Yes, Chef

by T. Neilson

  Luke touched Simon’s shoulder with a cool, damp hand, and the contact startled him. He looked at Luke, at his hand.

  For an instant he imagined that hand tightening. He imagined Luke stopping him, turning him. He imagined Luke leaning toward him. God, his skin would be cool still from the water, and damp, but his mouth would be hot. He thought of how it would be to feel the thick muscles of Luke’s legs brush against his, slide along his, frame his hips.

  “You are worried that you’ll burn out and up like me. Aren’t you?”

  Simon forced his mind back from the brink. “You’re the best chef I’ve ever known,” he answered in a croak. “I should be so lucky.”

  Luke’s eyes were fixed on him, dark and soft and warm as an August night. He was frowning but not angry. Maybe he was concerned again. His broad brow creased under the slick of his wet black hair. He’s beautiful. How did I miss it for so long?

  Luke’s grip on Simon’s arm softened just a little, and the subtle shift made the hairs on Simon’s arm and neck stand up. The contact was as electric as a rolling summer storm. He found himself holding his breath, waiting for something he couldn’t explain or express. “I should be so lucky,” Simon heard himself say again, in a whisper.

  Luke’s mouth parted just a little and curved just slightly into a small, soft smile.

  It was as though Simon had stepped out onto the glassy surface of the lake, expecting it to hold him up, only to find himself drowning.

  “Simon,” Luke said in a low, soft voice that Simon could hardly hear over the buzzing in his head. It was a rumble—a purr. I want him to kiss me. God, please let him kiss me. “It’s not lucky to burn out. It’s a disaster. I wasted my whole youth building a business I walked away from. And what good have I done in the world? Who have I helped? No one.”

  Simon reached for something that would sound sensible, reasonable. “You’ve mentored so many chefs,” he managed at last.

  Irritation creased Luke’s features. He shook his head. “That’s the absolute least I could do. Besides, I get their labor. It’s not altruism. It’s trade. Listen to me,” Luke said. He turned and gripped both of Simon’s arms, firmly but not hard. “There’s more to life than your kitchen. Don’t do what I did. Don’t let the work become who you are.”

  It was too late. Work had poured like sand into every part of his life and filled up all the empty space inside of him until he was his own shape, but all the him had been displaced… until now.

  He felt his breath coming short, as though he were about to give a talk to a banquet room full of guests. His lungs felt too small for his chest, and his heart battered against the cage of his ribs like a bird beating at a window. He knew what he wanted in a way he had never known before. Kiss me, kiss me, please kiss me.

  On the bank, nestled in the mud, Simon’s phone rang. The Muppet Show theme song squawked out under the pines. Ginger calling.

  Chapter Eleven

  “WHAT’S the trouble?” Simon crossed the dining room to where Ginger stood at her station.

  She looked up and frowned. “I’m sorry, I know you were busy. It’s Sam again.” She sighed and jerked her thumb at the kitchen. “It’s Luminara, he’s thirty minutes late for shift, and he’s fucking filthy. His shoes are absolutely caked with mud. He looks like he walked through shit to get here. Also, still no paperwork.”

  Simon pulled in a deep breath and let it out all at once. I’m going to fire him.

  “Okay. I’ll deal with it.”

  Ginger nodded, and Simon turned on his heel and marched to the kitchen. “Sam,” he hollered, “my office.”

  Sam jumped and cringed all in one movement. Simon let the door swing and headed down the hall. I am going to fire that kid. I can’t believe I have to be here because he can’t get his shit together. He flung himself into his chair and tossed his phone onto the desk.

  A moment later Sam slipped into the office and closed the door behind him. “Hi… uh. Is it, umm… did Ginger tell you…. Look, I was just wondering… could I get an, uh… an advance? Like, just till I remember my paperwork.”

  Simon bit back something nasty and folded his hands in front of him on the desk. “Have a seat.”

  Sam perched on the edge of the chair. Close to him, Simon could see what Ginger was talking about. His kitchen whites were still yellow at the neck and armpits, and his shoes were caked so badly they left little piles of dried mud everywhere he stood. “Sam, listen. I know this is your first job and….” He hesitated.

  Sam took a deep breath, and his face twisted as though he thought he might be sick and was trying to hold everything in. Some of Simon’s frustration fizzled away.

  “You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” he asked.

  Sam’s answer came out in a rush. “I was late. I’m a-a mess today. I’m sorry. Things… I….” He seemed to want to say something, but no words would come. Something niggled in Simon’s brain, pushing the irritation out further. Simon sat forward.

  “Sam, is there something you want to say?”

  “Please don’t fire me,” he blurted. “I can totally do better. I will.”

  Simon frowned. He sat back a little and studied Sam. The kid’s agitation was genuine, and he looked scared. Simon revised his previous decision. “I’m not going to fire you,” he said quietly. “But you need to take it seriously when I tell you that a workplace isn’t like school. I won’t chase you around for your homework. You have to show up clean. And I want you here on time.”

  “I know,” Sam whispered. “I know. I’m really sorry.” Sam opened and closed his mouth. “Umm… but is there a way to, umm… get an advance, maybe?”

  Simon frowned. “It would be illegal for me to pay you without your paperwork in order,” he said. “I’m sorry. Those are the rules.”

  Instead of a look of comprehension, Sam’s face wore a look more like agony. His gaze shifted from the door to the desk and back.

  “Look,” Simon said, “this doesn’t have to be hard. You can go home on your dinner break and bring it in tonight.”

  Sam shook his head just a fraction, and for the first time Simon had an inkling that something might not be exactly as it appeared. He leaned forward.

  “Is there something you want to tell me? About the paperwork?”

  Sam shrank down in his seat, shoulders slumping. “I’m, like, mid-moved and I, uh… don’t have an address yet.”

  Simon nodded. “That’s okay. The address of your current place is fine. We’ll just update when you get the new one.”

  Sam opened and closed his mouth. He twisted the sleeve of his jacket in his fingers.

  “Okay,” he whispered.

  Something heavy tumbled into Simon’s belly. “Sam,” he started in a softer voice, “do you have a current address? Any address?”

  Sam sucked in his lower lip until it disappeared, and he shook his head. “I… I’m out. Like, out of my parents’ place.”

  “Okay,” Simon said. He had a sense that something delicate was happening, something important.

  “So I’m looking for a place, but I don’t have any, like, rental history. So I don’t have—a-and I need the security deposit, and I don’t have it till I get this paycheck, and I… I swear I’m… normally I’m super responsible. But my phone died because I can’t charge it and—”

  “Sam.” Simon heard himself speaking softly and calmly, even as his heart boomed in his ears. “Are you telling me you’re currently homeless?”

  Sam avoided his eyes. “Just till I get the security deposit for a place.”

  Simon stared at the kid, and Sam seemed to shrink even more.

  “I’m not stealing,” he whispered. “I’m not trouble. I just want to work.”

  Simon felt himself slip from “too stressed for this shit” into dad mode. “You missed the preservice supper. When did you eat last?”

  “Before work,” Sam said, as though he were offended by the question.

  “Okay, but what did y
ou eat?”

  “Ramen,” Sam admitted. He squirmed. “They have, umm… five for a buck at Ollie’s Market.” He smiled faintly. “I put some, you know, cut-up cabbage and an egg in it. It’s actually pretty filling.”

  Simon got to his feet and went to the door.

  “Jenny,” he hollered down the hall, and when no one answered, he bellowed it again. “Jenny!”

  Jenny appeared in the hallway, looking baffled. “Hello?” she asked. “Prepping in here.”

  Simon ignored that. “What can you make me right now? Nothing fancy. Give me filling and healthy.”

  She shrugged. “You want a frittata?”

  Simon glanced at Sam. He looked startled, and then he shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Perfect. In my office, please.” Simon ducked back inside. “Where are you staying?”

  Sam sat forward. “At the, umm… the campground. I’m… out of change for the laundromat.”

  Jesus. It was a wonder his whites looked as good as they did. Simon covered his mouth with his hand and squeezed his own nose like he wanted to twist it off. Maybe the pinch would do him good, wake him up, get him to notice the things that were important instead of running around with his head in the clouds. “Christ,” he said after a moment. He met Sam’s eyes. “I’ve been busting your ass about your whites all week. Why didn’t you say something?”

  Sam licked his lips. “I didn’t want to get fired.”

  Simon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Of course. Who would hire a homeless kid? Sam had showed up at the kitchen door. They took him on because showing up at the back door of a kitchen, willing to pitch in anywhere, anytime, was kind of old-school and classic. There was something kind of neat about it. Besides, Sam had seemed hungry and eager to work. And no wonder.

  Simon wanted to yell. Instead he said, “Let me see if I understand. You need your check to get the security deposit on a place, and you can’t get the check till you have an address.”

  “Yeah,” Sam agreed. He swallowed audibly.

  “Well, that’s a problem we’re going to have to fix,” Simon muttered. Then he laughed weakly. “Okay, look.” He perched on the edge of the desk. “Sam, your work is good, and we like you here. I think you’ll be moving up the ranks in the future, so start thinking about what you’re interested in learning and from whom. Okay?”

  Sam nodded and swallowed again. “Okay,” he said quietly. “So, but… I still have my job, right?”

  Simon nodded. “Yes. And now that I know what you’ve had to overcome to get here, I….” He sighed. “I have to say your work shows some pretty amazing dedication.”

  Sam sat stiff and poised, as though he were waiting for the bad news.

  “Now stay here. Okay? Eat the frittata Jenny brings. I’m going to go talk to Robin in payroll and find out what we can do about getting you that security deposit.” He got to his feet again, but then he stopped. “I won’t tell anybody who doesn’t need to know what’s going on. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Sam whispered.

  “And… you’re not sleeping in a tent tonight,” he added. He knew he should have asked, but he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “I run a hotel. I’ll find you a fucking bed.”

  HE had just returned from HR and talking with Ginger about Sam’s situation when Mark appeared at the door, pale and sad-looking.

  “Mark?” Simon half rose to his feet.

  Mark lurched toward him, as though he were walking in a dream. His eyes were red, and they looked everywhere but at Simon. “Mark, are you okay?”

  Mark dropped heavily into the chair that Sam had just occupied. He gripped his knees and exhaled a long and shaky breath.

  Simon’s belly clenched. “Mark, what’s happened?” he whispered.

  “It’s a tumor,” Mark said in a dull voice. “We thought it was migraines, or a chronic sinus infection or something. They took an X-ray. It’s a tumor the size of quail’s egg.”

  Simon sagged down into his chair.

  “Oh Christ, Mark,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. What happens now?”

  Mark shook his head and opened and closed his mouth a few times, until he mustered words again. “They need her in Seattle tomorrow. The doctor says it’s got good margins or borders or something like that. That’s positive. They think they can get it all, but they want to get her in right away.” He looked at Simon at last. “I have to go,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know the timing is terrible. I know it couldn’t be worse—”

  “No.” Simon put up both hands as though he could shove the apology back toward Mark. “Don’t worry about that right now. Of course you have to go.” He tried not to think about what he was saying and what it would mean on the ground in a practical sense. He took a deep breath. “What can we do? Is there anything we can help with right now?”

  Mark raised his head and looked at the ceiling. He blinked. “I don’t think so,” he answered. “I think it’s just…. I mean, I guess if you were a praying man, you could pray.”

  Simon nodded. He wasn’t, and never had been, but he might make an exception just this once.

  “When do you leave?” Simon asked.

  “Pretty much now.” Mark shook his head. “I know it’s terrible timing. It’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

  Simon pushed his own despair away and shook his head again. “No. It’s going to be okay. We’ll be fine. Jenny is ready. She’ll be great. You’ve done the menu together, and she knows every step. You taught her well. She’s ready for this.”

  Mark laughed—hollow, empty sound—and shook his head. “She’s not really ready. At least she’s not ready to do it on her own. She needs a sous.”

  “Who do you recommend?”

  Mark shook his head. “There’s nobody who can do the menu.”

  “Isn’t Tommy ready?”

  “No, no. Tommy’s great with the meat, but he’s no good with the Luminara menu. He’s not tidy-minded, and there are so many small, delicate things to assemble. Maybe Gurmail. Maybe. But he hasn’t gone through it before, either, and I wouldn’t want to throw him in. That’s not fair to him, and that’s not fair to Jenny.”

  “We’ll figure it out.” Simon waved his hand. “You shouldn’t even be thinking about this. You should be home with Helena.” He shook his head again. “I’m sorry, Mark. Tell her we’re pulling for her and forget about us. We’ll make sure everything goes okay.”

  Mark closed his eyes. “If everything works out, the menu will be amazing. Even if it doesn’t, it’ll be fantastic.” He looked at Simon again. “I’ve never let you down before, and now I’m letting you down real hard. I’ll understand if you give me my walking papers.”

  “Jesus,” Simon whispered. “You know this is your home. I brought you here, and you’ve been magnificent. We’ll worry about how we’ll work the shifts another time. There’s always going to be a place for you here.”

  Mark swallowed audibly and then, with a lurch, he got to his feet. “I’ll let you know when we’re coming back,” he promised.

  Simon nodded. “Please. And let us know how things go. And if there’s anything we can do, don’t be shy about asking. Hospital food isn’t known for its quality,” he added. “Maybe after surgery, we can FedEx something down.”

  Mark nodded. “She’d probably like that.” He turned toward the door.

  “Do you mind asking Jenny to come in and see me, on your way out?” he added. Mark nodded.

  “No problem,” he said. “I wanted to say goodbye anyhow.”

  And then he left, and Simon sat for a long time alone in the office, staring at nothing in particular, feeling nothing in particular, as though it had all become too much. But he simply wouldn’t give up. He thought about his brothers. He thought about his father and what he would say. Surely they had gone through something like this before. It wasn’t exactly unheard of for a chef to walk out right before a big event. The pressures in the kitchen….

  But it wasn’t like that at all.

  He rubbed h
is forehead and tried to calm himself down. Jenny would be fine. He was sure of that, but she would need support. Brilliant though she might be, she couldn’t possibly do it alone, and it didn’t matter how much the other chefs would back her or want it to work out. They simply didn’t have the skills.

  He groaned and rubbed harder at his forehead. He couldn’t stop thinking about Luke. There’s an answer right there. Just call him and ask. He reached for his phone and then set it down gently on the unfinished paperwork.

  All Luke wanted was to get out, and Simon couldn’t drag him back in again.

  Chapter Twelve

  BUT not all that long ago, in the shade of the walnut trees, as they leaned together like conspirators, Luke had promised Simon that if he ever lost his sous or his somm, Luke would help him find someone. And Simon had no doubt that Luke could still snap his fingers, and there’d be some young and eager chef on the next bus into town, bright-eyed and looking for a challenge.

  But he couldn’t bring in a chef who would displace Jenny, and would any of Luke’s connections be willing to work as an under chef to a nobody in the middle of nowhere? And learn a menu overnight? Nobody who was that good would want to play second fiddle.

  Except….

  A kitchen like Luke’s old place would have needed an excellent roundsman. Maybe, just maybe, there was someone who’d be more interested in the experience than the prestige. He picked up his phone, and this time he dialed Luke’s number.

  Bless him. Luke answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

  Simon took a deep breath and found himself hesitating.

  “Simon?” Luke said again. “Are you there?”

  “Hi,” Simon answered as though he were confessing something. “Listen….”

  “Uh-oh.”

  Simon laughed.

  “Trouble at the oasis?” Luke sounded sympathetic.

  “You know it.” He heard Luke’s sympathetic grunt. “The night before the big event.”

  “It never fails. I don’t miss it.”