In the Fire

by Eileen Griffin

  Katie slid the platter toward the center of the island already crowded with the other dishes I’d prepared. “Tune in tomorrow for mouth-watering Mediterranean dishes from up-and-coming chef Talia Stamos. I’ll leave you with profound words from George Bernard Shaw: ‘There is no sincerer love than the love of food.’”

  I held my smile until the cameraman slashed his hand and the light on top of his camera went dark. The stage manager called out, “It’s a wrap folks. James, you’re amazing as always. And Katie, great quote today. Okay people, let’s get the set cleaned up for the next shoot.”

  I wiped my hands on the towel in front of me and reached out to shake Katie’s hand. “Thanks again, Katie. It was wonderful to be back on the show. Please call Trevor if you need anything else.”

  Katie looked over her shoulder as she gathered up her notes. “Sounds good, James. The rigatoni was excellent, by the way. I’m going to have to make it at home.” She nodded to one of her assistants. “Sarah will take you back to your dressing room. Tell Trevor I’ll call him in the morning about those still shots he promised he’d send me.”

  Already halfway off the set and more than ready to be done with the cameras, I nodded in Katie’s direction. “Will do. Have a good one, Katie. Good luck with the next segment and thanks again for having me today.” And thank you, Trevor, for only booking me for a single segment today. Remind me to give you a bonus.

  Once I got back to the dressing room, I quickly slipped off the pristine chef’s jacket provided by the show and tossed it into the hamper next to the door. I sank into the uncomfortable chair in front of the mirrors and took a good, hard look. I’d been doing this latest round of the media circuit for weeks now and it showed. The makeup crew had done their best to hide the black circles under my eyes, but I could still see them. I pulled out a washcloth from the basket on the vanity and scrubbed away the vestiges until only my pale skin showed in the mirror. Camera makeup was one of those things I’d gotten used to over the years, but it did itch.

  Once I was relatively clean and back in my own clothes, I grabbed my bag and took the side hallway to the back door of the studio. I usually didn’t mind signing autographs and taking pictures, but today I was too exhausted to deal with it.

  Relief washed over me when I saw the yellow cab waiting at the curb. After making sure the elderly cabbie knew where to drop me, I closed my eyes and let him navigate the insanity of Manhattan traffic. Blaring horns and the occasional obscenity from the driver were a welcome reminder that I was home for more than a day or two for the first time in three months. I still had the occasional talk show or guest appearance scheduled, but for the time being, I was home.

  “Hey, mister. We’re here.”

  I opened my eyes and stared out the window at the green awning in front of my building. The cabbie swiped my credit card and drove off as soon as I’d folded a tip into his hand, leaving me on the curb without a backward glance.

  “Home,” I muttered, hiking my small overnight bag over my shoulder.

  As I walked through the glass doors, I plastered on a smile for my doorman, Don. He looked up from the newspaper he was reading and reached down to hand me my mail. “Evening, Mr. Lassiter.”

  Not wanting to deal with the real world tonight, I tucked the mail under my arm and kept walking to the elevator. “Thanks, Don. Tell your wife the cookies she made were delicious. You’ve got a true pastry chef on your hands.”

  Don’s smile widened. “Will do, Mr. Lassiter. She’ll be over the moon a real chef like you enjoyed them.”

  Once the doors to the elevator closed and I was alone, I punched the button for my floor. I’d been doing a slew of guest appearances and book signings and couldn’t remember the last time I had been in the thick of things, in a real kitchen. I’d never felt less like a real chef.

  I left the elevator and made my way into my apartment, dropping the groceries I’d stopped off for on my way home in the kitchen, and my luggage in the hallway near my bedroom. My manager would be calling any minute to ask about the appearance on today’s show. I pulled out my phone and hit speed dial.

  “J! How did it go? Was the cab there? I was just getting ready to call you.”

  “Hey, Trev. Yes, the cab was there. Remind me to give you a bonus this Christmas.”

  He snorted over the line. “You say it every year and I still get the same thing—a fantastic bottle of wine and a pair of socks.”

  “I’ve never heard you complain about the wine I buy you, and what’s wrong with socks? It’s freezing in New York during the winter.”

  “Well, I’ll never run out of warm socks with Star Wars characters on them.” He cleared his throat. “How did everything else go? You sound tired.”

  I paused before I answered him. “I’m good. No, scratch that. I’m exhausted.”

  He paused on the phone, and I could hear him let out a deep breath. “I know, man. The schedule’s been crazy lately. Did it at least go okay with Katie? I heard she was a bitch to the last chef they had on their show.”

  I laughed and closed my eyes, leaning back against the couch. “She was fine. And we both know Sam Vargas can be a dick—in his restaurant and out of it. You need to stop talking to the other managers. I swear you all gossip like a bunch of old ladies.”

  Thankfully Trevor snorted and the tension from his end eased a little. “You still haven’t forgiven me for booking you with Sam that one time have you? Shit, Jamie, it was over a year ago. Cut me some slack.”

  “No, I haven’t. And he’s still a dick. And while we’re on the topic of dicks, I’m not showing any skin on the cover of my next book. It’s got to be a professional, full chef’s coat. The wardrobe guy kept trying to unbutton my chef’s coat and roll my sleeves up today. I swear it took everything in my power to smile and assure him I actually liked being properly attired.”

  His full-bellied laugh was loud enough I had to pull the phone away or risk losing my hearing. “Sex sells, J. And you, my friend, are one handsome man.”

  “Thanks. I think. Just no more chest or forearm shots.” There was a short silence. Time to drop the bomb. “I need a break, Trev. A real one this time. I looked at my calendar this afternoon before the show. I need a break. The constant travel is killing me. I don’t think I’ve been home for more than a week at a time in three months. I need downtime.”

  Trevor was silent on the phone for a full minute before he spoke. “Okay, Jamie. I’ll see what I can do. You’re presenting at the American Culinary Honors Awards this weekend. We both have rooms booked at the Plaza for Saturday, since you refused to get a date for this thing and I’m not missing out on the food at The Plaza. You have an interview with Gretchen Holt on Saturday, but I’ll move things around to give you another week. Maybe two.”

  The tension I’d been carrying around with me since I had gotten back to New York three days ago slowly began to fade away. I felt lighter, but more exhausted than before I had called him. “Thanks, Trev. I’ll call you tomorrow and get the details about this weekend.”

  His normally upbeat tone turned soft and serious. “Get some sleep, J. We’ll do dinner this week, my treat. We need to discuss this weekend’s itinerary anyway.”

  Guilt washed over me as I hung up and tossed my phone on the coffee table. A quick glance around my apartment made my stomach turn even more. On the shelf across from me sat a picture of me and Trevor after we’d first met in Paris. I still had the lost expression I knew I’d worn for at least a year after leaving Seattle, but Trevor was all smiles and confidence. I was out of my element with no family or friends of my own, which had made him my lifeline. Once the fall arrived, he was busy with his MBA at Columbia and I was putting in ten- to twelve-hour days at Cielo. After I’d started receiving more offers, I’d asked him for help, and Trevor had left his other job to manage my career.

  During his last semes
ter at Columbia, he had presented me with the opportunity to work as a guest host for a cable TV show that focused on restaurants in New York. Ever since, he had worked his ass off alongside me to ensure my success. Now I felt like an ungrateful bastard as I looked around my quiet apartment. It featured beautiful wood floors with a state-of-the-art kitchen and two bedrooms, one I felt I barely lived in anymore, and one I never used at all. Expensive art on the walls and a huge wine fridge for when I was actually in town long enough to entertain. It was a great apartment. Trendy and upscale. But tonight it felt cold and empty. Who was I kidding? Tonight? It had felt this way for a while now.

  I made my way to my bathroom and stripped, letting out a deep sigh once I stepped under the hot spray of the shower. I was exhausted and needed a break. I’d been on this whirlwind of a publicity tour for half a year and I just needed to regroup. I braced my hands against the shower wall as the water sluiced over my head, and let the spray massage the tightness in my shoulders.

  The last time I’d been in a kitchen had been to create the recipes for the cookbook. I needed to find a way to get rid of the creative block I’d developed since then so that I could stop feeling like a line cook who cranked out meals on orders. Maybe cook a meal at home and not have anywhere other than the local coffee shop to go to the next morning. Maybe even stop in at Tony’s place while I was home and hang out in his kitchen for a night.

  An hour later, I had all the spices and ingredients laid out on the counter. My version of spaghetti with marinara and pancetta and Parmesan meatballs had been a staple at Cielo and I knew the recipe by heart.

  The ground beef, pancetta and turkey sat in a deep bowl to the side while the crushed tomatoes and fresh basil simmered in a pot on the back of the range. The familiar aroma of comfort food filled the air, replacing the stuffy condo smell. Knife in hand, I let my mind wander as I diced the onion and parsley, adding them to the meat in a single scoop of the cutting board. A little Parmesan cheese, panko bread crumbs, a few spices, a dash of Worcestershire sauce, and an egg to bind it all.

  The moment my hands dug into the mixture, I felt all the tension in my shoulders begin to bleed away. The cookbook, the television show, the guest appearances at different restaurants had gotten me to where I was today. I was an openly gay celebrity chef who had support from the network, my viewers and the people who bought my books. I had everything I could have dreamed of in a career but all I felt was...drained. Empty. My love of food and cooking had started me on this path, but along the way I’d lost the drive and passion to keep me on it.

  But this—the simple act of preparing food just for myself—I had been missing for a while now. I rolled meatballs between my palms. When we’d made these in huge batches at Cielo, it had been an all-day, multi-cook job. I missed joking with my cooks during the assembly line where we all rolled out trays of meatballs.

  While the meatballs simmered in the cast-iron pan and pasta boiled, I poured a glass of wine and sat on the sofa. I needed to do this more often. Hell, I needed to be in the kitchen more often. The question I kept coming back to, though, was when?

  When had my life gotten off track? Since arriving in New York, I had done nothing but work my ass off to get where I was today. The question was, did I really want to be here anymore?

  Chapter Three

  Ethan

  Running a successful restaurant as an executive chef isn’t glamorous. It involves long days in a sweltering kitchen, burns on your arms and hands, grease splatters in your eye and knife cuts that bleed like a son of a bitch. There are always the skyrocketing food prices, forgetful suppliers, your new bartender has fumblefingers with the good scotch or a pissy dishwasher breaks a load of plates. There’s always a bitchy customer who wants ketchup for their lobster, shitty reviews in the paper, or employees having a personal dispute.

  Today, it was New Guy.

  I eyed the huge puddle of cooking oil leaking out from underneath a fryer. What the hell? Tyler had obviously neglected to replace the drain plug in the fryer after I’d had him change out the oil last night. I’d thought he could handle it since the rest of the cooks were busy with prep. Apparently not. Nothing said safe like a slippery floor.

  He stared at me as he nervously twisted the ends of the apron strings tied around his waist.

  “Sorry, Chef. I thought I put the plug back but I was wrong.”

  “It’s okay. Just give me a sec and we’ll clean it up. Someone set up a Wet Floor sign and everyone watch out for the mess and try not to set anything on fire while I poison myself with nicotine for five minutes.” I grabbed my smokes out of my office and pushed past my line cooks and sous chef.

  The kitchen door slammed behind me as I lit up in the alley. I inhaled deeply as the acrid smoke filled my lungs, a love/hate relationship with the cancer sticks. Smoke clogged my taste buds and made it hard to properly season food. But at times like these, when I had to fight the urge to not scream obscenities at the gun shy newbie, it calmed me down. When the door opened and closed again, I grumbled under my breath.

  “Feel better, big brother?”

  “Not as much as I’d hoped. Who the hell hired the kid again?”

  My not-so-little baby sister laughed as she swiped the smoke out of my hand and took a very unladylike drag.

  “You did, you big idiot.”

  I yanked off the black bandanna and ran my hand through my sweaty hair. A combination of the usual bullshit, Tyler being skittish, and the bank calling to inform me my bank loan pre-approval paperwork had been held up in underwriting meant my fuse was running short. If I didn’t get the loan there was not a chance in hell I’d be able to buy the place from Cal.

  “You know, one of these days you’re going to have to take the stress-management courses Viv’s been pushing, or your head will explode. You’ll be all ‘what in the fucking fuckity fuck’ and then...SPLAT!”

  “As much as I want to sit around playing the bongos while a hippie tells me how my life force can be one with the universe...no way.”

  She swatted away my hand when I tried to steal my own smoke back.

  “Growl all you want, Ethan, but you don’t frighten me. Underneath all your bluster and foul language is a big ole softy with a heart of gold.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t be too hard on Tyler. He’s really trying.”

  I blew out a long breath.

  “I know. I’m trying. Every time I move, he jumps. It just kills me how much he’s gone through.” And how he reminds me of someone I used to know. The sad reality was Tyler hadn’t been caught up in gangs, hadn’t done drugs or failed in school. He’d simply had the misfortune to come out to his evangelical parents who hadn’t wanted to accept their son was gay. Instead of loving him for who he was, they’d kicked him to the curb and locked the door.

  She paused and we enjoyed the relative silence of the restaurant’s alley. Claire inched closer and cleared her throat, a pensive look on her face.

  “By the way, I saw Jamie on a show this morning before work. He looks really good.” Claire’s voice was quiet.

  I’d seen him too. Not only on a shitty morning show. In the last few years his face had been everywhere. His handsome face smiled back at me every time I turned on the TV and from the cover of his cookbooks. I heard his voice on the radio. Over the years, he’d haunted me.

  “I stopped giving a shit about him eight years ago.” After he left me. “He chose his path, I chose mine.”

  “Ethan, you stopped returning his phone calls. What did you expect? For him to wait around for you to stop being stubborn?”

  “I expected him to choose me.” I regretted my words instantly as her expression softened into pity. “He didn’t even come home for graduation. Instead he chose his fancy career and his even fancier boyfriend.”

  Cla
ire shook her head. “I know, E. But it’s been eight years. I think it’s time to let it go. Just promise me you won’t become too jaded and forget why you chose this path. You’ve always loved cooking and being in the kitchen. You’ve helped grow this amazing place with your own talent and hard work, big brother. All on your own.” She leaned her head against my arm. “You’d carry the entire weight of the world on your shoulders if you could. Look how much you care about us all. You took Tyler in when his parents kicked him out and he had nowhere else to go. He looks up to you, Ethan. You just intimidate him a little. It’ll go away once he figures out you’re a well-meaning asshole.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  She cleared her throat. “As for Jamie...he looks happy. You? You’re as close to happy as you get when you’re bossing us all around. Remember that, okay?”

  “Got it, little sis.” I scrubbed my hand down my face, then looked up at her. “Don’t mind me. I’m just tired and stressed about not being here for shit I should be taking care of. Nothing a good rant can’t fix, right?”

  She leaned in to kiss the top of my head before leaving. I didn’t know what I had done to ever deserve a sister like Claire, but I was damn glad to have her in my life, especially on days like today.

  I took a deep breath to calm myself before I went back in to help with the cleanup. I didn’t want to be harsh to Tyler, but the restaurant business was a constant grind and would chew him up and spit him out if he didn’t grow balls.

  Knowing the next rush was on its way, I flung the door open and walked back inside. Tyler drew in a shaky breath and squared his shoulders when I crossed my arms over my chest. He looked like he was bracing himself for the worst. At his terrified look, any residual anger drained away. I just felt tired.

  “Well, New Guy? What have we learned about proper replacement of drainage plugs in fryers?”

  “Always put them back in?”

  “Bingo. Now grab towels and shit. We’ve got a lot of scrubbing to do. The cleaning service will be here tonight as usual but this shit is a hazard.”