The Gospel Brunch

Gospel brunch at the House of Blues is church without walls.

Every Sunday, I lead the choir through spirituals while tourists eat omelets and locals catch the spirit. It's been my gig for twelve years.

I'm Marlene. Fifty-six. Married to the music since my divorce a decade ago.

This Sunday, someone new catches my eye.

He's sitting at table seven.

Silver hair, dark skin, alone with his coffee. He's not eating—just watching. And when my eyes find his during "Amazing Grace," he doesn't look away.

"Who's that?" my alto asks during the break.

"No idea."

"Well, he's looking at you like he knows you."

I glance back. He raises his coffee cup in a small salute.

After the show, he approaches.

"That was beautiful." His voice is smooth, educated. "You have an incredible gift."

"Thank you. I don't think I've seen you before."

"First time in New Orleans." He extends his hand. "Vernon Mitchell. I'm here for a music education conference."

"Marlene Jackson. Welcome to the city."

"Can I buy you breakfast? Or is there a rule about fraternizing with the audience?"

I should say no.

I don't know this man. I have things to do. I've been perfectly content alone for ten years.

"I know a place," I hear myself say.

Café Du Monde is packed, but we find a corner.

Vernon tells me about his life—music professor at Howard, recently retired, traveling the country absorbing sounds.

"Why New Orleans?"

"Because this is where American music lives." He sips his café au lait. "And because I heard about a choir director at House of Blues who could make angels weep."

"Who told you that?"

"Internet." He smiles. "I do my research."

We talk for three hours.

Music theory, church traditions, the way gospel connects to jazz to blues to soul. He knows things I've never considered. Makes me think in ways I haven't in years.

"I should go," I finally say. "Evening service."

"Can I come?"

"To my church?"

"To watch you lead. If that's okay."

It's okay.

More than okay—watching him in the back pew while I direct the evening choir is intoxicating. He claps in the right places. Sways when the spirit hits. Looks at me like I'm conducting his personal salvation.

After service, he finds me.

"Dinner?"

"I don't usually—"

"Neither do I." He steps closer. "But I'm only in town until Thursday, and I don't want to waste a moment."

Dinner turns into drinks.

Drinks turn into walking through the Quarter, his hand finding mine in the crowd.

"I feel like a teenager," I admit.

"I feel like I've been waiting my whole life for this weekend."

"Vernon—"

"Don't." He stops walking, turns to face me. "Don't tell me all the reasons this can't work. I know the distance, the logistics, all of it. But I also know that your voice makes me believe in God. And I'm not ready to let that go."

We end up at my apartment.

A small place in Tremé, full of sheet music and memories. He looks around like everything matters.

"This is you," he says. "All of it."

"Is that good?"

"It's perfect." He moves toward me. "Just like you."

He kisses me like I'm sacred.

Slow, reverent, his hands cupping my face like I might shatter. I haven't been touched like this in a decade—haven't felt wanted like this in longer.

"Can I stay?" he whispers.

"I was hoping you would."

He undresses me by candlelight.

Takes his time with each layer, worshipping each reveal. When I'm finally naked, he kneels.

"I don't deserve this," he says.

"What?"

"To see you like this. But I'm grateful anyway."

His mouth moves up my body.

Kisses my ankles, my knees, the thick of my thighs. When he reaches the center of me, I grip his shoulders.

"Vernon—"

"Let me praise you properly."

His tongue is an instrument.

He plays me like he knows every note—building, crescendoing, finding resolutions I didn't know existed. I come with a cry that sounds like gospel.

"Beautiful," he breathes. "Even more beautiful than your music."

"Please. I need you."

He joins me on the bed.

Covers me with his body, positions himself, pauses.

"I haven't done this in three years."

"I haven't in ten."

"Then let's be careful with each other."

He slides inside me slowly.

Filling the emptiness I'd forgotten was there. We move together like we've done this before—like our bodies know a rhythm our minds are just learning.

"So good," he groans. "Marlene—"

"Right there—don't stop—"

"Never."

We make love until neither of us can move.

Afterward, lying tangled in my sheets, he hums a hymn against my hair.

"I don't want to leave Thursday."

"I don't want you to."

"Then come with me."

"What?"

"To DC. Guest conduct my old choir. See my world like I've seen yours."

I think about it.

My life here—the brunch, my church, everything I've built. Then I think about how it felt to be seen. To be wanted. To make music with someone who speaks the language.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"But I'm coming back. This is my home."

"We'll figure it out." He pulls me closer. "That's what harmonies do—they figure out how to blend."

Thursday comes too fast.

I'm at the airport with him, crying against his chest.

"I'll be in DC next month," I promise.

"And I'll be back here the month after." He tilts my chin up. "This isn't goodbye, Marlene. This is verse two."

"Of how many verses?"

"As many as we need."

The gospel brunch the following Sunday feels different.

I sing with a fullness I didn't have before. The tourists notice. The regulars notice.

"What happened to you?" my alto whispers.

"I found my harmony," I tell her.

She doesn't understand.

But I do.

And next month, I'll be in DC showing Vernon what New Orleans taught me.

Some songs are meant to be sung in parts.

Some duets take years to begin.

And some gospel brunches lead to more than breakfast.

They lead to love.

Amen.