Three Little Words

by Jenny Holiday

  Marc, who knew his whole sob story, had suggested he extend an olive branch. Invite his parents to the restaurant. Cook them a special meal. Which he had spent weeks planning with Marc’s help.

  And then his mother had balked. Had freaked out when they pulled up because she’d never been to this part of Charleston before and there was a halfway house down the street. She’d refused to get out of the car. And therefore so had his father.

  And that had been that.

  The last time he’d seen his parents. And he hadn’t even interacted with them. He had merely overheard it all go down from inside the restaurant door, peeking out so he could see them, but they couldn’t see him.

  But they weren’t here now.

  Marc was here, though, just behind that door.

  Realizing that he was probably exerting way too much pressure on Gia’s hand, he paused and tried to take a deep breath. It didn’t work. Everything in his chest was tight. Shit. If he had to make a list of people he didn’t want to see him cry, Chef Lalande and Gia would be right up there. He did, however, force himself to gentle his grip.

  She wasn’t having it. She squeezed tighter to compensate.

  Because she knew. Somehow, she knew.

  The gesture loosened something in his chest, and suddenly there was enough space for the deep breath he’d been trying for. The Gia effect.

  He pushed through the door.

  There it was. Just like the front, the kitchen was the same as it had always been. It was midafternoon, so it wasn’t busy, but there was the din of dishes being washed. The hacking noise of a chicken being cut up. The heat, despite the chugging of the air conditioner. The smell of melted chocolate—the pastry chef would be getting tonight’s dessert ready around this time.

  “Close the goddamned door!”

  Chef’s voice, as ornery as ever. Bennett realized with a start that he sounded the same way at Boudin. He had not yet mastered Marc’s ability to see what was going on behind him, though. His mentor was crouched over a worktable with his back to the door, and there should have been no way for him to know the door was open. He could probably sense changes in the air currents or something—he had always had a sort of Jedi master thing going.

  Bennett hadn’t moved fast enough to do Chef’s bidding, so Marc turned, and he was pissed.

  “What part of close the goddamned—”

  The great Marc Lalande, struck dumb. Bennett had never thought to see it happen.

  But his amusement was brief. It was almost like he and Chef were Jedis, communicating without speaking. He saw nothing on his mentor’s face, but he knew that by standing there not speaking, which was not something Marc did, he was saying volumes. There was so much between them, so many emotions, that it was impossible to label them individually, much less put a name to the complex soup that resulted when you mixed them all together.

  Somebody had to say something, though, so Bennett did. “This is my friend Gia. I was thinking maybe we could make her a snack?”

  * * *

  “Oh my God,” Gia said twenty minutes later as she bit into a French fry. But calling it a “fry” didn’t do justice to the salty creation that was perfectly crunchy on the outside yet perfectly fluffy on the inside. And dipped in a truffle aioli that was so good it could probably be used to broker world peace? “Oh my God,” she said again, after her second fry. She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  Suddenly aware that Bennett was looking at her funny, she paused in dipping French fry number three. “What?”

  He ducked his head and smiled to himself like he’d been busted enjoying a secret pleasure. “Nothing.”

  “How can a potato taste this good?” she demanded. It was irrational, but sometimes Bennett’s food almost made her angry. It shouldn’t be possible for a mere mortal to continually produce food this amazing and to do it so casually, like it was nothing.

  She needed to take a vacation from work more often. She was several days away from her last job, and she had at least a month until the next one, depending on when she started booking again. She really needed to listen to that voice mail from her agent—but she kept putting it off because she was starting to feel her “little problem” loosen its hold on her a bit.

  And she was glad about that, because it suggested that maybe her “little problem” was just circumstantial.

  Which begged the question of what she planned to do about changing her circumstances.

  She ate another fry.

  “The raw frites are soaked in an ice bath,” said Chef Lalande, answering what she’d meant as a rhetorical question.

  “Obviously,” Bennett said.

  Lalande shrugged. “People cut corners these days.”

  “But not him.” She jerked a thumb at Bennett.

  “No,” said Lalande, though Gia hadn’t meant it as a question so much as a statement of fact. Bennett was not the sort of man who took the easy way out—of anything. Which, on the one hand, meant he was still punishing himself for something that had happened nearly fifteen years ago.

  But on the other, it made for freaking fantastic fries.

  Not to mention orgasms.

  Not that she would ever get another one of those.

  She sighed and ate another fry.

  “Then they’re double fried,” Lalande continued, still lecturing her on the heavenly fries. “But I have to tell you, no one has ever done frites as well as this guy, including me.”

  Bennett blushed. He actually blushed. Clearly his mentor’s approval meant everything to him. The two men had shared an intense and almost silent reunion, the emotional undercurrents of which she hadn’t been able to read, other than to note that they were strong.

  “So how long have you two been together?” Chef asked.

  Gia corrected him. “Oh, we’re not a couple.”

  They had explained their unexpected arrival, telling Chef about the wedding and the canceled flights, but now that she thought about it, they’d been holding hands when they came into the kitchen, so his conclusion had been logical.

  Lalande looked between them, his eyes darting back and forth a few times. “Okay.”

  He didn’t believe them. Her impulse was to double down on the correction, to make sure he knew that they weren’t together because she didn’t do that. But what did it matter? They were just passing through. It wasn’t like she’d ever see Chef Lalande again.

  As she ate, Bennett and Lalande caught up, talking about people they knew and about the restaurant’s summer menu.

  “So how’s it going with the community restaurant thing?” Lalande asked Bennett.

  “I was at the last pay-what-you-can night, and it went great,” Gia said.

  “I thought you were going to do the pay-what-you-can thing all the time by this point,” Lalande said. “Wasn’t that the plan?”

  “That was the plan,” Bennett said. “I just don’t have the money together yet.”

  “What?” Gia asked.

  The men continued to ignore her. “If you wait until you can fund it yourself, you’ll be waiting forever,” Lalande said. “You’re going to have to get some donations. Shouldn’t be that hard. There’s a lot of money rolling around New York City.”

  “I don’t want to be beholden to some board of society matrons who fancy themselves foodies.” Bennett’s voice dripped with disdain.

  “It’s not like you’re going to be beholden to them,” Lalande said. “I mean, yes, you’ll have to kiss their asses a bit, but you don’t have to let them in your kitchen.” The older man shuddered like the very thought repelled him.

  “Will someone please explain to me what is going on?” Gia said.

  “Sorry,” Bennett said. “I want to get out of the mainstream restaurant business. I’d like for Boudin to be a full-time community restaurant. That’s always been the plan. You were there for the last pay-what-you-can night. I want it to be like that all the time. If you can’t pay, you can work. If you can’t do either, you s
till eat. And we’ll have partnerships with farms, but I also want to eventually be able to amass some land in the city to plant a big garden that people can help with, too. The idea is to bring good food to people, regardless of their ability to pay, and to involve them in every aspect of it, from growing to preparing to serving. So the whole thing is a community effort—people taking care of each other through the hub of this restaurant.”

  “Doesn’t Bon Jovi have a place kind of like that in Jersey?” Gia asked.

  “Yep. Except I don’t have Bon Jovi’s money or fame. The restaurant in its current incarnation is going really well, and I’ve been saving aggressively, but I don’t have enough to get it going. Basically, I need an endowment that generates enough interest for me to operate the place.”

  “And he refuses to prostrate himself before Manhattan’s wealthy and powerful.” Lalande rolled his eyes, but there was affection in his expression. “I mean, I get it. He’s a control freak. I am, too. But there’s basically money growing on trees there for the taking.”

  “I don’t want to turn it into some pet project for rich people,” Bennett said to Lalande. He turned to Gia and explained, “The point is, it’s a community restaurant. The community sustains it. I’m not sure exactly how much I’ll need to subsidize it. I’m trying to be conservative in my estimates, but I’m thinking the reputation of the place is such that I might be able to attract a fair number of customers who will pay full price.”

  “Or more.” Gia thought of the wealth rolling around the high-fashion industry. She’d seen people pay much more than Bennett was asking for food that wasn’t nearly as good. “What if you didn’t even put prices on the menu or the bills? So there is no ‘full price.’ It’s literally pay what you can, or what you think it’s worth, without there being a preconceived value attached to the food. That way there’s no shame in not being able to meet a benchmark. And the flip side is that I bet a lot of people would overpay. Your food is amazing, and Chef Lalande is right, there’s a lot of wealth in Manhattan. Certain kinds of people are used to paying more for food that isn’t as good as yours, and…”

  She trailed off, realizing that both men were looking at her oddly, Bennett with his eyes wide and Lalande with a smirk.

  “That’s a brilliant idea.” Bennett seemed stunned by what he’d just heard. “I have a business plan done, but the cash flow model depends on the food all being a certain price. But if some people would overpay…”

  He stared into space, and Gia suspected he was redoing his models in his head.

  “Agreed.” Lalande dipped his head at Gia with what looked like…respect? Damn, that was gratifying. “But your essential problem remains. You’re still going to need a wad of cash to get started and to backfill lean times. A cushion, given that there’s not a lot of precedent for the model you’re talking about. There are a lot of unknowns.”

  “Right.” Bennett shook his head. “Right. I’m working on it.”

  “If you won’t solicit donations, how about a silent investor?” Lalande asked. “You just need to find someone who expects a negative return and won’t meddle. Ha! Good luck with that.”

  Holy shit. The idea arrived fully formed in Gia’s head. She could give Bennett the money. She had more money than she needed and was itching to do something useful with it. Something like that would be the perfect next career move for her. Except for the “no meddling” part. She wanted not just to shovel cash at a good cause—there were plenty of those around—but to actually do something. To occupy her days doing something meaningful.

  Anyway, it was moot. Bennett wasn’t going to take her money for a business venture. He certainly wasn’t going to let someone with no experience and no skills actually be involved, and she couldn’t blame him.

  But it was an interesting idea she might give some thought to later. She liked restaurants—hence her Food Network habit. And she’d really enjoyed the behind-the-scenes glimpses she’d gotten both here and at Boudin.

  “Well, I guess we should hit the road if we want to make it to Florida tonight,” Bennett said, pushing back from the table.

  “Maybe make one more stop before you do?” Lalande said to Bennett, and she saw something pass between the two men. When Bennett didn’t say anything, Lalande added, “You’re building this up in your mind to be way bigger than it has to be. What’s the worst that can happen? They slam the door in your face? Then you’re no worse off than you are right now.”

  “Oh, trust me. I’d be a lot worse off.” But Bennett smiled as he spoke.

  Lalande made a shooing motion, blew her a kiss, and they were on their way.

  * * *

  “Where to?” Gia asked when they were back in the car. She’d gotten in the driver’s seat, and Bennett had not protested. It was easier to keep going with the flow. To keep letting Gia take care of him. Scary, but also easy. Which were not two things that should have gone together, but as he was learning, Gia was capable of inspiring all sorts of wonky, mixed-up emotions.

  “Florida,” he said, but his voice sounded like he’d sucked in some helium and was auditioning for the next Alvin and the Chipmunks movie.

  “Say it like you mean it,” she teased. She started the car but did not put it in gear.

  “Lalande has always been after me to reconcile with my parents.” Which he realized was not an answer to her “Where to?” question.

  Except it must have been enough of one, because she nodded determinedly and said, “Your parents’ place it is.” Her lip curled. “But don’t expect me to like them.”

  “Hang on,” he said.

  She ignored him. “Reconciliation. I get it. I mean, I get it on paper, but these are the people who turned their backs on you when you needed them the most. These are the people who refused to make even minimal gestures to help you at critical moments. So to my mind”—she wrinkled her nose—“fuck them.” Then she smiled. “But I’m more of a bitch than most people, so you just tell me where to go. And after this is over, however it turns out, I’ll buy you the biggest sweet tea you’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  He blinked, surprised by the outburst but also incredibly touched by it. Gia played the role of the jaded hard-ass who didn’t get attached, but underneath all that was a compassionate woman who felt a lot. He wondered suddenly if she felt too much—maybe that was why she was the way she was.

  Also, was he really going to do this?

  “The thing is,” he said, struggling to explain, “Lalande usually turns out to be right about everything. He was the only person who ever believed I could amount to anything without my parents’ money. And he always used to say, if you’re avoiding doing something, that’s a sign that you should actually do that thing.”

  Gia’s eyes widened.

  Wait. Had those amber eyes just filmed over with tears? “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head rapidly, and suddenly she looked fine. “Nothing. I was just thinking that is actually some pretty spot-on advice.”

  “Yeah, that’s the thing about Chef. He’s always right, in a ‘wisdom of the ages’ kind of way.” He sighed. “It’s annoying.”

  “What do you think will happen when you just show up?” Gia asked.

  “I have no idea.” Which wasn’t precisely true. He’d imagined the scenario a bunch of times. Rehearsed several outcomes. They just weren’t good ones.

  “Well”—she grinned at him and started driving—“there’s only one way to find out.”

  Chapter Eight

  Gia started to have second thoughts as she followed Bennett’s directions and turned onto a drive marked PRIVATE. The “yard”—that was what he’d called it—was lined with those big trees he’d been talking about on the train. They had that weird white moss dangling from them. She’d never seen one in person, but they screamed “southern gothic.” Also…

  “This is not a yard, Bennett.”

  He smirked.

  “This is a freaking estate.”

  “My parents hav
e shitloads of money.”

  She had to hand it to him—not many people would have had the guts to walk away from this kind of money. And money was exactly what he’d just been saying he needed, for his community restaurant. That kind of principled stand was…strangely hot.

  After a minute of driving, they emerged from the trees in front of a giant white house studded with black shutters. The entire front of the house—all three of its stories—was covered with porches. The front lawn featured a breathtaking series of terraced gardens. It looked like something out of Gone With the Wind.

  Yep. Second thoughts were taking root with a vengeance, digging their tentacles into her like the moss on those spooky trees.

  Back at the restaurant, she’d totally bought into Lalande’s argument as recounted by Bennett. More than that, the idea that things you didn’t want to face were the exact things you should face? The notion had taken her breath away. Brought tears to her eyes.

  She needed to keep eating, regardless of the career consequences.

  It had gotten easier. She hadn’t even hesitated—much—when Bennett had presented her with the fries he’d made in Lalande’s kitchen. She’d known they would be exquisite, like everything else he’d fed her.

  But it was more than that. It sounded utterly absurd, but somehow, being with Bennett made some of her usual anxieties feel further away. They were still there, hovering, but they didn’t have quite the same hold on her that they’d had even a few days ago. It didn’t feel like they were inside her anymore.

  It probably wasn’t Bennett per se, though. Or not only Bennett. It was being so firmly out of her usual routine. Not being faced with casting calls and sample sizes too small for her ass. She hadn’t even listened to that voice mail from her agent yet. Being in between jobs, having a month of cushioning, was turning out to be strangely liberating.

  So, yes, she had seen the wisdom in Bennett’s impulsively coming here. She wanted him to experience some of that liberation, too.