by T. Neilson
He exhaled and closed his eyes. It’s not like that. It was true, but he smiled and indulged the moment of warm pleasure that came with He’s thinking of me, even when I’m not there.
For the second time that morning, he felt like the decision he’d made back in New York, to come out here and try to reconnect with Simon, had at last been the right one. He texted back, Would love to taste the menu. Sure it’s okay?
Almost instantly the reply came in.
Mark and Jenny asked if you’d be interested. They wanted me to ask you for feedback on the menu.
His smile might have faded just a little then.
I told him you were out of the industry, Simon added.
Thanks, he typed back.
They’re having a hard time coping with a two-star chef around.
So would it be safe for me to accept the invitation? he asked. His heart leapt at the idea of spending time with Simon, even if it was only the pleasure of his proximity and not a date.
I gave them orders not to molest you, Simon answered a moment later.
Luke laughed out loud alone in his little room. Thank God for Simon. He realized he could face a whole staff if Simon was there to act as a buffer. He realized, moreover, that he wanted to. Is it okay if I just come as an anonymous person instead of as a chef?
You’ll have to wear a mask.
He laughed. How about a hat and sunglasses?
Sure. Or those glasses with the moustaches. Maximum anonymity.
He laughed again. See you tonight, he texted, and he felt a frisson pass through him, as though the hot breeze had suddenly turned cold.
Tonight! came the reply, and Luke’s heart sped a little. He wished it didn’t, but it did all the same. It wasn’t just that he’d fallen for Simon way back when or that, yes, it seemed he still carried quite the torch for him. It was also that every time he interacted with Simon, it became more and more clear that Simon would like him even if he weren’t a chef. Unlike so many of the people who had, one by one, fallen out of touch over the last year, Simon wasn’t interested in what Luke could do for him. It had been a long time since there was someone in his life who wasn’t keeping track of favors or mentally working out the value of a relationship.
Once again Luke remembered his grandma’s words. “You must be grateful for the love you are offered.”
It was what his grandmother had told him when he confessed to loving someone who didn’t love him back—Simon, even way back then.
Luke’s grandma was long gone, but he remembered her words exactly as she’d said them and the sad, soft look in her eyes. She stopped asking him when he would get married after that. She stopped teasing him about how she wanted a dozen great-grandchildren. He never came out to her, but he hadn’t hidden himself either, and he suspected she always knew, maybe even before he did. She was always the sharpest knife in the Ferreya family drawer.
When she told Luke to be grateful, she hadn’t meant that her grandson should go begging for scraps of affection. When people offered him love, he should accept what they could give and not ask for more. For Luke, who had for so long dominated his kitchen and his profession, accepting what was offered had never been in character. He always demanded everything another person could give—demanded of his suppliers and his staff and his family, demanded maximum effort and peak quality. He wrung out his kitchen staff, burned out his waitstaff, and went through dishwashers and bussers as though they were disposable. He thought his grandma was a funny old lady, and left it at that.
At least he left it at that until he reached into the well inside himself and found it empty and finally understood what it was to have nothing more to give.
And now? He was starting to feel his grandma’s words work their way through his thick Ferreya skull and percolate through. Now he found himself thinking that, if Simon could accept him as a man and not a chef, if he would be a genuine friend, then Luke would be grateful, even if he could never be his lover.
“I miss you, old lady,” he murmured to the air. He hadn’t thought of his grandma for years, until after his breakdown, but these days he frequently felt the empty place that she once occupied. He wondered what she would say of the endless emails and phone calls his mother was sending, and he could almost hear her voice. “She’ll soon tire herself out, and then you can have a nice, reasonable conversation. But wait until she’s tired. Maybe go ride the fence line for a few days, hmm?”
Maybe that’s what I need. Luke cast a glance at himself in the mirror. And saw dark eyes, dark hair, the same man he always had been, but older and smarter than the kid who set out to conquer the world of food. Wiser, too. Maybe I need to go back to the ranch. I miss the horses. I miss Argentina. The memory of the ranch washed over him like a summer rain. It settled deep inside him where all his anxiety had so long been tangled, and unknotted it a little.
He tucked his phone away. That wonderful, light feeling of the horseback ride still suffused his limbs, and his heart was light because of the invitation, even if it was only a meal with a friend in the industry. Simon’s invitation was a declaration of love, of sorts, of solidarity with his decision and respect for his choice. He may never be offered more love than that, and maybe he’d never get over the ache that left in his chest, but maybe it was time to stop carrying that around. Maybe it was time to go back to Argentina, to the ranch, to watch polo with his uncle, to ride horses along the fence line.
Maybe this is me saying goodbye. A lifetime of unrequited love had to end eventually, didn’t it? And who knew what lay ahead of him at the ranch in Argentina, with its rolling grasses and stately cattle and the long-limbed horses made for running those pastures. Something utterly removed from New York and fine dining and his previous life. He had already said goodbye to his kitchen and his staff. He had said goodbye to his career. Now maybe he was saying goodbye to the past too.
He should probably feel better about it than he did.
Chapter Eight
IT was evening, and the shadows on the grass had grown long, but the sun still lay golden on the hillside, glimmered on the water, and tangled in the walnut tree branches. Mark and Jenny had laid out the Luminara offerings in groupings on the linenless tables, first course at the far left and dessert down at the far right. Hiro had set out the wine. Simon looked it over and should have felt a sense of relief. The menu had been months in the planning, and what with the summer starting cool and damp and then suddenly turning hot, they’d had to revise their plans twice. But finally the weather and Simon’s personal life seemed to have settled, and everywhere around Lake Balmoral there was a sort of breathless air, as though everyone knew summer was standing on its tiptoes, ready to plunge toward autumn.
“Simon?” Hiro pointed at him. “Uh….” Then he pointed toward the path that wound down to the lake where a lone figure was coming toward them.
Simon grinned. “Oh, good,” he whispered.
“You invited somebody?” Hiro asked.
Mark and Jenny had stopped discussing the correct progression of dishes and looked up too. “Oh,” Mark said, sounding pleasantly surprised. Next to him, Jenny made a noise like air escaping from a tire. Everyone looked at her, and she clenched her teeth in a rictus grin.
“My watermelon pickle…,” she whispered.
“It’s very good,” Mark told her, and she let out a quavering laugh.
Simon felt some of those butterflies, but he pulled in a deep breath and headed toward Luke. “You made it,” he called when Luke looked up and waved.
“How could I resist?” Luke answered, grinning. He gestured at himself, and Simon followed the hand motion. He wore polished shoes, broken-in jeans that hugged his thighs and hips, and a white-and-blue striped dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top three buttons open that was probably a concession to the heat but also provided a glimpse of dark chest hair and his hard pecs. God, Tristan is going to fall in love the minute he lays eyes on Luke. “I hope casual is all right,” Luke added as he
gestured to the shadow of a beard on his face. “I was out with horses this afternoon and didn’t get a chance to shave.”
Simon nodded. “Casual is fine.” He clasped Luke’s offered hand. “So glad you came. It means the world to Mark and Jenny.” They turned together and started toward the table.
“Ah, Mark, hello,” Luke said, waving cheerily. “And Jenny, is it? The sous chef, right?”
Jenny’s face went a purplish sort of red. “Hi,” she said in a weirdly breathless sort of whisper. Across the table, Hiro glanced up from counting glasses and frowned.
“I enjoyed watching your work last night,” Luke said. “I thought you managed that situation with the eggs very well.” Jenny opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Luke looked at Mark. “I’ve never seen a kitchen with so little drama,” he added. “It was refreshing.”
“We try to keep it family-friendly in there,” Mark answered mildly.
Simon nudged Luke. “And down there’s Hiro, our sommelier.”
“Ah, the genius behind the beer last night,” Luke said as he strode down the length of the table so he could reach over and shake Hiro’s hand. The slightly crabby expression on Hiro’s face vanished. “Cole couldn’t stop praising your pairing.”
Hiro shot a look at Simon, who sighed. “Okay,” Simon agreed. “You win. This time.”
“We don’t see eye to eye on beer in fine dining,” Hiro explained to Luke.
Luke glanced at Simon and then at Hiro again. “Well, one of you is a man of precision and tradition, and the other is a manager,” he said. Hiro cracked up. “I like sommeliers,” Luke said to the group in general. “They’re the only people who always tell the truth. Chefs on the other hand… and managers.”
Hiro looked at Simon. “We can keep him, right?”
“Absolutely not,” Simon answered. “Mark? Start us off before this becomes a roast. Okay?”
Luke snorted a laugh and shot his rakish grin at Jenny, who seemed to blush even harder.
“Jenny,” Mark said, “why don’t you lead? I’ll answer Simon’s questions. You work with Luke.”
Jenny nodded. “Yes, Chef,” she said and put her hands flat on the table beside the first dish. “Okay. First presentation is the farmhouse charcuterie platter with duck confit, local cheddar, nasturtium, borage, rocket flowers, and pickled watermelon, served with black bread from Sweet Nothings and sweet butter from a local barn.”
“You’re very serious about this,” Luke said to Mark.
Mark nodded. “Actually it was Jenny who got us interested in dairy.” He smiled in her direction. “She had us do a butter tasting. Spring grass butter is nothing like summer butter. I had no idea.”
Luke laughed. “It hadn’t occurred to me to pursue seasonal butter,” he said and nodded at Jenny. “Now, tell me about this platter. Why do you have something as delicate as flowers on there, where the pickle and sausage can overwhelm them?”
Jenny licked her lips. “At first the flowers were just a garnish. But we have so many, we thought we’d showcase them. But….” She glanced at Mark. “Maybe we should serve them first, as their own tasting tray?”
Mark made a little noise of consideration. “We could serve them on the boards,” he answered.
“With the leaves,” Jenny agreed, voice growing steady again. “As an amuse-bouche.”
Luke smiled. “I think that’s a good idea.”
She laughed softly. “I’ll make a note,” she said as she produced a pad of paper and a pencil from her back pocket. Across the table Simon caught Mark’s eye and shared a covert smile over that—Jenny having a master class in food pairing and Luke back in his natural habitat. He thought they’d done well, and Mark nodded as though he’d been thinking the same thing.
“THAT bread is magnificent,” Luke told him as they moved through the second course and into the third.
“My brother’s place,” Simon answered, pleased to have the opportunity to bring Tristan up in conversation. “He does an almond-cherry bread on the weekend that’s fantastic.”
Luke made a face. “Oof. I’m sorry I missed that.” He shook his head. “I was with the horses all day. I lose track of time when I’m riding. It’s so pleasant,” he added. “I had forgotten how much I enjoy their company.”
“Well, there’s always tomorrow,” Simon told him, ignoring the remark about the horses and plunging back into matchmaker mode. “If you ask him nicely, I’m sure he’ll tell you what’s in it too.”
Luke gave him a look, half frowning, half laughing. “Why do I feel like you’re trying to set me up?” he asked.
Simon choked on the tiny wild strawberry he had just popped in his mouth. He coughed a few times. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he answered.
Luke raised one thick black eyebrow. “You have Mark plate me something off the menu at dinner last night, you invite me to a tasting, and now you’re trying to get me to spend time at a bakery.” He shook his head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get me back into the kitchen. You know I’m not going there.”
“I know that,” Simon answered a little defensively, almost as relieved as he was disappointed that Luke hadn’t been referring to a romantic setup, rather than a food-related one. “But I also know what you like.”
Luke’s smile changed just a fraction, and Simon wasn’t sure how to interpret it. Maybe he had overstepped.
“If you’re done in the food industry, that’s up to you. I just think….” He looked at Jenny, and inspiration struck. “What kind of an operation would we be if we didn’t give her the chance to interact with a two-star chef, huh?”
Luke looked at Jenny too. He nodded. “She’s very good,” he said quietly. “Very quick. Where did she train?”
“Canada. Brasserie L’ecole.”
Luke nodded. “Huh,” he said quietly. “Don’t know it.”
“It’s pretty small.”
“Hmm. So she’ll be focused on aromatics and French cuisine, which makes her perfect for sur le Lac, but her local dishes….”
“It’s not where she shines,” he agreed. “Mark’s working on that.”
Luke nodded. “Do you think he wants her to have the kitchen when he’s done?”
Simon hesitated. It wasn’t something he and Mark had ever talked about, but Mark was in his fifties, and long hours in the kitchen took their toll. “I think so,” he said quietly, half afraid Mark would hear. “But she wants to go to LA.”
“Nakayama’s place?” Luke asked, voice lowering too.
“Mm-hmm.”
Luke nodded. “Does she have a position there?”
“Not yet.”
Simon found himself looking at Jenny as she talked her way through the menu. Every time a chef went on sabbatical, his hopes and dreams went with them. He always wanted them to come back afterward, but almost none of them ever did.
“You’ll miss her,” Luke said.
“Mark’s going to miss her. And….” He indicated Hiro with his chin. “We might lose our somm when she goes too.”
“Like that, huh?”
Simon nodded.
“The restaurant business is one very long goodbye,” Luke murmured. “I know a good somm, if you need one.”
“What about a sous?”
Luke smiled faintly. “A few. But what about someone else in this kitchen?”
“Maybe.” Simon shrugged. Then he shook his head. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”
“It’s not so exhausting when it’s not your place,” Luke answered and clapped him on the shoulder. “I ran away from my own troubles, so I’m always happy to listen to other people’s.”
Simon found himself smiling just a little. “I’m glad you closed up shop,” he said then, surprising himself. “You deserve to be happy.”
Luke seemed almost as surprised as Simon. After a stunned instant, he shrugged.
“And you should keep doing the things that make you happy, even if”�
�he indicated Mark and Jenny and Hiro with his chin—“other people don’t understand.”
Luke gazed at Simon for a long moment, as though he were trying to figure something out. Then he nodded. “I guess,” he said quietly. “But I can’t stop myself weighing the risks against the rewards.”
“What have you got to lose?”
Luke said nothing. Then he laughed softly, nodded, and headed toward the table again. “That one,” he said, pointing at the strawberry dish, and he seemed like a totally different person again. Gone was the man who had just been speaking earnestly with Simon, and in his place was a chef sharing his knowledge. “Tell me about those strawberries. Why are they served cold?”
Jenny hesitated and frowned. “Oh,” she answered. “I didn’t… I didn’t think about that.”
“The chill preserves their lifespan, certainly, but it also dampens the flavor,” Luke said. “Warm strawberries are sweeter and have better acidity. I think these wild ones should probably be served at room temperature. What do you think, Mark?”
Mark nodded. “We can chill them when we get them, and then take them out in the morning. Sam can pick them over before we plate. He’s been looking for a way to get out of the dish pit.” He smiled at Luke.
“That’s a good place to start,” Luke agreed. “Incidentally, who’s the supplier for your strawberries?” Luke asked. Jenny looked at Simon, and Simon shook himself out of his stunned surprise.
“My mom, actually,” he answered. When Luke looked confused, he explained, “In the eighties, when she and my dad were running the place, they had a hard time getting reliable fresh produce, so they made a market garden. We still use it for all our hard-to-get specialty stuff now. The flowers, the wild strawberries….” He gestured vaguely.
“A herd and a market garden?” Luke asked. “That’s incredible.”
Simon knew he’d never have a better opportunity to throw Tristan and Luke together. “Would you like to go see it? We’re cutting herbs for bread, and you’re welcome to come.”
Luke laughed. “I think I would like that.”