Текст книги "The Coincidence of Coconut Cake"

Автор книги: Amy E. Reichert

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

• • • • •

Al sipped his morning tea, hoping to jolt his synapses alive. He spread his notes out, turning them different directions to decide which way was up.

“So you suck at nineties movie references,” John said. Al swiveled in his chair to see John leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers steepled in front of him.

“What?” Al asked.

“I glanced at your notes from the restaurant on Sunday. Nineties movies references. They go right over your head.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Al didn’t like feeling like an idiot.

“Meel-ee-wah-kay? The Good Land?”

Al stared blankly.

“Dude, we have got to watch some movies together,” John said.

“Is this your obnoxious way of asking how this weekend went?”

“Sure. If you insist on talking about it. How did the date go?” John grinned.

“It wasn’t a date.” Al sighed.

“Was it just the two of you?” John propped his fingers into a tent.

“Yes.”

“Did you have dinner?” He added a nod.

“You know I did. I’m reviewing the restaurant.” Al sensed a trap.

“So you told her what you do? She knew you were on the clock?”

“No.” Al rolled his eyes.

“Then you went to Summerfest to watch a band?”

“Yes.”

“Did you meet any other people?”

“No, but it wasn’t a . . .” Al sat up straighter.

“Hang on.” John held his hand up. “Did you kiss?”

Al paused, remembering the near miss. “No.”

“There was a pause—what was the pause for?” John pointed at Al as if catching him with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Nothing. We almost kissed, but it didn’t happen. It wasn’t a date.” He slumped back into the office chair.

“Did you slip her the hot beef—”

“Mate, watch it. I assure you, the answer is no, and even if it wasn’t, I’m not about to discuss it like we’re in a secondary school locker room.”

“I was gonna say sandwich. There are great hot beef sandwiches at Summerfest. Way to go to the gutter.”

Al smiled at John’s cover-up. The guy was growing on him. Plus, he’d read all John’s articles in the paper’s archives. Under the sloppy, hairy exterior dwelt an astute critic of all things style and culture. He understood fashion so well, why he continued to break every fashion rule with his own appearance baffled Al, but he’d figure it out soon enough.

“Quite right,” Al said. “I need to finish typing my notes from the Good Land visit now. Shh.”

Al spun back around to his computer monitor and returned to deciphering his loo-scrawled notes. He could barely read them, but the inconvenience had been well worth it. Dining with Lou beat dining alone any day. She clearly loved food, ate everything, and understood that if you didn’t like a food, it didn’t mean the dish wasn’t successful. If you focused on the flavors and textures, you could break a dish down into definable components. By analyzing the components, you could decide whether the dish worked or didn’t.

And sometimes, when a chef understood each ingredient so completely, down to its roots, he or she could create something wholly new and complete, the culinary equivalent of alchemy, and almost as elusive. But when it happened, the diner could taste and feel that chef’s love and passion in the food. Al searched for and craved these experiences, and he’d gotten one on Saturday night from Lou’s friend Chef Tom.

“Al, come to my office for a minute,” Hannah said, interrupting his thoughts.

Al put his computer into sleep mode and followed Hannah to her office. He didn’t trust John to not do something in his absence. He’d already changed his desktop twice to lewd Photoshopped pictures of the Queen. Al ran through his last few reviews, trying to imagine why Hannah needed to talk to him. He hadn’t libeled any restaurants or chefs. In fact, all the reviews were positive. He’d finally found some good restaurants.

Hannah walked around her desk and picked up a handful of papers to hand to Al.

“These are the latest letters we’ve received,” said Hannah. Al scanned them, picking out a few phrases: “Wodyski really helped me pick the perfect restaurant” and “I learned so much about Thai food, I can’t wait to try it.” Al looked up at Hannah, his eyebrows scrunched together.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“It’s hard to believe, but you are getting even more letters. I thought since you’ve started being less critical, people would get bored. Your writing changed.” Hannah looked at him closely, trying to find the difference. “Perhaps you’ve changed? Whatever is different, keep it up.”

Al stood still, shocked by what she’d said. Was he different? He didn’t feel different. And if he was different, why? And how?

“Now, out.” Hannah shooed him out with a wave of her hand, already looking at her computer monitor and mousing with the other hand.

Al stepped out into the hallway and returned to his desk but couldn’t get Hannah’s words out of his mind.

• CHAPTER THIRTEEN •

As she briefed the staff on the evening’s service, Sue looked at Lou, checking to see whether she’d make a dash for the restroom. She’d told Sue and Harley about her decision earlier, before the rest of the staff arrived. She’d visited the bathroom twice since then. Billy kept peeking at her stomach, searching for a nonexistent baby bump.

Lou looked at each employee, trying to memorize their unsuspecting faces. They didn’t know that in a few minutes she’d tell them their jobs would end soon. Billy and his partner had just bought a small house and were hoping to adopt. Tyler’s car was in the shop again. Most of the busboys sent money back to family in Mexico, every dollar making a huge difference to little sisters and brothers, parents and grandparents.

She accepted her decision, knew it made sense, but her body rejected it. Thus the vomiting, cold sweats, and wet lashes.

Sue finished the daily specials. It was now or never. Lou stood. Sue sat down, nodding encouragement at her. She sipped her ice water and cleared her throat.

“I’m sure a lot of you have noticed business is slower. I’ve tried to schedule fewer waiters per shift so your tips wouldn’t suffer too much.”

Lou took another sip of water and a deep breath.

“I’ve worked the numbers every possible way, but there’s no way I can keep the restaurant open past New Year’s. I’ll probably close sooner than that.”

During the staff’s murmured shock and muttered no’s, Lou’s throat threatened to seal itself shut. More ice water didn’t do much to help.

“So, I’d like you all to start finding new jobs. We have a little bit of time, so hold out for a good position. I’ve written each of you a wonderful recommendation, which I’ll hand out after the meeting.”

Lou just let the tears fall.

“I want you all to know you’ve been my family and will always be my family. I can’t imagine a day when I don’t see your faces, hear your jokes, listen to your stories. I will keep the restaurant open until you all find good, new jobs or until the bank forces me out. Whichever comes first. I’m so sorry I messed up. I’ve got a few calls in to some friends with good restaurants, like The Good Land. I want you all to know how much your support and friendship mean to me. These past few months have been rough. Without you all, I probably wouldn’t be sober most days. So thank you.”

Lou turned around to wipe her face dry on her apron. Before she could turn back, arms surrounded her. Voices said, “We love you,” “It’s not your fault,” “Screw Wodyski,” and “We aren’t going anywhere.” She was quite sure this last one was Harley. He and Sue had insisted they would stay with her until the bank knocked down the front door.

Sue broke through the sentimental moment with one brisk “Get to work, people,” and the staff scattered to ready their stations for open. Sue handed Lou a clean napkin and pushed her toward the Lair.

Relieved to have the restaurant’s fate known to their staff, Lou used the Lair’s solitude to calm her tense nerves. As usual, her staff’s reaction exceeded her expectations—all love and support, no blame.

Lou sat at the desk, admiring the beautiful painting Al had given her. She had hung it above her desk so she could see it often. It never failed to improve her day. Lou checked her phone, thrilled to see she had a voice mail, then crushed to see the missed call came from Devlin.

Delete.

She opened the top drawer and pulled out the engagement ring he’d given her. She’d had it appraised. Emerald-cut, just under two carats, with a platinum band from Tiffany. A jeweler had offered her fifteen thousand, though it was worth twice that. It would pay rent for a few months.

Lou looked at her painting and smiled.

• • • • •

Seven thirty on a Friday night and the dining room had too many open tables. Lou scanned the sparsley populated room for the glowing white hair and gleaming forehead of her favorite customers. Gertrude and Otto still ate at Luella’s at least twice a week, a thought that warmed Lou. She worried about them. Gertrude was moving a little slower than a few months ago. She insisted it was nothing, but Lou had noticed her rouge seemed artificial, as if she was coloring in her face rather than highlighting her features.

But tonight, Gertrude was as cheerful as always. On a selfish level, Lou was happy for a slow night so she could have a long visit with them. Otto, while silent, had a confident presence, implying he had a handle on any situation; nothing took him by surprise. Gertrude merely exuded pure sunshine. As usual, Lou felt better in their presence; they were like guardian angels watching out for her.

“Gute Nacht, Otto, Gertrude. I’m so happy to see you.” Lou slipped into an empty chair next to the pair. “Seen any of the nieces and nephews lately?”

“Bah, they are too busy with their lives to worry about their old, wrinkled relatives. They have heard all our stories and are looking to make their own.”

“Well, that means I get to see more of you. Just the way I like it.”

Gertrude looked around at the many empty tables. “How are things, Liebling?”

“Wonderful.”

“The restaurant is wonderful?”

“Yes . . . well, no, not really. But other things are pretty good.”

Gertrude’s eyes sparkled with the delight of understanding Lou’s words more than Lou herself. “It is this new man, yes?”

“It is. We’re just friends, for now. But he’s lovely. We both love food, and laughing, and trying new things. It isn’t about the next deal, or how many people see him. If anything, he doesn’t care about meeting new people. He seems to enjoy my company.”

“That is good. Otto and I love spending time with each other. Even when we shop for new tires, it is fun because we do it together.” Otto’s shiny head bobbed in agreement, flashes of light emphasizing the importance.

“How did you know . . . that Otto was the one?”

Gertrude’s eyes glazed, peering through the years at a younger self.

“Ah, Herzchen, that is a very good question. I knew love before Otto. My first husband was very handsome, well respected. He sold insurance to everyone. We cared deeply for each other. When he died, I mourned, but I was not bereft. Then I met Otto. Everything made sense. As long as we were together, we could overcome anything. The meanest tasks became pleasurable because we would find the humor together. When one got angry, the other would defuse; when one got lost, the other found the map. We balanced. When we dance, all is at peace. No worries, no insurmountable obstacles. We can handle anything together. You know those dancers from the old movies, the two that danced so beautifully together?”

Lou scrunched her eyebrows in thought. “You mean Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers?”

“Yes, Fred and Ginger. Otto and I are like Fred and Ginger. Alone, we were good. But together—perfection.”

Otto reached a pale, wrinkled hand over Gertrude’s matching one and gave a little squeeze of agreement. She shone a little brighter. For once, Lou got it. With Devlin, he never made her shine brighter. He tried to hide her flaws behind fancy clothes, was embarrassed she worked in a kitchen. But when she spent time with Al, she was a more confident, comfortable version of herself. She was Lou, lover of food, friends, and home. A home where she could obsess about her favorite books, giggle at ridiculous movies, and create amazing food from her heart. And with Al, she was all of those things, and he seemed to like her more because of them. She showed him all that meant the most to her, Milwaukee’s heart and soul, and he still wanted to spend more time with her. Plus, she could tell his opinion of Milwaukee had softened.

“I think I may have found my Fred Astaire,” Lou said half to herself.

“Oh, that is wonderful. When can we meet him?”

Lou’s eyes sparkled at the idea of having Al in the restaurant. She had not thought of it before, but she relished the idea of seeing him at one of her tables, enjoying her food. “Soon. We aren’t really together yet. I’ve just been showing him Milwaukee. He may just want to stay friends.” Lou’s heart sunk a little with that thought.

“Liebchen, there is no better place to start than friendship.”

• • • • •

Al balanced a flimsy tray of fried zucchini with garlic aioli, a heavy paper plate of warm gnocchi in a tomato cream sauce, an eggplant spiedini, and a plastic glass of Italian red while following John through the undulating crowds around the Miller Stage. He had seen some cannoli and Italian cookies he’d go back for later. He didn’t want to risk sacrificing his lunch to the beer-soaked and heavily trodden ground. From behind, John looked even more slovenly than usual. He wore his normal wrinkled blue button-down and stained trousers, but today he’d added ratty black Converse high-tops, his hair so mussed it looked intentional. An open picnic table appeared before him. John looked at him for an opinion on the table options; Al nodded his approval of the seating. He’d been losing his grip on the gnocchi, so he wasn’t picky. The smells rising from the plates nearly drove him crazy with anticipation.

Al spread his meal around him, setting the zucchini in between them for sharing. The two ate silently for a few minutes. They had come down to Festa Italiana for lunch under the guise of Al writing a story on the food. Well, that part was true, but he could have come after work or on the weekend. It was too nice a day to stay in the office, so he coerced John into joining him for a little hooky. Al had been to his fair share of festivals, but this town really knew how to throw a party. Most fest food dripped with grease and tasted too salty. While such foods were available, quality alternatives abounded. At Festa, he couldn’t decide what to eat; there were so many appealing options. Local restaurants (most of them Italian) set up food booths, serving popular restaurant items and a few unusual ones. The stalls represented a who’s who of Milwaukee Italians. The food wasn’t just good compared to other festivals—it would stand up to full restaurant menus.

He’d walk home to offset all the carbs. His pants already felt tighter than usual; he’d have to exercise a bit more to keep the weight from ticking up. Lately, food just tasted too good to stop after his first few bites. Perhaps because he dined with more enthusiasm, enthusiasm he could trace directly to Lou. Ever since their chance encounter, Milwaukee was better. Maybe the reluctant arrival of summer cheered him, or maybe it was his blossoming friendship with John. But he knew without a doubt it was mainly Lou. She’d showed him the unique, humble, and delicious side of the town he had refused to acknowledge existed.

He felt happier now, too. He enjoyed the blue-collar work-hard, play-hard attitude of the locals. Last Friday, he had finally gone out for his first Wisconsin fish fry. When he walked in the small corner bar, he thought he’d made a mistake. Ten patrons turned around and stared at the new guy, but the wall of people surrounding the hostess stand made his decision for him: he would eat at the bar. Al took the seat next to a man wearing a gray Packers T-shirt, jeans, and a cap for a local construction company, his gray hair peeking out under the edge.

When he ordered a gin and tonic from the wizened old woman with pale beehive hair, the man chimed in, “You don’t want that. Darlene makes a crap gin and tonic. Get a brandy old-fashioned. She makes the best.”

“Hard to argue with that recommendation. A brandy old-fashioned, please.”

Darlene the bartender made the drink and set it in front of Al. After one sip, Al knew he had found a new favorite drink.

“What do you order for fish?” Al asked.

“The perch with potato pancakes. Best in town.” Al followed his advice and wasn’t disappointed. During dinner, the two men discussed travel and sports. By the time he scraped the last bite of coleslaw off his plate, half the bar had joined in. He smiled at the memory and what he’d realized while talking with them. It wasn’t about who had the fanciest house, or knew more people, or traveled farthest. Many of the people he had met had been no farther than Green Bay for a Packers game. They liked life here and saw no reason to want for more. He had spent his schooling days yearning for what these lucky people had been born to—a life that was enough.

He envied their contentedness but found he felt a little himself, especially around Lou. With Lou, he didn’t feel less. He felt like they were equals, no matter whether she’d come from a poor rural farm or a mansion on Lake Drive. When he thought about her background, he realized he wanted to know more. What did she do when they weren’t exploring the town? Where did she grow up? Other than her wanker of an ex-fiancé, whom did she spend time with? The journalist in him cringed at his lack of research.

“You going to finish that?” asked John, pointing to Al’s half-finished Italian sausage. Al looked down, realizing he’d eaten all of the gnocchi, zucchini, and half of his sandwich without noticing, too caught up in his thoughts of Lou.

“I’m done.” Al handed the wrapper across the table and looked at his dining partner. You could barely see his face hidden behind the scruffy beard and long, almost matted hair. You could really only see his prominent eyebrows and grayish-blue eyes. If he didn’t know John, Al would assume he spent his evenings under the local bridges.

“I don’t get it, mate.”

“You don’t get that I’m still hungry?”

“No—you’re wicked smart; I’ve read your articles. Your writing is brilliant. About fashion. And you look like this.” Al waved his hand at John’s clothes. “I don’t get it.”

“Self-preservation and habit.” John shrugged.

“That isn’t any clearer.”

John held up a finger to indicate he was still chewing. When he finished, he took a long breath, then spoke.

“I grew up in West Allis.” The words came out blended so it sounded like “’Stallis.” “I’ve always known I liked two things in life: women and the clothes they wear. What could be a better job than studying beautiful women wearing beautiful clothes? It just made sense to me. Over time, I developed an appreciation for all aspects of style, but it always started with women. But being from ’Stallis, some people aren’t always so nice to the young boy who knew how to pronounce ‘Givenchy’ correctly. Assumptions were made, faces were punched. When I dress like this, people leave me alone.”

“You aren’t at school anymore; I think it’d be quite safe now.”

“Like I said, self-preservation and habit. I did it to hide myself when I was young. Now I’m just used to it. It’s easier not to change now.”

“I think you’d have better luck with the ladies.” Al smirked.

John looked thoughtful. “I know. Christian Louboutin said a good pump is like a beautiful face with no makeup. You can cover a not-so-beautiful face with makeup, but it is just a mask. My mask makes my life less complicated.” He took a bite of the sandwich as Al digested the unexpected information. “So, speaking of ladies, how’s yours?”

Al ran his hand through his hair and looked around at the passing people, half hoping he would see her welcoming face. “Really good. I think I’m going to tell her.”

“Tell her what?”

“Who I am, what I do. I think we could really have something. She should know.”

“Well, how are you going to tell her? Just going to spit it out?”

“I’ve been thinking about this a bit. I’ll show her the review of The Good Land. We had so many unique plates, she’ll recognize it as our meal and realize I wrote the review. Then . . .”

“Then she’ll fall into your arms, convinced of your genius, and beg to spend the rest of her life meeting your every need? Wait . . . that’s what I want.”

Al laughed. “That would be quite nice. I’m merely hoping she doesn’t mind having to keep my identity a secret and agrees that kissing is the best dessert.”

“Well, sounds like a fair plan. I’m sure things will go perfectly.”

Al picked up his plastic glass of wine, held it out for John to do the same, and said, “Here’s hoping.”