“When do you close?”
“Next month. First week of June.”
He nods thoughtfully. “You want to open this year?”
“If possible, yes. I thought that if I could open by the end of July or early August, I’ll be able to squeeze a month or two out of the tourist season.”
He shakes his head at once. “This will take longer than eight weeks, Dakota.”
I thought he’d say that. “I talked to Silver. He knows what a mess this place is. He’ll allow the work to get started right away.” Neil Silver is not my favorite person. I hadn’t wanted to ask him for the favor; I’d had to swallow my pride to make the call. But I couldn’t ignore the economics. Dakota’s Pizza makes eighty percent of its yearly revenue in four months—June, July, August, and September. If I can’t get this expansion done in time, I’ll barely be making enough to cover the mortgage.
Ben frowns thoughtfully. “It’s unorthodox, but you’re not the only one doing it,” he says. “King is too. He’s got us building a deck in front of Mrs. Shepperd’s place this week.”
Irritation floods me. Damn it. I was counting on Ben being able to start my job quickly. As soon as I signed on the dotted line, I’d called him and told him to clear his schedule for me. Now Julian’s poaching my contractor.
“He does?” My words are coated with ice.
Ben knows me well. “Relax, the deck’s a quick job. Two, three days. I wasn’t planning to take it on; I even told King I was too busy.”
And yet, once again, Julian’s getting his own way. “What made you change your mind?”
“Mrs. Shepperd,” he says. “King’s not taking possession until the start of July. If I can get this deck built, then she can use it until the deal closes.” He spreads his hands. “She’s pretty hard up for money, Dakota. She could use a couple of good months. I’ve got to say; I have a lot of respect for King. He could have played hardball with Mrs. Shepperd, but unlike Wexler, he’s being a stand-up guy. Really shows you what he’s made of.”
Gah. Even my contractor loves Julian.
“Can you start next week?”
He pulls out his phone and checks his schedule. “Yes. The job should take ten weeks, give or take. I’ll email you a quote tonight. I need a ten percent deposit to hold the spot.”
“Not a problem.”
Ten weeks. That’ll put me at the start of August. Ben’s extremely reliable. He always delivers on time and on budget.
My spirits start to rise. I’ve already applied for a restaurant permit. I have a line of credit secured against Dakota’s Pizza; it will allow me to borrow up to two hundred thousand dollars. That should cover the cost of renovation.
Looks like things are on track.
My phone rings. It’s Sherri Stephenson. “Dakota,” she says, her voice somber. “Are you busy this afternoon? The council would like to talk to you about your restaurant permit.”
Anxiety floods me.
Here’s the thing. Apart from four years in Queens to get an art history degree I don’t use, I’ve lived in Madison all my life. I know how this town works.
When the council calls you in for a meeting to discuss your new restaurant permit?
It’s not good.
It’s not good at all.
8
Dakota
By the time the afternoon rolls around, I’ve worked myself into a tizzy.
Fuck this shit. Just last year, the council—and more specifically Roger Wexler—absolutely dicked over Cat and Vicki. For the space of a day or two, we were petrified they wouldn’t get a food permit. Cat, my soon-to-be sister-in-law, had invested all her money in the brewpub. She’d been facing financial ruin.
I’m not in the best mood when I arrive at the town hall Wednesday afternoon. My mood does not improve when I see Julian there. My stupid heart starts to beat faster, and my throat goes dry, and fool that I am, I still want him. “What are you doing here?” I snap. “Taking up stalking in your spare time?”
I regret biting his head off the second the words leave my mouth. I’m about to apologize when his face settles into a mask. “Stalking you?” he says, his voice clipped. “Don’t flatter yourself, Dakota. As you’ve said, it wasn’t that memorable.”
For a second, I forget to breathe. Pain slashes through me, like salt robbed into a cut that’s has never quite healed. First a second, all thought flees my mind, and all that is left is raw, visceral emotion.
Regret flashes across Julian's face. “Dakota,” he starts. “I didn't mean…”
The door opens, and Sherri stands in the doorway, looking from Julian to me with an intrigued expression on her face. More fodder to the gossip mill. “The Council is ready for you,” she says.
I straighten my shoulders. The last man I let hurt me was my father, and that was twenty years ago. I will not let Julian affect me. I refuse to give him the satisfaction. Ignoring him completely, I walk into the meeting room.
All five councilors are seated around the oval conference table. Roger Wexler is at the head of the table, wearing his trademark oily smile. Tim Pollard sits at his right, flipping through the binder in front of him. He looks up when we enter and smiles warmly at both of us.
Mina Ahuja’s seated next to Tim. Across from Mina, Sally McKee is in a low-voiced conversation with Jeffrey Shun.
The full council for a routine restaurant permit. Trouble.
Sherri sits back down in her chair, giving me a small, sympathetic smile. Definitely trouble. Sherri knows everything that happens in town. If she’s offering up sympathy, then I’m really not going to like what’s about to happen.
I shove the hurt I felt at Julian’s words to the backburner; it’s not important. Right now, I have bigger fish to fry.
There are two open seats around the table, directly across from each other. I walk to one and sit down. Julian settles in the other. I look around the room, ignoring the way Julian dwarfs the chair. He’s wearing a charcoal grey suit today, one that hugs his broad shoulders. Julian King would look good wearing a torn shirt and cut-off shorts, but there’s something very sexy about a man in a well-tailored suit. It’s probably because he radiates confidence from every pore.
Stop thinking about Julian.
There are three other people—two men and a woman—that I don’t recognize. Sally briskly performs introductions. “Marvin Hale, manager of the Bainbridge location of The Friendly Crown. Don Mazzio of We Knead Pizza. Valentina Greyson of La Mesa. Julian King, the owner of Sausage King. Dakota Wilde, the owner of Dakota’s Pizza.”
Well, crap. Julian and I are the only small business owners here. The Friendly Crown is a chain, as is We Knead Pizzeria, and La Mesa. The big guys are sniffing around our little town, and that’s not good. We get a lot of tourists in the summer, but still. The chains have deep pockets. They can afford to undercut us, take a loss for a year or two, and drive us out of business.
Last year, Roger Wexler had been all gung-ho about making sure chain restaurants didn’t invade Madison. Less than a year later, three of them are here for a permit? This stinks to high heaven.
I look around at the councilors. “I'm not quite clear what this meeting is about,” I begin. There you go. That's nice and non-confrontational.
Jeffrey Shen looks up. “The five of you have all applied for restaurant permits,” he says. “Normally, permit approvals are routine business. However, five new restaurants are a lot in a town our size.”
Tell me about it. “We used to have three grocery stores in town,” Mr. Shun continues. “Two of them have shut down, and in their place, there’s a gift shop selling T-shirts and magnets and other assorted junk, and there is a sports bar. What is worse—neither of these businesses are open year-round, just for tourist season.”
I don’t know where he’s going with this. I nod to cover my confusion.
“The council is very concerned,” Tim chimes in. “Madison is rapidly turning into a town where every business caters to tourists, and nothing ca
ters to our tax-paying residents. We used to have a pharmacy, but it’s closed now. If you want to buy clothes, you have to drive to the nearest large city. Garden center? We don't have one. No gyms. No dentists. No daycares. Instead, what we have are gift shops, bars, and restaurants.”
“Previous councilors have prioritized tourism over the needs of Madison’s residents,” Sally McKee says. “It’s gone too far. We’re asking our seniors to drive two hours to get their prescription filled. That’s not acceptable.”
Damn it, they're going to deny my permit. I grit my teeth in frustration. Yes, I agree with the overall principle of what Sally is saying. The town council has allowed unbridled development for more than twenty years, and yes, it’s not a healthy dynamic. Year after year, people move away from Madison because the only jobs you can find here are seasonal. The more people go away, the less the need for essential services. It’s a vicious cycle, and every year, it seems to get a little worse.
All the same, there’s a part of me that wants to bang my head repeatedly on the desk in front of me. Why me? I bought the empty building next to Dakota’s pizza, assuming the restaurant permit was a formality. I’m fifty thousand dollars in the hole, and that’s not counting the ten-percent deposit I verbally promised Ben Watanabe. Why has the town council picked the worst time in the world to rethink its policy?
Julian leans forward. “I can't disagree with anything you’ve said,” he says, his voice calm and reasonable. “However, if I might respectfully remind the council, tourism is the biggest source of revenue in Madison. Tourists pour money into our economy, money that benefits our residents. Last September, there was a forty-five-minute line outside Dakota’s Pizza almost every day. The Madison Brewpub is similarly busy, as is every other restaurant in town. If we can’t cater to their needs, the tourists will go elsewhere. Surely, preserving our biggest source of revenue is a priority.”
As much as I hate to admit it, Julian’s good. His argument is measured and logical, and it might work.
Mina Ahuja nods in agreement. “That's exactly what I said.”
Roger Wexler speaks up for the first time. “We already voted,” he reminds Mina. “We’re only going to grant one permit application this year.” He looks around at us. “The five of you are all qualified. Selecting one of you would be arbitrary, and we don't want to do that. We weren’t sure how to resolve the impasse, and then Sally had an idea.”
Sally leans forward, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “A reality-style contest,” she announces triumphantly. “In an outdoor tent. No swearing, no fighting. Everyone plays nice. For three weeks this summer, you’ll compete against each other, and at the end of it, we’ll crown a winner.”
“The winner will get the restaurant permit,” Roger Wexler adds.
Yeah, that part was perfectly obvious, Roger.
I stare at Sally. She’s normally a rational person, but right now, she’s practically falling out of her chair in excitement. “You want to do the Great British Bake Off. In Madison. With the five of us.” Is she crazy? Summer’s almost here. The tourists will soon be swarming us in relentless waves. We don’t have time for games.
“Exactly,” she beams. “I just love that show. Everyone so nice to each other. So friendly, so collaborative. Do you know, when one of them got married, the other contestants all attended the wedding, and even made wedding cakes for the bride and groom?”
Heaven help me, we have a GBBO groupie.
“It’ll be great for tourism,” Mina says. “There’s a new hotel in Barrel Beach. A developer is building a resort in Marmet. We can’t take the tourists for granted; we have to work hard at entertaining them.”
Tim nods. “Rana will publicize the contest. She’ll arrange for a crew to film it, and we’re going to put it on the internet. She’s already talked to TVO. They’ve agreed to put it on their website to give us a publicity boost. They might even air it on TV.”
Great. Just great. Rana Halabi is Madison’s new social media manager. She’s twenty-five. She’s relentlessly enthusiastic, smart as a whip, and is determined to pull Madison into the digital age. She started in March, and in two short months, she’s got the entire council eating out of her hand. If Rana’s behind this, we’re doomed.
I contemplate my options. If I don’t get this permit, I’d lose my deposit, all fifty thousand dollars. I cannot afford that.
As much as I want to tell the council to fuck off, it’s not really an option.
Then again, neither is participating in a stupid reality contest at the height of the tourist season.
I have to try to ward this off. “We’re busy during summer. As Julian pointed out, Dakota’s Pizza has a line out the door. None of us have time for this.”
Across the room, Julian smiles at me, a challenging gleam in his eyes. “On the contrary,” he says. “Count me in. Dakota might not be able to pull this off, but I’m game. I’ll be happy to put my food up against anyone.” He turns to me, a wicked smile dancing on his lips. “I guarantee it'll measure up.”
Ha ha. Everybody’s a comedian.
I lift my chin in the air. You want a challenge, buddy? I’ll give you a challenge. “Fine, I’m in too.”
Pleasure surges through me at the thought of beating Julian King for the last restaurant permit.
Bring it on, wiener boy.
9
Julian
Goddammit, I don’t want to be in competition with Dakota. If it wasn’t for the three other people there, I’d just walk away from the whole fucking mess. I’m not a puppet to dance to the bidding of the asshole town council.
It wasn’t that memorable? What the hell were you thinking, King?
That’s just it. I wasn’t thinking. She walked in, her silky blouse caressing her pert, perky breasts, a tight pencil skirt hugging her round ass, her hair hanging in soft waves around her face, and all the blood left my brain.
I drag my attention back to the room. Now that the councilors have the five of us on board their insane scheme, they’re all smiles. “I’ll get Rana,” Sally McKee says brightly. “She can go over the rules.”
She gets up and lets a dark-haired young woman into the room. She looks really familiar. I’m trying to figure out where I know her from when Sally does introductions. “Everyone, this is Rana Halabi,” she says. “Rana is Madison’s social media manager. She’ll be your point person for this contest. Rana, can you go over the rules?”
Ah. She’s Yossef Halabi’s daughter. I haven’t seen her in years. She’s all grown up.
“Absolutely.” Rana smiles around at the room. “Hello, everyone. The rules are pretty straightforward. On three Saturdays in May and June, we’re running an outdoor fair in Haslem Park. There will be rides, a band, beer tents, the works. And of course, you will provide the food.”
Of course. This way, they don’t even have to contract us for vendor services.
“There will be three rounds,” Rana continues. “The first two weeks, the person with the lowest sales will be eliminated. On the third week, the last three contestants will compete in a final.” She looks around. “Any questions?”
Dakota raises her hand. “What prevents the chains from underpricing their food to sell more?” she asks, glaring at the guy from We Knead Pizza.
“We’ve considered that,” Rana replies. “For each event, you will be given a budget. You must buy your food at retail price; we will audit your numbers to ensure that there’s no cheating. And the winner will be the person that both hits a threshold of unit sales and makes the most money.” She hands around a set of folders. “Full details are in the binders.”
There are a couple of more questions from the others. I flip through the folder as I listen. Rana’s thought of everything—no surprise there, Yossef is one of the most detail-oriented lawyers I know.
“If that’s all, then I’ll see you on the Friday of Victoria Day weekend at six in the evening in Haslem Park. The dates are in your binders. I’ll audit your food and budge
t, and as soon as I’m done, you’ll be given four hours to do any prep you need.”
The meeting breaks up. Rana approaches me with a smile on her face. “Julian,” she says, giving me a friendly hug. “I thought it was you.”
“Hey, Rana.” I return her hug and over her shoulder, Dakota gives me a death glare.
Hang on. She’s jealous?
Oh, this is hilarious. I’ve been friends with Youssef for a good ten years now. Rana will always be the painfully shy kid with pigtails.
But Dakota doesn’t know that. My smile widens. I’m going to milk this situation for all it’s worth. “I haven’t seen you since you left for college. How’ve you been, kid?”
“Good.” She looks up at me, her eyes twinkling. “My dad is still pissed you quit.”
I laugh. Youssef Halabi is a partner at BCF, and a mentor of mine. He’d been extremely vocal about his feelings when I told him of my plans to resign. “Trust me, I know. He called me into his office and chewed me out for an hour.”
“That sounds like him,” she agrees. “You’ve been doing this for a year, then? It’s going well?”
“I can’t complain,” I tell her. “Tell me about you. You’re Madison’s social media manager? When did this happen? And why?”
“I’ve been doing it remotely for the last few months,” she replies. “I only moved into Madison in March. My boyfriend lives in Marmet, and I wanted to be closer to him.”
“You’ve been here two months and you haven’t looked me up? I’m offended.”
“I didn’t know it was you,” she exclaims. “I knew you’d quit BCF, but I had no idea you were making sausages. I only learned last week that you were the guy behind Sausage King.” She grins. “Great name, by the way. And I love the logo.”
Sausage King: An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy Page 5