Читать книгу Dishing It Out - Molly O'Keefe - Страница 11

MARIE RAN SOME ERRANDS, trying to strike a new deal with the organic dairy guy, but to no avail, and made it back to the restaurant just in time for the late-afternoon rush.

“I need four caps to go,” Marie called back to Pete, her mostly silent and dreadlocked part-time employee. As long as Pete didn’t have to talk to anybody, he was a fantastic barista. He put together coffee orders almost before they were placed. He nodded at Marie, cranked the steam up on the espresso machine and began steaming milk.

“And a tomato-and-bocconcini salad to go,” she told Jodi, her assistant manager, who stood at Marie’s elbow putting together salad orders and packaging some of the leftover daily lunch specials.

It all seemed very normal. Susan and Margaret from the accounting office next door were having their late-afternoon coffee break and bitch session. Mr. Malone sat in the far back corner nursing his extra-hot milk chocolate over the newspaper.

Marie was her usual smiley and chatty self, but inside she seethed.

Van MacAllister has a small penis was a constant drumbeat in her head.

“Hello, Mrs. Peters.” Marie smiled at the older woman who came in religiously on Tuesdays. Tuesday was clam chowder day and Mrs. Peters, as she frequently told Marie, had been searching for a good clam chowder for years.

Marie was happy to oblige with the best clam chowder in the city, according to Where magazine.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Mrs. Peters smiled and Marie had to bite her tongue from laughing. The diminutive white-haired woman consistently had orange lipstick all over her teeth. “You were lovely this morning on the television.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Peters,” Marie said, but waited for the other half of her compliment. The sharp half.

“But you look tired.” And there it is. “You need to get more rest.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.”

“You need to find a nice man to help you do all this work.”

“Aww…” Marie wrinkled her nose and resisted screaming Men are ruining my life! at the eighty-year-old woman. “Men just get in my way.”

“Well, if I remember it right, sometimes that’s not such a bad thing.” Mrs. Peters winked, and Marie hoped she still wanted to have a man get in her way in that way, when she was eighty.

No, it isn’t a bad thing, Marie thought as she wrapped up the clam chowder and whole-grain rolls. She slipped a few small chocolate-chip cookies in the bag because Marie knew Mrs. Peters liked them and frankly, Marie liked Mrs. Peters.

Men had a purpose that Marie loved. She loved their bodies and their mouths and the things they could do with their hands. She loved monogamous sex in casual relationships, but these days she barely had time to brush her teeth much less find a guy she was attracted to, date a few times, sleep with, and explain why nothing serious would ever come of it.

I like you guys, she would say, but I just don’t trust you. Not with my life or my heart.

Case in point, Simon and Van. Two men thinking they had her best interests in mind.

She spent the next few hours replaying the scene in Simon’s office, but editing in wittier and sharper things to say to Van. The game was ultimately frustrating, but so very satisfying right now.

“Hey, Marie,” Marie shook off the scene in her head where she punched Van in the nose and turned to Pete. “You ah…mind if I take off now?” he asked. He glanced down at his watch. “I’ve been here since six.”

“Oh my God, Pete.” She looked at her own watch. It was quarter past six in the evening. Twelve hours. “Go, go. I can’t believe you stayed so long.”

“Yeah, well, we’re busy.” He shrugged, his green Rage Against the Machine T-shirt wrinkled on his thin shoulders. “See you on Thursday.”

“Good night, Pete. Thanks so much.” Pete grabbed his beat-up backpack from the cabinet under the cash register and shuffled out the door.

Marie followed him and flipped the sign on the door from Open to Closed. She fought the strong urge she had to fall down on the floor for a little nap. Just a short one, right there on the floor until Van’s blues bands woke her up.

“All right, Marie!” Jodi came into the dining room from the kitchen carrying the large rolls of plastic wrap and pushing the full mop bucket across the hardwood floors with her foot. “Let’s clean up and get out of here. I got a date.”

“Oh?” Marie pushed away from the door, feeling a happy lift in her low mood. Her sex life, once something of a legend, had been reduced to the stories Jodi told her while they mopped the floor.

Sad, Marie, that’s just sad.

“Somebody new?” Marie asked, reaching to help Jodi carry the plastic wrap.

“No.” Jodi pushed her funky black glasses up higher on her nose. “I’ve known him for a while, but this is our first date date.” Jodi shrugged, trying to play it cool but she looked far too happy. Actually she was glowing. Marie recognized the glow of the young and foolish.

Be careful, she wanted to say. Please be careful with your heart, Jodi. She was young, about the age Marie was when she met Ian in France. About the age Marie last felt that kind of glow.

“Oh,” Marie teased, “a date date.”

“You remember those?” Jodi asked over her shoulder, obviously taking shots at Marie’s nonexistent dating life.

“You’re hilarious. Get mopping.”

“I don’t understand, Marie.” Jodi started putting the wrought-iron chairs up on tiled café tables and as she lifted the chairs her shirt rode up her body revealing the pretty flowered vine tattoo she had curling around her back. And the dim lighting made her pink hair glow.

How can people say I’m not hip? Marie thought. Look at my staff.

“Every guy in here falls in love with you,” Jodi continued.

“Who?” Marie asked.

“Those two hot cops that come in for lunch on Thursdays. Why don’t you go on a date with one of them?”

“Because they’re gay.”

“No. Really?” Jodi asked, a little crestfallen.

“Words to live by Jodi—when it seems too good to be true, it usually is.”

“But what about…?”

“I’m too tired to date.” Marie closed the subject and yawned so big her jaw nearly cracked. It was mostly the truth. The rest of it had to do with Ian and she didn’t want to think about it.

Marie reached under the cash register and turned up the stereo both to stop Jodi from asking more questions and to stop herself from dwelling on the past.

Soon Jodi was singing along with the old Annie Lennox songs and Marie started covering her salads, deciding what would have to be made fresh in the morning and which had another day left in them. While she covered up her green-apple-and-poppy-seed coleslaw, Marie had one of those moments she had been having more and more frequently.

She looked around at her dimly lit place, decorated with all of her favorite light colors, at the shelves filled with bottles of her salad dressings and chutneys; the antique espresso maker that cost her a small fortune but lent a one-of-a-kind air to the small room, and the tiled tabletops with the mismatched wrought-iron chairs. All of it was hers. And part of her, a little tiny part with a loud voice, wished it weren’t.

We’ve talked about this, Marie, her adult voice piped up. You want to end up like your mother? The answer to that of course was a resounding no!

Her mother, Belinda, moved Marie and Marie’s older sister, Anna, every few months when they were kids, leaving behind bad jobs and worse men only to find new ones in different towns. It was a trend Marie had started following until she found herself heartbroken and penniless in France.

She had run from that broken heart right into the restaurant business.

She was a good boss and a good chef. But, to own so much, to be responsible for so much was new for her. For twenty-seven years she wasn’t responsible for anything. Not a pet, not a plant, not her love life, not her career. And when she took this on a year ago, she really had no idea what she was in for. She kept telling herself it would get better, she was sure it would. She would hire another baker. More staff. And the pressure would be off. But then the dishwasher broke and Ariel ran off with the cash.

And, of course there was Van.

The CD was on shuffle and Annie Lennox faded away, replaced by the quieter Ella Fitzgerald.

“So you really don’t think you’re going to do the show anymore?” Jodi asked, dumping the dustpan out in the trash.

Marie sighed. Do the show, don’t do the show. She was going crazy thinking about it. She wanted to, of course she did. A weekly show. It was a dream come true. But Van MacAllister was really much more of a nightmare.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. She flicked the lights off in the salad case and part of the room went a little darker.

“That guy’s got a lot of nerve, huh?” Jodi asked. She wrenched the handle on the mop bucket, squeezing out water, and she started to mop the hardwood floors. “Talk about piggybacking someone’s success.”

“You’re telling me,” Marie murmured.

“But you can take him,” Jodi said.

“Of course I can take him.” There was never any question in Marie’s mind that she could take Van MacAllister, the glorified barbecue chef.

“So do the show, but make sure it’s on your terms.” Jodi stopped mopping for a second, blowing her pink bangs off her forehead. “’Cause it would be a great show, the two of you. The potential for loads of chemistry and that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” Jodi shrugged and turned to wheel the mop bucket back to the kitchen. “Get it all in writing, Marie,” Jodi yelled. Marie heard the water being thrown out the back door into her herb garden while Jodi’s words resonated in her head.

Get it all in writing. Of course. It was so adult, no wonder she didn’t think of it.

“’Cause a weekly half-hour show is still a weekly half-hour show,” Jodi came back into the dining room, wiping her hands on her low-slung blue jeans. “Right?”

“How’d you get so smart, Jodi?” Marie asked, feeling very fond of her punk assistant manager.

“Don’t let the pink hair fool you,” Jodi smiled, her hands on her thin hips. “Top third of my class at Berkeley.” She exhaled and shrugged. “I’m off. See you in the morning.”

Jodi grabbed her bag and scooted for the door. Marie started counting the totals for the night, wondering if she could actually do the show, handle Van and build her empire at the same time. She was good, but was she that good?

The bell rang over the door as Jodi opened it. “’Night Jodi,” Marie called out as she counted change.

“Good ni…” Jodi trailed off and Marie glanced up. “There’s someone here for you.” Jodi stepped back into the restaurant and Van MacAllister followed her in the door.

It was like having the Antichrist walk in the room.

“We’re closed,” she said.

He had changed from his all-black civilian clothes to an all-black chef jacket and pants. His name and Sauvignon were embroidered in red over his heart.

“I noticed, but I was hoping we could talk.” He took a few more steps toward her and the currents shifted. The air was heavier. It seemed like the entire atmosphere was pressing against her.

“I haven’t decided about the show,” she told him, hoping to get rid of him and his strange energy.

He nodded, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he was looking around the room, his eyes cataloging everything, measuring their worth in a way that had Marie wanting to run around throwing herself in front of her chutneys.

It was amazing how the inherent femininity of the place made Van seem that much more masculine. Tall, rangy, not quite handsome. Commanding in a mysterious sort of way, he was only more so in the pale blue room surrounded by the very real-looking fake grapevine she had wrapped around the rustic wooden pillars and ceiling beams. He reached up and tugged on the grapevine and a piece fell off in his hand.

“Sorry,” he said, wincing, slipping the fake vine into his pocket.

Deep inside Marie’s head things began short-circuiting.

“So Van, we don’t have anything to talk about.” She grew even more annoyed when his silence continued. He bent to examine the labels on her homemade vinaigrette.

“Are people really buying this stuff?” he asked, like he was peering into the underwear rack at a used clothing store.

“Yes, they do.”

“Amazing.” His tone implied he couldn’t believe it.

Marie tried deep yoga breaths, combined with calming thoughts and it did nothing to combat her irritation. “So feel free to show yourself out.” Jodi was beginning to laugh and Marie shrugged at her assistant. What was she supposed to do? “Van…”

“Your place is beautiful, Marie. Absolutely beautiful. I’ve seen pictures, but they don’t do it justice.”

Marie’s mouth fell open. She was so startled that she couldn’t say anything for a few moments. Finally, when she was getting her breath back to respond, he turned to her.

“I came to apologize for my part in the ambush today.” With a sheepish smile he held out a bottle of wine. She shifted her weight to one leg and leaned against the long wooden counter, feeling like the ground had moved under her feet. Van, apologizing? Bearing gifts? Maybe I was wrong….

She turned to Jodi, who was staring at Van like the man had come in on a golden carriage. “Jodi, go ahead and go home,” she murmured.

“You going to be okay?” Jodi asked under her breath as they watched Van turn and bend down in front of the dessert case and Marie took a moment to admire the view. Awful eyebrows, but not too bad from the back.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked.

Van straightened and looked up at Marie’s ceiling. “He looks…dangerous,” Jodi breathed.

Marie frankly couldn’t agree more but she rolled her eyes and pushed her assistant toward the door. “You need some sleep. See you tomorrow.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Jodi whispered and ran out the door.

He walked over to the dark salad case. “I can leave—after we talk.” He tapped the glass with his finger. “You buy this used? Looks used. Can you turn the light on?”

Unbelievable. The guy was just…unbelievable. Marie straightened and strolled over to the salad case, she rested her arms on it and her head was close to his.

“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt,” she said with a smile that was pretty hard to muster up, “and guess that you have no idea how rude you are being.”

He stood upright, obviously alarmed. “I’m sorry,” he said, wincing. “I am. I am sorry. Marie, I did not mean to come in here and alienate you further. I’ve never been here before. It’s…” He took a deep breath, his hand touched his mouth and then the scar at his lip.

That’s adorable, she thought, knowing that she shouldn’t fall for this little show of regret. “Truce. Honestly.” He put the wine bottle on top of the case and she noted that he had brought some serious ammunition with a hundred-dollar bottle of Shiraz.

“Let me pour you some wine. I can have some of your marinated root salad everyone in the city is raving about and we can talk about AMSF?”

He smiled, sincerely with warmth and it changed everything. His face became something much more than interesting. He became arrestingly handsome.

“Marie?” She realized she had been staring at Van for a few silent moments.

“Sure,” she said with far too much volume, suddenly in overdrive, despite her better sense that told her that sharing a bottle of wine with this guy in her current tired and marginally attracted state would only come to no good. “Why not?”

“Is that a mural?” he asked pointing up at the painting on her ceiling.

“Yes.”

“Are those…?” He tilted his head and squinted.

“Yes, they are cherubs wearing aprons,” she told him on a huffy breath. She almost wished he would go back to rude; she could handle rude Van.

“So?” Van looked around at all the chairs up on the tables and then at her. He raised one of those eyebrows in a silent command/query.

“Go ahead,” she said, gesturing to the chairs. “I’ll grab some glasses.”

“No root salad?” he asked and she couldn’t quite make out the tone in his voice. Laughter?

“No root salad,” she told him. She grabbed two of her red wineglasses and came back to the table. Van had taken down both chairs and from one of the big front pockets of his black chef’s jacket he pulled out a corkscrew. With smooth, deft effort that Marie was somehow compelled to watch, he had the bottle open in moments.

“The photos of you don’t quite do you justice,” he said, seemingly focused on the task at hand. Marie’s eyes narrowed. She should have guessed that Van would be smarmy. Genetics had been kind to her for some reason and most men seemed to believe that the size of her breasts had an inverse relationship to the size of her brain. She waited for some wildly inappropriate comment about her boobs or her eyes or…

“You’re much taller than in the photos.”

She swallowed, her anger lessening as his gaze rested a little too long and a little too warm on her face. There were things he wasn’t saying.

“You look shorter,” she said.

“Let’s allow that to breathe.” Van set the bottle down on the edge of the table with a casual ownership that put her teeth on edge. He crossed his legs with a comfortable masculine grace.

Short and sweet, Marie.

“We don’t have that kind of time, Van.” She grabbed the bottle and poured, expertly, exactly four ounces of wine in each glass.

“Salute.” She tapped her glass to his and then sipped the dark red liquid. It was fantastic, mellow, dark and oaky. The kind of wine she loved. “It’s wonderful.”

“It would be even better in ten minutes,” he snapped, the sharpness of the comment belied by the tone of his voice, like he knew what she was doing. He smiled wickedly at her over the edge of his wineglass, his long fingers holding the delicate stem as he swirled the wine.

Oh my, she thought before she could stop herself.

“Let’s cut to the chase here, Van.” Marie sat back in her chair. She’d drink a glass of wonderful wine and send the pirate chef on his way. She opened her mouth to let him have it.

“You’re a coward,” Van interjected into the silence. It seemed he was bent on cutting to a different chase.