Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched

by Kim Barnouin

  “Did he admit it to you?”

  “Yeah. Gambling debts and a gold-digger girlfriend who dumped him.” I shook my head, still unable to imagine Harry Cooper as an embezzler and a liar.

  Zach threw another stick, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Clem. I wish this hadn’t happened.”

  Me too. “You gave him a chance and he screwed you. If anyone should be apologizing, it’s Harry. And me for asking you to hire him in the first place.”

  “He blindsided everyone, Clem.”

  Yeah. Especially me. The whole thing with Harry made me realize that I didn’t know everything, even if I thought I did.

  I stopped walking and looked out at the ocean, then at Zach. “So, are we taking a break?”

  He tucked a breeze-blown strand of my hair behind my ear. “It’s hard to take a break when you’re on vacation together. Especially here in one of the most gorgeous places in the world.”

  “I’ve missed you. Not just the past few days. For weeks. This whole thing sucked. I thought you’d changed your mind about getting married.”

  “Never.” He put his arm around me. “I just had my suspicions about Harry but couldn’t say anything until I was sure. And how could I act like everything was fine while I was having an internal investigation of your favorite cousin? Bad situation.”

  “I understand why you didn’t just tell me.” He must have felt like hell about the whole thing.

  He squeezed my hand and we walked up the beach, not saying a word.

  Then he stopped and pulled me close against him, and we stood there for a good long time, Charlie sitting at our feet.

  In our four-poster bed, wearing our complimentary inn robes on what felt like thousand-thread-count sheets, Zach and I were finishing up our late-night room-service snack—incredible espresso chip gelato—when I told him about Jocelyn’s call the other day and how she set me straight.

  “I’m not surprised. My aunt Jocelyn is very wise. It’s why Dominique can’t get along with her. My mother hates to be wrong, and Jocelyn would call her out on how wrong she was all the time. Like you do.”

  That made me smile—for a second, anyway. “Well, what if your mother’s done with me? You okay with having a wife and mother who don’t speak?”

  “Are you going to let it get to that?” he asked, taking a spoonful of my soup, which wasn’t half-bad.

  “I don’t want to. I like Dominique. I actually really do. Not everything about her, but there are pieces of her I really do like. She’s blunt and honest and is who she is, and she cares about her kids, even if she’s her own worst enemy about getting them to stay in her life.”

  “She’s on her way to losing Keira.”

  “Well, only your mother can fix that. I know you want me to fix things with her myself, but I don’t know if I can. She’s wrong about Keira and wrong to be mad at me for encouraging Keira to go after her dream, end of story.”

  “So maybe just sit her down and tell her that. She respects you, Clem. She’ll listen.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. “But I’ll need you to have my back. She respects you too. And she doesn’t want to lose you all over again.”

  “I’ll talk to her too. I’ll let her know how much it sucks that my fiancée and I are stuck arguing about her on a romantic trip to Carmel.”

  “Hey. I just realized this counts as our adventure. On Jocelyn’s list of things we check off before we get married. Carmel isn’t exactly the wildness or anything, but we left home not knowing how things would end up between us. That’s going on an adventure.”

  He leaned over and kissed me. “And everything ended up fine.”

  “Well, not yet, because you haven’t gone over the list with me.”

  “Bring it.”

  I laughed. I reached into my bag for the folded-up piece of paper. “I’ll substitute the word her for him. ‘Number one: Be sure you love her.’ ”

  “We already did this one, and I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  That got him a smile and a smooch on the lips. “Check. ‘Number two: Close all doors to the past by revisiting (mentally or for real) any former beaus you’ve never been able to forget. Say good-bye once and for all—if you can.’ ”

  I waited for him to change the subject, as usual. Or suddenly want to finish his pasta.

  “I actually ran into my ex a couple of weeks ago.” He took both our trays and put them on the table. He slid back into bed next to me, his hands behind his head.

  “The famous Vivienne.”

  “You’re way more famous than she is,” he said, which made me smile again. “I felt the same way about seeing her as you said you did when you ran into your ex. Absolutely nothing. She could have been anyone.”

  “Why don’t men just say these things the first time?” I asked, socking him with one of the little throw pillows. “Guys say nothing when saying exactly what you just said is all we want to hear.”

  He shrugged. “We can’t help it. Why say something when there’s nothing to say?”

  He had me there.

  “So what’s the next one?” he asked, then sipped his wine.

  “ ‘Take a weekend adventure with a girlfriend who’ll tell you the truth.’ ”

  “Does a very long golf game with my brother count? The guy never stops talking or sharing his opinion.”

  “I’d say that counts.”

  “Want to know what he thinks about you?”

  “Is it good?” I asked.

  “He thinks you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. That before you, no one ever challenged me on anything, but that you’re one big challenge. And pretty, to boot.”

  “I’ve always liked Gareth.”

  “Next?” he asked.

  “ ‘Number four: Make sure that you are the captain of your own ship—even though you and your wife will be steering together. She’ll be captain of hers too.’ ”

  “I’m definitely the captain of my own ship, but I like to steer yours myself sometimes, huh?”

  “Not even just sometimes,” I said with an evil smile.

  “I read over the info you e-mailed about the Outpost. I’ll admit, you have a good, solid business plan, Clem. But I’m still worried about you splitting your time, spreading yourself too thin. And ever seeing you.”

  “I can make it work. I know I can.” I wanted him to know that too.

  He took my hand and held it. “Of course I know you can, Clem. I just don’t want you to because I think it’s going to be way too much on your plate. But I know you’ll make it work, no matter what. You can do anything, Clem.”

  I couldn’t stop my grin. “Did I actually just get Zach Jeffries’s blessing?”

  “At least all the work you did to get that blessing will now get you the loan. Your business plan is solid and then some.”

  “You’ll have to send your dad and the new wife-to-be to the Outpost.”

  “He’ll have everyone he knows packing the place. My father likes trends. And farm-to-table is a good trend.”

  “It’s more than just a trend, though. It’s a lifestyle. It may be all trendy to the general public, but people like my parents, like my entire family, have always eaten this way.” I took a sip of my wine. “Ready for number five? ‘Make a list of all the things you love about her and all the things you don’t. Figure out how you’ll deal with what you don’t love. In parens: Don’t put this off by waiting to cross the bridge when you come to it.”

  “Hand me the inn stationery and that pen,” he said, upping his chin at the bedside table. He spent the next fifteen minutes scribbling, thinking, scribbling, thinking, scribbling. “Should I read it aloud?”

  I nodded.

  “On the Love side: ‘Smart, driven, passionate, vegan.’ ”

  “Wait—you love that I’m a vegan?” Ha.

  “It’s who you are, isn’t it?” He took another sip of wine. “More on the Love side: ‘Devoted to family and friends and me. Drop-dead go
rgeous and amazing body.’ Don’t Love: ‘Works too hard. Thinks up recipes when she might be massaging my neck. And I’ve been getting the feeling that Charlie’s beginning to like her more than me.’ ”

  I smiled. “So how are you going to deal with that?”

  “I guess I’ll have to stop thinking of him as only my dog.”

  I slid on top of him and kissed him. “ ‘Number six: What do you expect married life to really be like? Does it match your expectations?’ ”

  “I expect it to be a lot like it’s been,” he said. “Highs and lows and everything in between.”

  “Yeah, me too. I wasn’t really sure what I expected before I started thinking about it, before I started going through the list. But that’s exactly it. Marriage will be like life.”

  He nodded. “We’re whipping through this list. Very good sign, I’d say.”

  “A lot of the hard work was done for us. We can thank your mother for that. And Harry.” I sipped my wine. “ ‘Number seven: Ask her why she loves you and then jot the reasons down on paper. Reread when you’re arguing.’ ” I took the paper he’d written the Loves and Don’t Loves on and slipped it into my bag. “I’ll hang on to that for when I need to be reminded. And you.” I’d already written up my own list for Zach. I gave it to him, and when he finished reading it, he pulled me into a hug.

  “So what’s number eight?” he asked.

  “ ‘Are you expecting her to change once you’re married? If so, return the ring or you’ll be sorry.’ ”

  “I never want you to change, Clementine Cooper.”

  “There is one thing I want you to change.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “When something’s wrong or bothering you, you have to tell me. Right away. Even if it’s something like the Harry thing. Bring me in, okay?”

  “Deal. And you too. Though you already do that.”

  I smiled. “Hey, we can check off number nine: ‘Go on an adventure together. A real adventure.’ Doing it!”

  “What’s the last one? Jocelyn’s probably saved the most important for last.”

  “ ‘Be sure you want to marry her,’ ” I read.

  He pulled me close to him and looked into my eyes. “I’m very, very sure. You?”

  I kissed him on the lips. “A thousand percent.”

  “Guess the wedding’s back on then.”

  25

  My cell phone woke me up at eight o’clock the next morning. Zach and I had stayed up so late talking and having amazing makeup sex that it had been close to three by the time we both drifted off to sleep.

  “Clementine, this is Martina Jones from the New York Times. I’ve had a change of plans and will be in Santa Monica for the next two days only. I’ll be dining at Clementine’s No Crap Café tonight at seven with a party of four.”

  Holy crapola. I bolted up.

  Talk about bad timing.

  Then again, Zach and I had accomplished what we’d come here for. Our little adventure had done its job.

  Zach turned over and opened on eye.

  “It’s the Times reporter,” I whispered. “She’s coming tonight.”

  “Let’s pack, then,” he said, squeezing my hand.

  “See you at seven,” I managed to spit out to the reporter.

  Half of me wanted to call in my staff early, but I had to treat tonight like any other night. Sometimes, the more you went nuts over something, the more you tried to show your stuff, the more things went wrong. We were a great team, we made great food, and we had great service. No matter what Martina Jones and her party ordered, they’d love the food.

  Damned straight, they would.

  I began prepping for the specials—Moroccan vegetable couscous, mushroom risotto, blackened Cajun seitan stir-fry, and pumpkin ravioli. At three o’clock, Alanna and Gunnar arrived together, which wasn’t so unusual lately, but they kept looking at each other with what I could only describe as moony faces.

  I headed to the pantry to grab canisters of the flours I needed for the pumpkin ravioli’s wonton wrappers—quinoa, coconut, and almond—and on the way back I stopped dead in my tracks. Gunnar was humming. Humming. He never hummed. And Alanna was smiling as she oiled a pan, shimmying a bit to the Saturday Night Fever sound track on the iPod.

  Okay. Time to get nosy. “Do you guys have something to share?”

  Alanna eyed Gunnar, and he shrugged. “Okay, I’ll tell! After the taping of Eat Me, Gunnar and I went out to celebrate. I was so freaked out about my ex-boyfriend having dumped me the night before because I wouldn’t commit in the end, that I poured out my heart to Gunnar in some dive bar. We ended up talking for hours about everything—relationships, what’s it like to be a single dad, working here, cooking . . . and then we moved on to a coffee shop and just sat there talking and talking. When we left, we were holding hands.”

  Alanna was beaming in a way I’d never before seen her, and Gunnar was actually looking up from his station for once—and smiling.

  Good for them. I adored them both and I adored them as a couple. “I love it,” I said, heading to the pantry for the cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger.

  Alanna followed me, reaching for the arborio rice and couscous. She leaned close. “Remember when Gunnar said he was in love with someone he couldn’t have?” she whispered to me.

  I nodded.

  She glanced back at Gunnar, who was busy at his station, setting out his knives. “Turns out that someone was me. He told me he’s had an insane crush on me for months. We’re going to take it slow—very slow. Gunnar knows I just got out of a long and intense relationship. And I know he has a daughter who needs him and we won’t have much time together outside of work. But there’s something here.”

  I smiled. “Awesome. I love you guys together.”

  She grinned and carried the rice and couscous to her station, and Evan McMann came over to help with prep.

  “I have awesome news of my own,” I said, turning down the iPod. “The Times reporter is coming tonight with three other people in her party. We’ve got to bring it. I want this and I want it bad.”

  “We’re on it,” Alanna said.

  We started prep, the McMann twins washing vegetables, Alanna soaking rice, and Gunnar slicing zucchini. I glanced at the clock wondering where the hell Keira was. She picked this night to be late for the first time? Now that she was a big celeb with twenty-five big ones in the bank, maybe she’d quit on me without telling me.

  Nah. Keira wasn’t like that.

  She slogged in twenty minutes late, looking like hell. Her eyes were red-rimmed as though she’d been crying.

  “Keira? What’s going on?”

  She set her bag under her station. “I’m fine.” Tears streamed down her face. “I’ll just wash my hands and then get started on prep.”

  I walked over to her. “Come on out back with me.”

  She followed me out and wiped under her eyes. “Dominique told me she’s through with me, that after all she’s done for me, I embarrassed her and the family, and from now on our relationship won’t be the same.”

  “What? Just because you want to go to culinary school? That’s insane.” What the hell was wrong with Dominique? I didn’t get this at all.

  Keira let out a deep breath. “She went on and on about how she’s groomed me to be her protégé, a mini her, that I’ve been like a daughter to her, and now I’ve just slammed a door in her face as though her opinion means nothing to me. It’s crazy, Clem. Why does she give two figs what I want to do with my life? It’s not like I told her I want to rob banks. What the hell?”

  “I don’t know. She’s mad at me too. She quit as my wedding planner.” Not that there was a wedding to plan anymore. “So how did you leave things?”

  “I told her I loved her very much, that she’s been like a mother to me since my mother died, and I wished I could make her happy, I wished I could make her proud of who I am, but I guess I can’t. Then I said good-bye and walked out.”

&
nbsp; Good for you, Keira. That’s all you could have done.

  “My dream is to go to cooking school and be a chef like you. And I have the means to pay for that myself now. Why can’t she and my father be proud of that? Be supportive?”

  “I wish I knew. But you’ve got friends who support you a million percent. No matter what you need, Keira, I’ve got your back, okay?”

  She hugged me.

  “So get to work, will you? The New York Times reporter is coming tonight and bringing friends. We’ve got to seriously wow her so that she includes the restaurant in her piece in the Sunday travel section.”

  “Oh, we will.” Keira dashed inside.

  My phone pinged with a text: You’ll be brilliant as always.—Alexander.

  You’ll be too, I sent out into the universe.

  Martina Jones and her party ordered two appetizers, four soups, four entrées, and two desserts.

  I worked on the entrées so that if anything went wrong with the main course, I’d take the blame. The bruschetta and hummus and garlic pita chips were down to crumbs when the waiter cleared the plates. Shit yeah. The soups—my minestrone, split-pea, potato-leek, and chilled cucumber—also came back with bowls practically licked clean. This had to be a good sign. The pumpkin ravioli in my garlic-sage sauce was plated and ready to go. With Alanna’s help, I stacked a perfect roasted vegetable napoleon, then put together the blackened Cajun seitan stir-fry and a portobello burger with avocado and red-pepper sauce. Finn brought out the tray to table six, and I peered through the peephole, watching their eyes light up at the presentation, oohing and aahing. I crossed my fingers. Please, universe, let them love every bit!

  During each course, one of Jones’s dinner companions got up and began shooting the food and the interior of the restaurant. For a moment, I stood there envisioning opening the travel section of an upcoming Sunday New York Times, and seeing photos of my food, of my restaurant, in the article on “veganmania” across America.

  Then I envisioned Alexander a sous chef forever. Getting sacked by my old boss because I’d beat him.

  Don’t be a ding-dong, the little shoulder devil yelled in my ear. You’re finally almost in and you’re worrying about hurting Alexander’s wittle feelings? Look at you! Standing here like a wishy-washy piece of cheese when you should be working on the sopaipillas and lava cake!