Sugar: A Novel Part 6

"Just hold on," I said, defeating Zara in tic-tac-toe with a vicious diagonal line. I redrew for another game before she could notice. "Saying we both like food is like saying we both enjoy breathing oxygen. It is no basis for a love connection. And what's his boss Howie up to here, anyway, at this 'diner'?" I made quotation marks with clenched claws. "Is this some kind of cult-y diner? Everything is vegan? Are we talking meat-subst.i.tutes here, because I told you about my bacon waiting for me in my brand new, stainless steel fridge. Seitan is just what it sounds like. Lucifer-" I took a breath to open the menu and felt my salivary glands kicking in.

"I love that girl's name!" Zara said. "I'm going to name my Barbie Suns.h.i.+ne Ruby Mae Henrick right when we get home."

"Barbeeeeee!" Dane said. He was gripping an oversized crayon over his kids' menu and coloring an oversized drawing of French toast.

"Charlie," Jack said, one arm holding Polly, the other spinning some kind of psychedelic rainbow mobile in front of her face. "You know you're in the Pacific Northwest when your waitress's name is Suns.h.i.+ne." He shook his head and went back to getting his baby stoned with a toy.

Zara paused in her coloring. "I have a girl in my cla.s.s named Begonia. And a boy named Cloud."

Manda shrugged under my gaze. "People are allowed to make their own decisions, Charlie. You might surprise yourself. When your own little one is looking up at you one day, your entire body heavy and tired after you've pushed out the placenta-"

"Eww." I shuddered. "Please don't mention any more birthing details before breakfast."

"You might, in that moment, think, 'This child is called to have the name Maple.' You will feel it in the depths of your bones."

I scowled, turning my shoulders more deeply to one side so my back was to the kitchen. "Maple is not a real name."

"Totally is," she said, nodding thanks to Suns.h.i.+ne, who had delivered her tea. "And androgynous. Works for boy or girl."

"What's wrong with Sam?" Jack said with sudden vehemence. "Or Jane? Or John?" He handed Polly across the table and into Manda's arms. "Why must we wonder if it's a girl or a boy when we see the kid's name on the cla.s.s list for his or her whole life?"

This sparked a spirited dialogue between Manda and Jack, during which I played roughly eighty-seven games of tic-tac-toe with Zara and eighty-seven games of pretend tic-tac-toe with Dane. I loved hearing Jack push Manda's b.u.t.tons and watching her erupt, curls bouncing. I also loved the way Jack laughed in exasperation at his p.r.i.c.kly wife, and the way she watched him with smitten eyes. I nearly forgot how cruel and unusual they were to conspire against me for a breakfast blind date. All in the name of fun, but, inevitably, these meetings left me feeling more empty-hearted than when I'd walked in.

b.u.t.termilk pancakes weren't typically equipped to fill gaping holes in one's heart, but the ones I ate that day at Howie's came pretty darn close. My first bite of Wilma's Cakes made my mouth water while eating. They were spongy and light but still had some gumption. The b.u.t.termilk seemed to be paired with something fantastic-sour cream? Creme frache? Not here, certainly ... There were subtle notes of nutmeg and cinnamon, just the right touch without the pancake turning into a spice fest.

I moaned when I bit into a raspberry m.u.f.fin.

"Exactly," Manda said, her eyes closed around the joy of a pecan roll. "Better than you-know-what."

"Watch it, now," Jack said, but without heart. His bacon, asparagus, and goat cheese omelet was nearly gone, but he ate with one protective arm curled around his plate in defense anyway.

"Everything tasting all right?"

I looked up, startled from my happy pancake moment. Kai stood at the head of our table, but the diner was so packed, he had to lean forward slightly to allow room behind him. I tried not to notice how close he was to me.

Jack reached above Zara's head to offer Kai a hand. "Wow. We heard about your restaurant from the Harpers, but honestly, we thought they were exaggerating. Dude, they were not."

Kai ducked his chin to receive the compliment. "Thanks a lot. I'm happy we didn't disappoint." He turned to the junior members at the table for a round of fist b.u.mps. "Everybody like their food?"

Zara fulfilled her duties as spokeschild as Dane was occupied with finger-painting circles in a puddle of leftover syrup. "The waffles were perfect, but next time, can I have chocolate chips in them? But not carob because carob is revolting."

"Absolutely." Kai nodded a military a.s.sent. "And carob is revolting."

I couldn't hold it in any longer. "Why didn't you tell me you were a chef?" I snipped. If I could have wedged a hand onto my hip in defiance, I would have.

He looked at me, amused. "Well, for one thing, I'm not a chef. I'm a cook. At a diner. Not exactly Michelin stars and all that."

I winced to remember how that must have sounded. "You misled me. You said nothing about this." I gestured to the bustling room, my empty plate.

"I don't remember you asking much about me," he said, a bemused smile settling in. "Also, are you always this intense? You know, some people just have conversations instead of interrogations."

Manda cleared her throat. "So, apparently you two have met. No need for the whole 'Kai, Charlie, Charlie, Kai' thing. And yes, Kai, she's always this intense. But very likeable. And a fantastic baker. And athletic!"

"And I have a strong 401K!" I erupted, my cheeks en fuego. "Enough!"

Kai laughed with his eyes and his mouth. I wanted to hear him do it again as soon as possible. "Listen," he said. He leaned both arms on the table and settled his gaze on me.

I swallowed.

"I'm a cook at Howie's Diner. I hope this doesn't freak you out, but I actually own the diner, which may or may not be a good thing in your world. We've only been open a year, but I think we're doing okay. Howie was my grandpa's name and I named the pancakes after my grandma. My 401K is pathetic, but I hope you can get over that. Because even though Manda appears to have been right about your control issues and your food sn.o.bbery, you do have a great smile."

I bit my lower lip, my heart pounding into my s.h.i.+rt.

"And you look much prettier without the scowl."

Manda sighed. "I've been telling her that since she moved to New York. Thank you for agreeing with me. She totally looks prettier without it."

Kai kept his eyes on mine. "Totally."

"Pretty sure an insult with a compliment equals an insult," I said.

He ignored my words. In fact, he appeared to be ignoring everyone in the room but me. "Are you free for dinner tonight? I'll cook."

I made a face. "Or I can cook. I do know how."

"So that's a yes, Intensity Freak?" He had delightful lips, this one. They were distracting.

"Yes," I said. "But no. No, I can't tonight." My thoughts returned to the pile of papers on my floor, the pastry kitchen at Thrill, the email from the management team asking for my final notes on Tuesday's opening menu.

"Okay," Kai shrugged. "Tomorrow."

"No." I shook my head. "I can't tomorrow. Or this week. I'm sorry, but I'm starting as the new head pastry chef at a restaurant downtown, and I can't even think about anything but that right now."

Manda vouched for me. "She's not brus.h.i.+ng you off. I had to kidnap her for breakfast."

Kai ran a hand through his hair. His eyes traveled back to the kitchen and a stack of order slips piling up on the metal wheel. "I get it." He thought for a moment, then turned back to me. "Your next day off, then. Meet me here at lunch. I'll feed you, and then we'll see what happens." He was already backing up, answering the call of the bell Suns.h.i.+ne kept ringing to get his attention. She glanced at me, then Kai, then rang it again for emphasis.

"Great to catch up with you guys," Kai called back over the din of the room. "And really good to see you again, Chef." He winked before letting the kitchen door swing to a close.

I shook my head slowly when I pulled my attention back to our table. "Now what?" I demanded of Manda and Jack, my eyes two question marks.

"Boom!" Jack said with a fist pump. "I'm not usually one for subtext, but even I could see the chemistry there. See, Char? Totally not creepy."

I sighed. "And just how does he fit into a sixty-hour work week, a cross-country move, a commercial kitchen, and an ex-boyfriend boss?"

Manda ate the final bite of her pecan roll. "When a man can cook like this, look like that, and give you the sa.s.s you desperately need," she said, locking eyes with Jack, "I think you'll figure it out."

9.

TOVA handed me a wicked sharp twelve-inch, and I poised the point of the blade above the tart's center, ready to puncture its perfect surface. I was about to portion out the last of the evening's caramel nut tarts, one of my two new desserts on the menu and the second night in a row to sell out before closing. I bit both of my lips between my teeth as I made a careful cut to connect the tart's center to the lines I'd marked with a ruler on parchment paper below. Tova hovered over one shoulder. I could hear her breathing.

"Like that," I said, straightening slightly and examining my work. The symmetry was perfect, each triangle a perfect replica of its neighbor. Cashews, hazelnuts, and blanched almonds peeked out of their baptism in caramel jam, a sea of creamy browns punctuated by green pistachios. The tart sh.e.l.l formed a precise circle of pastry around the caramel and nuts.

"So cool," Tova breathed. "I want to eat it all, right now."

I smiled, surprised again at what a difference a move made. Four days on the line at Thrill had brought me ten times the accolades and strokes than six years at L'Ombre. Avery had taken to stuttering in my presence: his excitement over the increased dessert orders and sell-outs of my two new additions had clearly messed with his mind. The tart and my lemon crpes had both been big hits. During the preservice meeting that night, Avery had read aloud from five new Trip Advisor reviews, four of five waxing eloquent about one of my desserts. I had three more new ideas percolating, and I couldn't wait to rid the menu of an anemic apricot flan that remained from before my time, but I was trying to be patient with the process. Nearing the end of my first week, I was happy with the progress that had been made.

I felt Tova's eyes on me, and I turned to face her.

"Charlie."

I had asked Tova to call me by my first name, so eager was I to rid my kitchen from the old-world politics that had smothered me in New York. I had to admit, however, that this new level of familiarity also took some getting used to.

"Charlie," she said, her mouth pulling down into a frown, "I am concerned. You have dark circles under your eyes and your skin is sallow, a far cry from the girl I met a week ago. Are you sleeping okay?"

I answered on my way to the oven to remove a sheet pan of flourless chocolate cake. "When I do sleep, I sleep very well. This week has been long on work, short on sleep." I set the pan carefully on the counter and pushed gently into the surface of the cake to test its doneness. "But this is normal for me, actually. I'm used to working fourteen-hour days."

I watched her adjust her chef's cap in the reflection of the oven door and thought, I might sleep more if you were a teeny bit less clueless. The kid had excess in the way of charm and enthusiasm, but Chef Alain would have fed her to the wolves after twenty minutes at L'Ombre. I kept meaning to ask Avery where he had found Tova, and what her previous supervising chef had said by way of recommendation, but I'd been running at top speed for days and hadn't had the chance to ask.

"Tova," I said in my most professional tone, hoping she'd catch on and I wouldn't have to actually say the words "Stop touching your hair."

"Hmm?" she said, fussing with some strays by her ears.

I opened my mouth to say something about the time and place for pomade, but Avery came into our works.p.a.ce at a jog. His eyes looked wild, out of place with his tailored chef's whites, sharp lines, and clean ap.r.o.n. He wasn't wearing a cap, and his dark hair was sculpted into a neat tousle.

"Char." His words came out in a rush. "You need to come with me. Now." He grabbed my hand and started walking toward the back of the restaurant where the doors to his office and a small conference room stood open.

I skidded to a stop before we had made it past the double broiler. "Hold on, Speedy. I'm still working, remember? We have at least fifteen minutes until close. And there are three tables who haven't finished their entrees."

"No problem," Avery shrugged. "Tova can finish it out. Right, Tova?"

The two exchanged a look and with a slow smile, Tova said, "Absolutely. I'm on it. Don't worry a nanosecond."

I paused, considering this option to delegate. I had no confidence in Tova's ability to bake, form, roll out, fill, or cut. But I had seen the woman garnish, and it seemed to come naturally to her. All the desserts were prepared, so all she would need to do would be to prettify.

"All right," I said slowly. "You can do it. But-" I said with a cautionary hand raised. "Don't do one single thing I haven't seen you do before. This is not the time for artistic freedom. And leave the flourless chocolate cakes on the counter to cool. They're for tomorrow's service, and I will prep them for storage when I get back."

By the time I finished speaking, I needed to shout because Avery had pulled me halfway down the hall.

"What is going on?" My Crocs were squeaking on the scrubbed tile outside Avery's office.

"Okay." Avery stopped outside the conference room and lowered his voice. "Just roll with me on this one. I know it sounds odd, but trust me. It will all make sense pretty soon. All right?" His eyes searched mine with an urgency I hadn't seen from him.

I nodded and shook my head in one gesture. "All right. I'll trust you."

"Great," he exhaled, gripping my hands in his. "Awesome. After you." He gestured to the conference room, and I stepped inside.

The room was darkened but was still plenty bright because of a large, portable lighting set-up on metal stands. While my eyes adjusted to the dark, an attractive woman in skinnies, a cropped jacket, and an infinity scarf stepped forward into the light. Vic stood beside her.

Avery cleared his throat. "Charlie, this is Margot Rubin. I think you may have seen her around the kitchen yesterday and today."

"Of course." I reached out to shake her hand. "Avery told me about your work as a public television producer."

"He did, did he?" she said, her face inscrutable.

I nodded. "I have been a long-time supporter of PBS and NPR. I hate television, as a rule, but PBS is so important, so essential as a break from today's consumerist, low-minded entertainment culture. I loved the series on Eleanor Roosevelt last year. Did you work on that project?" I didn't even try to rein in my fangirl moment. I hoped she had met Rick Steves ...

Margot raised one half of her mouth and looked at Avery before responding. "I'm afraid not. Avery might have been misinformed. I don't work for PBS. I'm a producer at Surge."

My face must have betrayed my complete ignorance.

Margot filled me in. "The lifestyle network? Last Stop: Juvey? Confessions of a Cabana Boy?"

I shook my head slowly, trying in vain to remember the last time I watched a TV show that didn't have to do with food, world history, or British people.

Vic cleared his throat. "Charlie, why don't you sit here, and Avery, you'll be beside her."

I followed his direction to two chairs placed in front of an imposing camera. A man with a mullet and a Slayer T-s.h.i.+rt nodded at me from behind the lens.

"Hold on a second," I said. "Why is he here? And what's with the lights?"

Vic and Margot both appeared ready to answer, but Avery jumped in.

"We're just looking into some marketing options for the restaurant." He spoke quickly. "Advertising, maybe a commercial. Vic brought Margot in because she's the expert."

"I wouldn't say that," Margot demurred, unconvincingly, I thought.

"So, Charlie," Vic said from where he stood in the dark. I could see a tiny reflection of light on his clean-shaven bald top. "Tell us about when you and Avery met."

I made a face. "I'm not sure what that has to do with-"

Avery nudged my leg with his knee. "Roll with it," he whispered. He was clasping his hands together so tightly I could see his knuckles turning white.

I turned to Vic. "I met Avery when he was going through a very intense cologne phase." I turned my gaze to the ceiling, searching for the name. "Obsession by Calvin Klein. Am I right, Don Juan?"

Avery laughed, his knuckles officially white. "That stuff was awesome."

I turned back to Vic, but he pointed to the camera. "That's great. Keep talking, but just look at the camera."

I paused a beat but obliged and looked down the lens. "It was hideous. He must have bathed in it before cla.s.s at culinary school. He smelled like repressed adolescence. Or a smarmy grandfather."

"Who uses words like smarmy?" Avery looked at Margot for help, but she just stood, arms crossed around the many zippers on her jacket.