“Yeah, well, I didn’t read the invitation.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“The tables, Teresa. I don’t want to stand here and argue with you all night.”
I drag a hand through my hair, tired of it all. It’s stupid to pick a fight with him while he’s offering his help. It’s a nice gesture. “I need them in the back. See if you can find space, it’s not very big up there.” I walk over to my phone and turn down the loud music. “You can fold them together. They’ll be picked up in the morning. Still not forgiving you.”
Smiling secretively, he walks up to one of the tables. “It may take time, but you will.”
“You’re arrogant.”
“You have a temperament,” he counters.
“Yeah, well, it gets me nowhere with my brother.”
Josh glances up. “How long have you been raising him?”
“About six years now. I’m his guardian.”
“Your brother told me your parents died in a car crash. I’m sorry.”
My eyes widen. “He told you about our parents?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. He never wants to talk about what happened, as though he’s still in denial. And he opens up to you after, what, five minutes?”
“Yeah, I think we connected on some level.”
My eyes drift to his arms. “He probably connected to your tattoos.”
“That too,” he agrees, smiling. “I’m sorry I didn’t cover myself up when I came here. It was hectic in the kitchen and I didn’t have a jacket in my office. I usually don’t check myself in a mirror, so I didn’t give it a second thought. Sorry. I know your brother wants a tattoo badly and you’re against it. I wasn’t showing off. If anything, I hoped I scared him off with the painful execution, and the price tag that comes with it.”
I laugh. “Is there anything he didn’t tell you tonight?”
He looks away and collapses the standing table. I can see he’s smiling. “He didn’t let me in on your relationship status.”
Smiling too, I return to work. “I’ll thank him later.”
For an hour and a half, we work in the back and front of the restaurant. Josh even turned the music up loud again. Every now and then, he asks me a question related to the chores he’s doing. Every now and then, I watch his muscles flex as he carries a table to the back, or his perfect butt or heavy thighs in those loose tapered jeans.
And every now and then we stare at each other from a distance, worthlessly.
Mon Díos. It makes me wonder about his relationship status. I suppose he’s single, considering his bawdy proposal earlier today, but it’s a little hard to believe no one yet claimed this gorgeous species of a man.
I walk behind the bar and turn the music down. There’s not much left to do anymore. It’s looking spick-and-span. I need only to set the big table for the workshop, but that can wait until the morning.
Thirsty, I prepare another cocktail. “Can I get you a drink?” I ask Josh as he lowers himself onto one of the bar stools. “I’m making a mimosa, but I can get you something else.” I wink at him. “Rice pudding, maybe?”
The corner of his mouth rises. “I’m good. I’ll be out of your way soon.”
I sit on the stool next to him and sip from the cool drink. “Thank you for this. I really appreciate it.”
He drags his hand through his thick hair, pushing his curls out of his face, but they just fall back again. “Will you be all right?”
I nod.
“Listen, before I go–”
“Josh…”
He ignores my plea. “Forget about what I said, okay? People were enjoying your food tonight. What I think doesn’t matter one fucking iota. If they come back for more, you did good.”
“I already came to the same conclusion.”
“Good,” he says, then gets up from the stool.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“If you had known who I was, then what feedback would you have given me? Just in case the word-of-mouth advertising isn’t working properly.”
He glances back at me, a wide grin painting his face. “Can you handle the truth?”
“Hm-hm. I’d be a fool not to listen to you.”
“Okay, then.”
He sits down again, and I notice how his t-shirt clings to his chest. It’s not hard to guess it’s all tight pecs underneath. I catch myself hoping he still has virgin skin left. Oh, no, I’m so not going there.
“I would have started by asking you why you were playing it safe. You don’t strike me as a woman who stays between the lines.”
“I play it safe because this is new territory for me. Those are the things I can make, what I feel comfortable with.”
“Is patisserie your passion?”
“Yes. Baking was a lifelong hobby before I realized I wanted to make a living out of it.”
“Who taught you to bake?”
“My mom. She taught me everything.”
“Well, that’s big. You have a Spanish background, right?”
“My Dad was Spanish, my mother half Spanish and half American.”
“Your mother’s name is Camila?”
I nod, and a lump forms in my throat.
“Look, I can’t tell you what to put on that menu, but when I came here, I’d hoped it would be more exciting. You’re exciting.”
I swallow the lump. “Josh, please…”
“No, let me finish. You’re a beautiful, sexy woman, and from what I’ve seen, you’re passionate. From the way you talk to your brother, well, and me, to the clothes you’re wearing, and the music you play. It’s exciting. If you can put that fieriness on a plate, if you succeed to get more of you on a plate, then, believe me, you have a winning menu.”
“Okay, I’m listening. How do I get me on a plate?”
“Where does your family live in Spain?”
“My father was born in Colonia de Sant Jordi, a former fishing colony on one of the Balearic Islands, Mallorca. My uncle still lives there.”
“Name a local product.”
“Well, the island is covered with olive and almond trees.”
“Almonds, excellent. Name one dish on your menu with almonds; almonds sent straight in from the Mediterranean.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“I bet your mother made a hell of a nougat.”
I nod feverishly. “Yeah, she did.” Good God, if he continues like this any longer, I’ll throw myself in his arms and cry my eyeballs out.
He cocks his head, studying my face. “Then why the fuck don’t you?” he asks harshly, making me want to smash my head against the counter from stupidity. Why haven’t I come up with this myself? “And if I were you, I’d wrap them up and sell them in your shop.”
“That’s an idea. Love it.”
“Like I said before, your dishes were okay. If my dishes were okay, I could close shop.”
“I’m not aiming for stars. I’m just aiming for smiles on people’s faces.”
“You don’t need a star, but you need reviews. We all need them. This menu won’t give you rave reviews. And that’s what you’re aiming for, next to the smiles.”
“I don’t want to be a trendy restaurant. That’s not me.”
“Good! Me neither. Trendy restaurants are coming and going, and you’re here to stay, right?”
“Right.”
“Don’t follow trends.” His green irises pierce my soul. “Follow your heart.”
I nod, swallowing. “Wow, you’re good.”
“Are we cool?”
“We’re cool. You’re forgiven.”
A smug smile plays on his lips. “Told you, didn’t I?”
“You’re still arrogant. But you’re allowed. Sorry I called you a dishwasher.”
He laughs at my remark. “No offense taken. Yeah, it’s the least glamorous job at the restaurant, but I wouldn’t be where I was today if I hadn’t started out scrubbing pots and pans and lugg
ing foul-smelling garbage bags out to the curb.”
“Thanks for the advice, Josh. That really meant something. Do you have any advice for raising a teenage boy?”
He gets up, smiling. “I’ll ask my aunt; I’m sure she can give you pointers. See you around, Teresa.”
When he nears the door, just for the fun of it, I say, “Does that mean I don’t get to check out your supplies anymore?” Okay, that came out a bit sluttish, but, hey, he started this; I’m just playing along.
He stops in his tracks and slowly turns back. “Are you saying you’re interested?”
I shrug indifferently. “I might be persuaded, if you keep up the attitude.”
“Noted,” he says, nodding. “Why don’t you swing by some time and I’ll make you lunch. I think we can work something out.” And then, with a wicked smile and a sexy wink, he’s off, and dumbfounded, I watch him run back to his own place.
I knock back my mimosa and slam the glass back on the table. “Ay Díos mío!”
CHAPTER THREE
joshua
It’s a godsend to wake up at five o’clock in the morning on your only day off, and not needing to go to the market. I can finally do my laundry, catch up with long overdue administration, and lift weights, all before noon. The rest of the day I can spend time finding inspiration for new recipes, whether by simply lying on the couch with a notepad and a pencil, or hiking along the riverbank and trying to score kelp or other marine vegetables, since there’s nothing better than preparing food found in the wild.
I truly enjoy a peaceful Sunday when nobody’s whining to me about things. It’s the only time to myself where I get to think, read a book, and just breathe.
Semi-naked, I saunter into the kitchen to fix myself a strong black coffee and sit on the windowsill. I left the blinds open last night, and I look straight at Camila’s Kitchen. The restaurant is dark, but one of the upstairs rooms has light, and I can’t help but wonder if Teresa is an early riser too. Maybe it’s Felipe’s room, who just returned home from wherever, probably stoned to the bone. I could never offer Teresa advice on how to raise a teenage boy. Nothing worked for me, no matter how hard Max and Louise tried. I ended up in juvie anyway for minor drug possession, fighting, setting up a criminal enterprise, and what not. The only thing important to me was that they never gave up on me, but as far as I can tell, Teresa won’t give up on her brother. She’s dedicated to raise him like her parents would, and it’s a hell of a challenge while setting up shop and creating a home for the both of them too. And how old is she anyway? Mid-twenties? She’s an admirable young woman, and fuck me, a pretty one too.
I hope I inspired her enough. I’m keeping an eye on her, or better yet, on her menu. If she makes some changes, and manages to add deep flavors in those desserts, I’ll personally see to it a food-critic visits the damn place.
Does that mean I don’t get to check out your supplies anymore…
“Oh, no, baby,” I say aloud. I plan to show you every goddamn corner of the dry goods area. I also plan on tasting those cherry-colored luscious lips, weighing those amazing tits in the palms of my hands, and then I’m going to go down on her and drive her out of her mind until she forgets how to speak Spanish. Just waiting for the right time, that’s all.
I gulp down the coffee, and after my brain functions again, trudge into the bathroom and bend to gather up dirty socks, underwear, pants, and t-shirts, still piled in a corner where I dropped them days in a row. First, the domestic chores, so Amy can outlive herself on the ironing board tomorrow.
As I jam everything into the washing machine, I notice a piece of paper sticking from the back pocket of one of the jeans. I take it out and study the white envelope with my name on it, along with the words confidential. Then I remember Ed giving it to me, and telling me one of the guests left it last Friday.
I close the lid of the machine, pour in soap, and switch it on, then leave for the kitchen and another cup of coffee. Intrigued, I sit down on a barstool and open the envelope, and remove two pieces of paper. I’m used to online reviews and personal emails, but rarely receive a handwritten note.
Dear brother,
I can’t tell you how guilty I feel for what I am about to do, at the same time, Maximilian leaves me no other choice. I can only hope and pray you and Louise will understand and that Josh and Jaz will be able to forgive me in time as they grow older.
I’ve tried everything within my power to be happy, but I can’t find happiness in this life. Our dad is making it impossible for me to live my life as I want to, and I can’t tell you how relieved I am to know that in a few hours I will be free of his dominant and controlling ways. It was always easier for you guys then it was for me as his only daughter. I never choose a life in hospitality, and yet he forced me into it, threatening to make my life a living hell if I didn’t listen or went away again.
The twins deserve only the very best, and they can’t get that as long as I am part of their lives. I know they’ll be loved and cherished by you, Louise, Floris, and Mae as if they were your own.
I’ll carry them in my heart, always. Please tell them this is not their fault.
Love always, Martha
“The fuck…?” I curse as I study the white A4, front and back. It’s a copy of the original document. If this is supposed to be my mother’s, then the paper would have aged, and probably would have looked wrinkled and worn. Also, the surface is smooth. But, more importantly is the question whether the dark note itself is authentic, or if someone is pulling a sick prank. There’s no way to tell if this is my mother’s handwritten suicide note. I can’t fucking remember her handwriting.
I unfold the second letter. This one is typed.
Hello Joshua,
It must be hard on you to hear your mother didn’t care enough about her twins to stay in this life, I’m sure. I know about her past and the secret your family is trying to hide from the outside world. And from you! It’s time you and your twin-sister know the truth. I won’t go into any specifics, but here’s a clue: you were born in India, no matter what your passport tells you.
Anyway, let me get to the point. If you want me to keep my mouth shut, you’ll have to pay me off. Don’t get me wrong; we won’t meet in person and neither will there be a physical transaction. You are going to pay me anonymously by using bitcoins. Send $500.000 to the receiving bitcoin address listed below. Payment must be received within thirty days from the date in this letter. If I haven’t received the bitcoin by then, I’ll go ahead and release your mother’s suicide note to the press. It would be a mistake to go to the cops, but don’t let me stop you.
The clock is ticking, Joshua!
Growling, I crumple the paper into a ball and fling it across the room. I get up and rake my trembling fingers through my hair. Forget coffee, I’m in dire need of a drink.
Pacing back and forth across the room, I swallow the scotch. Of all things, one sentence keeps screaming at me. You were born in India. Is he friggin’ kidding me? Or she, or whoever the fuck they are. My passport says Boston, as does Jaz’s. And how would they know what’s in my passport anyway?
I stride back to the envelope, pick it up, and study it carefully. Just ordinary, white plain stationery, nothing fancy or handcrafted, or anything I’d recognize from VIC. Just as I put it down, I feel something else inside. When I glance inside, my eye catches a picture, and I take it out.
And stare at a picture of my mother holding two toddlers.
I sit down again and study the picture more carefully. It’s not sharp, but in color, and the little kid’s eyes are shimmering like emeralds. A shudder rolls through me as I read the words written on top of the picture.
Martha and the twins, Rishikesh, 1992.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter as I stare at Jaz and myself as four-year-olds. All of us are dressed in bright orange and yellow colors, and our mom is wearing a beaded necklace. She’s smiling to the camera, and it strikes like a lightning bolt. I’ve never seen my mother li
ke this before: happy, joyful, carefree… We’re sitting on a bench, with forested hills in the background, a river flowing through the landscape. Is that the Ganges?
I jog toward my bedroom to fetch my iPad, and try to find information on the name on the photograph.
Rishikesh is known as the yoga capital of the world, and is situated in the foothills of the Himalaya in northern India. The sacred river Ganges runs rapidly through the city. It’s famous for its ayurvedic treatments, many ashrams and has all kinds of yoga and meditation classes. Pilgrims and international tourists are attracted to the small town for spiritual relief, to find peace, practice yoga, or for a dip in the holy river. As Rishikesh is a holy city, non-vegetarian food and alcohol are prohibited.
Why does this sound like a lifestyle my mother would embrace? How many times did I find her on her yoga mat in the morning, worshipping the sun, or find her in deep meditation? She took yoga classes and we were vegetarians – Jaz still is today – and she never drank a drop of alcohol. I don’t know much about Hinduism or Buddhism, nor about their beliefs and practices, but I do know my mother would be a follower of this spiritual path.
I rub my chin as I stare at exotic, colorful pics of Rishikesh. I find it hard to believe I was there as a four-year-old, I don’t even attach great importance to what this extortioner has to say, but the photograph is real. What the hell happened? All I know is that I was born in Boston and grew up in one of the Vandenberg hotels. Is it all a fucking lie?
I dig inside my brain, trying to recall my first memory. It doesn’t take me back to the freaking Ganges, that’s for sure. It gets me as far as Stockbridge at Christmastime. I must have been five. Me, Mac, and Tristan are playing catch in the living room; the center of action with an adorned Christmas tree, presents, and jars stuffed with cookies. Since we weren’t allowed to have an actual ball inside the house, we threw an orange around, which worked just fine. I remember throwing the orange Tristan’s way and him closing his eyes as he turns to catch it. He stumbled and fell to the floor, atop the tree, and then all hell broke loose. It’s the first Christmas I remember, and only now I wonder why I don’t remember the one before that. Is it because we were in India?
Joshua Page 4