All Up In My Business Read online

  “Jesus is the healer, hallelujah,” Malcolm’s wife, Victoria, said fervently, as if she were in church instead of a conference room and proving why she only visited the company offices twice a year. “I think we should pray for the young man right now.”

  “We can pray later,” Malcolm quickly countered, concern mixed with obvious irritation. Since his wife had renewed her commitment to the Lord, their sex life had hit the skids, and he was more than a little upset. We haven’t had sex in two months. Why don’t you pray that the Lord will heal those headaches you keep having? Later, Malcolm would commend himself on the fact that he didn’t say this out loud.

  “I don’t have to tell you what’s going to come out of this,” Toussaint said to his father.

  “I know,” Adam replied, motioning for Zoe to hand out the meeting agenda. “I’ve already got a call in to our attorneys, to make sure our liability insurance can take care of … whatever comes up.”

  After everyone had received their copy of the order of business, Adam nodded at Ace.

  “Y’all know the main reason we’re here,” Ace said, his posture relaxed, his tone casual. “Like many businesses, this one is in trouble, for the short-term. Let me emphasize that. This downturn is temporary. We’ve weathered financial storms before, and we’ll weather this one as well. But it’s serious, and we want everyone around this table to know that. If we don’t generate a large cash infusion, we’ll have to file for Chapter 11 bankruptcy within six months.”

  This time the room’s reactions were more audible. Zoe gasped, the CFO groaned, and a third person hid their shock behind a cough. But the Livingstons were as cool as cucumbers. Even in their own boardroom, no one ever saw them sweat.

  “What this means,” Ace went on, “is that we’d have time to get our stuff together and hold off these creditors who are calling in huge loans because of their own financial struggles. Filing bankruptcy is serious business, no doubt. But know this: In the event that this does happen, business will go on. No one here will lose their jobs.” He fixed Zoe with a reassuring grin. “Businesses do this all the time, to buy time. That’s all we’re doing.”

  “I think it’s a good option, Ace,” Malcolm said. Others voiced their opinion, and then Toussaint stood. He handed out elegantly bound copies of a business proposal. “What you’re looking at, ladies and gentleman,” he began, “is your future—the future of Taste of Soul.” He waited, making sure he had everyone’s attention. He did. Especially for the ladies in the room who were not his kin, six feet two inches of creamy, chiseled chocolate was hard to ignore. “This is the blueprint for taking our company to the next level, without filing for bankruptcy. We all know that the twenty-first-century game for corporate America is expansion through mergers. It’s time to go big or go home.”

  “Oh, here we go …,” Malcolm grumbled. He met his father’s eye and knew Adam’s sentiments were the same. Taste would always belong to the Livingstons, period. But a subtle nod from Adam silenced further grumbling from Malcolm or anyone else.

  “This is what I propose,” Toussaint continued, “a chain of Taste locations across America and throughout the world, franchises, along with retail establishments that carry an array of complimentary products. The goal is lofty—fifty new establishments in five years—but is achievable through partnership with high-level investors who can infuse this company with up to half a billion dollars cash immediately upon closing the deal. We will still control the business. All decisions will still be made by a Livingston majority.

  “I know this plan is aggressive,” Toussaint concluded enthusiastically as he prowled the room like a caged panther. “But I’ve done the research, crunched the numbers. Now is the perfect time to strike—while the iron is hot.” He paused, gauging the faces of those seated around the large, mahogany conference table, and then took his seat.

  “Thank you for a well-delivered proposal, Toussaint,” Adam said sincerely. He didn’t agree with his son’s assessments but couldn’t deny that they’d been delivered flawlessly. “As always, you came well prepared.” Instead of voicing his objections, Adam looked around the room. “Discussion?”

  “I’d like to know which iron is hot,” Malcolm taunted without looking at his brother. “The economy is still in the tank, unemployment is high, and the real estate market has yet to rebound. While what you’re proposing may look good on paper, I don’t think your plan will succeed in real life.”

  “All of the points you mentioned are exactly why this is the perfect time,” Toussaint calmly responded. “Right now, premium real estate is available at bargain prices. Aligning ourselves with federal funding opportunities will help put people back to work. As for the tanking economy, I think our last-quarter profits are proof enough that no matter how low one’s bank account, folks still have to eat. That is why ours is an attractive company to potential investors and entrepreneurs.”

  “What are your thoughts, Ace?” Adam asked his twin brother. Although their similarities were unmistakable, few knew these two were actually twins. Where Adam seemed to wear every rib, slice of sweet potato pie, and shot of cognac around his stomach, constant workouts and a lifetime of jogging kept Ace’s body fit and trim. Adam kept his salt-and-pepper hair in a close-cropped style, along with a tidy mustache and goatee. Ace had shaved his head the minute the gray had started coming in and was still clean-shaven. Their personalities were different as well. Ace was prone to take the chances his more conservative brother passed up. Which is why he thought Toussaint’s plan had merit and warranted further review. This is what he thought and what he gave as his answer.

  Malcolm looked from Ace to Toussaint. “If we decide to expand, keeping the business a hundred percent in the family, where would you propose our next location be? Other Southern states? The Midwest?”

  “It’s all outlined in the back of the proposal I gave you,” Toussaint said, leaning back casually in the tan-colored leather chair. He knew he’d baited the hook well and was patient enough to wait until the right time to reel everyone in. “All of the details are included in the extra reading material at the back of the binder, to be perused at your leisure. However, to answer your question, I think the next gold mine for this company is out west—locations in Los Angeles, followed by one on the Vegas strip.”

  Zoe’s mind whirled even as she typed the meeting minutes on her iPad. The meetings were also recorded so that the final report she prepared could be as detailed as possible, but often she was asked to repeat a fact or figure that had been shared earlier, so she took notes on the spot in addition to having everything on a recorder. But it wasn’t the talk of menus and revenues that had her thoughts going a mile a minute. She was thinking how good Toussaint looked in his tailored black suit and wondering whether he planned to move out west during the proposed expansion and whether she’d be able to make her move and work her magic soon enough to go with him. Before long, Zoe would realize she wasn’t the only female in the conference room making plans.

  Toussaint had plans too. He’d hurriedly left the office after the meeting and now bobbed his head to Marvin Gaye as he cruised through the streets of Atlanta in his shiny black Mercedes sport coupe. Though late, he was determined to keep the appointment with the interior designer who would turn his downtown penthouse from a casual bachelor pad to a millionaire showcase. Her first assignment would be to transform his living and dining areas into a contemporary, elegant yet understated paradise. Her second assignment, if the meeting went as Toussaint planned, would take place in the bedroom, where Toussaint would initiate a different type of layout—one where no clothing was needed.

  4

  Malcolm twirled a glass paperweight as he sat behind his desk. Papers covered the rich cherrywood, and both his inbox and outbox were overflowing as well. A stack of manila folders rested on the desk’s left side, the only nod to neatness. Toussaint’s proposal lay open directly in front of him, with certain points highlighted and others underlined. There was no denying that hi
s brother’s proposal was excellent. The details he’d included at the back of the folder certainly added credence to what Toussaint had presented in the meeting. Toussaint had a keen eye when it came to seeing the big picture of the Livingston enterprise. Yep, I think your plan could definitely happen, baby brother. Smiling, Malcolm opened his desk drawer, unlocked a special compartment, and pulled out a plan of his own.

  “Burning the midnight oil, big bro?” Toussaint asked as he strolled into Malcolm’s office.

  “I could ask you the same,” Malcolm replied as he calmly closed the folder he’d been reviewing and placed it back in the drawer. “I thought I saw you leave earlier.”

  “Yeah, had an appointment.” Toussaint frowned, remembering how the second part of his meeting hadn’t gone as planned. “I just came back for a couple things. I’m going to work from home tomorrow.” He noticed his open proposal on Malcolm’s desktop. “Oh, taking notes, I see,” he said, and sat down in one of the plush seats facing the desk.

  “Just doing as you requested—taking a closer look at my leisure.”

  “Still convinced the plan will fail?”

  “You did your homework. But I’m adamantly opposed to splitting up the business. Our restaurant empire is the Livingston legacy, for our children and theirs.”

  “Exactly. My plan simply ensures there will be something to leave them.”

  Malcolm shrugged. “I noticed a few eyes light up at your plans to expand west, one pair being those of our very capable marketing manager.”

  Toussaint smiled at the mention of their marketing manager, Shyla. “You’re just mad you can’t hit that fine ass like I do.”

  “You’re not going to be satisfied until you’ve slept with every single woman in the company,” Malcolm said with a frown. “What about Alexis? Did you call her?”

  Toussaint’s countenance remained neutral. “I called her. We met.”

  “And?”

  “It’s all good. She’s playing hard to get, but that’s just getting me hard.”

  “You’re thirty-two years old, Toussaint. It’s time to think about getting married and settling down. Do you think that might happen with Shyla?”

  “Naw, man, it’s not even like that. Me and baby girl like to hang out, that’s all. But speaking of marriage, what’s up with you and Vic? It felt kinda chilly between y’all in the boardroom earlier.”

  “Nothing’s up,” Malcolm honestly replied. “That’s the problem.”

  “Care to talk about it?”

  Malcolm stood and walked over to the large windows that looked out over downtown Atlanta. “Not much to talk about, especially where my wife is concerned. Her focus is taken up with the kids and that holy roller church she’s been attending. At one time, she swore she’d never worship where her mother attended. Now she can’t curse, drink, or screw because she’s ‘living for the Lord.’ “

  “Whoa, wait a minute. You aren’t buttering the biscuit?”

  Malcolm had said more than he intended. “We’ll get through it,” he replied, coming back to his desk and picking up Toussaint’s proposal.

  “I sure hope so. You’re only thirty-four. Y’all have at least thirty, forty more years together. You need to keep the home fires burning before somebody else starts looking hot to you.”

  “Hey, Shyla,” Malcolm said as someone “hot” stuck her head just inside his office door. “You’re working late.”

  “I was headed out and heard your voices. I don’t mean to interrupt.”

  Malcolm waved her in. “You’re not interrupting.”

  Shyla knew the picture she painted as she strode confidently into the room and sat next to Toussaint. Aside from being naturally beautiful, her makeup was flawless, her tailored Chanel suit fit to perfection, her three-inch heels emphasized her long, lean legs, and the new weave she’d just gotten the past weekend was worth every bit of the twelve hundred dollars she’d paid for it. “Your presentation was excellent, Toussaint. I looked for you afterward because I have a couple marketing ideas regarding the new markets that you might find interesting. But your secretary told me you’d left for the day.”

  “Had a meeting,” Toussaint countered easily. “But I have some time now. Why don’t we go back to your office and talk about it.”

  The two left Malcolm’s office shortly thereafter, and everyone knew that talking wouldn’t be the only thing happening once Toussaint and Shyla were alone.

  Malcolm placed his key in the lock and turned the doorknob to their six-bedroom, six-bath, colonial-style brick home. It was a little after 10:00 p.m., and considering the fact that four children lived there—between the ages of three and eight—things were surprisingly quiet. He loosened his tie as he headed to the stairs and his new favorite room, the man cave. Like his father, cognac was his drink of choice, and like Adam, Malcolm’s waistline was beginning to show how many meals this favored drink had chased down.

  Malcolm placed two cubes of ice in a tumbler and poured two fingers of the amber-colored liquid into the glass. He took a drink, grimaced, and poured a bit more. He took off his tie, followed by his jacket, and sat down in the dark room without turning on the lights. Here I am only thirty-four years old and feeling like an old man. Few friends, even fewer interests outside work, and no sex life. Man, you’re pitiful.

  “I thought I heard the garage door open.” Victoria startled Malcolm, whose back had been to her when she came down the stairs. “What are you doing down here drinking in the dark? That’s what drunks do.”

  Malcolm took a deep breath and another sip of his drink before standing and turning around. “Hello, Victoria.”

  “Hello.” Victoria crossed her arms and leaned against the massive fireplace mantel. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Malcolm retrieved his jacket, tie, and briefcase from the couch and headed out of the room.

  Victoria quickly followed. “What do you mean, nothing? You come home and head straight for the liquor cabinet, without checking on your wife or your kids, and expect me to believe that everything is okay?”

  “Don’t try starting an argument, Victoria. It’s not unusual for me to have a drink when I come home in the evenings.”

  “Yes, but in the dark?”

  “Where are the kids?” Malcolm was ready to change the subject.

  “Where do you think they are on a school night? In bed.” Victoria turned and marched back up the stairs.

  Malcolm followed her to the master suite. Victoria walked to her side of the oak, four-poster, king-sized bed, grabbed her Bible off the nightstand, and once again headed toward the door.

  “Are you going to be long?” Malcolm asked her. “I was hoping we could … spend some quality time together.”

  Victoria snorted. “Oh, you can’t speak but you can screw? That liquor’s got you riled up and now you want to have intercourse?”

  “The liquor has nothing to do with it,” Malcolm said, slowly walking toward her. “It’s been months since we’ve been intimate, Victoria. I need to make love to my wife and don’t feel I should have to beg her.”

  Victoria put up her hand. Malcolm stopped a few feet away from her. “The Lord has spoken to me about that boy who got burned,” she said in a firm tone that brooked no argument. “He told me to fast and pray for three days, to help bring about that child’s healing. No food, only water.”

  “Good. Maybe you’ll lose one of those rolls around your neck or your stomach,” Malcolm shot back, hurt and angry that he’d been rejected—again.

  “Perhaps I will,” Victoria replied calmly, masking the hurt his jab had caused. “At any rate, I’ll be sleeping in the guest room while I do the Lord’s work.” She walked to the door and placed a hand on the doorknob. Before opening it, she turned and said, “I would love for you to join me and the kids at church this Sunday. That’s something we could do together. Good night.”

  5

  Toussaint and Shyla entered the upscale Buckhead Taste of Soul location. The rich vocals
of Aretha Franklin assailed them immediately, oozing from the bar and waiting area located at the front of the restaurant. Toussaint bobbed his head to the beat as Aretha spelled out the respect she wanted. His uncle Ace’s suggestion from ten years ago—placing jukeboxes in the restaurants so patrons could have soul music along with their soul food—had been excellent. The idea was further enhanced when Ace’s wife, Diane, had suggested that the main platters be named after soul groups. Now, instead of ordering a meat dish with a salad and sides, customers ordered the Otis Redding Rib Eye Platter or the Wilson Pickett Pork Chop Plate. A highlight from those early days was when the Godfather of Soul, James Brown, personally came in and christened his namesake—the James Brown Baby Back Big Snack, a half slab of succulent baby back ribs, served with potato salad, coleslaw, and tangy baked beans.

  “I can’t believe how crowded it is,” Shyla said as Toussaint led them to a corner booth.

  “What do you mean you can’t believe it? I thought you knew!”

  “Of course, Mr. Livingston, I’m well aware of this location’s success. But it’s three o’clock in the afternoon. I thought these heavier flows occurred mainly during lunch and dinner.”

  “If you’d patronize this establishment more, you’d know that it’s always busy,” Toussaint admonished gently.

  “My waistline can handle this place only once or twice a month. Do you think you’d like me with a pudgy stomach and flabby thighs?”

  “You know I like you nice and tight, baby,” Toussaint drawled softly. Further comment was interrupted as their waitress came up to the table.