so carefully picked out.

Now water was everywhere—drowning the usually spotless dark gray floor tiles, dripping into buckets, splashed on the bar counter in the back.

The only place that seemed somewhat dry was the kitchen, where Robyn could see the team scrambling to try to prepare for a lunch service despite the inconveniences. At least the power wason.

Haniah, her restaurant manager, chief of staff, and all-around Ghanaian superstar, rushed over to meet her, a concerned look crossing her usually resplendent hazelnut face.

“Welcome to Atlantis,” she said. Haniah’s wry sense of humor wasn’t amusing Robyn now.

Haniah pointed toward the bar where the water had breached.

“The rain came swiftly and through the side wall. We’re grabbing sandbags.

” East Legon’s streets were not the best built for drainage when large downpours hit the neighborhood.

The water gathered and went where it could.

Another development thanks to global warming.

“Didn’t the city say they were coming to fix the street?” Robyn placed her market items on the nearest dry surface. Haniah looked at Robyn with a thin smile and pointed glance.

Robyn recognized her error right away. “You’re right. I’m sorry. ‘This is not America.’?” She echoed what Haniah had said about the many challenges of having a business in a developing area.

Robyn looked toward the spots in her ceiling that dripped. “And the roof…ugh…”

“We’ll deal with it,” Haniah reassured her.

“Thank you.”

“Because we have bigger fish to fry. And I don’t mean tilapia.”

“What now?”

“Well, the refrigerator wasn’t working this morning—again—but it seems they were able to fix it before all of the perishables spoiled.

We only need to remake the chicken stock.

” Robyn closed her eyes to release an involuntary exhale.

Breathe deep, Robyn, she reminded herself.

Haniah ran her hand through her dark asymmetrical locs as she continued her updates.

“ And Aboagye. Aboagye came by again, saying that he needs to speak with you most urgently about the rent. And he brought a visitor! Someone he said wanted to see the location. But I told him he would have to either start a tab or leave! Of course, he left.” Haniah looked particularly satisfied with herself.

“Thank you.” Robyn made a point to look into Haniah’s eyes and then grabbed a rag to attempt to wipe down the tabletops.

The thanks was as futile as Robyn’s attempt to dry the dining room.

The more days that passed, and the more calamities that mounted, the harder it became to keep a brave face amid this level of chaos.

Haniah needed a raise. Rent for the year was a full sixty thousand American dollars, and in Accra it was due in advance for the year.

It was already hard enough to manage the regular expenses, but the additional burden of coming up with a lump sum of that magnitude was crushing.

Robyn’s Nest was just barely making enough to break even every month.

“Did Aboagye say anything about when they would fix these holes?” Robyn pointed to her ceiling.

“I asked him about that. And he said that he would fix the roof when you fix the hole in his bank account where the rent should be.”

Robyn shook her head and released another sigh.

Robyn had been paying month to month—which was difficult enough—and holding the remainder hostage until Aboagye agreed to fix what was broken, including some faulty appliances and a jalopy of a food truck.

They were playing a game of chicken and Robyn was certainly stalling until she could generate more events, pop-ups, and marketing opportunities for her restaurant.

Sixty thousand would not completely deplete her savings, but it would hurt.

And she was already hurting enough. Robyn had so many challenges—with suppliers, a tenuous line of credit in Ghana, and the expenses of having to maintain her own water supply and a backup generator in case the power went out—that there was little room for error.

There wasn’t much that could be done today other than to strategically place a few more buckets and sandbags until the storm cleared.

They would clean what could be cleaned, and prepare for a lunch service for whichever patrons were willing to brave the rain for a good meal.

On a typical day, this would be disheartening.

But on this day, even the calamity of the rain, and the leak, and the rent, and the potential shortfall on the lunch service, none of it was going to ruin Robyn’s plans.

In fact, the lighter lunch rush meant that she could do just as Thema said and create something from her culinary heart for Kwesi that would light him up with flavor and communicate through a special dish just how she felt about him.

“Okay,” she said with resignation and put down the rag.

“Okay?” Haniah looked puzzled.

“There’s nothing we can do about it now, Haniah. We’ll make do for lunch service. And, honestly, I need a little brainstorm about my dinner in a few days.”

“It’s chicken waakye, Robyn. You can make that in your sleep.”

“I’m going a different direction.” Robyn revealed the palm wine with a small flair. “And I’m going to feature this.”

Instantly, Haniah’s face brightened. It was almost as if the sun had come out within the restaurant.

“Whaaaat? Ohhhh, I like the sound of this.” Haniah began to pick up the handles of the bags of produce that Robyn had set on the bar top.

“Come, come,” Haniah said as she took off toward the kitchen. “We have work to do.”

Moments later, the kitchen was filled with rich and deep smells of peanut curry and roasting meat as the chef de cuisine and his two sous chefs bustled about preparing the lunch menu selections. Robyn dipped a tasting spoon into the nearest pot as she passed.

“That needs to be thicker,” she instructed.

Her chefs were still learning, but Robyn’s refined palate was the marker that kept diners coming back.

And she’d use it with focus now, for her one special guest—the man who kept making her smile.

Haniah spread the fresh ingredients from the market across the stainless steel prep surface, inspecting them.

“Pull out the shallots and garlic, please,” Robyn said as she headed to the temperamental refrigerator to retrieve a pound of mussels. Haniah took notice.

“The jewels of the sea, huh?” she said of the sleek, ebony shells. Robyn dumped them into a rinsing pot. “What are you doing with these?”

“After I clean them, I’ll steam them and make a rich broth using the palm wine.” Robyn was beginning to feel confident in her plan. “Ooh, where did I put that lemongrass…?” Robyn said to the air.

“Here you go.” Haniah presented the narrow and fragrant yellow-green stalks to Robyn, who was adding flour to her mussels to remove excess sand.

Robyn looked at what Haniah held in her hand and quickly shook her head. “Oh, thank you, but no. Not that one,” she said, recognizing the bunch she’d bought earlier at the market. “I brought some in from my garden the other day…” Robyn went off in search for the ingredient.

“Mmmmm, I’m liking the sound of this, chef,” Haniah said behind her.

“Me too.” Robyn smiled, returning with the precise herb she was seeking.

She held it to her nose. Mmmmm. That’s it.

She was going to give Kwesi something that he could love, something of her.

This was a new start, a fresh page, and a new twist on known flavors.

Thema was right. The dish that she’d create would be for him and he would only think of her. No sense in competing with Grandma.

“He’s not going to know what hit him.” Haniah gave Robyn a playful nudge with her shoulder.

Robyn laughed with her. Somehow, they always managed to find the joy in the challenges they faced together, those now and past—over the last year building Robyn’s Nest. There never was enough of anything other than creativity and faith along this journey.

Robyn had already exhausted the money she’d earned selling her food subscription business, and the bulk of Harper’s alimony money was dedicated to Mia and her costs for school.

After securing their modest home, she hadn’t touched another dime of it.

Something in her needed to know that she was capable of succeeding on her own.

While Haniah continued the counter prep—chopping onions, mincing garlic, and crushing the fresh lemongrass—Robyn remembered the moment that Kwesi first walked into the restaurant, between the lunch and dinner service, trying to nab a meal even though they had none of their usual items to serve.

With thin margins, the restaurant didn’t have many days when the specials for lunch and dinner weren’t sold out by the end.

And so, when this tall and handsome man, with Ghanaian features and a notable British accent walked through her doors, Robyn was taken aback.

As harried as she was, she could still recognize beauty when she saw it.

She wanted to ask him to come back later, but she also didn’t want him to leave.

Not with that smile—she did not want to see those broad shoulders sauntering out.

She wanted to feed him, to nourish him with what she’d created.

He apologized when he learned he was both late for lunch and early for dinner.

He’d lost track of time on a string of business calls but had made it a point to come specifically to her restaurant—he’d heard so many good things from friends, he’d been meaning to stop by and taste a sample.