“I think it does.” Sully pushed. “I think it matters a lot.”
“Not to the bottom line. Now, please excuse me. I have some damage control to run.” She took a few steps, then stopped. Her vision tinged red around the edges. If Hal and Sully wanted to paint her as the emotionless cyborg, she could play the part.
“Ian! Get the chef on the phone,” she shouted before turning back to Sully.
“What are you going to do?”
Quinn shrugged as she heard the swinging door whoosh open behind her. “What I should have done from the beginning. I’m going to tell Hal.”
“Tell me what?”
Hal wasn’t sure what she’d walked in on, but the tension in the room was thick enough to make even the huge kitchen feel confining. It radiated from both Sully and Quinn as they spun to face her. They both stared for a long, heavy second, then looked to each other.
“What’s the matter?”
Sully nodded to Quinn, who lifted her chin and smoothed the lapels of her navy blazer. She looked so deliciously buttoned up and formal with her fair hair pulled back in a long, elegant French braid and a hint of pink in her cheeks. “Hello, Hal. This is the kitchen I wanted you to try out for me.”
“Sure. Looks impressive . . . wait, try out? I thought you wanted me to check it out?”
“Same thing,” Quinn said evenly, a chill in her voice. “You wouldn’t buy a car without test driving it first.”
The logic made a certain amount of sense, but if Quinn just wanted her to make a couple of sandwiches, why was she acting so weird? Defensive even. And why was Sully here? “So you want me to cook you something?”
“No, you’ll be cooking for customers.”
“What, like your friends?”
“It’s a pop-up, dude,” Sully blurted out.
“A what?”
“A pop-up.” Quinn once again took the reigns. “A temporary restaurant, in our case, one night only. Tonight actually. We blast the information on social media—”
“I know what a pop-up is.” Hal cut her off. “I just don’t remember signing up for one.”
“You signed up to help me choose a new restaurant, and this is part of the process,” Quinn said coolly.
Hal stared at her blankly while her brain caught up to the words. They spun around in a jumble until one by one they fell into place. “Did you say tonight?”
“Yes.” Quinn looked at her watch. “In three hours.”
She turned to Sully. “Is she kidding?”
“No.” The word was flat, resigned, not angry.
Why wasn’t Sully angry? Had the audacity of Quinn’s scheme not sunk in yet? Hal rolled her head back, trying to loosen the tension building there along with the realization that Sully wasn’t acting surprised because she simply wasn’t. “Right. Great. This was it then?”
“What?” Quinn asked.
Hal kept her focus on Sully. She could only process one betrayal at a time, and hers was the bigger of the two. “This is the bullshit you were talking about in the truck yesterday?”
“No. I mean, yeah. Sort of, but when I heard the initial plan, it wasn’t like this. I mean it was, but different.”
“Yeah I bet. What did she promise you? I hope it was something better than money. No, that’s not her style. She probably made you think it was a gift. Something sweet for you? No, for me.” Hal’s laugh was bitter with both vindication and sadness that Quinn’s considerable powers of persuasion had been strong enough to break through even Sully’s ample shell of crass immaturity. If she’d gotten through to some softer side of her best friend, maybe Hal shouldn’t feel so bad about being duped into a false sense of security, too. “I guess I should say there’s no shame in getting beaten by a master.”
Sully’s face went pale, and she looked like she might be sick as she turned from Hal to Quinn and back again. “I’m sorry.”
“This isn’t her fault,” Quinn said. “I told her my plans in confidence. This was my idea, and I won’t apologize. I said from the beginning I wanted to open a restaurant, and I want to do so successfully. I hired you to help me, but you work at will, yours not mine. If you’re uncomfortable, I’m sure you can find the door. Clearly, I hope that’s not the case, but the choice is yours.” Quinn spun to leave the kitchen. There was something more she wasn’t saying. More surprises? Some secret stake? Or something more personal?
“What is your hope here, Quinn?” Hal asked.
She stopped, one hand on the door, and looked over her shoulder. “Excuse me?”
“I’m here now. You’ve got me. You won the round. Why not lay it all out? What do you really hope to accomplish?”
Quinn bit her lip as her chest rose and fell several times while she fought whatever instincts warred within her. Was she deciding between truth and a lie? The personal and professional? A want and a need? Or maybe safety and exposure? And did any of that even matter anymore? Finally she shrugged and said, “It’s just business, Hal.”
Then she let the door close behind her.
Hal braced her hands on the large prep counter and hung her head. She could walk. She probably should—that might teach Quinn a lesson. Except it wouldn’t. She clearly had a back-up plan. Even without her flip remark about finding the door, she would’ve known Quinn wouldn’t take a gamble like this without knowing she’d come out okay either way. Hell, she’d practically dared her to take the out. Sure, then she could paint Hal as the unreasonable one, the undependable one. She could spin her story like she always did so well.
“Did she already use my name?”
“Your name?” Sully asked.
“When she set up the media blast for this little shindig. Did she use my name?”
“Yeah. It hasn’t gone live yet, but the Art Voice, Buffalo Rising, Spree, they all have the write-up. They’re waiting on her word to launch.”
She took a deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth. This event would be a test of more than her cooking skills, and if she failed, Quinn Banning wouldn’t be the name whispered across the Nickel City.
Straightening, she surveyed the room once more, this time more critically. This wasn’t her first time in a commercial kitchen, but it had been years, and never in one this nice. The stainless steel table she leaned against offered the biggest prep space she’d ever worked with. The ten-burner gas stove behind her sported both a traditional grill and a hibachi style cooktop. Around the corner an industrial-sized, three-bin sink gleamed, and beside it another, only slightly smaller, prep sink beckoned. The opposite wall held a freezer and a mammoth fridge, both recessed into the wall, but the final area held the holy grail of her fantasy kitchen: two full-sized double-deck gas convection ovens standing tall and proud beside a floor-to-ceiling stone deck pizza oven. She got a thrill just looking at them.
Ideas came unbidden to the front of her mind. They weren’t even recipes yet, just concepts, the kind she’d never even dared to write down, much less try. Her fingertips tingled at the possibilities.
“Go get our hostess.”
“Hal?” Sully asked.
“Go get her.”
“You don’t have to—”
“We’ve got three hours. That’s not enough time to argue. My best friend failed me today, I need my sous chef to step up.”
A muscle in Sully’s jaw twitched as she clearly clenched her teeth, but no further argument came. “Yes, Chef.”
Hal watched her go, then doubled over once again, crouching almost to the floor, her hands covering her mouth as she stifled a scream. God, how could they do this to her? After everything she’d worked for, everything she’d accomplished, every ounce of contentment she’d cultivated, they couldn’t give her any peace. No, they had to reach inside her and stoke an emotion she’d worked her whole life to hold in check: Want.
They’d rubbed and worked and fed the tiniest spark in her until it singed her chest and licked at her limbs, then they stood back and left her to burn. Years of memories ru
shed back, threatening to consume her like fire. The echoes both close and distant crackled in her ear. Doubts—her own and those planted by others—danced among the flames. Could she smother them?
She had to. She wasn’t a child or a slave. Quinn said so herself. Whether she meant it or not, Hal had the power here. The choice was hers.
So was the want.
And Sully was right not to spring this on her but to encourage her to take what she wanted. Everyone else in this scenario had.
Tonight she would do the same.
“She wants you back in there,” Sully said.
Quinn glanced up from the stack of papers she’d been staring at without seeing. All she could see was Hal, remember the way confusion faded into recognition that looked so much like betrayal as her dark eyes swung from Quinn to Sully. She felt her, too. Felt her body heat, the playful teasing—open like it had been as she danced up behind her—suddenly turn to ice, granite, steel. Would she ever see the other side of the walls she’d thrown up between them again? God, she wanted to. Why hadn’t she realized that until she’d lost the chance?
No. She couldn’t go back. She’d learned that lesson early in life. The only way to get back was to plow forward. “What’s the verdict?”
“I don’t know.”
She didn’t believe her. Maybe Hal hadn’t explicitly stated her intentions, maybe she wasn’t even speaking to Sully, but Sully knew her well enough to tell which way the ax was leaning. Obviously, she just had no intention of sharing that information with Quinn.
So be it then. They could close ranks, leaving her on the outside again. She should’ve expected as much. Who had she been trying to kid thinking she would ever be welcomed to the inner part of their circle? When she’d issued her challenge to Hal last week in her kitchen, she’d foolishly hoped Hal would rise to it. But if she wanted to withdraw, that was her prerogative. She’d enjoyed the sparring while it lasted, but she really only needed Hal to cook.
Hal pushed open the door. “We don’t have all day, people. Ian, you come too.”
All three of them jumped and strode quickly toward the kitchen like a group of schoolchildren properly scolded for tardiness. By the time Quinn cleared the door, Hal had already slid a bin of strawberries to Sully. “Fan ’em.”
“Yes, Chef.” Sully snapped to and grabbed a set of knives.
“Ian, there’s a side of flank steak in the fridge. I want it sliced in half-inch-thick strips.”
“Yes, Chef.”
Quinn watched her brother spring into action. It was like they were on one of those dramatic cooking shows where everyone scrambled around under some absurd time constraint meant to whip both contestants and viewers into a frenzy. Ian and Sully certainly jumped right in. She, on the other hand, remained rooted to her spot while they rushed around her. Would she be given a job, or made to wait and watch, another reminder she wasn’t a real part of this team?
Hal stood in the center of the room surveying her crew and their tools until satisfied they were working to her specifications, then slowly turned to regard Quinn with a detached stare.
Quinn returned the focus, allowing herself to really see her for the first time since the situation exploded. Hal wore loose-fitting, dark jeans and a gray Henley, a pair of silver-rimmed aviator sunglasses perched atop her coal-black hair. The look was sheer cool, with an edge in her eyes: anger, disillusionment, and resolve. Quinn willed herself not to wilt under her gaze. If the look was meant to intimidate, she’d show no signs of it working, and if she was under inspection, she planned to pass muster. “How can I be of service, Chef?”
“Get ahold of whoever you leaked your press releases to,” Hal said. “Tell them to incorporate the information that we’re running a prix fixe menu.”
Quinn started to open her mouth, then closed it. She’d wanted more options, and Hal likely knew that. She was being tested as much as Hal tonight. If she had any hope of salvaging her plan to set the chef at the head of her restaurant venture, she had to prove she could remain hands off in the kitchen.
“Our inspiration is the start of berry season: hip, fresh, but not light,” Hal continued. “No one leaves hungry. First course, strawberry and steak salad, followed by shredded pork tenderloin in a mixed berry reduction sauce served over a cheddar potato parsnip mash. To finish, we have a crisp-crust, goat-cheese pizza with raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries drizzled in a swirl of chocolate and honey.”
Quinn pulled out her tablet and made a few notes, her heart beating rapidly. God, the menu sounded amazing. And Hal had intuitively grasped the feel of the situation. Their audience would be young to middle aged, single, trendy, but not clichéd. Just slightly left of center, but not too far out. She’d give them foods they knew with just enough twist to keep things fresh. Different without being odd. Best of all, Hal was ready to cook. Could this really work? “Excellent.”
“I assume you have a wait staff or servers?”
“Absolutely, they will all be here one hour before we open.”
“Get me Joey Lang from the Elmwood Coffee Shop to orchestrate them and to act as liaison between the kitchen and the customers. Pay her whatever she asks.”
Quinn pressed her lips together. She’d handpicked her servers, and she hadn’t budgeted for another employee. She’d anticipated being in charge of all personnel issues outside the kitchen. Then again, now was not the time to argue. “Done.”
“What about kitchen staff?”
“Sully ran point on that. She’s got a crew on standby waiting for your directions.”
Hal glanced across the kitchen. “Sous chef, you heard the menu?”
“Yes, Chef.”
“I run the meat, the marinades, and the pizza crusts,” Hal said curtly. “Get your team in place to handle the rest.”
“Yes, Chef.”
Then turning back to Quinn, she lowered her voice. “They get paid scale for this.”
“Of course.” It burned a little to think Hal felt the need to say that. “As does the wait staff.”
“You and I make nothing.”
“Sure,” Quinn agreed before the words sunk in. “Wait, what?”
“Not a penny of profit from this.” Hal’s voice was laced with so much gravel Quinn fought not to shudder. “You cover your expenses, you donate the rest to the Food Bank of Western New York.”
“Hal, the money is my domain. I’ve made that abundantly clear.”
“And I am making myself abundantly clear. This is a charity event, or it’s off.”
Quinn watched Hal’s dark irises swirl with a swarm of emotion she couldn’t read. Still, she recognized an iron will when she saw one. As much as she didn’t want to surrender one ounce of financial control, she preferred losing a single battle to ending the entire war before it ever began. At least they were playing ball again. She preferred fiery Hal to silent one. And the idea wasn’t as bad as a walkout. The press would be favorable, and the tax write-off sizeable. Plus, childhood hunger was one of her pet issues, not that Hal would believe her if she said so now. Still, it set a bad precedent for her to roll over too easily. She needed to make Hal think about her threat for a minute.
“What makes you so sure we’re even going to make money tonight?”
“You wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble unless you felt sure we would.”
At least Hal had a high opinion of her business acumen if not her personal ethics. “You do know I expected the business end to be my responsibility.”
“And I expected the common courtesy of being asked before you whored out my name.”
Point taken, and rather harshly. The color rising in her cheeks now wasn’t for show. “Fine.”
“Forgive me for wanting a little more clarification, but I’d like things spelled out very clearly between us from now on.”
“The pop-up is a charity event,” Quinn said coolly. “We cover our debts and donate the rest in its entirety.”
“And the kitchen is mine?”
“All yours.”
“Then, excuse me. I have work to do.”
Hal spun on her heel without so much as another glance.
Thoroughly dismissed, and all but told to get out of the kitchen, Quinn decided to follow her example and set to work doing what she did best. The lines were clearly drawn, and while she would’ve preferred to be on the same side as Hal, at the end of the day all that mattered was making the pop-up successful. Her social skills and Hal’s culinary genius would all but guarantee a win if they stayed focused. The ache in her chest for something more would go unheeded and unexamined until the work was done.
Chapter Eight
The night had flown by. She’d stayed clear of the kitchen until just before opening and even then only checked in to make sure Hal required nothing else from her. After receiving another curt reminder that she didn’t belong in the kitchen, she retreated once more to the front.
The first trickle of curious customers arrived only minutes after five, and Quinn found her footing quickly. The initial visitors were mostly local to the neighborhood and eager to see who’d taken over the empty space. She chatted with them easily, explaining the concept of a pop-up and gushing about the menu prepared by their illustrious chef. Five minutes in, she had no doubt they would’ve gladly eaten their dinner out of the palm of her hand. By the end of the first seating, they had a twenty-minute wait for tables. She had to turn her phone off vibrate because it kept rattling on the hostess stand due to the alerts she got every time someone tagged the pop-up in a tweet. Social media in Buffalo blazed with photos of their restaurant and, more frequently, their food.
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