The Soul Food Spot

Mama Lou's Kitchen isn't just a restaurant.

It's an institution.

Twenty-eight years I've been serving the South Side. My fried chicken has been featured in magazines. My mac and cheese has made grown men cry. Politicians campaign here. Rappers request my collard greens.

I'm Louise "Mama Lou" Patterson, and this is my kingdom.

Until the health department sends in reinforcements.

"Mrs. Patterson?"

I look up from my prep station, and my heart stops.

The man in the doorway is tall, fine as wine, wearing a city inspector's badge. He's got his father's cheekbones and his father's smile—but that's where the resemblance ends.

Because his father was my husband for twelve years.

And Jamal Patterson Jr. has grown into something his daddy could never be.

"Little Jamal?" I wipe my hands on my apron. "Is that you?"

"Not so little anymore." He steps into my kitchen, clipboard in hand. "Haven't seen you since the divorce, Miss Louise."

"That was fifteen years ago. You were..."

"Eighteen. Just starting college." His eyes travel over me—not professionally. "You haven't changed."

That's a lie and we both know it. I was forty-two when I divorced his father. Now I'm fifty-seven, wider in the hips, softer in the middle, gray streaking my braids.

But the way he's looking at me doesn't feel like a lie.

"You're the new health inspector?"

"Transferred from the north side last month." He starts walking the kitchen, checking temperatures, examining stations. "When I saw Mama Lou's on my list, I had to come myself."

"To shut me down?"

"To see you again."

I nearly drop my spatula. "Jamal—"

"I know." He pauses by the walk-in cooler. "Inappropriate. You were my stepmother. But you were only my stepmother for six years, and I've been thinking about you for fifteen."

"You were a child."

"I was eighteen." He moves closer. "Old enough to notice how beautiful you were. Old enough to hate my father for treating you the way he did."

"Your father and I had problems that weren't—"

"He cheated. Multiple times. You stayed because you thought it was best for me." His jaw tightens. "I knew. I always knew. And I hated him for it."

I'm quiet. He's not wrong.

"Miss Louise..." He stops in front of me. "Can we have dinner? After your shift? Somewhere that isn't here?"

I should say no.

This is James Patterson's son. The boy I helped raise for six years. The young man I lost in the divorce because his father got custody and I got nothing but this restaurant.

But I've been alone for fifteen years.

And Jamal Jr. is looking at me like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Nine o'clock," I hear myself say. "Meet me out back."

He takes me to a jazz club on State Street.

Low lights, smooth music, good bourbon. We talk for hours—about his career, my restaurant, the years between. He tells me about failed relationships, women who didn't understand him. I tell him about the loneliness of being everyone's Mama Lou and no one's Louise.

"I should have looked for you," he says. "After I turned twenty-one, I should have found you."

"Why didn't you?"

"Fear. Shame. The thought that you'd look at me and still see a child."

"I don't see a child, Jamal."

"What do you see?"

I reach across the table, touch his hand.

"I see a man who shouldn't want me."

"But I do." His fingers intertwine with mine. "I always have."

We end up at his apartment.

It's neat, modern, nothing like his father's taste. He pours wine we don't drink, puts on music we don't hear.

"We shouldn't," I whisper as he backs me against the wall.

"Tell me why."

"I'm fifty-seven. You're thirty-three. I was your stepmother—"

"You were the only person who made that house feel like home." He kisses my neck. "The only one who asked how my day was. Who came to my games. Who actually saw me."

"Jamal..."

"I'm not asking you to marry me, Louise. I'm asking for tonight. We can figure out the rest tomorrow."

I stop fighting.

He undresses me slowly, reverently, taking his time with buttons and zippers. When my clothes fall away, I try to cover myself—old instinct from years with a man who made me feel undesirable.

"Don't." He moves my hands. "Let me see you."

"I'm not young anymore."

"You're magnificent." He kneels before me, kisses my belly. "Every inch of you."

He worships me.

That's the only word for it. His mouth traces every curve, every stretch mark, every softness that his father used to criticize. He kisses my thighs like they're precious. Spreads them like he's unwrapping a gift.

"Dreamed about this," he murmurs against my core. "What you taste like. What sounds you make."

"Jamal—"

"Let me hear them."

His tongue finds me, and I stop trying to be quiet.

He knows what he's doing.

Not fumbling like a young man—practiced, patient, paying attention to every gasp. He licks me slowly, deliberately, building pleasure like layers in a cake.

"So sweet," he groans. "Better than your peach cobbler."

I laugh despite everything, and the laugh turns into a moan when he slides two fingers inside.

"That's it, Louise. Let go. I've got you."

I come undone on his fingers and tongue, crying out in his living room.

"Bedroom," he says. "Now."

He carries me—actually lifts me like I weigh nothing and carries me to his bed. Lays me down like something precious.

"My turn to see you," I manage.

He strips efficiently, no shame, and lord.

The boy I remembered became a man in every way.

"Like what you see, Miss Louise?"

"Don't call me that right now."

"What should I call you?"

"Whatever you want, long as you get over here."

He slides inside me and we both groan.

It's been so long—longer than I want to admit—and he fills me completely. Stretches me in ways I forgot I could stretch.

"Okay?" he asks.

"More than okay. Move, baby."

He moves.

Sex with his father was perfunctory.

Quick, mechanical, rarely satisfying. I'd forgotten what it felt like to be with someone who wanted to make me feel good.

Jamal Jr. makes me feel divine.

"So tight," he gasps. "So perfect—"

"Harder. I won't break."

He gives me harder, gripping my hips, driving deep. The bed creaks. My voice breaks.

"Yes—right there—"

"Tell me you're mine, Louise."

"I'm yours."

"Say it again."

"I'm yours, Jamal. All yours."

We go three rounds.

By the end, I'm boneless, sweaty, more satisfied than I've been in two decades. He's wrapped around me, tracing patterns on my back.

"Stay," he murmurs.

"Tonight?"

"Every night."

"Jamal..."

"I know it's fast." He props himself up to look at me. "But I've waited fifteen years to find you again. I'm not waiting anymore."

Reality creeps in with the dawn.

"Your father will find out," I say. "It's Chicago. Everyone knows everyone."

"Let him."

"He'll—"

"He lost the right to an opinion when he cheated on you." Jamal's eyes are fierce. "I'm not living my life based on what James Patterson thinks."

"And your mother?"

"She remarried years ago. She wants me to be happy." He kisses my forehead. "You make me happy, Louise. Does the rest really matter?"

I think about it.

Fifty-seven years old. Restaurant owner. Respected in the community.

And potentially dating my ex-stepson.

The scandal would be immense.

But looking at Jamal—at this man who sees me, who wants me, who's willing to fight for me—

"It doesn't matter," I decide. "Not to me."

His smile is worth every bit of gossip that's coming.

The health inspection, by the way?

Passed with flying colors.

Jamal recuses himself from future inspections of my restaurant—conflict of interest.

The conflict being that he's living above it now, in my apartment, in my bed, in my life.

Mama Lou's Kitchen adds breakfast to the menu.

And every morning, my man is the first one served.