by Sarina Bowen
“Sucks,” Jude said. “So you didn’t get your chance.”
“Honestly, I don’t know if I’m any worse off. I could have tried and failed. It’s okay now. But Audrey might get her shot, you know? I don’t want to fuck that up by tying her down to the same farm that’s got me pinned here.”
“Huh.” Jude was quiet for a minute. “I used to have someone, too. I thought she and I were forever. But it turns out I loved drugs more than anyone. Even myself.”
Ouch. “You don’t love ’em so much as you used to. Maybe she’s still out there.”
He shook his head. “I killed her brother.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. That ship has sailed. But they tell us at rehab that if you want to be happy again, you have to truly accept the things that aren’t ever happening. Everybody has their shit to get over. Like, I’m never having parents that give a fuck about me. And I can’t unkill the guy who died in my car. It doesn’t matter how bad it is, you have to really accept it before it eats you up.”
“So…” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I guess I have to get over Audrey.”
“No, dude.” Jude turned to face me in the dark. “Your shit is that you’re saddled with this farm, and that it cost you some choices.”
“I accepted that a long time ago. I love this place.”
“Challenge,” Jude argued. “If you were really over it, then you wouldn’t feel guilty about asking Audrey to move up here. You’re making the decision for her. Isn’t that the same thing her bitch of a mom does?”
Fuck me, it was.
“If you don’t offer her the choice, she won’t know you care. And if you do ask, she might still say no. Maybe that’s why you don’t want to ask the question.”
Jesus. He was the second person tonight to hint that I was gutless. It wasn’t true, though. “Lots to think about. I’m going to bed,” I said, standing up.
“You’re not gonna fire me for saying that, right?”
“No, asshole,” I nudged his ass with my boot. “Goodnight.”
“’Night!”
I went to bed wondering how to talk to Audrey. And marveling at the fact that a recovering addict and felon was my second-best employee. And that a guy who hadn’t had sex for three years just schooled me on my relationship woes.
Part Three
October
After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one’s own relatives. —Oscar Wilde
Chapter Twenty-Four
Audrey
Another Friday. Another long shift in another jerk’s kitchen.
This chef didn’t know my name, but he wasn’t shy about ordering me around. “Prep girl! A dozen eggs. Separated.”
Yes sir! Right away, sir! I got the eggs out of the walk-in and got to work.
When that was done, I brought him two bowls—one of yolks and one of whites—and he peered into each one with suspicion before ordering me to do something else. “First wipe down the salad sink. Then check everyone’s station for herbs.”
If I followed his commands in that order, I’d have to clean the salad sink twice. But I knew better than to point out his error. “Yes, chef.”
I did it his way, because he signed the checks. But there was no joy in it.
This job, though, was exactly what I’d wanted from BPG since I’d signed on with them in May. So why were the days so freaking long?
At least they couldn’t keep me here until late at night. Mosaic was a breakfast and lunch spot across the street from the contemporary art museum. It was the sort of place frequented by Ladies Who Lunch. The menu was high quality but a little boring. Or maybe that was just me. I’d already spent six hours sectioning blood oranges and mincing parsley. I trimmed scallions for quiche and rinsed baby lettuces for eighteen-dollar salads.
The pay was decent due to BPG’s labor agreement with its workforce. They weren’t allowed to stuff their kitchens with underpaid interns, which was good because I needed the money. All my travel expenses from my weeks in Vermont were on my credit card, and BPG had been slow to reimburse them. At least once a day I called the travel department to check up on them, and was always told that they were “in process.”
Meanwhile, I still owed two hundred bucks to my pothead roommate, Jack. And since Jack worked at Mosaic, too, he reminded me. Hourly. So I picked up as many extra shifts as they’d give me, and I worked my tail off. And in the evenings I wrote out menus in my notebooks at home. The contest was one week away. I’d decided to pitch a tapas restaurant. I’d made sketches of the food and of the restaurant and taken notes about the neighborhood and its traffic patterns.
For once in my life, I was going to make a serious run at something. Whatever happened, they wouldn’t be able to laugh me out of the room. If I lost, I’d lose knowing I’d done my absolute best.
One bright spot in the otherwise boring grind of my work-and-then-work-some-more existence was that BPG chefs all over town were praising the produce I’d purchased in Vermont. There had been a total of four weekly shipments now. My email address was on all of the packing slips. To my utter shock, I’d begun receiving gracious notes of thanks from the chefs who received this bounty. “Gorgeous zucchini flowers!” one of them had crowed. “I can use all you find of these. I’m stuffing them with fois gras.”
Another chef—a Frenchman—wrote to say that he’d used sweet corn in a dish for the first time in his career. “Maize is food for cattle in my country. But this is so sweet I made it into a roulade.”
That felt damn good. And now there were several BPG chefs who knew my name. That and a couple of bucks would get me a ride on the T.
Today was Friday, so someone from the Shipley clan would be making another delivery. I spent every Friday feeling a little crazy, looking into the driver’s seat of every passing truck. But the man I was looking for never appeared.
It had occurred to me that if I asked him to make the delivery himself and then meet me for dinner that he might be able to swing it. But then what? He’d get back in his truck and go back to Vermont. And in another few weeks the Friday deliveries would stop for the winter. Maybe forever.
Right. Back to work, princess.
I was sectioning yet another dozen blood oranges when the restaurant manager sidled up, smelling like an ashtray. “Want to work tomorrow morning?” he asked. “You’re not on the schedule ’til Tuesday, but I’m a little short.”
“Sure,” I said automatically.
He went away without saying thank you. And then his spot was taken by Jack. “I need the zest of twenty lemons.”
“Then you need to say please,” I snapped.
“And also two hundred bucks.”
“God. Save it. I know, okay? If BPG ever refunds my hotel bill, I’ll give it to you.”
“It’s been months, Audrey.”
“No kidding. But do you want me to pay it to you out of my rent money? I really don’t think you do.”
He chuckled. “If you win the Green Light project next week, I might have to raise your rent.”
“You do that.” If I win next week, I will move out. Duh.
“What are you entering? From your drawings it looks like tapas.”
Fuck. “That’s just a draft.” I should have kept my notes better hidden.
He clicked his tongue. “You don’t have to bullshit me. I’m too lazy to enter. But I know you’re not lazy, so I’m sure you’ve been kissing ass in the C-suite all month. You probably have that shit locked up already. Everyone knows Burton always feeds the winner his entry.”
“He…” I put down my knife. “What?”
Jack grabbed one of the orange wedges I’d prepped. After looking over both shoulders for management, he popped it in his mouth. “You know. The Burtons are like any boss, anywhere. They want their own bullshit fed back to them, so they can feel validated. Whatever idea they gave you, I’m sure you’ll make it shine. But I’d wear a low-cut top just to be safe.” He stole another orange wedge and walked away.
I stood there, weighed down by horror. Jack wasn’t the sharpest knife in the block. But I didn’t doubt he was right.
Why hadn’t I realized the showdown would be rigged? Had I not lived twenty years under the roof of one of the most conniving businesspeople to ever grace the planet?
For one awful second I actually considered calling my mother. That’s how badly I wanted to win the competition. It entered my mind that Mommy might know what Burton wanted to see on the design board next week.
But the urge fled as quickly as it had appeared. If she helped me, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. The whole point of entering was to open a restaurant without her help.
Not like she’d help me, anyway. We hadn’t even spoken since the showdown in Griff’s tasting room. I hated myself a little for noticing, too. I’d told her to get out of my life, and she’d finally done it.
But why did I mind so much?
I took my carefully trimmed orange slices to the salad guy and fetched two-dozen lemons. The job required a lot of concentration, because the zester loved nothing more than to remove a layer of my skin whenever I wasn’t paying attention. I picked up the first lemon and began to work. Shave and turn. Shave and turn. Perfect curls of bright yellow peel landed on the clean cutting board. I tried to slip into my zen place, where efficient work with my hands could set the world to rights again.
The dishwashers were having an animated discussion of the Patriots’ chances. The sous chef was dressing down a waiter over a mistimed order.
Just another day at the office.
So imagine my utter surprise when somebody barked, “Princess! You back here somewhere?”
My head snapped up, and I saw the most unlikely thing in the world. Griffin Shipley was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his tanned face practically gleaming with health. He was wearing a nice button-down shirt and khakis. But even city clothes couldn’t disguise the truth. People who spend their days outside are more beautiful than the pasty kitchen rats I spent my days with. I missed Vermont and the happy faces of his family and the scent of all that fresh air.
It took me a second to gather my wits and then say something brilliant. “Uh, hi?”
“You working? They told me at headquarters that you’d be done about now.”
I looked at the clock. I should be done now. Lemons be damned. “Right. Give me three minutes.” I gathered up the lemons and brought my cutting board over to Jack. “I’m taking off on time today. Have fun with the zesting.”
“What? Bitch, you cannot leave me hanging. What is this shit?”
I patted him on the shoulder. “Punching out. Catch you later.”
When I reached Griffin, he bent down and put a soft kiss on my nose. “What if I took you to Vermont for the weekend?”
“Wow.” The offer was unexpected. But there was no chance in hell I’d turn him down. “How would I get back?”
“I’d drive you. Monday, maybe?”
Could I just take off with Griff like that? “I’d need to stop by my place and grab a few things.”
“Then let’s go.”
I yanked my hairnet off. Because those aren’t sexy. And I took off my baggy chef’s jacket.
“Don’t do that,” Griffin growled. “I’m having a French culinary fantasy right now. Later you can wear that with nothing underneath.” I snorted, but he shook his head. “I’m not even joking.”
I gave him a shove on the chest. “You’ve got it bad.”
“Maybe I do.”
My neck got hot all of a sudden. This conversation had veered in a strange direction. “Let me punch out.”
“I’m right behind you.”
In the back hall I got my purse out of my locker and dealt with my time card.
“See you tomorrow,” the manager called from the end of the hallway.
“Wait!” I chased him down. I’d already forgotten about the shift tomorrow. “I can’t fill in tomorrow. I made a mistake. Sorry.”
His eyes protruded. “But you said you would! I’m in a jam here.”
“We spoke a half hour ago. So I’m sure you’ll find someone else. See you Tuesday morning.”
“You can’t…!”
I pulled Griff out the back door into the warm autumn afternoon. “God, it’s nice out. I forget sometimes.”
“There aren’t any windows in there,” Griff pointed out. “How can you stand it?”
Most commercial kitchens were windowless. “That’s not even bad. You should see some of the dungeons I’ve worked in. You get used to it.”
I expected him to argue, but he said, “The truck is over here.”
An hour later we were leaving Boston on 93, my hastily packed duffel on the back seat.
In my dingy little room in Jack’s apartment, Griff hadn’t said much. But I could read the disapproval on his face. “It’s ugly, but I don’t spend much time here.”
“I know you’re saving up for your own place,” he’d said, squeezing my shoulders. “How’s that going?”
Badly. “Fine.”
I’d brought my notebooks with me, just to keep them away from Jack. I didn’t trust him.
The first part of the car ride was a bit too quiet, as I tried to figure out what to say. This excursion was a weekend booty call plain and simple. But I’d left Vermont rather abruptly, and it weighed between us.
“Hey,” I said, reaching to cover his hand with mine on the steering wheel. “How did you know I’d be free to go out of town this weekend?”
“Didn’t,” he said. “Until I made the drop-off and called corporate headquarters asking for you. They pulled up some schedule on a computer and told me where you were working, and that if I needed to speak to you I’d better hurry, because you weren’t on the schedule tomorrow. So I drove over there quick.”
“I’m glad you did.”
He stole a glance at me, as if trying to decide whether I meant it.
“Griff, I’m sorry I left last month without saying goodbye.”
His eyes cut toward mine for a fractional second before returning to the road. “That wasn’t nice, princess.”
“I know.” I cleared my throat. “It was the middle of a work day, and I hate big goodbyes.”
“Don’t we all.” Silence fell again, and I thought it might swallow us whole. But then he began to tell me how well his mom’s ankle was healing, and I listened as he went on with other farm gossip and trivia. Daphne and Dylan were at war over naming the new rooster. Jude had his mind blown by the new Star Wars movie, released while he was in prison. I laughed, and he reached over to give my knee a squeeze. And it felt so good that I forgot to be tense.
Two and a half hours after leaving the city limits, we bumped along the road toward his farm, the windows down. I felt like someone who’d been let out of jail. For the whole ride I’d been sneaking glances at Griff’s face or watching his big hands on the steering wheel. After thinking about him so often for a couple of weeks, it was odd to finally sit beside him. My palms got sweaty and I felt as tongue-tied as a seventh-grader at her first middle school dance.
“So,” I said as he turned onto the gravel drive. “What are your plans for this weekend?”
He turned to me with a look so hot that it could have been used to brown up the top of a creme brûlée. “We could go out to dinner, but that’s more time on the road. I’d want to take you somewhere nice. I don’t want to hit the Goat tonight.”
I was afraid to know why. Had he started things up with Zara again?
Griff parked the truck, shut off the engine and turned to me. “Do you mind having dinner with the family?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I love your family.”
The word love slipped out a little too firmly. Maybe Griff noticed it, too. Because he gave me the sweetest smile. “Okay, princess. Then we’ll eat out tomorrow night.”
His laser gaze was doing things to me—filling my belly with nervous butterflies. So I opened the truck’s door. “What shal
l we do before dinner, hot stuff? I think there’s still enough light to butcher something.”
He let out a bark of laughter and got out of the truck. “I really know how to impress the ladies, don’t I?”
“Well, it was original.”
Griff came around the truck and took my hand. “The cider apples are starting to ripen up. You want to see them?”
“Of course I do.” I squeezed his hand. “Show me, Farmer Griff.”
Chuckling, he walked me toward the line of trees that began beyond the tractor shed. “You know how I sometimes get all spun up over the price of produce?”
“How could I forget?”
“Right. I’m going to show you some apples that are actually priceless.”
“So I shouldn’t offer you a dollar a pound?”
He pinched my ass. “When I say priceless, I’m not kidding. These are apples you can’t buy on the open market. They just aren’t for sale.”
“Why?”
“For decades nobody planted any of the old cider varieties. There were trees here and there in peoples’ farmyards. But there was no commercial market for them, so everybody planted dessert apples. Dessert is what we call—”
“—the kind everybody eats.”
“Right. And even with grafting, it takes a few years to get fruit. So although cider has made a big comeback in this country, there aren’t enough bittersweet apples to go around. If I were willing to pay a hundred bucks a bushel, I still couldn’t get bittersweets. So these trees are my babies.”
“How many babies do you have?”
“About a thousand.”
We passed a sign that made me laugh. DO NOT PICK. NON-EDIBLE FRUIT. “So you’re using scare tactics? You should have Dylan draw you a picture of the evil queen offering an apple to Snow White.”
He snorted. “It wouldn’t even help. I’ll bet you ten bucks I’m chasing people out of here tomorrow.”
I paused after we’d walked a ways up the row. “What am I looking at?” In this part of the orchard every tree had a metal tag hanging from a low branch. Like an overgrown dog tag, with three digits. “What is tree number one-twelve?”