Just Like This (Albin Academy)

by Cole McCade

  I kept my face neutral even as her final phrase lit up every one of my nerves like fire tearing through dry brush. Deep breath in, hold it, push all the air out.

  Finally, after Peter crossed the small kitchen to tug on the hem of my T-shirt, I relented. “Alright. Well if you really don’t mind, I can check in on your references. I’ll text you the number for the restaurant and my friend Jay’s number in case you can’t get a hold of me. I have to get over there first thing tomorrow to meet with management. Is around seven thirty okay for you?”

  It would be a godsend not to have to pay the sitter the agreed upon fifteen dollars an hour. Money was stretched tight as it was. But guilt reared its very familiar head at the thought of not paying Vanessa anything to watch Peter. Maybe I could at least arrange some kind of barter, free dinner once a week or something. Then fear climbed on top of guilt, just as familiar and just as unwelcome. What if despite the references and sweet veneer, Vanessa turned out to be a bad egg? What kind of person just agreed to help someone like this? I needed to move my body, burn off some of this frantic energy buzzing through me. I bit my lip hard. This would be fine. Everything was fine.

  “Sweetheart.” It took me a long moment to realize Vanessa was speaking to me, not to my son. “I know this is a lot. New job. New place. I understand how hard it can be to start over. Let me help. Please.”

  I wanted to argue. I didn’t need help. Not from her. Not from anyone. Instead, I forced my tight muscles to relax just a little. Relief seeped into my limbs and the sensation was strange. I usually only felt this way for a few minutes after a particularly punishing run or when I lost myself to the rhythm of work in the kitchen.

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  You could have knocked me over with a feather as I stepped into my new kitchen the next morning. My kitchen. Mine.

  No pixels on a tablet screen could have prepared me for the gleaming expanse of stainless steel and clean white tile. A giant copper hood fan arced over the space and a wide, polished concrete pass separated the kitchen from the front of house. Everything smelled new, like a hardware store. Like possibility. My ears heated and my eyes fizzed. I squeezed them shut, hoping this wouldn’t all disappear.

  Next to me, Riccardo, the owner of Zest Restaurant Group, and Sean, the general manager of Bella Vista, were talking a mile a minute about...something. I should have been listening and chiming in. This mattered to me as much as it mattered to them. More, maybe. For Riccardo, Bella Vista’s failure would mean a huge financial loss and a disastrous business gamble in a new market. For Sean, who had a fancy-pants track record managing Zest’s fine-dining spots in Manhattan, failure would mean personal and professional disgrace. For me, Bella Vista had to succeed. I’d uprooted my family, left the only city—heck, the only kitchen—that had really felt like home. And when I did something, I did it right.

  Opening a high-end, high-concept Mediterranean seafood restaurant in a city known best for chowder and lobster rolls was a risky proposition. I was still reeling from Riccardo’s decision to hire me for this of all jobs.

  Of course, in a lot of ways it made sense. I’d spent the last three years as the sous-chef at Café Eloise, his chic French small plates restaurant. I’d worked my tail off for him. And when the head chef disappeared in a cloud of cigarette smoke and expletives, I’d taken over for a few months, pushing the restaurant out of traditional chicken liver pate territory into serving creative takes on Provençal classics. I revamped the menu and we ended up winning a few small, city-magazine awards. Our food was artistic without sacrificing flavor. We had a solid group of regulars and tourists alike. And I knew how to run a kitchen.

  When Riccardo found out I’d grown up fishing on the streams in Missouri and knew how to debone a trout with my eyes closed, he called me into his office for a chat about my future. And when he discovered I was looking for a change of scenery, he offered me the job in Maine on the spot. Executive chef. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, barely to myself, but I was nervous. The stakes were high. Besides, at the end of the day I was still more at home frying up catfish than I was whipping up lobster gnocchi. But I was determined to create a delicious, innovative menu that would do us all proud. Bella Vista would be a success.

  “Adah, does that sound agreeable?” Sean asked. His voice carried the impatient edge of someone who was aware he was being tuned out.

  “Oh yeah. Absolutely.” I nodded curtly and met his eyes. Jay, my best friend and the pastry chef at Café Eloise, had warned me that Sean could be difficult and that he didn’t always respect women in the kitchen.

  Riccardo chuckled warmly. “You were spaced out, darling. Sean and I thought the three of us should take today to personally assess some of the other fine-dining spots in the area.”

  I perked up. I’d done thorough research on the local competition. There was a lot. The city had been named a culinary destination to watch by a number of food publications in the past few years. Although we would be on the higher end of the offerings, there were a few I wanted to see in person. One in particular.

  “We’ll start with The River Street Café. Then I want to take a look at Commonwealth Provisions. And what do you think, Ric, should we bother with Osteria Mina or have they gone too far downhill?” Sean shifted his body just enough to make it a two-man conversation.

  I took a step toward him.

  Riccardo looked to me. “What do you think, chef?”

  I bit my lip to hide my smile. “I’d like to check them out. See the space and maybe talk to a few people in the front of house if they’d be willing. I think it will be good to start off on the right foot with folks.” I paused, looking from Sean, who had crossed his arms, to Riccardo, who was nodding along vigorously. “And what about The Yellow House? I really want to see what they’re doing over there.”

  I didn’t mention that my interest in the local-coffee-shop-turned-award-winning-culinary-destination had a whole lot to do with a profile I’d read a few months earlier of Beth Summers, the laid-back owner. Waiting in line at the grocery store, I’d picked up an issue of a splashy food magazine specifically because the cover image had caught my eye—a gorgeous woman laughing with her head thrown back, a tumble of auburn curls, a decidedly non-cheffy lavender dress, a hodgepodge of crystal necklaces.

  Then I’d flipped to her interview. I’d been fascinated with her business philosophy even if it didn’t make a lick of sense to me. In theory, using only local ingredients, ensuring a competitive salary and full health benefits for all staff, and cooking almost everything in a wood burning oven sounded amazing. In the cold reality of the restaurant world, though, those things were almost impossible to do. Still, when she breezily mentioned her dedication to visibility for queer female chefs in a male-dominated industry, I’d actually bought a copy of the dang magazine so I could read the full interview. Several times.

  Riccardo made one of his dramatic affirmative noises, whereas Sean’s brows crashed together. “That tiny place in the middle of nowhere?” Sean practically scoffed. “I don’t think we need to worry about them. Overhead like that they’ll close next month.”

  I tried to rein in my prickly, only-sister-among-six-brothers instincts and kept my voice as even as possible. “Last year alone they were named the best restaurant in Maine and won a Martin Williams Award. I think they might be worth checking out.”

  “Yes.” Riccardo clapped his hands and the sound echoed through the cavernous kitchen. “We will go there first.”

  Chapter Two

  Beth

  The flames wandered over the kindling, sparking golden as the rich scent of wood smoke filled the kitchen. It was early still, the sunlight weak and soft. Outside, the clear crack of Andrew chopping wood mingled with the cries of chickadees and jays. Inside, I was alone. I drew in a deep, steady breath to greet the dawn.

  I was exhausted. The night before had been long
, with a private event yawning long past midnight. The morning came too early and too busy. My to-do list snaked through my mind unrelenting: update the menus online, proof the boules, fill the tart shells, pick up the blueberries from my dad, answer at least fifty emails, follow up with vendors... Realistically I needed to hire someone else. But the last two guys I’d brought on didn’t have the right energy. They cut corners and didn’t connect with our mission. The recent onslaught of guests and publicity meant, however, that Andrew, Nina, and I were constantly exhausted. It wasn’t sustainable.

  Okay, so priority number one: create a new job listing to post on Craigslist that might attract someone more attuned. Really, what I needed was another me. Or the ability to work endless hours with no sleep and no personal time. Or to pack up and leave this whole operation behind in favor of a beach in Tulum. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been to yoga or taken Hamlet on a hike. The last time I’d dreamed of anything but invoices and health inspections.

  “Coffee... Must have coffee.” Nina’s scratchy voice preceded her round, flushed face.

  I inclined my head to the blue and white speckled percolator keeping warm next to the hearth. “Just made another pot.”

  “You’re a goddess.” Nina was still dressed in her running clothes, a pair of tiny spandex shorts and a hot pink tank top. Her golden hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. We’d been inseparable since childhood and drunkenly slept together a few times before settling back into a cozy, supportive friendship. She was a gifted cook, responsible for the vegetable-forward dishes that helped put our tiny kitchen on the culinary map. Nina poured us each a mug, adding a healthy splash of milk and two spoonfuls of sugar to mine. “What time did you get here, anyway?”

  “Five.” I tried not to let any exhaustion creep into my voice.

  “Beth!” Nina looked as though she might slap me. “You need to sleep, honey! Want me to do the job posting stuff?”

  Guilt swelled in my stomach. This wasn’t just about me. Being short-staffed and busier than ever also meant Nina and Andrew suffered. “No,” I sighed. “You can get started on your prep. I can’t stop thinking we’re never going to find the right person. Roy was such a disappointment.”

  Nina scoffed. “Yeah, in more ways than one.”

  A laugh bubbled up from my belly as I turned back to the oven to ensure all of the wood had caught. The temperature needed to regulate by eight thirty so I could get the first of the breads and pastries in.

  The door clattered open and Andrew walked in, a stormy expression eclipsing my brother’s normal goofy half smile. “Beth. Some people outside to see you.”

  Since The Yellow House had been awarded Best New Restaurant in the Northeast by the Martin Williams Foundation, a prestigious culinary organization I’d never heard of prior to receiving the letter in the mail, we’d been bombarded with reporters, bloggers, and more diners than we could possibly keep up with. Usually, though, they didn’t show up a full four hours before we opened for the day.

  Peeking through the window at the small gravel parking lot, I spotted a gleaming black Mercedes and three people sitting at one of the picnic tables in the garden. I wiped my hands on my apron and patted my hair, hoping that my curls hadn’t dried in a frizzy mess. Dressing in the dark, I’d hardly had a moment to make sure my socks matched before dashing out of the house. A few too many times these visitors were enthusiastic with the photos and I appeared in Instagram posts and blog entries looking like a wild and unruly thing.

  “Good morning!” I called as I bounded down the stairs. The morning air brushed cool against my clammy skin. Before the fire settled down, the kitchen tended to get unbearably hot. The sunlight had gathered itself into soft rays that glistened off the dew in the vegetable and herb patches. A monarch butterfly fluttered across my path and I paused, letting it take its time. Medusa, the barn-cat-turned-restaurant-mascot, snoozed on one of the picnic tables, blissfully oblivious of the visitors.

  At the sound of my voice all three of them stood: a tall, slim man in a beautifully tailored suit, a shorter man with a ruddy, irritable face, and another person with their back to me. She turned. Immediately my cheeks heated, and an awkward laugh bubbled up from my throat.

  She was like something plucked from my adolescent queer fantasies. Bad boy and tough woman rolled into one. She wore dark jeans, a thick leather belt, and a white T-shirt with the sleeves cuffed a few times up to reveal sinewy biceps. Her dark blond hair was pushed back from her flawless, angular face in a messy not-quite-pompadour. Straight eyebrows a few shades darker than her hair. A long, delicate nose. Lips that probably would have been ample were they not pressed together in a tense frown.

  “How can I help you folks?” I bit back the comment that we didn’t open until eleven and offered a sweet smile instead.

  The woman stepped forward without missing a beat, extending her hand. I closed the gap between us, shivering as her long fingers brushed my palm. Her skin was warm and a little work-rough. A heavy quiet settled over me as we shook hands. I had the strange thought that I could have held her hand all day. Up close I realized her narrow, wary eyes were a soft shade of green. They widened for a fraction of a second before she stepped back, shoving her hands into her pockets.

  “I’m Adah Campbell, the new executive chef at Bella Vista. This is Sean Jacobs, our GM, and Riccardo Visconti, the head of our restaurant group.” Beneath the formal veneer of her words, her voice thrummed with life. Her accent wasn’t quite Southern, more country than anything else. It was the sound of humid thunderstorms and steaming biscuits slathered in home-churned butter. I never wanted her to stop talking.

  I exchanged far briefer handshakes with the two men.

  “Well, lovely to meet you.” I fiddled with a stray curl that kept bouncing in and out of my peripheral vision. “I’m Beth Summers, the madwoman behind this whole operation.” I jabbed my thumb back at the house.

  I had no earthly idea what Bella Vista was. To be fair, though, I hadn’t eaten at another restaurant in ages. Most of my meals consisted of late-night affairs conjured up after the final guests left for the night. I’d developed the bad habit of burrowing into my own life so deep I sometimes forgot a world outside of The Yellow House existed.

  The angry-looking man, whose name I’d promptly forgotten, glared at the cottage behind me like it had single-handedly murdered his entire family. “So, the Williams Award, huh? Pretty big deal. How are you guys handling the attention? I bet you’re getting a lot more customers than you’re used to.”

  He was talking to me like I was a child running a lemonade stand with her parents’ money.

  I shrugged and smoothed my apron, letting the pleasant texture of the coarse linen distract me from the unpleasantness of this man’s voice. “It’s been a wild few months, that’s for sure. Lots of folks from away coming to eat here. But it’s amazing to build a community of people who really care about good food.” The sun inched higher in the sky. I needed to get back inside, put the first loaves of sourdough in the oven, and start prepping the berries for the tarts.

  A long, tense silence stretched between us. Normally, I would have invited them in for coffee and a few fat slices of peach cake left over from last night’s dessert service. But something about the three of them unsettled me. The fancy suit, the rough demeanor, the...well, I didn’t have time to think about why Adah had me all out of alignment.

  “I read your interview in Bread & Wine. Sounds like you take the whole ‘farm-to-table’ thing pretty seriously.” Mr. Jerkface said farm-to-table like a particularly foul swearword.

  “Sure do.” I plastered a smile on my face. I felt like a politician when all I wanted to do was stop talking and start working. “My dad’s a lobsterman and my mom ran this place as a coffee shop my whole life. This is my home. I want the food to reflect that. To taste both familiar and exciting.” As much as I meant it, it was a canned r
esponse. One I’d given a dozen or so times since people started asking me silly questions about my culinary philosophy. Whatever in the world that meant.

  “What’s your staff situation look like?” I half expected this guy to pull out his phone and start recording. Adah and the fancy suit dude exchanged a meaningful look.

  “Well...” I trailed off for a long moment, letting the irritation creep up my throat just a little more. I didn’t owe these people anything. And they still hadn’t told me what they wanted. Was this a thing big shot restaurant people did? Drive out to small-town eateries and pester the owners with weird questions? I sighed. “It’s just me, my best friend Nina, and my brother, Andrew, in the kitchen. Plus Ahmed, our front of house superstar, and our two servers.” I left out the fact that one of said servers spent most of his time on shift getting stoned and that I was desperately in need of about five more people I could not possibly afford to pay a decent wage, which meant I was a living, breathing poster child for overwork. I rolled my neck and inhaled deeply.

  “That’s a pretty lean operation.” Adah shot me an unreadable expression.

  Usually, I could get a sense of a person’s energy within the first few minutes of meeting them, understand who they were and what they were looking for. My mom called it empathy. My brother called me a psychic. Really, people just made sense to me. But not this woman.

  Adah squinted back at the cottage, shielding her eyes with her elegant hand. Smoke poured from the stone chimney. Fuck. I’d forgotten to adjust the flue before rushing outside and the fire had gotten too hot. In all likelihood the kitchen temperature had climbed from hot as hell to face-meltingly sweltering, meaning my dough would be trash. This little conversation had cost me a good thirty minutes of work. Now instead of slipping the breads into the oven, I’d have to tamp the flames, start over on my choux pastry, and recalibrate my entire morning. No way in hell was I getting around to the job posting today.