Apple Brown Betty Read Online Free PDF Page B

fully explain.
    Karen stopped long enough to wink at Desmond and then moved through the door.
    â€œI hope her husband is appreciating that,” Desmond said aloud, shaking his head as Karen disappeared through the swinging doors.
    The chirp of Desmond’s cell phone cut through his carnal thoughts.
    He opened the flip of his StarTAC. “Desmond Rucker.” He rarely got personal calls so he always answered as if it were a business line.
    Desmond was greeted by his younger sister Felicia’s voice. “Hey, baby brother.”
    â€œI’m older by nine years and a few months,” Desmond said, smiling.
    â€œDang, somebody was shooting blanks for a long time…nine years.”
    â€œWorkaholics,” Desmond said. “The first child was planned. The second was a pleasant surprise.”
    â€œIs that it?”
    â€œYes, it is. Where are they? They haven’t picked you up yet?”
    Felicia sucked in some of the cool night air. “I love your awning…what color is this, burgundy?”
    Desmond’s voice plummeted. “You’re here?”
    â€œWalking up to your door,” Felicia said.
    â€œMan!” Desmond slapped the flip of his cell shut and moved through the swinging doors of the kitchen. One of these days he was going to kill Felicia. She had clear instructions to call him as soon as their parents picked her up from the train station. That would give him half an hour or so to make sure everything was as close to perfect as he could get it. Half an hour to get his nerves under control. Half an hour to prepare for his father.
    â€œPlace is hopping,” Karen said as Desmond took a spot next to her at the hostess podium.
    â€œMy parents are here,” Desmond informed Karen. “My fool-ass sister just called.”
    â€œReally?” Karen swung her head, swept her long hair off her shoulders. Her skin was the color of fresh-roasted peanuts, her teeth white like copy paper. She brushed the lapel of her jacket and straightened her shoulders. “Nervous?” she asked.
    â€œNope,” Desmond lied through clenched teeth. His heart was threatening to cut through the strong fabric of his suit. “The crowd helps. My father is bound to be impressed. I don’t ever remember his restaurants being this crowded, and we have more square footage here.”
    â€œThought your mother ran them with him,” Karen said.
    â€œShe did.”
    â€œYou only mentioned your father, Desmond.”
    â€œDid I?”
    â€œYep, you did. Is that a bit of male chauvinism showing its face?”
    â€œNot at all,” Desmond said. “My father is the more opinionated of my parents, that’s all.” An understatement if there ever was one. “Just want to do well,” Desmond reasoned. “The culinary business is in the Rucker blood.” He looked at her and returned a smile. “You know what I’m saying, baby?”
    Karen could feel herself drowning in Desmond’s eyes. Before she could compose herself enough to answer his question, the front door opened.
    Barbara Rucker, Desmond’s mother, stepped in first. She was a striking woman, her black hair highlighted by elegant strands of silver. The perfection of her skin, the absence of wrinkles, made her appear a decade younger than she actually was. Like all the Ruckers, she had a good amount of height on her, close to six feet even without her high-heeled pumps. She wore a burgundy pantsuit that brought out the deep mocha hue of her skin.
    Frank Rucker was an older version of his son. Broad through the shoulders. Large hands with thick cords of veins running over the top to give a clue as to their true strength. Same deep mocha color as his wife, an oddity among black couples; usually one partner was shaded differently than the other. He wore a neat, short Afro, salt covering his temples and spraying his crown. His jaw was boxed, chiseled like those of male models, no