She spits out my name as if it’s sour on her tongue. I can’t say that’s the first time that’s happened, but considering I don’t know her, it seems like an intense reaction.
I’ve played this game before, though. I laugh as though she’s told a ridiculous joke. “Oh, of course, I have everything ready. Are you up to speed on everything Beth and I discussed?” The implication that she’s not up to snuff is laced through the question just as bluntly as her insinuation.
Claire jumps in, defusing the polite dominance battle with her effervescent warmth. “Sorry for the ambush, but I didn’t want to share Beth’s story without her permission. You know how that is, I’m sure.” Her acknowledgement of who I am and my family’s recent drama in the media isn’t said to be mean or ugly but simply the truth. Meredith, however, seems to be fighting a smile, though I’m not sure her lips would truly lift even with utter bliss.
Cut back on the Botox, maybe?
“Is Beth okay?” I ask, concerned.
Claire looks around, checking for press, though we’re the only ones in the shop. She whispers so quietly that I mostly read her lips. “She’s pregnant and can’t travel. But everything’s staying the same as we planned. My media partner suggested Meredith to handle the actual event.” She gestures to Meredith, who’s looking at Claire congenially, well aware that she’s stepping in to save this wedding while simultaneously avoiding the fact that she’s padding her own resumé.
“Well, I suppose it’s good that you’re available,” I say sweetly to Meredith. She hears the barb as I intended. You must not be that good if you weren’t already booked and could step up last-minute.
“Let’s take a look at your work, shall we?” she clips out. I have no doubt that whatever magical floral design I’ve created, she’ll find fault with it.
It’s been only a few minutes, but I’m having a visceral reaction to Meredith, something she seems to return tenfold. I’m not for everyone, I’m aware of that, but I’m simply not sure what I could’ve already done to warrant her reaction to me. She, on the other hand, seems pretentious and catty, cold, and snooty.
Janey appears at my elbow, and I smell the lovely bouquet before I see it. Claire focuses on it immediately and gasps out, “Oh, my God, it’s perfect! Exactly what we talked about—a taste of the islands, right here at home. Can I hold it?” She reaches trembling hands out, and Janey transfers the bouquet to her as though it’s a precious newborn baby.
Claire buries her nose in the roses, sniffing deeply. “Mmm. Perfect.” And then she looks at me, that happiness in her eyes and smile on her face that I live for. It’s the stamp of approval I was hoping for.
“I’m so glad you like it,” I say encouragingly.
“I love it,” Claire agrees, her eyes dropping back down to the flowers as though she can’t bear to not look at them.
Meredith taps a red nail to the screen of her tablet. “While certainly pretty, that’s only one bouquet. The contract calls for several arrangements. Are the rest ready? We are on a tight timeline.” That last bit is said to Claire, a reminder that they have somewhere to be other than my little flower shop.
“We’ve already made arrangements with Casa Del Mario,” I offer Claire and Meredith. “I don’t want them premade so that they’ll be perfectly fresh and ready. As for tonight’s, they’re already boxed and ready. I assure you, they’re each just as lovely.”
Claire shakes her head, her smile saying that’s not needed. “They’re gorgeous, Abi. Truly, thank you.” She’s slow to hand the bouquet back to Janey, who’s holding up a vase with a special vertical box to allow for transport without bruising the delicate petals. Once the flowers are out of her hands, she switches back into get-shit-done mode. “Meredith, do I have time to call Cole while we load up? We’re still working on our speeches for tonight.”
Meredith nods serenely. “Of course. Use the privacy in the car while I handle this, dear.” She sounds almost motherly, gentle even, right up until Claire waves and walks out the door. In what I’m guessing is more her true manner, Meredith snaps, “Chop, chop, girls. The flowers won’t load themselves, now will they?” Her face is stone still, but I swear I see glee dancing in her eyes.
I grit my teeth. I’m definitely not a girl, nor am I her employee to boss around. But Claire is worth dealing with Meredith’s attitude. The publicity alone for this wedding is worth dealing with a hundred Merediths.
At least that’s what I tell myself while we load white boxes into the SUV and make the driver promise to go slow and easy on the drive even though we’ve packed the flowers for safe transport.
Meredith does have us open a few of the boxes to peek at the arrangements, something I completely understand but that still irks me given the rest of our meeting. “They are rather . . . colorful, aren’t they?” Colorful sounds like code for ugly as sin.
“Yes, as the bride requested. Beautiful, vibrant flowers to represent the island destination and the wedding’s color palette.” It’s the description Claire herself gave me at our first meeting to discuss her wants, tastes, and floral dreams.
Meredith’s hum is loud with disapproval, even though it’s quiet in volume. “If you’re done, we do have places to go, Miss Andrews.”
Again, she says my name as though it’s physically repulsive for her to do so. What the hell?
Did Dad buy up her family’s land or something? Did Ross not call her daughter back after a hook-up? That would’ve had to be years ago because he’s been locked down with Violet for a long time now. Or is she just averse to me in general because of my family’s wealth? That happens sometimes—the same way people will want to befriend you because you come from money, other people are instantly hateful toward you, as though I have anything to do with my dad’s success.
“All done, Meredith,” I say with a well-practiced smile. I use her first name intentionally, putting us on a more even playing field and letting her know that I’m not intimidated by her.
I am. But showing weakness isn’t how the game is played. I learned that from Mom and Dad, and it’s a lesson I won’t forget. My name might come with some baggage, but no matter what, I’m an Andrews and damn proud of it.
Already turning away before Meredith can respond, I wave and offer a genuine smile to Claire through the SUV’s tinted windows. She rolls the window down, phone still pressed to her ear. “I’ll see you in Aruba, Abi. Thanks again!”
After they pull out, Janey and Samantha pepper me with questions.
“Who the hell was that?”
“What’s she got against our Abster?”
“Need me to kill her and compost her body out back?”
That one was Janey, which doesn’t surprise me. We joke that she’s my work wife, and as such, she takes care of me very well. It’s not one-sided, though. I take care of her and Samantha too. Like now.
“I have no idea what that was all about. What I do know is that we are free and clear for the night. I’m exhausted and still need to pack for this work week in Aruba. Let’s call for Chinese food and take it home. I’m ordering you both to curl up on the couch, eat dinner, and take a relaxing bath. I think we’re going to need it.”
Samantha nods, likely taking mental notes of exactly what I said and in what order because she will actually follow instructions. She’ll do well next week while Janey and I are gone, though I might have Violet stop by to check in. But that’s more about my being nervous about leaving my baby in someone else’s hands than it is about Samantha’s capabilities.
“So what I’m hearing is get drunk, get laid, and pack some Xanax to deal with the Wicked Witch?” Janey smiles as she ticks off her to-do list on her fingers. “And we get overtime pay for this too, right?”
“Pushing it, girl,” I say in a tone that mimics Meredith’s.
Janey’s brows jump together and her head is a heartbeat away from circling on her neck.
“Kidding, just kidding.” I sigh. “But really, let’s get out of here. I have a fe
eling the next week is going to be long and hard.”
“That’s what my night had better be,” Janey retorts.
I laugh, but secretly, I wish my night were going to resemble Janey’s and not simply be me having a solo fashion show to pack my suitcase with acceptable options for both work and hopefully a small amount of play in Aruba.
Speaking of play, I make a note to myself—pack my purple friend because fuck knows, it’s the only thing giving me a long, hard night these days.
Chapter 2
Lorenzo
“Move,” I bark, though the driver of the big minivan monstrosity ahead of me clearly can’t hear me. A second later, a hole opens in the traffic and I shoot the gap.
Grr. My Ducati growls between my thighs, easily overtaking the van and leaving them in my wake, and for a moment, I feel free. I consider speeding up even faster, riding until my thighs give out and I need to piss. Maybe never stopping, just continuing on forever on the open stretch of road before me.
Me, my bike, and zero plans other than exploring and seeing which way the wind will blow me. I’ve done it before, taken off to ride throughout Europe, cooking in everything from fancy hotels to food trucks and learning so much along the way. Maybe it’s been too long since I’ve done that? Perhaps I could do the same here in the States? Find new cuisines to delve into, new flavor profiles to create, and see what other opportunities the world might have for me.
My eyes glance down to my wristwatch.
Shit, I’m going to be late.
Do you even care?
The truth is, I’m not sure. I’ve been in the States for months now, lured here by the promise of running my own kitchen for an established restaurant. Sergio, the owner of Avanti Ristorante and my boss, had seemed excited to welcome me, assuring me that he was more than open to my culinary creativity, and living near my US-based extended family had seemed like a way to have some roots for a change.
The proposition had been one I couldn’t refuse.
The reality, as it so often is, is lackluster compared to my hopes.
Yes, it is ‘my’ kitchen, but I work side-by-side with a co-chef and kitchen manager, Roberta. We get along surprisingly well considering we’re both accustomed to being the top dog in the kitchen, but it still gives a sense of it not being wholly mine. And Sergio, while a good front man, has the palate of a four-year old and shows zero appreciation for my food, actually turning up his nose at the most basic of ingredients.
“I do not eat spices,” he told me, and I’d been shocked. Though my English is perfect, it’d taken me too long to decipher that he’d meant he doesn’t like spicy food. Understandably, some people don’t like heat with their food, but to Sergio, even simple black pepper can be too spicy. Ridiculous.
And then there’s the family aspect of living here. While my cousin, Violet, has been quite welcoming, she has a new husband and baby to attend to, along with her interior design business. She simply doesn’t have time to escort me around town, and to be honest, she’s rather boring with her talk of baby milestones, and disgustingly enough, my niece’s toilet habits. Calling it ‘poopy’ doesn’t make it cute. It’s still shit, even if it’s from a baby, and the last thing I want to discuss is what its color and consistency might mean about baby Carly’s health.
Which means I’m left to invitations from the aunts. And ugh, they seem to have taken a page from Mama’s recipe book and believe that me plus any available single woman between the ages of twenty and thirty-five will result in a delicious dish of love. I’ve refused the last three dinner invitations, unwilling to be ambushed by another blind date.
Still, I have made a commitment to Sergio.
Just get through tonight, I bargain with myself.
Avanti is hosting a private dinner for a local golden boy who’s getting married. Kennedy something or other. I imagine he’ll show up in a pink polo shirt with a popped collar beneath a navy blazer, have hair sprayed blond hair, a tan from golfing, and overly white teeth. So quintessentially American, I think wryly.
I pull into the back lot, parking my bike in the reserved space. There’s no sign, but everyone knows where Chef parks and wouldn’t dare to infringe. I turn off the machine, and the silence is deafening. I sigh, looking up to the cloudless sky for motivation to do this again tonight. It’s not the cooking that annoys me but the set prix-fixe menu with zero room for creativity. A necessary evil for a dinner party like this, but I’d rather create something special for a guest, something they don’t even know they want but fall instantly in love with from the first bite.
That won’t be happening tonight.
In the kitchen, the hustle and bustle of preparation is well underway, the scents and steam combining to create a wave of delicious and comforting aroma. “Hello,” I say to the assembled white-coated crew.
“Chef!” sounds out in a chorus.
I toss Roberta a wave, which she returns with a head nod, her hands never stopping their chopping motion as she dices carrots. She makes an amazing carrot soup that tastes like rich, earthen spring in a bowl. It’s a recipe I learned the first week I arrived. I haven’t told her that if she increases the nutmeg to a full tablespoon, it’s even better, but that’s how I make it at home for myself now. And how I’ll make it when I leave Avanti.
Milo and Alessandro, two Greek-American men with near identical dark hair and eyes, sidle up to me as I wash my hands and pull on my white coat. Though they resemble one another, they couldn’t be more different in personality—one kind and gentle-hearted, solely devoted to his lovely wife, and the other . . . well, Milo. There’s a Milo in every kitchen the world over, I’ve found.
“Chef, have you heard who’s coming tonight?” Milo asks, his lips twisted into a hungry smile.
I shrug, not getting drawn into his lecherousness. “Kennedy? Some sort of wedding pre-game.” Pre-game, an American tradition I learned about in the South, though they call it ‘tailgating’, a fascinating event where they grill meat in parking lots, drink an excessive amount of cheap beer, and boast loudly about their team’s abilities. I’d been confused when Roberta had described tonight’s dinner as such an event, but apparently, it’s a broader term that just means a pre-party.
Milo snorts. “Who cares about that cunt? I mean the bride!” He cuts an eye over his shoulder, making sure Roberta is focused on her soup, and then pulls his phone out of his pocket. He clicks for a moment and then spins the phone around to show me a couple, both blonde and young and near sparkling with the glow of love. “I’d watch her do yoga all day. Self-care, indeed.” He makes an obscene jerking gesture with his hand and I grin. Milo is vulgar, but he is amusing.
Before I can do much more than chuckle, Sergio comes barreling into the kitchen, the proverbial bull in a china shop. For all his eating preferences, he is a rather large man, and the space between the stove and the food line is already narrowed by the line cooks prepping for tonight.
“Lorenzo! There you are, my boy! Are you ready for tonight?” he booms, smiling widely. “Tonight, Avanti will be on everyone’s lips and by morning, we’ll have people begging for reservations to dine at my restaurant.” He looks to the ceiling, lips moving in silent prayer.
He means reservations with me. And Roberta. Hell, even with Milo and Alessandro. All Sergio does is greet people like the consummate owner, shaking hands and kissing babies like a greasy politician. He’s barely one step above a used car salesman.
I sigh, knowing that’s harsher than Sergio deserves. He is good at his role, and it’s one I’m not interested in playing myself. I’m just in a mood.
At least cooking, even recipes I know by rote, is a stress relief, so I get to it.
Garlic . . . minced. Pasta . . . made from scratch. Parmesan . . . hand grated.
“Like this?” I ask, my small fingers kneading the pasta dough carefully, slowly, dutifully as Aunt Sofia supervises my awkward new movements. She intends it to be punishment, a penance for misusing her best wooden spoon as a ma
keshift sword to fight with my friend, Emilio. He’s likely at home washing dishes as his own consequence.
But this . . . this isn’t a punishment. This is magic. Blending ingredients together, working them until the result is somehow greater than the sum of its parts.
“Yes, Lorenzo. Good boy,” Aunt Sofia encourages me. “Harder. You must use your hands to squeeze. Then we will roll it out.” She’s tossing a light layer of flour onto a wooden board, prepping for that step as I’ve seen her do hundreds of times. I never knew it was so much work just to make dinner.
That night, when she tells the family that I made the pasta, they praise my efforts and the pasta itself. I bask in their words, though I can tell the noodles are clunkier than the delicate strands Aunt Sofia usually creates.
That night was when my love affair with cooking began. For the next several years, I worked side by side with Aunt Sofia, her tutelage difficult but enlightening. By my late teens, I was creating menus beyond even what she was capable of and seeking out more. Always more flavors, experiences, textures, and blends.
Yet, it always comes back to this . . . my fettuccine alfredo, the signature dish that has been my pass into kitchens the world over. For such a seemingly simple dish, there is a refined balance to the flavors.
Alessandro steps up beside me. “Thirty minutes until apps, Chef. Guests are already in house.”
I look up to the clock on the wall. “Heard. I’m going to step out for a smoke before service starts.”
He nods, moving into my place and keeping the process of cheese grating going. We’ll go through several wedges of parmesan tonight and do not want to run out mid-service.
I step into the back alley, taking a deep breath of the evening air. I haven’t smoked in years, but ‘smoke breaks’ are a known habit of kitchen crews, and though I don’t need the nicotine, I need the moment to center myself because once service starts, so does the madness. There will be no breaks, no pauses, no room for mistakes, and the pressure will be on.
My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon Page 3