by T. E. Woods
“Yea, boss. Yes, sir, massa.” He pointed to the chair across from Sydney’s desk, his bald head a bobbing pose of chocolate subservience. “It’s okay I sit, boss? Or you wantin’ me to stand while I listen to you tell me how I been gettin’ too uppity. How this darkie best learn his station.” Roland’s usually crisp and elegant diction was replaced by his down-home Southern drawl. Sydney normally found it delightful when the chef dropped his urbane façade and allowed himself to be casual. But today he used his patois like a weapon.
“Let’s knock off the posturing. It’s you and me talking, Roland. You’ve obviously got something rubbing you the wrong way. It happens. But what can’t happen is what went on last night. Your mood had the entire staff in an uproar.”
Roland raised his chin. “They’re used to it. Passion accompanies excellence. Genius seldom adheres to rules of decorum. There was no need for you to send me home like some errant schoolboy being chastised by his teacher.”
She was glad he’d dropped the plantation-worker tone. “When we act like a spoiled brat we need to be treated like one. And don’t try to pawn this off on the passion of your brilliance. I’ve put up with your moods. I’ve given you space. Last night was something different. You care to tell me what it is?”
“Or else, what? You’ll fire me? Cast Roland Delmardo into the streets, force him to take whatever position comes next? Maybe you’d like me to go boil spaghetti down at the Olive Garden. Perhaps flip burgers under the golden arches. Is that what you’d hope for me?”
“What the hell is this all about?”
“Oh! Now you’re cursing at me. Is that how it’s going to be?”
Sydney leaned back in her chair. She took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then she counted again, this time in French. “Forgive me, Roland. I shouldn’t have sworn. I’m frustrated and I want to know how we can all get back to a kitchen run on mutual respect. I rely on you. You’re the backbone of this entire operation. I count on you to run that kitchen with the synchronized precision you amaze me with every night. Tell me what’s going on. Please.”
Roland had one leg crossed over the other. The foot suspended in the air was waving back and forth like a flag on a windy day.
“Hush Money can’t survive without you at your best.” She knew flattery was the fastest way to gain his attention. “Neither could the Ten-Ten. I don’t know if I can help with whatever it is that set you off last night, but I’m no good at all to you if I don’t know what’s going on.”
She watched him wrestle whatever demon clawed at him. It took a few minutes, but she saw a softening on his face.
“I’ve had an offer,” he rasped. “New York. Five thousand square feet smack in the middle of Soho.”
Sydney focused on her next breath. She made it long and slow, trying her best not to think about what would happen if Roland left Hush Money. “May I ask who made the offer?”
“A lawyer approached me. She represents a group of four men. You know the type. Three-hundred-dollar haircuts to go with their five-thousand-dollar suits. Part of the three-comma club.”
“Three comma? What’s that?”
His eyes widened at her ignorance. “Girl, get yourself out more. Read something other than those business books and balance sheets. Three commas. As in how many they need when they write down their bank balance.”
“Billionaires?”
“New York’s lousy with them. Seems these four want to make a hobby of having the finest place in the city.”
“You’ve met them? Beyond their attorney? You actually sat down with them?”
Roland brought a perfectly manicured hand to his throat. “Don’t go actin’ all shocked and chagrined. That kind of money comes knockin’, you answer the door. Know what I mean?”
“I suppose I do. Did they come here to Madison?”
“How else do you think they knew how brilliant I am? First one came. Just by accident the way he told it. Here looking to buy the governor or some such thing. Had my pork shank and said he couldn’t think of anything else for a week. Flew the other three in on his private jet. They couldn’t stop talking about the meals they had.” He shrugged. “Of course, I’m used to hearing that kind of thing.”
“Of course.”
“What I’m not used to hearing is the offer they made.”
Sydney thought of the offer she herself had made Roland when she’d lured him away from Los Angeles. She’d been generous. But she wasn’t foolish enough to think she could compete with four billionaires with a whim to become New York’s next great restauranteurs.
“You’re a rare talent, Roland. They came to the right man.”
“Now why’d you have to go and say something like that?” He sounded genuinely distressed. “You just said both these restaurants need me.”
“And they do. But I know a man of your genius is only on loan. Sooner or later the world notices. Opportunities open.”
Roland got up, paced the width of her office several times, then sat back down. He pulled out an oversized bandana and wiped it across his bald head before bringing it down to wipe his face. “Damn it, Sydney, I like it here.”
A flicker of hope quivered inside her chest.
“Say more about that.”
Roland gave her an odd stare. “You mean make a list?”
“If it would help. I’d love to know what you like about Hush Money.”
He thought for a moment. “You’ve never stood in my way. I’d say that tops the list. You stay out of my way. The menu. The design of the kitchen. I choose my vendors. I hire my staff. You made me that promise when you hired me, and you’ve kept your word.”
Sydney smiled. “Even when you’re downright cruel to your people, I try hard to understand your style.”
“Baby girl, don’t try to understand it. Roland Delmardo’s style is incomprehensible.”
“That it is.”
“And you pay me well. Do you know you were the first to offer me a percentage of the revenue? That means a lot to me.”
“Are the three-comma boys making the same offer?”
“No. They’re not.” He folded his bandana carefully on one knee, scowling. “ ’Course they’re offering me a steady wage that’s way more than anything I’ve earned here, so there’s folks who’d say I’d be a fool for being picky about where the money comes from.”
“New York’s an entirely different market. Everything’s more expensive there.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about that. Paycheck might be big, but so’s the rent. You feeling that?”
“I am.” She met his worried eyes, but let him keep talking.
“And maybe you’re gonna laugh, but I’ve come to love Madison. It’s a weird little place, isn’t it?”
“I’ve always found it so.”
“When you first hired me, I thought, What are these Midwestern hicks gonna do with a giant black queer like me living among them?” He paused. “My neighbor? Sheila’s her name. Widow lady far too old to be living on her own, but she makes her way. Brought me over a basket of fresh produce from her garden the day I moved in. Invites me over on summer nights to sit on her porch and drink the strongest old-fashioned I ever choked down.” He was quiet again. “Remember that time I drove over that piece of tin in the road?”
“You were late and blew up my phone with instructions for your sous chefs.”
“You know how I got to work that day? It was the tow-truck driver. After he took my car to the shop, I heard it would be at least three hours before they could get to me. That tow driver heard me carrying on about how I had to get to work. He told me to hop on in. Drove me right to this door. Told me to call him if I needed a lift back to pick up my car.”
“Find out who he is. I’ll send him a gift certificate.”
Roland huffed out a laugh. “You’d bette
r make it for the Ten-Ten. Old Jimmy didn’t seem the Hush Money type. Of course, he might have a lady he’d like to impress.”
“So you’re telling me that this place and the Midwestern hicks have grown on you.”
“Like I said, it’s one oddball place. But in a good way. But this offer…it’s New York, baby girl! Manhattan. Broadway. Like the song says. Make it there, make it anywhere.”
“So that’s what last night was about. You were trying to force yourself to hate this place. Maybe even force me to fire you. Make the decision easier on you.”
Roland shrugged, avoiding her eyes. “Could be.”
“I can’t offer you what New York will. Not money, not showcase. But I can promise you’ll always have a starring role here.”
“Means a lot.” He was quiet again. “Man. New York!”
“What’s the draw? Besides the money, I mean?”
This time Roland was so quiet Sydney feared he’d made up his mind to leave. When he finally spoke, all trace of bravado was gone. “I was raised in Gary, Indiana. Let me tell you, streets don’t get any meaner. Long’s I stayed in my neighborhood, being black wasn’t a big deal. Everybody I saw was black. Except for the Korean family running the corner grocery store. I learned if I kept my place, nobody’d call me something I didn’t want to hear. That changed when I picked up on the fact that while all my buddies were swooning over Halle Berry and Destiny’s Child, it was Taye Diggs that got my motor running. Yes, sir. I kept that quiet for quite a while. Then there was my love of food.”
“You knew even as a kid?”
He nodded. “Coaxed my mama into adding nutmeg and a bit of brown sugar to her macaroni and cheese when I was just five years old. My mama loved me enough to try anything I asked and, hot damn, if she hasn’t fixed it that way ever since. You being a white woman, you may not know the magnitude of that. But getting a black woman to change her mac-n-cheese recipe? Baby girl, that’s like asking Jesus to cut His hair. It was my mama who encouraged me. Saved her money to help me out in culinary school.”
“She was in your corner.”
“Always. Always.” A darkness clouded his gaze. “My daddy, though. That’s another fish altogether. Having a gay son was tough enough. Seeing me in an apron just about killed him. Told me I’d never do nothing but bring shame to the family.” He stared off into a vision only he could see. “But if Daddy could see me in New York…if he could know the richest and the whitest folks wanted to shake my hand after a meal…well, that’d be something, wouldn’t it?”
Sydney let him savor that dream. She didn’t want to invalidate the very real ambition he had to prove himself worthy of his father’s love. She knew that challenge all too well herself.
“Those rich white folks could shake a different chef’s hand every night in New York City,” she finally said. “But here in Madison you’re the big gun.”
“Big fish, small pond.”
“What if we made the pond bigger?”
“Meaning?”
“You’ve raised the bar here. Your genius has inspired chefs at other restaurants to pick up their game. Even some of the long-standing glory horses are changing things up, reaching for greater heights. Could be you’ve sparked a culinary revival out here on the prairie. What if we let the world know?” She paused, toying with her pen.
“I’m listening.”
“Let’s meet with Sondra.”
“Your publicist?”
“Yes. What if we challenged her to make sure the world knew what was happening here? Get some major reviewers to fly in? Write us up in the newspapers and magazines foodies like to read? Make Madison a destination for gourmands everywhere?”
“We could highlight the wine list Anita’s built…”
“I like it. And why not shine a spotlight on some of the local providers? Artisan cheesemakers, organic dairies, bakeries…”
“Microbreweries,” Roland interrupted enthusiastically. “I like this, Sydney.”
“And of course, you’ll be the main story. Think you’re up to it? If the world comes for a taste, can you show them what you’re made of?”
Roland stood. He came around the desk, lifted Sydney up out of her chair, and wrapped her in a breath-stealing bear hug.
“Thank you, Syd.” Gingerly, he set her back down. “I’ll tell those three-comma boys thanks but no. We’re doing it right here in Madison.” He headed for the door. “You get Sondra on the phone. I’ll get busy with new ideas.” Then he turned back to her. “You know, I deserved to get the boot after my tantrum last night. Thank you, Sydney, for taking the time to hear the whole story.”
She took a moment after Roland left to regain her equilibrium. Then she took another one to congratulate herself on averting a crisis that could very well have cost her Hush Money’s chef. She was reaching for her pile of month-end receipts when Roland’s words echoed back to her.
…for taking the time to hear the whole story…
She reached for her phone, called up Clay’s contact screen, and placed her finger over the call command.
Then the image of red panties flashed through her mind. She set the phone down and turned back to her files.
Chapter 15
Clay Hawthorne breathed deeply and tried to dial back his anger as the elevator glided upward. When it stopped at the twelfth floor, he thought he was calm enough to carry out the conversation he’d come to The Edgewater to have. However, the force with which he knocked on the door of the corner suite suggested he wasn’t as in control of his mood as he’d hoped. When the door wasn’t answered, he tried again, this time with no pretense of civility, until he heard the click of a dead bolt being released on the other side.
“Clay!” Miranda’s smile was innocent and welcoming. “What a lovely surprise. From the urgency of the knocking I half expected to see a fireman, axe in hand, warning us to flee impending doom. You’re a much more delightful sight. Come in. I’ll pour you a cup of coffee. You still take it black?”
Clay stepped into the room. “Is Steel here?”
“ ‘Good morning, Miranda.’ ” Sarcasm dripped from her voice. “ ‘So lovely to see you. And how thoughtful of you to remember how I take my coffee.’ ”
“Where’s Steel?”
Miranda moved deeper into the suite, walking to a round table situated in a corner bank of windows overlooking Lake Mendota. Two silver coffee urns and a platter of pastries rested on a crisp white tablecloth. She poured two china cups and offered one to Clay. He waved it off.
“One last time. Is Steel here?”
“I haven’t seen him yet this morning. He and Tawney were up watching some horror movie when I went to bed last night.” She set down his refused cup and took a long sip from her own. “You remember when we were that age? Our clocks were different. Up until the wee hours and then we’d sleep till noon. That is, unless your daddy had some chore for you to do.” She glanced at the clock on a glass shelf across the room. “It’s just past nine. I doubt I’ll hear a stir from either one of them for at least another couple hours.”
He looked past the elegant salon toward a bank of doors to the right. “One of those Steel’s?”
Miranda nodded placidly. “The second one. Let him sleep. Have you had breakfast? I could have something sent up…”
“This isn’t a social visit.” He paused. “If I go in there, how likely is it I’m going to find that girl…what did you say her name was?”
“Tawney.”
“How likely is it I’m going to find her in my son’s bed?”
Miranda’s sudden laughter rippled. She hurried to set her cup down and steadied herself against a chair. “Is that why you’re here?” she asked once she caught her breath. “You think our little baby boy’s been led astray by Tawney? Have you come to rescue him?”
Clay crossed the space in four rapi
d strides and opened the door to Steel’s room without bothering to knock. He was pleased to find his son sprawled across a queen-sized bed and alone. “C’mon, Steel. Time to get up.”
Steel shifted and stretched, but kept his eyes closed. Clay wrapped his hand around Steel’s exposed foot and tugged. “Now, Steel. Up and at ’em, buddy.”
Long, lean arms emerged from the sheets. Steel ran his hands over his face, finally opening his eyes. “Dad? What time is it? Why are you here at Mom’s?”
It bothered Clay that his son thought of an expensive hotel suite as Mom’s. Hotels were for transients. And it was time for Miranda’s visit to Madison to come to an end.
“Hop in the shower. Get dressed. I’ll take you out for pancakes, how’s that?”
Clay sensed Miranda’s presence behind him, close enough to feel her arm brush against his parka.
“If it’s pancakes you men want, I can have them up here with one phone call. Would you like that, Steel? Would you like to have breakfast with your mom and dad?”
“Get up, Steel,” Clay rasped. “In the shower, now!” He stepped back and out of his son’s bedroom, forcing Miranda’s retreat as he closed the door. He took a few more steps, then turned and glared down at her. “Stop it!”
“Stop what?” she asked mildly. “And if you’re going to wait for Steel to take a shower you might as well take off your coat and have that cup of coffee. Though for the life of me I don’t see why you can’t have breakfast with our son right here.”
“Stop calling him our son. He’s my son. And stop playing on whatever fantasies he might be having about us being a snug little family.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Clay cocked his head, straining to hear activity in his son’s room. When he heard the sound of a shower, he returned his attention to Miranda.
“It would be best if you left Madison. The sooner the better. Today would be good.”
Miranda blinked. He was stunned to realize the flutter of her beautiful eyes still pulled on his heart.
“I have work here, Clay. I’ll stay until it’s finished.”