She took care of bathroom business with a sigh of relief. The longest pee of her life, and maybe the most satisfying. It gave her time to squint down at her bare knees and register that, joy of joys, her pupils had evidently recalled how to dilate and contract in response to light, because it actually seemed comfortingly dim in the bathroom.
Dim enough to make it possible to glance at her no-doubt terrifying reflection in the mirror over the sink without passing out. Or throwing up, which was starting to feel like a serious concern.
But moving around had woken her up a bit, and her head hadn’t fallen off, so Miranda supposed she ought to keep going. She brushed her teeth, twisted her hair up into a knot on top of her head without bothering to brush it, and made her cautious way out to the living room.
Confronted with a problem, Miranda preferred to compartmentalize her thinking until the most immediate, pressing issues had been taken care of. Hence the trek to the bathroom had been made in perfect calm, every dehydrated, alcohol-soaked fiber of her being focused on the task at hand.
Now, however, Miranda’s busy brain was turning to other things. Like finding out what time it was, and taking a shower. Because, ew.
Not just yet, though. First things first. A direct IV of coffee, loaded straight into the veins, would be nice. But she’d settle for a nice, hot cup of the blackest, strongest stuff she could brew.
Her mouth watered; she could almost smell it. She inhaled again. Wait, she did smell it.
Sure enough, the coffeepot on her minuscule countertop was nearly full, steaming merrily. Miranda paused, befuddled, then blew out a long, gusty sigh.
Jess.
The selective memory loss caused by last night’s over-indulgence had momentarily blotted out one of the reasons she’d succumbed to the lure of that floral berry concoction from hell in the first place.
Jess was home.
Although apparently not, just at the moment. She listened hard, and even though the fresh coffee was evidence he’d been up and about, she couldn’t hear anything moving in the apartment now. And with hardwood floors as old as hers, stealth was impossible.
The sound of the front door opening made her jump. Shuffling footsteps and the rustle of paper bags preceded her younger brother down the short hallway and into the main room.
Jess froze for a second when he saw her standing in the kitchen, then smiled brightly. “Good morning!”
“Morning,” she answered, turning to search through the cupboard for her favorite blue china teacup. Any intelligent conversation was going to require caffeine.
“You’re up! I thought you were going to sleep all day. I just went out to pick up a few things. I hope that’s okay.” Jess was talking too fast, and it made Miranda’s heart hurt.
“Of course,” she said. “I had a late night.”
Jess laughed, the sound tight with nerves. “I know. I heard you come in around two.” He was clutching the shopping bags like a shield. Miranda swallowed hard.
“What did you buy?” she asked.
A light flush stained his cheeks; the curse of their redhead complexion. Jess’s hair was a shade or two darker than hers, more auburn than strawberry blond, but they both had fair skin that tended to show every flicker of embarrassment.
“Boring stuff like toothpaste. And I didn’t want to raid your kitchen, so I went to the German bakery on the corner for breakfast rolls. No raisins.” One corner of his mouth kicked up, and he suddenly looked just like the boy she’d raised, when it had been the two of them against the world. Before he left for Brandewine and her freelance writing gigs landed her a Manhattan magazine job.
Miranda smiled back, even if it felt a bit shaky. “You didn’t have to do that, Jess. What’s mine is yours; this is your home, too. Until you go back to school.”
He looked down at the bags. His fingers clenched hard enough to show white at his knuckles at the reference to Brandewine, but that was the only indication he gave that he’d noticed it. His voice was steady and wry with good humor when he said, “Sheesh, now you tell me. Couldn’t have been before I spent five bucks apiece on pastry. I forgot how freaking expensive everything is here.”
“It can be hard to get used to,” Miranda agreed, letting the scholarship issue go, for the moment. She probably wasn’t up to tackling that without at least one more cup of coffee, anyway. “What’s in the other bag?”
Jess scrunched up his face. “Flowers. To soften you up, so you’ll let me stay.” He pulled out a bunch of peonies, their brightly colored faces vibrant with good cheer.
Miranda caught her breath. “God, Jess.” She didn’t know how to feel; it was sweet enough to make her teeth ache, but the idea that Jess didn’t know he was always welcome made her throat close up.
He shrugged awkwardly. “I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.” He held them out to her, and Miranda set down her coffee and took them.
The moment felt fragile. Miranda fought back a totally counterproductive spate of tears. How had she let things come to this point?
“They’re gorgeous. Thank you.” She held Jess’s gaze. “Mom’s favorite.”
“I remember,” he murmured. His mouth firmed into a straight line and he straightened his shoulders. “Thank you for taking me in and not hounding me with a lot of questions. It’s not easy for you, I know. You want to know what’s happening with the scholarship, my future. You’re worried about me. I just . . . I couldn’t stay there, Miranda.”
She took a deep breath. “It’s okay. Everyone needs a break sometimes. You deserve to enjoy your vacation, like every other boy your age. You were the one who insisted on working through the summer. Jess, if something happened out there . . .”
He tensed visibly. “Nothing happened,” he denied. “And it’s not just a break. I’m transferring to NYU. My application’s already been accepted.”
Miranda’s head whirled. There wasn’t enough caffeine in the world to prepare her to deal with this right now. “I know you haven’t settled in there yet, but I thought you’d at least made some friends. And there was a girl, right? Tara? The one you worked with at the bistro. You seemed to be getting along really well with her.” Miranda had been thrilled about that. Jess hadn’t been a big dater in high school, but then, their parents had met and fallen in love in college. Even though she knew it was premature, part of her couldn’t help envisioning Jess and this Tara, who was surely a wonderful girl, falling deeply in love and settling down together.
“Tara and I . . . it turned out she wasn’t who I thought she was.” He gave a short, unhappy laugh. “And, I guess, vice versa. Anyway, it’s over. She didn’t factor into this decision. Come on, I spent two years at Brandewine! I think if it were a matter of settling in, I would’ve managed it by now.” Her little brother’s blue eyes darkened to a flinty blue-gray with determination.
“I’m doing this, Miranda. I’m not asking for you to support me; I’m going to take care of everything myself. Get a job, get loans and financial aid to pay for school, an apartment, whatever I need to do. I just wanted you to know what’s going on, and to thank you for letting me crash here for a few weeks while I get situated.”
“You are not working your way through college.”
“Why not? It’s what you did.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Miranda pointed out. “I didn’t get a full scholarship to a good school, and I couldn’t have gone away to college even if I had.”
Jess looked down at the floor. “Because of me,” he said.
“I didn’t mind,” Miranda said. “I never minded taking care of you—it’s what Mom and Dad would’ve wanted. And it’s not a habit I can break, so you’re just going to have to live with it.”
“For how long?” he asked. “I’m nearly twenty.”
Forever, Miranda thought, but didn’t say it. Looking into Jess’s eyes, she knew now wasn’t the time to have this fight. Jess could be unswerving once he got his mind set on something. She hadn’t given up on getting him bac
k to Brandewine, but failing that, she certainly wasn’t allowing him to spend precious time at some job rather than on his studies.
“Okay.” She blew out air, got up to pour herself another cup of coffee. “Give me one of those rolls.”
Jess handed over a raisinless cinnamon bun, and joined her at the table with his own. Miranda took a bite, but the sweet, doughy mass was hard to choke down. She ended up shredding most of it while she talked.
“Something is going on with you,” she said. When Jess opened his mouth, she cut him off with the patented Big Sister Glare. “Shut it. I’m talking now. You think I can’t see something’s up? You don’t want to tell me what it is, and that’s fine,” she emphasized, summoning up as much conviction as she could, considering every particle of her being shrieked at her to sit on him until he confessed everything. Sadly, he wasn’t fourteen years old anymore.
“If you can’t stay at Brandewine, then you did the right thing coming home. I want you here, in my apartment, where I can keep an eye on you. And it’s not just for a few weeks, kiddo. If you want to transfer to NYU, you live with me. And you let me pay your tuition. I won’t have you splitting your focus between some crappy minimum-wage job and your college experience. You have to promise me you’ll focus on your future.”
Jess clouded over, but Miranda held firm. “That’s the price you pay for giving up that scholarship.”
“Fine,” he agreed. “But I get a summer job and save up my earnings to help pay for books.”
“Deal,” she said, mouth twitching. “You drive a hard bargain. But it’s probably a good idea for you to find work this summer—I’m going to be busy enough for the next few months that you’d get awfully lonely sitting around this apartment.”
“Problems at work?” he asked, looking concerned.
“Challenges,” she corrected, excitement trickling back in. “Big changes, new goals. I’m going to write a book. I’ve always wanted to, and I finally have the perfect platform.”
She couldn’t contain the thrill she got when she said it out loud. Just the thought gave her a giant happy shiver, and she took another sip of coffee to settle down.
Jess’s eyes went wide. “Hey, that’s awesome. What kind of book?”
“Nonfiction, about my experiences in the kitchen at Market. It’s a new restaurant opening up across town.”
A plethora of recent books and articles had appeared, extolling the virtues of eating locally and seasonally—but was there another side to the story? How possible was it, really, for a restaurant to carry out a mission like Market’s? Would the menu suffer from or be exalted by the limitations imposed by Adam Temple’s strict policy of only serving local, organic food? There was a story here, Miranda was sure of it. Now if she could just convince a publisher of that . . .
“Cool!” Jess took on a calculating air, which made him look like a little boy trying to figure out how to scam an extra cookie at snacktime. “You think this place needs waiters? If they’re still getting started, maybe they’ve got slots to fill.”
“Maybe,” Miranda said doubtfully. “But the chef . . . well, let’s just say he’s not too overjoyed at the prospect of having a journalist observing him. I’m not sure being related to me is going to give you any kind of leg up. Possibly quite the reverse.”
Jess shrugged. “All I can do is try, right? You going over there today?”
She nodded. Claire had promised to call with a battle plan after she spoke to the editorial board, but whatever the outcome of that conversation, Miranda was determined to strike while the iron was hot.
Jess nodded decisively. “Then I’m coming with you.”
Miranda hid a smile behind her coffee cup. It wouldn’t do to let Jess see how much she liked the idea. He wasn’t a contrarian, by nature, but with this new fiercely independent streak he was sporting, he might react badly to the realization that Miranda loved the idea of having her baby brother under her direct supervision practically twenty-four/seven. Living together, working together—surely with all that togetherness, she’d be able to puzzle out how things had gotten off track and set Jess back on the right path. Then she’d sell her new-and-improved book proposal for tons of money, and be able to pay that tuition!
Nothing soothed Miranda’s frazzled nerves like having a clear, step-by-step plan laid out.
She took another bite of cinnamon roll, and this time it went down easily, sugary icing and dark spice bursting over her tongue.
Yes, she thought with deep satisfaction. Everything is coming together.
FIVE
Nothing is coming together!” Adam yelled.
The skeleton kitchen crew dashed around him. It was just section leaders today, the main guys from grill, sauté, garde-manger, and pastry, plus Adam and Frankie, all cooking feverishly side by side as they attempted to finalize the menu for opening night.
And nothing was working. The custom-made, heinously expensive wood-burning grill was turning out fillet that tasted like the charred ends of cigarettes, the sauce for the rabbit rillettes kept separating, the vinaigrette for the endive salad was boring and flat, while the rosemary and olive oil flatbread wasn’t flat enough.
Adam gritted his teeth. He had to bear down and get through this day, put everything out of his head but the food. He couldn’t be one of those temperamental chefs who fell apart over every little thing.
It was just . . . having a damn critic in his kitchen, scrutinizing his every move, judging his food and his crew and his methods. That was not a little thing. He might even feel justified about this freak-out, if he hadn’t invited the woman himself.
Self-recrimination boiled up in his belly, bitter and acid. Not only had Adam lost his head and beckoned a viper into their midst, now he was screwing up the kitchen dynamic and taking his aggravation out on the crew.
Unacceptable. He had to pull himself together. And he knew just how to do it, too.
Adam was going to make pâté.
Two hours, a deep clean and re-seasoning of the grill, one perfect sauce moutarde, vinaigrette, and flatbread dough later, and Adam was up to his elbows in duck fat. It was the best way he’d found to get calm and collected: make something with a lot of steps, in intricate layers that all had to harmonize together.
He was finally starting to breathe normally again, and, not coincidentally, so was his crew. Everyone was back to focusing on specific tasks, refining the details of every dish until it could be achieved perfectly, night after night.
Adam looked down and contemplated the work he was doing. There was a bowl of duck’s liver, sautéed, diced and whipped together with foie gras, minced shallots, and port, sitting in an ice bath to his left. Another small bowl sat beside his right hand, filled with prunes steeped in veal stock and more port. There was duck confit in a bin, and the long, narrow cast-iron terrine pan was ready to be lined with duck fat, which would seal in the moisture and flavor of the pâté as it cooked. He was still trying to come up with one last element, something surprising to cut through the richness of the confit and the liver mixture. Lemon zest?
And then Grant hung up the kitchen phone with a long-suffering sigh.
“She’s on her way.”
Adam’s fingers stiffened against the urge to clench. He held still, with effort. He refused to tear this beautiful piece of fat he’d just painstakingly skinned from a whole free-range duckling.
“Couldn’t you hold her off?” he said around the tic in his jaw.
“You want me to tell the newest member of our staff that she’s not welcome?”
Adam’s stomach rolled. “She’s not on staff. She’s vacationing here. She’s a fucking tourist.”
“With pen and paper in hand,” Frankie grumbled. Adam shot Frankie a quelling look. He didn’t want the rest of the crew knowing just how disastrous this could turn out to be. Not to mention the fact that it was all his fault.
He’d apologized privately for his part in this fiasco to Frankie and Grant. They were his partners i
n crime, his friends. But even though Adam preferred a collegial atmosphere in his kitchen, he wasn’t about to have subordinates second-guessing his judgment. Flawed or not, it was his damn kitchen. He had to be in control.
Restaurant brigades were like nothing so much as a pirate crew; any hint of blood in the water could incite a mutiny. A lot of his employees lived rough lives around the fringes of normal society. That was why most of them worked in restaurants; the insane hours, the intense pressure, the adrenaline rush of service—only a misfit could thrive under those circumstances. Adam ought to know.
Benevolent pirate king that he was, Adam knew everyone’s name, from grill cook to dishwasher, and the names of their wives and girlfriends and kids—but if any one of them screwed up during service? They got the full, sharp edge of Adam’s temper.
Screwing up outside of service, away from the restaurant—well, Adam liked to know about that, too. In the interests of being prepared. If someone didn’t show up for work, the whole kitchen scrambled to make up the difference.
Keeping on top of that was Frankie’s department. Somehow, some way, Frankie knew everything that went down with their crew. He could find out any information on anyone in the restaurant business, through shady, circuitous means best known only to himself. He was Adam’s first mate. His strong right arm, the sword arm. Adam would be lost without him.
All of which made Frankie’s occasional dickishness easier to swallow.
“Do you want to go get cleaned up, boss?” Grant asked, wrinkling his nose at the duck fat.
Adam caught Frankie’s glance and smiled slowly when his friend winked, eyebrows arched devilishly.
“No way, man,” Adam said, letting the familiar sounds and smells of the kitchen wash over him. “Let her come talk to me right here, see what it’s all about.”
See what I’m all about, he thought. Because this was him. Messy hands, busy mind, every sense trained to seek perfection. This was where he lived. And no snotty little magazine scribbler, gorgeous red-gold hair and feisty spirit or not, was going to change that.
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