Page 43 of The Love Syllabus

“No!” Ms. Vicky cuts him off, her voice sharper now. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You couldn’t control what happened. What youcando is make your father proud. Fix things with your brother, or else the legacy he built for his sons and your daughters will crumble.”

I watch as his shoulders, previously rigid with defiance, begin to slump. Their issues stem far beyond this conversation, so it’s impossible for me to fully grasp the moment, but it’s clear Vic is conflicted.

Attempting to sneak away unnoticed, I misstep, my toe colliding painfully with a kitchen stool. “Oh,shit!Ow, ow, ow,” I hiss, trying to muffle my pain.

Silence falls like a heavy curtain.

“Ms. Kind? Are you there?” Vic’s voice cuts through the stillness, sharp and alert.

Frozen, I consider staying hidden, praying the shadows will conceal my intrusion. But the echo of his footsteps grows louder, closer.

Might as well face the music.

I step out, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Uh, hi,” I offer a sheepish wave. “I promise I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was just checking on the girls, and when I realized you wouldn’t be home in time, I came to put away the food. Then, well, you both walked in, but I swear, I didn’t hear anything.”

They just stare, their expressions unreadable.

“Okay, so maybe I heardeverything,” I admit with a nervous laugh. “I’m just gonna go now.”

“No,” Ms. Vicky interjects, her voice warm despite the tension lingering in the air. She steps toward me, surprising me with a gentle hug. Leaning in, she whispers, “Take care of him, will you? Don’t let him revert to the man he once was.”

Before I can respond, she pulls back, her bright smile returning as if we hadn’t just shared an intimate secret. “Well, I’m off. Try to get some rest, Son,and think about what I said. Goodnight, Ms. Kind. You look lovely, by the way.” She tosses a playful wink toward her son before sweeping out the door.

A surprised chuckle escapes him, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time since he’s been home. Now alone, we both hesitate, our words caught somewhere between our thoughts and tongues. Finally, he breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry about today,” he says, his voice quieter, softer. “I tried to leave the office, but I was swamped with meetings, contracts, and negotiations… while Hudson just…bailed on me. He wants to be CEO, but he doesn’t want to grow up.”

I’m taken aback by his candor, sensing the isolation he must feel, not having had someone to discuss his burdens and frustration with for years. But before he can continue, I interject.

“Hey,” I say, gently placing my hand on his arm, offering a comforting touch. “Why don’t you go and give Ari a kiss goodnight while I heat your dinner? Then, we can talk about your day.”

He closes his eyes briefly, exhaling like he’s been holding his breath for hours. “She waited for me, didn’t she?” His voice is a whisper now, laced with guilt. “This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. Exactly who I didn’t want to become again.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Grimes,” I reassure him, gently nudging him toward the hallway. “I’m sure once you give her a hug and a kiss, she’ll fall right to sleep. Now, go on.”

He nods silently and heads to the girls’ rooms. Meanwhile, I return to the kitchen, heat his dinner, then pour a glass of wine for me and whiskey for him, ready to ease into the evening with a bit of shared solace.

A few minutes later, I feel a strong, warm hand on my shoulder. “You should’ve seen her,” Mr. Grimes says as he settles beside me. “As soon as she saw me, she just said ‘Hey, Daddy,’ and went straight to sleep.”

We share a laugh and ease into one another’s space. “See! I told you. No need to worry.” I say, handing him his plate.

His brow lifts in surprise as he stares at the food. “Wait… is this—?”

“Yes,” I reply, a nervous smile playing on my lips. “I found one of your old recipe books in the library today. The pages were so delicate. I couldn’t help but run my hands through them, then I saw they were handwritten, and I just—”

“Kerry, please,” he interjects, his tone soft but firm. “My house is your house, remember? That library is yours too. And that recipe book? It belonged to my grandmother.”

He reverently traces the notebook’s worn binding, an object that very well may have been the foundation of the legacy he’s now fulfilling.

“Wow, so that’s who you get your love for cooking from? Was she a chef?” I ask, watching him take his first bite.

For a moment, I can’t tell if his reaction is good or bad. He chews thoughtfully, then swallows, his expression softening. “This is perfect, Kerry. So damn good. I haven’t tasted this since my grandmother was alive.”

The warmth of his praise blooms in my chest.

“To answer your question, yes. I definitely inherited my love for cooking from her. She passed when I was young, but she was a staple in Harlem. She’d travel nearly two hours every day to Hudson Valley to cook and clean for wealthy white families, making them delicious West Indie dishes.”

I sip my wine, captivated. “Let me guess. They paid her next to nothing but still wanted herexoticrecipes for their fancy parties?”

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