“I guess I hit a nerve,” Al said, trying to stanch the flow with his thumb and index finger.
Devlin pulled back his fist to deliver another punch, when Al held up his hand.
“One more question. Why did you send me that note card suggesting I review Luella’s? You expected me to skewer it, right?”
Devlin dropped his arm, guilt on his face.
“That’s what I thought,” Al said. “You were so used to getting your way, you didn’t care if it destroyed your own fiancée’s dreams.”
His eyes lifted to see Lou standing in the doorway, her brows knitted together. He nodded to her, then turned and walked out, pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket to mop up the damage.
• • • • •
Lou stepped forward to go after him, then stopped. It wasn’t the right moment. She needed more information and time. Her wounds still stung from his lies. But Devlin. It should surprise her that he had urged the infamous A. W. Wodyski to review her restaurant, but it didn’t. At the least, she should feel something, but she just didn’t care about him anymore. She was more concerned about the bloodied writer who ran out into the snow.
At least Devlin’s hand looked like it hurt, too. He rubbed it and stretched the fingers, working out the pain from punching with enough force to break Al’s nose. Devlin turned around to see Lou watching him.
“Lou, you need—”
“No.” Lou held her hand up to stop his prattling. “How dare you take my choices away from me. After all this time, you still know nothing about me. I’ve never wanted your vision. You’ve always pushed me toward a mold you thought I should fit into. But I’m not a little housewife, content to entertain your colleagues over dinner parties, staying home to raise children I’m not sure I want. And I’m not your mother, working at a job I hate to pay the bills. Quit trying to make me into someone else. I’m me. A chef, complete with burns, freakishly strong forearms, and an affinity for brightly colored plastic footwear.” Lou paused. “I’d thank you for coming to the funeral, but you never even met Otto and Gertrude.”
Lou stepped forward to give Devlin another piece of her mind when Harley appeared and loomed in front of him, arms crossed, face foreboding. Behind him appeared the scruffy guy who came in with Al, though his pose of disdain didn’t induce the same level of intimidation as Harley’s. Sue rounded out the trio. They glared at Devlin until he retreated to the door and out into the snow.
Lou joined the three enforcers in time to hear the new guy speak.
“He really is a tool, isn’t he? Who punches a diplomatic guy like Al?”
Lou put a hand out and said, “Hi, I’m Lou.”
A grin split the man’s beard, reminding her of a Muppet.
“I’m John.” Lou was about to ask how he knew Otto and Gertrude when he added, “I work with Al at the paper.”
Sue laughed. “He told us in line he’s the style editor.”
Trying to process him as a style editor distracted Lou from all the questions she had about Al and the note card from Devlin that he’d mentioned.
“Really?” Lou scanned him up and down. “I always pictured someone more like Tim Gunn.”
“That’s why I don’t usually tell people, but I felt honesty would be a better approach given recent events. I’m now regretting that decision.”
He glared at Sue, who giggled even more. Even Harley suppressed a laugh.
After seeing Al in person, coupled with the voice mail he had left, Lou had questions about him and his motivations. John could probably answer those questions.
“It’s nice to meet you, John. We need to talk. Tell me, how do you feel about Spanferkel?”
• • • • •
Lou tapped her foot on the coffee table as she and Tom waited for the lender to retrieve them. Her business plan sat in her lap, along with her loan documents. A woman with straight, brown hair and a friendly smile greeted them.
“Hi, Ms. Johnson, I’m Lisa. Why don’t you follow me to my office?”
Lou and Tom trailed after her, settling into a small room. Pictures of children lined the bookshelf and manila envelopes were stacked on every surface. Lisa began flipping through the folder in front of her.
“Now, let’s start with where we are. You’ve already missed a few payments on the loan with us for your current restaurant, Luella’s. Correct?” Lou nodded. “Unfortunately, I’m under pressure from the loan committee to declare it a default and accelerate the final payment. I’m assuming you’re here to discuss that?”
Lou’s stomach curled. She hated this part, the negotiating, the possible rejection. Tom kicked her. She swallowed.
“Yes.” Her voice squeaked. “I’d like to propose a second chance. One that would let me keep my loan, avoid an auction, and get payment back on track.”
Lou felt sweat dripping down her back. If her nerves didn’t let up, she’d leave a puddle on the chair.
“I like that as an idea, but what has changed?”
Lou laid out her new business plan and flipped to a page covered in figures.
“Recently, I inherited a house. I plan to sell it and use the proceeds to help cover some of my debts. I’ve also acquired an investor.” Lou pointed at Tom, who grinned at the lender.
Lisa smiled back, then studied the numbers.
“This does seem to solve your cash problem, but I don’t see how this will help with the restaurant you just closed.”
“I’d like to restructure the loan for a new restaurant. The business plan outlines everything.”
Lisa paged through the papers.
“The last thing the bank wants to do is seize and take back collateral, then try to sell it. I like that you’re here, fighting for your business, and your plan seems viable. And having one of the most successful chefs in the city on your side doesn’t hurt.” Lisa grinned at Tom. “While I can’t lend you additional money, we do want to see you succeed. If the numbers work and your new business plan is sound, we should be able to work out something. We’ll review everything and call you in a few weeks, but from where I sit, it looks good.”
Lou exhaled slowly. Lisa looked from her to Tom.
“Don’t you want to add anything?”
Tom’s smile expanded.
“I’m the silent partner.”
After so much rejection and disappointment, Lou let the sweet relief spread. Her numbers were accurate. She would get the loan restructured. She would get her kitchen. She would get her second chance.
• CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN •
Lou spread the last of the frosting onto the cake. She could never get it as even as Harley did, but that’s what the toasted coconut was for—to hide the flaws. She pressed the crunchy topping onto the sides and top of the cake, pausing to toss a pinch into her mouth.
She boxed up the cake and attached the note, her heart thumping with worry that her plan wouldn’t work.
She poked her head down the hall and shouted.
“John, are you almost done? It’s ready to go.”
“Almost,” he shouted back.
Lou poured herself a cup of coffee and flipped through a stack of papers on her counter. She pulled out Al’s review of The Good Land. She’d reread it a few weeks ago. He described the food lovingly, taking the time to explain why it excelled, not just that it tasted good. No wonder he had found such success as a food critic. The beginning reminded her how much Al had changed since they first met:
Milwaukee is all too often the butt of a joke, derided as a northern suburb of Chicago, the dreaded fly-over country. The streets are paved with cheese, rivers flow with beer, and cows run wild in the streets. Every native Wisconsinite can milk a cow, wears overalls, and drives a tractor. It’s a blue-collar town of simple tastes and simpler hobbies.
And in many ways, it is all of those things, but if you stop there, you’d be selling the city (and state) short, as well as denying yourself a true pleasure. As Alice Cooper explained so patiently to Wayne
and Garth, mee-lee-wah-kay is Algonquin for “the good land.” And it is.
He really wasn’t the same man who had eviscerated Luella’s almost a year ago, who’d written all the biting critiques before that. After the funeral, she spent time with John and learned Devlin’s role in A. W. Wodyski’s review. John had confirmed her realizations. Al—the man who had fallen in love with her and her hometown, who had confessed to his complete asshattery, and who took a punch to the nose for her—deserved a second chance.
John walked into the kitchen and Lou gave a soft whistle.
“You look lovely,” Lou said, smoothing his hair a bit. “Make sure to call when you arrive so I know you got there safely. And remember, I’m a size ten.”
John’s smile distracted her a little. He looked so handsome—great hair, sparkly eyes, even his teeth impressed her.
“What do you think of the outfit?” John asked, crinkling the shirt in his hands.
“Stop wrinkling everything. You do that all the time.”
“Sorry, old habit.”
“Your clothes match your look perfectly. No need to mess them up.”
“Really?”
John’s brow furrowed.
“Trust me. I love the way you look.”
“I’m not used to having a female opinion.”
“Get used to it, because I can’t give any other kind. We could call up Harley to ask his opinion if you’d like. I’m sure he’d be flattered and full of useful dressing tips.”
“Funny.” John checked his watch. “Oops. I should get going.”
“Okay. You have the box and know what to do?”
“Fear not, dear lady.” John picked up the kelly-green box, pecked Lou on the cheek, and headed out her apartment door.
She’d better hurry or she’d be late, too.
• • • • •
The spring sun lit up the newsroom, forcing the pallid writers to squint at their screens. But after the long winter, no one wanted to suggest closing the blinds. Al noticed people escaping on coffee runs just to get outside on the first warm day in months.
“So, will you visit?” Al said into his phone.
“You really want me to come? To Milwaukee? You seemed quite against it last time,” Ian said.
Al smiled. “It’s grown on me. A lot.”
“Brilliant. I’ve been reading your reviews and I want the grand tour.”
“You read my articles?” Al sat up straighter, like he did during school when he answered a question correctly.
“Of course I do. It’s the only way I find out what you’re up to. Speaking of, I like that you’re using your real name now.”
“Me, too.”
“So, when should I visit?”
“How about mid-August, for Irish Fest? You’ll love it.”
“I can’t wait. I’ll let you know when I make the arrangements.”
“And you’re staying with me. No hotel.”
Ian laughed. “Perfect.”
“Later.”
Al set the phone down and smiled, thinking of all the places he wanted to show Ian. He glanced at his Brewers schedule to see what home games fell during his brother’s visit.
With a happy sigh, he looked toward the sun-filled windows and started his electric kettle; no outside runs for him today. He’d been working on a feature article for the last few months, the idea planted by Lou on one of their nondates. He’d researched how the different ethnicities within the city influenced the growing food culture, with an emphasis on the ethnic fests, his favorite part of Milwaukee’s summers.
It had been over three months since he saw Lou at the funeral. His eyes slid to the cast-iron pan now hanging in his cubicle, covered in magnets, one for each special memory with Lou. He brought it to the office now that he spent more time here. It tracked not only his love for her but his love of the city.
He looked at the clock: four hours until deadline. He should make it. He stood, bent over to touch his toes, now covered in clean black Converse sneakers. He wore blue jeans and a T-shirt with a sport coat covering the back of his chair. His Brewers cap sat on the edge of his desk; he usually wore it when he went out to restaurants or bars, unless it was a nicer place. His polos and khakis were buried in his full closet, all his suitcases unpacked. Al sat back down to finish his column.
He heard a noise behind him and assumed John finally showed for work. He rarely arrived so late in the day.
“Hey, John,” Al said without turning. “Everything okay?”
“This is for you,” John said. He saw John’s arm set something green on his desk, elegant black-and-silver cuff links blinking at the end of an Italian wool sleeve. Al barely registered what the arm held because he struggled to merge the posh clothing with John’s voice. He spun around to confirm it was actually John. Al’s mouth fell open.
In front of him stood an impeccably dressed man: crisp Italian suit, subtle lavender dress shirt, matching pocket square, creased trousers, and polished black leather loafers. His honey-brown hair was cut neatly, emphasizing the solid, beard-free jawbone and strong facial features. Al’s first instinct was to ask where John had gone.
“Are you going to see who it’s from?” John said, pointing at the box.
Al’s mind started clunking into motion, and a smile emerged in anticipation of the entertainment to come.
“What happened?” Al finally said.
“Come on, dude; don’t make a big deal.”
“Don’t make a big deal? This is a very big deal. You have a face.” Al’s voice got louder and other staff started popping up to see what had happened. The women didn’t pop back down. John started looking uncomfortable with the staring.
“Please,” John said.
“This is what you were hiding. I thought a dog bit half your face off, or you had a mole the size of Hong Kong. Mate, you’re a looker.”
John sighed, pulled out his chair, and plopped into it.
“This sucks. I feel naked.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “I’m actually colder now. I need more clothes because the breeze makes my face cold. How dumb is that?”
“So why the change?”
“Paris.”
“I thought fashion season was over.”
“I’m doing a piece on how the houses translate their haute couture into prêt-à-porter. I’m going to Louis Vuitton, Catherine Malandrino, Givenchy, Chanel. I don’t know how Hannah did it, but she got me ins at the best.”
“It’s because I’m the best editor in the world and you two will never forget it,” Hannah said as she walked into their cubicle. “You look hot. If I didn’t know what you looked like yesterday, I’d consider cuckolding my husband.”
John looked horrified.
Hannah laughed.
“Buck up, pretty boy.” She turned her attention to Al and said, “So Al, what’s in the box? It smells incredible.”
Al hadn’t noticed; he’d been too fixated on John’s transformation. He took a deep breath and sniffed.
It couldn’t be.
But please, God, let it be.
He swiveled to face the box, a bold kelly green, the color grass yearned to attain, tied with a piece of white string. Taped to the top was a crisp white envelope with a small bulge. He carefully peeled it off, enjoying the smell, the rising optimism in his chest. He pulled out a heavy white stock card, the kind wedding invitations were printed on. It revealed a sample menu for a new restaurant named A Simple Twist, featuring an eclectic, ever-changing menu that caused his mouth to salivate. The only constant from day to day would be an amazing coconut cake. Al smiled.
Something fell out onto the desk. It looked like a black oval. When he flipped it over, he realized it was a magnet: a pristine white coconut cake on a matching stand, set against a background the same color as the box. He mentally cleared a spot in the middle of his cast-iron skillet and added the magnet to his collection, leaving ample black space around it.
With reverence usually reserved for a
favorite toy or Grandma Eileen’s Waterford Crystal goblets, Al untied the box and lifted the cover. Coconut teased him with tropical deliciousness; then the vanilla he so often smelled on Lou’s neck wafted up. He ached to hold her, smell that spot right behind her ear. The cake, frosted and covered with toasted coconut, beckoned, wanting to be cut and eaten immediately.
What did this mean? Had she forgiven him? He checked the envelope for a note, a hint, anything to tell him how to proceed.
He turned the menu over. Written on the back in Lou’s inconsistent scrawl was an address and three words: “Bring the Cake.”
This time Al laughed.
“What?” Hannah and John said at the same time.
“I’m taking the afternoon off.” With that, Al grabbed his coat, picked up the cake box, and headed toward the exit. Hannah stepped in front of him.
“You have a deadline.”
“And where are you going with the cake?” John asked.
Al looked straight at Hannah and said, “I’m sorry. I’ve never missed a deadline. I know this one’s important, but I couldn’t finish it now if I tried. I’ve got to know what this means.” Al lifted the cake. “I’ll take any consequence you give me. I’ll write obits for a month, report on traffic court—I don’t care. I’m going.”
Hannah stepped aside with a nod, and he jogged as fast as he could without jostling the box.
The address on the menu was only a few blocks from the paper. He arrived in minutes, breathing hard, though not from the fast pace. Outside, thick green curtains covered the window, hiding the construction within, with the exception of a small table covered in matching kelly green. On the table sat a white cake stand with the words “A Simple Twist, Coming Soon” painted in green.
Al yanked on the door, his palms slipping on the silver handle, his heart pounding.
• • • • •
Lou looked up from the open kitchen when she heard the door jingle. Earlier, she had hung up the bells she had rescued from Luella’s. At A Simple Twist, watching the chefs work would be an integral part of the experience. Not to mention, she’d also get to watch the guests. She smiled when her eyes met Al’s unsure gaze as he stood in the restaurant’s entrance staring at her, not quite believing she had really summoned him here.
The Coincidence of Coconut Cake Page 24