“Well,” Ginny said, addressing the waiting woman, “first, you’ve got to handle it. That’s right,” she urged as the woman tentatively took one into her grasp.
“Okay.”
“It should be heavy for its size. We don’t want lightweights here.” Ginny gestured with her chin. “Then you’ve got to check it all over. Are there pockmarks, signs of frostbite, or punctures? Does it have a sound, glossy exterior? You see, the ones in the supermarkets are sorted; the ugly or odd get rejected, so as consumers, we’re used to only seeing displays of the conventional and uniform.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Here,” Ginny said, waving her arm, “when you’re sourcing food directly from the growers, you need to be discerning. Get in there and push your nose around. Smell it and imagine what it might taste like. Go on.”
The woman’s mouth popped open. Ginny worried she’d gone too far. Not everyone felt the way she did about vegetables.
“Did that make sense?” Ginny asked.
The woman smiled nervously. “Um, wow. You sure know a lot about your produce. You a gardener or something?”
“A chef.”
The woman brightened. “Impressive! I guess you have to know these things, then.”
“I guess I do.” Ginny felt the familiar self-consciousness bloom. It was one thing she’d never gotten used to as a high-profile chef in New York City. All that attention. The fierce competition and the amplified focus of her every move behind the scenes. She’d put 150 percent of herself into a coveted career she’d always dreamed of obtaining. But she’d rather the spotlight be aimed away from her and on the food. That’s where it belonged. That’s what she was proud of.
Not wanting to be delayed, she wished the woman good luck and continued down the line. A box of dark, round zucchini tempted her from yet another booth. This sparked an idea for a lovely stuffed starter course. Thinking twice, she worried about the time. Squash picking would have to wait until tomorrow.
While she could’ve hung around the market to discuss vegetables all day, Ginny had to keep moving or she’d never get out of there. A lengthy to-do list waited back at home. Plus, Olive would (finally) be returning to work, and Ginny wanted to get the girl prepping as soon as possible. It was a veritable relief knowing she didn’t have to work solo anymore.
Frankly, she wasn’t sure how much more of Olive’s flitting around she could take. The business was demanding, and having her singular employee constantly coming and going was less than ideal. But so was the thought of having to train someone else.
Thankfully, the holiday season was over. It had been good to Ginny in one way but taxing in others. The dining room had been full, and work had never been better. Her calendar had been booked solid from November through New Year’s, as she’d juggled to accommodate last-minute celebrations and out-of-town guests. But as usual she’d pushed herself too far, running on an average of five hours of sleep a night, tossing and turning over the business. What choice did she have? Too many details required her attention, from the painstaking menu planning right down to making creative table arrangements. With a minuscule staff of one, she’d had to make do.
But Ginny had also let her ego drive her decisions. She’d wanted to impress her guests—and maybe even prove to herself that she still “had it”—by ordering high-priced specialty items and exotic ingredients. For the most part, it had been worth it.
Regular guests had claimed she’d outdone herself with such creations as her Aberdeen Angus grass-fed rib eye with mushroom puree and beef tea; they’d gushed over her sea bass with prawn tortellini accompanied by fennel and a white wine sauce; and the crowd favorite always received lots of compliments, a chocolate orange mousse with fruit brioche. Ginny had spent many backbreaking hours bent over the tiled kitchen counter, testing recipes and perfecting sauces until they satisfied her foodie palate.
She was hard on herself—this she knew—but it was her name and face attached to those dishes, so they had to be perfect.
If at least one guest per night didn’t jump up to snatch his or her smartphone and post food photos to a social media account, she considered her presentation a failure. It was the oohing and aahing, people moaning in ecstasy with their eyes closed, cheeks pink with passion as the fork exited their lips, that she loved. To Ginny, there was no better high.
It was the closest thing to pure happiness she knew how to achieve.
People spent an evening with her for an experience they couldn’t get anywhere else. Ginny took this seriously. Her lifestyle and her location might have changed since her years in the big city, but not her work ethic or desire to push herself creatively.
The kitchen was her church, sacred and holy. And at forty-two years old, after withstanding losses of all kinds, she required the spiritual fulfillment that cooking offered. It was one thing that remained constant.
Such a level of satisfaction came with a high price tag, though. The visitors who’d arrived over the recent holidays had been of the big-spender variety, so Ginny had had to rise to the occasion and make their experience extraordinary. As a result, she’d wound up depleting her bank account. The season may have stretched her reputation to new clientele, but it had also stretched her funds too far.
Now it was January and bills required payment. The problem was, she didn’t have enough to cover them.
And she really didn’t want Olive to find out.
CHAPTER FOUR
JULIA
Julia drooped on the sofa as James paced in front of the coffee maker. With each turn of his heels, she felt her dread deepen. James was preparing to leave for the day, which meant she’d be home alone with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company. Unless she counted the growing onslaught of jabs sent her way on social media.
“Could this thing be any slower?” James asked. He was trying to be kind and bring her a dose of caffeine before heading out, but his patience was wearing thin. His slacks pulled at the knees, the dark fabric creeping up his calves as he bent over the narrow kitchen counter. Julia watched him peer repeatedly at the digital readout on the decade-old drip machine. “Why don’t you retire this relic and finally use my espresso maker? It takes, like, twenty minutes to brew. How does that not drive you crazy?”
Julia sighed inwardly and rolled over to look out the window. The sky was a light ash gray. She’d been wallowing there, in her bathrobe, since before the sun had peeked out from the horizon. The idea of moving had just felt like too much.
“Julia?” James strode into the living room.
“Huh?” She turned to face him. His clean-shaven face dropped a little; his voice was edged in worry. He held an empty cup at his side and waited. Julia knew he’d never really witnessed her act this vulnerable, this defeated, before. She suspected it scared him.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asked. “I’d love to stay, but you know I can’t. Still—”
“I’m fine,” she managed to respond, a crack in her voice betraying her words. It was unkind to drag him down into the muck of despair with her. He hadn’t done anything wrong, after all. In fact, by all accounts, he’d done everything a partner should do the night before. He’d watched snippets of her show, realized something catastrophic had happened, made phone calls, and finally returned home with an expression twisted with confusion after she’d failed to respond. He’d held her and expressed genuine concern. For this, she was grateful.
James came in close and searched her face. His breath smelled of toasted bagels and toothpaste. She offered a thin smile when her stomach growled. Julia realized she hadn’t bothered to eat anything of real substance since her pizza binge two days earlier. If James had noticed her lack of appetite, he hadn’t said anything. He’d been around enough to know she was constantly watching her calories for the cameras. Perhaps he hadn’t made her a bagel when he’d prepared his that morning because he’d suspected she’d refuse it anyway. They’d been together long enough for him to know her morning meals usually cons
isted of green liquid from a juicer.
When she didn’t say anything more, he leaned in closer, seemingly to scrutinize her thoughts. Impulsively, she grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to her chest. She felt as if the moment required a kind of barrier, a way to shield her crumbling spirit from the man she loved. He’d seen too much already.
Two steady blue eyes connected with hers as James dipped his head. There was a flash of pity. “There’s another way to look at this, you know,” he said, using his free hand to push back a lock of her unbrushed hair.
Julia suddenly wondered if she’d even bothered to wash the bleeding mascara from under her stinging eyes. She pulled back a little. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“You could turn this situation around,” he said, standing taller. His words took on the air of a pep talk. “Get showered and dressed and march right back into the office and state your case. Demand the network give you time to prove your story wasn’t made up. Get corroborating evidence.”
“You mean fix my ‘fake news’ story? I think it’s a little late for that.”
“Why?”
“Because there are memes out there, James. Of me. And they’re trending!” She felt her face contorting and tried to hold back the rising taste of salt at the back of her throat. Her arms hugged the pillow tighter. “There are really awful depictions of me floating around, and they’re being retweeted on the hour.”
It all felt so unfair. True, she’d made a professional miscalculation and had been irresponsible. She knew better than to broadcast a story that she hadn’t fully vetted, let alone discussed with her producer. But it was the way in which the fans of the network had turned so quickly on her. As had her colleagues. No one had bothered to ask her side of the story.
Julia dragged her attention back to his face. She realized he’d given up on her coffee and was moving for the apartment door.
“I really have to go,” he said. “You’ll figure it out. But don’t let those internet stories deter you. What you need is to get back on your feet and take control. Create your own narrative! Dust yourself off and get back out there.”
“I’ll think about it,” she grumbled. Perhaps it was better that he was leaving.
“I hope you do. There’s always a way, if you want it bad enough.” He waved a hand and was out the door.
Julia pressed backward into the cushions again. James’s words echoed in her brain. Do I want it bad enough? she wondered. The answer, up until now, had always been a resounding yes.
But now she wasn’t so sure.
From under the folds of her terrycloth robe, she retrieved her phone. The temptation to google herself was great, but she resisted. She’d done that too much already, and her discovery had only sunk her deeper into depression. Glancing at the screen, her finger hovered above the list of outgoing calls. Earlier, when James was in the shower, she’d snuck another call to her sister. Only she still hadn’t gotten through.
Sitting there, with the apartment empty and her thoughts swirling, she debated. What would be her next move?
And then, all at once, as if her body had made the decision for her, she knew. No, she wouldn’t sit there and wallow in self-pity. She would skip town.
Her bag was packed with quick resolution. James would surely understand. It was only going to be a temporary escape.
The question of where she’d go had lingered for only a minute. It needed to be somewhere in the States, in case she was summoned back by the network, which expected her to remain available. She was wise enough not to shake off all her responsibilities. But she also fantasized about escaping somewhere remote enough that the paparazzi and the bulk of GBN viewers and Rossetti loyalists wouldn’t recognize her. Somewhere she could have a little breathing room. Somewhere the world had once made sense.
Ginny could ignore Julia’s calls, but she couldn’t refuse her if she was standing in her doorway.
At least she hoped not.
CHAPTER FIVE
GINNY
Ginny stood in the center of the dining room and fumed. With a mechanical motion, she yanked fistfuls of dry-cleaning bags from wire hangers, retrieving pristine, cream-colored table linens before casting them into a haphazard pile. This was not how she’d wanted her morning to go. But here she was anyway, bedraggled and half-dressed despite the late morning hour, frantically doing Olive’s job rather than attend to the food prep that should have begun an hour ago.
Everything had to be started from scratch in Ginny’s kitchen, no matter if yesterday’s ingredients still tasted good. That rule was nonnegotiable. It had held in her restaurant days in New York and it held in Arizona. Always.
Her hopes plummeted as she tossed a mournful glance toward the vacant kitchen. On the front counter lay an unopened box with her name on the label. Her grip on a hanger tightened. There were too many things to do, and she was going to run out of time.
Ginny had planned to spend her morning testing out her newly purchased piece of equipment: a sous vide immersion circulator designed to heat water and circulate it around a pot to maintain precise cooking temperatures. Her last one had broken, and now it was imperative to make sure the replacement product was up to par. The success of the evening depended on it. She needed to spend time confirming everything in the kitchen was just right before the onslaught of guests arrived for the dinner service. She was anticipating a full house. Perfection was expected.
The table linens should’ve been the least of her worries.
“Where is that damn girl?” she griped aloud, her voice echoing off the dining room’s stucco walls. Table setting was Olive’s responsibility. Among other things. Ginny desperately needed to be in the kitchen. But Olive—big surprise—was nowhere to be found. And because of this, Ginny began to panic.
Her fingers moved with haste as she folded napkins. With each crease, she carefully inspected them for stains. Whenever she came across a harsh smear of a woman’s lipstick or unforgiving dribble of chocolate sauce, she cursed the naive decision to purchase light-colored linens. Originally, she’d believed the color palette would brighten the space and complement the sprawling, dark wood tables. After dozens of services, however, coupled with Olive’s unwanted scoffing, Ginny realized she’d been wrong.
And she didn’t like to be wrong. About anything.
But Ginny wasn’t in a position to replace more items. Her dwindling bank account had been slowly ratcheting up her anxiety level. It felt as if every detail of the business demanded resources she simply didn’t have. No matter how hard she worked, the circumstances seemed stacked against her.
Hovering over the rectangular table, Ginny became aware she’d been holding her breath. She had the sensation of something tugging at her, like a strong current threatening to pull her under if she wasn’t careful. She understood there was more riding on Olive’s absence than just the job. And yet, at the same time, the job was everything. It was what tied the two of them together in a complex knot, forcing them to confront one another on a daily basis and figure out how to untangle their situation. They’d both been at this place before. But somehow, this time felt different.
Ginny didn’t want to think about that. Not yet, anyway. She couldn’t afford to waste a single minute. With a hasty motion, the thought and the pile of napkins were brushed aside.
Her gaze flicked across the room, taking in the remaining list of chores. A small piece of her softened. The main area, with its traditional southwestern kiva-style fireplace and rounded hearth, was just the type of traditional design she’d been seeking when she was house hunting. The clean white plaster fascia encased everything like a layer of firm frosting on a cake and matched the region’s adobe architecture. Woven Navajo patterned rugs were artfully positioned on the mission-style terra-cotta floors. The color palette of earthy clays and brick reds made Ginny feel as if this space was somehow rooted in the earth, at one with the land. Farther out, in the surrounding rooms, simple overstuffed sofas and chairs dressed in twill slipcovers o
f muted tones were what Ginny hoped gave her guests a sense of peace.
She wanted people to feel comfortable in the space, to be at liberty to sink down into the cushions, enjoying a specialty cocktail while the warmth of a wood-burning fire nipped pleasantly at their cheeks. She’d put a great deal of effort into the arrangement of the furnishings, careful to create an inviting southwestern environment that appeared lived-in but also fresh and new at the same time. Like a chic hotel with a touch of luxury but not an ounce of pretentiousness. It had been a difficult balance to achieve, and she was proud of what she’d accomplished out here in the desert.
As Ginny moved past her musings, her brows knit back together. A sound caused her ears to prick up. Was her phone ringing from another room? She brightened at the thought. Perhaps it was Olive, calling with an apology and an explanation. Maybe Ginny had been too hasty in jumping to conclusions before giving Olive a chance to share her side.
Her mind went backward. Where had she last left that damn phone? She rarely kept it on her person. She knew this aged her—far beyond her forty-two years—but cell phones had never been her thing. She loathed having to carry around something in her pocket that made her accessible to anyone and everyone all the time. One of the reasons she’d become a chef in the first place was the alluring sense of seclusion in the confines of a kitchen. A chance to exist behind the scenes, not at the front of the house, where one had to constantly chat people up and make sure a smile never dropped. That type of socialization was more suited to someone like Olive. The girl had an uncanny ease around strangers. Ginny admired her for this. She only wished Olive had the same sense of responsibility.
The Second Chance Supper Club Page 3