The Jasmine Project

by Meredith Ireland

  Cousin Madison

  Oh, whatever, Wylan. It was a bad joke

  Aunt Kim

  I heard she and Justin Michael looked really close at the tea bar. It’s still a shame you guys didn’t want to include Simon. He likes her!

  Aunt Rosey

  Is everyone coming to Mabel’s party on Sunday?

  Aunt Minnie

  Of course

  Are the boys going to be there?

  Uncle Carlos

  I mean… it’s not a horrible idea

  Cari

  It’s a horrible idea

  Uncle Carlos

  Why’s that?

  Cari

  Because she’d be bound to figure it out. She’s already asking her friends questions because things feel off. Let’s just stick with the plan, guys. Don’t go rogue. Teagan and Joe could’ve really messed it up by showing up at her froyo place last night

  Cousin Teagan

  Sorry! We just… wanted to see

  Cousin Joe

  She didn’t figure it out

  Cari

  I can’t go over this again. She could’ve asked one of you for the ride home and then what? Then she’d have to 'accidentally' run into Aaron again? It’s going well. Let’s not mess up now

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Eugene fobs into the parking garage and pulls into a spot reserved for Lantern & Jacks employees.

  I hop out of the truck and he waits for me by the tailgate. He stares at me as I walk, and it feels like I’m the only person in the world. I want to look away because his attention makes me nervous, but I can’t help but look at him too.

  He smiles as I stop in front of him. “Have you been to the restaurant before?” he asks.

  “No, but I’ve really wanted to go,” I say.

  “I’ll give you a quick tour before prep, then. Let’s do this right.”

  We leave the garage, and Eugene puts his hand on my back to turn me around the corner.

  “This way,” he says.

  His hand lingers, and I would go to the ends of the earth with him leading me like this. Instead he brings me to the main entrance of Lantern & Jacks.

  Two beautiful lanterns flank the door, and there’s an understated sign above them. Enormous windows run the length of the outside.

  It’s perfect.

  “So here we are,” Eugene says. “My dad’s first restaurant of his own. The lettering on the sign is my mom’s handwriting. Dad wanted to make sure she had her signature on here.”

  I love that.

  I looked up more about his family (because I’m a creeper) and found out his dad’s parents disowned him when he was addicted to drugs in his early twenties. His mom’s parents disowned her for marrying someone they didn’t choose.

  Reading that made me so sad, but also grateful that my grandparents are open minded. They’re Filipino immigrants on one side and Italian second generation on the other, but for all their differences, they have a weird amount in common. They go to the same church and have the same values. Plus, Grandpa Yap and Poppy are best buds and oddly competitive in bocce. But most important, they want their children to be happy. And now our family is everything from Laotian/Dominican with Davey, to Aunt Regina’s children who are Black/Filipino, to Uncle Richard’s kids who call themselves “garden-variety white.”

  Eugene pulls open the restaurant door and I take it all in. The overall style is clean, comfortable, and a little understated. Everything is soft and sculptural, from the lights to the chairs. Small lanterns surround large fresh-flower arrangements that are scattered throughout the room. It’s totally different from the way Ventura’s Bistro used to look, but it fits the space so well.

  The servers work quietly, setting the tables with rulers. They say hi to Eugene and stare at me as we pass.

  “So this is the main dining room,” he says. “Oliver Underwood did all the furniture. Dad tried to stick with local designers and manufacturers, and it turned out exactly how he’d imagined it.”

  I thought the style looked familiar.

  “Mr. Underwood is my friend Emily’s father. You met her at the party, I think.”

  “I did,” he says. “They were actually here the other night for dinner. I came out and said hi.”

  I tilt my head. It’s strange, really strange, that Emily didn’t mention seeing him. But I can’t dwell on my unsettled feeling, because Eugene continues with his tour.

  “Our wine cellar,” he says. He points to a glass room that’s sealed to the high ceiling. “It’s temperature controlled. The whites on the bottom, the reds on top, where it’s naturally warmer.”

  “How do they get the bottles down?” I ask.

  “There’s a hydraulic arm. It’s a great design by Al Ventura.”

  My mouth falls open. “Uncle Al.”

  Eugene’s brow furrows. “Al Ventura is your uncle?”

  I nod. “He’s my mom’s brother. I never knew he worked on this.”

  Weird that in all my research I’d never heard this, but I guess people don’t shout out their architect.

  Eugene’s dimple shows. “Is there anyone in Central Florida you don’t know or you’re not related to?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “That’s pretty nice.” He smiles.

  That’s a different reaction than I’m used to. Paul would complain it was impossible to keep my eighty-two cousins straight. I don’t have eighty-two cousins. Well… not first cousins.

  “The private dining area is over here,” Eugene says. “If we don’t have a large party, it becomes a communal table for the tasting menu. My dad believes food should be a shared experience, and I agree.”

  The tasting menu is $400, before any additions, like a gluttonous amount of truffles. I’ve read the reviews that were skeptical of paying that much without having their own table, but everyone enjoyed being able to discuss their courses.

  “My dad’s office is upstairs, along with some storage,” Eugene says. “Between you and me, they’re thinking about adding dining space up there, but my dad has concerns about the maximum quality he can put out at once. If I were to join him permanently, we could…”

  He trails off and swallows the words I wanted to hear. If he joined his dad permanently, then what? Then he’d be a professional chef living in Orlando instead of a student in New York, and I know which I’d prefer.

  Eugene frowns. “Anyhow, it’s not interesting up there.” He clears his face and smiles. “Ready to see the kitchen?”

  The change in expression ended my chance to ask about his thoughts. Instead, I say, “Absolutely.”

  He swings open the door, and I was not, in fact, ready.

  The kitchen is a dream.

  I expected chaos like I remember in Jay’s bistro, but instead it’s the most peaceful space I’ve ever been in. Everyone is in a clean white jacket or a black apron. No one is talking other than to say “hot” or “behind” as they carry pans.

  Soft classical music emanates from somewhere, and the kitchen is bathed in light from a picture window. Behind the restaurant is a small garden. I read in Food & Wine magazine that Lantern & Jacks grows many of their own ingredients, thanks to Eugene’s mom.

  The chefs look up from their prep and nod or smile at Eugene, but their eyes stop on me. There are a dozen people in the kitchen, but I’d recognize Chef Matthews anywhere. He strolls up to us with his white jacket on. Tattoos peek out from the cuffs of his jacket. He’s probably six feet tall and barrel chested, but he has the same gentle smile as Eugene.

  “How’d the deliveries go?” Chef asks.

  “Got them all done,” Eugene says.

  “And one pickup.” His dad smiles.

  “Dad, this is Jasmine. Al Ventura’s niece.”

  He places his hand on my back for the second time today, and his touch is so warm. I’m almost sad when he drops his hand away.

  “Get out of here. Really?” Chef looks at me. I’m adopted, so the connection is never clear. Even
with my dad’s side, people don’t think I’m Filipina, so there’s always a pause.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says. “Eugene’s told me a lot about you.”

  “Really?” I look from his dad to Eugene. I raise my eyebrows. “A lot?”

  Eugene sighs. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Brain damage from his molecular gastronomy phase. Ignore him.”

  “Ha!” his dad says, sounding just like Eugene. “Well, welcome to the kitchen, Jasmine. Eugene, who’s told me nothing about you, says you cook as well.”

  I startle. “I… um, I mean, not professionally. I… just at home. I just make dinners at home. Sometimes.”

  Chef nods. “Everyone starts at home. But you’re also Jay Ventura’s niece, then?”

  “Yes.”

  His lip protrudes as he nods. “She’s one talented lady.”

  This is like Serena Williams saying someone is a good tennis player. I feel pride grow in my chest, because yes, Jay is talented. And even though my feelings changed on my aunt, I never stopped being proud of her.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks. “We’re doing staff meal in twenty.”

  Wait… Chef Matthews is going to cook for me? No. Way. I’ve died. I’ve definitely died and I’m in heaven and I’m good with that as long as my spirit can eat.

  “I’d love to join you,” I say. I look to Eugene for guidance, but he’s disappeared. “If that’s okay. If it’s not, it’s no problem. I don’t want to impose. I can… well, I can just stand in the corner. I guess.”

  Chef Matthews laughs and turns to Eugene, who’s rejoined our conversation. He claps his son on the shoulder. “Show her the garden, and then we’ll need you to finish prep.”

  He checks his watch, and it’s the same one that Eugene wears, although it looks newer, which is weird.

  “Yes, Chef,” Eugene says.

  While we were talking, he put on his chef’s jacket, and he looks disturbingly good. He carries himself differently with his coat on. More confident, more adult.

  “Come on out back,” Eugene says.

  He opens the glass door to the walled-in garden. It’s hot, herbaceous, and earthy back here. The smell of scallions, rosemary, lavender, and mint fills the air.

  We walk along the paths that snake around the garden. The space isn’t large, but it’s well organized and labeled in his mom’s distinctive handwriting.

  Eugene picks off the few dead leaves as we go. “My dad comes out here to sit and think up a new menu or to clear his head. It also reminds him of my mom, and that’s calming.”

  “Is she… not here?”

  The Matthews family is well known enough that divorce or, God forbid, death would make the tabloid sites. But there could be other reasons for her to be gone.

  He shakes his head. “She left a week ago to go to California to study horticulture, which she’s always wanted to do. She should be back before I leave for Spain. If not, they’ll visit me in Europe.”

  “Oh.”

  Spain again. I’m beginning to resent an entire location.

  “She gave her all to this restaurant, and it’s her turn to do what she’s wanted. But it’s really not the same without her.”

  I love the way he speaks about his mom, how clearly he adores her. I adore mine too and don’t want to risk disappointing her. And so maybe I’ll never try to have a dream restaurant like this, but that’s okay. Pursuing a hopeless dream isn’t worth losing a family like mine.

  Eugene sits on a stone bench and gestures for me to sit. Once I’m next to him, he tips his face toward the sun.

  “You look happy back here,” I say.

  He turns and looks me in the eye. “I love it. But I still don’t know if I love it for them or for me. And with my mom gone, my dad has leaned on me more to make a decision.”

  I don’t know what to say. What’s the difference? And why doesn’t he care about making his parents proud? He’s been given everything, everything they’ve struggled to give him, but doesn’t know if he wants to have it all?

  For the first time I wonder why I’m so drawn to someone so opposite from me.

  “Okay,” Eugene says. “I have to get on the line. But stay out here if you want. Otherwise, you can wait in the private dining room—that’s where we do staff meal.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask.

  “No. We have it all under control. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  He brushes my arm with his hand and his touch wipes away the questions in my mind. I inhale the clean scent of orange blossoms and herbs and spices. I exhale all my doubts and for a moment allow myself to dream of having this.

  When my phone dings, I turn off the ringer without looking at it. There’s nothing I want more than to be in this moment.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  JASMINE’S IPHONE

  MAY 29

  PR" in a circle"/>

  ♥ Paul ♥

  Can I stop by tonight or tomorrow?

  I really want to talk to you

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I aced AP English, but I don’t have words to describe staff meal. It was roast chicken—just a simple chicken and it was the best meal I’ve had in my life. The meat was perfectly seasoned and the sauce was so good, I wanted to lick it off my plate. Only decorum stopped me.

  Barely.

  The chicken was complimented by unbelievably rich mashed potatoes and a salad bursting with flavor.

  I thought I knew how to cook. I very much don’t know how to cook. And like my aunt said that one terrible night: I don’t have what it takes to do this.

  Eugene finished with his prep a little after five o’clock, and now we’re slowly walking back to his truck. Waddling is more like it, as I had seconds of everything.

  “So what did you think of L&Js?” Eugene asks.

  “It was amazing,” I say. “Please thank your dad again for me.”

  “He liked you,” he says.

  He unlocks his truck and opens my door. The little things he does, like come around to my side first, set him apart from Paul. And it makes me wonder why I never expected Paul to treat me this way.

  “He doesn’t normally let outsiders in,” Eugene continues. “But whatever you two talked about earned his approval.”

  “I have no idea what I said, but I’m glad. I liked him too. Really, it was an honor.”

  Eugene grins and shuts my door before getting in on his side. He starts the engine and air blasts out of the vents.

  “He also liked that you helped clear dishes and chatted with Luke,” he says.

  “Why wouldn’t I have talked to Luke?” I ask.

  He was the dishwasher/garbage boy and the only employee around our age.

  Eugene shrugs. “Some people only care about my dad or Collins, because they have the most power. But my dad values all the staff equally. I’ve done just about every job in his restaurants because he wanted me to see how each role is necessary to making the place run. I… suck as a waiter and I made a below-average host. I was yanked quickly from those positions.”

  I laugh. I’m 100 percent certain I’d be a terrible waitress as I’ve barely mastered handing tea across the bar at B&OA.

  “It shows that he values them—they all love him,” I say.

  “It’s a found family. Half of them came over from his old restaurant, so he’s known them for a decade. Some even more than that.”

  “Which means they knew you when you were… nine?” I say.

  He nods. “Braces and all.”

  I tilt my head, looking at him. “You had braces? You would’ve been cute with braces.”

  He makes a face. “I definitely wasn’t. No braces for you, huh?”

  “No.”

  “Just born perfect, then, I guess,” he says. He puts the truck into reverse.

  I blink a few times. I can’t remember the last time a boy called me perfect. I’m not sure it’s ever happened. Shawn used to go on and on about Emily’s perfection when we’d all
hang out (assuming they weren’t screaming at each other). My beautiful queen this, my gorgeous girl that, while Paul and I sat silently. Even Justin Michael, who thought I was great when we were kids, never said I was perfect.

  My family thinks I’m pretty good, but they’re legally obligated to say that. And June and Emily aren’t objective at all. Not like they’re going to say: Hey, you’re a troll. By the way, can I sleep over?

  “I’m not perfect,” I say. “Far from it.”

  He looks at me for an uncomfortable amount of time, and I feel the need to say something else.

  “Cari is beautiful and perfect,” I say.

  “That means you can’t be those things?” he says.

  “Well, yeah, kinda,” I say. “She’s tall and graceful and popular everywhere she goes—even when people can’t see her. She was class president and homecoming queen. I’ve accepted that I was born to play the sidekick. I’m Skipper to her Asian Barbie.” I do a jazz hands motion, then put my hands back on my jeans because he’s still staring at me.

  “I get it now,” he says.

  “Get what?”

  He reaches out and strokes my hair behind my ear. I’m so focused on the shivers he’s sending through me that I almost miss what he says.

  “You don’t know how special you are.”

  He returns his hand to the gearshift, and I’m stuck in neutral, spinning on his words and his touch.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  THE LITTLE BACHELORETTE PODCAST EXCERPT

  S1, EP 1—JUNE 1

  Anonyma: Hey, and welcome to the first-ever episode of The Little Bachelorette podcast. I’m your host, Anonyma.

  To catch you all up, you’re joining us exactly one week into a six-week competition. Three very different suitors have been selected to try to win the heart of my beautiful little sister—let’s call her Ariel for the sake of this podcast. All three boys had unique meet-cutes with Ariel at a party last Saturday. All three had planned or accidental run-ins with her afterward, and this week she has spent time with all three.

  We don’t know who’ll win the competition and become the Prince Eric to her Ariel. With five weeks remaining, it’s anyone’s game. Think of it like a teenage Bachelorette except for one thing: there’s no rose ceremony. There’ll be no confessionals with Ariel. And no real names because, here comes the shocking twist: she doesn’t know about any of this.