A secret supper club.
Emphasis on “secret.”
Before coming to Arizona, underground supper clubs—hidden speakeasies for well-heeled foodies and dinner club enthusiasts—were a concept of which she was only vaguely aware. While Ginny was working for well-known establishments in the city, the kind that had months-long reservation lists and whose regulars ordered thousand-dollar bottles of wine, the idea that some other mysterious chef was carving away a piece of her clientele with a makeshift kitchen in some clandestine apartment-size dining room had seemed farcical. Those rogue chefs had no staff, no regimented health codes, and no premier window tables to offer. How could they try to compete?
Plus, if they got caught, there was a hefty fine to pay and they’d be run out of business, if not out of town.
How ironic that after Ginny sorted out all her viable options, such a scenario became her reality. Running a business out of her dining room was about all she’d been able to handle, given her new circumstances.
Before she knew it, three years had gone by and the supper club had taken over her entire life.
Running her own business, Ginny now found herself sleep deprived, stressed out, overweight, and out of joy. She’d given every part of herself to getting her supper club off the ground and now to keeping it at a low boil, popular enough to drum up regular business but secretive enough to operate under the radar. On top of this, her daughter was pulling away even further.
Ginny wasn’t sure if she’d find happiness again. At least, not the kind of happiness that she’d known in New York.
She could say the same for Olive. Her daughter was resentful of the work Ginny asked of her. Perhaps even resentful of their life altogether.
Now, as Ginny glanced at the clock, she noticed it was five thirty in the evening. The first guests of the weekend shift would be arriving soon. Olive had shown herself only once since returning, ambling to the refrigerator in her sweatpants to retrieve a mineral water and a package of pretzels and then sleepwalking herself back to her room.
Ginny stood in the center of the kitchen and seethed. She was sure her willful child was aggravating her on purpose, failing to hustle around and prepare the house the way she should before an onslaught of customers. Olive was waiting until the last possible minute to “show up” for work, and Ginny realized her daughter was making a statement by doing so. Olive wanted out of the family business. That much was clear. And she was possibly even unhappy that she’d had to leave her father’s carefree lifestyle and return to her mother’s, where the theme was work.
There was no avoiding the fact that they both needed the money and Ginny needed the staff.
She frantically scrubbed counters and mixed sauces, counting the minutes until her hostess / server / sommelier decided to grace the room with her presence.
A timer dinged, and Ginny snapped back into focus. The planned starter course of heirloom tomatoes and butter lettuce salad had been prepped. But she still had to clean dozens of scallops and mince green onions for the second course.
Her current roadblock, however, was that the white truffle sauce she’d been whisking wasn’t cooperating. She’d envisioned a thicker version of what currently frothed in a bowl. The color wasn’t right either. She dove a jittery index finger into the creamy liquid and then touched it to her tongue. The flavor wasn’t bad, but it would never fly in a professional kitchen. She pushed the bowl back with a sigh. It would have to do.
She was running out of time, and Olive was leaving her little choice but to cut corners and make concessions.
Thankfully, the carrot-and-ginger puree had already been made, and the main course of salmon would require only a quick searing. Sometimes seafood felt less complicated to Ginny. Tonight, she was grateful for the menu she’d planned. The guests hadn’t reported a shellfish allergy when they’d made the reservation, but there wasn’t time for alternatives anyway. Not tonight.
“Olive!” she yelled. “Can you come help, please?” She could hear a scuffling around in the back bedroom, then a door opening.
“I’m still getting dressed. Have you seen my black pants?” Olive hollered back.
“Did you check the laundry room?” Ginny rolled her eyes. They had this kind of exchange weekly. Olive was always missing some important article of clothing and passive-aggressively blaming Ginny for its disappearance.
“Yep, checked in there.” Olive was getting on Ginny’s last nerve.
“Well, I don’t know where they are, but you better get your butt out here soon. I’m drowning with prep work and you still haven’t put together the cheese platter or uncorked the wine!” Fury boiled beneath Ginny’s skin as she waited for Olive to get her act together. People would be knocking on the front door soon, expecting someone to take their coats and their drink orders. Olive was responsible for the front of the house. She had to be. Ginny couldn’t tear herself away from the stove. Otherwise, all it took was one talkative guest and the whole schedule would fall behind.
“Olive! Do you hear me? Let’s go!”
“Don’t yell at me—it only makes me go slower!” Olive waltzed down the hallway on her way back from another room. Her hair was now up in a messy bun and she was only half-dressed. She knew how important Ginny thought it was to be presentable to guests. White shirt, black pants, piercings out, tattoos covered. It was as simple as that. The same standards would’ve held in any high-end establishment in New York. But Olive never made it simple. She always had to push things to the limit. “I’m getting ready as fast as I can.”
“Well, go faster!” Ginny glared in her direction.
Feet slapped down the hallway. The door slammed. Here we go again, Ginny thought. Not even twenty-four hours back from her father’s and the fighting had already begun. Perfect.
Five minutes later, the doorbell rang. And just as Ginny’s pulse spiked, heat rising under the collar of her white chef’s coat, Olive appeared, dressed and polished. Ginny watched in shock as her daughter breezed down the hallway to the foyer, hair glossy and brushed, lips colored ever so slightly. At the last second, Olive adjusted her blouse and pressed a button on her smartphone to start a low hum of music through the home’s speaker system. Her face broke into a warm smile and she flung the door open.
All right on time.
It was a miracle.
“Hello! Come in! Welcome to Mesquite,” Olive could be overheard saying in a singsong voice. Ginny released a whoosh of breath, grateful that in front of the guests, Olive set aside whatever animosity existed between the two of them. Her daughter had turned friendly and cheery, giving off an inviting vibe as she announced the restaurant’s name.
Ginny had named her supper club after the prominent mesquite tree that shaded the home’s picturesque front garden. She adored these deciduous trees—native to Arizona—with their soft, ferny canopies that dotted the desert landscape. The species of velvet mesquite on her property routinely produced fragrant spikes of yellow flowers in April and sometimes again in August after it rained. The blossoms reminded Ginny of random bursts of sunshine. She hoped all who saw them took them as a good omen, just as she had upon discovering the house.
When she’d first chosen the name, Olive had even sketched out a logo, complete with a whimsical, twiggy tree. She’d enthusiastically suggested Ginny get cocktail napkins printed up to match. The gesture had warmed Ginny. Olive was very creative and could be generous with her ideas when she wanted to be. When Ginny wasn’t “pressuring her,” according to Olive. They’d had fun picking out the restaurant’s colors and the logo’s font together. Ginny smiled every time her eyes landed on the logo now, despite everything. She liked to think many of the supper club ideas had been mother-daughter collaborations. Whether Olive wanted to stay and be a part of it was another question entirely.
Ginny listened as Olive directed the guests and then assumed her position behind the width of the eggshell-colored counter. She’d learned by now it was best to remain busy, only greeting t
he guests temporarily as she chopped and sautéed away.
When people entered her home for the first time, they usually had lots of questions. Many came because a friend suggested Mesquite, or they had read up on Ginny’s career—her Michelin star–rated food and her prominence in the New York food scene—and they were curious about what had brought her out west and whether she would live up to her reputation. Ginny was polite and did her best to be transparent. Most of her repeat customers were now considered friends; they came so often and settled themselves so easily into her home that she’d developed relationships with them.
Tonight, however, the first service was filled with newcomers. Ginny could tell by the curious lilt of their voices and the way Olive toured them through the house. She assumed this group must be mostly stragglers who remained in town after the holidays. There were always one or two local hotel concierges to thank for this new business. Ginny would have to remember to send over treats to the employees as a way of saying thank you.
“Feel free to come in and warm yourself by one of our three kivas—that’s what we call our traditional adobe-style wood-burning fireplaces,” Olive was saying to the cluster of elderly people who trailed behind her into the living room. “Dinner will be served in here.” Ginny peeked out around the corner and spied her daughter waving a hand toward the set table. “But feel free to make yourselves at home while I get drink orders going.”
Half a dozen men and women, all smartly dressed and sporting silver hair, nodded and smiled approvingly as their eyes took in Ginny’s home. Several began helping themselves to the overstuffed chairs in the adjacent living room, which was part of the open-concept space. Ginny watched them from her spot, then flagged Olive when they weren’t looking.
“We don’t have time for them to lounge in there tonight,” she hissed under her breath. “And where are the rest of them? I show we have a booking for eight people. I only see six.” She anxiously twisted her hands into a rag and waited for Olive to get on her level.
“I dunno,” Olive replied. “Why can’t they hang out while I handle their drinks? Just calm down for a second and let them chill.”
Ugh. Ginny loathed that word. Olive told her to “chill” on a regular basis. It usually had the opposite effect. Why couldn’t Olive see that this business was important to Ginny? Would it kill the girl to take things a little more seriously?
“Olive, I swear,” she said. The rag was tossed to the side. “Don’t start with me tonight. We have two bookings, back to back. Need I remind you? So can you please just seat these people and get a move on?”
A look filled with daggers shot in Ginny’s direction. “For your information, I left what I was doing at Dad’s just to come here and help you out. Which, I might add, you never bothered asking me to do. You just demanded. Like always. Like I have no life beyond your kitchen. And here I am, the dutiful daughter taking orders. But instead of saying thank you, all you’ve done since I got here is point out your disappointment.”
Ginny frowned and craned her neck. She quickly checked to see if the others were within earshot of Olive’s rising tantrum. After ensuring that the group was still chatting among themselves, she fixed her gaze on Olive.
“For your information, missy, I do take you into consideration. Why do you think I gave you all that time off to go be with your dad for the holidays? Do you know how I busted my butt doing this job alone while you were on vacation? And you might be back,” she said, her finger jutting out and shaking in Olive’s direction, “but you’re not really back. You’ve got your head in the clouds, and you don’t seem to care how your thoughtlessness is affecting my business.”
“Ha!” Olive laughed a little too loudly, the whites of her molars flashing as she tilted back her head. Ginny’s eyes darted to the other room. “That’s a laugh. How could I have my head in the clouds when you’re constantly yanking me back down to earth?”
“I don’t—”
“Save it.” Olive shot a hand up. “I don’t have time to hear whatever you’re about to say. We’ve got guests. Remember?”
Ginny’s jaw tightened. She loathed the snark. “Yes, of course I realize that.”
“Well, we know you’ll blame me for running behind schedule if our guests don’t get seated ASAP.” The sneer on her lips lingered as Olive spun away, her flaxen hair splaying across her shoulders. Ginny watched her back as she snatched an open wine bottle from the sideboard and tromped into the living room.
My daughter hates me, Ginny thought. She stood, dumbfounded, as Olive briskly went about seating people and pouring the wine. Not once did she look back in Ginny’s direction. They’d fought plenty before, but something about the way her daughter’s words were so barbed sent a shiver of worry down her spine. Then, a second and even more unsettling thought occurred. She’s going to leave me.
Ginny tore her gaze away and went back to plating the first course. Olive would be back any second, expecting food, and Ginny needed to keep on schedule. She cursed herself and the restaurant for getting in the way. She wanted to pull Olive aside so they could sit down and hash out their feud. But there wasn’t any time. People were waiting. And Ginny needed to get paid.
Hastily, she shoved handfuls of salad onto plates. She cursed when her jittery hand nearly knocked over the container of dressing. What was going through Olive’s head out there as she fake smiled and then poured waters? The girl was detaching herself. That much was clear. Ginny had a feeling something terrible was about to happen. She only wondered how to stop it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JULIA
The wheels touched down, and Julia put her plan into motion. She wanted to get on the road and head toward her sister’s neighborhood as soon as possible. Her feet carried her through the airport’s baggage claim and then on to secure a rental car. The frugal side of her kicked in when she stepped up to the rental counter.
“I’ll take the smallest car you’ve got,” she announced, handing over her credit card. Keeping her sunglasses nearby, she scouted the area for onlookers but saw none.
A young kid hunted and pecked at a computer keyboard at a snail’s pace. Julia huffed and wondered whether she had enough savings to float her salary for a while. If things got bad and she couldn’t find gainful employment after her debacle, that apartment of hers might not be so easy to swing anymore.
Of course, James had money. Because of this, she and her fiancé lived quite comfortably, and then some. James’s job was solid, and he brought in enough to cover both of them. But Julia didn’t like the idea of having to rely on him. Not yet, anyway. That would perhaps come later—if they ever actually sat down and planned a wedding. For some reason, there never seemed to be time for it. At present, it still meant something to be someone on her own.
There she was, however, ordering an economy-size car and uneasily counting the bills in her wallet. Her shoulders sagged. How did she get to this point? She couldn’t think about it. Otherwise she might curl into a ball.
Once through the parking garage and inside her compact vehicle, she had a distinct feeling of déjà vu. She knew this car, or its type anyway. It was the lack of decent legroom and the faded velour upholstery reeking of another woman’s perfume that sparked her memory. Julia was instantly reminded of her rookie reporter days.
Back in her twenties, she’d traveled regularly in cars just like this one, holding on to a shaky wheel and navigating with paper maps through small towns. There was never any fancy news van, like those seen in movies. Oftentimes she’d go it alone, setting up a camera and writing a short script all by herself. But those were the demands of the job. She’d had to prove her tenacity to get noticed.
As a general news reporter, she was forever en route to log a story. When she wasn’t working, she was brushing up on law, city codes, and environmental studies. She had to at least sound like she knew what she was talking about.
Early on, the stories assigned to her didn’t have much girth. The local station that employe
d her wasn’t big on taking risks with newbies. This was understood from the start. She and her equally green cameraman, once he was hired, were usually stuck covering town hall meetings or contentious disputes between a local business and some kind of city parking ordinance or what have you. Nothing sexy, and usually dry as dirt.
There were other times when the story assigned was so remote and away from creature comforts that not a bathroom was in sight. On one particular occasion, she had to hike into the trees—knit dress, patent leather pumps, and all—in order to relieve herself. When she came back out, her legs were crawling with fire ants. That was one of the grimmer memories.
Those stories, however difficult, nonetheless helped her build her portfolio. She cut her teeth on city councilmen interviews and ten-second monologues. It was all in a day’s work, and back then, she’d loved every minute of it.
Not having driven for a long time, Julia now welcomed the chance to get behind the wheel of the rental car and hit the open road. Even if it was a congested Phoenix interstate. Lately, most of her commuting had taken place in the back seat of an Uber. And she was ashamed to realize that during those rides, she’d hardly peeled her gaze away from her devices long enough to appreciate the view.
But out here, where the air was a little easier to breathe, Julia consciously took in the backdrop.
Starting her journey, she briefly considered checking into a hotel. Perhaps waiting things out for a bit longer would be the wise decision. After a good night’s sleep, she could rise and strategically drive out to Ginny’s address. But when exactly was the right time to show up on an estranged sibling’s doorstep? she debated.
After coffee?
On a weekend?
Or while she still had the courage?
Speeding along the interstate toward the foothills, she opted for the latter. Best to seize the moment, she thought. A little surge of adrenaline coursed through her veins, making her giddy and nervous all at the same time. There was no telling what Ginny’s reaction might be. There was also no telling what kind of condition she’d find her sister in. Would she be a total couch potato, having folded up her career? Or would she be a hardened product of the Arizona sun, tucked away on some ranch, growing produce and hiding from society? It was impossible to know, considering Ginny didn’t subscribe to any form of social media. Julia’s half-hearted research had never turned up much.
The Second Chance Supper Club Page 5