In Time to Love

by Gloria Martin

  Tim follows me to the freezer and holds the door open while I gather ingredients that I know will take some magic to thaw before they arrive. “Do you want me to help, Tara?” he asks. I see the worry in his eyes, and if the general manager starts to freak out then everybody is going to start freaking out.

  “No, I got this,” I say assuredly, even though I’m shaking all over. Solid bags of frozen sauces fall out of my arms and I scramble to pick up the dozen slippery rogue ones.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Tim asks. “You look kind of like you’re having an off day.”

  “What makes you say that?” I ask, grabbing the gallon container of herb mustard. I’ve started to organize everything I need on a cart so I only have to make one trip.

  “Because you’re wearing Dominic’s clothes from last night,” he says.

  I freeze, look down at the sauce-stained attire, glance back up to him and say as seriously as I possibly can, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  If Tim finds out that Dominic and I have a relationship outside of work both of us can get fired. Not that we really have a ‘relationship’ outside of work, per se—we’re just really close friends who happen to sleep together often.

  “Last night I watched Fredrico spill an order of mussels all over Dom,” Tim says. “That’s his chef coat and pants, Tara. Don’t treat me like an idiot.”

  I don’t stop stocking the cart, although I give him a single glance to acknowledge the fact that he’s got something on me. What can I say?

  “I just need this Phillips buyout to be perfect,” Tim says, straightening his tie. Maybe it would go a little smoother if you would just let me get to work, Tim.

  “I’ll do my best,” I answer.

  “Do better,” he says, letting the freezer door slam shut.

  ***

  With most of the core cooking utensils unusable in the pile of dirty dishes, I take the only logical route and prepare something both practical and simple.

  In total it takes me about thirty-five minutes to prepare brunch for five, leaving just enough time to help Tim set the chef’s table. The five men enter together. The first four are all old enough to be my father, but the man bringing up the rear is a shade under 35 judging by the flecks of grey in his brown hair. As he passes me he turns and penetrates me with his blue eyes—a glance that stirs me to my core.

  Tim does all the talking and introduces me as Chef Tara. The young one doesn’t take his eyes off me and I don’t even catch a word of what Tim is saying.

  “Isn’t that right, Chef?” he says, breaking me from my embarrassing stare.

  “I’m sorry, Tim, can you repeat that?” I say hoping my shiny smile will omit the blunder. “I haven’t had my caffeine this morning, gentlemen. I apologize.”

  “I was saying how you prepared a seasonal specialty for them this morning. One of your rare delicacies.” He clears his throat, trying to signify the fact that he’s improvising due to our late start.

  “Right, a seasonal specialty,” I say, taking his cue. Guiding the men over to the chef’s table I stand at the head while they take their seats. It’s the tradition for the Chef on Duty to present all dining experiences personally and introduce the meal before the guests enjoy it.

  The key is to not take up too much of their time while also giving them a unique presentation. After all, PaeroTech paid well over twenty grand for this brunch. Once I’m done they will eat, discuss business, and when they are finished the plates will be cleared so they can begin their slideshow presentation. At that point servers will be on the clock to close out the deal.

  “Well, this morning I thought I’d prepare a healthy, exotic, and seasonal omelet,” I say. I open the self-serving presenter on my side and Tim presents the other side. “This morning you will be enjoying free range egg whites scrambled to perfect in a seafood omelet of tiger shrimp, Maine lobster, Dungeness crab, Gouda cheese, asparagus, heirloom tomatoes, and chive batons. Enjoy your breakfast and thank you for dining at Harvest Bar.”

  With that spiel memorized, I take a long-needed breath, bow out, and exit the room to let Tim handle the rest. It’s amazing what someone can pull off in a pinch with some culinary knowledge and genuine inspiration.

  *****

  While the Phillips party goes into their presentation, I go outside to partake in one of the menial jobs of being a sous-chef at Harvest Bar—harvesting the herb garden outside the restaurant. The thing is, I actually enjoy the feel of rosemary, thyme, parsley and chives—and am infatuated by their aromas. I take sprig of rosemary between my fingers and place it in the herb jar when Tim runs out the back door, blasting both open at once.

  “What the hell did you put in that omelet?” he screams, taking me by the sleeve of my chef coat.

  “What do you mean? Are they allergic to shellfish?” One of my worst nightmares is someone dying from something I cooked. It jolts me awake at least twice a week.

  “No, but Mr. Fredegar is in anaphylactic shock. Did you put peanuts in the omelet?”

  My jaw drops and my eyes glaze over as I recall tossing the omelets in peanut oil to add a soft glaze finish. That’s the one ingredient I didn’t mention in the spiel. Oh, God, I think, I didn’t think the peanut oil would kill a man!

  Once I’m inside I see that the other four members of the party, including the devilishly handsome one, have Mr. Fredegar spread across the chef’s table. Behind me are the sirens from the CCEMT, two paramedics running up to the door. I was only picking herbs for ten minutes, I think, the paramedics rushing past me.

  Inside it feels like all of my pieces are falling apart. The only thing I can do is take slow, backwards steps out the door to the fresh air. This can’t be happening. Before the door closes I see Tim inside, assisting a paramedic, staring back at me with a rigid, vengeful glare.

  ***

  Two hours later I’m sitting in the stairwell behind the restaurant scrolling through my contacts for someone who might be willing to hire me. I normally don’t do this, but in my purse I keep a single cigarette for life emergencies such as losing my job. Thankfully the paramedics got Mr. Fredegar to a hospital and he is fine. Is it bad that I don’t feel at fault because someone should have spoken up about deathly allergies?

  The last person I want to call is the only person I can. I hit the green button and wait for Dominic to answer, hoping he doesn’t sleep through the ring. I light the cigarette, take the first drag, and blow it out once Dominic’s phone goes to voicemail. I hate leaving these things.

  “Hey, it’s me, Tara,” I say. Obviously, Tara. “So I kind of just got fired by Tim because this guy from the Denver D. Phillips party almost died from the peanut oil I cooked his omelet in. Um. Yeah. Hit me back.”

  I hang up quick, take another drag, and shove the phone back into my pocket. The truth is that I really don’t want to go back to Dom’s anyway. I partly think that this is his fault for keeping me up late and not giving me a heads-up about the V.I.P. brunch.

  I bury my head into my knees, letting the cigarette burn while hanging from my fingertips. As I lift my head to take another inhale, I’m surprised to see someone standing in front of me—the handsome guy from the catastrophic brunch.

  From this angle, the sun is right behind his head and I can’t see his face—only his dark silhouette.

  “Hi,” I say. “I’m so sorry about your colleague.”

  “Oh, Fredegar? Nobody likes him, anyway. He’s had bad karma coming for years. He’s married but gets a hooker every time we’re in Vegas.”

  “Wow,” I say, “that’s a lot of information.”

  “Yes,” he laughs. A man who can stand my sarcasm. Nice. “I understand the rigid guy in the cheap tie terminated you from your position?”

  Word really does travel fast. “That’s correct,” I say, the glare from the sun forcing me to avert my eyes.

  “Well, I have another piece of information for you,” he says. “It could be life-changing. I’d be happy to sh
are it with you under one condition.”

  Oh, great—one of the high-end types who thinks he can buy me. “Oh yeah, what would that be?” I ask.

  “Put out your cigarette.”

  I smile at my poor lack of judgment and oblige. “Okay, so what might this information be?”

  “I just so happen to be holding interviews in the next hour or two for an open position. I’m seeking a personal, professional chef. Do you think that is something that would be within your job set?”

  ***

  I don’t bother driving to Burbank since the interview is at his mansion in Beverly Hills. I don’t have money to waste gas like that, so I just sit in my car and wait until I have to drive over there. What are the odds that I run into a job opportunity moments after getting canned?

  I pull up to the palm tree lined gate to his mansion. It’s one of the buildings that takes up its own block. There is a camera at the gate and it shifts into focus while my car idles. The gates open automatically. What is the purpose of the camera? Is he expecting me?

  I pull up onto the drive where a tall woman with tan skin and long, chestnut hair stands in a black chauffeur’s uniform. Behind her is a jet black Rolls Royce, and when she sees me walking up, she opens the back door for me to enter.

  “Hi, um, thank you,” I stammer awkwardly. “I’m here for the interview with—”

  Crap. How did I not even get the guy’s name? I typed the address to the mansion in my phone but in the moment totally blanked on formalities.

  “Mr. Phillips would like you to see the grounds before interviewing,” she says warmly. “I will be your guide. If you are still interested in the position afterward, Mr. Phillips will see you.”

  I get into the back seat and she closes the door. We drive in silence up to the building, and when she lets me out I take in the towering modernist design of the mansion. For once in my life I feel like I’m out of my element. Did she say Mr. Phillips? Wait; was that delicious man the Denver D. Phillips? I thought he was just a colleague. I’m about to interview for a billionaire? Things just got a little more real.

  ***

  The tour of the mansion ends after walking around its entirety for nearly two hours. I feel like I’ve been gallery hopping with all of the gorgeous art and textures around me. Still, I wasn’t prepared for this long of an event and I haven’t eaten yet.

  “Mr. Phillips will be home soon,” the chauffeur says, reading a message from her phone. “It seems he is running a little late. Feel free to relax in the kitchen. I’m sure you will feel at home there.”

  She smiles and turns to the entrance, and I hear the Rolls start up and take off down the drive. I walk around the kitchen admiring the array of knives and various cutleries. Whoever set up this kitchen really knew what they were doing. The walk-in freezer is bigger than my apartment, and that is no exaggeration.

  When I walk out of the freezer, a woman of my height with thin, long blonde hair is standing in the kitchen tinkering with one of the filet knives. “Hi, stranger,” she says through a Bordeaux colored smile. “You must be the new chef.”

  “Just interviewing for the position, I think,” I say, the freezer door slamming behind me. The young woman walks over to me and puts out her perfect, pearl-toned hand.

  “I’m Jill, the housekeeper.” She gives my hand a piercing pinch with her acrylic nails. “You look like the kind of gal who would like a drink.”

  She releases my hand, grimacing down at it when she lets go. Taking a couple wine glasses from the cabinet, Jill stretches her body out as if trying to impress me with her amazing physique and expensive clothes.

  “Do you know how long until Mr. Phillips returns?” I ask, looking out the window and hoping to see the Rolls pulling in. “He said the interview was earlier, but the tour took a long time.”

  “The first thing you need to know about working here,” she says, filling the glasses with a light-gold chardonnay, “is to never put too much expectation on Mr. Phillips. Denver moves at his own pace. I’m sure you’ll find that out rather soon.”

  With the last remark she hands me the wineglass, and it’s impossible for me to tell if she’s being facetious or welcoming. She clinks her glass against mine and we both sip. As the wine hits my lips, I catch her surveying me from the corner of her eye.

  *****

  “I don’t care,” Denver says. “It’s been a long day. Surprise me.” He takes his suit jacket off, drapes it around the chair, and slouches down. Three hours and two bottles of chardonnay and chatting with Jill and Mae Lin, Denver’s secretary, I learn a lot more about what the job entails.

  Jill and Mae Lin are both Denver’s Live-Ins. They live in the mansion and work around the clock to be available whenever Denver will need them. The chauffeur is a Live-In as well—her name is Gloria. It sounds crazy, but from Jill’s attitude the amount they get paid is enough to keep me interested in the position.

  “Okay, what are you in the mood for?” I ask.

  A drawn out yawn escaped his mouth. I can see the bags under his eyes. He must be jetlagged or something. With the stubble coming in, his clean-cut handsome has escalated to full-on sex icon.

  “Look, Tara,” he says, almost slurring, “I don’t know what I’m in the mood for. That’s why I am going to pay you so much money. Understand?”

  My eyebrows shoot up and my lips pucker into my face. I try not to look taken back, but it’s hard when he’s being so blunt.

  “Yes, sir,” I say robotically, “I understand, sir.”

  “Good,” he lulls.

  I turn around to the counter and pick up a knife. Looking down at the blade, I tell myself to cool it and think of a recipe. It’s three in the morning and he’s been awake for seventeen hours, and as soon as he eats this he’s going to pass out. I need something light and relaxing.

  I decide on shrimp salad with cranberry vinaigrette and reach into the fridge for the romaine and baby kale. By the time I turn around Denver is asleep at the table, practically drooling already.

  “Denver!” I say, just loud enough to bring him back. “Are you still hungry?”

  He looks at me like I’m a stranger. Maybe he’s stuck in some insomniac daze. “No food,” he mumbles, “just sleep.”

  I can’t deny that he is adorable right now. I want to just walk over, wrap my arms around him, and smell his brown but peppered-with-gray hair. Get a grip, Tara, I think. It’s your first night on the job and he’s already paid your entire salary up front.

  “Mr. Phillips, would you like me to help get you to bed?” I ask.

  “Yes, please, Tara,” he says.

  I go over to Denver, who is about to fall out of the chair, and put my arms out. At first look someone would think he’s on some serious pills—but I know that he works himself to the bone in order to accomplish what he loves. That is something I can respect.

  He wraps his arm around me and I hoist him up.

  “Alright, Mr. Phillips, which way is your room?” I’m about to choke with how tight his arm is around my neck.

  “That way,” he points to the corner.

  “Denver, are you okay?” I ask. “Should I get some help or call 911 or something?”

  A light bulb turns on in his mind and he looks at me with his eyelids wide. “Never call the cops, do you understand me?” My cheeks are squished in his fingers and his blue eyes are inches from mine. “Do you understand me?” he asks again, squeezing tighter.

  “Yes, I understand,” I say with my lips protruding.

  The first instinct burning through me is to do like my father taught me and sucker punch him in the stomach, kick out his knee, hit him in the neck and run. However, I’ve learned to put that Tara at bay, and so keep still as he stares into me.

  “I need to sleep,” he says. “Please help me.” For life of me I can’t decipher what his eyes darting back and forth from my left eye to my right eye means—but I do know that I don’t want it to end.

  “Follow me, Denver,” I say, ta
king his cold hand. He smiles and obliges, tagging along as we exit the kitchen. Since he didn’t answer my question about the bedroom earlier, I assume he won’t answer it now and take him to the library where I remember seeing a giant green couch from the tour with Gloria.

  It’s pitch black inside and impossible to find the light switch while also keeping Denver from falling. I set him against the doorway, balancing him like a picture frame. “Don’t move,” I say, leaving him partly askew.

  In the darkness I wave my arms in front of me blindly, scanning the wall for a switch. “Not on wall,” Denver whispers. Okay, the switch isn’t on the wall. You’re a lot of help, Denny. I step into the void of the library and try to find some kind of lamp, and by shear miracle I bump into a desk and catch the shape of one in the dim moonlight from the window.

  I flip the switch and the room lights up—revealing the walls and walls of books. Hustling over to Denver, about to topple over, I think about my crappy little place in Burbank and I just want to go home. I didn’t expect my interview to become my first day on the job.

  With Denver in my arms, I guide him over to the green couch and set him down on the soft, velvet cushion. His head rocks back against the neck rest and I about pass out thinking that I accidentally killed the man. I take his head in my hand like I’m holding a baby and guide his entire body until he’s flat on his back.

  “Stay with me,” he mumbles. With his eyes clamped tight it’s hard to take him seriously. I’m willing to bet if I left him like this he would sleep for ten hours straight without waking once. As I turn to the doorway something latches at my wrist, keeping me from stepping forward.

  It’s Denver’s hand—his fingers and palm warm around my skin. “Stay with me, Tara,” he says with an urging tone, pulling me toward the couch. In the dim light, and after such an exhausting day, I can’t think of an argument strong enough to debate him. He takes my other hand and with the force of both dragging me down, it feels so right to let my body succumb to Denver’s gravitational pull.