Hal’s food.
The novelty of something new in Buffalo always sent the rumor mill spinning, but Quinn harbored no illusions about what brought in the most people. The famous food-truck chef gone official was too intriguing to pass up. Soon groups began to roll in from the Southtowns—bored young suburban couples and hipster newlyweds, followed by yuppies who had been lured away from Canalside and downtown. All of them came looking for Hal, and none of them left disappointed.
As the evening wore on, the excitement never wavered. Even after nine o’clock, cameras still clicked and phone screens flashed, signifying another rave review sent off into cyberspace. By now, the crowd consisted of mostly students from UB and Buff State. They’d been the last to arrive but brought with them the largest numbers. Everywhere, tables had been pushed together into long rows, and food passed freely from one person to the next. Pizza with salad, more of the shredded pork after dessert. It looked more like a banquet hall or a large family gathering than a restaurant. Connected, vibrant, communal, the feel appealed to Quinn as much as it did to the students, and as two middle-aged couples walked in, she made a snap decision not to change a thing.
“Welcome to our little experiment,” she said brightly.
“We just left the movies and heard some people talking about your new place. We had to come see what all the fuss was about,” one of the women said, her arm looped loosely through her husband’s.
His barrel chest puffed out. “We usually go to the Olive Garden.” He sounded less enthusiastic as he surveyed the clutter of younger bodies.
“We appreciate you giving us a try,” Quinn said. “We’re bringing something new to the table, both the food and the way it’s served. We are open only tonight, and we’ve got a three-course preset menu.”
“You don’t get any choices?” the other man asked. He was taller, wiry. He looked like a professor in his corduroy blazer, though it lacked the stereotypical elbow patches.
“Our chef selected the finest courses to celebrate the start of berry season in Western New York,” Quinn explained with the same level of enthusiasm she’d started the evening with.
“How exciting,” the first woman said to her female friend. “It’s like those fancy restaurants you hear about in New York or LA.”
Neither of the men looked as thrilled about that prospect. One of them finally voiced his concern. “Fruit for dinner?”
“Every course contains fruit, but let me assure you, this isn’t bird food. Our chef, Hal Orion, is known for running a food truck, and she hasn’t forgotten her blue-collar roots just because I wrangled her inside for one night.”
The guys still didn’t look convinced. They weren’t really her target market anyway. None of her business plans involved going after the Olive Garden crowd, and it’d be no big loss if they walked. The evening was already an astounding success. She felt no need to lay on the hard sell. And yet, she didn’t like to lose, not when she’d already done the hard part of getting them through the door. It was one thing to let go of a possibility in the hypothetical, but now she’d seen them, met them, looked them in the eye. They were real, and they were close, and she wouldn’t give up on them without a fight.
“Would you like to meet the chef, maybe see what she’s working on? I’m sure that would put your mind at ease.”
“Oh, Darrell,” the quieter of the two women exclaimed, “I’ve never met a chef before.”
She was clearly on the hook, and now even her husband seemed vaguely interested. No doubt the idea of something exclusive appealed to him. Finally Mr. Barrel Chest nodded. “Why not?”
Quinn motioned for them to follow her between a row of tables. Why not indeed, except, of course, the little matter of Hal’s rule that she keep out of the kitchen.
Suddenly her palms pricked with sweat. Was she crossing a line? Breaking the promise to leave that space entirely to Hal? No, surely giving a quick tour didn’t rank on the same level as making a decision without her input. And yet, it certainly didn’t err on the side of caution either.
She caught Joey Lang’s blue eyes as they neared the heavy swinging door. Maybe she should pass the customers off to her. Bringing her in had certainly been a good move on Hal’s part. She was young and attractive, soft-spoken, with a confidence that came from doing her job well. She’s handled the wait staff calmly and efficiently, and given the ease with which she moved between the dining room and the kitchen, she was equally well received in both places.
Quinn tried not to let any of that bother her. Maybe at one point she’d hoped to play that role herself, maybe she’d even looked forward to popping into the kitchen for a bit of the fast-paced banter Hal always dished up, but she’d served a more important purpose up front. And part of that purpose involved reeling in customers, which was exactly what she planned to do with the group following her now.
Squaring her shoulders, she breezed as casually as possible past Joey and pushed through the door, holding it open for the others to follow. Immediately they were assaulted by a whirl of activity. Skillets sizzled and steamed on the stove, Ian grabbed a handful of gorgonzola cheese and crumbled it in his big hand over several bowls of salad. Sully shouted for one of the line cooks to ready a space for the pizza she’d levered out of the oven on a large wooden peel. They all worked diligently, paying the newcomers not a second’s notice, and Quinn gave them little more in return. Instinctively, her eyes sought out the dark ones she’d last seen churning with emotion.
Hal froze, a large roasting pan of pork in her heat-resistant gloved hands, just steps from the upright open. Her lips pressed into a tight line as she registered first Quinn’s presence, then the people behind her.
“Chef Orion,” she greeted warmly. “We won’t get in your way, but these lovely people just came from the movie theater, and they wanted to see what you’d worked up for their dinners tonight.”
Hal raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Her expression gave no sign of anger or annoyance, nor did it convey joy or amusement. Honestly, other than the eyebrows she remained impassive, emotionless, leaving Quinn unsure how to proceed. She couldn’t read a blank page, so she turned back to the customers.
“I think you gentlemen expressed concerns about us trying to feed you seeds and greens.”
“We’re not fans of rabbit food,” Barrel Chest cut in.
One corner of Hal’s mouth quirked up. “You’ll find none of that here. Unless, of course, it’s covered in steak.”
“Steak?”
“Yes, sir,” Hal said, turning to set the roasting pan on the prep table. “Right in the first course.”
The men gave her a grudging nod of respect.
“Then you’re going to move into a big pile of shredded meat atop a mash that’s mostly potatoes and cheese.”
Quinn marveled at the way Hal sparked to life. She’d quickly transitioned from totally focused to shooting the shit amicably, and she knew her audience, too. When she’d laid out the menu for Quinn, she’d described that same dish in a very different way. She hadn’t changed what she was serving. She simply changed the way she sold it so her customers were convinced it was exactly what they wanted all along. It was a skill Quinn could appreciate.
“And dessert is included with the meal.”
“Dessert?” the women asked in stereo.
Hal shifted her attention to them with a twinkle in her eye and a broadening smile. Quinn felt them begin to melt, and damned if she could blame them. Sometime since she’d left, Hal had traded her Henley for her standard chef’s coat with the sleeves ripped out. Her biceps shone from either sweat or steam, and her one rakish tuft of hair stuck to her forehead just over her right eye. She looked part chef, part biker, and part pirate. The Orion appeal Quinn had heard so much about, first on the grapevine and then in the Spree article, practically oozed out of her. Her first instinct was relief, cresting fast through her chest at the sight of Hal’s former exuberance superseding her anger. However, that wave was followed quick
ly by a wash of jealousy at the realization that Hal hadn’t gone emotionally void with anyone but her. If anything, her voice held more feeling than it had in weeks as she said, “Ladies, leave your husbands to hover over the roast pork a moment, and run away with me to the other side of the kitchen.”
The women didn’t even wait until the end of the sentence before they followed Hal as if she’d just invited them to Paris. “I handmade this crust, and it’s been rising for an hour, just waiting for you to come along and order it. As soon as you do, I’m going to bake it until it gets crisp on the bottom but soft on the top. Then I’m going to slather the whole thing in a rich chévre, sprinkle it with fresh, ripe berries, then drizzle it with a swirl of dark chocolate and sweet honey, just for you.”
Quinn rolled her eyes and stifled the urge to offer the women a handkerchief to wipe the drool from their chins. She couldn’t take any more of the intimacy in that low, rich voice, at least not as long as it was directed at someone else.
She cleared her throat. “So, has Chef Orion sold you on our menu yet?”
Hal glanced up at the sharp rap of Quinn’s business voice ringing across the metal and tile of the kitchen. She allowed herself to really look at her for the first time since they’d staked their battleground earlier in the evening. Her eyes were still bright and her cheeks rosy, but her smile had grown tight, tense. She held a menu clasped in front of her with both hands as she gently worried the paper edge dull. To an outsider the little tick would likely go unnoticed, but Hal wondered if it signified nerves. Surely she wasn’t afraid of failure at this point in the night. They’d seen a steady stream of orders for more than four hours.
“I’m sold,” one of the women said.
The men weren’t as exuberant, but they didn’t seem to have any complaints either.
“Good then, let’s find you a seat and leave the chef to her domain,” Quinn said, backing toward the door. The others followed, and just before they disappeared, she said loudly enough to be heard over the clamor of cooking instruments, “We won’t interrupt her again.”
Ah, so there’s the rub. Her nerves stemmed from her intrusion into Hal’s space. In that case—good. Quinn should feel the need to tread lightly here. The rush of work and the pulse of adrenaline through her veins had helped her push her anger aside, but they hadn’t squelched it. Every time she’d felt a rush of exhilaration or the thrill of accomplishment, hell even in her most basic moments of unadulterated joy in cooking, she could never completely lose the twinge of betrayal. At times like this when she let herself dwell on the situation for more than a few seconds, the darkness threatened to consume her. The refrain of “how could they?” constantly echoed through her mind, occasionally raging so loudly she had to clench her fists to keep from screaming.
“Chef?”
She blinked a few times to clear the haze of red from her vision to see Ian standing in front of her.
“What?”
“We’re almost out of spinach. We have enough for only ten, maybe fifteen more salads.”
“Okay.” She checked her watch. That would likely get them until after ten o’clock if the pace continued to slow. Most restaurants in this area closed their doors by eleven, so cutting off new orders by ten would put them close to that mark. Not bad for a first run. Next time, though, they’d—
A cold sweat rose across the back of her neck.
That thought, the one she’d barely caught, was the reason this whole situation hurt most. There would be no next time. She couldn’t count on that. She couldn’t even let herself wish for it. That was the real danger in women like Quinn, and the reason why she couldn’t forget even for a minute that she had to put a stop to all of this.
That resolve carried her out of the kitchen and between tables as she strode blindly toward the sound of Quinn’s voice near the front door. She finally spotted her saying goodnight to a group of male students in Buff State T-shirts.
She stood back long enough to watch her interact with them. Something she’d just said made one of the boys blush and another laugh. She laughed with them, tilting her head back as the soft sound rolled out of her. Hal’s breath caught in her chest. Quinn looked so natural, so relaxed, so decidedly different from everything she’d proven herself to be, but even now, knowing what she knew about her, Hal had to fight not to get swept up in her.
“Hal,” she said, her smile fading to a duller, more polite version. “I mean, Chef Orion.”
“Oh hey, it’s the fryboi,” one of the guys shouted, and people all around them turned to see her.
“Hey, Fryboi, can I get a selfie?” one of the others asked, jumping forward with his phone already in his outstretched arm.
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
The entire group crowded around her, and the little flashbulb went off before she really had a chance to smile.
“Awesome,” the guy said, slapping her on the back. “You look fierce, all intense and shit.”
“Yeah, just like her food,” another added.
Hal smiled in spite of her reason for coming out here. These guys knew nothing about what had gone on behind the scenes of the popup. They only knew they’d been served a good meal in a cool venue from a chef who came across as all intense and shit.
“Can we get one too?” She turned to see the request had come from the women Quinn had brought into the kitchen. They were sitting at the end of a long row of tables, smashed up against a group of college-age hipsters, but the arrangement didn’t seem to bother them as they thrust their camera toward a young woman. “Here, honey, press that button in the middle.”
This time Hal tried not to smile, but she thought her amusement might have shown through. Everywhere cameras clicked. People smiled and shook her hand. Conversations flowed happily, and food . . . the food tied everything together. Her chest filled with pride. It strained at her ribs like helium filled a balloon, lifting it as it went. The dishes she created and brought to life pulled them in, gave them a shared experience, provided something to connect over. Friends and strangers. She brought all these people to these tables. Well, she and Quinn.
Quinn.
Everything came back to her. Hal met her eyes—blue, searching, questioning.
“What is it?” Quinn finally asked.
Hal took a deep breath and steeled herself against a wave of disappointment second only to the first one she’d experienced this evening. Then she said, “Shut it down.”
Quinn locked the front door behind the last server. A table of students had lingered long after the last plate of food arrived, allowing them time to buss everything from the dining room except a few plates and cups. As soon as the customers finished, she’d paid the wait staff out of her earnings, making sure to give Joey Lang even more than planned after learning she was a recent graduate of the college that had sent them so much of their business. Quinn didn’t find the connection coincidental.
Slowly, the few line cooks Sully had called in emerged from the kitchen, and she settled up with them as well, trying to do the math in her head. Their exit left only Sully, Hal, and Ian. Should she join them? Was she welcome? Probably not, but that didn’t mean her presence wasn’t expected at some point. She could pay Ian at home, but if nothing else she’d have to settle up with Sully, and likely face Hal.
She didn’t want the night to end, and for all the wrong reasons. The money had been amazing. The publicity, too. If she wanted financial backers now, she’d have no trouble securing them, but for some reason, none of those factors did much more than float through the back of her mind. As she lingered in the empty dining room, her thoughts returned to the moments when laughter had filled this place. Glasses clinked, cameras clicked, the aroma of roasted pork mingled with the fragrance of fresh fruit, and in the middle of it all stood Hal Orion. She’d been glorious, and every bit as adept at working the crowd as she was at commanding the kitchen.
Quinn found her attractive. She didn’t see any reason to deny it. The woman’s dark, broodi
ng good looks suited her, but her smile offered a brilliant contrast that went beyond sensual to something bigger, something deeper, something that made Quinn’s breath catch almost painfully in her throat. She’d realized her desire for this woman went far beyond the reach of her business sense, but she’d yet to decide what that meant, much less what she wanted to do about it.
“Quinn?” Ian asked, suddenly standing very close. How had she not seen him come in? “You okay?”
“Yes, of course.” She forced a smile at her baby brother. He’d been so much more than a kid tonight. She’d have to tell him how much she appreciated the young man he’d become, sometime when Sully wasn’t standing behind him. “Everything done in the kitchen?”
“Yeah, we’re going to knock off for the night. Sully’s giving me a ride home.”
“Thank you,” Quinn said, looking past him to her, “for everything.”
Sully shrugged.
So that’s where they stood now. She supposed following the if-you-don’t-have-something-nice-to say-don’t-say-anything-at-all rule was better than telling her where to go. Would Hal employ the same strategy? She hoped not.
“Let me get the cash box and pay you—”
“No.” Sully cut her off. “No money.”
“God, what’s with you people and not getting paid?” Quinn’s exasperation seeped into her tone. “When Ian and I worked the truck, you paid us. Why not let me settle my debts the same way?”
“Because your debt is bigger than that,” Sully snapped. “You need to pay it, Quinn, but not to me, and not like that.”
She opened her mouth to defend herself but no words would come. She had no defense, at least not one that mattered right now. Instead, she sighed. “Fine. Is she still in there?”
Sully nodded grimly.
“Okay. Have a good night.”
Ian couldn’t get the front door open fast enough, but Sully hesitated. Quinn felt her dark eyes on her, scrutinizing, questioning, judging. Did she hate her? Did she feel betrayed? Tricked? Used?
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