Sweet Girl

by Rachel Hollis

  I turn and head out of the kitchen, going the long way, all the way around the breakfast bar, to avoid walking past Taylor. If that jackass is inclined to check out my shorts, I’m not going to give him a clear line of sight.

  “And this one is?” Landon takes a sniff of the cocktail in her hand.

  The other six options I created are lined up on the coffee table between me, her, and Miko. Taylor took off right after they finished working out the timeline for the party this weekend. I stayed in the kitchen mixing the drinks, but I heard him claim he had other work to finish up that evening. Since it was after eight o’clock, I couldn’t help but wonder if his “work” had an IQ that was at least as big as her bra size.

  “That one”—I point at the lowball glass in Landon’s hand—“is an espresso margarita made with a citrus-infused simple syrup and a cinnamon-sugar rim.”

  “Well, that sounds like—” Miko starts in cheerfully.

  “The best I could come up with given the required ingredient.” I roll my eyes. “I told you both already, espresso-flavored tequila is an abomination.”

  I take a sip from my own cocktail, which remains espresso and tequila free. Landon does a weird little dance as she sips on the cocktail in her hand and then grins as she sets it to the side.

  “Well, abomination or not, Riverton Tequila is our biggest client and is currently making it possible for me to pay rent on time,” she says while making a note in the giant event binder she carries around for each party.

  “And how bad can it be?” Miko asks, pulling the tequila bottle over and pouring some into a shot glass to taste. “Tequila is good. Espresso is good.” She gives it an exploratory sniff. “It smells interesting.”

  I watch with a grin as she shoots the entire glass into her mouth and swallows, but I don’t fight my laughter as she battles the urge to spit it all back up again.

  “Oh my, no!” Miko points an angry finger at the bottle. “Why? Why would someone do that to perfectly good liquor?”

  I don’t need to say “I told you so”; I assume my smirk says it for me.

  Landon sips the next drink and smiles over the rim of the glass. “This one isn’t bad. What’s it called?” she asks.

  “Espresso Sunrise,” I tell them, folding my legs underneath me on the couch. “Except I used both dark- and white-chocolate liqueur to get the gradient color.”

  “You’re so creative, dude,” Miko tells me as she reaches out to grab the glass.

  She takes a sip and almost immediately fights a gag reflex.

  “Gods, I hate this stuff.” She glares at the glass in her hand.

  Landon laughs at her. “Why do you keep drinking it, then?”

  Miko shrugs. “Most liquor tastes terrible. At least this one has the added bonus of caffeine. Plus, if the client asks I want to be able to speak about the menu intelligently.”

  Landon sips the third drink and promptly sets it to the side distastefully. I guess my play on a Tom Collins didn’t go over well.

  “Speaking of the menu,” Landon asks, “what are we going to name these things?”

  “Ooh, how about we play off famous literary references, like Tequila Mockingbird!” Miko pipes up happily.

  She never misses an opportunity to allude to anything book related.

  I purse my lips in irritation since she felt the need to yell loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Landon happily picks up the gauntlet.

  “The Polar Express-o.” Landon giggles helplessly. “And it’s—I don’t know—chilled or something.”

  “Good enough!” Miko tells her.

  They both look at me like eager puppies.

  “Um, Tequila Flat?” I try.

  “Boo!” Miko says through laughter. “Nobody under a hundred will get a Steinbeck reference!” She runs her fingers back and forth through her already-wild hair. “Hmm, I wish I could think of some play on Graceling. Not necessarily a classic per se, but I adored that trilogy. We could have a drink that is two different colors, which would be totally esoteric, I know, but if anyone got it they’d be way stoked.”

  I rarely know what Miko is talking about, but my little buzz from half a cocktail is making me feel benevolent. I try to speak her bookish language.

  “Is that the one with the different factions?” I ask.

  Miko gasps in outrage.

  Landon scowls at me.

  “You know better than to bring up Divergent around her,” Landon says emphatically.

  “But I thought—”

  “I’m still not over it, OK?” Miko says seriously.

  I’m confused. “But didn’t you read those a while ago?”

  “The pain doesn’t ever really go away.” She stabs a straw down into the drink closest to her before taking an angry sip. She only gags once this time, then continues her diatribe. “There were just so many other possible endings and it was—”

  “We know, girl. Let’s try not to focus on it, OK?” Landon says while glaring at me.

  I glare back.

  If they expect me to keep track of all the fictional characters and subplots that might send Miko into a tailspin, we are going to be here awhile.

  “Let’s move on.” Landon pats Miko’s shoulder reassuringly. “Drink number four has a cinnamon stick as a garnish. Isn’t that fun?”

  “Four!” Miko cries sadly.

  I look at Landon, at a loss.

  I don’t know what that means, I mouth to her.

  “It’s OK, sweetie,” she tells Miko with a roll of her eyes and a smile.

  The best option now is just to play along and try to divert her attention. She’s had at least a whole drink now between all of her sampling, and Miko’s theatrics are always exacerbated by liquor and the mention of young adult fiction.

  The next morning my alarm goes off way too early. Of course, anytime I have to set an alarm, it’s too early for me. I roll out of bed, and I’m already in the bathroom brushing my teeth before my mind is even fully awake. In the mirror I can see that last night’s mascara is smudged in every direction, but I don’t wipe it away. I put it on thick, and only a three-step process or an act of God is going to get it off. First things first, though, I need coffee.

  I walk out into the hallway and head for the kitchen, with my eyelids open just wide enough to see the way.

  I smell the coffee before I see it, and then I turn into the kitchen and find Landon there drinking her own cup. I’m so thrilled at finding the caffeine already waiting for me that I almost smile, or at least sort of grimace in an upward direction. Landon beams at me over her mug with way too much enthusiasm.

  “Happy Sunday!” she calls.

  I hate morning people.

  “I’m gonna go to church, and then I thought I’d hit the farmers’ market. You wanna come?” she asks when I don’t respond to her greeting.

  “Work,” I grumble in reply.

  She looks around the kitchen; for what, I don’t know. Finally she gives up the pretense.

  “Your mom called me!” It bursts out of her mouth like a cheer, and she instantly starts biting her lip when I scowl in response.

  “She said you won’t answer your phone. She said you’re being prickly and combative, and you’re going to force her to do something drastic.”

  I swallow my first sip of coffee too quickly, and it burns my tongue. I am instantly awake and annoyed.

  “She doesn’t need to check up on me,” I bark at her. “I am not a child!”

  Landon smiles at me, and it’s just short of patronizing. At twenty-three she’s younger than I am, younger than everyone we hang out with, actually, but that’s never stopped her from trying to offer an opinion to anyone who will listen.

  “Then maybe you should stop acting like one,” she says, before raising her cup and taking a demure sip.

  I am way too flipping tired to be having this conversation with her.

  “Oh, you can just stop your scowling right now. It hasn’t worked to scare me off yet, and it l
ikely causes premature wrinkles.”

  I stare mutinously at the neon hearts covering her pajama pants. The fact that someone wearing so many shades of pink at one time feels comfortable lecturing me just shows how far off track my life has gotten since she cartwheeled into it last year.

  “I don’t want to talk about this right now,” I growl.

  “We have to. You’re never ever awake this early, so it’s the perfect time. Plus I have an event tonight, so we can’t talk then. What’s going on? Why won’t you return Viv’s calls?”

  I refuse to answer the questions simply because she thinks she can ask them. I latch onto the first part of her reasoning.

  “I’m awake this early because I have to meet with the produce supplier to approve the new selections for work,” I yell, and make a beeline back to my room. “You acting like a harpy is going to make me late!”

  “Why won’t you stay and discuss this?” she demands, stamping her foot.

  “Because I don’t want to,” I say. Then I throw out the most mature statement of the century: “And because I don’t like you very much right now!”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t like you right now either!” she yells back.

  I’m actually kind of impressed; that was pretty stern for Landon.

  “Max?” she calls sheepishly.

  “What?”

  “Take an umbrella. It’s supposed to be unseasonably drizzly today.”

  All trace of her aggravation is gone. She sounds more worried about my getting caught in bad weather than my yelling at her.

  I sigh so loudly that she’s got to be able to hear it even back in the kitchen. That’s the problem with Landon; she’s always quick to get over an argument, and ridiculously thoughtful and kind. She makes it sort of impossible to hate her. It’s one of her most annoying qualities.

  The meeting with the hotel’s produce supplier is in the back of the industrial kitchen. The room itself is roughly the size of a small island nation because it supports all the restaurants and bars on-site. The assembled motley crew in the room are gathered around a long stainless-steel table that’s covered with every imaginable bit of produce you’ll find in season. Since we’re in California and it’s early summer, the assortment is extensive.

  Fresh fruits, vegetables, and herbs are spread out in every direction and are being sampled, sniffed, and discussed by the sous-chefs from all of the hotel’s restaurants. They’re all tattooed and grizzled, and every one of them looks as delighted to be awake before ten in the morning as I do. Since almost all restaurant-industry employees work late, we aren’t typically known to be joyful early risers. As the supplier hands out different seasonal produce to sample, it doesn’t escape my notice that I’m the only woman in this crowd and the only one who isn’t actually a chef. Typically the general manager of Gander should make all the decisions, but he doesn’t know anything about mixology, which is why I’m here instead. I step forward and sort through the herbs directly in front of me. In turn I pick up basil, rosemary, thyme, and lavender and rub them between my fingers until their scent saturates the air around me. All of them can be muddled in my drinks, infused within a simple syrup, or used to make a flavored spirit. The goal with any of them, at least as far as I’m concerned, is to find flavors that complement each other in unexpected ways. Like the bite of black pepper with the tartness of a fresh mango, or a dirty martini served with a white-chocolate truffle on the side. Or the acidity in heirloom tomatoes muddled against summer strawberries at the height of the season. Actually, we might just be close enough to that part of the season to try a version of that drink.

  I reach out to sample a berry, but a tiny hand slaps mine out of the way.

  What the—

  I turn to snap at my attacker, but the words die on my tongue.

  She can’t be more than five feet tall, and half of that height appears to be made up of salt-and-pepper hair that’s pulled up high in a topknot that defies gravity. She’s wrapped a scarf around her head too many times to count, and the effect is a brightly colored turban. Even though she just attacked me, she’s not even paying me any notice now. Her eyes are entirely on the berries, praising them like a beloved pet.

  I never knew it was possible to be jealous of fresh fruit.

  I’ve watched Avis Phillips through the window of Dolci more times than I can count. I’ve tried every dessert she’s ever served on her menu, and I’ve read all of her cookbooks cover to cover. I’ve seen celebrities and musicians; hell, I met the president a few years ago when my parents bought a table at his fundraising dinner. But I’ve never been as starstruck as I am now.

  “I am such a massive fan of your work!” It bursts out of my lips and falls in the space between us. I’m so shocked that I said it that I take a step backwards, as if the distance will erase my mortification. I look down, surprised to see my words aren’t actually flapping around on the ground like a dying bird.

  Avis squints up at me through gigantic purple bifocals.

  “What’s the best dish on my menu?” She barks it like an order.

  I take a step forward.

  “My favorite is—”

  “I didn’t ask your favorite, Stork; I asked what was best.”

  She looks back down at the table before her and starts inspecting the blueberries. I don’t even question the nickname. I’m tall, she’s short, whatever. Frankly, she could call me any name at all and most of the curse words I know, and I’d still answer to it. My career-crush on her is that bad.

  “The orange-zest Baumkuchen with the white-chocolate ganache.” I answer her without giving myself time to debate it.

  She barely moves her eyes from the berries, but there’s a little flicker of notice, and it’s enough that I can see I’ve caught her attention.

  I keep talking.

  “It’s incredibly labor intensive, and almost impossible to pull off. Most people wouldn’t attempt more than ten or twelve layers, but yours has thirty-eight—I’ve counted them. More than once.”

  She snorts in response and starts to manhandle a loquat like she’s checking it for concealed weapons. After another couple of minutes I realize that she’s not going to speak to me anymore. I keep watching her, racking my brain and trying to think of what I can say to engage her in conversation again. I never thought I’d actually meet her, and now that she’s in front of me, every single question I’ve ever wanted to ask her comes bubbling to the surface. How many years did she attend culinary school? What made her want to be a baker in the first place? How does it feel to be a female boss with a staff of all men? Why doesn’t she use raspberries in her layer cake? Did she really throw a drink in Thomas Keller’s face at last year’s South Beach Wine and Food Festival?

  There is only one female Certified Master Pastry Chef in the entire nation, and she’s standing next to me. I have to ask her something in case I never get this opportunity again! I filter through the litany of questions and quickly decide on the most important.

  “Is it cardamom? Is that what you put in the budino?”

  Her head turns in my direction. Her mouth is outlined on all sides by wrinkles from a lifetime of smoking, and when her lips purse, I take it as permission to continue.

  “There’s a little hint of something under the flavor of the caramel, and I’ve always wanted to know what it is.”

  She studies me again in closer detail, and I try not to fidget while she looks me over. Finally she opens her mouth and shocks me completely.

  “I’m hiring, Stork. You interested?”

  Chapter Four

  I’m not sure that I was able to give Avis any kind of verbal commitment, because I was too overwhelmed to reply. But surely I must have nodded or something, because here I am following her down the hallway like a dutiful puppy. We come from the main kitchen and in through the back of a smaller kitchen, where Latin music is bouncing out of surprisingly nice stereo speakers and filling the already-hot room.

  Avis whirls around and looks at me. Th
rough the lenses of her giant glasses, her eyes look twice as large as they are.

  “You’re here because I need a stork,” she says.

  I never thought my height would be any kind of job qualification, but Avis’s oddball personality is as notorious as she is, and I’ll take whatever help I can get.

  I nod. “Yes, I—”

  She waves me off with an erratic hand.

  “No need to discuss it. Joey will tell you what you need to know. I’ll only tell you one thing.”

  She takes out a pack of cigarettes and taps it against her hip. We stand there in silence for at least three minutes before I realize the cigarettes are keeping time with the music in the air. It’s a little awkward—OK, more than a little awkward, but I wait patiently for her to tell me whatever it is she wants me to know. When she does finally get around to it, the words are no less ominous for having been delivered by the absent-minded professor.

  “Nobody ever gave me a chance, Stork”—she points the pack of cigarettes at me—“and you’re getting this. It’s the only one you’ll get from me.”

  I nod earnestly.

  “Now”—Avis points a wrinkled finger at the tile below my feet—“you stand there.”

  I nod again, but she’s already walking away. I’m standing in the exact spot she left me, dead center where four dark-orange tiles come together. X marks the spot. I look around, using the moment to try to calm myself enough to process what’s happening. The scuffed toe of my Converse is so old and grimy that the white has long faded to gray. A plume of flour in the air dissipates and settles around my shoes, snapping me into focus, and my brain finally catches up.

  I’m standing in Dolci!

  I whirl around until I can see the partition of glass that separates the kitchen from the lobby, just to confirm where I am. How many times have I stood on the other side of that glass and wondered what it would be like in here? How often have I watched the first crew and wished I knew what they were working on?

  I spin back in the other direction, suddenly wanting to memorize every single bit of the action I can, in case I never get back here again.