Perfect Pairing

by Rachel Spangler

  “Good.”

  “This one,” she said, pressing more firmly on the other, “has some give to it, but it bounces back.”

  “Right,” Hal said from so close Quinn could feel her breath on the skin of her neck. “Now which one of them is green?”

  “This one.” She held up the harder one.

  “Open your eyes.”

  She blinked a few times to let her eyes adjust and focus on the very red tomato she held up. She lifted the other one to inspect and found it nearly identical.

  “You tricked me. They’re both red.”

  “Are they really, though?” Hal asked, taking them back.

  “I take it the answer is no?”

  “The one you identified as green probably was when it was picked. Because they have to be shipped or stored, they are pulled from the vine too early, then exposed to ethylene gas to make them ripen artificially.”

  “That sounds dangerous. Isn’t that an anesthetic?”

  “It used to be, and in a way it still is. Now it’s used to numb your taste buds. It’s probably not too unhealthy, since ethylene is produced naturally from fruits and vegetables, but it messes with the texture of the food. It means tomatoes go from being too hard to being mealy.”

  Hal picked up a large cardboard carton and filled it with tomatoes from a different bin. “These were vine-ripened in local greenhouses. They didn’t have to travel as far, and they won’t have nearly as long of a shelf life, but I don’t need them to.”

  Quinn looked at the large quantity of tomatoes. “You’re going to get all of those on sandwiches in the next week?”

  “No, I actually don’t use ripe tomatoes on grilled cheeses. Other people do, but I think they’re too juicy. They make everything soggy.”

  “Back to texture,” she noted. “Then why buy them?”

  “I use them in sauces. I make my own salsa, pizza sauce, and marinara. Then I can or freeze them in portion sizes that fit a normal day on the truck.”

  “Why not just buy those things already made and canned?” She wasn’t taking physical notes, but she soaked up everything for her mental inventory.

  “For one, they generally come canned in aluminum or tin, both of which react with the acidity of the tomato to affect their health and taste, but more importantly I make all of those things better than anything you can buy mass produced.”

  “You think people can really tell the difference between a homemade pizza sauce and a canned one once you’ve cooked and covered it in cheese?”

  Hal sighed as if she’d just asked the stupidest question in the world.

  “What?”

  “I think we might need to save that lesson for another day and focus on the basics for now.”

  Quinn’s natural defenses rose at being spoken to like a dull child, but she didn’t protest for fear of losing the promise of another day. The longer she kept Hal on the hook, the more she could learn, not only about the food, but the chef herself.

  “Grab that basket and help me pick some spinach.”

  They loaded up several more items as Quinn followed Hal around the store until they got to the checkout where a cashier weighed, measured, and priced everything, then gave them an absurdly low total.

  As soon as the dollar amount was uttered, Quinn looked to Hal, who was staring back at her with a triumphant smile, not wide, but knowing, and a little smug. Quinn recognized the expression as well as she knew the emotion behind it. The superiority of a successful bargain hunter looked good on her.

  Hal paid the bill in cash and wheeled her treasures to the truck.

  “I underestimated you,” Quinn finally said when they were on the road. “You’re a better businesswoman than I thought. I mean, I knew you were good at the cooking, but I had no idea you could get those ingredients at that price.”

  “Not many people do,” Hal admitted. “Most think you have to sacrifice quality or wreck your wallet, but there are really three sides to the equation.”

  “Do tell.”

  “When doing almost any job, you have three factors that make a triangle around it. The sides represent cost, quality, and time or ease. Two of them always work in tandem, but the third always sits opposite of where the other two meet,” Hal explained as she pulled into traffic. “So I can do a job cheap, and I can do the same job fast, but I can’t also do it well.”

  “What about doing it well and fast?”

  “Absolutely doable, but it will cost me. And I run a cash business, so I can only pay what I’ve made the week before.”

  “No collateral means no expensive frills.” Quinn filed that away for future use.

  “But if I’m willing to put in the time to go to multiple local stores, farmers markets, and wholesalers, if I build relationships with bakers and meat cutters, and if I make my own sauces, I can produce a quality product people can afford to buy at a price that turns a profit.”

  “But isn’t time money?”

  “Only when I’m working for someone else. I don’t punch a clock. I do what I want when I want to do it.”

  “And you love it? The cooking part?”

  Hal nodded, her eyes on the road.

  “What about the other food-truck drivers? Do they all shop at places like that?”

  “No, a lot of them take the same shortcuts other low-end restaurants around here do.”

  “But they do just fine.”

  Hal’s knuckles tightened visibly on the steering wheel. “Yes, they do. But you’re not looking for just fine, are you?”

  Quinn’s chest tightened. “How do you know what I’m looking for?”

  Hal smiled that smile again, the confident one laced with pride. “Because you’re not with any of the other food-truck drivers this morning. You’re with me.”

  “Hey dude.” Sully padded into the kitchen in boxer shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt that read, “Chefs do it with spice.” Her dark hair covered one of her eyes, and she made no attempt to push it back. “How was your date?”

  “It wasn’t a date.”

  “Oh right, she paid you for your expertise,” she said in a way that made it sound dirty, but Sully had a fourteen-year-old boy’s ability to make anything sound dirty.

  “We just went to Willowbrook Farms.”

  “How sweet. You took her to your happy place.”

  Hal set down the tomatoes she’d been washing and gave Sully a stern look. “Do you want to hear about it or not?”

  “Sorry, Mom.” Sully feigned remorse. “I didn’t know you were so touchy about your new friend.”

  “She’s not a friend,” Hal said quickly, then paused. They might have been friendly to each other, at times maybe even playful, but friends didn’t pay friends to hang out with them. “She is smart, though.”

  “About food?”

  “No, not at all, but about people. About the way things work and what matters.”

  “You mean the things with dollar signs on them?”

  “Not just that.” Hal filled a huge pot with water and set it on the stove to boil.

  “What then?”

  “Like when I explained why we buy the things we buy, and why we do the extra work.”

  “Huh, I wouldn’t have thought someone in a suit would understand the concept of extra work.”

  She pulled on a white apron and laid out several knives on the wooden cutting board before her. “I don’t know. She seems different from the other slick types that hang around Larkin. I don’t get the sense she’s had everything handed to her.”

  “Are you sure that’s not wishful thinking on your part?”

  “Why would I care how she got her money? It spends the same way.”

  “True.” Sully rolled up her sleeves and fell in beside her. “It doesn’t matter at all in a business transaction.”

  Hal heard the unspoken “but” on the end of that sentence. “It’s just business.”

  “Sure,” Sully said, running cold water in a stainless steel bowl. “Just business . . .
in a skirt . . . with legs that start yesterday and end tomorrow.”

  Hal dropped a few tomatoes in the simmering pot of water and stared at them for a few seconds before finally admitting, “Yeah, there’s always that.”

  Sully grinned.

  “What?”

  “I’m just glad you noticed. All your talk about business made me start to wonder if you needed to have your eyes checked.”

  “No, they’re working fine, thanks, but what’s the point?”

  “Well when it comes to points, she’s got two very lovely ones standing out nice and firm.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Boobs and legs, and nothing else matters.”

  “Don’t forget the ass. You white girls never give enough love to the booty.”

  “Us white girls?” Hal punctuated the question with one raised eyebrow.

  Sully nudged her in the shoulder, her tone suddenly softening. “Just an expression, friend.

  “Yeah yeah.” She fished the tomatoes out of the pot and neatly deposited them in Sully’s ice water before adding a few more.

  “Do you guys only talk about food?” Sully asked as she deftly slipped the now-shriveled skin off a tomato and rolled it onto Hal’s cutting board.

  “Basically, aside from a little bit of teasing about fashion,” Hal said. “I haven’t told her anything about me personally if that’s what you mean.”

  “You don’t have to, you know?”

  “I plan to keep it strictly business.” She cut the tomato in quarters and began to slice out the core. “No lesbian urge to merge here.”

  “There’s a middle ground, you know. Somewhere between a formal contract and a U-Haul. It’s a fun place where bodies are happy, and hearts don’t get broken.”

  “Maybe for some people, but I’ve never been good with gray areas, and when it comes to women like Quinn Banning, doing things halfway doesn’t really seem like an option.”

  “You’re diving into the Bermuda Triangle again.” Sully smirked. “Just like prom night.”

  “Dude, did you just bust yourself?”

  “A little bit.”

  Hal shook her head, but something about the triangle image stuck, and not in the juvenile way Sully intended. She flashed back to her earlier conversation with Quinn. Cost, quality, and ease. She could have two of the three with Quinn. They could have something good and something easy just like Sully suggested, but it would no doubt come at a cost. Hal didn’t know what kind of price tag something like that would carry, but she knew enough to understand it was likely one she wasn’t prepared to pay.

  Chapter Five

  “Hey, Quinn, gimme a hand here, will ya?”

  She hopped onto the back bumper of Cheesy Does It, or at least she hoped it looked like a hop anyway. Hal and Sully made the transition so effortlessly, nonchalantly. She was determined not to let it show how the heels of her patent leather slingbacks wobbled every time she hit the ground and her skirt bunched up her thighs each time she had to hoist herself back into the truck. She supposed no one liked feeling incompetent or out of place, but she was less used to it than most. She prided herself on being able to at least appear comfortable in any situation from the boardroom to the ballroom. She’d just never had the chance to perfect those skills in the world of food trucks . . . yet. She needed more time, more practice, which was why she’d volunteered to help Hal’s crew clean up late on Friday night instead of soaking in a hot tub like she wanted to.

  She took another big metal tray with crusted bits of Buffalo chicken from Sully and turned back to Ian as he jumped into the truck. Yes, even Ian had perfected the single bound jump that barely caused him to break his lanky stride. Of course his legs were a lot longer, but he’d never been known for his grace or athleticism. Even as a child, the family had joked that his big brain must make him top-heavy because he would topple over at even the slightest bump. Quinn would have thought someone his size would constantly crash into the low cabinets or bump his knees against sharp corners, but in just two weeks he seemed to have established a rhythm with Hal and Sully.

  She stopped as the dim overhead light struck the pan, fully illuminating its haggard state. “Should he take that one to the kitchen or garage?” Quinn asked, almost afraid of the answer. If it were up to her, she would’ve thrown most of the things they pulled out of the truck into the trash, and between the charred bottom and caramelized wing sauce in every aluminum wrinkle, this pan seemed to have fared worse than most, but Hal, Sully, and Ian all answered “kitchen” in unison.

  They did that a lot, answered in unison; another reminder of her outsider status. She understood that kind of mind meld from Sully and Hal. They clearly had a past that went back a long way, but Ian had been working with them for only two weeks.

  “Pass it on back, Quinn,” Hal said without even looking at her fully. “There’s more where that came from.”

  “Yes, Chef,” she said with forced enthusiasm.

  Hal’s shoulder’s tensed at either the term or the tone in which she’d delivered it, but she didn’t turn around until she’d scraped the last charred bit of cheese off the griddle and into the trash can. Quinn watched her bend over and tie the strings on the garbage bag, the muscles in her upper arms rippling as she hoisted it out of the can, then dropped it at her feet. God, why wouldn’t Hal even look at her?

  She wasn’t being rude or even impolite so much as studiously indifferent, but only to her. She laughed easily with Sully and smiled freely at Ian. All of them chatted amiably off and on as they worked. Even the silences seemed contented, for everyone but her.

  She sighed and shifted her weight again. Maybe she was being too touchy. What did it matter? She wasn’t here to make friends, unless of course making friends would make for better business connections, because so far she hadn’t made much progress on that front either.

  Over the last few weeks Hal had taught her about the importance of good knives, how to store food in ways that kept it fresh with limited refrigeration, and how to properly scrub pots and pans, but she was still no closer to learning the true secrets of her success. She wasn’t sure if she was stalling or stonewalling, but her patience felt anything but virtuous at the moment. She scooted back to let Hal pass with the trash bag, shuffling her feet out of the way and leaning all her weight against the small prep counter.

  “If your feet are bothering you, go on inside and kick off those pretty little shoes of yours.”

  “If you were a man, I’d entertain the idea of kicking you in the groin with one of these pretty little shoes for saying something so condescending,” Quinn shot back.

  Hal raised a dark eyebrow, and Sully quickly turned toward the prep sink in an unsuccessful attempt to hide a snicker.

  So much for making friends and winning connections. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. It’s been a long day.”

  “I’m sure it has been,” Hal said in a placating tone, “which is why I offered you a chance to go relax while we finish the work.”

  While they finish the work? What did that mean? That she wasn’t helpful? That what she’d been doing wasn’t really work? Maybe that was a stretch, but it was the final spark that ignited her fuse.

  “No, that’s not true at all, and on second thought, I’m not really sorry I snapped. I’m trying here. I’m just as tired as all of you, and I’m working just as hard without once complaining, all while paying for the privilege of doing so, and yet all I get is cheap shots about my shoes?”

  “Oh shit, Quinn,” Ian said from the driveway in a tone that made it clear he’d not only heard most of that outburst but also found it wretchedly embarrassing.

  “Hey now,” Sully said, sweeping past them toward the back door. “It’s not good to argue in front of the kid.”

  “I’m not a kid,” Ian said.

  “I was talking about me,” Sully said, hopping down onto the driveway. “I don’t like it when Mom and Dad fight. You’d better take me inside, Ian.”

  He rolled his eyes
but managed a small smile at Sully as she grabbed his elbow and pulled him toward the house. Quinn waited until she heard the storm door slam behind them before turning back to Hal. “Is this partnership not working for you?”

  “You mean consultantship?”

  “Sure, let’s pretend that’s a real term. Is it not working for you? ’Cause if I’ve done something wrong, I think I deserve to know what it is, and if I haven’t, I think I deserve an explanation as to why I’ve spent weeks carrying dirty dishes without complaint but I’m still being treated like an interloper.”

  “You’re kind of complaining now,” Hal mumbled.

  “What?”

  “Talking about how much you haven’t complained sort of implies a complaint. It’s bank-shot complaining, but there are way less than six degrees of separation from what you’re doing now and complaining.”

  “Hal.”

  “What?”

  She folded her arms across her chest and tapped the toe of her so-called pretty shoe against the metal floor of the truck. “I’m waiting.”

  God what was wrong with this woman? Hal had made a perfectly nice offer to let her off the hook, and she’d blown a gasket. What was she supposed to do? Apologize? She hadn’t asked Quinn to show up here tonight. She hadn’t asked her to help. She certainly hadn’t given any indication she wanted to see Quinn in a skirt and panty hose that encased every delicious curve of her thighs. She didn’t request to be enshrouded in the subtle scent of her perfume as it permeated even the truck’s usual cloud of bacon grease. She’d done nothing to indicate she wanted to spend her Friday night trying to look anywhere but at her for fear that exhaustion weakened her defenses enough to let her get close.

  But now she was close, and not just in the physical sense. She knew something was off, and she wouldn’t let Hal get away with a redirect. What the hell was she supposed to do now? Ignoring her was no longer an option. She’d clearly seen through Hal’s purposeful nonchalance, and she was pissed. Now Quinn had backed her into a corner, both physically and metaphorically. She had two options: she could either start digging or start apologizing.