“Sounds delicious,” she says, waving him back to work.
“It done,” Roy says after Serge returns to the kitchen, holding up the empty glass bottle for Margot to see. Margot pulls out the other half of the cash and gives it to him. She watches as Roy goes out with Miss Novia Scott-Henry’s entrée. He places the food in front of her with a slight bow. Before the woman can take a bite of her meal, someone passes by and she pauses, lowering her fork. The woman engages Miss Novia Scott-Henry in light conversation, pushing a calendar and a pen to her face. Miss Novia Scott-Henry graciously signs it, and the woman leaves. Margot waits for Miss Novia Scott-Henry to take a bite of her food. She leans forward to watch her eat, watch her chew and swallow. Every muscle in her tenses as hope rushes in. A mento band begins to play the Wailers’ “Simmer Down,” replacing the violin music. Simma down, Margot, she tells herself, thinking of the promotion Alphonso will have to give her, the tragic loss of a beauty queen to scandal, the cheery faces of admiration turning to disdain. Margot makes her way back to the bar as Sweetness lifts her glass to take another sip of drink. Margot stops her.
“Tek it easy. Yuh don’t want to be completely drunk fah dis.”
Sweetness takes a deep breath to calm herself and grips the edge of the counter. “Me nuh sure me can do dis,” she says. “Me nuh ready yet.” This Margot hears loud and clear above the mento band. The molecules from Sweetness’s rum breath sail toward her, assaulting her. Margot reaches for the girl’s hand. But Sweetness is too fast. She grabs her purse and gets up from the bar.
“Where yuh t’ink yuh going?” Margot calls after her.
But Sweetness doesn’t stop. As she nears the door, a wave of vertigo hits Margot as though she’s the one who has been drugged. The buzzing inside the restaurant gets louder—the clinking of utensils on plates, the Wailers’ words via the mento band reminding her “an’ when him deh near / yuh mus’ beware”—the warning clashing with the joyous collision of conversations filled with foreign accents. She blindly hurries toward the door, narrowly avoiding bumping into guests.
“Sweetness!”
But the girl doesn’t turn around.
“Sweetness!”
Margot walks quickly outside. Paul is standing by the door to let people in and out, but Sweetness doesn’t slow her pace for him to open the door. She pushes it open herself. That’s when Margot decides to use her last bit of ammunition:
“Miss Violet can surely use some help wid everyt’ing going on wid her head!”
Sweetness stops, or rather halts by the rosebushes like a racehorse that has approached an insurmountable hurdle. Her back is still turned and head bent. When Margot approaches her, she sees that the girl is crying. “What’s the matter with you?” She takes the girl by the hand and leads her behind the rosebushes, where she begins to massage her shoulders. “Why yuh want to ruin dis now? If yuh didn’t want to do it yuh shoulda say something before. Why fight it? I’m giving you permission now to act on it. It not g’wan jus’ go away if yuh ignore it.”
Sweetness sniffles but says nothing as Margot massages this into her shoulder; the girl’s muscles relax under the pressure of Margot’s fingertips, her head lolling. “You’re ready . . .” Margot says to the girl’s upturned face. She kisses her gently on the lips. Sweetness’s eyes are still closed. Margot kisses her again, this time cradling Sweetness’s face with both hands. The girl tilts her head to receive her tongue. Just then Margot hears footsteps and whispering voices. A woman’s high heels. A man telling her to call a taxi. Margot pulls away from Sweetness and peers above the bushes. Paul is steadying Miss Novia Scott-Henry, who appears light-headed and filled with lively chatter.
“I can go home on my own, Paul. No need, no need at all. Oops, was that thunder?”
“No, that’s jus’ di band setting up.”
“Oh, my, I need my keys. What have I done with my car keys? You took my keys!”
Margot turns to Sweetness. “Follow me.”
She walks toward Paul and Miss Novia Scott-Henry, Sweetness trailing a few steps behind.
“Margot? Margot, is that you?” Miss Novia Scott-Henry says, steadying herself. “Did you hear the thunder? It’s going to pour!”
“I wish,” Margot says.
“What are you doing here so late?”
“I should ask you the same question,” Margot replies, scanning the woman’s face. Her eyes are wide like a drunken person determined to display cognition. But she fails miserably, tripping over some invisible thing on the ground. Paul has to hold her up again. “I’m on my way home,” she says. “I want to beat the storm.”
“I don’t think you should drive like this,” Margot says.
“No, no. I feel great. Just need to get to my caaa . . .”