“Never! As you say, I’m just looking for excuses to hang out with little old you.” Al could feel his face flush at the truth in his comment. This was getting complicated. His attraction was growing and he loved spending time with Lou, but his plans to leave Milwaukee at the earliest opportunity hadn’t changed. The more he wanted to act on his feelings, the more he knew he shouldn’t. It would only hurt them both when he left.
“I suppose we could check out the Harley Museum. I’d offer to take you for a ride, but I don’t go near them. Though if you really want to try it, I know someone who could take you out. I understand it’s different from any other motorcycle.”
“That works. You’re on such a roll; you don’t want to lose momentum.”
“We can’t let that happen.” Lou smiled and winked, then turned to the stage as the first smooth notes of music floated into the evening sky. Lou leaned back against Al’s legs before he could straighten up. Her hair spilled over his hands, cool and silky. Hoping she wouldn’t notice, he leaned in and sniffed. Vanilla. And not some diluted note buried among other laboratory-born scents, but real vanilla bean. Then Al leaned back, too, and closed his eyes, savoring the sweet smell of Lou, the feel of her hair over his hands, her weight against his legs, and the strumming guitar paired with a soulful voice. Milwaukee summer was more fun than he’d imagined.
• CHAPTER TWELVE •
Sweet silence. Lou heard her footsteps echo on the asbestos-tiled staircase. She unlocked the front door to her apartment and hung the keys on the hook next to the door. A hallway led down the center of her apartment with doorways opening to each room. To the left were her bedroom, bathroom, and living room. The other side housed her kitchen and dining room, linked by an arched opening. Except for the bathroom, all the floors were worn oak, common in older Milwaukee buildings. At the end of the hallway stood a door leading to a private balcony, her favorite apartment feature. More of a rooftop terrace, the balcony had a patio table and chairs, a grill, and a few pots for fresh herbs and veggies. These tended to die since she never watered them, but every summer she tried.
Aside from the stove light in the kitchen, humming and sending a faint glow into the hallway, the apartment’s silent darkness soothed her ears after the loud music at Summerfest. She could still feel the bass pumping in her chest but lacked a distraction to occupy her mind. Lou took a deep breath, smelling the lemon air freshener in the hall outlet. She closed the door and let her aloneness wash over her. Lou hadn’t spent much time at home in years. If she wasn’t at Luella’s, then she’d spent her time at Devlin’s. She didn’t like the echoes of her empty apartment. It emphasized everyone missing from her life. The silence no longer soothed.
Lou clicked the deadbolt and latched the chain. She kicked her shoes into the small pile near the door and began turning on all the lights, starting with the overhead light in the hall. As she walked the hall, dust bunnies raced behind her. She should probably do something about that—everyone knew dust bunnies multiplied faster than their real-life counterparts. She tossed her phone and keys on the kitchen counter, grabbed the Swiffer from the hall closet, and started collecting hair balls, moving into the dining room—she recalled seeing a dust elephant under the old pine table.
Lou groaned when she flicked on the light. What happened to the table? Covered in so many open cookbooks and rumpled notebooks, it looked like a decoupage project gone wrong. She needed to start cleaning up after herself. Time to act like a grown-up instead of chasing dreams like a child. She propped the Swiffer against the wall, setting it against the doorframe so it wouldn’t fall—which it did anyway. Twice. She could finish sweeping when she cleaned off the table.
Lou stacked cookbooks, sorting according to topic. She carried one stack into the living room to reshelve and returned for another armload. An old smiling face caught her attention as she walked toward the dining table. A dusty picture of her grandma looked over the room, along with several other family photos. She always liked the idea of working while they watched her. She never felt alone in here.
A favorite picture showed her parents standing in front of the old County Stadium wearing Brewers T-shirts and holding a tiny screaming baby. Her first Brewers game. It was one of the few pictures she had of all three of them. It wasn’t fair. Some people had enough family to start a small country and she had no one. No one to call on Mother’s Day, no one to suggest she keep her home cleaner, no one to tell her what to do. Looking at her parents’ smiling faces, the protective way they held her, she tried to hear their voices and what they would say. But Lou couldn’t hear them anymore. She couldn’t hear their voices, but her memory of that whole horrific day of the accident remained etched in detail. She could remember what she was wearing, the weather, the shush of sliding down the wall and curling into a ball, where she stayed until Sue had ushered her into bed.
Her mom and dad would have loved Luella’s, watching her come alive with fresh ingredients in one hand and a ten-inch chef’s knife in the other. Her whole life, they had encouraged her to try new experiences even if they ended in disaster, like when she had skateboarded for the first time and broken her wrist. They had applauded her efforts, asked her what she learned, and held her until she stopped crying. Her fingers brushed the glass over their arms in the photo, wishing they could hold her now. But she was on her own.
Lou looked down at her fingers. Well, she should at least dust. Halfway to the kitchen where she kept the dusting supplies, Lou stopped.
“I’ll do that later,” she said out loud.
Not looking at the pictures on the walls, she grabbed the last stack of books, feeling better now that she could see the scuffed wood of her table again, and carried them to the living room. She still needed to put away her notebooks and pens. How did so many accumulate?
In the small, cozy living room, she set the books on the floor next to the first stack. When she’d moved in four years ago, she had painted the walls a cheerful Caribbean blue to offset the white fireplace, mantel, and built-in bookcases. The fireplace worked, but she’d never used it. Instead it contained three dusty blue pillar candles on copper candlesticks. The bookshelves sagged with cookbooks ranging from relics recovered in her grandmother’s kitchen to every edition of Cook’s Illustrated, with a smattering of cookbooks by celebrity chefs, such as Barefoot Contessa and Bobby Flay.
Lou stared at the crammed shelves. She pulled all the books off and stacked them according to cuisine, sneezing twice from all the dust launched into the air. This time she made it to the kitchen to get the Pledge and dust rag she kept under the sink. When she bent down to open the doors, a whiff of spoiled milk from the dirty dishes hit her unsuspecting nose. She only had enough dishes to go a few days without cleaning them, but it had been a while since she ate at home—last week, if she remembered correctly. That milk was at least a week old. Nasty.
Lou turned the water to its hottest setting, which was way past the recommended 120 degrees. She’d convinced the super a few years ago to crank up her water heater because she liked to use really hot water on her dishes. They felt cleaner. When steam rose from the sink, she put on her purple rubber gloves and started rinsing the dishes as she neatly stacked them, emptying the sink so she could fill it with sudsy water.
As the sink filled, she stared out the window overlooking her patio. What should she do about Luella’s? She could contact the paper and demand a retraction, maybe bring in a meal to their offices to demonstrate their error. A. W. Wodyski would have to eat his words. That was a delightful thought. His line “When I found a seemingly properly cooked bite, the fish tasted of cindery hate and cheap wine” still stung.
Sigh. But the damage was done. If she had a little more money, she could keep the restaurant open longer, but the four banks she’d contacted had turned down her loan requests. Well, not technically. She needed someone who could pay the loan if she couldn’t. She didn’t know anyone with extra money lying around. Except . . . Lou glanced at her phone and th
e text she had received earlier in the night.
Suds rose above the edge of the sink. Lou turned off the faucet and added dishes into the steamy basin. She stared out the window again but continued to wash, rubbing the cups and plates with a washcloth, then setting them on the other side for rinsing.
What about Devlin?
She yanked off a glove, flinging white bubbles into the air like snowflakes, and swiped to read the text.
Elizabeth. Once you close the restaurant, we should think about setting a date. Call me tomorrow.
Lou snorted. He had skipped over needing her forgiveness and now proceeded as if nothing had changed. Lou rolled her eyes. Ass.
Delete.
Her phone whistled with another text. This time, she turned it off. In the morning, she’d block all his numbers.
So the answer wasn’t Devlin. If she even asked, he’d use that as leverage. Devlin never gave away anything. He even sold his old suits on Craigslist rather than donate them to Goodwill. Only a miracle would save Luella’s, like an amazing review in Saveur or winning the lottery. But Lou didn’t believe in miracles. The restaurant would close. Accepting that filled her heart with lead.
Lou reached for more dishes but found them all clean. If only more chores got done that way. She rinsed the sudsy dishes and emptied the sink, hung up her gloves and dishcloth to dry, and tried to remember where she’d left off. Dusting—that’s right.
She grabbed the dusting supplies and returned to the living room. What a mess. Books covered every flat surface, gravity threatening to bring down some of the larger piles. This was absurd. In large swipes, she removed the worst of the dust, then put the books back on the shelf. She couldn’t fix everything in one night.
The lights flickered a little and Lou peered out the window to see lightning flash. She wrapped herself in a cozy robe from the bedroom and went out to the deck; it was the best place to watch a storm roll into the city. The pleasantly warm night stirred from the breeze ahead of the storm, puffing pockets of chilled air. Lou tugged her robe tighter and sat in one of her Adirondack chairs.
Without cleaning to distract her, the loneliness settled on her like dense fog, isolating her. Every sound seemed muffled and distant. Sigh. She had no fiancé to come home to and talk to about her day. Soon she’d have no job where she could share her thoughts, dreams, and jokes. What would she do for money? She’d never made much at Luella’s, but she had always been able to pay her bills. She could go back to working the line at someone else’s restaurant, but one job rarely covered living expenses, and she was getting too old for double shifts in the trenches.
Lou had really believed she could make her restaurant a success. Never mind the humiliation of failing; now she faced having to get a roommate or move to a cheaper apartment. She curled her legs into her chest and put her head on her knees. She needed to find a solution.
But not tonight. Tonight, she would wallow a little in her misery, letting disappointment fill the empty spaces left by her burst dreams and rocky future. She could blame her misfortune on Devlin for never supporting her business, or A. W. Wodyski for his scathing review. But that didn’t sit well with Lou. The fault was hers and hers alone. Taking responsibility gave her control. Taking responsibility gave her hope she would find happiness again.
Judging by the staggering gait of the few pedestrians on the sidewalks below, bar time had come and gone. The air whooshed by with the cool front moving in over the lake. A few more flickers of lightning flashed like a distant pinball machine. Clouds raced, lit by the city below. She crossed her legs and rubbed her sore feet. Working in restaurants, Lou knew constant foot pain, but walking in heels tortured her feet in an entirely different way. But they’d just looked too cute with her dress, and she wanted to look cute for Al.
Al . . . With her time opening up, she could see him more. But should she? She was still dealing with Devlin—granted, mainly by ignoring him, but he was still a presence. Luella’s demise and her uncertain financials made her vulnerable. But she was lonely, and a little rebound might be the pick-me-up she needed. They definitely had chemistry. She’d thought they were going to kiss when that car barely almost hit them. Lou touched her lips for a moment, then stuffed her hands in the robe’s pockets.
Her heart couldn’t take another loss right now. Best to keep it friendly and light, like a frothy meringue for dessert—enough sweet to end the meal on a happy note, without the substance to make you feel stuffed.
There, that was a productive session. She’d cut the restaurant loose, find a new job and maybe a roommate, and keep Al firmly in the friend column. So why didn’t she feel settled? Instead, she felt like her apartment—a little tidier on the surface, but still a mess underneath.
• • • • •
Al sipped his morning tea, hoping to jolt his synapses alive. He spread his notes out, turning them different directions to decide which way was up.
“So you suck at nineties movie references,” John said. Al swiveled in his chair to see John leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers steepled in front of him.
“What?” Al asked.
“I glanced at your notes from the restaurant on Sunday. Nineties movies references. They go right over your head.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Al didn’t like feeling like an idiot.
“Meel-ee-wah-kay? The Good Land?”
Al stared blankly.
“Dude, we have got to watch some movies together,” John said.
“Is this your obnoxious way of asking how this weekend went?”
“Sure. If you insist on talking about it. How did the date go?” John grinned.
“It wasn’t a date.” Al sighed.
“Was it just the two of you?” John propped his fingers into a tent.
“Yes.”
“Did you have dinner?” He added a nod.
“You know I did. I’m reviewing the restaurant.” Al sensed a trap.
“So you told her what you do? She knew you were on the clock?”
“No.” Al rolled his eyes.
“Then you went to Summerfest to watch a band?”
“Yes.”
“Did you meet any other people?”
“No, but it wasn’t a . . .” Al sat up straighter.
“Hang on.” John held his hand up. “Did you kiss?”
Al paused, remembering the near miss. “No.”
“There was a pause—what was the pause for?” John pointed at Al as if catching him with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Nothing. We almost kissed, but it didn’t happen. It wasn’t a date.” He slumped back into the office chair.
“Did you slip her the hot beef—”
“Mate, watch it. I assure you, the answer is no, and even if it wasn’t, I’m not about to discuss it like we’re in a secondary school locker room.”
“I was gonna say sandwich. There are great hot beef sandwiches at Summerfest. Way to go to the gutter.”
Al smiled at John’s cover-up. The guy was growing on him. Plus, he’d read all John’s articles in the paper’s archives. Under the sloppy, hairy exterior dwelt an astute critic of all things style and culture. He understood fashion so well, why he continued to break every fashion rule with his own appearance baffled Al, but he’d figure it out soon enough.
“Quite right,” Al said. “I need to finish typing my notes from the Good Land visit now. Shh.”
Al spun back around to his computer monitor and returned to deciphering his loo-scrawled notes. He could barely read them, but the inconvenience had been well worth it. Dining with Lou beat dining alone any day. She clearly loved food, ate everything, and understood that if you didn’t like a food, it didn’t mean the dish wasn’t successful. If you focused on the flavors and textures, you could break a dish down into definable components. By analyzing the components, you could decide whether the dish worked or didn’t.
And sometimes, when a
chef understood each ingredient so completely, down to its roots, he or she could create something wholly new and complete, the culinary equivalent of alchemy, and almost as elusive. But when it happened, the diner could taste and feel that chef’s love and passion in the food. Al searched for and craved these experiences, and he’d gotten one on Saturday night from Lou’s friend Chef Tom.
“Al, come to my office for a minute,” Hannah said, interrupting his thoughts.
Al put his computer into sleep mode and followed Hannah to her office. He didn’t trust John to not do something in his absence. He’d already changed his desktop twice to lewd Photoshopped pictures of the Queen. Al ran through his last few reviews, trying to imagine why Hannah needed to talk to him. He hadn’t libeled any restaurants or chefs. In fact, all the reviews were positive. He’d finally found some good restaurants.
Hannah walked around her desk and picked up a handful of papers to hand to Al.
“These are the latest letters we’ve received,” said Hannah. Al scanned them, picking out a few phrases: “Wodyski really helped me pick the perfect restaurant” and “I learned so much about Thai food, I can’t wait to try it.” Al looked up at Hannah, his eyebrows scrunched together.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“It’s hard to believe, but you are getting even more letters. I thought since you’ve started being less critical, people would get bored. Your writing changed.” Hannah looked at him closely, trying to find the difference. “Perhaps you’ve changed? Whatever is different, keep it up.”
Al stood still, shocked by what she’d said. Was he different? He didn’t feel different. And if he was different, why? And how?
“Now, out.” Hannah shooed him out with a wave of her hand, already looking at her computer monitor and mousing with the other hand.
Al stepped out into the hallway and returned to his desk but couldn’t get Hannah’s words out of his mind.
• CHAPTER THIRTEEN •
As she briefed the staff on the evening’s service, Sue looked at Lou, checking to see whether she’d make a dash for the restroom. She’d told Sue and Harley about her decision earlier, before the rest of the staff arrived. She’d visited the bathroom twice since then. Billy kept peeking at her stomach, searching for a nonexistent baby bump.
The Coincidence of Coconut Cake Page 11