Intoxicating

by Heather Heyford

  But she didn’t have it in her to abandon a part of Heath, no matter how inanimate, on the floor all night. With a sigh of exasperation, she climbed out from under the covers to retrieve the dog, setting him far enough away so that she couldn’t smell him, yet secure in the fact that he was there with her, and he was safe.

  For the rest of the night, dreams of Heath wove in and out of fitful bouts of sleep.

  * * *

  Poppy started out with the best of intentions. She resolved to start checking her email and her friends’ posts regularly, to keep up with the goings-on back in Clarkston, but she should have known she wouldn’t have time for all that reading and writing. Talking had always been her preferred form of communication.

  During those first few days, the thought of calling Heath was never far from Poppy’s mind. But by the time she finally got home around one a.m., she knew he would be sleeping.

  By Friday night, she couldn’t wait any longer.

  His voice was the sound of home. She fell back on her new couch and hugged a throw pillow, excited to share all the details of her new life.

  “Cory is so smart and well-connected. He has all these dedicated customers from his other restaurants, and he’s given them gift certificates to our new place, hoping that they’ll eat here and talk it up.”

  “That is smart.”

  “He can be demanding. But then, I guess you have to have high expectations when you’re running a business.”

  “I guess so.”

  She told him about Morgan’s stiff formality and Stu’s new baby, and how Cory was teaching the three of them to work as a cohesive team.

  “Sounds like everything’s going great,” Heath said when she’d finally run out of steam.

  “What about you? What’s going on there?”

  “Same old, same old. Ran into your mom at the café. She got her turkey for next week.”

  “Christmas is next week?” Poppy hadn’t bought any presents. She hadn’t baked chocolate chip cookies with Mom or helped Big Pop pick out the tree.

  “Do you know when you’re coming home yet?”

  “I’m sure Cory will tell us soon. The soft opening is getting rave reviews. We’re packed every night.”

  “You’ll be home for Christmas Eve.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Ever since that awful year when Heath’s mom left, the Springers had been inviting Heath and his dad to their place on Christmas Eve. Big Pop got fresh Tillamook Bay salmon from one of his suppliers. Mom cooked it using her special recipe. They washed it all down with Riesling from Washington State.

  “Of course I’ll be home! You can count on me.”

  * * *

  After two weeks, Poppy knew where the best coffee shops were between her apartment and work and had memorized her way to the market and the stores that carried essentials like batteries, lightbulbs, and toiletries.

  Now it was only two days until Christmas Eve. She couldn’t wait to gather around the table with her parents and Heath, and even Heath’s dad, quiet as he was. She had lots of stories to tell.

  Cory was on yet another of his never-ending string of phone calls. While the staff waited for him to hang up and give them his last-minute instructions on the evening’s dinner service, they chatted excitedly about their holiday plans. Stu, in particular, was beside himself. Instead of buying gifts, his parents, brothers, and sister had saved up to fly out from the East Coast to meet his new son. It would be the first time he’d seen his family in a year.

  And Poppy thought two weeks away from home was a long time.

  The table came to attention as Cory jammed his phone in his pocket and strode over to them wearing a serious expression.

  “That was one of our backers. He wants us to cater a last-minute party at his house Christmas Eve.”

  Nobody breathed.

  “I’m going to need three servers and two wine stewards.”

  He looked around the table expectantly.

  “I’ll tend bar,” said Morgan. “Hanukkah’s over.”

  Reluctantly, three servers’ hands went up.

  “That leaves either Poppy or Stu. Who’s it going to be?” demanded Cory, eyes boring into theirs.

  She couldn’t wait to go home. She missed everything about Christmas in Clarkston: hauling the tree home with Big Pop, Mom’s home cooking, exchanging wrapped gifts.

  And she was dying to see Heath.

  Stu’s eyes pleaded with her.

  She tried to imagine not seeing her loved ones for a whole year.

  Of its own accord, her hand slowly climbed toward the ceiling.

  Cory nodded curtly. “Those of you who volunteered, stay here to be filled in on the details. The rest of you can go set up for tonight’s service.”

  * * *

  Poppy placated her parents by promising to get up at the crack of dawn Christmas morning and spend the next two days with them.

  Heath wasn’t as easily appeased.

  “I don’t have to be back at work until the twenty-seventh. We can hang out Christmas afternoon. The day after, too, if you want.”

  “No, we can’t. I’ve got Seahawks tickets.”

  “Football? On Christmas?”

  “I’ve been trying to talk Dad into going to a game for a couple of years now. Finally got him to say yes.”

  That was not at all what she’d been expecting.

  “But you’ll be back the next day.”

  “First time Dad’s been out of town in ages. I’d like to make the most of it, so we’re going up early, on Christmas Day, and staying three nights in a hotel. We’ll check out the Space Needle, the craft beer scene and Pike Place before the game. Then there’s the three-hour drive back.”

  “By the time you get home, I’ll be gone again.”

  “I’m sorry. You told me we were getting together Christmas Eve.”

  She had taken for granted that Heath would be available at her convenience.

  “You there?”

  “Yeah.” Though shaken, she forced herself to sound cheerful. “That’s nice that your dad wants to get out and do something fun with you.”

  “Remember Liz?”

  “The caterer who made sure we didn’t go hungry at our class reunion?”

  “She must’ve lit a spark. Ever since the day he ran into her, something’s different about him.”

  “I’ve only been gone a couple weeks, and already I’m out of the loop.”

  “A lot can happen in a couple weeks.”

  She wondered what else she’d missed.

  “Well, at least I can wish you a Merry Christmas over the phone,” she said wistfully.

  “You can try. I’ll probably be sticking pretty close to Dad. It’s not often I can get him out of the house.”

  She detected an unmistakable chill in his tone.

  “Heath, don’t be mad.”

  “I am mad. You said you’d be here.”

  “It was either me or my coworker with a new baby and his family he hasn’t seen in a year.”

  Heath sighed. “I guess you had no choice.”

  “I didn’t. You would have done the same thing in my shoes.”

  “You’re right. I would have.”

  But she hung up feeling even worse now that Heath had cut her some slack.

  Well, she thought, she’d gotten exactly what she wanted. And now she had to live with it.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Anthony’s was a sensation.

  Poppy’s service skills were becoming honed to a fine edge. Now that she had a specialized skill, she found that patrons relied on her knowledge and point of view. People started asking for her by name. They wanted to be seen with her even outside the restaurant, so she got invited to more events and parties than she could possibly go to, even if Cory gave her time off for the ones that were corporately sponsored—those that showed the restaurant in a favorable light and garnered publicity.

  If not for the regular workouts, she would almost have forg
otten about the modeling gig, until the second week of January when Palette called to tell her they had scheduled her first photo shoot.

  “How’s Dieter treating you?” the woman asked familiarly, as if they were long-lost friends.

  Poppy assured them she’d been working out regularly.

  “I already know that. He checks in with us weekly to report on your progress.”

  Poppy was dumbstruck. She felt like a child being checked on, or worse, an animal being groomed for market. Before she could come up with a reply, the woman continued.

  “You deserve a treat. How would you like to get a facial?”

  “I’ve never had one.”

  “Let me give you the name of the aesthetician we use. Get in touch with her. Your first photo shoot is coming up a week from Wednesday.”

  That afternoon Poppy followed Cory into his office to tell him she needed next Wednesday off.

  “You can’t do that. A food blogger is coming for a private tour of the kitchen before we open. Tell them you’ll have to reschedule.”

  “But I thought you said—”

  “Not happening,” he said with finality. “You’re a professional sommelier first. If not for that fact, Palette Cosmetics would have no use for you. They’ll have to schedule your modeling assignments when you’re not needed here.”

  He pulled out his phone to bark at his supplier about a shipment of dishware was that was supposed to have been delivered last week.

  * * *

  The aesthetician was an ice-blonde named Olga.

  “Sit.”

  Poppy did as she was told.

  Abruptly, Olga inclined Poppy’s chair backward until her blood rushed to her head, feeling for all the world like she was being prepped for a root canal.

  There was a burst of white light. When Poppy’s pupils had contracted sufficiently, she pried her lids open to see a distorted eyeball peering down at her through a big round lens mounted on a swinging arm. Something pinched her cheek and she winced, and the eye in the lens frowned in disapproval.

  “Have you heard of sunscreen?”

  “Of course.” She’d never made a habit of actually using it, but that wasn’t the question.

  Olga slapped a bottle into her hand. “You need to start Palette’s retinol product to slough off those dead cells. You’re getting a late start, but better late than never.”

  “I’m only twenty-eight.”

  “You have the pores of a woman ten years older.”

  * * *

  Poppy didn’t want to risk Cory’s displeasure by asking again for time off to do her first photo shoot, even if that had originally been part of the deal. That was before anyone realized how busy Anthony’s would become.

  Instead, she fit the shoot into a scheduled day off. It wasn’t as if she had a social life, outside of the people she’d met on the job. How could she, when work was all she did?

  She arrived for her shoot fifteen minutes early. “Hi! I’m Poppy Springer,” she said cheerfully to the young woman at the desk. After being tortured by Dieter and Olga, she was looking forward to the fun part of modeling.

  Without looking up, the receptionist gestured toward a collection of mismatched chairs where a nervous teenager sat, accompanied by her mother. “Have a seat over there, and someone will be with you.”

  She wasn’t expecting the red carpet treatment. But she thought they’d at least be waiting for her. Maybe the assistant didn’t recognize her. “I’m the new Face of Palette Cosmetics.”

  “I know who you are. Now if you could just have a seat, someone will be with you shortly.”

  The teen and her mom had the grace to avert their eyes as Poppy approached them, crestfallen.

  An hour later, she was finally led back to a salon chair. The stylist lifted a lock of her hair.

  “What products do you use?”

  Poppy shrugged. “Just stuff from the drugstore.”

  She raised a meticulously penciled brow. “I would have liked to have you on a deep-conditioning regimen months ago. Oh well,” she sighed, yanking a comb through Poppy’s hair. “We’ll do the best we can.”

  After the stylist had washed, conditioned, hacked off three inches, and blown her hair dry, a full-bearded man poked his head in.

  “Is she just about ready?” he asked.

  “She is. You can have her now.”

  The stylist whipped off the drape covering Poppy’s clothes.

  “Call me Flash,” said the man, walking Poppy down the hall to a drab, gray-walled space with spindly-legged lights aimed toward a huge roll of white paper suspended from a ceiling beam, unfurled all the way to the floor. In the center of it sat a lonely stool.

  “Let’s see,” said Flash, scraping back hangers on a rolling clothes rack. He withdrew a top. “Try this on. This shade of blue will go well with your coloring.”

  She went behind a curtain and changed, then took a seat on the stool as directed while Flash went to work adjusting lights and camera angles. He flipped a switch and her hands flew up to shield her eyes from the lights.

  “Put your hands down, hon.”

  She lowered them, self-conscious about where they should go.

  “You’re stiff as cardboard. How about some tunes?” Without waiting for an answer, Flash blasted some electronic dance music.

  He took a few test shots to gauge the lighting. Then he turned on a giant fan and the blades began to whirl.

  Poppy’s hair flew back from her face in a horizontal sheet. As the fan picked up speed, her neck muscles engaged to keep her head up. While she fought to keep her eyes open, Flash started snapping pictures at a dizzying rate.

  “You’re squinting,” he yelled over the music. “Don’t think so hard, honey. You’re not being paid to think.”

  When it was all over, the fan stopped and quiet restored, Poppy’s head sagged forward. Her ears rang. She rubbed dry, sandy lids.

  “Come over here and look,” Flash said, scanning the photos. “You have a real talent for this.”

  Staggering to her feet, she walked gingerly across the pristine paper, trying not to scuff it, and peered over Flash’s shoulder into his camera.

  “Those are pretty good.”

  But high cheekbones and the ability to stay seated in a gale didn’t mean you were talented. “You’re the one who chose the colors. You posed me and adjusted the lights and found the best angles. The credit belongs to you.”

  Flash looked away from his lens and examined her thoughtfully, in the flesh. “In all the time I’ve been doing this, I can’t remember one girl that ever said that to me. You’re a nice person, you know that?”

  Poppy smiled—an authentic smile, not a posed one. Now there was a compliment she would take.

  Flash went back to clicking through proofs, talking to her as he worked. “I get all these girls coming here looking to become famous. Then they find out modeling isn’t what they thought it would be. But there’s something about you. I saw it in the test shots the Palette people sent over. They saw it, too. Can’t put my finger on it, but hey, that’s what the pictures are supposed to do, isn’t it? Convey what words can’t. That’s what I was trying to get at when I told you to relax and be yourself.”

  The real world of modeling might not be very glamorous, but it was a step forward. A step farther away from Clarkston and being a waitress for the rest of her life.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Portland couldn’t stop raving about Anthony’s local and sustainable Northwest fare with its lively bar and wine list highlighting Oregon’s best.

  Poppy still thought of Heath every day. But by the time she got back to her dark apartment late at night, she was spent, and she knew he’d have been asleep for hours. Then there were those mandatory six a.m. workouts, plus going out to eat on her free nights with Cory or one of the other somms to stay on top of ever-changing trends.

  She resisted a growing apprehension that her work might be starting to take over her life. This was what s
he had wanted, wasn’t it? Plus, Cory picked up the tab for all those great meals and good wine. How could she complain?

  Groundhog Day came with the prediction of six more weeks of cold and damp. That night before Poppy went home from work, Cory called her into his office.

  “How’d you like to take a little break?”

  “A vacation?” Her shoulders relaxed. The idea sounded heavenly.

  “Just a long weekend away to some place warm.” He closed the door behind them. “Our backer whose party you worked Christmas Eve? He’s having some people down to his place in Cabo.”

  Realization set in. “You mean he wants me to work.”

  “Not this time. As his guest.”

  “I’m not sure.” She might be from the country, but she wasn’t that naïve.

  Cory read her mind. “It’s not like that,” he assured her. “It’s completely legit. It’ll be good for you. Good for business. As you’re finding out, people are intrigued by lady somms.”

  “Who else is going from the restaurant?”

  “I am.”

  At the skeptical look on her face, he brought up a photo on his phone. “Take a look at this. Hard to tell where the infinity pool ends and the Gulf of California begins.”

  “But . . .”

  “The house is huge. You’ll have your own bedroom and a private bath.”

  She still wasn’t sure.

  “Have you ever flown on a private plane?”

  “I’ve never flown, period,” she said sheepishly. “My parents have a motor home. Whenever we go on vacation, we take that.”

  He pulled up another picture. “Here’s the beach.”

  His snapshots looked like something out of a fancy tourism brochure. Too fancy for the likes of someone who had grown up bussing tables at Poppy’s Café in the little town of Clarkston. She couldn’t fly off somewhere only to realize she didn’t fit in and then be trapped there until the return flight.

  “I—I wouldn’t even know what to wear.”

  Cory reached for his wallet and counted out some bills. “Here’s a little bonus for you. Get yourself a couple of dresses and a bikini.”

  Poppy stared at the money in her palm.

  “Is this for real?”