Текст книги "The Coincidence of Coconut Cake"

Автор книги: Amy E. Reichert

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

• CHAPTER SEVENTEEN •

Thunder rumbled and a cool breeze rushed through the open back door of the restaurant. A waterfall fell over the entrance, the gutters above long since defunct. Other than the rain and thunder, only the whir of Harley’s mixer and the snick of knives on cutting boards disturbed the peaceful morning. While Lou loved the raucous music, loud voices, and chaotic movement of a dinner rush, the calm of prep work soothed her soul and gave her time to think. Some people did downward dog, some burned incense in front of a Buddha statue, some prayed the rosary; Lou chopped vegetables into tiny squares, filleted fish, and reduced veal stock. Her meditation smelled better, and even if she didn’t find a solution, at least she got to eat.

“I don’t know, Sue; it was odd,” Lou said, breaking the silence and talking loud enough that Harley could hear in his corner of the kitchen.

“The morning after is always weird,” Sue said.

“No, that’s not it. He wasn’t letting me out of bed. He kept holding me tighter. It was really sweet. Then all of a sudden he couldn’t leave fast enough. I half expected him to mention a squash game he forgot about.”

“Maybe he really had to pack? You never know. What do you think, Harley?”

“He looks like Harry Potter.”

“Just because he’s British does not make him Harry Potter.” Lou rolled her eyes at Harley’s comment.

Sue leaned in close to Lou. “He must really like him if he’s comparing him to Potter.”

Lou smiled and whispered back, “I know. Not much higher praise than that.”

Even with her slightly uneasy feeling, Lou felt joy—giddy joy. She smiled the sloppy grin of the newly besotted.

“You know you’re glowing, right?” Sue asked.

Lou blushed. “I can’t help it. I’m just so . . .” She searched for the right word.

“Happy,” Sue said.

“Yes, happy. And giddy. And nervous. And twittery.”

“Twittery?”

“Yes, twittery. I’m twittery. This feels so different from Devlin. I want to know everything about him. Does he always snore when he sleeps? Did he always want to be a writer? Who was his first love? I know so little about him and I can’t wait to find it all out.”

• • • • •

“Hannah, please,” Al said, gripping the faded office chair in front of Hannah’s desk.

Hannah studied the muscles tensing in his jaw, restraining the multitude of counterarguments he had ready for any refusals she presented.

“You’ve never asked for anything before. Why this?”

“I got it wrong.”

“Are you telling me you lied?” Hannah sat up in her chair, alarmed at where this seemed to be going.

“No, it happened. I just didn’t have all the facts.”

“Then, no.”

“You have to let me rereview it.”

“I don’t have to let you do anything other than your job, which is to write entertaining opinion pieces about restaurants.” She drew out the word “opinion,” making her point plain. “If we retracted every opinion we published, that’s all the paper would be. You didn’t lie—you accurately described your meal; the review stands.”

“You don’t understand—I was wrong.”

“I don’t really care. Maybe in a year or so you can review it again. If you start retracting your reviews, you’ll lose credibility, and so will we. I won’t let you do that to yourself or this paper. We have a hard enough time competing with online review sites. At least with print media, we have a modicum of authority. I won’t let you undermine that.”

“I’ll never ask again.”

“No, you won’t. My word is final. Out.”

Hannah turned to her computer and began reading e-mails. Al, recognizing his loss, clenched his fist and returned to his cubicle. But he didn’t sit; he stared at the blank computer screen, glared at it as if it had written the cruel review and destroyed a good woman’s business. An image flashed of him hoisting the monitor over his head and tossing it through the large windows. But the British never show such emotion. He had to leave, get out of the office, out of the city if he could.

His pocket vibrated and he answered without checking. “Al speaking.”

“Hey,” said a soft voice. He closed his eyes and sat in his chair, using his free hand to grab fistfuls of hair.

“Hello.” He made his voice sound as upbeat as possible, but it sounded more like that of a choirboy sucking helium. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Hello, Lou.”

“You seemed a little off this morning. I wanted to make sure I haven’t offended in some way.”

“No, no—God, no. You are lovely in every way. I just caught myself off guard, and now I have a lot of catch-up on my end.”

“You sure?”

“Quite. Worry not. I’ll call you when I get back, right?”

“Okay, talk to you then. Have a good trip.”

“Thanks.”

Al closed the phone and set it carefully on his desk, as if it might explode. He didn’t know what to do. His head clearly knew he should forget her and get out of Milwaukee as soon as possible, just as he originally planned. But his heart acknowledged she’d freed a side of him he didn’t realize he had, a side he still didn’t understand but wanted to know more about. With Lou, he just fit. And she was worried she had done something. Bollocks.

“You okay?” John asked from behind. “How’d the barbecue go?” Al looked at John and realized he needed to talk to someone, realized John had become his someone. He sighed with relief, knowing he had a friend who cared enough to notice.

“Not really. I need to chat. Can I buy you a coffee?”

John looked shocked, then cleared his face. “Heavy on the cream and sugar.”

• • • • •

“Dude, this sucks,” John said. Al had just finished telling John everything that happened the night before and this morning. Well, not everything. He was a gentleman, after all. The coffee shop was sparsely populated as the morning rush had finished, leaving the place slightly trashed. The staff worked to tidy it up and get ready for those patrons requiring an afternoon pick-me-up.

John and Al bought their drinks and retreated to the outside tables. John slid on his mirrored sunglasses as Al sipped an Earl Grey tea, too distracted to be bothered with the bright sunshine. Tea normally calmed frazzled nerves, but today it seemed sour on his tongue. Relief would not be found through leaves and hot water.

“Thank you for your astute observation, John. But what do I do?”

“You can’t tell her.”

“How clever.”

“But you could help her. Do another review?”

“Hannah won’t publish it—I asked. I have to make this right. It’s not fair to her.” Al ran his hands through his hair again. He had come straight to the office from Lou’s; the combination of a showerless morning and regular mussing had his hair resembling a hedgehog’s back.

“What about getting another local critic to do it?”

“I don’t think they like me much.”

“Yeah, I guess. You’ve been kind of a douche canoe.”

“Again, thanks for the helpful observations. I need advice, not summaries on how much of an arse I’ve been.”

“Are you going to keep seeing her?”

“I shouldn’t. It’s just not professional, right? The reviewer shouldn’t date the reviewee. This can’t end well.”

“So, you’re just going to ignore her. That’s cold, but probably the safest.”

Al didn’t like that idea. Not at all. There was something about Lou, about her kindness, her generosity, her quiet resiliency; he felt drawn to her. He wanted to help her, protect her, show her she had nothing to feel insecure about.

“I don’t want to do that.”

Under all the scruff, surprise managed to show on John’s face. “Well, maybe it’s not as bad as we think. Let me make a call.”

John pulled out his phone and turned slightly away from Al.

“Hey, Rob, it’s John. What do you know about Luella’s restaurant. The one on St. Paul.”

Pause. Al tapped his foot on the table leg.

“You sure? Okay.”

Pause. Al chewed a fingernail.

“That’s what I’ve heard elsewhere. . . . Thanks, Rob. Bye.”

John set the phone down and turned to Al. Al could see his reflection in John’s glasses. His eyes resembled a meth addict’s coming off a high, praying for the next dose but not knowing where it would come from.

“Well?” Al asked.

“Not good. Her vendor orders have decreased—a lot. Most of the staff have left for better jobs. Rumor is she told them to look for new jobs because the restaurant wouldn’t make it past the new year.”

Al’s body slumped with the news.

“Thanks for checking, John. But that doesn’t change how I feel.”

“I’m not sure you have a choice. How does it end? You like her, right?”

“Of course. That’s the bloody problem, isn’t it?”

“So, if you continue to let things progress naturally, you’ll get to know her better.”

“Yes.”

“And she’ll eventually want to know, maybe even read, the stuff you write.”

“I have other things to show her. I do actually write more than reviews. I do freelance work to afford my condo.”

“Okay, so you continue seeing her, to what end? Marriage? Are you going to keep all your paychecks from the paper a secret? That sounds like the perfect way to start a marriage. What are you going to tell her when you eat out five nights a week?”

Al looked out at the street, seeing each problem as a brick stacking up quickly between him and Lou. Even Lou’s good heart couldn’t forgive him for what he did. He cost her her dream.

Al closed his eyes and nodded, then stood up. “Let’s go back.”

John looked up at his friend, taking in his slumped shoulders and blank eyes. John stood and headed toward the office while Al watched him go, realizing back wasn’t where he wanted to go. He wanted to go forward.

• • • • •

Al had been on his work trip for nine days. Lou had counted.

“Can someone call my phone? I don’t think it’s working,” Lou said over the kitchen noise.

“It’s working fine. We checked it yesterday, remember?” Sue said, irritation edging into her tone.

“But it’s not ringing.”

“That’s because no one is calling you. Now will you please finish filleting the sole so you can start grilling the chops?”

Lou set the phone on the counter where she could see it, propping it up against the salt pig. She resisted the siren’s call of her phone until the fish was done, her hand twitching toward the phone only four times. After putting the fish in the cooler for that night’s service, she pulled the chops and hurried back to the grill. She scooped up her phone to check if she’d missed a message in the minute she was gone, but her hand slipped and the phone flew onto the grill.

Lou screamed and grabbed it off, the back of the case melted in neat grill marks. She checked, breath heavy, making sure the phone still worked. With a gasp of relief, she discovered the phone unlocked as normal. Her relief quickly turned to disappointment when she saw that no phone calls or e-mails had arrived from Al.

A firm hand curved around the still-warm phone and pulled it from her hands, setting it on a shelf between the kosher salt and aged balsamic vinegar.

“Hey!” Lou scowled at Sue.

“iPhone is not on our menu. Come on.” She pulled Lou away from the grills. “Harley, we’re leaving for a little while. You okay?”

“Yep, get her out of here.”

With a wave of Harley’s hand, Sue whisked her out of the kitchen and away from her phone.

• • • • •

The fall farmers’ market buzzed with wasps swarming the apples stacked high on the wooden plank counters. Children pulled their suburban parents through the crowd while old women scrutinized bunches of spinach like jewelers studying gems. The air hinted of burning leaves with a gentle slap of chill, an overture to the upcoming winter. Shoppers wore sweaters recently pulled from winter storage, and knitted animal hats bobbed atop toddler heads or peeked out from cozy strollers.

Lou took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of just-cut flowers, fresh tamales from the food stands, and sunshine. She preferred the West Allis farmers’ market to all others in the area, with its open sides, wide walkways, and rows of stalls. More recently, small tents serving hot sandwiches and fresh Mexican food had popped up outside the brick walls. It all looked so good, she’d learned long ago to come with limited funds or she would buy more produce than she could possibly use. She relished talking to the farmers, learning about what they grew and where. She liked to search for farmers growing something new and interesting she could use at Luella’s.

But today’s visit was personal, not business. Sue had dragged her out to West Allis for a little lunch and some girl time with fall squash and Honeycrisp apples.

Lou tilted her head into the September sunshine. “It feels good to get outside.”

“It was either this or drug you.”

Lou looked at Sue, trying to determine whether she was serious. She wasn’t sure. “What do you mean?”

“For the past few days you’ve been a twitchy, nervous wreck. Each day worse than the one before. I figured I’d let you talk about it before forcing Valium down your throat.”

Lou picked up an apple and held it under her nose. The sweet scent made her mouth water. “Have I been that bad?”

“Worse. Just call him.”

Lou paid for a bag of apples and they moved down the walkway, past tables laden with cucumbers, local honey, and giant stalks of brussels sprouts.

“I want to, but he’s on a business trip. He said he’d call when he got back. I don’t want to be pushy.” Lou stopped and looked at all the stalls around them and added, “Ugh, I can’t decide what I want.”

Sue smiled and pulled Lou over to a booth full of baskets brimming with root vegetables.

“Yes, you do. How do you think a farmer decided when to harvest these? He couldn’t see the size of the potato, or know if the carrot would taste sweet. He used his experience. He studied what he could see aboveground. He learned from the past, but he could still only guess what happened underground. Eventually, he had to just pull. It was a risk, and sometimes it might backfire, but he’d never make it as a farmer if he didn’t chance it. It’s time you gave a yank.”

Sue nudged Lou with her elbow as they stood staring at the tubers and added, “Call him.”

• CHAPTER EIGHTEEN •

Mum, please,” Al said, banging his head silently on his desk. John watched with his arms and legs crossed, enjoying his friend’s torment. Every few minutes he would reach for his mug of coffee, lest he become dehydrated watching Al’s growing distress. Al had avoided Lou for over a week while working out a solution to the my-review-destroyed-her-dream-but-I-might-love-her problem. He didn’t need parents making things more difficult.

“Darling, it’s been months. Just come for a weekend.”

“I know you want me to come home, but I’m a bit busy here.”

“Then perhaps your father and I will visit you.”

“I’d really rather you didn’t.”

“Your articles talk so much about the wonderful places to eat, we want to come.”

“You’ve been reading my articles?”

“Of course. We read everything you publish. At least this time we don’t have to subscribe. The Internet makes things ever so much easier.”

“It’s just not a good ti—”

“Bodkins, it’s never a good time when mothers are concerned. That’s why we don’t wait for invitations. Your father wants to take a trip after fall term. Plus, it’s clear you’re smitten with her. We want to see why.”

“Wh-what? I didn’t say anything about her.” Al sat up, replaying what he just said in his head. His hand immediately went to his hair as he leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out in front as if he’d been knocked out.

“Aha, so there is a girl! Alastair, who is she?”

“I’ve got work to do, Mum.”

“I want to hear all about her.”

“Bye, Mum.”

Al tossed the phone on his desk, closed his eyes, and shook his head.

John, smiling from ear to ear, said, “So the ’rents are coming. Excellent.”

“Ugh, I just fell for the oldest mom trick in the book. She’s bloody brilliant. I bet she was working on that setup for weeks. Bloody effing hell.”

“Where are we taking them?”

“You aren’t taking them anywhere. . . .”

“Now wait a sec; I’m an excellent tour guide. Charming. I know all the good bars and stores.”

“True. That might not be a bad idea.” Al tapped his fingers, thinking about how much his mom would love John, assuming he could deal with her fussing. He could take Dad on a historical tour. Al had started writing a list of all the places to eat with his parents when his phone rang. He picked it up without lifting pen from paper.

“Al speaking.”

A soft voice answered his. “Hi, Al. It’s Lou.”

Al sat up straight. “Lou, sorry I haven’t called. Been really busy. How’ve you been?”

“Pretty good. Where are you now?”

“The office.”

“You’re back. Wonderful.” Lou’s voice got much brighter.

Panicked, Al looked at John and held his hands in prayer position in front of him. John fake coughed, exaggerating the motions.

“Yeb. Early this mornig.” Al coughed a few times into the phone to bring the point home.

“You okay? You sound awful.”

“I feel worse. I picked ub somethig nasty.” Al’s stomach did feel awful, but from the deception.

“Then you should go home. I’ll make something yummy to make you feel better.”

“No, too contagious.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll bring something over later. Now go to bed!”

Lou hung up and Al stared blankly at the phone.

“She buy it?” John asked.

“That bloody backfired. She wants to cook for me to make me feel better.”

“Now that is ironic.”

“What do I do now?”

“You go home and pull a Ferris Bueller.”

“A who?”

“You know, Ferris Bueller. Eighties movie. High school kid, fakes being sick, has an amazing day playing hooky in Chicago. You know. Bueller . . . Bueller . . . Bueller.”

Al spread his hands and shook his head no. “I spent my teenage years trying not to get kicked out of Eton and bring shame on my family. I didn’t watch a lot of eighties American cinema.”

“We’ll fix that. In the meantime, go home, get a hot water bottle, and put it on your forehead so you feel hot. Then climb under all the covers to work up a nice, clammy sweat.”

“Done this before, have you?”

“I told you my high school wasn’t a real joy for boys who enjoyed haute couture. Now, don’t you have a sickbed to occupy?”

Al locked his computer and grabbed his bag. He took ten steps out of the cubicles and backtracked. John had already returned to his latest article on fall fashion trends.

Al said, “Thanks, mate. I appreciate the support.”

Without looking up, John waved with one hand.

“Go forth and incubate fake germs.”

• • • • •

“I’m really nervous,” Lou said. “There should be a law against not seeing a person for ten days after you sleep together the first time.” Lou had called Sue to help make some British comfort food. She, in turn, had called Harley. Al would soon be the luckiest sick person in the world. If Lou ever needed proof of their loyalty, this was it. The restaurant wasn’t open on Tuesdays, yet all three chefs busily chopped, stirred, and baked a feast fabulous enough to impress the Queen.

“You’re bringing food to a sick person; it would be awkward anyway,” Sue said.

“He’s probably faking it just so you’ll cook for him. I would,” Harley said from his corner.

“Shut it, Harley. Not everyone thinks with their stomach. Don’t listen to him, Lou.”

Lou pulled a shepherd’s pie from the oven, covered it with a lid, wrapped it in towels to keep it warm and from overheating things around it, and set it at the bottom of a large crate. Next to it, Sue added a container of chicken noodle soup. Harley added a box of still-warm scones, Irish soda bread, and fresh orange marmalade. Sue helped make a batch of fresh clotted cream and poured it into small jars. The three stood around looking at the crate.

“Can tomorrow be my turn to be sick?” Harley said. Sue patted his back.

“I can make you some soup if that will make you feel better,” Sue said. Harley smiled a sloppy grin.

“I think I’ll be going before it gets awkward here, too,” Lou said. She picked up the crate and headed to Al’s.

When Al opened his apartment door, Lou’s first impulse was to take a step back. He did not look good. Sweat dripped from his face as he clutched a tattered blanket around his sloped shoulders, looking as if he could crumple into a ball at any moment.

“Oh my God. You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Lou said. He had sounded awful on the phone, but she wasn’t expecting the sweaty, pathetic figure who opened the door. How could he be pale and flushed at the same time? All business, she walked past him into the kitchen to set the overflowing crate down. She came back out and placed a gentle hand on Al’s sweaty forehead. Her lips pursed and she looked him sternly in the eye. “Get back to bed. You shouldn’t be out.”

“But—”

“Go. I’ll bring up some soup.” She pointed toward the stairs and waved her hand, indicating he’d been dismissed.

Lou walked back into the kitchen. She stopped in the middle to assess the facilities. Clean, nice copper, quite a lot of cookbooks—always a good sign. She saw the electric kettle and teapot. She filled the kettle and plugged it in. While waiting for the water to reach near boiling, she unloaded the crate and rummaged around the kitchen for supplies with the efficiency and comfort level of someone used to a well-stocked kitchen. By the time steam began leaking out, Lou had put the shepherd’s pie in the oven to stay warm and filled a tray with food to bring upstairs. Once she poured the hot water over the waiting tea leaves, she climbed upstairs to her waiting patient.

As she crested the top step, Lou looked at Al propped up in the center of his comfy-looking bed. His bed stand held a pile of scrunched tissues and a scattering of Walgreens cold medicines. Poking out from his closet was an open suitcase overflowing with rumpled clothes. She’d help him get that in order.

Lou set the tray across his lap and settled on the edge of his bed. He coughed a few times—it looked as if it hurt.

Al sat up a little and said, “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Of course I didn’t, but what’s the point of sleeping with a chef if you don’t get some of the perks?”

Al winced a little.

“You okay? What is it? Are you achy?”

Al shrugged.

“Can I get you some medicine?”

“I took some right before you came.” His voice sounded a little scratchy. Lou touched his forehead, and Al closed his eyes as if enjoying the sensation.

“It must be starting to work. You feel cooler.”

Lou brushed her fingers down Al’s temple and cupped the side of his cheek. His blue eyes seemed to plead with hers, begging for an answer to a question he didn’t ask.

“Eat. You’ll feel better,” Lou said.

Al looked down at the laden tray and cleared his throat.

“This looks amazing. Is that clotted cream? And marmalade?” He picked up a scone gently, then cupped it between both hands. He looked up at Lou, eyes wide.

“It’s still warm.” He split it open, spread a generous amount of jam over one half, and topped it with a glob of cream.

• • • • •

Al chewed slowly, retreating to his childhood. If he closed his eyes, he could smell his grandma’s house. On Sundays after church, his family would visit and have tea and scones fresh from the oven. After, he and Ian would chase her chickens and play jousting where their parents couldn’t see.

“These are amazing. Did you make them?”

“Harley made the scones and jam, and a loaf of soda bread downstairs. Sue made the clotted cream and helped with the soup and shepherd’s pie.”

“There’s shepherd’s pie? Where?” Al scanned the tray as if it were hiding between the tea and soup.

Lou chuckled. “It’s staying warm in the oven. If you’re still hungry after this, I’ll go get you a plate.”

“I don’t deserve this.”

“Everyone deserves a little pampering when they’re sick. I’m sure you’d do the same.”

“Of course. I’d bring you mountains of cheese and frozen custard and coffee with too much cream and sugar.”

“And stacks of eighties teen movies?”

“The very best ones.”

“See? You’d spoil me, too.” Lou ran a hand through his hair. Al leaned into her gentle touch. “I’ll leave you to it. Let me know when you’re done and I’ll take the tray away.” Lou retreated back into the kitchen.

Somewhere between anxiety and guilt, Al fell in love. Lou had descended into his false den of airborne disease to coddle him back to health with a basket filled in heaven. It wasn’t just her spoiling him. With her business struggling, she couldn’t afford to get sick, yet here she was tidying his home and starting his laundry.

He could hear her emptying the dishwasher. This had to stop. He moved the tray so he could roll out of bed, picked it up, and carried it downstairs. When he entered the kitchen, Lou was no longer emptying the dishwasher. She stared at the wall next to the entrance, just a few feet from where he stood. Briefly worrying she’d had a seizure of some sort, he recalled what hung on the wall and blushed.

Lou noticed Al’s pinkening. “You probably don’t want to hear this, but this may be the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.” Al took his place next to her so he could admire the collection with her. Now that at least one secret was out, he wanted to share the moment.

“It started out as a random impulse buy at the museum, and now it’s a nice bit of our history. These are all the best times I’ve had in Milwaukee. They’ve all been with you.”

She turned to him, eyes shinier than usual, then leaned in to softly kiss his lips. Her lips were warm and dry.

“I’m sick.” Al tried to sound like he meant it.

“I don’t care.” Lou took a step closer to wrap her arms around his neck. Al responded immediately and eagerly, pulling her so tight that her breath whooshed out.

“You’re sick. You shouldn’t be tiring yourself,” Lou mumbled between kisses.

“If this is what sick feels like, I don’t ever want to feel better.” Al lifted her, wrapping her strong legs around his waist, and carried her upstairs.

• • • • •

“I think we’ve discovered a miracle cure,” Al whispered.

Al and Lou were buried deep beneath his soft, cozy covers, savoring the lazy freedom of afternoon sex. They lay on their sides, he behind her, arms wrapped around her rib cage.

“Perfect timing. I need a new career.”

“Mmmm, I don’t think so. I’m not sharing.” Al nuzzled her neck, trailing kisses from her shoulder to her ear, then back down. Lou giggled. She could feel it releasing all the tension, the uncertainty. The afternoon sun filtered through the tinted glass; a warm breeze whispered from somewhere.

“Bit selfish, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely. But you are my miracle.”

Lou bathed in the compliment. Maybe it was all just teasing, but his words warmed her more than a thousand extravagant gifts.

“Hey, what’s with all the cookbooks? I didn’t know you were so into cooking.” Al twitched a little. Had she pried too much? Lou rolled over to look Al in the eyes, laying one leg over his waist and resting her hands on his chest, running her fingers through his hair. “I didn’t mean to be nosy—I thought it might be fun to cook dinner together sometime.”

Al’s normally cool eyes heated and his voice choked a little when he said, “Sure.”

“You feeling okay?”

Al nudged her with his hips. Lou’s eyes widened and she leaned her head back to laugh. Al took the opportunity to trail hot kisses down her throat.

“I think I’m starting to feel ill again.”

Lou pulled his chin back up to her mouth in response. Right now, she couldn’t be happier that her restaurant was failing.