by Tracy Ewens
Kara refilled her teacup and began reviewing the rest of her e-mail. Her phone vibrated with a text from her mother:
Reminder – you’re expected at the Volunteer Thank-You this Wed.
Please dress appropriately, preferably raspberry. It’s your signature color! :) :) :)
Kara was pretty sure her brother had taught their mother to text. She would be sure to thank him for that “little slice of heaven,” as their Nana would say. Texting had given their mother twenty-four-hour access for her passive-aggressive hinting. There was nothing the woman wouldn’t say and now she could follow it with happy faces.
It was an election year, which meant the Malendars were expected to be out in full force and on their best behavior. Her parents had even hired a PR babysitter for her brother. Kara hadn’t met Kate, the babysitter, yet, but judging by the way her brother talked about her, Kara was pretty sure that relationship was going from professional to complicated any day now. All Kara’s mother had said about Grady’s new keeper was that her name was too close to Kara’s and it was confusing. As if a mother would confuse her daughter with someone else because her name was similar. “Does that happen?” Kara had wanted to ask her mother with more than a little sarcasm, but she hadn’t because she was the obedient daughter, the one who followed the rules. Grady was the wild child of the family and while her brother was one of her favorite people, she often envied his courage. Instead of bold and brave, Kara had a chip on her shoulder she couldn’t seem to shake. She decided a while back that being a bitch and distancing herself was easier than feeling. Feeling only reminded her of Paris and what was stolen from her.
Kara opened her desk drawer and pulled out the stack of envelopes she had labeled Campaign. They were all dated in the right-hand corner, with a black dot if they required formal attire. Wednesday’s invitation was still unopened. Kara usually waited a couple of days before reading any political event invitations. That cut down on the time she had to second-guess and dread. Running her pearl-handled letter opener along the sealed crease of the envelope, she pulled out a single card.
Let’s Celebrate You!
Kara rolled her eyes.
Senator and Mrs. Patrick Malendar would like to thank each and every volunteer,—
blah, blah, blah.
We will be hosting a happy hour and buffet-style dinner at—
She stopped reading and set the invitation down. After what her best friend, Jake, called a “deep cleansing breath,” she picked it up again. Nope, nothing had changed—it still read the same. Her parents would be hosting their thank-you party at
The Yard, a cool new local restaurant we’ve been hearing great things about.
The Yard is owned by hometown chef, Logan Rye.
Well of course, Kara thought, tossing the invitation back into her desk drawer.
The one person from her past who probably hated her to the core. Kara had heard about Logan’s restaurant when it opened three months ago, but she had done a very good job avoiding everything concerning The Yard or Logan Rye up to this point. She’d left that entire mess behind in Paris.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” she reminded herself every time she crammed some ugly thing to the back of her mind. She’d recently added the Marco Polo review to her mental back drawer, but now Logan Rye, a long-time back-drawer resident, was moving to the front of the class. Thanks to her parents. Damn it!
She replied to her mother’s text:
I’ll be there with bells on!! :) :) :)
Christ, she actually nauseated herself sometimes. Kara let out a slow breath, took a sip of tea, and turned to her computer monitor. She tried to focus on proofing her review of Two Guys Taco Shop, but she kept reading the same sentence over and over again, so she accepted that focusing on anything other than the invitation was a waste of time.
The weekend crowd flow was still a little patchy. Friday had been dead, but they were slammed on Saturday, which was strange because there was a local football game Friday and Logan assumed people would have—Aw hell, he thought, none of it made any sense.
He simply needed to do the work, keep getting their name out there, and make kick-ass food, as Travis liked to put it. Logan poured himself a cup of coffee behind the bar.
It was Monday morning, the start of a new week. He had spent yesterday in his garden, trying to clear his head and cultivating his own little farm. Although his father and brother would laugh their asses off if they heard him call it that. They ran a real farm—that’s what they would say, and they would be right—but Logan’s little piece of earth was still pretty impressive. What had started off as a garden had grown into something much more. Logan loved working the land and growing food. It seemed so vital, essential to who he was, and when most of his week was filled with Makenna barking at him to post more content to The Yard’s Facebook page or figuring out why most of his servers were either stoned or obnoxiously enthusiastic, his garden was a refuge.
The carrots had come in beautifully and he now had more kale then he knew what to do with. He’d started some seeds for his next planting, and it seemed in another week or two, Travis would have the rutabaga he’d requested back in June. Travis had made Logan pork tenderloin with cider jus and rutabaga for his birthday and it was nothing short of amazing, so of course Logan wanted it featured on the fall menu.
Almost every thought in Logan’s waking life was consumed by food—either planting it, sourcing it from somewhere that made him proud, or cooking it. He allowed a few hours for sleep, and then the rest of his “free” time was spent with his family, discussing, arguing, or doing his part at Ryeland Farms. He supposed it was a good life, but he was tired.
“Stupid douche bag.”
That was all Logan heard as he set his coffee down and rounded the bar toward the front of the restaurant.
His sister, Makenna Rye Conroy, her long brown hair pulled into a knot, shouldered through the front door. Her muck boots told him she’d already been to the farm, most likely to help their father feed. The woman did more before noon than most people did all day. She was typing a message on her phone with one hand and in her arms she balanced a water bottle, folders, her purse, three large pieces of leather, and a pair of tennis shoes. She resembled a game of Jenga, and Logan wasn’t sure if he should touch anything for fear it would all come tumbling down. She anchored one hip on the closest barstool, thumbing her phone and still holding everything.
“Did you want to me to take some of that, or am I the douche bag?”
Nothing, just more thumbing and a large exhale of breath.
“Kenna.” He tried again to get her attention as he locked the front door.
“Hmm?” She finally dropped the contents of her arms on the bar in front of her. “Oh shit. Sorry.” Realizing she’d put shoes on the clean bar, she moved them to the stool next to her, set her phone down, and turned to Logan.
“Rough morning?” he asked.
“No more than usual, why?”
“Well, you have what looks like”—he leaned forward and touched the glob on the shoulder of her black sweater—“chewed up . . . cracker, maybe?”
Kenna examined her shoulder, pulling the arm of her sweater forward to get a better look. “Oh yeah, Paige didn’t want to go to day care this morning. There’s some kid on the afternoon-session kindergarten bus who she finds, wait for it, ‘intolerable.’” Kenna let out the tired laugh of a single mom in love with every detail about her daughter. “Can you believe she actually used that word?” She shook her head and grabbed a napkin off the bar to remove the glob. “We stopped at McDonald’s on the way in. Did you know they still have animal crackers?”
“Do you feel any guilt feeding your daughter fast-food when your brother owns a restaurant?”
“Nope.” Makenna looked at her phone again.
“Well, you should. Do you have any idea what the fast-food industry has done to our society? All it does is foster substandard—”
Makenna covered his mouth wi
th the hand not zipping through her phone. “Shhh”—she set her phone down again—“no one wants to hear from your soapbox this early in the morning.”
Logan stuck his tongue out and Makenna immediately dropped her hand, wiping it on her jeans.
“Eww, you’re gross and still, like, five years old.”
Logan laughed. “So, who’s the douche bag?”
“Huh? Oh, right. This,” she picked up her phone and began frantically trying to get something on the screen. “This douche bag left a review for us on Yelp and I quote, ‘the waitresses are hot, but their onion rings,’ spelled T-H-E-R-E, ‘sucked. They were cold.’ Frowny face.”
“We don’t have onion rings.” Logan leaned over to look at her phone.
“I know. If you read the rest of this moron’s misspelled review, it’s clear he’s talking about The Yard House. You know, the sports bar?”
Logan was confused.
“Please tell me you know what The Yard House is?”
“Of course I do. I’m just confused why we got their review. And are their waitresses really hot?”
Makenna hit his arm and Logan laughed.
“I have no idea, nor do I care. What I care about is that this review brought down our rating. I hate Yelp. There’s no damn filter. Any idiot can go on there and leave crap. I’m okay with the legit ones if you don’t like the food or the place was dirty, but if you’re going to say our onion rings suck and give us one star, could you fucking make sure we serve onion rings?”
Logan said nothing. She’d been his sister for thirty years; he knew when to sit back and let her rant.
“Sorry, it’s just that people use these sites, Logan. Some might even pass on giving us a try based on stars or forks or whatever. I e-mailed Yelp’s technical support, but Lord knows how long that will take. It’s the name. People are searching Yard House and stop at The Yard.”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about that. They should correct it eventually, right?”
“Yeah, but it’s not good to have this out there. We already have the one from last month. Remember the creepy toothless guy who left us one star and said he hated that we took over the lumber yard because he used to ‘cop a squat’ under the awning to keep himself and his grocery cart out of the rain?”
Logan laughed. “I loved that one. It’s printed and up on my fridge at home. Made me almost want to build another awning somewhere. I’m still wondering how a homeless guy got to a computer and if he did, why would he take the time?”
Makenna’s face was stone. “One star, Logan. We can’t afford one-star anything at this point.”
He sighed. Never in a million years when he was busting his ass at Margot’s in Seattle and dreaming of his own place did he think these would be the things he would be dealing with. “I know, but we can only do so much. According to Summer—”
“Which one’s Summer again?”
“The hostess, curly hair,” he said.
She nodded.
“Anyway, Summer told me some woman was leaving last night and commented that she loved the food, thought the place was great, but our white napkins left lint all over her black pants. We’re never going to please everyone, Kenna. We have to let some of this shit go.”
“Able to let that one go were ya? How long did it take you to order the black napkins?” Makenna’s thumb paused midair over her phone as she raised her eyebrows at Logan.
“Last night,” he sighed and dropped his head to the bar. He told himself all the way home he didn’t care that his napkins were white, but by the time he crawled into bed, he’d convinced himself the lady had a point, got back out of bed, and ordered the damn things.
“Yeah, that whole Zen, let-it-be shit only works when you’re watching the sunset and even then only until the phone rings. That’s why monks don’t run restaurants.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Logan finished his last sip of coffee.
“I’ll follow up.” Makenna walked behind the bar and pour herself a large Coke. “Both of these reviews need to be taken down. I’m on it. All part of the job.”
“Breakfast of champions?” He pointed to her drink.
“You know it.” She held her glass up in a toast.
Logan shook his head.
“Fine, I’ll add some fruit.” She grabbed a few cherries and a straw. Taking a very long sip, she closed her eyes in pleasure and was instantly energized, ready to go.
Watching his sister spring to life, Logan thought maybe he should ditch the coffee and return to the Mountain Dew of his college years.
“So, what are the fires today?” she asked and he handed her a page from his yellow pad.
Bringing Makenna on board was one of the best business decisions he’d ever made. She had the Rye family drive and she loved spreadsheets and numbers, all the parts he hated.
“We’ve got the senator’s volunteer thing Wednesday night, unless they cancelled? Please tell me they didn’t cancel.” She started adding the items on his list to her own longer one.
“Nope, still on.”
Makenna let out a sigh. “Thank God. That’s going to be huge. Lots of people who haven’t tried us yet, and because it’s volunteers, it won’t only be hoity-toities. Real people will be there too.”
Logan laughed. “What does that mean?”
“It means the normal, eating-out population will be represented. We like them.”
“And what about the senator’s crowd?”
“Eh, they’re good too. I mean an eater is an eater, but they’re usually more trouble than they’re worth. Shitty tippers.”
“Wow, isn’t that some kind of profiling?”
“Sure is.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Just calling ’em like I see ’em. I need to put this stuff away.” She stood and loaded her arms again. “I have to go prepare myself before our new server shows up and starts complaining about how she needs more hours.” Kenna rolled her eyes.
“I probably don’t pay you enough,” Logan called after her.
She threw her head back as she retreated into the kitchen, pushing through the large door. “Truth, the man speaks the truth!”
Logan laughed, wiped down the bar, and turned on the overhead speakers. Fallout Boy’s “My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark (Light Em Up)” filled the restaurant. Travis would be there in about twenty minutes. Logan hummed the lyrics as thundering drums spilled into the dining area. He turned on the front lights and opened the screens to the patio. By the time the lead singer howled the chorus for the last time, he had some great ideas for the senator’s event. He would serve their brisket and ask Travis his thoughts on which sides should go with it. By the end of the day, Logan hoped to have the menu for the senator’s event nailed down and any thoughts about the senator’s daughter pushed back where they belonged.
Chapter Three
Kara was on the Rose Bowl loop track by 5:30 Wednesday morning, her Kick My Own Ass playlist paused and ready as she stretched and adjusted her laces. It was a clear, but chilly September morning. A group of cyclists passed and she pulled her sleeves over her thumbs, squeezed the play button on her headphones, and set out to clear her cluttered mind.
As she closed in on mile one, he was still in the forefront of her thoughts. From the pictures and interviews she had read when The Yard first opened, Logan was bigger now and even more sure of himself than he was back then. The memory of the first time she’d laid eyes on him would no longer stay where she willed it and burst forward as mile two approached.
They had been paired up as partners at the Le Cordon Bleu cooking school in Paris. They were both UCLA students and had never met before, but there they were in white aprons at a classroom table thousands of miles away from home. It was strange how things happened.
“Logan Rye,” he’d said, extending his hand with an ease Kara called “campus causal.” She had noticed it when she arrived at UCLA her freshman year. The walk, the talk, the way people g
reeted one another—it was something she didn’t have much exposure to in her eighteen years prior to college. Sure, her brother, Grady, had an ease about him, but it was still a bit studied, a bit calculated. It came from growing up as they had, in a fishbowl. After being at UCLA for two or three days, Kara learned there were people who carried themselves as if no one was watching because, well, no one was. It was heady and she loved it, at least from afar.
So, thousands of miles away from school and into her junior year, Logan Rye was that ease, that comfort. She shook his hand and noticed immediately that it was large, warm, and callused. Not a lot of artistic guys, working with food or otherwise, had callused hands. As she quickly glanced up at him, she realized Logan didn’t look like the typical artist by a long shot. Even then, he presented more like a farmer than a budding chef.
“Winnie, Winnie Parker,” she had replied. She no longer tripped over her introduction because she’d practiced it enough in the mirror. Although, Kara was still working on remembering to turn around when someone called out, “Winnie.”
“Winnie, great. Nice to meet you.” Logan opened his folder. “Do you have a lot of cooking experience?”
“No, first time in a cooking class. I’ve watched our family’s cook—” Kara caught herself. “Cooking shows, my family watches a lot of cooking shows, but that’s about it. How about you?”
“I’ve worked in a restaurant since freshman year of high school, picked up some things here and there, but I’m looking forward to some formal training.”
Kara smiled. She wasn’t sure what else to say or who she should be at that point.
“Of course, I can’t understand most of what Madame Auclair is saying, even though I’m pretty sure it’s English.” He laughed, but quickly stopped when Madame Auclair cleared her throat and walked past their table.