East in Paradise

by Tif Marcelo

  Through Love all that is copper will be gold.

  Through Love all dregs will become wine,

  Through Love all pain will turn to medicine.

  —Rumi

  Gutom! Vlog Outtake No. 3

  Saturday, June 24 || by Victoria Aquino

  Gutom: adj.—hungry. Or in my case, hella hungry.

  * * *

  Vic: Hello again, folks! I know—I’ve been MIA for the last week, but it’s been for good reason. I’ve hinted a little on social media that new and exciting things were afoot, and I’m ready to announce them.

  I’ve relocated to the oh-so-romantic Sierra foothills. We are expanding! I’m heading north, east, south, to locations outside of San Francisco, to feature casual gourmet food-based businesses. And today’s interview is with Paraiso Retreats, run by my very own sister, Bryn. Yes, we are east, in paradise. Bryn, thank you so much for coming today.

  Bryn: Likewise, though I don’t think I really had a choice, since, oh, you’ve made Paraiso your home base.

  Vic: Ah, sisters. Am I right? Can you tell us your inspiration for opening a culinary retreat?

  Bryn: This was a collective dream. My—our—mother believed in the spiritual element of retreats. And I’ve always wanted to spread the joy and the gift of Filipino food. At Paraiso, guests will not only have a chance to relax, but will also get to enjoy and cook foods they might have never tasted.

  Vic: Will you be teaching the cooking lessons yourself?

  Bryn: Absolutely not! Though I can hold my own in the kitchen—

  Vic: Oh yes, she can—

  Bryn: I’m leaving the education part to a true chef.

  Vic: Some of our readers have been watching Paradise in the Making, the live stream of your renovation. How do you feel about the process?

  Bryn: (smiles) It’s definitely an adventure. I hope it’ll give an insight into how much it takes to get a food business up and running.

  Vic: Can you tell us more about your relationship to the owner?

  Bryn: (pauses, frowns) You want me to answer that?

  Vic: Um . . . I just thought since he’s been here all week . . .

  Bryn: (stands from chair) Ugh. Turn this damn thing off. No more interviews, ever . . .

  Vic: (sighs, rolls eyes)

  (Screen goes dark.)

  13

  BRYN

  “What did you do to that man?” Victoria swishes the ice in her water so it crackles against the glass. She’s peeking out of the kitchen window, eyeing Mitchell on a ladder as he clears the rain gutters of leaves.

  “Absolutely nothing.” I pull her by her back pockets—and hopefully her mind from the gutter—and she stumbles toward me. I give her the look that reminds her she’s wearing a mic and everything she says is being streamed and can be used against her in the court of the public. “Don’t you know it’s rude to ogle?”

  As usual, she doesn’t listen. “It’s not ogling if he’s right in front of me. What am I to do? Look away?”

  “Yes.”

  I’ve discussed repeatedly with Vic that while I want to be as honest as possible through the live stream, private and intimate thoughts shouldn’t be expressed while the cameras are here. I received enough flak from my family and friends after my sleepover with Mitchell through texts like:

  My dad: Why did that boy have your keys?

  My undergrad BFF: Why in the hell are you in a Berkeley shirt? That is just sacrilegious.

  My cousin Drew: Hey. You don’t get to start dating without the dude getting an okay from me. It’s payback for the shit you gave me with Camille.

  No, I can’t have another situation when words and actions can be taken totally out of context. Especially not with Mitchell Dunford, who in a weird twist of plot switched from spar partner to accidental drinking buddy to our mainstay handyman. He’s been here every day this week—since the night we spent together—making himself available for any kind of work.

  And frankly, I don’t have the heart to tell him no, because not only is he saving me some money, but I find comfort having an extra person around, since my sister’s travel schedule is sporadic. Sure, I wanted my retreat in the midst of peace and quiet, but admittedly, I’m still getting used to being away from the bustle of the city.

  I’m just grateful he’s not only agreed to let the live stream occur, but consented to be in it as well. I’m getting tired of hearing myself talk.

  But I have to watch myself; I need to moderate my body language and my instinct to flirt with this man with whom I shared the hottest kiss of my life. My focus is Paraiso, not my nonexistent love life. I refuse to turn this live stream into reality TV—the sole reason I agreed to a live stream was to make the retreat a success.

  I can never re-create the kiss because of our business relationship anyway, so what’s the point?

  But it doesn’t mean I can’t relive the moment in my head, because I do . . . at night, during the day, while I’m painting our accent wall in the living room. But that’s where it stays—in my head.

  If only I can get my sister to keep her thoughts to herself.

  The doorbell rings, and I shove our work journal into Victoria’s hands, its pages thick with cut-up pictures, articles, and brainstormed ideas. “How about we try not to scare our new chef away?”

  “I hope we like each other.” Worry punctuates Vic’s words as she puts her glass down on the island, the only structure left standing in the kitchen. The cabinets were demo’d and the appliances were removed yesterday, and we’re back to a blank canvas.

  The rebuilding is the fun part, and if things go well, we should have a kitchen up by the Fourth of July, well before our target opening of August 12. I just hope this chef won’t be scared away by the mess.

  I nod, wholeheartedly agreeing. Hiring staff is much like finding the right property. It’s a process of prioritizing wants, needs, and nonnegotiables, and a whole hell of a lot of luck. There’s no time to dillydally on making the final decision—managers must rely on their instincts. Just as I took a risk taking on Paraiso despite its steep price tag, I hired this chef without meeting her in person first. With her impeccable résumé, her availability, and her stellar Skype interview, I knew I had to commit before some other establishment swept her up first.

  Hoping my instincts didn’t fail me and after taking a breath, I open the front door to Chef Ellie Reyes. My appraisal is systematic: she’s petite, shorter than me, probably five feet tall. Pixie cut with long bangs swept to the side. Her appearance is neat, with bright stained-glass-style sleeve tattoos up her right arm. Jeans and flats. The small square bump of the mic transmitter on her hip tells me Joey’s already spoken with her. Her brown eyes are bright, and she greets me with a warm smile.

  My body relaxes at her easy disposition. I offer her my hand. “Hi, I’m Bryn Aquino.”

  “Ellie Reyes.” Her voice is smooth, and her handshake is confident despite the camera off to the side that’s trained on us.

  I welcome her in, and my sister gives Ellie a hug. We start chatting right away, and the vibe is informal and professional as we take her on a tour. The topics range from her flight from Dallas, what her family is like, to which other chefs she knows in the area. Ellie answers candidly; she’s an open book and straightforward.

  I like her already.

  I end the tour in the kitchen and spin the chaos to her advantage. “Unfortunately, the smaller house out back, where we’ll eventually live, won’t be done for another month, but this gives you the opportunity to put in some of your touches in the kitchen. Do you have any suggestions about equipment?”

  Ellie taps a finger against her chin. “Um, ideally we should have enough burners so every person has two, so we’ll need twelve burners. And maybe three ovens so two students can share one?”

  “Should the chef have her own?”
>
  “Nah. I can share with a student. That’ll get me to move around the kitchen.” Ellie cocks her head to the side. “Thinking on it, though, if only one stove can fit, we can always use countertop electric burners. It won’t be as efficient as gas, but students can work on the kitchen island with me. Or we can take it outside and cook on tables.”

  “Ah, great idea.” It’s official. Chef Ellie is a good fit. She’s practical and unpretentious.

  I reach for the coffeepot from the island, and without thinking about it I gaze out the window. And seeing the sweating man right outside, rolling a hose around his arm, I’m pulled into a quiet reverie.

  Mitchell’s wearing his standard outfit—cargo shorts and a white T-shirt; baseball cap and hiking shoes. But to my eyes, he may as well be naked, onstage doing a Magic Mike show. Every move, bend, pull, and stretch could be timed to music. Thanks to my brief stint as a bio major with a human anatomy class under my belt, I can easily count out every muscle. Name them, even.

  Biceps brachii. Trapezius. Pectoralis. Gastrocnemius.

  “Ate.”

  I respond with with a dreamy, “What?”

  “Who’s that?” Ellie joins my sister and me at the window.

  Vic snorts. “That . . . is our landlord.”

  “Anywaaay.” I draw out the word and turn my body so my back is to the window. “Ellie, would you mind taking a look at our marketing plan so it jibes with your vision for the classes?”

  “I’ll look at everything you want to throw at me. This culinary retreat is a great concept. As soon as I got wind of it, I knew I wanted to be a part of it.” Ellie takes a sip from her cup, then coughs and gestures toward the window. “Wow. He’s . . . stripping.”

  Vic’s voice lowers to a whisper. “Yum.”

  That’s it. I can’t ignore the pull. I allow myself another look, and rake my teeth over my bottom lip. Mitchell’s slipping on a new T-shirt he grabbed from his duffel, and I spy the last bit of abs as they disappear under cotton fabric. Darn.

  Though I don’t remember him holding me through the night, I’ve filled my sleepless nights thinking of it. Did his hand rest at my waist, or did he sling his arm around me in protectiveness? Were we spooning, or was I nuzzled into his chest, in the crook of his neck? “He says he’s here because he can’t stand to see us paying for stuff he can do easily,” I say.

  “You know that’s just an excuse to get close to you.”

  “Pfft.” The sound I make is exaggerated, but my tummy feels like it’s floating, like at any given moment it’s going to drop to my feet.

  And yet, what if Vic’s right, and Mitchell’s here at Paraiso to get to know me? There’s no missing the electricity between us, the awkwardness laced with something more, something born of our kiss.

  “Speaking of the mountain man himself.” Vic purses her lips, motioning that Mitchell is walking our way. The three of us rush around the kitchen island like teenagers at a party. Vic launches into a made-up conversation, while Ellie fake-laughs when Mitchell walks through the French doors.

  My face is flushed as I introduce Mitchell and Ellie, now fully aware that the camera had streamed that entire exchange with the girls.

  Shit!

  Note to self: set a meeting with Ellie and Vic to reestablish rules about our conversations.

  But when our elbows graze as Mitchell sidles up next to me, my worry dissipates. He’s like an aphrodisiac, and what occupies my mind is the vision of him and me, intertwined and naked.

  He’s sporting a wide grin. “Sorry to interrupt, ladies. Just wanted to say the gutters are done, and I watered the garden. You should really spring for an underground drip system soon, Bryn. I can even install it. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself losing your plants.”

  “Thanks.” My thoughts spiral from the bliss of spooning with Mitchell to the stark awareness that money is tight until we get our first live stream check. Two things that start with M occupy every bit of my brain these days, and both are slipping through my fingers.

  “I have to head to Home Warehouse this week. If you’d like, I can pick out a new system. Price it out for you. It may be more expensive right now, but it’ll be cheaper for you in the long run with the water you’ll save.” The look in his eyes is so intense and heated despite the natural topic of gardening that I can’t think straight.

  “No, you’re right.” A lump forms at the base of my throat. I may understand what needs to be improved inside this house, but I’m clueless when it comes to the outside. “And we can’t not have homegrown vegetables.”

  That launches my sister and Ellie into a rant about the lack of true farm-to-table restaurants. While they cackle like hens, Mitchell nudges my arm with his elbow. My eyes fly upward, and I’m met by his searing gaze. Except this time, there’s a message in it. It’s telling me something. I follow the trail of his arm, down below. He’s got a piece of paper tucked in between his fingers.

  I take it, feeling like the shy middle schooler I used to be.

  My sister eyes us wickedly. “Heck, she should go with you, Mitchell. Take the afternoon to show her exactly what she needs to make her garden grow.”

  The note in my hand is like a hot potato. I want to either drop it or dig into it. First the change in attitude, and now this note. What is up with this guy?

  My sister and Ellie don’t stop grinning until Mitchell leaves. The moment the door closes, they hoot like hyenas.

  “You guys are embarrassing.” I shake my head. “Like a bunch of high schoolers.”

  Ellie eyes the note in my hand. “Hello, kettle.”

  Oh yeah, Ellie definitely fits in. Therefore, I respond the same way I would to my family and closest friends. I flip her off with my pinky.

  Ellie and my sister launch into a fit of giggles.

  14

  MITCHELL

  Sweat builds on the back of my neck as the wall clock ticks down to go time. I scoop two helpings of green olives onto the wooden board, the final touch to the charcuterie and cheese.

  I take stock of what I have out: hard salami, sweet sausage, smoked ham, a nutty smoked cheddar, local sheep’s cheese. Three types of crackers on the side. Two wineglasses and a bottle of Dunford’s 2005 vintage Riesling, chilling in a stainless steel bucket filled with ice. The big guns. It has hints of citrus and cinnamon, refreshing and bold. It’s a wine for a light dinner, though it can pass for a dessert wine. Since Riesling was my mother’s favorite, I hope it’s the right vibe for Bryn.

  I try not to think of my father rolling in his grave at my taking this bottle out of the cellar. He bottled this vintage in memory of my mother, and it’s sat in the cellar all these years, untouched. But she’d understand. The value of Bryn’s agreement today will be worth more than this bottle. It could possibly save our entire cellar.

  We have to talk, in private. Sunday, 4 p.m. is what I wrote on the note I passed her yesterday afternoon, the intention up front and center. It won’t be like the first time we got together, where we started our meeting with a freewheeling verbal wrestling match and drink fest, ending with the two of us sloshed and a morning-after kiss I can’t get out of my head.

  Nope. Our meeting tonight will be all business, a proposition, and hopefully a negotiation.

  King Lear watches me with his usual intensity.

  “Don’t look at me like I’m the one who started all this mess. It’s me who’s trying to do the right thing here.”

  His tail whips and curls with attitude, calling me on my BS.

  Breathing out a sigh, I wrap my fingers around the back of my neck. “I’m not fooling myself either.”

  After spending a week hanging out at Lavenderhill, inserting myself, finding reasons to stay so I can bring out “the spark” on camera, only one thing became clear. Not having Bryn’s consent is wrong.

  If Bryn had remained unrelenting and righte
ous, if we hadn’t spent the night together, hadn’t kissed. If she hadn’t seen those pills, if I wasn’t so intent on seeing if she was the key to my sleep-filled night, I might have approached Levi’s plan with a soldier’s attitude. I might have pushed through with the mission.

  But she was different this week. She made me coffee and lunches—I mean, real, hot lunches—and there was a softness to her voice, a bigger smile with her requests.

  The more I spend time with her, the more at ease with myself I’ve become. Though it doesn’t always mean I’m sleeping through the night, I’m less anxious. What has replaced it is a need to be near her, to talk to her even if it’s about the most mundane things. She listens, and in her presence, I’m myself again.

  She’s about as good therapy as Doc Sullivan.

  At the utmost minimum, she deserves the truth.

  The doorbell rings at our prearranged time, sending King Lear to the entryway. I sweep a final glance at the food before throwing the door open.

  And wow.

  Bryn’s gorgeous, all ease and relaxation. Her black locks hang low and free, reaching the middle of her back. No makeup, except for gloss on her lips. She’s wearing a one-piece dress that reaches just below her knees. When I look down, I grin. On her feet are her bright red clogs.

  She holds up a plate covered with aluminum foil. “I bring food.”

  “Hey. Come in. You didn’t have to.” I step aside. She sways past me, smelling like a fresh shower and a hint of citrus. The back of her dress is damp from her hair. I imagine what she looks like naked and wet lathering up with bubbles and later slick with lotion.

  A start of an erection strains against my pants. Ease up, asshole. My body’s visceral reaction to Bryn isn’t a surprise, but c’mon, this isn’t the time. Whether or not she agrees to what I soon will propose, I have a feeling she’s going to be so pissed she won’t want to be anywhere in my vicinity.

  “This is the least I could do. You’ve been doing a ton of work for free and . . . uh . . . wine? Didn’t we learn our lesson last time?” A smirk sneaks onto her face as she approaches the kitchen counter.