by S. A. Wolfe
Carson and Dylan Blackard own Blackard Designs, a high-end furniture factory that employs many in town. Carson is also known for his generosity—hiring people who are down on their luck and providing financial backing to those who are starting their own businesses. Cooper MacKenzie is one of the company’s principals. He convinced his brother, Peyton, to leave New York City to open a new restaurant with them in Hera. They’re all backing the new venture financially, but I suspect that luring Peyton to join them is what will make their new business a success.
“Shit, a chef without a kitchen is like a sex-starved guy who’s been told he has to be celibate.” Dylan shakes his head. My comrade-in-arms, who is a gourmet cook in his own right, isn’t always the best with words.
Everyone looks at Dylan and laughs. Everyone except Peyton.
“I don’t see a problem with that,” Carson says.
“Nope,” Cooper adds nonchalantly. “We should be able to work something out. Can’t have the best chef in town going out of business.”
“Since I’m the biggest stakeholder and I’m managing this place for the next few months, you should be talking to me,” Peyton clarifies. “Come inside and meet our chef, Sebastian, and let’s see if we can come to an arrangement.”
I look to my other three friends, hoping one of them will accompany me, but they’re suddenly consumed with cleaning up the destroyed glassware, so I step forward as Peyton’s eyes beckon me.
Peyton
I TAKE IN HER blonde hair, tousled on top of her head and held in place with a blue ribbon. The blue of the ribbon matches her eyes …
And I can’t believe I’m going there. Comparing her eyes to a ribbon? She’s just another woman, another chick, as Dylan would say, and I already got away from a demanding one in Manhattan.
Flora and I had a good run, but I don’t need to be thinking about another woman. Sure, Talia’s more than attractive, but beautiful women are everywhere, especially in my business. She’s just another pretty woman who happens to have horrendous biking skills. Not to mention her timing sucks.
I’m trying to keep things on target for our opening day, and this little woman shows up for a big ask, batting her eyes at the other guys, who are pushovers for anyone they call a friend. I’m going along with it. Guess I’m a sucker, too.
I let her follow me through the cavernous hallway at the entrance, and then I lead her into the main dining area that is designed like a German beer hall. This morning we’ll be bringing in the rest of the long tables made for family-style seating. Two walls are almost entirely windows; the original industrial checkerboard-style glass panes that offer plenty of natural light. Another wall has a long, rustic bar, an open fire oven, and rotisseries.
She stops and takes in all the work we have done to renovate the once-dilapidated warehouse into a trendy restaurant and microbrewery. It’s much cooler than the bar I own in Brooklyn with my family, and it’s very unique compared to the high-end restaurant we own in Manhattan, where expensively dressed, elegant people hang out and easily drop hundreds of dollars for dinner and drinks for two.
This is a good project, and people in the industry are watching. It’s going to be a game-changer for me, opening the door for something bigger and more challenging. Everything I crave in this business—success, money, fame—will happen after I complete my stint in this miniscule tourist town.
“This is incredible.” Talia walks ahead of me, her shoes making a soft clicking sound on the concrete floor. She runs a finger across the grain of the only table we’ve brought in so far. “I like that everything is unpolished. It’s so … raw.” She turns around to face me.
The way she says raw makes me think of other things, things I need to stop thinking about. All I have to do to distract my brain for a second is to look at the funny bag she wears strapped across her body. It’s shaped like a life-size rotary phone, except it has a big, hot pink receiver as the handle, and the fake rotary dial on the front is set against a tropical design. Flora would never wear something so zany. That alone makes me like it. And I like that Talia has the boldness to add such odd whimsy to her polished look.
“Unpolished and raw is the feel we’re going for. It’s casual. Easy for anyone to eat here. Families, couples, old, young. It’s my first gut renovation, and it only happened because Carson has pull with the architects. I’m happy with the results.”
“You should be. You have a talent for creating restaurants.”
I brush past her and continue on to the kitchen, Bash’s territory.
“Sebastian!” I shout as we enter the kitchen where every stainless steel area is gleaming with newness.
Bash, dressed in a white chef’s coat, jeans, and work boots, is putting pots on a tall shelf. He turns around and studies Talia.
“This is Talia. Talia, this is Bash.”
“Our first visitor,” Bash says. He can be guarded when it comes to people outside of me and his cooking staff. Much of it stems from bad work experiences in our early days when he went on job interviews and people assumed he was an immigrant who didn’t speak English. In reality, Bash is Native American and trained at The Culinary Institute. Our time together, working in various establishments, gave me daily reminders of how we were received differently, how he always had to work harder to prove himself. I knew he was the man to run my kitchens. “You look familiar.”
“We were both at Cooper and Imogene’s wedding. At Peyton’s bar in Brooklyn.” She smiles.
“That’s it.” Bash gives a hint of a smile, his dark complexion taking on a reddish hue.
For fuck’s sake, don’t tell me he’s already crushing on her.
“I think we can all agree that we were slightly hammered at that wedding, so let’s move on to business,” I say brusquely.
Talia gives me a little frown, then steps forward to shake Bash’s hand. “I was just telling Peyton that I could use a big favor from you guys.”
“Oh?” Bash looks from her to me with a raised eyebrow.
“Don’t get too excited there, buddy. She has a catering business, and her kitchen is incapacitated at the moment. She wants to know if she can use our kitchen in the hours before we start serving the dinner crowd. Not sure how we’d work out the weekend time, since we’ll be serving brunch at some point down the line, but I told her to talk to you.”
“Sure,” Bash says rather too quickly. “I don’t see a problem. Look at the size of our kitchen. We have room to spare.”
“Don’t worry,” Talia adds. “I’ll bring my own knives. I’ll only need to borrow a few pots and pans. Some utensils. I’ll clean everything, and I won’t bother your dishwasher or your cooks.”
“Hey, I don’t mind having a sous chef around.” Bash crosses his arms and leans against the steel worktable with a goofy grin. Bash, who has developed the best poker-face since our wild days as teenagers, has turned into a pile of mush.
I don’t have time for his goddamn flirting. And if it were any other guy, I would feel like smacking that smile right off his face.
“Funny,” Talia says. “But I don’t work under anyone. I’m my own boss.”
“Hmm,” Bash responds.
“Are we done with introductions here?” I snap. “Bash, show her around, and you two work this out.”
Bash is still gazing at her with a glassy-eyed expression.
“Bash?” I prompt, a bit annoyed.
“Yeah.” He drags his eyes away from Talia and focuses on me. “Sure thing, boss man.”
“Stop calling me that.” I turn to Talia. “We good here? After Bash gives you the tour, I’m going to need you to sign some insurance waivers. Liability and all that crap.”
“I understand.” The words roll off her tongue in a well-practiced, clipped tone.
English may be her second language, but her Polish accent is barely noticeable, except when her voice drops a couple octaves to enunciate certain consonants in a sexy, Natasha the Spy sort of way.
I head back outside to h
elp carry the rest of custom dining tables from the delivery trucks, which only had to drive from the Blackard’s furniture workshop across the street.
The extra-long tables have benches that seat sixteen people, so they are hefty and it takes all of Carson and Cooper’s staff to hoist and carry the furniture.
It takes four people to carry one table, but Dylan convinces me that we’re strong enough to haul one between the two of us. I’m still thinking about Talia when I lose my grip on the iron table frame and jostle it enough so the other end drops and hits Dylan’s shoulder.
“Mother of—” Dylan shouts as he drops his end and hunches over, holding his shoulder in pain. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Sorry, it slipped.” I put my table end down, the heavy iron legs crunching against the gravel.
Dylan takes off his T-shirt and studies the bloody gash across his shoulder. “Thanks a lot,” he growls. “We can’t afford your sloppiness.”
“I said I was sorry. It was an accident. No need to be a prick about it. Why don’t you sit down and take care of the blood? I’ll get Bash to help me carry this in.”
“I’ve had enough of you calling the shots!” Dylan yells. “You’ve been acting like the fucking boss since you came to town.”
“Oh, fuck off. I’m the only who has experience starting and running a restaurant. That’s why Carson and Cooper put me in charge of this. And if that hurts so much, why don’t you run to the ER and get some stitches?” I should have tried to deliver it with a little more diplomacy, but I’m just as tense and exhausted as Dylan.
I see the others trudging around two other delivery trucks with the rest of the tables. Carson and Cooper are carrying a table together, and they both shoot me looks.
“Knock it off, you two!” Carson yells.
“We’re all tired and stressed out over finishing this. We don’t need you two going at each other’s throats every second you get,” Cooper lectures.
Emma, Dylan’s wife, suddenly appears from behind a truck. “Yes, I’m sick of all this, too.” She’s angry. “Dylan, I mean it. We’re all getting a little punchy and on edge for the opening day. You’re not helping by flipping out.”
“I apologize. It was my fault,” Dylan mumbles.
“Not good enough,” Emma says. “We need a break, hon.”
“I’m sorry … too,” I say to him.
He waves me off and lets his wife lead him away to his Jeep.
Dylan has struggled in the past with bipolar depression, but he’s managed to do well with treatment. I feel some responsibility for pushing his buttons. I’ve been aggressive and confrontational with everyone since they made me the lead project manager.
“It was an accident,” Carson tells me in a low voice. “Sometimes he slips up, and he has to deal with it.”
I nod warily. This is supposed to be an exciting time—getting close to the grand opening—but we keep running into glitches, like the faulty tap lines our brewmaster, Zander, needed days to repair, and getting the permit on the new gas lines. It keeps us all in a perpetual state of high anxiety and short fuses.
“Asshole,” Cooper says as he cuffs my ear. “We’ll take care of the tables. You go inside and cool off.”
Behind him, Cooper’s wife, Imogene, puts her hands on her hips and smiles at me knowingly. Marriage has given her the siblings she never had, so she treats me and my unmarried brothers and sister as her pet projects; people she must fix before finding us suitable matches.
I turn back to go inside the restaurant, seeing both Talia and Bash standing at the entrance, watching me. From Bash’s smile, I assume they saw my juvenile argument with Dylan. Talia looks disappointed.
“Come back to the office and sign some papers for me before you leave,” I say curtly.
“Of course,” she says, following me back inside.
The office is a small, windowless room between the restaurant and the actual brewery. I yank open a file cabinet drawer and pull out an insurance folder. “Here, this waiver should be enough.” I toss the paper on the desk and hand her a pen.
“And what about the rental fee? Do you have a figure in mind?”
“How about zero? Will that work for you?”
She looks at me, perplexed.
“I’m not going to charge you to use our kitchen for a few hours a day.”
“Why not? I pay a competitive rate in Woodstock for something much smaller.”
“You’re good friends with Carson and the other guys. I’ve learned they don’t charge friends.” I sigh. “They give the house away. Besides, you saw how big our kitchen is. You won’t even take up five percent of the space. So, if you want it, it’s free. Sign the paper and you’re set.”
“That’s very generous of you.” She leans down to sign her name with a big flourish.
“Wait. You didn’t even read it.”
She looks up at me with those big, baby blues of hers. “I trust you.” She hands the form back.
“It’s interesting how people here are so trusting.” My tone suggests a bit of cynicism.
“Small-town life. You’re not used to this kind of close-knit community.”
“You’re right. I prefer the city. It’s less predictable, more exciting. And there’s definitely more privacy.”
“You mean there are less nosy neighbors and people up in your business?”
I shrug.
“I love Hera. The camaraderie here is borne out of something different and special. We’re not connected by blood bonds, but our relationships are just as strong, if not stronger. You see, Dylan is more than a friend to me. He’s easily provoked … We all try to help him.”
“What are you saying? You have something going on with him? He’s married.”
“Ew.” She grimaces. “I meant he’s like a brother to me. I don’t like seeing you two fight. You taunted him, and it made me—”
“Ah, you’re pissed at me.”
“A little … for hurting my friend.”
“If it’s any consolation, I like Dylan. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be going into business with him and his brother. I also don’t think he’s hurt at all. Well, other than his tough ego. The guy is built like a boulder. We both lost our temper. We’ll all get past this and move on to better times. Besides, it’s only temporary.”
“What’s temporary?” She brushes back a loose tendril of hair.
I’m momentarily tantalized by the movement as she curls the tendril around her finger. I have to shake the visual from my mind or I could be here all day, wasting time with chitchat.
“Me. I’m temporary. I’m a joint partner, but I’m only staying in Hera for a few months until everything is running smoothly. Then I’m going back to the city. I have two restaurants there to deal with. And I have a big business opportunity that’s in the works. I’m counting on a deal to come through in Los Angeles.”
“Oh.” She sighs.
Is that a hint of relief in her voice?
Her rigid shoulders relax a bit, but she still holds herself with a graceful posture. “I’m going to go pack my things up at my kitchen … whatever was saved after the fire. I’ll be back early tomorrow with them. Bash said everyone will be here in the morning, working on the kitchen setup, and he’ll give me a set of keys then.”
I stare at her for a moment, thinking about how she said Bash, as if they were already good friends. She’s relaxed with other people, but not with me.
“Do you want me to come along and help you pack? I have a truck,” I blurt out. It’s not like I have any time to spare, but at this very moment, I want her to see me as a decent guy, not the jerk who just got into a playground shouting match with one of her good friends.
“No,” she says. “Thank you for the offer, but your presence isn’t necessary.” She delivers this statement politely, without realizing how demoralizing it strikes my ego. I chalk it up to her formal English language skills that lack subtlety.
The restaurant has plenty of room to accommod
ate her, but I can tell she’s going to be highly inconvenient for me personally. Extremely distracting.
I’m in trouble here.
Talia
“HE MUST BE VERY nice to let you use his kitchen,” my mother muses as she watches me collect extra aprons and supplies that I’ve been storing in our cramped utility closet.
“Yes, Bash is nice. He’ll be pleasant to work with. Well, I mean be around, since we’re not really working together.”
“I was referring to Peyton. You said he’s the primary owner, and he’s managing the restaurant. I think it’s very generous of him to let you use his kitchen. I know I don’t like anyone futzing around in my kitchen.”
“No, you don’t. You yell at everyone when they put things back in the wrong place. Maybe a few breadcrumbs on the counter wouldn’t make you so crazy if you had something else to do. Like getting out of the house once in a while.” I’m entering dangerous territory, but I keep thinking it’s my duty to push her instead of pretending that she leads a normal life.
“I don’t have the energy to have this argument again. I’m going for a run.” My mother crosses the kitchen to the family room, where the treadmill takes up entirely too much space.
“You can’t say you’re going for a run unless you actually go outside to run. You’re just going to the treadmill. There’s a difference.”
My mother ignores me, putting on her headphones and starting up the noisy treadmill. She has become surprisingly fast, and she’s definitely more fit than me. What’s the point, though?
My mother’s world is very small. You could say she lives within the four walls of our little home, sequestering herself.
It wasn’t always this bad. Years ago, there was a time when she was a very industrious woman, someone who had a full-time career working as an office manager for a growing tech firm while raising two young daughters. She was still able to cook big dinners for our family, and she and my father had a social life. She was admired by friends and family for her education, her career, her remarkable culinary skills, and the generosity with which she dispensed home-cooked dishes to anyone in need. That was a different time, a different city, a different country, where Mila and Damian Madej were popular among their friends and neighbors.