Текст книги "The Coincidence of Coconut Cake"

Автор книги: Amy E. Reichert

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

• CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX •

Lou swirled a spoonful of browned butter on a plate, set a preserved lemon in the center, then topped it with a small piece of sautéed Lake Michigan whitefish. She sprinkled parsley over the top like confetti and stepped back to admire the new dish. Otto and Gertrude would have loved it.

Since she’d started at The Good Land a few days ago, Chef Tom had been letting her play with new ideas before her shift. She enjoyed working in a busy restaurant, feeling the heat of a dinner rush and the rhythm of a well-run kitchen. While his restaurant was much bigger than Luella’s, it didn’t take long for her to fit in. She would enjoy the steady income, too. But these weren’t her recipes, they weren’t her ideas feeding the hungry diners. That’s why the few hours when she got to play in Chef Tom’s sandbox were her favorite of the day.

“When’s the funeral?” said Chef Tom as he walked up beside her.

Lou gave him a small smile.

“Wednesday.”

Tom put his arm around her and squeezed. Lou sniffed and slid the plate toward him.

“What’s today’s invention?” He already had a fork in hand.

“Deconstructed Lake Michigan whitefish meunière.”

“Bit tiny, isn’t it?” Tom winked.

“It’s meant to be a small plate.” Lou rolled her eyes.

“May I?” Chef pointed his fork at the dish.

“You’re the boss.”

“Yes. I am.” He sliced into the fish, making sure to get some of the lemon and butter. He set it on his tongue and chewed thoughtfully. If she’d done it right, he would experience the browned butter first; then it would be cut with the tart and tangy lemon, followed by the barely crisp, flaky fish. As he chewed, the flavors would meld together to replicate the classic dish, but in an entirely new way. Lou held her breath as Tom swallowed, then grinned.

“That is the best one yet, Lou.” He studied her as he took another bite. “While I love having you here, you’re wasting your talent on my line.”

“You could always let me add some dishes to the menu.”

“Ha! This is my kitchen. I make the menu. Get your own kitchen.”

Lou gnawed her lip.

“Speaking of my own kitchen, I’ve been thinking about that.”

“As you should.”

Tom took another bite.

“Some of us don’t have buckets of money being thrown at us by abundant customers.”

“Yes, yes, your point.”

“I have my business plan written for a new restaurant. Could you read it? Give me your thoughts?”

“Of course. Bring it in tomorrow.”

Lou’s lips twitched.

“It’s already on your desk.”

Chef Tom sighed dramatically.

“Oh, fine—I’ll go read it. And get that dish ready as the small-plate special tonight.”

Lou glowed. Tom really was a great friend. She started breaking down whitefish into small pieces and making sample plates for the waitstaff to try, then worked on her regular prep. She cleaned up her station, putting the final touches on her mise-en-place. She turned to see Tom standing behind her with the business plan in hand. He was rifling through the pages.

“So?”

He looked up at her, his face serious. Lou was used to the jovial Chef Tom, not this one—the one reserved for his vendors and accountants.

“That bad?” she asked.

“No, this is really good. Great, actually. Are your numbers accurate?”

“I think so. That represents the money I owe and that one is the value of the equipment.” Lou pointed to a spot on the page. “I’m looking at a less expensive property, and my start-up costs will have to be smaller than with Luella’s, but those numbers should be right. If the bank gives me the loan I’m asking for, I can start a very small kitchen—just me, a waiter, and a dishwasher. Only four or five tables. Very intimate.”

“What if you had an investor?”

Lou’s face got dreamy, then frowned.

“I’d love the extra money, but not having to keep them happy. I’d rather do it my way.”

“What if that investor gave you one hundred percent control of his share because your idea is so great he just wants to be a part of it?”

She grinned, understanding Tom’s meaning.

“Don’t get too excited. It wouldn’t be a lot, but I’ve had a good year,” Tom added.

“It would be more than enough. I’ll call the bank.”

Lou bounced as she dialed, buoyant at the thought she could soon climb back into her own sandbox.

• • • • •

Snow floated down in big, fluffy flakes, creating white car and tree silhouettes, muffling sounds, and converting the city dirt to a heavenly white. The ethereal weather brought those who mourned them closer to Gertrude and Otto, lending their joy and serenity to the solemn occasion. Lou had no idea what to expect at their funeral. The two had paid for and made all the plans in advance. They even had arranged for a Spanferkel roast afterward.

Almost two weeks had passed since she had spent those few days in hospice. During that time, she’d worked at The Good Land, gotten her life back in order, and learned the Meyers had left their house to her—while not enough to open a new restaurant, the surprise inheritance brought her plans that much closer to reality.

Lou had unearthed her one dark suit from the back of her closet, ironed it the best she could, and walked the few blocks to the funeral home. She intended to be there from beginning to end. She owed it to them. Harley, Sue, and most of her restaurant staff would arrive later. When she entered the building a few minutes before the visitation, the funeral home director was already waiting by the door, somber and looming.

All funeral directors reminded her of Lurch from The Addams Family. It wasn’t fair, and this gentleman looked nothing like him, but the association always stuck and caused giggles to surface at awkward moments. While the thought was absolutely inappropriate, it kept her mind occupied while approaching the open coffins.

She cherished their final moments together. They had given love, support, and hope—gifts she could never repay, nor would they want her to. Lou would miss them, but she was ready for her second chance. She gave each hand a little squeeze.

“Auf Wiedersehen.”

Lou walked away to collect herself and read the cards on the many flowers. She knew Otto and Gertrude had a full life outside her restaurant, but she always felt she had them all to herself. The flowers were evidence of how wrong she was. She turned to see many people cautiously entering the room. Some distant great-nieces and nephews collected in one corner. Lou offered her condolences and introduced herself. She didn’t think they really knew much about their great-aunt and uncle, not beyond the chitchat at family functions.

Lou wandered the room to find some photo albums and posted pictures. In every single image, they touched each other: holding hands, a hand on a shoulder or knee, or a full embrace with cheeks squished together. That was her favorite, something you expected teenagers to do, and it was one of their more recent pictures. They ate food in a lot of pictures, too, sitting side by side at picnic tables or lounging on a blanket in the grass.

The room filled up quickly, so she settled into a back chair, hoping there’d be enough seats for any of her former staff that came. Sue and Harley eventually arrived, as did many waitstaff and busboys. They surrounded her in their corner of the room, a phalanx protecting their lost commander. It felt good to be with her family, even in this sad setting; she’d missed them.

When the service began, Lou felt a tingle at the back of her neck. She turned to see Al enter the back of the room with a very hairy and rumpled man. He glanced her way, gave a nod of acknowledgment, and turned toward the minister. Lou turned back, too, not sure what to think about the newest mourner.

• • • • •

Don’t look again. Don’t look again. Whew—she turned around. If he looked at her again, he wouldn’t be able to control himself; he’d be on his knees begging in an instant. He’d heard about Otto and Gertrude’s death in the office. Hannah had called him in to ask whether he knew them. Their obituary was written based on a packet of information the deceased had wanted included. They wanted it known they frequently ate at the remarkable Luella’s, owned by Lou Johnson. He’d only met them a few times, yet they’d left an indelible mark. The two together seemed unbeatable, impervious to the ups and downs of life. For them, it was only ups as long as they were together; they made sense. As a model of marital harmony, he could think of no better.

He intentionally entered just as the service began, bringing John as insurance. He meant to pay his respects, not harass Lou. But she looked so broken when their eyes met. Dark circles marked her face, and she looked too thin. All the chairs held bodies, heads facing the minister who talked about soul mates and shared happiness. Al didn’t care much for funerals; they reminded him of his limited time to prove himself.

His parents had stayed for two weeks after the incident. He’d spent that time discussing his future with them, sharing many of the places Lou showed him: the art museum, The Good Land, Sprecher Brewery, and Miller Park. Alas, Northpoint Custard was closed for the winter, but they had one at the airport. When he drove his parents for their flight home, they had left early to eat at the custard stand. He had ordered everything and set it on the table in front of them, a communal feeding trough for the family.

“That’s lovely. It smells just like the fish ’n’ chips shop by the house,” his dad had said.

“I know. But this is quite a bit better. Try the perch. So much tastier than cod.”

They had sampled in silence, with a break to mutually agree the deep-fried cheese curds represented genius—evil genius, but genius.

“So, you’re staying then?” his mum asked.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“You seemed reluctant to come, and then with the misunderstanding.” Katherine waved her hand and continued, “We thought you might want to come back to England.”

“Mum, it was a screwup, not a misunderstanding.”

“Language, Alastair.”

“Anyway, I thought about leaving. I could make a fresh start, create a new identity. But I like who I’ve become and I like this place. I fit here. I’ve made new friends, and it has an exciting, eclectic food scene I want to watch grow. I’m not proud of how I started, but I found myself here. I’m not going to leave and risk getting lost again. So, I’m afraid you’ll just have to visit soon. Though try the summer next time.” It went unspoken, but he knew they were thinking that Milwaukee also housed the woman he loved.

• • • • •

The noise of many people moving at once brought Al out of his memories. The service ended and people filtered out into a large dining room, forming a line at the Spanferkel buffet.

“You coming?” John pointed a finger toward the food.

“No, not hungry.”

John joined the line as Al noticed Lou in her seat, waving her friends toward the food, her head down, and a wadded tissue swatting at tears. He’d taken a step in her direction when he saw Devlin sit down next to her. Al stepped into the foyer to watch. He should’ve left. But he didn’t.

Lou stiffened but nodded when Devlin spoke. She stood to walk away. This time when his lips moved, she turned and strode toward the bathroom.

Devlin rose and stalked toward the exit but noticed Al hovering in the entry.

“You. You screwed it all up,” he said, pointing his finger into Al’s chest. Al didn’t flinch.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Al said, moving Devlin’s finger off his body.

“Get what? That people don’t leave me? That she belongs with me? I can take care of her.”

“Lou can take care of herself.” Al paused. “You dated her for a couple of years, right?”

“Yes.”

“In all that time, you never once understood who she was. She has a gift, one you’ve never appreciated. She has too much talent to hide away in your kitchen preparing fancy meals. She’s not a private chef you can shag after dinner.”

For someone who grew up at an all-boys school as the son of a teacher, Al possessed a surprising lack of knowledge about how to take a punch. So when Devlin threw a hammer fist at his face, Al’s reflexes didn’t know to duck. He heard a sound like a lobster cracking open. Hot blood streamed from his nose, leaving an iron taste in his month.

“I guess I hit a nerve,” Al said, trying to stanch the flow with his thumb and index finger.

Devlin pulled back his fist to deliver another punch, when Al held up his hand.

“One more question. Why did you send me that note card suggesting I review Luella’s? You expected me to skewer it, right?”

Devlin dropped his arm, guilt on his face.

“That’s what I thought,” Al said. “You were so used to getting your way, you didn’t care if it destroyed your own fiancée’s dreams.”

His eyes lifted to see Lou standing in the doorway, her brows knitted together. He nodded to her, then turned and walked out, pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket to mop up the damage.

• • • • •

Lou stepped forward to go after him, then stopped. It wasn’t the right moment. She needed more information and time. Her wounds still stung from his lies. But Devlin. It should surprise her that he had urged the infamous A. W. Wodyski to review her restaurant, but it didn’t. At the least, she should feel something, but she just didn’t care about him anymore. She was more concerned about the bloodied writer who ran out into the snow.

At least Devlin’s hand looked like it hurt, too. He rubbed it and stretched the fingers, working out the pain from punching with enough force to break Al’s nose. Devlin turned around to see Lou watching him.

“Lou, you need—”

“No.” Lou held her hand up to stop his prattling. “How dare you take my choices away from me. After all this time, you still know nothing about me. I’ve never wanted your vision. You’ve always pushed me toward a mold you thought I should fit into. But I’m not a little housewife, content to entertain your colleagues over dinner parties, staying home to raise children I’m not sure I want. And I’m not your mother, working at a job I hate to pay the bills. Quit trying to make me into someone else. I’m me. A chef, complete with burns, freakishly strong forearms, and an affinity for brightly colored plastic footwear.” Lou paused. “I’d thank you for coming to the funeral, but you never even met Otto and Gertrude.”

Lou stepped forward to give Devlin another piece of her mind when Harley appeared and loomed in front of him, arms crossed, face foreboding. Behind him appeared the scruffy guy who came in with Al, though his pose of disdain didn’t induce the same level of intimidation as Harley’s. Sue rounded out the trio. They glared at Devlin until he retreated to the door and out into the snow.

Lou joined the three enforcers in time to hear the new guy speak.

“He really is a tool, isn’t he? Who punches a diplomatic guy like Al?”

Lou put a hand out and said, “Hi, I’m Lou.”

A grin split the man’s beard, reminding her of a Muppet.

“I’m John.” Lou was about to ask how he knew Otto and Gertrude when he added, “I work with Al at the paper.”

Sue laughed. “He told us in line he’s the style editor.”

Trying to process him as a style editor distracted Lou from all the questions she had about Al and the note card from Devlin that he’d mentioned.

“Really?” Lou scanned him up and down. “I always pictured someone more like Tim Gunn.”

“That’s why I don’t usually tell people, but I felt honesty would be a better approach given recent events. I’m now regretting that decision.”

He glared at Sue, who giggled even more. Even Harley suppressed a laugh.

After seeing Al in person, coupled with the voice mail he had left, Lou had questions about him and his motivations. John could probably answer those questions.

“It’s nice to meet you, John. We need to talk. Tell me, how do you feel about Spanferkel?”

• • • • •

Lou tapped her foot on the coffee table as she and Tom waited for the lender to retrieve them. Her business plan sat in her lap, along with her loan documents. A woman with straight, brown hair and a friendly smile greeted them.

“Hi, Ms. Johnson, I’m Lisa. Why don’t you follow me to my office?”

Lou and Tom trailed after her, settling into a small room. Pictures of children lined the bookshelf and manila envelopes were stacked on every surface. Lisa began flipping through the folder in front of her.

“Now, let’s start with where we are. You’ve already missed a few payments on the loan with us for your current restaurant, Luella’s. Correct?” Lou nodded. “Unfortunately, I’m under pressure from the loan committee to declare it a default and accelerate the final payment. I’m assuming you’re here to discuss that?”

Lou’s stomach curled. She hated this part, the negotiating, the possible rejection. Tom kicked her. She swallowed.

“Yes.” Her voice squeaked. “I’d like to propose a second chance. One that would let me keep my loan, avoid an auction, and get payment back on track.”

Lou felt sweat dripping down her back. If her nerves didn’t let up, she’d leave a puddle on the chair.

“I like that as an idea, but what has changed?”

Lou laid out her new business plan and flipped to a page covered in figures.

“Recently, I inherited a house. I plan to sell it and use the proceeds to help cover some of my debts. I’ve also acquired an investor.” Lou pointed at Tom, who grinned at the lender.

Lisa smiled back, then studied the numbers.

“This does seem to solve your cash problem, but I don’t see how this will help with the restaurant you just closed.”

“I’d like to restructure the loan for a new restaurant. The business plan outlines everything.”

Lisa paged through the papers.

“The last thing the bank wants to do is seize and take back collateral, then try to sell it. I like that you’re here, fighting for your business, and your plan seems viable. And having one of the most successful chefs in the city on your side doesn’t hurt.” Lisa grinned at Tom. “While I can’t lend you additional money, we do want to see you succeed. If the numbers work and your new business plan is sound, we should be able to work out something. We’ll review everything and call you in a few weeks, but from where I sit, it looks good.”

Lou exhaled slowly. Lisa looked from her to Tom.

“Don’t you want to add anything?”

Tom’s smile expanded.

“I’m the silent partner.”

After so much rejection and disappointment, Lou let the sweet relief spread. Her numbers were accurate. She would get the loan restructured. She would get her kitchen. She would get her second chance.

• CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN •

Lou spread the last of the frosting onto the cake. She could never get it as even as Harley did, but that’s what the toasted coconut was for—to hide the flaws. She pressed the crunchy topping onto the sides and top of the cake, pausing to toss a pinch into her mouth.

She boxed up the cake and attached the note, her heart thumping with worry that her plan wouldn’t work.

She poked her head down the hall and shouted.

“John, are you almost done? It’s ready to go.”

“Almost,” he shouted back.

Lou poured herself a cup of coffee and flipped through a stack of papers on her counter. She pulled out Al’s review of The Good Land. She’d reread it a few weeks ago. He described the food lovingly, taking the time to explain why it excelled, not just that it tasted good. No wonder he had found such success as a food critic. The beginning reminded her how much Al had changed since they first met:

Milwaukee is all too often the butt of a joke, derided as a northern suburb of Chicago, the dreaded fly-over country. The streets are paved with cheese, rivers flow with beer, and cows run wild in the streets. Every native Wisconsinite can milk a cow, wears overalls, and drives a tractor. It’s a blue-collar town of simple tastes and simpler hobbies.

And in many ways, it is all of those things, but if you stop there, you’d be selling the city (and state) short, as well as denying yourself a true pleasure. As Alice Cooper explained so patiently to Wayne and Garth, mee-lee-wah-kay is Algonquin for “the good land.” And it is.

He really wasn’t the same man who had eviscerated Luella’s almost a year ago, who’d written all the biting critiques before that. After the funeral, she spent time with John and learned Devlin’s role in A. W. Wodyski’s review. John had confirmed her realizations. Al—the man who had fallen in love with her and her hometown, who had confessed to his complete asshattery, and who took a punch to the nose for her—deserved a second chance.

John walked into the kitchen and Lou gave a soft whistle.

“You look lovely,” Lou said, smoothing his hair a bit. “Make sure to call when you arrive so I know you got there safely. And remember, I’m a size ten.”

John’s smile distracted her a little. He looked so handsome—great hair, sparkly eyes, even his teeth impressed her.

“What do you think of the outfit?” John asked, crinkling the shirt in his hands.

“Stop wrinkling everything. You do that all the time.”

“Sorry, old habit.”

“Your clothes match your look perfectly. No need to mess them up.”

“Really?”

John’s brow furrowed.

“Trust me. I love the way you look.”

“I’m not used to having a female opinion.”

“Get used to it, because I can’t give any other kind. We could call up Harley to ask his opinion if you’d like. I’m sure he’d be flattered and full of useful dressing tips.”

“Funny.” John checked his watch. “Oops. I should get going.”

“Okay. You have the box and know what to do?”

“Fear not, dear lady.” John picked up the kelly-green box, pecked Lou on the cheek, and headed out her apartment door.

She’d better hurry or she’d be late, too.

• • • • •

The spring sun lit up the newsroom, forcing the pallid writers to squint at their screens. But after the long winter, no one wanted to suggest closing the blinds. Al noticed people escaping on coffee runs just to get outside on the first warm day in months.

“So, will you visit?” Al said into his phone.

“You really want me to come? To Milwaukee? You seemed quite against it last time,” Ian said.

Al smiled. “It’s grown on me. A lot.”

“Brilliant. I’ve been reading your reviews and I want the grand tour.”

“You read my articles?” Al sat up straighter, like he did during school when he answered a question correctly.

“Of course I do. It’s the only way I find out what you’re up to. Speaking of, I like that you’re using your real name now.”

“Me, too.”

“So, when should I visit?”

“How about mid-August, for Irish Fest? You’ll love it.”

“I can’t wait. I’ll let you know when I make the arrangements.”

“And you’re staying with me. No hotel.”

Ian laughed. “Perfect.”

“Later.”

Al set the phone down and smiled, thinking of all the places he wanted to show Ian. He glanced at his Brewers schedule to see what home games fell during his brother’s visit.

With a happy sigh, he looked toward the sun-filled windows and started his electric kettle; no outside runs for him today. He’d been working on a feature article for the last few months, the idea planted by Lou on one of their nondates. He’d researched how the different ethnicities within the city influenced the growing food culture, with an emphasis on the ethnic fests, his favorite part of Milwaukee’s summers.

It had been over three months since he saw Lou at the funeral. His eyes slid to the cast-iron pan now hanging in his cubicle, covered in magnets, one for each special memory with Lou. He brought it to the office now that he spent more time here. It tracked not only his love for her but his love of the city.

He looked at the clock: four hours until deadline. He should make it. He stood, bent over to touch his toes, now covered in clean black Converse sneakers. He wore blue jeans and a T-shirt with a sport coat covering the back of his chair. His Brewers cap sat on the edge of his desk; he usually wore it when he went out to restaurants or bars, unless it was a nicer place. His polos and khakis were buried in his full closet, all his suitcases unpacked. Al sat back down to finish his column.

He heard a noise behind him and assumed John finally showed for work. He rarely arrived so late in the day.

“Hey, John,” Al said without turning. “Everything okay?”

“This is for you,” John said. He saw John’s arm set something green on his desk, elegant black-and-silver cuff links blinking at the end of an Italian wool sleeve. Al barely registered what the arm held because he struggled to merge the posh clothing with John’s voice. He spun around to confirm it was actually John. Al’s mouth fell open.

In front of him stood an impeccably dressed man: crisp Italian suit, subtle lavender dress shirt, matching pocket square, creased trousers, and polished black leather loafers. His honey-brown hair was cut neatly, emphasizing the solid, beard-free jawbone and strong facial features. Al’s first instinct was to ask where John had gone.

“Are you going to see who it’s from?” John said, pointing at the box.

Al’s mind started clunking into motion, and a smile emerged in anticipation of the entertainment to come.

“What happened?” Al finally said.

“Come on, dude; don’t make a big deal.”

“Don’t make a big deal? This is a very big deal. You have a face.” Al’s voice got louder and other staff started popping up to see what had happened. The women didn’t pop back down. John started looking uncomfortable with the staring.

“Please,” John said.

“This is what you were hiding. I thought a dog bit half your face off, or you had a mole the size of Hong Kong. Mate, you’re a looker.”

John sighed, pulled out his chair, and plopped into it.

“This sucks. I feel naked.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “I’m actually colder now. I need more clothes because the breeze makes my face cold. How dumb is that?”

“So why the change?”

“Paris.”

“I thought fashion season was over.”

“I’m doing a piece on how the houses translate their haute couture into prêt-à-porter. I’m going to Louis Vuitton, Catherine Malandrino, Givenchy, Chanel. I don’t know how Hannah did it, but she got me ins at the best.”

“It’s because I’m the best editor in the world and you two will never forget it,” Hannah said as she walked into their cubicle. “You look hot. If I didn’t know what you looked like yesterday, I’d consider cuckolding my husband.”

John looked horrified.

Hannah laughed.

“Buck up, pretty boy.” She turned her attention to Al and said, “So Al, what’s in the box? It smells incredible.”

Al hadn’t noticed; he’d been too fixated on John’s transformation. He took a deep breath and sniffed.

It couldn’t be.

But please, God, let it be.

He swiveled to face the box, a bold kelly green, the color grass yearned to attain, tied with a piece of white string. Taped to the top was a crisp white envelope with a small bulge. He carefully peeled it off, enjoying the smell, the rising optimism in his chest. He pulled out a heavy white stock card, the kind wedding invitations were printed on. It revealed a sample menu for a new restaurant named A Simple Twist, featuring an eclectic, ever-changing menu that caused his mouth to salivate. The only constant from day to day would be an amazing coconut cake. Al smiled.

Something fell out onto the desk. It looked like a black oval. When he flipped it over, he realized it was a magnet: a pristine white coconut cake on a matching stand, set against a background the same color as the box. He mentally cleared a spot in the middle of his cast-iron skillet and added the magnet to his collection, leaving ample black space around it.

With reverence usually reserved for a favorite toy or Grandma Eileen’s Waterford Crystal goblets, Al untied the box and lifted the cover. Coconut teased him with tropical deliciousness; then the vanilla he so often smelled on Lou’s neck wafted up. He ached to hold her, smell that spot right behind her ear. The cake, frosted and covered with toasted coconut, beckoned, wanting to be cut and eaten immediately.

What did this mean? Had she forgiven him? He checked the envelope for a note, a hint, anything to tell him how to proceed.

He turned the menu over. Written on the back in Lou’s inconsistent scrawl was an address and three words: “Bring the Cake.”

This time Al laughed.

“What?” Hannah and John said at the same time.

“I’m taking the afternoon off.” With that, Al grabbed his coat, picked up the cake box, and headed toward the exit. Hannah stepped in front of him.

“You have a deadline.”

“And where are you going with the cake?” John asked.

Al looked straight at Hannah and said, “I’m sorry. I’ve never missed a deadline. I know this one’s important, but I couldn’t finish it now if I tried. I’ve got to know what this means.” Al lifted the cake. “I’ll take any consequence you give me. I’ll write obits for a month, report on traffic court—I don’t care. I’m going.”

Hannah stepped aside with a nod, and he jogged as fast as he could without jostling the box.

The address on the menu was only a few blocks from the paper. He arrived in minutes, breathing hard, though not from the fast pace. Outside, thick green curtains covered the window, hiding the construction within, with the exception of a small table covered in matching kelly green. On the table sat a white cake stand with the words “A Simple Twist, Coming Soon” painted in green.

Al yanked on the door, his palms slipping on the silver handle, his heart pounding.

• • • • •

Lou looked up from the open kitchen when she heard the door jingle. Earlier, she had hung up the bells she had rescued from Luella’s. At A Simple Twist, watching the chefs work would be an integral part of the experience. Not to mention, she’d also get to watch the guests. She smiled when her eyes met Al’s unsure gaze as he stood in the restaurant’s entrance staring at her, not quite believing she had really summoned him here.

“I like the name,” Al said. He took a few more steps into the restaurant.

“Thanks.” Lou noticed he had the box. “Thank God—I worried the office vultures would discover it before you did. Or that John might drop it.” She walked around the counter carrying a plate, a knife, and two forks.

“John? You saw John?”

“Of course. Didn’t he deliver it? He was supposed to. Doesn’t he look amazing? Who knew all that was hiding under the bushman? Poor guy doesn’t know what to do with all the attention.” She worked hard to keep her voice casual. She hadn’t been sure he would come, that he still felt the same. She still didn’t know about the latter.