Bread and Butter

by Michelle Wildgen

  “What did they say?” he asked.

  “They said the duck confit was delicious—a trifle salty for their blood pressure, but delicious—and your mother is very concerned what people think of the lamb’s neck.”

  “That damn lamb’s neck,” he said. “I don’t even want to talk about it anymore. Listen, you guys have a seat.”

  Britt flagged down Anna, the head server. She had straight dark brows and yellow hair dyed a deliberately fake canary color, with a scruffy fringe of bangs and a silver nose stud.

  “Got it, one of everything. Is that your other brother?” she asked.

  “Yup. And the executive chef from Winesap,” he said. “And don’t think for a second that his being our brother is going to make him any nicer.” But even as he said this, Leo was leaning back in his chair, laughing at something, nodding pleasantly at a neighboring table, and looking like pure charm and benevolence. Anna shrugged and headed off to get their drink orders. At the table, Leo and Thea looked over their menus. Their posture was straight; they weren’t touching. They might have been at a menu meeting at Winesap. Still, it was another beat before Britt even remembered to tell Harry their brother was here.

  When he got to the line, Harry was drinking a pitcher of water from a shelf beneath the counter. “Hey, Leo’s here,” Britt said, leaning over the counter. “With Thea.” Harry nodded, swallowing. He didn’t seem to find Thea’s presence as provocative as Britt did, or maybe he was just too slammed to care. “How you doing back there?”

  “Okay,” Harry said. “I think okay. What are you sending to Leo?”

  “Everything.”

  Britt looked again toward the front of the dining room. Where could Camille be? Harry might know, which didn’t make him feel any less nervous. At first he had had the distinct sensation of being the interloper on Camille’s existing friendship with his brother, but then Britt had the impression that Harry and Camille no longer saw each other quite so often. He didn’t want to ask, or to look at their phones when they buzzed with a message or a call, but then again he did want to, too. Surely Harry’s friendship with Camille had slowed a bit as he was swallowed by the restaurant as well.

  “Hey, I thought Camille was coming,” Britt said. “Did you talk to her?”

  Harry turned back to his range. “Oh,” he said over his shoulder, “I asked her not to, sort of. I thought it would be better if she came in when things had settled.”

  “Since when?” Britt said. “When was this?”

  “This afternoon. She called the house phone to ask about a time and I just knew it was too soon, Britt—she should see it when we’re really ready. I’m doing you a favor. You don’t want her in till we’re really flying.”

  Harry’s words faded in and out over the clang of voices and sauté pans, but Britt had the distinct sensation of being dismissed. He would have liked to keep discussing this. Had she at least called his cell phone to say she wasn’t coming? Since when did Harry direct his social life? Why let Leo see the place before it was perfect but not Camille? But Anna appeared next to him, flashing a professional smile at the patrons, and murmured that Leo was eyeing a neighboring table’s octopus with great skepticism and did he still want to serve it?

  LEO AND THEA WERE THE LAST TABLE in the place. By the time Anna was clearing off their dessert tasting plates at eleven thirty, the rest of the staff was gathered in the back, having cleared and reset tables, restocked the server station, folded napkins, and polished glassware and silver. Anna had hung the breakdown of server duties in the kitchen by the espresso machine, and already Britt could see that the laminated page might have to move until the servers had their routines down; the espresso machine was mobbed with milling staff, peering at the list and trying to recall where to find the coffee filters, the spray bottles, the polishing cloths.

  They were both standing at the bar, Britt on the customer side and Harry on the line, as Leo and Thea made their way to the door. Britt swallowed, suddenly dry-mouthed. Anything looked good when it was all you’d seen for weeks; you were so accustomed to every dish and every movement that the brain automatically overlaid all your good intentions and past failures on each dish, each server and motion. But Leo was a fresh eye, and an unforgiving one at that. Britt was used to being the one strolling inscrutably alongside Leo toward the door, not the one waiting anxiously at the bar, peering at his expression. He experienced a moment of kinship and odd empathy for Barbara Makaski, the faint whiff of terror he’d never before perceived in her sentinel’s posture.

  “It was really good,” Leo said, without preamble. “You guys want to talk more tomorrow, or you too busy?”

  “Sure,” said Britt. But even as he spoke Harry was shaking his head.

  “I don’t think we have time,” he said. “I want to, but I have to be back here first thing and we have the all-staff meeting. I need to rework a couple of dishes too. I’m not sure about our supplies, either—I may have to make a bunch of calls. The stuff I thought would move didn’t, the stuff I didn’t think would did.” He was leaning over the bar as he enumerated these issues, his hands gripping its edges. Thea’s head tilted, just barely, as she observed him.

  Britt said, “I can manage it, Harry. Leo, let’s have breakfast—you can give me your impressions. Harry, how about if I’m here by ten?”

  A complicated series of expressions crossed Harry’s face: he looked first relieved, then vexed, then concerned, then resigned. All he said was, “That’d be great, thanks.” All three watched him for another beat, waiting to see if he had anything to add, but Harry stood back, straightened his posture, and nodded with an air of finality.

  “Hey,” Britt said. “We should be celebrating. We got through our first service, and we did it pretty well.”

  Harry ran both hands through his hair, shaking his head. “We did okay. I’ve got a list in my head about fifty items long and I have no idea how I’m going to do it.” Then he suddenly raised both hands, palms out, as if in surrender. “Hey!” he barked, startling them. “You’re customers! You don’t care. You shouldn’t care. Get the hell out of here, go home, have drinks. We’re not gonna do this. We’re not turning you into consultants.”

  Leo looked puzzled. “I’m glad to help, Harry,” he said.

  “I know you are, and I appreciate it. Really. You two talk tomorrow and Britt and I’ll catch up later. Okay?”

  The kitchen door opened and Anna approached the bar. “Forgive me,” she said to Leo and Thea, and then to Britt and Harry. “We’re about done back there. You guys still want to check in with the staff?”

  Britt glanced apologetically at Leo. “We have a couple bottles of champagne to crack.”

  Leo’s face went blank, just for a moment, and then he moved into gear, bustling into his coat, assuring them that this was fine and that breakfast at eight would be fine, fine. As he talked, he was looping a scarf several times around Thea’s neck, until she was wrapped all the way up to the chin. Discreetly, she undid a few loops and began the slow process of stepping toward the door, calling the same farewells over the brothers’ various repetitions of plans and reassurances, until finally they had all exhausted the options for chitchat and the door closed behind Leo and Thea with a muffled click.

  The two of them walked half a block without speaking, their steps slow and contemplative. Finally Thea said, “How odd to see Britt in another restaurant. I think he would have liked us to stay.”

  Leo looked at her gratefully. Her lipstick was long gone, and a faint sheen had reasserted itself on her cheeks; she looked again like the woman he knew. “Harry needs to be independent, I guess,” he said, and though he knew this was true and that it was a sound idea, he was a little crestfallen nevertheless. “It was a good meal, though, wasn’t it?”

  “It really was,” Thea said. “Forgive me for putting it indelicately, but the lamb’s neck is fucking amazing.”

  Happy as Leo was that this was true, he felt a jolt of jealousy to hear her speak this w
ay of someone else’s food. “It’s totally terrifying to look at,” he said. “I mean, you’re shredding meat off vertebrae. I think I saw a nerve.”

  “But the gremolata and the handmade cavatelli? It’s stunning. Stunning. In the best possible way, it made me want to up my game.”

  “I don’t think your game is in need of a thing,” Leo said. And this was true, but he understood what she meant. The evening had been energizing; the space made him feel like he was in a bigger, better city; the food had been downright fun. He wanted only to be delighted for his brothers, but he could not quite banish the sinking feeling Thea’s enthusiasm had left him with.

  “Thank you,” she said. “But I just mean I’m inspired. I had a great time.”

  They fell back into silence.

  “Maybe it was a little unexpected that we went together,” Thea ventured. They were almost to his car, and Leo was so uncertain how to answer this that he said nothing until they stood beside the passenger door. Surely this was his opportunity to state that any undercurrents were imaginary and their relationship was as it had always been. But the night had sped by so quickly. When would he have another excuse to see her laughing and swirling the wine in her glass, her posture becoming so relaxed and languorous?

  “Well, we did say it was just business,” Leo said tentatively. Thea’s face lost its electricity, just for a second, and she looked away. Boldness surged through him, and Leo reached over, touching the curve of her jaw, the sharply lifting angle of it, with the tip of one finger. She looked back at him, a smile beginning to surface, and tilted her head very slightly into the cup of his hand. “We’ll be fine,” Leo said, “as long as that’s what everybody thinks.”

  BRITT LOCKED THE DOOR, peering out into the empty, dark street. When he returned, Anna was gathering plastic cups for the staff and Harry had pulled out two bottles of inexpensive but decent champagne. Britt grasped Harry’s shoulder as they headed into the kitchen and held his brother back as the door closed behind Anna. He’d intended a friendly clasp but ended up requiring a surprising amount of force to make Harry pause.

  Harry turned, his eyebrows raised, and gestured with the bottles. “What,” he said, “you think we need something nonalcoholic too?”

  “Huh? No, it’s fine. Well, maybe we do. Are you okay? You seem wound a little tight.”

  “You seem a little relaxed,” Harry countered. “Listen, I can celebrate this for about ten minutes and then I have to get some work done. You mind sticking around?”

  “It’s fine,” Britt said. “And if I’m relaxed, it’s because I know we can do this. We have plenty to build on, but we did pretty well tonight.” When had he taken on such a placating tone with Harry? There was something fraudulent in it, he thought, something too close to soothing a child or a pet.

  Britt was about to bring up Camille when he saw that the kitchen was full, the staff was peering out at them, empty cups aloft, and he abandoned it. “You’re okay, seriously okay? Because you seem a little too freaked out. And I’m telling you I don’t think you need to be.”

  “Jesus, of course I need to be,” Harry said, already turning away and heading toward the kitchen door. “You have Winesap. You’ll be fine. I have all the weight of that success but none of the cushion. Now let’s go drink a toast with these kids and turn ’em loose till we do it all again tomorrow.”

  It was late enough for Britt to send a text to Camille rather than phone her, and to his surprise an answer buzzed while he was still finishing off a swallow of champagne.

  “I was banished,” she said when he called. He’d left the restaurant and was walking to his car, keeping a watchful eye scanning the dark streets. “I’m so sorry. I called to let you know, but I knew you’d never hear it.”

  “No,” he agreed, “I didn’t even feel it buzz. It was a madhouse in here.”

  “I can’t believe I missed it,” she said, sighing.

  “It’s okay,” he said, and decided that he meant it, at least as far as Camille was concerned.

  “No, it’s not. But I felt terrible for him. He was really roundabout and motormouthed about it—I finally realized he was trying to suggest that I wait to come in. You should be gentle on him, Britt. He seems pretty freaked out.”

  “That’s Harry’s general mode,” Britt said.

  “I guess you know,” she said. She paused. “But I did want to see you in your new element.” Her voice warmed. “I had a nice little plan for observing you from the bar all night and passing you my phone number on a cocktail napkin as I left. I was going to say nothing and tuck it into your pocket.”

  “My shirt pocket, I hope.”

  “Yes. It was a classy fantasy.”

  Britt laughed. His defensiveness and exhaustion had dissipated. Here they were, talking, awake, and the hurdle of getting the restaurant open was almost cleared—really, he decided, the restaurant was open, for all intents and purposes. “I want to see you,” he said.

  “It’s almost midnight.”

  “I know what time it is. I want to see you. You want to see me?”

  Camille lived fifteen minutes from Stray, in a Craftsman-style house on a quiet street. A light burned on the porch. She opened the door wearing stretchy black pants and a thin top, teeth brushed but hair ruffled, no makeup. As much as Britt enjoyed a woman who was smoothed to a high shine, this was suddenly better: the worn fabric of her clothing still heated from sleep, the top riding up to show a narrow band of skin at her belly. No bra smoothed her breasts into neutral shapes; instead he could see the clear outline of her nipples and the surprisingly rounded, heavy undercurve of her breasts.

  Her hand rested on the doorknob, and a leaping pulse showed in her throat. Britt reached past her and closed the door. He was thinking that her wide mouth looked softer than he’d thought, the full lower lip a darker, more suggestive pink than he’d remembered. Everything from her dress to her manner was always so well controlled, and he’d supposed that in the middle of the night she’d be softened and even awkward, off-kilter at seeing him at such an hour, on such short notice. But she wasn’t, not really—she wore dishevelment as easily as she wore a dress and heels. She wasn’t surprised at all, and somehow he liked this even more.

  He slid a hand around her neck, pushing her heavy hair up against the hot curve of her skull. A faint breath of air—a gasp of surprise, desire, or just the impact—escaped her mouth as they backed to the door, and Britt hesitated. Their eyes met, and the room quivered for a still moment. His hand was still buried in her hair, the other flattened beneath her clothes against the velvety stretch of her spine. Her roving hands had paused, at his neck and at his waist, and now she moved them slowly, one finger slipping beneath the loosened hem of his shirt. He felt her arch her back, her hips pinning his hand between her heated skin and the rough wooden door. It hurt just a bit, as she seemed to intend.

  WHEN BRITT AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING, he spent a long time listening to Camille moving around her kitchen. Wrapped in the warm duvet, he listened to the clink of glassware and the burble of pouring coffee and felt both content and slightly nervous; she was already up and about as if it were any other morning. When he emerged from the bedroom, she was sitting cross-legged on her couch, drinking coffee and working her way through the newspaper on her laptop. On the table before her was a neatly folded green linen napkin, a plate of sliced pear and oranges, and a small pitcher of cream, which she offered to him when he returned from the kitchen, where an empty white mug had awaited him beside the coffee machine. In the daylight her living room seemed serene and welcoming, with high ceilings, sage-green walls, and a pale gray couch. On the coffee table was a wide white bowl of apples.

  “This is a great room,” he said, sitting beside her.

  Camille looked around as well, considering it. “Thanks. I painted it a few months ago. Before this it was orange, then taupe. I also tried painting something straight onto the walls, like a silhouette of a plant or something.” He looked around to see if the
ghost remained on any of the walls. “It’s long gone,” she said. “I have no talent for figurative painting, but I had it in my head that maybe I’d developed some without my knowledge.”

  “Stay with this for a while. I don’t want to leave. I can just use your toothbrush and have some food delivered.”

  “You think?” She looked around the room, reaching over to touch his hand to indicate that she’d heard the rest of it too.

  “Absolutely. Though if you still had some looming plant silhouette, I might not.”

  She laughed, taking a slice of pear and leaning back into the couch cushions, tucking her shoulder beneath his arm. “The plant did turn out looking like marijuana. Though my mother thought it fit the town. She likes to say things like ‘This town is so earthy and real.’”

  Britt made it a policy not to knock other people’s families even when they were clearly trolls. He preferred neutral questions and gentle statements of the obvious. “You’re not close, I take it,” he said.

  She shrugged. “My sister and brother and I don’t talk much, but we’re okay. That’s just how she communicates. My parents are frequent-sniping types. Every now and again it devolves into a real conflict and then we have to get around that by not discussing it and having cocktails an hour earlier than usual. And then the holidays are over for another year.”

  She put her feet up on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles. He was used to women who presented their familial troubles to him like a broken clock, something he felt obligated either to fix or to make disappear. Camille seemed to view her family with clarity but without rancor. It seemed something to aspire to. His conflicts with Harry were so petty, weren’t they? Why not view Harry for what he was, a guy who got a little more into things than he should, who was still learning to modulate his approach? He resolved to let more go.

  “I hate to leave, but I should go,” he said. But he didn’t get up.