La Fleur de Blanc

by Sean Platt

  “Of course not.”

  “Want me to stop by later?” Cameron turned toward the door.

  “What for?”

  “Just because. Maybe you needed some help that Allie was gonna do, I don’t know.”

  “Won’t that get you in trouble?” A spiteful question, but Lily said it anyway.

  “Nah. I got a job.”

  “She had one too.”

  Cameron shrugged, again looking helpless. He was caught between the rock of his father and the hard place of Lily. It wasn’t even his fight. Pressing him harder to make him choose sides wasn’t remotely fair.

  “I’ll stop by later.”

  But Lily shook her head. “It’s okay. I don’t need help.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Lily gave him a pressed-lip nod, not sure in the least.

  “Well, I’ll see you around, Lily.” He raised a hand, gave her a small, in-between smile, and turned to go.

  “Cameron,” Lily called after him.

  He turned.

  “Please,” she said. “Call me ‘Lil.’”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  RAW MATERIALS

  Lily sat on a tall stool, her chin resting on her arms as they crossed on the marble breakfast bar. The room’s scents were delicious and reminded her of so many conflicting experiences: a fine restaurant where her parents had celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, shortly before her mother passed. Hit N’ Run on the day she’d first been given free food, apparently solidifying her as Len’s girlfriend — for all the teenage impressions that word evoked. Bella by the Sea, where she’d been rejected as unworthy by the desk girl, validated as a kindred spirit by Marcello, and welcomed as a partner by Matt — the sight of her greatest triumph at the Palms and her most mysterious loss, both happy and sad at once.

  “So you’re on your own again?” Len had something going in a bright-silver pan on his stove that smelled delicious. She rolled her eyes toward his back without lifting her head, knowing she was wallowing but beyond caring. Len was making her dinner, and he’d promised that letting him cook for her at home, away from the cart, at full capacity, trying something new, would lift her spirits like nothing else could. So far he’d only been half right. Lily’s stomach was grumbling, and seeing Len was almost the salve that seeing Allison used to be, but he’d thus far failed to help her forget. She felt punched one time too many, now possibly down for the count.

  “Yes,” she said. The word was slightly muffled by her arms.

  “You’ve done it before.”

  “It’s not about the help. I can run the store. I can maybe even hire someone for real in a while. What bothers me is that there’s no explanation. She’s just … gone. Like Marcello.”

  Len turned his head in a jerking motion. “What’s like Marcello?”

  “He stopped coming in.”

  Len turned back as if pacified. “Oh. But I thought you had a daily order from them. Didn’t you just get that?”

  “Yes, but Marcello vanished.”

  “Vanished?”

  “He stopped coming in,” Lily repeated, annoyed at having to explain something she’d already said. Her temper hadn’t settled much. It wasn’t any fairer to be short with Len than it had been to be short with Cameron, but she was having trouble reining herself in.

  “I just don’t get it,” Lily continued, switching back to the current inexplicable issue rather than belaboring the old one. “What possible problem can her father have with me?” Then, knowing it sounded pathetic: “Why is everyone against me, Len?”

  “I’m not against you.” In the pan, something sizzled. Len prodded it with a utensil.

  “I don’t know what force is out there working to take everything from me,” Lily said, knowing she was digging a hole for her pity. “I just wanted to open a shop, and the leasing office is all up on me from the start, making me prove myself like I was on trial rather than welcoming me as a partner. Then immediately this crap with Kerry starts, for no reason. There have been plenty of other tenants who’ve given me nasty looks, too. Not like they hate me, but like they think I’m pathetic. Someone who doesn’t belong, but isn’t smart enough to know she’s not wanted.”

  “It’s not like that,” Len said.

  “Then Marcello has his problem and stops talking to me, after being what I felt like was the only person who truly understood what La Fleur was all about.”

  “I get what it’s about.”

  Len turned his head and gave Lily a reassuring smile. Touched, she returned it. But no matter how sweet he wanted to be, Len didn’t truly get La Fleur at all. Only Marcello had — and he’d turned his back. Almost as if he’d “got” Lily and La Fleur so completely that it bothered him. As if he’d realized, quite suddenly, that La Fleur was more repugnant than brilliant.

  “And now Allison. I tried to call, but she won’t answer.”

  “Maybe she was busy.”

  Lily sighed. She didn’t feel like arguing. She had her customers, she had Antonia, and she had Len. Team Lily was shrinking by the day, and she didn’t want to rock the boat. And to think: she’d felt so certain she was growing stronger inside, when really she’d just been teaching herself to lean on Allison, to take confidence from Marcello’s belief in her concept, to take her troubles to Antonia, to seek solace from Len. If Lily lost any of the few people left, she didn’t know how she’d go on.

  “That smells good,” she said, finally lifting her head. “What are you making over there?”

  “No peeking.” His back moved to block her.

  “Like I could tell what you were doing anyway.” She stood and approached him.

  Len stood and jabbed a finger behind her. “Sit!”

  Smiling, she did.

  At Len’s front, shielded from Lily, something sizzled. The air was rich with an aroma she’d never smelled in her own kitchen — or her mother’s, or her aunts, or even her friends who she’d always thought of as excellent cooks. This was a restaurant smell — an elegant restaurant smell — and even though Lily was sitting on a stool in Len’s apartment, she felt as if she might be at a table with a fine linen cloth with low overhead lights. She’d be wearing a long dress, her hair up. Afraid of embarrassing herself by using the wrong fork.

  It was a nice, soothing scent. She felt pacified even after the past few days, even after Allison. She was about to be served a gourmet meal by a lovely man who, later, she’d let lead her into his bed. It wasn’t a bad way to start forgetting. It even made her feel safe to ruminate further on her questionable day, with his kitchen’s fine odors wrapping their protective arms around her.

  “I did finally hear something from the leasing office,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “Some anonymous complainant has a problem with me leaving a truck idling out back all day.”

  “She’s complaining from a distance? That’s a step in the right direction. Smells like cowardice to me.”

  Lily inhaled, feeling the approaching evening’s delight pacify her mind. She didn’t mind discussing this. She was safe here.

  “I think it smells like onions.”

  “Shallots.” Len turned his head and added, “You philistine.”

  “At least tell me what the meat is. Is it veal? I’m not eating veal, just so you know.”

  “It’s not veal.”

  “Nothing weird like ostrich either. Or emu. Or elephant.”

  “I don’t think anyone eats elephant.”

  “Lions do,” Lily said. “And no kangaroo.”

  Len turned. “Beef, Lily. Just regular old cow.”

  “How old?”

  “Not too old and not too young. Goldilocks would be totally down with this steak.”

  “So it’s steak, is it?” Lily smiled. She’d been trying to get something out of Len since he’d started cooking, but he’d been working like a mad scientist with furtive glances back to see if he was being surveilled. And now she’d mined two ingredients: shallots and s
teak.

  “Not just any steak,” said Len. “Filet. And nobody makes it as well as I do.”

  “I didn’t know you had Goldilocks in Australia.”

  “Yes, but in our version she tries to sleep in three different kangaroos’ pouches, throws various-sized boomerangs, and gets wasted on Foster’s before the bears arrive. And when they do, Goldie sics funnel web spiders on them.”

  “What’s a funnel web spider?”

  “Oh, hell. You’d better never come to visit me down there.” Len turned. There were two plates in his hands, each filled with something that looked like a Bon Appétit centerfold.

  “You’re done?” said Lily, surprised. The build-up to eating had been so long that seeing the dishes finished and plated was a shock.

  “I’m done, yes. But you’re just about to start.”

  Len circled around the breakfast bar and set the plates down on a dressed table draped in red cloth. Lily had been picking at it earlier before moving to the breakfast bar and had found a price tag. He must have just bought the tablecloth, today, in the two hours between his closing early and her arrival. It was sweet. He even had candleholders with lit candles and a nice try at a flower arrangement. He’d already apologized for going to a competitor, but said that buying from her shop would have ruined the surprise.

  Len pulled out one of the chairs. Lily sat, demurely running a hand down her rear as if smoothing an invisible gown. She’d worn jeans, and wished she’d dressed up for him, after he’d gone to all this trouble.

  “I’ve already rested the filet some, but I’d give it another few minutes before you start cutting. In a restaurant, you’d have to wait for some idiot waiter to get your food, but you get it fresh here. Downside is that it might be too hot. Technically still cooking. That won’t be the case when I turn it into a Hit N’ Run dish. I’ll need to solve things like cook time, but you’re getting the prime version.”

  Lily looked up from smelling her entree. There was a plump little steak sitting atop a pillow of what looked like mashed potatoes. The steak was covered in something that was too small to be a scoop of ice cream. It must be butter; Lily could see it starting to melt and leak around the steak’s char crust, mingling with some kind of dark-red sauce atop the meat. There were flecks of green in the perfect scoop of butter. A side of vegetables — long cuts of julienne carrots and green beans — flanked the main attraction. A moment later, a salad was slid into Lily’s view: all colorful greens with what seemed to be a light vinaigrette on top.

  “You’re going to make this into a Hit N’ Run dish?”

  Len sat opposite Lily and nodded. “Gourmet fare without the wait. At lower prices, too, but I don’t like to lead with that because it sounds bargain basement, and customers don’t want to think of their food as bargain basement. But yes. That’s how it always begins: I start with a dish here, then tool it down until we can make it quickly.” He eyed the steak as if assessing it. “So for instance, what’s in front of you right now is a medium filet mignon with roasted shallot butter, topped with a red wine reduction, set atop white truffle mashed potatoes.”

  Lily looked at the dish. “Do pigs really find truffles?”

  “Don’t interrupt. Genius at work here.”

  “Sorry.”

  “For the cart version, I imagine we’d do filet medallions. The butter can be prepped and refrigerated, so no worries there, and we might even be able to swing the wine reduction if we can get the batch sizes right. The potatoes are trickier. I’d have to think on how we handle them.”

  “Who knew cooking was so complicated?”

  “Part is mechanics, but part of it is art. The artistry, for me, is in converting the dish from something served over a half hour to something that can be served in minutes, while preserving what makes it special.”

  “And coming up with the dish to begin with.” Again Lily looked at her plate. She’d been raised on meat and potatoes, but this was well beyond the farm. They’d eaten T-bones on special occasions and boring old potatoes. This dish was making her salivate. Not a single one of her problems mattered more than the food.

  “Base dishes are a dime a dozen.” Len shrugged. “I don’t even feel like the dish I start with even really matters.”

  “How can it not matter?”

  “Well, I cook it very well.” Len tented a hand on his chest, feigning false modesty. “But this dish? It’s no more amazing, at heart, than something from an ordinary Betty Crocker cookbook.”

  “How can you say that? Give yourself some credit. This looks amazing.” Then, deciding her steak had rested enough or that she no longer cared, Lily picked up her fork and steak knife and sawed a piece off the side. She dipped it into the butter, then tipped the meat with a small clump of truffle mashed potatoes. The meat practically melted in her mouth, and she sloughed back in her chair as flavors played on her tongue. Oh, this man was going to get so laid tonight. “And it tastes amazing,” she added in a sigh.

  “Well, thanks. But really, like I said, I just cooked something rather ordinary and did it the way it’s supposed to be done. What I’m always most proud of — what I truly bring to the table — is making the dish accessible.”

  “Oh, it’s not ordinary,” said Lily.

  “It’s just steak and mashed potatoes.”

  “Are you fishing for better compliments? Because I can’t do much better than what I’m doing. You should accept these compliments. In my humble opinion, they’re pretty complimentary. But okay, hold on, I’ll try harder: Mmmmm … this is so amazing!” Lily rubbed her stomach, squeezing her eyes tight in ecstasy.

  “Well … thank you. But I think a true artist is one who can mix and adapt what’s already there. So for instance, you don’t make the flowers, do you?”

  “God makes them, I suppose.”

  “Exactly. So what you do — what makes your talent special — is that you choose the best and arrange them in the best ways. Remixing.”

  “Okay, sure.”

  “That’s what I do best. Cooking is just following a set of instructions. Anyone can make a recipe, and recipes aren’t special. What’s special is how I remix dishes to make them gourmet cart food — to make them something new, see. Not fast food, but gourmet food fast, and affordable. Doing that is incredibly difficult.”

  Lily sliced off another bite. It truly was delicious. It tasted like something she’d expect to be served in a restaurant she couldn’t remotely afford.

  “Okay. But either way, this is pretty much the best food I’ve ever had.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  Lily had the distinct impression that she’d managed to offend him with her compliment, but had no idea why or how. Par for the course, it seemed, given what had happened with Marcello and Allison.

  She should change the subject.

  “Kerry,” said Lily.

  “I’m Len.”

  “I keep wanting to believe that she’s backed off and that you’re right, but my skin crawls whenever I think about it. Maybe she’s behind the complaints about the truck, but maybe not.”

  “Of course she’s behind them.”

  “But … really? She’s going to complain about a truck? It’s so … ” Lily thought. “What’s the word for something that fails to showcase what a Super Important Queen Bitch you are?”

  “I think the question, either way, is whether those complaints mean anything.”

  Lily sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it.”

  “You brought it up.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, I still don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I love this conversation,” Len said. “Let’s talk about the nicknames my mother used to call me next.”

  “What did she used to call you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Lily laughed. Then she ate another bite and shrugged. It was difficult to feel defeated with the amazing plate and Len across the table. She shrugged. “I still haven’t heard back abo
ut my cooler. I’d say there’s an excellent chance someone will show up tomorrow — maybe the police, who knows? — and ticket the truck or take it away or something as being a nuisance. With Allison gone, that makes sense. I don’t know how she got it, what she paid, or if her father would allow her to leave it.”

  “Why would he even know about it?”

  “Why would he even know about her being at La Fleur? Let alone why he’d have a problem with it. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be back where I started, without a way to store what I have. It’s actually worse now, considering how much we started buying once we had the truck. It’ll all die. It’s going to cost me thousands of dollars. And will it stop there? Of course not. If I take the loss and stumble on, it’ll come to something else. I just want to run my business. Is that too much to ask?”

  “You have to fight harder. Stop playing by all the rules.”

  “I’m already siphoning off Kerry’s customers.”

  “After they buy from her.”

  “Her customers are looking for furniture. How am I supposed to steal them away by offering flowers, even if I wanted to?”

  “Don’t steal her customers, Lily. Model her.”

  “What does that mean, ‘model her’?”

  “Figure out what she’s doing and make it work for you. Where is she buying her stock? What are her profit margins? What’s her rent? How is she doing so well? Use her strength against her.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense, Len. Our businesses aren’t remotely the same.”

  “You both buy and resell. Neither of you build what you pass on to customers. You’re in the same plaza, and her footprint is much, much bigger than yours, so her rent must be massive, but you’re playing by the same basic rules.”

  “There’s no question Kerry plays by different rules than I do.”

  “On paper, they’re the same. What can you find out on paper? Take what you can from what’s working for nouveau house. Then find out what’s her cooler.”

  “She doesn’t have a cooler.”

  “I meant, where’s the choke point? For you, it’s a cooler. No cooler, no ability to do business. What’s that for her? And can you exploit it?”