She hadn’t given Devlin an answer to the La Perla question (as she liked to think of it), so the lingerie sat unused in his closet. Moving in seemed more real than the engagement. Since they hadn’t even discussed wedding dates, Lou hadn’t felt much different other than owning a sparkly piece of jewelry. Nothing else had changed. She liked the idea of sharing a life with someone, always having a date on Valentine’s Day and someone to open presents with on Christmas, but moving in meant real changes. Leaving her apartment, melting her life into Devlin’s—combining their books, their music, their clothes.
While she wasn’t often home, she loved knowing her apartment waited for her, with her pictures, her cookbooks, her bed. She liked Devlin’s apartment well enough, but it had too many nice things. He always reminded her to be careful so she wouldn’t knock over a statue and asked her not to drink wine on his couch. All too often, she felt like an actor in a play, performing only actions outlined in the script. She needed her apartment as a place to spill food, be loud, break things, be herself.
But she also looked forward to sharing their days over a bottle of good wine, planning out Devlin’s next career step, and laughing over the ridiculous antics of opposing counsel. Yes, the comfort outweighed her concerns. They would work out their disagreement over her restaurant—maybe she could convince him to bring clients in to dinner, perhaps a private dinner after hours. People loved to get special treatment at restaurants. Lou smiled, her decision lifting the worry off her shoulders.
She quietly slid her key into Devlin’s lock and bit the twine so the cake box wouldn’t topple out of her hands. With the door slightly ajar, Lou moved the box back to her hand to free her mouth and bumped the door wide open with her hip.
“Surprise!” Lou scanned the apartment for Devlin but only saw Megan, the blonde intern from the gala, standing in Devlin’s living room and wearing Lou’s blue La Perla nightgown.
Lou’s jaw was still open and body frozen when Devlin ran out of his bedroom wearing only boxers and carrying an armload of clothes. He looked at Lou, then at Megan, then back at Lou.
“It’s not what you think,” he said, dropping the clothes and holding his hands out in front of him as if to stop a car crash. A pair of black lace underwear topped the pile. Her mind struggled to reconcile the scene before her with what she’d expected to find moments ago.
Then it hit Lou like an ice cream headache, cold and blinding. Lou dropped everything. Coffee splattered over the opened apartment door, dry-cleaning plastic slithered off her arm, the cake box broke apart as it hit the wood floor, splattering the frosted cake, soaking up the coffee, and staining the freshly laundered clothes with butter fat. Steaming coffee melted her beautiful coconut cake into slush.
Her heart lay in there somewhere, too, leaving an empty, lonely chasm in her chest. Lou closed her mouth to keep from being sick and took a step away from the open door and into the hallway, eyes still on Devlin. At last, she turned and rushed down the stairs and out of the building, bumping into a passerby as she reached the sidewalk.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, and disappeared down the street.
• • • • •
Al staggered back as a brown-haired blur bumped into him. It was the coconut cake girl again. Al watched Miss Coconut Cake rush down the street, the frosting smeared on the toe of her shoe leaving smudges on the pavement. The pain on her face left smudges on him. He had the urge to follow her, make her smile at him like she had in line at the newsstand. A gust of cold spring wind whooshed down the narrow street, shoving him in her direction. He followed the frosting trail down the sidewalk. When he reached the corner, it disappeared into a busy throng of people rushing to work, with no sign of the cakeless Miss Coconut Cake.
Al shrugged and turned down the street, faintly let down at having lost sight of her. Probably for the best, he thought—he didn’t plan to be in Milwaukee very long.
• CHAPTER THREE •
Hey, Harley, has Lou called?” Sue asked. “I thought she’d be back by now to open.” Now past noon, Harley had started baking bread and making the night’s desserts while Sue worked on prep.
“Nope.”
“I’m calling her cell—she’s never been this late. I don’t care what she’s giving that ass for his birthday.”
“Okay.”
“I’m telling her you ate half the cake.”
“Fine, I’m worried. Happy?”
Harley and Sue looked up as they heard the back door shut. Lou wafted in. Her hair looked windblown even though it wasn’t windy, her coat hung open, and her face was as chalky as the chef jacket she reached for. She missed it four times before lifting it off the hook.
“What did he do?” Sue rushed from behind the prep counter. Lou dragged her face up to look at Sue, but her eyes were fixed on the kitchen behind her.
“I dropped the cake,” Lou said.
“Ooooh, that sucks. Was he pissed? Harley will help you make another. Right, Harley?”
Harley grumbled a yes.
“There won’t be any more cake.”
“What did that jackhole say to you?” Sue asked.
Lou gave her head a little shake but couldn’t quite get the lost look out of her eyes. “It’s over. I don’t want to talk about it. Where are we on prep?”
Harley walked from the pastry station and—without a word—engulfed Lou in his bare, tattooed arms. Once inside those sugar-coated pythons, Lou soaked Harley’s T-shirt.
“I’ll put her in the Lair. We’re on our own tonight,” Harley said, walking Lou toward the office door at the rear of the kitchen. Inside, recipes, pictures, and scribbled menu ideas hung from every surface; a mountain of paper covered the desk; and stacks of cookbooks, files, and supplies filled most of the spare floor space. A small cot sat in one corner and an open door led to a bathroom complete with shower. When the restaurant first opened, Lou had spent hours alone in there, only to emerge with a gleam in her eye and a new idea for the restaurant. Sue called Lou an evil genius, hatching plots in her Volcano Lair. Now everyone just called it the Lair. As they entered the room, the phone began to ring. Sue shoved a stack of paper onto the floor to reveal the caller ID. She looked into Harley’s face and picked up the phone.
“If you ever bother her again, I will slice your bits off and serve it for the daily special.” She slammed the phone down.
“Too nice,” Harley said.
Lou took a deep, shuddering breath and unwrapped herself from Harley’s arms. She looked around at the clutter and shook her head.
“Thanks, but I can’t stay in here. I need to work. If I sit still, I’ll think too much.” Lou yanked off her chunk of an engagement ring and tossed it on her desk, then walked past Harley and Sue, entirely missing the concerned look they exchanged.
• • • • •
Eleven a.m. and Al arrived at work, hustling through the newspaper’s cubicle farm, passing faces he recognized with names he didn’t try to remember. When he reached his desk, his cube neighbor already sat at his desk, adjacent to Al’s.
“What’s up with this cooler-near-the-lake bollocks?” Al asked.
“Bit nippy this morning?” said John. John wrote the style pages for the paper, but Al thought his appearance left something to be desired. His stoner-meets-mountain-man brown hair and beard made it difficult to discern facial structure and looked as if they hadn’t seen water in a good month. John mentioned once he hoped to attract a girl who found facial hair sexy; a girl like that might be into some kinky stuff. He said there were websites.
Today, John wore a heavily wrinkled button-down shirt with a front pocket where he kept two pens (green and purple), wrinkly khakis, and red Converse All Stars. Al saw a little chest hair poking out the top of his shirt.
“Bloody frigid. What’s with the hair?” Al gestured at John’s neckline.
“I stopped manscaping.”
“They’re called T-shirts, mate.”
“No, the ladies love the chest h
air. There are websites devoted to it.”
“Have you ever actually Googled any of those topics you mention, or are you all talk?”
“Not on work computers.”
During the four months Al had worked at the newspaper, he’d been unable to reconcile his colleague’s desk with his appearance. John’s bookshelf had all the current fashion magazines neatly filed alphabetically. He separated his bulletin board into quadrants, each with a theme containing swatches, pictures, and street photos. A sleek copper lamp with a pale green silk lampshade stood on his desk and a chocolate-brown cashmere throw was draped from his chair. Neat stacks of boxes under his desk contained shoes and clothing samples from local stores.
Al swiveled around and pushed the power button on his computer. As it whirred to life, he set out the stiff note card with the address and hours for Luella’s. His desk was gray and dull. The only clues to the owner’s personality were several books on food and criticism residing on the shelf. He tried to keep a low profile given his secret identity, and a spare cube discouraged coworkers from extraneous conversations—though nothing seemed to deter the nearest one.
“Wanna grab a drink after work?” asked John.
“I’ve a restaurant to review, sorry.”
“Which one?”
“Luella’s.”
“Can I come?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cause you’ve a big mouth.”
“Some girls like that.”
Al rolled his eyes and turned to his computer. John smiled behind his back. The screen finally displayed all the correct icons and had ceased its noise, so Al opened a blank document and started typing tonight’s review, reveling in his scathing wordplay. He would fill in the details later, after he’d dined at the restaurant a few times to experience a variety of dishes and servers.
“Good morning, Al.” The smooth, melodic voice of Hannah, Al’s editor, spoke from above. Late thirties, blonde, and wicked smart. Semiframeless glasses perched on her nose, and her hair was tucked into a bun with a few pencils poking out at random angles. She’d taken a chance on hiring him as an unproven food writer, making her one of the few people Al respected. He’d been covering the royals, many of whom he’d attended school with at Eton, for the London Journal. While he hated the beat, the subject matter gave him room to hone his sharp-tongued writing style. After a few years reporting on vapid rich kids and their parents, he wanted out. With the goal of getting as far away from the royals as possible and, of course, following his passion, he applied for every open food writer position in the States. Hannah was the first to scoop him up. She knew talent when she found it.
“We’ve been getting some feedback on your reviews.”
“And?”
“I quote”—Hannah cleared her throat, holding an e-mail printout in front of her face—“ ‘I’ve never had so much fun reading a food column. I love Wodyski’s witty comments. Now I don’t need to waste my time trying bad restaurants.’”
“At least I’m helping someone.”
“I’ve got several more. A few think you’re a little mean, but you can’t please everyone. I’ve got more who love you. Keep it up, Waters—you’ve got fans.”
After Hannah disappeared into the maze of cubicles, John asked, “So why Wodyski?”
Still facing away, Al rolled his eyes to the ceiling and took a deep breath.
“I couldn’t use my real name, could I?”
“I get that—but why that name?”
Al whirled to look at him.
“Because it sounds Polish.”
“And?”
“It makes me sound more local, like I can be trusted.”
“You think us Milwaukeeans are that gullible?”
“It’s working so far.” Al gestured in the direction Hannah had gone, then returned to his work.
• • • • •
Al paused outside Luella’s, remembering Miss Coconut Cake. He couldn’t stop thinking about her infectious smile, freckled nose, and sad frosting trail. He shivered as a brisk wind blew from behind, nudging him toward the door. He entered two hours after Luella’s opened and was greeted by a quietly crowded bar and dining room with a distracted hostess. Unprofessional, he thought.
Crisp white linens topped small tables, looking like chess pieces on the black-and-white-checkered floor. Black-and-white photos of famous French landmarks broke up the plain white walls. The cliché thickened with each detail—baguettes stacked behind the bar, fake grapes spilling out of baskets, and taper candles melted over empty bottles of wine. He could have found a French restaurant like this one in any city in the world.
“Reservation?” Al looked up as the hostess finally acknowledged him.
“Yes, one for Waters.”
He dined alone tonight, as he did most nights. He hadn’t established a dependable and discrete group of people he could take out for meals, though John asked about once a week—probably looking for a meal on the paper.
“Follow me,” the hostess said, casting a glance over her shoulder.
The hostess sat him at a table with a view of the kitchen doors. He set out his iPad and typed, “Rude hostess,” then looked around the room. He couldn’t see into the kitchen, just glimpses when a waiter walked through. It looked clean and bright, but a clean kitchen should be the bare minimum standard. The hostess rushed off to a group of waiters near the coffee machine. While the restaurant had empty tables, it wasn’t dead, so it seemed odd for the waitstaff to congregate. He looked around and saw other customers noticing the group. A few tables had empty plates ready to clear, others needed refills on drinks, but the staff kept gossiping. He typed, “Distracted waitstaff.”
After more time than was strictly acceptable, a waiter appeared, took his order, and disappeared. He’d ordered the first item under each menu category: seared foie gras with a Bordeaux reduction, toasted-goat-cheese salad, sole meunière, and lemon soufflé. Al lifted his shirtsleeve to start the timer on his watch.
• • • • •
Focus on the orders, focus on the orders, thought Lou in a chant. She took a steadying breath, squinted at the tickets, called out the orders (two soles, three drunk chickens, and a special), and struggled to find her groove. The routine of the nightly rush started to kick in. If she kept moving forward, she wouldn’t have time to look back. She bent down to open the cooler near the grill station, which she was working tonight. Sue hadn’t let her near the sauté station, saying that too much could go wrong. She pulled out the chickens and a hanger steak for the special and tossed them on the grill, sprinkling them with salt and pepper. Lou noticed some plates waiting to go out, baking under the heat lamps—a pet peeve even on a good day.
“Why is table three’s food still sitting here?” Lou said, much louder than normal.
“It’s waiting on the grilled scallops.” Sue raised an eyebrow at Lou.
“It can start going out while the scallops finish.” Why can’t the waiters do anything without being told? They know better than to leave food sitting there. Lou buzzed Tyler, whose first day on the job was tonight.
Tyler’s head appeared in the window, and Lou pointed at the order with her silver tongs. “Get this food out.”
“But—”
“Get. It. Out. Come back for the rest.” Tyler grabbed the dishes and ran, looking over at Sue for reassurance.
“Little rough, don’t ya think?” said Sue.
“Not when I have customers waiting for food.”
Lou tossed up the finished scallop plate just as Tyler returned for the rest of the order. She stared at him until he took the food and delivered it, then she returned to the grill to pull the meat off. Instead of perfectly cooked chicken and steaks ready for plating, smoking remains poked at Lou’s already wounded pride.
“Damn it!” She grabbed the food with her bare hand and tossed it into the garbage, wincing at what she knew would be another burn mark in the morning.
<
br /> After Lou’s outburst, everyone in the kitchen worked silently—college-library-during-finals silent. Sue and Harley flashed each other concerned looks. The dishwasher actually flinched when she tossed a pan in the sink. Her emotions roiled; anger, betrayal, and sadness all made her unstable, like two fronts crashing together on a stormy summer evening. She lit the air with profanities for every imperfection. Her glares sizzled and had the waitstaff avoiding the kitchen and gossiping by the coffee machine.
With each outburst, Lou hated herself a little more. What was wrong with her? This was her family and she was treating them abysmally. She wasn’t mad at them; she was mad at herself for trusting Devlin, relying on him to be part of her life, part of her family. Assuming he cared about her best interests. But he had never loved the restaurant. Looking back, she realized he had only tolerated it. He had even tried to talk her out of it right when she’d finally saved enough money to open Luella’s.
Lou remembered the night she told Devlin she had found her location. It was a year and a half ago, and they were dining out on one of the few nights she didn’t work.
“I found it.” Lou had chewed her cheek, head down a little so she had to look at him under her eyelashes, wrinkles forming on her forehead.
“My iPod? Great, I hoped you would.” Devlin watched the businessmen at the next table, trying to hear their discussion. His head hadn’t turned when she’d started speaking.
“No, my restaurant.” Lou’s voice barely carried over the restaurant din. Devlin turned now, his expression suggesting she’d just revealed she could fly using fairy wings she kept hidden using duct tape and gauze.
“I thought you’d given up on that. Besides, you don’t have the money.” His attention returned to the men.
“Dev, you know I—” Lou started to say.
Devlin held up a finger for silence, then a smile spread across his face. He turned to Lou. “Looks like I’ll be making some calls tomorrow. A merger is in the works. Now, what were you saying?”
The Coincidence of Coconut Cake Page 3