Single-Minded

by Lisa Daily

  43

  After stopping by a small ad agency downtown that has me on retainer to rearrange furnishings of their common creative areas every couple of months to boost creativity, I decide to make an impromptu visit to Daniel Boudreaux’s restaurant—down at the marina, less than half a mile away. It’s nearing eleven, still too early for lunch, but a girl can dream.

  I park, put up the top on my Mini, and pull the scarf from my hair. As I get out of the car, my hair whips in the wind coming off the water. Trying to smooth it out with a hairbrush would surely be a losing battle, so I decide to just let it fly. The day is gorgeous, already midseventies, and I watch a pelican swoop down and skim the surface of the sparkling water. This is the first time I’ve ever stopped by Daniel’s job site before noon, and I wonder if he’s up and moving around yet. Restaurant owners and chefs are almost always night owls, by nature or by circumstance.

  No need to worry. As soon as I near the floating restaurant I can see the boat is teeming with construction workers, busy on the deck. I make my way up the makeshift gangplank and onto the boat, and the workers wave and nod as I tiptoe through the mess to the rear deck. I’ll check the kitchen next, but it feels like less of an intrusion to look outside first.

  Daniel’s there, in a white T-shirt and loose olive-green shorts, his toned back turned to me. He’s fussing with a long banquet table loaded high with sandwiches and salads, veggies and a too-elegant bucket filled with ice and bottles of water. Clearly he’s expecting company.

  “Daniel,” I say just above a whisper—I hardly want to send him nosediving over the railing again. Hardly.

  “Hey, Alex,” he says, smiling as he turns around. He rambles over to where I’m standing and gives me an easy hug, like we’ve known each other forever.

  “Uh, hi,” I say, pulling myself more slowly than I should from his embrace. He smells good. Too good. I have to get a hold of myself.

  “You’re just in time for lunch,” he says, grinning.

  “Oh, no.” I stammer, feeling my face flush from embarrassment. I don’t want him to think I’m some pathetic orphan, conveniently showing up around mealtimes. “I was just at a project site a half mile away and I thought I might stop by to set a meeting with you to go over the, er, concept and the plans for the restaurant. I’m so sorry to intrude … it looks like you’re having guests.”

  “This?” he shrugs. “I was just putting out a spread for the workers. I find most people work better when they’re well fed.”

  “That’s so nice of you,” I say, eyeing the table. Mufalleta and po’boy sandwiches are piled high, there’s a huge iced bowl of boiled shrimp, greens and salads galore, and loads of fresh fruit and veggies.

  “Stay, won’t you?” He smiles and my face flushes again.

  “I really wouldn’t want to intrude,” I say. “Besides, I don’t want you to get the idea I’m always expecting you to feed me anytime I drop by.”

  “I’d sort of like that idea,” he says. “You’re one of my favorite people to feed.” I can’t stop a smile from bubbling up.

  “Stay, cher,” he says, grasping my hands gently in his. “Besides, you don’t want to miss out on my spicy shrimp.”

  “Well,” I grin back at him, “if you insist.” He selects one from the bowl and playfully pops it into my mouth. Divine. “Oh. That’s good,” I say. “Really good.”

  “Let me just call the workers for lunch, and then we can sit down and talk for a bit about our plans for the ol’ girl.”

  “No woman likes to hear a man disparage her age,” I crack.

  His response is a wide-open smile. He gently pats the railing, “She knows I think she’s a beauty.”

  I laugh.

  He excuses himself and disappears around the side of the boat, returning less than a moment later followed by a swarm of workers who look like they might trample one another to get to the mouthwatering spread Daniel has so generously laid out.

  “Please help yourselves, boys,” he says, a split second before they rush the table. “There are plates and silverware at the left end, and sweet tea and water at the other end.” He grins at me and I grin back. Daniel is the consummate host, he never seems happier than when he has guests. He takes so much joy from feeding people, and I wonder if the rest of his family is the same. That joy, plus his family’s legendary skills in the kitchen, is undoubtedly the reason for the Boudreaux family’s incredibly successful restaurants.

  After the workers have helped themselves to the food, and sit strewn around the boat deck smiling and talking, Daniel and I prepare our own plates. Anytime I pass something by, he swoops in and scoops a little of it onto my plate and says, “Oh no, cher, you don’t want to miss this one.”

  He’s right, of course, everything is delicious. The workers linger over their meals, and return to the table for seconds and thirds. There’s still enough food left to host at least another twenty people.

  Usually I use Joe and Nicky, my regular construction crew, for projects, but they’re already busy on another site and working on a boat requires special skills that my guys aren’t necessarily experienced in. Plus, the last thing I need is Nate, the tool-belt supermodel drywaller, hanging around here all day, making me feel like a loser.

  Since my work on Daniel’s restaurant focuses on soft finishings like lighting, table placement, and color scheme, Daniel’s own team is refurbishing the boat. The work is going well. The wood has been sanded and is in the process of being refinished. Battered wood is being replaced as necessary, but Daniel is insistent on restoring as much of the original boat as possible, especially the gorgeous leaded-glass windows, which add so much charm and character.

  Daniel and I sit at our usual spot, the one table on the back deck, laughing and joking, and watching the sun play off the water as the boat rocks gently with the waves.

  “Mmmm,” I say, scooping the last bite of creamy potato salad into my mouth.

  “That’s what I like to hear.” He laughs.

  “Have you decided on the name for the restaurant yet?” I ask. “We can’t delay much longer.”

  “I’m thinking of calling it Boudreaux,” he says.

  “That works.” I smile. “So could we please drill down a bit on the kind of atmosphere we’re trying to create here? Obviously we’ve talked a lot about the broad strokes, but need to get into more elaborate detail.”

  He looks dreamily toward the water. “I want it to be the place where people have the best night of their lives.”

  “That’s terrific,” I laugh, “but not very specific. Is it elegant? Casual? Family? Somewhere in-between?”

  “Yes,” he says, breaking his gaze from the water to look at me.

  “Yes to which?” I ask.

  “Yes to all. I want it to be the kind of place that feels like an old Southern family. The relatives are a little quirky and imbued with their place in history; the furniture is decadent but it’s a little worn, a gem from another age, a gazebo in the backyard that’s been the site of first kisses, naps on sunny days, and heart-to-heart talks, a giant magnolia tree in the yard. I want this place to be somewhere you could hold an elegant wedding or show up in bare feet after a day of fishing or hanging out at the beach. I want my guests to feel like they’re friends, come as you are in a tux or flip-flops, have some great food, and some great music. I want a sense of romance and whimsy, the kind of place where you could propose or bring your entire family, where musicians come to jam with each other for fun after they’re done with their gigs downtown.”

  I’m speechless, which is unusual for me. Generally my clients’ goals are more benchmark-specific—increase productivity or revenues, boost donations, drive shoppers to the pricier goods. His vision is so clear that I can feel what he means in my heart and in my bones, without yet being able to quite put together in my head how it could be executed on this floating restaurant.

  “And the typical restaurant benchmarks,” I ask, “like, wanting to turn the tables in sixty-eight m
inutes?”

  “If my guests leave after only an hour, they’re not having enough fun,” he says.

  It’s so novel, even for me. Daniel’s project isn’t about money or turnover, it’s about the experience for his guests. More than anything, I want to bring his vision to fruition. My mind sparks with the thrill of the challenge—this project is the exact reason I love environmental psychology—using surroundings to evoke such specific types of emotions.

  “Can we make that happen, cher?” he asks, his ocean-blue eyes dancing with excitement.

  “Yes,” I say, feeling slightly less sure than I sound, but determined to see it through. I need to create an environment that evokes all the best parts of Daniel himself, as well as this boat he loves.

  “Do you have anything left, furnishings or anything really from the original restaurant?” I ask. “I’m thinking it’ll be really helpful to see anything that’s still here; maybe you could tell me what you loved so much about the place growing up.”

  “Of course, cher. There’s a storeroom behind the kitchen with all the stuff ol’ Archer left in the restaurant. I didn’t have the heart to throw it out but I wasn’t sure what to do with it all.”

  “Can I take a peek?” I ask. “Maybe there’s something that will work for us.”

  Daniel leads me back to the storeroom, a large closet behind the kitchen. He opens the door and pulls a string from the ceiling to turn on the light. The small room is a treasure trove, jammed with antique furniture, tarnished silver candlesticks, boxes of knickknacks and treasures, a stack of menus dating back fifty years, and a beautiful portrait of a woman standing on the deck of the boat, her hair blowing in the wind as she holds fast to the railing.

  “Who’s this?” I ask, gently running my finger against the bronzed frame of the painting.

  “I think that was Archer’s wife,” he says. “She died young, they never had any children and he never remarried. I didn’t know her; she died long before I was ever born.”

  “These things are amazing,” I say, making my way around the stacks of boxes to see what’s hiding near the back wall of the storage room. I suddenly teeter in the cramped space, terrified of nosediving into a pile of boxes, yet unable to reach the wall to maintain my equilibrium—and quick as lightning, Daniel reaches out and grabs my hand to steady me. His skin is warm and soft, and holding his hand sends an electric sensation up my right arm. He holds my hand firmly until I regain my balance, which takes me a heartbeat longer than it should have.

  “Thanks for keeping me from falling,” I say.

  He smiles warmly. “Sometimes we just can’t stop ourselves from falling, cher.”

  44

  I pick through the rest of the boxes to get a general idea of what’s in them, making mental notes about how I might incorporate some of the pieces into Boudreaux. Pulling a greenish mermaid statue out of a box, I hold it up for Daniel to see. It’s weighty and gorgeous, a stunning piece of vintage art.

  “What do you think of this?” I ask. It’s likely copper, judging from the verdigris patina. And the fact that it weighs as much as I do.

  He laughs, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “It’s so funny you would pick that up. I’ve always loved that statue, it was my favorite when I was a kid. I was actually planning to bring it upstairs to the studio once I got all moved in.”

  “You’ll have to fight me for it, it would be perfect for the restaurant.” I laugh, handing the heavy statue over to Daniel so I can make my way back through the boxes and to the doorway.

  “You don’t strike me as the arm-wrestling type. What type of battle did you have in mind?”

  “Sing-off?”

  “No deal, cher. I can’t sing a lick. Cook-off?”

  “Oh, that’s fair.” I laugh. Daniel puts the statue down just outside the doorway and extends his hand to me. My heart flutters and misses a beat or two as I reach out to hold his hand. What the hell?

  “Yahtzee?” he asks.

  “Oh, you’re on,” I say confidently. “That’s my game.”

  “That’s my game,” he says. We stand there for a second, not blinking. He’s still holding my hand.

  I take a deep breath and try to reclaim my focus. “I have another request, but it’s personal, so feel free to say no.”

  “Well, now I’m intrigued,” he says. “Do tell.”

  “Behave yourself,” I say, dropping his hand. “Would you mind showing me your living space?” I ask tentatively. “I feel like it would help me get a better sense of your style, who you are when you’re alone. Does that make sense? If it’s too much to ask, it’s no problem at all. I just thought it might … help.”

  He winks at me, and takes my hand again. “Anything you need, cher.” He gently takes the lead, and I trail behind him up the narrow spiral stairway at the back of the kitchen. His hand is warm, and holding it feels like the easiest thing in the world. Too easy. I’m going to get myself in trouble.

  “Are you sure I’m not intruding?” I ask. Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all.

  “Not a chance,” he says.

  The studio upstairs feels larger than it seems from the outside. There are more of the gorgeous leaded windows all the way around the room, offering a 360-degree view of the bay, the dock, and downtown. It’s stunning. The floors are a dark hardwood and the little wall that remains between the massive floor-to-ceiling windows is painted a creamy white. A few of the windows are propped open on either side, and a balmy breeze drifts through the room, gently fluttering the sheer cream-colored curtains that hang almost from the ceiling. The ceiling is made of wood, in a more intricate pattern than the floor, but painted the same creamy white as the walls—rather than matching the dark stain of the floors. There are three good-size skylights in the ceiling, stretching across the length of the room. Unlike the rest of the window glass in the room, the skylights look like fairly recent additions. Daniel grabs a small remote to show me the skylight view, and demonstrates how they can either open for fresh air or be covered by mechanized shades.

  “I like to look at the stars when I lie in bed,” Daniel explains, and my heart flutters. The bed is centered against the wall, with a woven headboard, and a simple duvet in creamy white like the curtains, and at least half a dozen pillows in the same white cases. There’s something so inviting about the bed, I suddenly feel tempted to just crawl under the duvet and take a nap. Maybe it’s the salty air, or just the feeling of ease I always feel around Daniel. Or maybe my string of terrifying dates has left me sleep-deprived.

  A small side table, made from reclaimed wood, sits to the left of the bed. It’s stacked high with books, which reach the top of an oil-rubbed bronze swing-arm reading lamp.

  “I like your table,” I say. He smiles.

  “An artist from Vieux Carré made it from old signs and wood he’d salvaged after Hurricane Katrina. Everywhere you looked there were just heaps of rubble, of what used to be memories and homes and businesses—and this guy looked at all those piles of heartache and saw something beautiful.” He gently touches the front of the drawer and says, “This piece of wood right here came from our restaurant on St. Peter in the Quarter. It reminds me of my home, and I love that from so much destruction came something beautiful. Plus, there’s not a chance Mama and Chef would have let me just pry off one of the floorboards at the Chevalier for sentiment, so I guess I’m lucky there was some way I got to have a bit of it with me.”

  “You call your father Chef?” I ask.

  “I grew up in kitchens.” he laughs. “It’s a term of endearment. And honor. My father called my granddaddy Chef too.” His voice is tender when he speaks of his family.

  I reach out and gently stroke the wood of the table, I’m not sure why—maybe just an effort to soak up some of its history. It has the patina of time and humidity and is smooth to the touch.

  On the other side of the bed, there’s an overstuffed chair and ottoman in the corner covered in something that looks like green sailcloth.
There’s a large armoire, a piece of furniture that looks like it would be out of place in the studio apartment of a floating restaurant, but seems right at home with the rest of Daniel’s things. It’s an antique, probably a family heirloom from the grand old Southern home he talks about sometimes. His clothes have to go somewhere, the four walls are covered in windows, so it isn’t exactly ideal for a closet. A blue surfboard leans casually against the armoire, as though it’s waiting to go out.

  “Eventually I’d like to put some French doors and a little balcony out here,” he says. “But that’s for another day, I guess. I’d have to find some way to reclaim the leaded-glass windows for the doors. I couldn’t stand to part with even one, never mind two.”

  On the opposite side of the room is an inviting sofa and wide coffee table, a pair of cane-backed plantation chairs, and a large bookshelf that separates the sleeping space from the living space. There are photographs everywhere, artfully grouped and hung in silver frames on every available inch of wall space. Some are landmarks in the French Quarter, some are old black-and-white photos of what are presumably Daniel’s relatives going back generations, in and around his family’s various restaurants. I can’t stop myself from searching out a romantic interest for Daniel among all the photographs. They give nothing away, other than the obvious—Daniel loves his home, his family, the beach, and the legacy of his family’s eateries.

  The apartment is small, but open and airy, bathed in bright sunlight and fanned by the Gulf breeze coming through the windows—evoking that large screened porch on the beach cottage where you spent the best summer of your life. Aside from the large collection of photos, and the overstuffed bookshelf, the furniture has simple lines and works beautifully in the space. It’s masculine and nautical, inviting, simple, and comfortable, an eclectic mix of old and new. It’s like Daniel.