by KD Fisher
I did remember him. He’d been larger than life with a booming laugh. I also remembered my father mentioning his funeral some years back.
“How come I’ve never met your husband yet?” the boy asked, pausing his dedicated scratching behind Hamlet’s floppy ears.
“Peter.” Adah’s voice was clipped. “Don’t ask those kinds of questions, it ain’t polite.” Apparently when she was irritated that accent of hers got thicker. It sort of made me want to rile her up some more.
Vanessa smiled at Peter and shook her head. “It’s okay. He passed away. But I’m lucky to have you and your mom looking out for me.” She winked.
The boy, Peter, snorted and looked at me. “She looks out for us. Ms. Vanessa watches me most days because my mom works a ton. It’s okay though because she takes me to a lot of awesome places. Last week we went on the ferry and ate ice cream on two different islands.” His expression shifted from wistful over what I could only assume were happy memories of giant quantities of ice cream, to shrewd as he narrowed his eyes at me. I wanted to laugh at the intensity of his expression but then he spoke again. “You’re pretty.” He turned to Adah. “Mom, she’s really pretty, isn’t she? You should date her.”
While Vanessa and I dissolved into laughter, hers likely genuine, mine to stop myself from vigorously nodding in agreement, Adah stood stock-still. The only indication she’d even heard Peter’s words was the blush staining her high cheekbones and the daggers she was glaring at her son.
Vanessa patted Adah on the shoulder then turned to me. “Your father still going out on the water?” She had perfected the art of small-town small talk.
As much as I wanted to continue along the conversational path Peter had led us down, I followed Vanessa’s lead instead. “No. Thankfully, my brother and I finally convinced him to call it quits. But he’s growing blueberries and writing mystery novels and basically driving everyone in town up the wall. He keeps trying to help out at the restaurant too, but other than handyman stuff I have to keep him away. I swear the man can actually burn water.”
As Vanessa and I chatted I stole a glance at Adah. It was impossible to tell if she was listening or not, her eyes once again fixed on the ocean. But one thing was crystal clear. She looked suddenly and unspeakably sad.
* * *
The rest of the day stretched out in front of me, shapeless hours I had no idea what to do with. After getting home from the beach, I’d spent a little time pulling weeds in the garden, inhaling the green earthy scents of sage and rosemary, and reveling in warm morning sun on my neck. But my mother had stopped by earlier in the week to “tidy up” my herb and flower beds, which meant they looked the best they ever had. Idly I wondered if Adah liked to garden. What her family had been like growing up. I pictured a big yard bursting with produce and frantic with chickens pecking all around. Then I started thinking about her tall lean body and the way her hands might feel on mine. Groaning, I shook my head to dispel the thoughts.
Taking a new tack, I sat on the porch with a cup of chamomile and the book I hadn’t been able to keep my eyes open to read. But my vision blurred as I stared at the page, my mind unable to focus on the story. Instead, my thoughts drifted, once again, to Adah. I wondered what her favorite book was, if she liked to read at all. I imagined her snuggled on the couch with her son, reading books out loud and doing different voices for the characters. Enough was enough. I snapped the book shut, downed the rest of my tea, and stalked inside. Finally, I changed into my painting clothes, a pair of tattered linen pants and an old shirt of my dad’s, and retreated to my neglected studio.
My stomach flipped as my eyes raked over the painting I’d been working on before I took over The Yellow House. I hadn’t picked up a brush in months. The composition, a dreamy tumble of flowers rendered in shades of purple, was completely alien to me. I ran my fingers over the dry paint hoping to connect to the piece but felt nothing.
No matter. I dusted my hands briskly on my shirt like I did when baking and pulled a fresh canvas from the stack in the corner. Paintbrush in hand, I allowed my eyes to flutter shut. Colors filled my mind’s eye. Soft green like new leaves. Like sea glass. Like...goddammit. Adah’s eyes. No. I set the paintbrush down and heaved a heavy sigh.
The only thing that would get this excess energy out of my system was baking. Kneading dough and sifting flour until my mind reached meditative quiet. It looked like I was going to be working on my day off after all.
Chapter Five
Adah
“I need two bouillabaisse for table sixteen now!” I roared over the din of kitchen noise. Service was going as smoothly as any packed Saturday night could go. The last three weekends had been absurdly busy, but I wasn’t about to complain. Jay had settled right in and created a unique but still approachable pastry program. We’d added a Sunday brunch that a local food blog had touted as the best in the city. And most importantly, Sean had stopped trying to meddle in my kitchen.
As if conjured by my thoughts, his ruddy face appeared on the other side of the pass. I nodded curtly at him before returning to checking that the plating on the branzino was up to my standards. It was, mostly. One plate looked a little sloppy and I called Mac over to fix it.
“Adah, I need to talk to you.” Sean’s face was unreadable, which made me break out in a cold sweat.
It also bothered me that he refused to address me as chef. I wasn’t one of those arrogant jerkwads who insisted on some kind of rigid code of discipline. As long as everybody did their job and cooked good food, I didn’t care what we called ourselves. I worked hard to ensure my kitchen was a safe, equitable space. Everyone was to be treated with dignity and kindness on my watch. Still, I was pretty sure if I were a guy Sean would call me chef. And I was absolutely positive that he wouldn’t interrupt me in the middle of a busy weekend dinner service.
“Yeah, Sean, what’s up?” I wanted to let my exasperation shine through, but instead I took a deep breath and turned to face my manager. Letting him know how much he got to me would only reward him. I knew that better than anyone.
“Can you come to my office for a second?”
My stomach dropped and blood roared loud in my ears. On the inside, I felt like a kid in Sunday school getting called in front of the class for talking out of turn. But I squared my shoulders and brushed a stray fleck of parsley off the cuff of my whites. Things were going well. As far as I knew Riccardo was thrilled with our business so far. What in the name of all things holy could I be in trouble for? I also wanted to remind Sean for the thousandth time that his office was technically our office, even if I avoided being in there with him like I did restaurants that dumped truffle oil on top of everything. Instead I simply nodded and ducked out of the kitchen, praying this would be short and sweet.
“So, how do you think things are going?” he asked, closing the office door behind me. Without thinking, my hand drifted to the knob, wanting to tug it open again.
“Good,” I said evenly. “We’re obviously busy tonight, so I don’t have a ton of time to hang around and chat.” I was letting the anger in. If too much rushed through the cracks I’d without a doubt say something I’d regret.
Sean smiled, a smarmy indulgent grin I wanted to wipe off his dumb face. “Absolutely. I wanted to loop you in, though—” He paused then like he wanted me to ask on what? I kept quiet. “I got in touch with Marcus Blanche. The restaurant critic. He’s going to be coming in sometime this fall to check out the restaurant. This could be huge, so I want us to be our best. Best that you work out all the issues now, okay?”
“Of course.” I plastered a grin on my face even as my hands clenched into fists at my sides. Was I out of my mind, or did the guy manage to be as belittling as possible during every gosh darn interaction? Of course I knew who Marcus dang Blanche was. He was one of the most famous restaurant critics in New York, a big deal food writer for The New York Daily before he’d struck out
on his own to start Gourmand Magazine. And what issues was Sean even talking about? Service ran smoother than fresh-churned butter and I knew our food was excellent. Heck, I’d checked our Yelp reviews and the only complaints were the typical fine-dining gripes about small portions and high prices.
I remained stonily silent the rest of dinner service and through the end-of-night cleanup. I only managed to string more than a few words together when Jay tugged me into the muggy alley behind the restaurant and demanded to know what was wrong.
I leaned against the bricks, still warm from the sun, and scrubbed a hand over my face. “Nothin’.” I sighed. “Just Sean being a moron as usual.”
Jay nodded but narrowed their eyes at me. “Yeah but Sean’s always a moron and you usually don’t go all Silent Bob on us.”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “He just had to pull me out of the rush to tell me about Marcus Blanche coming in the fall. Acted like there was no way I knew who the guy was and basically warned me to get it together.”
Jay scoffed. “Oh for fuck’s sake. He’s such a douche. But yeah I was actually gonna tell you about that. Remember my friend Lupe? She writes for Gourmand and told me yesterday that they’re doing this huge profile of New England restaurants for their January issue. Putting together a top ten list and doing in-depth write-ups of the favorite five places. Big photo shoots, chef profiles, the whole nine. She said that Yellow House place is a top contender. I guess Marcus is pretty obsessed with your girlfriend over there.”
I scoffed. Although Beth had been on my mind and in my dreams almost constantly since our run-in at the beach a few weeks ago, I had made a valiant effort to avoid any mention of the woman. Or her stupid, overrated restaurant. But it seemed everyone under the sun was determined to talk about that place and sing Beth’s praises. So naturally Marcus was going to go there too. For all I knew he’d already decided on The Yellow House for the number one spot because he and Beth had gone to culinary school in Paris together. Not that I knew the first thing about Beth’s history. Or Marcus Blanche’s for that matter. Probably best to look into that. Marcus’s background, that was.
Jay waved their hand in front of my eyes. “Good lord you can space out. Did you hear anything I just said?”
I shot them an apologetic smile. “Yeah, yeah. The Yellow House. The article. And Beth is not my girlfriend. I’m not in the habit of dating...women like her.”
Jay shrugged. “I think she seems pretty cool. In fact, Mac told me that her restaurant is hosting some kind of queer community dinner next weekend. We should go. I need to meet some other queers. Not that you aren’t awesome. But you know, winter is coming and all that jazz. I need someone to keep me warm.”
This comment sent my mind down a spiral of thoughts all starring the exact woman I didn’t want to think about. Holding Beth’s compact form in my arms. Her skin, smooth and soft. Her body underneath me. Running my fingers through her curls, tipping her lips up to meet mine... No.
I shook my head hard to clear the thoughts. Now more than ever Beth was my competition. No way was I having inappropriate daydreams about a woman who might steal the acclaim I worked so hard for. Especially because I had serious doubts that she worked very hard at all. How could everything look so dang casual and effortless at The Yellow House if she was busting her tail the way I had for the past decade? She’d just inherited a business and probably hadn’t done a hard day’s work in her dang life. Sure, the place looked great on paper but no way it was really that good. That effortless.
My irritation must have shown on my face, because Jay laughed and patted my shoulder. “You need to relax, Adah, seriously. I get that this is a lot of pressure. I promise I do. But when was the last time you even took a day off?”
“A few Mondays ago. Remember I took Peter to the beach.” As I said my son’s name, guilt coursed through me. Other than the few early morning hours we spent reading books or walking to the coffee shop around the corner, I barely saw my own child.
“Girl, that was almost a month ago. You know Mac and I can pick up the slack if you want to take more time to, you know, be a human being. We’re taking bets on how soon we’ll find out you’ve been sleeping in the pantry. That new dishwasher chick, Hannah, swears up and down she saw a cot in there.”
I knew Jay wouldn’t judge me if I told them about my litany of fears. I worried Sean was searching high and low for a reason to send me packing back to Chicago. I worried if I loosened my grip on the kitchen even a bit, then I would lose control entirely. I worried that, despite the long hours and wrist burns and swollen feet at the end of each night, I wasn’t doing enough.
Jay pulled their phone out of their back pocket and thumbed around on the screen for a moment before thrusting it in my face. Once my eyes adjusted to the brightness in contrast with the murky dim of the alley, I saw it was a Facebook event for “The Yellow House First Annual Big Queer Dinner, Dance, and Dream Extravaganza!” I scanned through the details: it was next Monday, tickets cost forty bucks, and the proceeds went to a local LGBTQ teen center.
“I can’t.” I looked up at the night sky, clear and scattered with more stars than I’d seen since I left Missouri. “You should go though. Maybe bring Mac.”
Jay sighed heavily. “One, Mac has a partner. Two, I already invited both of them. And three, I want to go with my goddamn best friend. You know the one I moved all the way up here to hang out with...”
I barked out a laugh. “Not for the job, then?”
“Okay, fine, you and the job. Please, please, please. It will be fun. And you can, I don’t know, gather intel on the competition to take her down. If you can’t fucking relax think of it as work. You’ll be like a culinary spy.” Jay pointed finger guns at me.
In a total attempt to ignore the way my heart raced at the thought of spending hours in Beth’s presence, eating her food, trying and failing not to stare at the sway of her hips, I rolled my eyes. “Fine. If I can get Vanessa to watch Peter, which heaven knows that poor woman is probably sick of my kid at this point, maybe I’ll go.” At Jay’s whoop of excitement I repeated the word “maybe,” already knowing I was going to show up.
* * *
When I pushed the door to my apartment shut behind me, I found Vanessa sitting at my tiny, secondhand kitchen table, mug in one hand, paperback in the other. “Oh sweetheart, you look exhausted. You want some tea? Maybe something stronger?”
Tears pricked at my eyes, sharp and unwelcome. I didn’t deserve a scrap of her kindness. Why would this woman be so good to me? I hadn’t done anything for her but take advantage of her generosity. No way was I asking her for anything extra. Besides, what kind of awful, selfish mother was I, wanting to take a night off from my own child, who I barely saw, to spend time with a woman I didn’t even like?
Vanessa’s gentle hand on my shoulder startled me from my thoughts and I had to keep myself from flinching away from her.
“Everything okay?” Her voice was soft as she gestured for me to sit down on my own dang couch.
I rubbed the back of my neck and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks. Sorry. I’m just tired is all.”
She nodded but her eyes narrowed and she looked at me for a long moment. “You need a break.”
What the heck? Had she and Jay somehow met and colluded on mission Force Adah to Relax Against Her Will? “Nah, just some sleep. Thank you so much for watching Peter again today. You sure you don’t want me to find someone else? Or you could at least let me pay you?” We had this conversation almost every night.
“Adah, your kiddo is the light of my life. My grandkids all live in damn South Carolina. And between you and me I was getting pretty tired of book club and contra dance.” Her shrewd gaze intensified. “You’re not telling me something. I can spot deflection a mile off, honey.”
Despite years of Sunday school and sermons that worked hard to convince me that such things did not exist, I was pretty dang sure
that Vanessa was an honest to goodness mind reader. Collapsing on the couch, I pulled off my kitchen clogs and released a heavy sigh. “Well, I was going to see if maybe I could ask you if you’d be able to watch Peter next Monday night.”
Vanessa made a rolling motion with her hand. She knew I hardly ever took Mondays off despite the restaurant being closed.
“Yeah, I, uh, got invited to this dinner event. I just want to go to check out the competition...this other restaurant has been getting a lot of attention and—” I cut myself off to stop my rambling.
“Check out the competition, eh?” Vanessa beamed like I’d presented her with one of Jay’s perfect slices of French butter cake.
My landlady—okay, I should probably start thinking of her as my friend even if the word felt funny in my brain—left a few minutes later in a haze of smug smiles and her now-familiar floral perfume. I collapsed back onto the couch and stared, unseeing, at the blank wall facing me. I knew it was high time to put up some decorations in this place. But I didn’t exactly have fine art to grace the walls. No, all I had to my name were a few pieces of flimsy furniture from big box stores and spruced-up finds from the alley behind our Chicago apartment I’d been lucky enough to scoop up on trash day.
“Mommy...” Peter drifted out of his room, rubbing his eyes. I was grateful for the sound of my son’s soft voice.
I opened my arms to him immediately, despite the buildup of kitchen grease coating every inch of me. But unlike my mama, who made all us kids scrub ourselves raw, I figured dirt never really hurt anybody. “Hey, pumpkin. Sorry to wake you.” He settled in my arms, sleep-warm and smelling like his cherry-almond kids’ shampoo.
“S’okay,” he mumbled. “Will you sleep in bed with me?”
“Of course,” I replied softly as I smoothed his hair away from his face. Peter was nine now and every parenting book under the sun would probably tell me I should stick to boundaries around co-sleeping. But I hardly saw my son as it was. And he was such a horrendous blanket hog I’d probably end up heading back to the couch after a few hours anyway. “Why don’t you pick out a book—a short one—for us to read while I wash up for bed?”