by T. Neilson
Simon nodded at no one. He licked his lips.
“Look, Luke, you remember when we were talking at the menu tasting?”
“Mm-hmm?” Luke answered. In the background Simon could hear the sound of a stable yard—horses clip-clopping and snorting, people calling out to one another, and someone hollering instructions to a rider. He wondered if Luke was thinking about the ranch, about his own horse, about his own life, his new life waiting for him in Argentina, but he pushed that thought away. It wasn’t the time to be pining and maudlin. He was up to his neck in shit, and he needed to find some way to haul the whole kitchen out of it.
“I… have a favor to ask.”
It must’ve been the tone of his voice, because Luke’s answer was very quiet.
“What’s happened?”
Simon closed his eyes and laughed weakly. On the other end of the line, the sounds of horses and riders diminished, as though Luke were moving away from the action and into a quieter, more private place. Simon wondered suddenly if Luke was with Cole Doran, and he felt a surge of gratitude for Luke’s discretion.
“What’s happened?” Luke asked again.
Simon let it all come tumbling out. “God, everything’s gone south all at once. It turns out my poor dishwasher’s been homeless for I don’t know how long. I’ve been busting his ass about his whites all week, and the poor kid hasn’t even got enough money to do a load of laundry at the laundromat. I don’t know how he’s been keeping up. He’s waiting for his paycheck so he can pay the deposit on a place, but he can’t get his paycheck until he has his permanent address. And now Mark….” All at once, he found he couldn’t speak.
“Simon? Is Mark okay? Did something happen to him?”
“Mark’s okay,” Simon said quietly. “It’s Helena, his wife. She’s not okay. Like, maximum not okay. They just found out she has a brain tumor.”
There was silence from Luke, and in the intervening moment, Simon could hear birdsong.
“Christ Almighty,” Luke said very softly. “Is she okay? What’s going to happen?”
Simon closed his eyes. “He has to take her to Seattle tonight, and fuck if I’m going to try and stand in his way.”
“What do you need?”
Simon smiled weakly into his hand as a swell of gratitude passed through him. “You once told me you knew people. We were talking about Jenny and Hiro disappearing to California, but man, if I ever needed somebody, I need them now.”
“What are you looking for?”
“A sous who’s good with delicate work. Maybe a… really good roundsman would do too. There’s basically no chance to teach them the menu. There’s almost no training. I’ll fly them in from anywhere. I just need them here tonight. I know it’s going to cost me,” he added, “but if Luminara goes belly-up, I’m fucked, and so is everybody who depends on this place for a paycheck.”
On the other end of the line, Luke hummed softly. Simon imagined him with his eyes closed, mentally flipping through a roster of employees, friends, and acquaintances. “I’ll do it,” he said.
“Great. Thanks. Let me know where they’re at, and I’ll get them a ticket in on the first flight.”
Luke laughed softly. “No, I mean I’ll do it.”
“What? No.” Simon leaned forward, arms on his desk, and gripped his phone. “Listen to me. You said you were done, and I respect that and….” He couldn’t believe the words were coming out of his mouth. “And it’s a sous position. I can’t give the lead to anyone else. I… I can’t take it away from Jenny.”
“I know,” Luke answered. “That’s fine. Don’t bother posting the position. I’m applying.”
Simon shook his head. “You’re shitting me,” he whispered.
Luke laughed louder. “Nope. But nobody’s going to believe it till I show up in the kitchen.”
“Luke, look, no offense, but I don’t believe it.”
“I didn’t bring my whites,” Luke said, apparently ignoring Simon.
“Christ, you really are serious.”
“Of course I’m serious. I like Jenny, and,” he added a little softly, “I like you. I don’t want this to go badly for you.”
“But you said you never wanted to get back in the kitchen.”
“I said I never wanted to run a kitchen again. It’s the pressure I can’t stand. Well, I’ll be a sous. And anyway, nobody’s going to know about it, are they? You’re not going to tell the foodiesphere, are you? Tweet this or phone Cole or something?”
Simon leaned against his desk and let his head roll across the paperwork. “I am not going to breathe a single, solitary fucking word.”
“Perfect. So when’s my first shift, boss?”
“Jesus Christ,” Simon whispered into the papers. “Anytime you fucking like.”
A LITTLE later, while Simon was still slumped at his desk with his face pressed into his paperwork and the phone still held in his nerveless fingers, someone knocked at his door. He considered raising his head but decided against it. Too much effort.
“Come in,” he yelled right into the papers, but loud enough that the person at the door probably heard. He waited.
There was a beat of silence, and then Simon raised his head as the door opened and, very slowly, Jenny emerged from the hallway. Her forehead was creased and folded like a crumpled piece of paper, her eyes were red, and her nose had, until very recently, clearly been running.
“I just talked to Mark,” she said in a voice not much above a whisper. She sniffled and dropped into the chair. “This is awful.”
Simon recovered a fragment of his former dignity and pushed himself into an upright position. He nodded at her. “Yeah. It’s bad. Poor Mark. Poor Helena.”
Jenny looked down at her hands as though surprised to find she was twisting the hem of her white sleeve back and forth. She shrugged and shook her head. “I feel like we should do something for them.”
“I’m in,” he answered as he spread his hands on the desk. “I mean, there’s nothing we can do, practically. Not right now, anyway. But we can run some kind of fundraiser for them. I don’t think it’s the kind of thing they’d ask for, but I’m sure it’d make things easier. Even if it just pays for the cost of the hotel in Seattle. Do you want to be in charge of that?”
Jenny nodded. “Absolutely.”
Simon grabbed a pen from the old jam jar on his desk and flipped over an unpaid invoice to use as scrap. He wrote Fundraiser, Jenny to lead. Then he looked back at her. “What about you? Are you okay?”
She nodded. “Scared,” she admitted. “Terrified. I don’t think I can do it.”
Simon set the pen down. “Jenny, you’re the only one who can do it.”
“I really don’t want to fuck up.”
“I get that, but listen. The menu changes every year. If something goes wrong, only you are going to know about it.”
“But—”
“I need you, Jenny,” Simon said at last. “We just lost Mark. You’re the only person who can do it now. You’re the only one who knows the menu and has the training and the skills.”
She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. “If I’m going to do it, I need help. I’m going to need a sous chef. And I don’t know who can do it. Nobody else… nobody ever imagined Mark wouldn’t be here.”
And for the first time the whole damn afternoon, Simon felt a little happiness creep in as though the sun were breaking through heavy cloud. He smiled.
“That’s looked after.”
“What?”
“I have a sous for you.”
Jenny glanced up from her hands. “The other guys aren’t ready for something like this. Honestly. Not even Gurmail.”
“No. It’s nobody from our kitchen.”
When she looked surprised, he nodded and found that couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across his face. He could feel his expression go from cheeky to shit-eating. “You can’t tell a single goddamn person.”
Her brow contracted, and then her eyes widened. “Oh Jesu
s,” she whispered. “You’re kidding.”
Simon pointed at her. “If you don’t think you can handle having him as your sous, you have to tell me now. Can you work above him?”
Jenny closed her eyes and held her breath. Finally she nodded.
BY the time Jenny left his office, Luke had texted, I checked my calendar for my availability. Looks like I can come anytime. Just going to take a shower, and I’ll be right in. Can I borrow some whites?
Simon put his head down on his paperwork and laughed.
LUKE turned up an hour later wearing his penny loafers, that same pair of old, battered jeans that snugged up on his thighs and promised treasure behind the zipper, and an elderly and faded T-shirt that read Nobu on it. Simon met him at the door to the kitchen, grinning like an idiot.
“God, I am so glad to see you.” He wished he were only talking about Luminara and the kitchen and Jenny and not his heart running fast in his chest, but he meant that too. “I can’t tell you what this means to me.”
“I knew you would never ask,” Luke answered. “That’s why I offered.” Luke slapped him on the shoulder and left him reeling just a little at the door. He stepped past Simon and into the kitchen to smile at Jenny. “I’m afraid I need to borrow some whites, Chef,” he told her. “I’m a little unprepared.”
Simon thought for that instant that Jenny might burst into tears. Her face had gone completely red, and her eyes seemed extra bright, as though they were about to overflow. She cleared her throat. It was a loud sound in the strangely quiet kitchen.
“I would be… absolutely honored to sous for you tonight,” she said in a clear, quiet voice.
Luke shook his head. “No. This kitchen is yours. Where will I find a coat?”
“You can use one of mine.” Gurmail pointed to his locker. “I think we’re about the same size.”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
Luke started for the locker, and Jenny’s eyes followed him as though he were a wild animal loose in the kitchen. Everyone’s eyes followed him. And the moment he stepped out of the kitchen, everyone turned to look at Simon.
“Please, guys,” he said softly. “This all stays on the down low.”
And instant later Luke returned wearing that starched white coat and the black hat of the sous chef and presented himself to Jenny.
“Where is my station, Chef?”
Simon watched Jenny change in that moment. It was as though, up until that moment, she hadn’t actually believed any of it was real. But as Simon watched, the high color drained from her face, and she grew calm again. Simon had been working with Jenny long enough to know that one of her great virtues was her ability to become entirely calm in the face of utter disaster. They had only found out Jenny had first-aid training when Marcus chopped half his finger off one night. She was calm, collected, and matter-of-fact, until the end of the night, when Simon and Mark found her sobbing on a milk crate in the dry storage. He knew Jenny’s game face. He knew that underneath, she was terrified, but she would do it anyway. And that, Simon was sure, was what would make her a great chef. He felt pride pushing at his chest and a little pang of sorrow that Mark couldn’t be there to see Jenny move from sous to chef de cuisine in a single simple step, exactly as Mark had always hoped.
“All right,” Jenny said, her voice loud in the silent kitchen. “Sam? Did you clean those strawberries?”
“Yes, Chef!” he answered.
She nodded. “Good. Okay, everybody. You all know the menu, and you all know what’s expected of you. No matter what happens in here tonight, it is absolutely perfect out there. Now let’s do this.”
They all answered, “Yes, Chef!”
Chapter Thirteen
GINGER tapped Simon on the shoulder. “We’re letting the guests in now. Are you ready?”
Simon laughed, shrugged, and shook his head, all in one motion. “I think I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be,” he told her.
She gave him a curious, soft smile, almost entirely out of place on her hard-edged face. “I’m never ready either,” she confessed. “But this year is shaping up to be batshit. I think I’m extra unready.”
He laughed again. Behind him, the noise of the kitchen, if not exactly familiar, was close enough. Instead of Mark’s soft baritone, it was Jenny’s tenor calling out orders, issuing commands, supporting, guiding, urging the others on in a steady, quiet patter that carried on under the clatter of pots and pans. The sound of conversation, which at first was serious and low and whispered, and, even as Simon turned away from the kitchen and began to focus on what would be the outdoor dining room that night, turned warm and friendly, almost jovial. As he stepped out of the kitchen, he heard Sam ask Marcus, “Who’s the new guy?” and he tried not to laugh.
SIMON headed out through the back door and up the slope to where the August sun had baked the meadow grasses golden, and they crunched underfoot. Crickets were playing in the grass while the quartet warmed up, and waiters were already setting out the blankets and the picnic baskets as guests began to settle under the darkening sky. Soon the darkness would whisk the world away, the sky would be the stage, and the Perseids would be the show. Soon it would be dark, and the whole chaotic whirlwind of the summer would be at its peak. After tonight….
Calm suffused him, and he was, in some distant part of his mind, startled by it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt calm—maybe not since his father died and he’d taken it all on.
Luke’s in the kitchen, Ginger’s got the guests, and I’m out here. It’s going to be okay. He smiled at the Chen family, who had their little girl in tow, and the Campbells, who were sitting down to their third Luminara. It’s actually going to be okay.
IT was a blur while it happened, and afterward, Simon could only recall pieces. He remembered catching Luke’s eye in the kitchen and seeing a flash of a smile. He remembered the elegant platter of berries and flowers that passed him, flowers heaped on flowers into a delicate little mound. He remembered the lanterns on the dark, reflective water and the guests as they settled on their picnic blankets in the tall grass. He remembered the first delighted exclamations as the sky grew dark enough and the meteors began to streak across the glittering sky and the quartet played in perfect counterpoint to the falling stars. He remembered hearing the sound of champagne corks popping and being startled by it. Midnight already? Moments later, the fireworks boomed and dazzled in the sky.
He remembered the first farewells of the guests. The Chens departed with their little girl fast asleep on her dad’s shoulders, the Campbells with weary but contented smiles, and Cole Doren with a dreamy sort of look on his face. “That was amazing,” he had said. Simon definitely remembered that.
He remembered stepping into the kitchen and realizing to his horror that it was silent. Then he discovered the silence was not that of a kitchen in trouble. Service was over, and Jenny had herded the kitchen staff out to the darkened parking lot. There they all stood with their faces turned heavenward—chefs and waiters sharing milk-crate seats and leaning against the walls. Jenny and Hiro stood shoulder to shoulder, not quite canoodling. Sam sat with Ginger and followed the line of her finger as she pointed to a meteor streaking across the sky. Luke stood with his arms folded across his chest and a small, wry smile softening his face.
Simon watched a moment from the door and then retreated to the quiet kitchen and then to his office to catch his breath.
He saw the first of the cleaning shift arrive at the back door, and he found Jenny slumped down on a milk crate by the back door, quietly crying. Luke squatted down like a coach and said, “Mark is going to be so proud of you,” as she wiped her eyes.
Ginger dragged him out to say the final good nights to the last of the revelers, and then he finally stole back into his office to take a breath or two. He realized he was starving, and his dress shirt and his pants were stuck to his skin. In spite of the cool night air, he had spent the whole event bathed in sweat. He suddenly wanted to drop down next to Je
nny and cut loose too.
On his desk his phone rattled once and then again. He went over and saw that it was a text from Mark.
I hope everything went well.
Simon sank down in his chair, put his head in his hands, and took a few deep breaths. When he felt steady enough, he texted back. It was beautiful. I wish you could have seen it.
Jenny okay?
Simon smiled at the phone. Crying her eyes out, but she was a rock in there tonight.
Poor kid. I’m glad she did it.
You built a hell of a chef. Give Helena our best and get some sleep.
Will do.
Someone knocked on the door, and Simon cleared his throat. “Come in,” he called, surprised to find he sounded hoarse. The door opened, and Luke peered into the office. His handsome face was lined and weary, and his eyes were threaded with red and dark underneath. But he wore that same, soft half smile that Simon had seen earlier, and for all his evident exhaustion, he looked pleased too. He had changed, stripped out of his borrowed whites. He was back in his jeans and T-shirt and looked ready to leave.
“Mind if I sit?” he asked. “My feet are killing me.”
Simon gestured to the empty chair that faced his desk. It had had more than its share of butts in it lately, though none as good as Luke’s. “Please do,” he said. “I guess you didn’t pack kitchen shoes when you packed for vacation.”
Luke shook his head. “Not exactly. And it’s been a hell of a long time since I did a full service like that. It was a good service tonight.” He dropped into the chair with a groan.
“Thank you,” Simon said earnestly. “For everything. It would have been brutal if we had to throw a complete stranger in.”
Luke nodded, and Simon was pretty sure the two of them were both thinking about how unfair such a thing would have been, both to the under chefs and to Jenny. The silence stretched out a little.
“I let Mark know everything went well,” Simon ventured, feeling as if there was something he wasn’t doing, wasn’t addressing. “And I saw you talking with Jenny. Is she okay?”