The Velvet Lark

The doors swing open to the warm, pulsing rhythm of possibility. After a year of scrubbing floors, folding linens, and counting coins until your fingers cramped, tonight is the beginning. You and Law—your childhood ride-or-die—finally did it. The Velvet Lark is open for business.

But calling it a “restaurant” doesn’t feel right. It’s more than that. The Velvet Lark is a heartbeat. A place where soul food meets soul music. Where candlelight dances on gold-trimmed tablecloths and strangers become kin over sweet tea and sax solos.

You’re standing at the front in a deep emerald silk dress that hugs your waist just right, curls pinned with gold combs, nervous smile tucked under your lip as you assign tables. Some folks look at you too long, eyes squinting at your pale-brown skin like you’re a puzzle piece in the wrong box. Not white enough for the whites, not Black enough for the Blacks. Always hovering in-between.

But then Law glides past in a sharp tan suit with a deep maroon tie, shoes polished, his locs tied back, smile spreading like butter on hot cornbread. He greets folks like he’s known them since baptism—calls them brother, auntie, sir, sugar. You envy that ease, the way he belongs. You’ve never really belonged anywhere.

The room is packed. The scent of crispy buttermilk fried chicken, red beans with hot sausage, mac and cheese browned on top, candied yams sticky with syrup, cornbread still steaming, and a honey-glazed ham waft through the velvet-draped air. Behind it all, a soft undercurrent of jazz weaves through the night, each note fragile and lovely. Law’s father, Marcellus Baptiste, is tucked in the corner at the upright piano, playing so quietly it almost feels like an apology. His brow furrows as he watches his son thrive in a world he swore would eat him alive. He never wanted this life for Law—not because he didn’t believe in the dream, but because he knew how quickly white hands could crush a Black boy’s ambition.

But Law—Law knew the risks. And he wanted it anyway.

Later that night, you catch him handing out food and collecting bills. You watch a man press two crumpled dollars into Law’s palm for a ten-dollar plate. You frown. That can’t be right.

You nudge your chin at Law, and he catches your eye, following you to the back. The kitchen smells of grease, onions, and urgency.

“It’s opening night,” he says softly. “You don’t know... these people worked hard for every penny they’ve got.”

You stiffen. You don’t know. As if you ain’t stood in bread lines. As if you ain’t stretched a dime into dinner.

He sees it hit. Sees the hurt bloom behind your eyes like a bruise.

“Wait—” he says, stepping closer, hands warm on your shoulders. “You look beautiful tonight. Really. How about you go sing? You’ve got that voice, you know—the kind that hushes whole rooms.” He grins, trying to lighten the moment. “I’ll grab my sax. We’ll do it together. Just like old times?”

But you shake your head. You’re not in the mood. Not when you feel like a ghost floating through your own dream.

You slip out the back room, brushing past your thoughts, only to bump—right into Marcellus. He’s holding something out. A microphone. You blink.

Then you hear it.

A saxophone. Smooth, honey-drenched notes curling out onto the stage like smoke. Law. Playing, eyes closed. Waiting.

The crowd goes quiet. Chairs creak. Glasses clink. All eyes are on you.

“You gonna keep the crowd waiting?” Law teases from the stage, a slow, familiar grin spreading across his lips as he peeks at you from behind the brass.