The Coincidence of Coconut Cake

by Amy E. Reichert

  “Oops.”

  “No worries.” Al smiled. “There are worse things than a wine stain.”

  Lou looked over his shoulder as he unbuttoned the stained shirt, inhaling the aroma of red wine and Al’s spicy scent of black pepper and cinnamon.

  “It looks like you’re ready to whip the egg whites.” Lou smiled innocently. She handed Al a whisk and returned to her station. She began the sauce, sautéing the onions in duck fat, deglazing the pan with a little stock and port wine. Creating sauces always seemed magical to her, like alchemy. With the right steps and proportions, mundane ingredients could change into liquid gold.

  While she scraped up the browned bits of deliciousness, Al crossed the room with a spoonful of chocolate base he made.

  “I added in some orange zest. Let me know how it tastes before I mix it with the egg whites.”

  As he moved the spoon toward her mouth, she could swear he tilted it so chocolate drizzled down her dress. He popped the remaining chocolate into her mouth.

  “Damn. Now your dress is stained, too. Let me help clean that up.”

  He leaned in to kiss the warm chocolate off her skin, adding to the considerable heat already in the kitchen.

  Al pulled back, licking the last bit of chocolate off his lips.

  “Now you can finish off that sauce.”

  Lou sighed and thought she heard Al chuckle when she returned to her task. Every cool breeze, flash of lightning, and growl of thunder added to the electricity in the air. Her bare skin thrummed with leashed energy. She worked in silence, adding the last few pats of butter to the sauce.

  “Al, can you come here? I want you to taste the sauce. Let me know if it’s done.”

  Inches away from him, she dipped her finger in the creamy sauce and lifted it between them. Looking into Al’s eyes, she slowly smoothed the sauce onto his lower lip. Neither breathed. She lifted her mouth to kiss the sauce off, tasting the rich cream balancing the layered flavors of onion and duck.

  Their stained clothing fell to the floor. Lightning seared the night sky, thunder shook the building, and rain pounded against the window glass.

  • • • • •

  The sauce burned.

  “That smells awful.” Lou giggled from the kitchen floor. She lay partially atop Al, her head propped up so she could see his face. Her free hand played with his thick hair as he traced squiggles on her bare back.

  “I can’t believe a chef would let her sauce burn. How unprofessional.” Al shook his head in mock disgust.

  “Mmm, I’d choose burnt sauce over professionalism any day.” Lou’s stomach rumbled.

  “It seems we worked up an appetite. We should probably eat so we have energy for the rest of the night,” Al said.

  Lou got up and tossed Al an apron that said “Wisconsin Cheddar Does It Better.”

  “Here’s an apron. We don’t want you to get burned.” Lou put on hers. They finished making dinner, both enjoying their memorable meal wearing nothing more than their aprons.

  • • • • •

  Lou woke to the smell of fresh coffee and something delicious baking. She reached over to find Al’s side of the bed cool and empty. She could hear him knocking about in the kitchen, a room she’d never look at quite the same.

  Lou rolled onto her back and spread her limbs wide to take up most of the bed, enjoying the sensation of lazing about fully awake. Warm sheets gave way to cool ones as she reached onto Al’s side of the bed. Hmmm, Al’s side. She now thought of them as having sides, having a future.

  A loud crash echoed down the hall.

  Before Lou could get enough momentum to swing her pleasantly tired body out of bed, Al’s voice said, “Don’t get up. Nothing’s broken. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Good enough for her. Lou settled back into the pillows, enjoying the smell of breakfast prepared by someone else. She loved to cook, but she still liked having other people cook for her. When you’re a chef, most nonprofessionals are too intimidated to cook for you. You get used to preparing all the meals when you have dinner parties with friends. The long hours, late nights, and weekends whittled away at any non-restaurant- based friendships. Eventually, most of your friends came from the industry. Al cooking for her was a special treat.

  And here she was, lying in bed with a handsome man making her breakfast. When she heard his footsteps coming down the hall, she sat up in anticipation. Al walked in carrying a full tray including a plate piled with scones. He settled it between them on the bed.

  “You can bake?” Lou asked.

  “Any proper Englishman can make a scone.”

  Lou rolled her eyes at him.

  “Okay, that’s not true. My grandma taught me. It’s saved me more than once. It’s difficult to find a proper scone here—Harley’s excluded, of course.” Lou grabbed one and took a bite.

  “These are wonderful. And coffee. I don’t deserve you.”

  Al concentrated on fixing his tea, then said, “I don’t think that’s true.”

  They munched scones and drank their hot drinks in comfortable silence. Finally, Al looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table and said, “Would you mind if we turned on the telly? I feel like I’ve been out of touch with the world.”

  “It’s been less than twelve hours. Are you implying time with me seems like forever?”

  Al was struggling to find the words to get himself out of this quandary when Lou laughed.

  “Don’t worry. I’m just teasing. Here’s the remote.”

  Lou started on her second scone as Al flipped on the TV. The local morning news had just begun. The young weatherman promised an Indian summer for the next week, then temperatures would drop below forty. Given the time of year, they would probably not see forty again until March. Where would her life be by then? Would she have a job? Money for rent? Would she and Al still spend lazy mornings in bed together? She looked over at him, admiring his scruffy jaw, thinking about setting aside her scone to nibble on his neck instead. He was a wonderful distraction. Over her daydream, she heard, “Restaurant critic A. W. Wodyski died this weekend of a heart attack. His tenure in Milwaukee, while short, was full of controversial and popular reviews.”

  Lou’s coffee cup hovered inches from her mouth. Her emotions swirled. She wanted to be happy with the news, but even after his crap criticism, she couldn’t muster enough energy to truly care. Because of Al’s presence in her life, she’d found an unlikely path out of that pit. Now on the other side, she was okay. Better than okay at the moment. She looked over at Al, who was watching her from the corner of his eye.

  “What?” Lou asked.

  “Nothing, I guess. You looked upset for a moment.”

  “Just gauging how I felt about the news.” Al looked confused, as if he needed more information. “Did I never tell you? His review of my restaurant destroyed any chance of growing my customer base. Since his negative review, only our most loyal clients still come. I wish they had posted a picture. I would love to know what he looked like. Not that I’d remember. The night he ate at Luella’s was the same day I found Devlin with Megan. The day we met, actually. I don’t remember much except doing a lot of dishes. I’m surprised my hands aren’t still wrinkly.”

  She wiggled her fingers in front of her face.

  “Lou.” Al looked uncomfortable. “You should know—”

  “I’m sorry,” Lou interrupted. “I shouldn’t be talking about him. That’s not fair to you.”

  “That’s not it. You—”

  Lou interrupted him again.

  “Seriously. It feels like ancient history to me, so I didn’t think how mentioning Devlin might bug you. Let’s not talk about it.”

  Al sighed.

  “I assure you, it doesn’t bother me. We can talk about anything you like.” Al touched her face, cupping her cheek in one hand. She tilted toward it and closed her eyes to really enjoy the sensation of his touch.

  “I love you,” he said.

  Al wh
ispered it. But a whisper with the power of a spring thunderstorm—the power to cleanse, to excite, and to calm. And the power to destroy. Lou felt safe and vulnerable, whole and scattered. With open eyes, the last bastion of resistance in her heart disintegrated in his shower of affection.

  Saying “I love you” changed everything.

  Lou managed a breathy “Me, too.”

  • CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO •

  How long do you think I need to wait before I tell her?” Al asked.

  He tapped his fingers on the bar, waiting for John’s reply.

  “Tell her what? . . . Oh, you mean tell her you’re taking the job of the man who destroyed her livelihood who was really you but you’ve created a fictional death and obit because you would never hurt her ’cause you love her so much.”

  “That’s about right, but I probably won’t add in all the extra bits. What’s up your bum?” Al prodded John with his elbow. When Al wasn’t dining out—he sometimes took John now, who had a surprising eye for detail and refined palate—they often went for drinks while he waited for Lou to finish at the restaurant.

  John turned toward him and chewed his lip. Al had never seen him so rattled. John always acted sure of himself and his surroundings.

  “The paper wants to send me to Paris.”

  “That’s fantastic. Why so crabby?”

  “Hannah wants me to meet with different fashion houses. They want to actually have coverage rather than relying on Associated Press for the details. Hannah seems to think I have a good eye and they want to make it more prominent in the paper.”

  “Mate, that’s brilliant. I’m not understanding your bad mood.”

  “I can’t go looking like this.” He gestured to himself. “They’d never let me in. No one would take me seriously.”

  “You’ve done all right thus far. Maybe you don’t need to change.”

  “Ha—I may be a boy from ’Stallis, but I’m not an idiot. I get away with this here because I do most of my shopping online. Any local shopping I do I act like I’m an errand boy. They accept that and I get what I need.”

  “You name-drop yourself?”

  John gave Al a stony look.

  “No one in fashion would respect me if they knew what I looked like.”

  “Then cut your hair and shave the beard. It’s not like you don’t know how to dress well.”

  “I haven’t been beardless since my freshman year in high school.”

  “You could grow a full beard in high school?”

  “My family’s hairy.” John shrugged his shoulders. “I shaved in sixth grade.”

  “Oh.” Al looked around the bar. “I still don’t think I’m grasping the entire issue.”

  “Look, I don’t expect you to understand; I was just hoping you’d listen.”

  “Mate, I’m listening. But I can’t offer any advice if I don’t get it.”

  “I know it doesn’t make sense, but I like this look for me. People avoid me. In high school, that was a benefit. Now I’m used to it. People don’t talk to me, they don’t stare at me.”

  “What do you mean they don’t stare? Half this room can’t keep their eyes off you.”

  “But they’re gawking because I look homeless.”

  “As someone who doesn’t look homeless, may I suggest people would probably stare less if you were shaven and had clean clothes.”

  “People used to stare—that’s why I grew the beard and hair out. They still look, but at least now they see what I want them to.”

  What was he hiding? Birthmarks, scars from a rabid squirrel attack? Al wanted to know, but the politeness his mother had drilled into him had finally taken effect.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I have to get a shave and haircut. I don’t see any way around it.”

  “What if you just trimmed it up a little neater? You still wouldn’t see a ton of skin, but it would give a little definition to your face.”

  “Nah. If I’m doing it, I’ll do it right.” John sighed in submission. “I can’t believe we’re sitting in a bar full of lovely ladies and we’re talking about my beard.”

  “Pathetic, really. And I’ve got your back should you need it.” Al put his hand on John’s shoulder. “At least I have a lovely lady to go home to. Which brings us full circle. Thoughts?”

  “It’s all about you, isn’t it?” John’s smile told Al he teased. “Okay, it’s been two weeks since the obit. I’d say in the next week or so tell her you got the job. That works out. A week for the paper to mourn, a week accepting résumés, a week for interviews. Heck, you could even push it back more with the holidays. If Hannah really was hiring you, she’d tell you the week of Thanksgiving so you’d have the long weekend to get ready. Plus, you’d be hired in time for all the holiday food columns.”

  “Thanksgiving. That might be perfect. Once again, John, you’ve saved my pasty white arse.”

  • • • • •

  Al twitched as he watched the clock and listened for Lou’s arrival. Today was his first Thanksgiving. Lou planned to cook the two of them her family’s traditional meal. The turkey sat in a cooler of salted ice water, happily brining since last night. So far, it didn’t differ much from Christmas dinner back home, except Lou hadn’t mentioned anything about pigs in a blanket. But any holiday centered around food was his kind of holiday. The only possible negative was that he’d planned to tell Lou about his fake new job today.

  Since waking, he had changed his mind four times. He didn’t want to ruin a perfect day with Lou, but he couldn’t bear not sharing this part of his life with her. He didn’t want to lie or evade anymore when she asked about his writing. He had his freelance articles to show her, but Hannah planned to use his real byline next week so he had to tell Lou now. With all the grief A. W. Wodyski had brought her, Al fretted that Lou couldn’t accept his new job, that she’d be crushed he wanted to work for the paper that ruined her restaurant. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

  Lou had said she’d arrive at eight in the morning to start cooking. She’d given him strict instructions to have coffee waiting, the bird brining, and something for breakfast. He made scones again, this time with pumpkin pie spices to fit the occasion. They had the entire day ahead of them to fill with cooking, talking, and making love. He wouldn’t get a better opportunity.

  Buzzzz! Finally. He pushed the button to let her in but thought better of it. He ran to open the door in person. Thank God he did. She had two large bags full of food and supplies stacked on top of a rolling cooler. When he opened the door, her face split into a glowing smile.

  “You saved me. I didn’t know how I would carry this up. I’ve got the bags if you can grab the cooler.”

  With a peck on the cheek she scooted past him to prop the door open while he carried the cooler. Back in the kitchen, she unpacked using one hand while the other held a disappearing scone.

  Between bites she said, “Happy Thanksgiving, handsome.”

  “You, too. But it feels a little wrong to celebrate people having to leave England.”

  “It’s the perfect holiday for you, too. You left England looking for something better, just like the pilgrims did.”

  Al hugged her from behind and kissed her neck.

  “But I found so much more than Native Americans and pumpkins.” Lou turned and kissed him. When he tried to continue, she briskly broke it off. “Not today, love. This is serious cooking. No time for messing about. We have a bird requiring stuffing, rolls to start, and pies to bake.”

  “You are a cruel mistress.”

  Lou winked.

  “Trust me—it will all be worth it. This is the best holiday! It’s like a chef created it. Thanksgiving is the only holiday we have contingent on the food. That’s all you have to do—eat. Best. Holiday. Ever.”

  “What can I do to help?” Al said with a dramatic sigh, which Lou chose to ignore with a smile.

  “Rinse the brine off the bird, dry it off, then rub it with this.�
�� Lou handed him two sticks of soft butter. “Salt and pepper it, too. Don’t forget the inside.”

  Lou started browning sausage and ground beef, adding the mirepoix, and tossing it all with seasoned croutons made from the restaurant’s bread scraps. In minutes the kitchen felt like home. Now was his time to tell her, while she was busy but not chopping anything.

  “So, I have a new job. A full-time one.”

  Lou turned to look at him.

  “That’s amazing. Where is it? What are you writing about?”

  “Well, you know how I love food, right? I applied for the job to replace the food critic who just died, and I got it. I’m the new food critic for the paper.” While Al spoke, his fingers continued to rub butter into the same spot on the turkey. Lou stopped stirring the meat; her shoulders dipped, and a line grew between her eyebrows.

  “You applied for the critic job? Why would you do that?”

  “It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. I just never had an opportunity before now.” He hated the lies. Get through today and I’ll be done, he thought. All honesty from now on.

  “You didn’t mention you wanted to apply.” Lou’s eyes shone a little more, her face scrunched as if she were sucking on a lemon.

  “I didn’t know how you’d react. And what if they didn’t hire me? I didn’t want to have this conversation if I wasn’t getting the job.”

  “I see. Why upset the apple cart if the cow isn’t going to hit it?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have.” Al waited for a response.

  Lou stood still for a moment.

  Unable to stand the silence and not knowing what she thought, Al asked, “Lou?”

  “Give me a moment, please; I need to think about this.” Lou turned back to the stove, finished the stuffing, and shoved it into the turkey. She set it in the roasting pan and added some turkey stock. The entire pan went in the oven. She washed her hands, set the timer, and turned to face Al. He never wanted to hurt her. That was the whole point of the plan.

  “Lou—” Al stepped toward her and she put up a hand to stop him.

  “I’m not thrilled you’ll be the new critic. I have some unresolved feelings I need to work through on that. Like how can they criticize a restaurant after one visit and not give a chef the chance to, I don’t know, try again.” Lou’s shoulders slumped and she dropped her chin to her chest. “Oh God, it still hurts so much.”