“I’m going to do whatever it takes to clear Cace’s name!” Skye stated.
The two women stood facing one another, neither one budging, their hair blowing wildly in the wind.
“Not if I can help it...”
And with that, Petra pulled out a golf club and swung it directly at Skye. Skye dove for cover, avoiding its impact as Petra’s swing sent it crashing into a paving stone, sending tiny pieces of shattered stone up into the air.
The impact caused Petra to jolt forward, scattering golf clubs across the paving. Skye managed to grab hold of one, and quickly thrust it up it to deflect another powerful swing from Petra.
Skye stumbled back a few steps as Petra carried on moving toward her. Petra changed her swing, coming up from under, nearly making contact with Skye’s abdomen.
Crunch! Petra gave her golf club another powerful downward swing, missing Skye by an inch, and causing the nearby paving to splinter up. Petra didn’t lose any more time. She rammed the golf club forward, poking Skye backwards, and causing her to fall backwards onto the hard ground. Skye lost hold of the golf club she’d been holding, and saw it fall out of reach.
Feeling a sudden vulnerability at that moment, Skye remembered the little life inside of her that she was now responsible for safeguarding.
No-one’s gonna hurt my baby, thought Skye.
Summoning all her energy, Skye rolled to her side as Petra swung her club again. Skye grabbed the golf club she’d dropped. In one solid swing, Skye hit Petra to the ground.
There was a moment of silence…then a murmur. Petra was down but she was not out of the fight.
As Petra clambered to get back to her feet, Skye wondered how she would ever get her evidence to Cace. It was then she saw Alejandro. Coming from the back entrance of the hotel, he ran over. As Petra got to her knees, Alejandro grabbed her and restrained her on the ground.
“Skye! You were right. They’re having a meeting to replace Cace with Sean Cohen. Go to the conference room now!”
As Alejandro kept a firm grip on Petra, who screamed out angrily, Skye gave him a grateful smile then raced on to the conference room.
***
Skye sprung into the conference room as the second vote had been cast. Cace looked stunned and jumped to his feet.
“Skye!”
Skye flung her bundle of evidence on the conference table.
“Before you make any decision,” she said, addressing the board of directors, “I think you need to know a few things. Isn’t that right, Sean?”
There were confused murmurs around the table as slowly…one by one…the board members started to pick at and examine the evidence Skye had placed on the table.
As Cace came to understand what Skye was showing them, he turned to face her. He didn’t care if there was an audience. He leaned in and kissed her, long and passionately.
*****
“I’m sure you’ll be throwing me under the bus to the police,” Margo said, as she sat across the table from Skye in the bar of Arrington Woodlands. Her eyes downcast.
“I told the police what I knew. Nothing more, nothing less,” said Skye, “Unlike some people, I don’t find it easy to hurt the people closest to me.”
Skye meant that. As she looked over at the aunt that had been like a mother to her, she found it hard to hate her. The woman who had always been a pillar of strength to Skye had now crumbled. It was sad to see her so weak and powerless.
“It will depend on how much your friends, Petra and Sean want to set the record straight,” Skye reminded Margo, not enjoying the reversal of roles.
“Cace had such madcap business ideas. Sean was going to bring stability to the company. Create good, solid contracts,” Margo started to explain.
“You mean protect your business?” Skye questioned.
Margo dropped her head, ashamed. Skye ignored Margo justifying her actions, and asked, “Why did you lie to me about Cace?”
“It was not going to be forever. We had worked months to get Sean in a position to replace Cace. Petra felt you were getting in the way of things…we couldn’t take the risk. I really didn’t know the full extent of what Petra was doing…” Margo stammered. Her voice trailed off as if even she saw the feebleness in what she was saying.
“Things can get in the way of good judgement sometimes,” Skye said, echoing Margo’s own words. With that, Skye stood up and stood tall. She had lost her job, lost her aunt, and was now pregnant…the future was uncertain. But it was time to face all of that head on.
*****
Skye stepped tentatively out the vehicle, and observed the signs with balloons pointing towards the venue up ahead. She scanned the other people making their way in the same direction, seeing if she could recognize any of the faces. Just a few months ago, she’d been certain she’d never attend this gathering. Just a few months ago, she’d thought a lot of things that had changed, she realized.
Cace had wanted them to arrive by limo but Skye had passed up on that idea. She had never been a person overly enthralled by great wealth. It would have been over-the-top. As a compromise, Cace had insisted on having a dress made for her by one the world’s most sought-after fashion designers.
Standing now in the ravishing dress, that served a dual purpose as a maternity-dress and a head-turner, Skye felt like a million dollars. She then had the uncomfortable realization that at that exact moment, she was worth more than a million dollars–allowing for the dress and the ring alone.
Cace joined her, and put his strong arm around her waist. She craved his touch. It was that, which was the most welcome change in her life, Skye thought. He made her feel safe. He made her feel secure. Something she’d never experienced as a child.
She also felt proud to be able to say tonight that she was now the head of her own recruitment company. Cace had been adamant that she had potential, and she’d certainly demonstrated an uncanny ability for working people out. So he’d helped her set up a recruitment company, and then given her the very first contract, to provide staff to Arrington Woodlands. The idea of going into business was terrifying for Skye. But after all that had happened, she’d decided she’d give herself more credit in terms of what she was capable of.
Skye looked over at Cace, taking in his gorgeous face. She wanted to do ‘naughty’ things with him right then. For now, that would have to wait, they had a school reunion to go to. Taking Cace by the hand, Skye took a deep breath, and strode out ahead. Into the unknown, into the future, and into their lives together.
THE END
Bonus Story 34/40
The Live-Ins
The sun breaks through the window and I instantly hate myself for not shutting the blinds before falling asleep. I can’t be too hard on myself—after what Dominic did to me last light I’m honestly surprised I’m awake at a reasonable hour. I roll over in his scratchy sheets and he’s still asleep—he probably will be for the next few hours. He closed Harvest Bar last night and now I’ve got to go open.
I run around Dominic’s apartment searching for my white double-breasted jacket and toque with no luck. He’s the one who tore everything off me—he’s the one who will know. I have no choice but to wake him.
“Dommmminnnnic,” I play, whispering into his ear. He swats at his nose like there’s a fly buzzing around him. Too cute.
“Dominic,” I repeat louder. “I need to find my uniform for work and I need to be there in twenty-minutes, including ten minutes in line at Coffee Train.” Exhaling ever so cutely, he ignores me, rolls over, and pulls the blanket over his head.
“Wear mine,” he mumbles from underneath. “In closet. Need sleep.”
He gets like this anytime he closes, but I’ve never had to go into work in his uniform before. I go to the closet, open the door quietly, and look through the clothes hanging up. There is nothing white, let alone anything that resembles our uniform. Looking down, I see his white jacket, black pants and toque jumbled in a wrinkly ball. Great. I pick them up, shake them off, and
not only are they a size too big for me but they’re also covered in spicy marinara sauce. Even better.
“Dom, you don’t have another pair?” I ask. “These are all sauced up.”
“Drycleaner,” he warbles.
Ugh! Think, Tara, where the hell did Dominic strip you last night? I check the bathroom—behind the shower curtain, the living room—behind the couch, the kitchen—under the table. Nothing, nada. I can either keep searching and possibly come up with nothing or leave now in tomato sauce-stained clothes and still enjoy a dirty chai latte. I choose to put on Dominic’s baggy, stinky uniform. At least my shoes are still by the door.
Life after Le Cordon Bleu is not as extravagant as I’d envisioned it. I’m 26 and a sous-chef at one of Century City’s finest wine bars. It’s not Beverly Hills but Harvest Bar is huge step up from the burger joint where I worked before school. Although I graduated toward the top of my class the only reason I was hired here is because Dominic has been my closest friend for years and just so happens to be the head chef at Harvest Bar. As it turns out, it doesn’t matter where you went to school—Los Angeles is a tough place to find good work in the culinary arts.
Curse these Century City apartments without elevators! I take the stairs five floors down and step out of the complex. It’s a warm February day—definitely beats the winter they’re having back home. I wouldn’t be caught dead in Cleveland right now.
Dominic’s building is a five-minute walk from the mall, which is most of the reason I consistently crash at his place. I live in Burbank, and with traffic it takes me an hour and twenty minutes to get to Century City on the 405 if I’m lucky. My rent is also a quarter the amount of Dominic’s, but there is no way I could afford to live this close to the city.
It’s too damn hot to wear the chef jacket so I fold it, throw it over my shoulder, and walk to the mall in the black tank-top I wear underneath. My hair is extra frizzy today but I can probably braid it quick and shove it into the toque—one of the small perks of being a female chef—I don’t have to think too much about my hair.
I love crossing Santa Monica Boulevard because I get a view of palm trees, buildings, mountains, and good-looking men. L.A. is the biggest melting pot I’ve lived in—Cleveland was primarily African American and Caucasian. Here, however, I get a variety of any kind of man I could want. Walking across the four-lane boulevard in my black slacks and black tank top, I don’t get as many look-backs as I’d prefer. My number one insecurity is that to these big businessmen and agents I look like some kind of hood rat, so I just keep my eyes on the scenery and enjoy the warmth on my skin.
***
Once I step into the prep area I’m instantly pissed by what I find—all of last night’s closing work has been left for me. Damn you, Dominic, I think. I don’t care how busy they were last night; I’m tired of picking up his slack. After all, he does make ten thousand dollars a year more than I do.
By the time Tim, my general manager, comes in, I’m only halfway where I need to be for the restaurant to open on time.
“I’m sorry, Tim, I was left with a mess this morning,” I say, loading the dishwasher because the stewards don’t come in for another hour.
“You know we have the Phillips P.D.B. today, right?” Tim asks. Oh, my God, I realize. Today is the day that we’re booked for Denver D. Phillips, billionaire and owner of PaeroTech—a conglomerate in the software industry. Do I know anything about software? No. But I know that P.D.B. stands for Private Dining Buyout, and that this company has rented the entire restaurant to serve five people.
“That would be today,” I say, sprinting to the walk-in freezer. The whole time I’ve been here I should have been preparing the special courses instead of our standard menu.
Tim follows me to the freezer and holds the door open while I gather ingredients that I know will take some magic to thaw before they arrive. “Do you want me to help, Tara?” he asks. I see the worry in his eyes, and if the general manager starts to freak out then everybody is going to start freaking out.
“No, I got this,” I say assuredly, even though I’m shaking all over. Solid bags of frozen sauces fall out of my arms and I scramble to pick up the dozen slippery rogue ones.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tim asks. “You look kind of like you’re having an off day.”
“What makes you say that?” I ask, grabbing the gallon container of herb mustard. I’ve started to organize everything I need on a cart so I only have to make one trip.
“Because you’re wearing Dominic’s clothes from last night,” he says.
I freeze, look down at the sauce-stained attire, glance back up to him and say as seriously as I possibly can, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
If Tim finds out that Dominic and I have a relationship outside of work both of us can get fired. Not that we really have a ‘relationship’ outside of work, per se—we’re just really close friends who happen to sleep together often.
“Last night I watched Fredrico spill an order of mussels all over Dom,” Tim says. “That’s his chef coat and pants, Tara. Don’t treat me like an idiot.”
I don’t stop stocking the cart, although I give him a single glance to acknowledge the fact that he’s got something on me. What can I say?
“I just need this Phillips buyout to be perfect,” Tim says, straightening his tie. Maybe it would go a little smoother if you would just let me get to work, Tim.
“I’ll do my best,” I answer.
“Do better,” he says, letting the freezer door slam shut.
***
With most of the core cooking utensils unusable in the pile of dirty dishes, I take the only logical route and prepare something both practical and simple.
In total it takes me about thirty-five minutes to prepare brunch for five, leaving just enough time to help Tim set the chef’s table. The five men enter together. The first four are all old enough to be my father, but the man bringing up the rear is a shade under 35 judging by the flecks of grey in his brown hair. As he passes me he turns and penetrates me with his blue eyes—a glance that stirs me to my core.
Tim does all the talking and introduces me as Chef Tara. The young one doesn’t take his eyes off me and I don’t even catch a word of what Tim is saying.
“Isn’t that right, Chef?” he says, breaking me from my embarrassing stare.
“I’m sorry, Tim, can you repeat that?” I say hoping my shiny smile will omit the blunder. “I haven’t had my caffeine this morning, gentlemen. I apologize.”
“I was saying how you prepared a seasonal specialty for them this morning. One of your rare delicacies.” He clears his throat, trying to signify the fact that he’s improvising due to our late start.
“Right, a seasonal specialty,” I say, taking his cue. Guiding the men over to the chef’s table I stand at the head while they take their seats. It’s the tradition for the Chef on Duty to present all dining experiences personally and introduce the meal before the guests enjoy it.
The key is to not take up too much of their time while also giving them a unique presentation. After all, PaeroTech paid well over twenty grand for this brunch. Once I’m done they will eat, discuss business, and when they are finished the plates will be cleared so they can begin their slideshow presentation. At that point servers will be on the clock to close out the deal.
“Well, this morning I thought I’d prepare a healthy, exotic, and seasonal omelet,” I say. I open the self-serving presenter on my side and Tim presents the other side. “This morning you will be enjoying free range egg whites scrambled to perfect in a seafood omelet of tiger shrimp, Maine lobster, Dungeness crab, Gouda cheese, asparagus, heirloom tomatoes, and chive batons. Enjoy your breakfast and thank you for dining at Harvest Bar.”
With that spiel memorized, I take a long-needed breath, bow out, and exit the room to let Tim handle the rest. It’s amazing what someone can pull off in a pinch with some culinary knowledge and genuine inspiration.
*****
While the Phillips party goes into their presentation, I go outside to partake in one of the menial jobs of being a sous-chef at Harvest Bar—harvesting the herb garden outside the restaurant. The thing is, I actually enjoy the feel of rosemary, thyme, parsley and chives—and am infatuated by their aromas. I take sprig of rosemary between my fingers and place it in the herb jar when Tim runs out the back door, blasting both open at once.
“What the hell did you put in that omelet?” he screams, taking me by the sleeve of my chef coat.
“What do you mean? Are they allergic to shellfish?” One of my worst nightmares is someone dying from something I cooked. It jolts me awake at least twice a week.
“No, but Mr. Fredegar is in anaphylactic shock. Did you put peanuts in the omelet?”
My jaw drops and my eyes glaze over as I recall tossing the omelets in peanut oil to add a soft glaze finish. That’s the one ingredient I didn’t mention in the spiel. Oh, God, I think, I didn’t think the peanut oil would kill a man!
Once I’m inside I see that the other four members of the party, including the devilishly handsome one, have Mr. Fredegar spread across the chef’s table. Behind me are the sirens from the CCEMT, two paramedics running up to the door. I was only picking herbs for ten minutes, I think, the paramedics rushing past me.
Inside it feels like all of my pieces are falling apart. The only thing I can do is take slow, backwards steps out the door to the fresh air. This can’t be happening. Before the door closes I see Tim inside, assisting a paramedic, staring back at me with a rigid, vengeful glare.
***
Two hours later I’m sitting in the stairwell behind the restaurant scrolling through my contacts for someone who might be willing to hire me. I normally don’t do this, but in my purse I keep a single cigarette for life emergencies such as losing my job. Thankfully the paramedics got Mr. Fredegar to a hospital and he is fine. Is it bad that I don’t feel at fault because someone should have spoken up about deathly allergies?
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