With a Twist

by Martin, Deirdre

  He realized that in the past few months, the sibling he’d become closest to was Liam. It was something he never could have imagined happening, but now that it had, he was grateful. He just wished the circumstances were different.

  He felt a tug to go back into the kitchen and talk to Natalie, but he was in no mood to face dirty looks from his mother. As it turned out, he didn’t have to: Natalie came into the living room.

  “Is she okay?” he asked.

  “Non,” Natalie replied bluntly. “How could she be? But she’s trying to be strong.”

  “I suppose like everyone else in this room apart from my father, you think Liam’s having to leave is my fault.”

  “What does it matter what I think?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn could see his sisters discreetly watching them. Did they know he and Natalie had split up? They had to. Their mother was gossip central.

  “It matters to me.”

  “Yes, I do think it’s partially your fault,” Natalie said. “And so do you. I see it in your eyes. There’s guilt there.”

  Distressed, Quinn walked away, joining his father and brother-in-law in the sports discussion. He really wished to hell his mother hadn’t invited Natalie. Saying good-bye to his brother was going to be hard enough without having to deal with his ex-girlfriend—who hated him—being there, too.

  “Hey, everyone.”

  Liam entered the room, looking and sounding surprisingly cheerful. He kissed Natalie and his sisters before hugging Quinn, Brendan, and his father in turn. “Why the long faces?”

  They all stared at him as if he was crazy. “Oh, c’mon,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m going on an extended vacation, people. You should be envious of me.”

  Mr. O’Brien looked alarmed. “I better not hear from your aunt and uncle that you’re lying around on your arse all day.”

  Liam frowned. “As if that’s a possibility. No, I’m sure I’ll find a job pumping gas,” he said sarcastically. “Or at the pub. Or shearing sheep. Or maybe I’ll become the world’s oldest altar boy. We all know there’s so much to do in Ballycraig.”

  “World’s oldest altar boy. Now that I’d pay to see,” said Brendan. Everyone laughed.

  His family was trying to put a good face on things as they sat around the dining room table eating cake in the early hours of the morning, but the subcurrent of melancholy was just too strong. As Quinn thought would be the case, it was Liam who decided when it was time to call it a night.

  He looked awkward as he stood up. “I really should get to bed. My flight leaves early tomorrow—actually, today,” he said in so quiet a voice it was difficult to hear.

  There was the sound of chairs scraping back from the table accompanied by a heavy, profound silence. His mother, along with Maggie and Sinead, had started weeping. Liam, their father, and Natalie were all teary-eyed. Quinn yearned to cry, but for some reason, her presence held him back.

  He noticed Natalie’s discomfort and came up to her as everyone began to take his or her turns hugging Liam. “Are you all right?”

  “I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered. She removed herself slightly from the ring of family.

  “You wouldn’t be here if my parents didn’t think it was appropriate.”

  “I feel so badly for your parents.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” said Quinn, a lump forming in his throat. “But they’ll go see him in the summer.”

  “And will you? Or do you even take vacations?”

  Quinn blinked and said nothing. His mother was wailing in his father’s arms, a sound that pierced his heart. Your fault, the voice in his head accused. All your fault.

  Finally, it was his turn to embrace his brother. “I ever tell you how proud I am of you?” Quinn said, jaw clenched tight so he didn’t cry. “Probably not enough.”

  “Yeah, ’cause you’re a dick.”

  They laughed, still holding on to each other.

  “I need you to do me a favor,” Liam said as they broke apart.

  “What’s that?”

  “I want you to write the best effin’ article you can,” Liam said fiercely. “You got that?”

  “Got it,” Quinn choked out. He stepped back so his mother could again hug Liam.

  “I gotta get outta here,” Quinn said to his father, starting to feel overwhelmed. He hugged him tight. “I’ll see you and Mom tomorrow.”

  His father nodded, and Quinn headed for the door, bounding down the stairs. Only then did he let himself break down.

  33

  The white lie Mr. O’Brien told the regulars worked: they had animated discussions about where Liam should go and what he should do on his vacation in Ireland. Mr. O’Brien was working the bar and doing quite well, despite his obvious back pain. Every time he bent down to get something and winced, Natalie winced, too. There was no way he could do this long term, she thought. They’d have to find a replacement for Liam and fast. She made a mental note to ask Anthony if he might know someone.

  The O’Briens kept up a surprisingly good facade. Liam’s absence seemed to hit Quinn especially hard. A few times Natalie caught him looking broody as he stared down into his whiskey. He feels guilty, she thought, and well he should. She tried to muster some sympathy for him but couldn’t. Right now, her opinion was that his damn article had hurt both her and Liam. She hoped it was worth it.

  As usual, the dining room was hopping. Were she managing the restaurant, she would definitely employ another waitress, but it wasn’t for her to say. She knew better than to make suggestions to Mrs. O’Brien about anything.

  A table of firefighters, whom she had become fond of because they were very funny and down to earth, asked for their usual, and she hustled to the bar to give Mr. O’Brien their orders. He was patiently listening to Mrs. Colgan rattle on tipsily about how she might get a new parrot and name it Rudy the Second. He seemed glad of a reason to cut the conversation short.

  “Mad as a bloody hatter, that one,” he said under his breath to Natalie.

  “You all encourage her, though!”

  “Ah, she’s harmless enough. And her late husband was a good sort. Hardworking man, construction. Bit of a bastard when he drank, though, from what I understand.”

  “You encourage PJ, too. And the Mouth.”

  Mr. O’Brien shrugged diffidently. “Lonely souls. If they get a bit of comfort and company being here, there’s no harm in it, right?”

  Natalie agreed. This was one of the reasons she’d become so fond of Quinn’s family: they all had such good hearts. So did Anthony’s family, come to think of it. She felt a warm glow inside as she realized how lucky she was, knowing so many warm, wonderful, kind people in New York. It was lovely.

  As she’d vowed, she’d returned all the items from her spending spree. It was hard, but she felt so much lighter for doing the right thing. She also attended a Shopaholics Anonymous meeting, realizing she should have been going all along. It was good to be reminded that she wasn’t the only one who backslid. No one was perfect; it would always be a struggle. But it was one she intended to win.

  “Natalie?”

  Mason. She made her way down to his end of the bar, expecting he’d want her to get him another Stella Artois. But his bottle was still half full.

  Natalie smiled. “Hello, Mason. What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering what you were doing Sunday night.”

  The question was so unexpected, she was momentarily tongue-tied. “Um . . .”

  Mason forged ahead. “There’s a new Spanish restaurant opening on the Upper West Side that’s gotten amazing reviews. I know you appreciate fine dining. Would you like to go to dinner with me?”

  Natalie felt helpless. “Mason . . .” She knit her hands together nervously beneath the bar. “I’m not really interested in dating right now.”

  “It’s not a date,” he insisted with that charming smile of his. “Just a friendly meal.”

  Another delusional man, Natalie t
hought. He was telling her what she wanted to hear to try to convince her to go out with him, but she knew how he felt about her. There was longing in his eyes every time they spoke. If she agreed to dinner, there would be others until eventually, he would try to turn it into something amorous. She couldn’t lead him on that way, even though the wicked part of her that longed to get back at Quinn was tempted to accept his offer, since she knew Mason would tell Quinn about it just to torture him. But it wasn’t right to use someone that way.

  “I’m sorry, Mason, but I can’t,” Natalie said gently. “I have too much on my plate right now. But I appreciate you asking me.”

  “Mmm,” he said stiffly. “Perhaps when you’re over O’Brien—”

  “This has nothing to do with Quinn,” Natalie cut in frigidly.

  Clement’s stony silence spoke volumes.

  Natalie picked up the tray of firefighters’ beers and walked away.

  “I want your story next week.”

  Quinn stared at Mason, who’d called him into his office the second Quinn hit the newsroom. Quinn assumed he was in for another pathetic admonishment about how little time he’d been spending at the office tending to his “light” editorial duties.

  Quinn sat down this time, casually putting his feet up on Clement’s desk as he tilted back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Kinda cutting off your nose to spite your face, wanting an article that isn’t quite done, isn’t it?”

  “I want it. I’ve seen pieces of legislation move faster than this.”

  “Read my lips: it’s not done.”

  “Could you get your feet off my desk?” Mason asked, pursing his lips distastefully.

  “Insubordination, huh?” Quinn swung his legs off the desk. “Better?”

  “I’ve had enough of your bullshit, O’Brien.”

  “Funny you should say that, because I’ve had enough of yours. I quit.”

  Clement laughed curtly. “Pardon?”

  “I quit—you know, as in ‘You can go fuck yourself, I’m out the door?’ Would I like my piece to run in the paper that made me what I am? Hell yeah. But you’re turning the Sent into a piece of shit. Besides, I know you: you’ll hack my article to shreds. Why? (A) Because you can’t edit worth a damn, (B) because you don’t want to make waves with the mayor’s office, and (C) because it’s your pathetic way of trying to remind me who’s boss around here. I’ve already talked to the Standard: they want me, and they’re willing to wait to run the article until it’s good and ready. I love it here. Correction: loved it here. But if I can’t do my job, there’s no point in staying.”

  Clement sighed, looking at Quinn as if he were an idiot. “I never said you couldn’t do your job. I just said you’d be reporting on a much smaller scale because of taking over Rogan’s position.”

  Quinn snorted loudly in disbelief. “I’m not taking over the job you fired my friend from! Are you serious? Why do you think I haven’t given a shit about being around the office? I just told you that so you’d get off my ass about the article.” He stood up, stretching. “Guess I’ll be hitting the road.”

  “Not alone.” Clement picked up the phone. “I’m calling one of the guards at the front desk to come upstairs and watch you as you box up your things to make sure you don’t steal anything that’s Sent property. And then he’s going to escort you out of the building.”

  “Wow. I wonder what will happen if I try to sneak a stapler past him. Will he shoot me?”

  Clement ignored him. “Put your ID tag down on the desk, please.”

  Quinn pulled out his building ID from the back pocket of his jeans and slapped it down on Clement’s desk with a big grin on his face. “Here ya go, my man. Have a good one.”

  “What the fuck? You couldn’t tell us you were planning this?!”

  Kenny Durham looked so distraught as Quinn threw his crap into a box that Quinn was tempted to go over to photo and beg a few Valium for his friend off Darby. He felt bad that he hadn’t said a word about his defection to his friends, but the Sent was a helluva lot like the Wild Hart when it came to gossip: it traveled faster than a Japanese bullet train.

  “Of course I couldn’t tell you. Within a day it would have been all over the newsroom. Plus I didn’t want to depress you. Or freak you out.”

  “Oh, and I’m not depressed and freaked out now?” Durham shook his head despondently. “Oh, man, you so can’t go. You know what it’s going to be like around here without you?”

  “No one’s making you stay. Find a job at another paper and tell Kangaroo Jack to shove it up his ass.”

  “There’s not a huge need for crossword puzzle writers, Quinn. All the papers already have one.”

  “You’ll be fine,” said Quinn as he continued mindlessly chucking his stuff into a box: photos, his dictionary, old press clippings, and his thesaurus. “You’ve got Rodriguez. You’ve got Cindy. And we’ll still be hanging at the pub.”

  “Yeah right.” Durham looked forlorn. “But I bet you’re gonna start hanging at Tico’s Grill with the rest of the Standard guys.”

  “Maybe a few nights a week. But the rest of the time I’ll be at the Hart—if I’m not working.” Actually, hanging with his new coworkers off-hours hadn’t crossed his mind. But now that Durham mentioned it, it would probably be a smart thing to do, especially since he already knew and liked a couple of guys over there.

  Quinn glanced at the bone-thin, milk-pale guard named Tom, who was busy watching CNN on one of the myriad TVs hanging from the newsroom ceiling. He didn’t give a rat’s ass what Quinn packed and what he didn’t. Quinn held up a stapler. “Should I take this?” he asked Durham, who shrugged.

  “Tom, should I take this?”

  “Do you need it?”

  Quinn turned the stapler over in his hands. “No.” He tossed it in the box anyway.

  “Cindy is gonna freak when she gets in and hears you quit, pal,” said Durham.

  “No she won’t. She’ll be envious.”

  “Probably,” Durham said glumly. “So when do you start at the Standard?”

  “Tomorrow.” Quinn grinned. “And you know what? I can’t goddamn wait.”

  Talk about—what was the word?—synchronicity. Here Natalie had realized she’d been lax in her search for a job managing a restaurant, and voilà! There was an ad in the paper looking for a restaurant manager for a medium-sized French restaurant. A simple phone call, and she was on her way to an interview.

  She’d actually heard of the restaurant before: Le Bristol. She’d called Anthony to see if he knew anything about the chef. He told her the head chef, who was also the owner, was immensely talented, but at one time, he’d been a bit of a bad boy: womanizing, a heroin addict. “The Keith Richards of chefs,” was how Anthony described him. “But he’s clean now,” he assured her.

  Natalie entered the empty restaurant, and as she had twice before, she sat down at an empty table. She was surprised to realize that she liked empty restaurants. They were so peaceful, not a hint of the hustle and bustle and buzz of conversation to come. The calm before the storm.

  The chef emerged from the kitchen right on time. He was tall and thin with a thick mane of gray hair, wearing cowboy boots, faded jeans, and a plain white T-shirt. A cigarette dangled sensuously from between his lips.

  Natalie went to stand, but he waved her down. “Sit. I don’t do formal.”

  He pulled out a chair. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You smoke?”

  “I used to.”

  He held a hand out to her. “Rick Lemieux.”

  “Natalie Bocuse.”

  “Nice accent. Customers would love it. You got a résumé?”

  Merde. She had never thought of writing up an actual résumé. What an idiot.

  “I thought I’d just tell you . . .”

  “Go ahead.”

  While Lemieux puffed away on his cigarette, blowing funnels of smoke up to the ceiling, Natalie
recited her short but sweet résumé.

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

  Natalie was surprised by the question. “No.”

  “Good. Because I fuckin’ hate vegetarians. You ever eat pig cheek? Entrails?”

  Natalie thought for a moment. “No, but I love sweet-breads.”

  “Are you willing to try new things?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He tilted back in his chair. “Who’s your favorite band?”

  Natalie was confused. “Pardon?”

  “Favorite band. You dig the Ramones?”

  “I don’t know them.”

  “Hmm. Not good.” He snuffed out his cigarette. “If you were stranded on a desert island, what’s the one CD you’d bring with you?”

  What does this have to do with food? she wanted to ask. She thought hard, trying to come up with something fast.

  “The Beatles’ White Album,” she offered tentatively.

  Lemieux looked at her with begrudging respect. “I’ll take that.” He lit another cigarette. “You’re on death row. What would your final meal be?”

  Anthony must have been wrong. Lemieux was obviously still on drugs. Again she felt like she had no time to think. “Mmm. rabbit pâté to start . . . then, for the main course . . . roast quail with a simple asparagus mold as the legume . . . and for dessert, clafouti à la liqueur.”

  “You’re hired.”

  Natalie blinked. “What?”

  “You’re the new manager. You’re obviously smart, you know French food, and you’ve got some management experience. You might be in over your head at first, but in my opinion, that’s the only way people learn. It can get nuts in here, so I might need you to seat people sometimes, too. When can you start?”

  Natalie’s head was spinning. “Uh . . . I need to give my current job at least one week’s notice so they can find a replacement.”

  “Sounds good. Call me during the week if you run into any trouble with that. Otherwise, I’ll see you next Wednesday. And pick up the Ramones’ first CD. It’ll change your life.”