Intercepting the Chef

by Rachel Goodman

  Poor girl was as clueless about football as my father. But at least she’d made an effort with her appearance, which was more than I had done, dressing in jeans and a powder-blue cashmere sweater woven with silver threads that reminded me of the tutus the ballerinas wore during the “Waltz of the Snowflakes” in The Nutcracker.

  “The Blizzards play the Chiefs, Raiders, and Chargers twice every season,” I said, dipping a handful of shoestring french fries into chipotle-ranch dressing. “Good thing, too, because Denver almost always beats all three, which gives the team a boost in its overall division record.”

  Missy nudged her husband’s arm. “Guess it was a smart decision that you didn’t put money on the Chargers game, then.” When he didn’t respond, she kicked his leg under the table. “Isn’t that right, Dan?”

  He jolted, glanced at her, and shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose.” Then he went back to discussing his fantasy football league standings with his fellow attorneys.

  I’d planned to spend my evening off at home on the sofa in front of the television, but Missy had begged me to come, claiming she wanted to hang out because she hadn’t seen me since before the holidays. But after witnessing the detached, almost cold way Dan had dismissed Missy as if she were as important as lint on a suit, I wondered if there was something more serious going on between them and if I was here as a sort of shield.

  “How’s Logan feeling about tonight?” Missy asked, her tone edged with annoyance, her eyes still trained on Dan’s back.

  “Prepared. At least that’s what he keeps telling me,” I said, turning my focus to the TVs. I watched as Logan completed a short pass over the middle to Chris, earning the Blizzards a first down at their own forty-yard line.

  She looked at me, her expression serious. “You don’t believe him?”

  “No. It’s not that,” I said, tracing a pattern in the condensation on the New Belgium Blue Paddle label with my thumb. “All Logan does is prepare. If he’s not practicing with the quarterback coach to improve his speed and accuracy, then he’s in the weight room working on his strength. If he’s not in the weight room, then he’s studying film or in physical therapy. If he’s not doing either of those things, then he’s meeting with a nutritionist or tracking his sleeping habits.”

  “And you think that’s too much?” Missy asked around a mouthful of fried pickles.

  “He can’t keep up this pace or intensity—not long term.”

  “Have you discussed this with Logan?” She wiped her fingers on a napkin, then wadded up the greasy paper and tossed the ball into her empty burger basket.

  “I’ve tried, but it’s not really my business, is it? And besides, every time I bring it up, Logan tells me that he knows his limitations. So what choice do I have but to trust him?” I finished my pilsner and nudged the beer bottle into the center of the table. “Logan is the game, and he’s committed to giving this city the championship it wants, whatever the personal cost.”

  “But, Gwen, do you think that what’s at stake for him is even crossing his mind?”

  “What do you mean? He’s aware his body is suffering and how that could affect future contracts.”

  Though even as I said it, I noticed out of the corner of my eye how smooth and effortless Logan moved across the field, showing no signs of pain. He faked a handoff to the fullback, then rushed through the gap created by the offensive tackle, gaining another fifteen yards before getting shoved out of bounds by a Chargers linebacker.

  “Well . . .” Missy spun her water glass, widening the moisture ring that had formed on the coaster. “It’s like you said. Logan is the game, but I bet that’s only because he hasn’t fully considered what more could be waiting for him if suddenly playing football was all over.” She leveled me a pointed stare.

  “He has the restaurant and his charities, so I’d argue that he’s at least contemplated it,” I said as a pigtailed little girl in a Blizzards jersey zipped past our table, the silver LALONDE above the number eighty-nine on the back glowing under the dim lights. I smiled at how my brother was inspiring the next generation of football fans even if he’d never fully appreciate it.

  “No, you twit. What more Logan could have with you,” Missy said, then sighed. “You’re over here worrying about a potential future Logan is risking, but by not being truthful with him about your future, telling him your goals and how you feel, you’re essentially doing the same thing.”

  “I agreed to attend the gala with him,” I said, but even the words sounded flimsy to my own ears.

  “And that was a big step. Kudos,” she said, not even attempting to conceal her sarcasm as a server dropped off another round of drinks and cleared our empties. Missy took a sip of her Guinness and licked away the creamy foam mustache that had formed on her top lip. “You’ve admitted to me that you’re falling for him. Yet you won’t tell him. So why shouldn’t he only concern himself with football when you’re too scared to ask him where you could permanently fit into his life?”

  “But where do I fit in, Missy?” I asked, frustration slipping into my voice, because I genuinely wanted to know.

  If I were offered the position in New York, I couldn’t expect Logan to abandon his legacy here in Denver to relocate across the country with me. And if Logan ever left the Blizzards for another team, it wasn’t like I could follow him. Not without compromising my own career.

  Once again it came down to passion and love, both of us desperate to achieve our dreams and neither willing to sacrifice our ambition. This was why passion would win every time. And yet I couldn’t bring myself to walk away from him knowing that one of us was bound to get hurt in the end.

  “Where do you want to fit, Gwen?”

  I hated it when Missy threw questions back in my face. She’d done it since that first day we were partnered together in freshman home economics and had never stopped.

  “Because that’s not something Logan or I can answer, and, really, where you see yourself is the only thing that matters,” she continued. “And right now, with the way you’re acting, it seems like you’re in no position to be criticizing Logan’s priorities. At least not until you determine your own.”

  Once again Missy was right, but what she made sound so easy to figure out felt impossible in execution. I started to tell her this, but before the words fully left my mouth, Dan and his coworkers abruptly stood up from the table, cutting me off.

  “Where are you off to?” Missy asked, grabbing his hand.

  “I need another Old Fashioned.” Dan clinked the ice against the sides of his empty tumbler, even though the server had delivered his cocktail minutes ago. “And we want to get closer to the TVs. You can’t hear the announcers or read the captioning from this distance. Plus, this’ll give you ladies a chance to catch up without us boys around.”

  As if we’d cared about that, as demonstrated by the last hour of us chatting.

  Dan and the rest of his group pushed their way through the loud, packed room and bellied up to the bar. Missy turned back to me, her eyes glassy, though I wasn’t sure if that was out of anger, irritation, or sadness. Maybe all three.

  “So, you want to tell me what’s going on there?” I asked.

  Missy shifted in her chair and tucked a lock of blond hair behind her ear. “Remember the bruise on my bicep you pointed out a couple months ago?”

  I nodded. “You said it was from a recent visit to the OB-GYN.”

  “It was, but more specifically, I got it from the matchstick-sized birth control rod I had implanted under the skin.”

  “Aren’t those devices, I don’t know, rather permanent?”

  She shook her head. “They’re reversible. But effective for years.” Missy fidgeted, then ran her thumb along the underside of her upper arm. All of a sudden, everything she wasn’t saying became obvious.

  “And Dan doesn’t know,” I said, resting a palm on her wrist, bot
h for comfort and in support.

  “Didn’t. Past tense.” Pulling away, she smoothed a wrinkle in her sweater and cleared her throat. “I thought I could hide the bruise or at least play it off as a tennis injury, but then Dan received the insurance bill, so I had to come clean.”

  “So what was your original plan exactly? To play dumb and act disappointed every time you received a negative pregnancy test while Dan still thought you two were actively trying?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.” Missy took another sip of beer and stared at a chip in her pale pink nail polish. “I know it was childish and deceitful and wrong, but I was so exhausted from it all. The constant doctor appointments, the endless tracking, Dan’s insistence that we explore every option no matter the cost.”

  “And you didn’t feel like you could talk to Dan about it?” I asked, wondering if she recognized how similar this conversation was to the one we just had regarding Logan and me.

  “Evidently not, but it’s all moot now,” she said with a defeated expression.

  “How did Dan react when he found out?” I asked.

  “He wasn’t happy with me, of course, but he understands I need a break from all the pressure.”

  “But, Missy . . .” I hesitated, choosing my next words carefully. “Do you even want to have children? There’s no hard-and-fast rule that states you have to, no matter what your mother-in-law wants or what you think society expects from you.”

  She lifted her shoulders in an uncertain shrug. “I . . . don’t know. But Dan definitely does, even if we have to adopt. And something of this magnitude isn’t like buying a car. There’s no compromising when choosing to have children—”

  Missy was interrupted by my cell phone buzzing on the table between us. Trent Keller’s name lit up the screen, and my heart froze. I knew I could hear from him any day about the sample menu I’d submitted, but I thought it’d be after the New Year.

  “Do you need to answer that?” Missy asked.

  I bit my lip, then nodded. “I’ll be right back.” I swiped the phone off the table and stepped outside, watching my footing so I didn’t slip on the ice covering the sidewalk. Goose bumps popped up on my arms but not because of the frigid temperature.

  “Hello, Mr. Keller,” I said, my voice strong and unwavering despite the nerves twisting my insides into knots.

  “Gwen, please call me Trent. I’ve reviewed the sample menu you sent, and it’s different from what I’d anticipated from you,” he said, getting right to the point, which I appreciated. The sooner he put me out of my misery, the better.

  I wanted to ask if he meant different as in bad, but instead I said, “When we talked earlier, I didn’t get a sense you were envisioning anything in particular.”

  “True,” he said. “However, I must confess, given your past experience at Brindille under Chef Durand and the praise you’ve received throughout your career at various other establishments, I expected something a little more formal, a little more modern American like you’ve done previously.”

  My stomach dropped. I had always leaned toward a more pretentious style of preparation and plating, but only because that had been Stephen’s preference. He’d insisted, time and again, that in order to find success in an often overcrowded market the dishes had to stand out, had to look and feel expensive. Style, according to Stephen, was considered as important as taste and flavor—sometimes even more so. If that was what Trent wanted, well, then there was no way I’d been selected for the short list.

  “I wanted to create a menu that was more inviting, for lack of a better word, but still sophisticated,” I said. The sound of crinkling paper filtered through the line, and I envisioned Trent shuffling through pages and pages of menu proposals from far more talented chefs than I was.

  “I think that’s an accurate description of what you’ve presented with this,” he said. “You’ve taken a concept that’s common—farm to table—and made it fresh and relevant. The idea of incorporating it with an international flair is a nice touch. In particular, the short-rib dish caught my eye. I like how you combined a Korean-style braising method with Madagascar vanilla, Italian polenta, and citrus notes. And your take on the traditional buckwheat crepe popular in Brittany sounds comforting yet refined. I think guests would feel as though they were dining abroad in their own backyard when eating this food.”

  I exhaled, my breath flowing out of me in a rush, the anxiousness in my stomach fizzling, replaced with excitement. “While I’ve always been drawn to modern farm-to-table fare, it can sometimes be limited to the ingredients available around you,” I said. “I wanted to shake that up, explore cuisine from other parts of the world.”

  “And that definitely comes through. This menu feels personal, with your signature on every plate. I’m curious, what was your inspiration for the first dessert course, the persimmon pain perdu with quince, crystallized ginger, and cinnamon?” Trent asked.

  “I’ve been fortunate enough to travel extensively, and the dishes that have stuck with me were the ones that were stripped down, simplified to feature a single local ingredient. The last time I was in China I took a wrong turn and ended up in a maze of stalls, each one more interesting than the last. But it was the persimmon a vendor offered me that left a lasting impression. From the first taste, I’d had idea after idea of the various flavor combinations I could create with the fruit.” I laughed, a bit self-consciously. “Went through a bit of a persimmon craze, actually, which is how I discovered it pairs wonderfully with quince.”

  “Well, I must say, Gwen, I’m looking forward to the tasting.”

  “The tasting?” I asked, my heartbeat pounding so hard and loud I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.

  “Yes,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m calling to inform you that you are officially invited to prepare the menu you’ve developed for me, a group of investors, and several industry professionals in January. Once again, take some time to think it over. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and after discussing details for a few minutes, I ended the call, my heart still thumping in my ears. Tucking my phone into my back pocket, I leaned my forehead against the freezing brick wall and inhaled deep breaths, staring at the bright yellow cones of light on the pavement from the streetlamps.

  Until now, a part of me had truly believed that the opportunity in New York wasn’t a real possibility. Except now that I’d been presented with a possible job I’d barely dared to consider, I was more confused than ever. About where I fit. About what I wanted.

  I knew remaining at Stonestreet’s long term wasn’t an option, but could I really move across the country after reconnecting with Missy, my family . . . Logan? And more important, was that what was best for me?

  I’d thought passion would always win, but it was only now that I realized that perhaps I’d been wrong about what my passions truly were.

  * * *

  New Year’s Day and the evening of the charity gala arrived much too quickly. As the limo pulled up behind the line of cars dropping off guests at the entrance, I smoothed the front of my couture gown that Missy had helped me pick out and tried to tamp down the anxiousness churning inside me, reminding myself that I was here to support Logan.

  “I haven’t been to the Brown Palace Hotel since I attended high tea with my parents in middle school,” I said, staring out the window at the green awnings and red stone facade illuminated by tiny individual spotlights. “It’s more gorgeous than I remember.”

  Logan mumbled something unintelligible and straightened his bow tie for the hundredth time, shifting in his seat as we waited for the driver to reach the red carpet swarming with press.

  I wondered if he was deep in thought about the speech he’d give later or if he was still beating himself up over last night’s loss to Kansas City. Even though the Blizzards ended the regular season with a 13–3 record, the fact that they were heading into the p
layoffs after a loss had created an air of superstition among all the players, levelheaded Logan included.

  Which was why I still hadn’t mentioned the audition in New York. I didn’t want to mess with his mental focus, especially since I had yet to make a final decision. Though I’d need to let Trent know soon.

  “Hey, Wonder Bread,” I said. “You’re not a hockey player, you’re allowed to smile. And since we weren’t able to spend New Year’s Eve together, you’re even allowed to celebrate tonight.”

  “I invited you to the game,” he said. “And over to my place after.”

  “You didn’t honestly expect me to ditch the restaurant during the busiest night of the year so I could watch you throw a ball, did you?” I asked.

  Stonestreet’s had been a madhouse despite the designated reserved seatings and special four-course prix fixe meal. I’d finally collapsed into bed at 3 a.m., my back and feet aching worse than they ever had and my hair smelling like sulfur from all the sparklers that’d gone out on the desserts. Though it’d been worth it—the guests had seemed to enjoy themselves, dancing to the live band, wearing the glittered hats and beads the restaurant had provided with their finest attire, blowing noisemakers, and drinking far too much champagne.

  “But if you need cheering up,” I said, trailing a manicured fingertip up the expertly tailored fabric covering Logan’s arm, “I could pay off the driver and we could ditch the event, swap the formal wear for pizza and beer.”

  I was kidding, of course, but if Logan agreed, I’d play along.

  “Are you insane?” He laughed, small and halfhearted, but a laugh nonetheless. “Mom would murder me.”

  “You forget how well I knew Jane,” I said. “Under ordinary circumstances, she’d bribe you with a triple-chocolate shake to get out of a production like this. But in this case, since we’re honoring her, I suppose she’d encourage us to have fun tonight. Though I’m dreading the banquet food and cheap liquor.”