Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

Ellie

Qui's dining room made me think of the heart of a forest on a winter day. I ran my hand across a tablecloth as pristine as a first snow, ironed on the tables so there wasn't a hint of crease. A tiny architectural arrangement of mosses and driftwood sat in the middle of Nicole's and my table, shades of green and brown and gray that echoed the storm-colored walls and mahogany floors. Every seat was full for Kieran's dinner, and most of the guests had their phones either tilted up for selfies or pointed out for pictures of the dining room. A few had sleek professional cameras.

I wasn't even close to fancy enough to be here. But Kieran had specifically requested my presence, and I'd stuffed down my discomfort. Maybe he finally knew what he wanted.

"One donut says someone stands on a chair for the Gram before the night's out," I offered Nicole.

She checked her camera's light settings. "No bet."

I slumped in my chair. "You're no fun."

"No, babe, too easy. Two donuts say someone brought a step-stool."

"You're on."

She scanned the room, then discreetly pointed at a thirtysomething couple in the far corner who were both standing on stools, conducting an entire photoshoot around their centerpiece.

"Oh, for crying out loud." I noted the donut IOU in my phone as Nicole ceremoniously blew on her nails.

The room gave off a low hum of excitement that I associated more with visits to the opera with Ben and Diane than going out for dinner. "It's like a luxury bubble," I wondered aloud.

"The outside world disappears for a little while in a place like this," Nicole said.

"But any restaurant can achieve that. When I went to Locatelli's with Max, it was just us with some candles, big plates of pasta, and decent wine. We didn't need tiny, overtweezed towers of fancy." He'd lean across the white tablecloth and regale me with stories from grad student life, making me giggle into my glass of chianti, the adoring audience for his stand-up routine.

Nicole put the camera down. "If you could turn off the Statler and Waldorf act for at least the first hour, it'll be a better experience for all of us. Try and make the most of being out in a hot dress."

"I wasn't trying to be hot," I muttered. It was just a boring black wrap dress from the back of my closet. At least I'd hunted down a pair of Campari-red flats on clearance at Target, and resin hoop earrings and lipstick to match them.

My friend studied me like I was a museum display. "The dress is plain, but your boobs definitely aren't."

I yanked my neckline up, to basically no avail. "Thank you so much for that."

She sniggered. "Hey, if I had them, I'd flaunt them."

A server in a crisp black jacket interrupted my retort with menu cards printed on rough brown paper.

"Wait, that's how many courses?" I asked as I read, and read.

Nicole tapped the page. "Sixteen, and that's what's written down. The normal Qui menu has random treats thrown in too, so I wouldn't be surprised if he does the same."

"Oh, God." My fingers went to my phone for one last check.

"Diane won't bother you, will she?"

I grimaced. "She knows I'm here."

She patted my shoulder. "If you turn on Do Not Disturb, I'll share the wine pairing with you."

"I was going to do it anyway, but sure. Why is the menu just names of ingredients in equations? Like I'm supposed to know what ‘duck + blood orange breakfast textures' are?"

She cracked up. "Come on, girl, you're supposed to let him sweep you away on a sensory journey."

"You're kidding me." I groaned.

"That's what the press release said. Shush, it's starting."

Servers swept across the floor as if they could hear invisible music to oohs and aahs from all the tables. Ours presented us with a palm-sized white plate with two teensy golden choux pastry puffs.

"Foie gras spheres with Sauternes jelly," he proclaimed.

The sweet-savory cloud dissolved on my palate, and I couldn't help but hum. "Holy crap, can I have fifty of those and call it a day?" I said. "That's fantastic."

Nicole nudged me with a grin. "Told you."

After the puffs came neatly squared smoked eel sandwiches, the fish's smoky richness bitten off by sharp horseradish. They were delicious, and fairy-sized. So were the next two dishes.

I trailed my finger down the menu, wondering when we'd get some kind of main course. "None of the stuff I read said he was into miniature food. Am I missing something?"

The lines across Nicole's forehead deepened. "No. This is all different from what he did on the show."

I studied the tables around us. There were plenty of enjoyment noises, but there were also a lot of faces like Nicole's. Uncertain. Confused. Like they'd gone to a Taylor Swift concert and Yo-Yo Ma was playing instead. Equal caliber, but totally different styles.

By course seven, I was getting worried and hungry. By course nine, I was ravenous and, even worse, annoyed. "Is he going to serve an actual meal at some point? Or is his artistic statement making an entire meal out of canapés?"

Nicole snapped our shot glasses of lobster meat and saffron gelée. The layered white, pink, and yellow looked like little sunsets. She cocked her head. "It tastes amazing, though. Maybe he wants to go in a much more luxury direction?" she thought out loud.

If she didn't want me to be afraid, she should have been more confident. "It does, but I can't translate this to a home kitchen. This bears no relation to how people normally cook."

"It's haute cuisine, though. Like haute couture. It's art, not practical."

"Prada and Valentino don't expect a civilian to break out their sewing machine and replicate their designs."

"That… damn. That's a good point."

The room was getting a little louder, as we got deeper into the wine pairings. I could pick out occasional exclamations from the other tables like "Genius!" and "Masterpiece!" But it was like they were trying to convince themselves of something.

Was I just not getting what Kieran was trying to say? Or was there nothing to hear?

After course 10, a single quail drumstick, I rested my chin on my fist. "I think there's a big problem. There's no story behind any of this. No big idea."

Nicole flipped through images on her camera. "Just the fanciest ingredients he could get his hands on."

"Excuse me?" A tall athletic woman in a navy pantsuit hovered. "Ellie Wasserman and Nicole Salazar? I'm sorry it's taken me so long to come and speak to you two. I'm Jay Poole, the manager for tonight. Are you enjoying the dinner?" Her box braids were twisted into a neat bun on top of her head. I wasn't even an artist and her queenly bone structure made me want to sketch her face on my notebook. But while Jay's face made me think about art on a wall, Nicole was clearly thinking about bodies in bed.

"Yes, we are, thank you so much," Nicole purred as she openly ogled her. "You're all doing such a fabulous job." She leaned forward. "You know, I noticed you earlier and I'm dying to take your photograph."

I buried my head in my hands. "Please don't use your powers on unsuspecting mortals when we're trying to work."

But Jay's professional smile had shifted into something a lot more bashful. "Really?"

Nicole grinned up at her. "Of course. Your high cheekbones, your deep brown eyes. The camera would love you."

The perfectly composed, elegant woman giggled.

"Come on, tell me I can take your picture. Pretty please?"

"Yes?" Jay sounded like a balloon leaking air.

"Good." Nicole pulled out her phone. "Give me your number."

They texted each other, and Jay said with a dreamy look on her face, "Wow. Cool. I guess I'll see you soon."

"Wait. Can I talk to Kieran?" I said before she could leave. "It's important."

"I mean, he's a little busy right now," she said uncertainly. "We have several more courses to go. Is everything OK?"

I exhaled. I didn't want to lie, but I had to be polite, too. "That depends on him."

Nicole reached for Jay's hand and stroked the back of it with her thumb. "I'm sure he can find a second for his ghostwriter, right?"

My friend smiled big and Jay melted. "I'll see what I can do," she said.

As she floated away, I said, "Dude, really?"

Nicole said, "Just because you haven't gotten laid in over two years doesn't mean you can spoil my fun." She watched Jay make her way back across the room and down the steps to what must have been the kitchen.

"Inside voice. And it's not as easy for me." It was also worse than that. I hadn't slept with someone who wasn't Max in eleven years.

She raised her eyebrows. "Step one, walk into a bar wearing that dress. Step two, say yes. What about this is hard, exactly?"

"Not hard. Intimidating." Sex had been wonderful, but what if I'd lost the knack? Or had only had it with my husband? "Well, now that you're done with your seduction, we can get back to the food." What there was of it, anyway.

Kieran

"Chef?"

Steve and I both looked up from our stations. "Which one?" he asked.

Jay looked like she'd just sprinted a mile. "Ah, Kieran."

"How's it going?" I had my sketch by my elbow and twenty plates lined up in front of me, each with two piles of thinly sliced rare duck breast and shredded duck confit, squeezing and spooning dots of blood orange hollandaise sauce and homemade marmalade around them.

"Um, it's all right."

My hand jerked and a drop of sauce splattered onto the rim of the plate. "Just all right?" I asked as I wiped it away. I'd seen the scraped-clean plates and bowls coming back. I knew it was better than all right.

"It's Ellie Wasserman. She wants to talk to you. She looks concerned."

Shit, that wasn't the look I was going for.

Steve put his knife down. "What does she have to be concerned about?" he asked me. "You've been talking to her, right?"

Dot of hollandaise at nine o'clock and three o'clock. Crescent of marmalade at ten and two.

"Kieran."

For fuck's sake. "I've been really busy getting ready for this dinner." And wasn't my food telling her enough about me? That I was super classy?

Steve grumbled something, then said to Jay, "Is she having a nice time, at least?"

Jay said, "I honestly don't know. When I looked over earlier, she was taking a lot of notes."

He turned to me. "You need to go up there and make nice. You may be busy, but she has a job, too."

"Kind of in the middle of something here." If I broke my flow now, the odds were good it'd be impossible to get back. It was a totally valid excuse.

But he wasn't buying. "I'll take over. Don't be rude."

"Fine. She's come all this way, may as well make it worth her while." I grabbed one of the finished plates and jogged up the kitchen stairs.

I'd just taken a few steps into the dining room when I realized that, for the millionth time in my life, I hadn't thought things through.

The room exploded with flashes.

"There he is!"

"Kieran!"

"Pirate!"

"Leprechaun!"

Jesus, they were clapping, and I probably looked terrible. I'd barely slept because I was so wired for tonight, and I'd been working in a hot kitchen all day. I made a few joking bows, and my audience cheered. But I didn't think the person I had to talk to would be taking my picture. I wouldn't run up to her like a scared kid, though. Selfie after selfie, big smile after big smile. Even one or two phone numbers shoved in my pocket. Let her see how much people liked me.

I could see the two of them out of the corner of my eye, an island of calm focus in the noise around them. As Nicole spoke, pointing at something on the table, Ellie scrawled something with her left hand, blond curls hiding her eyes when she nodded.

With one last scribble on someone's menu, I couldn't avoid it anymore. I tried for extra charm when I swaggered up. "Good evening, you two. Thank you for coming to try my food. I thought I'd bring you the next course myself, since it's my favorite." I put the duck right where it caught the light, and the marmalade gleamed like a jewel.

Ellie just kept writing. Nicole raised an eyebrow at me. "What's up, Kieran?"

"Everything's fantastic, thank you, Nicole. You wanted to talk to me, Ellie?"

No answer.

"I've been told it's polite to look someone in the eye when they speak to you," I finally said.

She underlined something with a hard black slash and looked up. And I forgot to breathe, because the light overhead sparked her curly hair with gold and made her eyes mountain-lake blue. They popped against the bright red of her mouth and the cream of her skin.

"It's also polite to reply to professional emails promptly," she said, and my dream bubble popped.

I rubbed the back of my neck, embarrassed. "I've been super busy." I was starting to hate the sound of that word in my mouth.

"Doing what? Because I'd like to be busy, too." I could hear the current of annoyance flowing under her icy voice. "You have your salary here, and the money you won, but if I don't get this done, I can't buy groceries or feed my cat."

Of course she had a cat.

"So if you could please humor me for a moment," she said, "I'd like to ask you about your choices tonight."

I hadn't heard that tired, disappointed tone from anyone in a decade. I gave a huge teenage shrug. "I'm all yours."

She hummed tunelessly as she flipped page after page of neatly bulleted notes. "It's interesting, what you did with the saffron in the lobster dish. Turning it into both a foam and a gelée."

"Interesting good, or interesting bad?"

Her nose wrinkled. "Just interesting. What inspired you?"

I tapped on my tattoo. "I think it's a beautiful color. There's no other shade of yellow like it."

"Why do you think it's beautiful?"

What was it with her asking "why" all the damn time? I dug the toe of my work boot into the wooden floor. "Can't I just appreciate it for what it is?"

"If you're going to ask a home cook to buy the most expensive spice in the world, you'd better have a good reason. Similarly, the use of caviar with the mackerel and truffles with the venison."

"It's aspirational."

"Aspiring to what?" she asked. "Besides cleaning out someone's bank account?"

Fuck. I could feel the eyes in the room on my back while I talked to her stony shoulders. She was making me look like an asshole just because I couldn't answer her questions. My voice came out sharp when I said, "If you're just going to argue, I'll go back to the kitchen."

Her pen stopped. "This isn't an argument, Kieran. We're not having a difference of opinion. I'm asking questions and you're stonewalling me for no reason."

I felt trapped in the hole I'd dug, but Ellie's judgmental look and big words just made me want to keep shoveling.

Ellie

On a scale of one to ten of terrible ideas, this whole escapade clocked in at twenty-three. I had crammed myself into shapewear, crossed the Bay, sat through course after course of overworked "art," and I still didn't know how I'd write as Kieran. He was like a hyper little kid who'd grabbed whatever he wanted in the candy store.

I should have just stayed home and made something up. Half-assed it.

But who was I kidding? I wasn't physically capable of half-assing it. I had to use my whole ass, all the time, because no one would ever care as much as I did. I cared whether Hank had clean clothes and hot meals to eat, I cared that Diane found some solace from our late-night talks. I cared because that was love, to me. Paying attention. Being responsible.

Now I was tangled up with this guy, who wouldn't know responsibility if it bit him in his ass.

"I thought I would be able to collect material for the book if I saw you in action. Get an idea of who you actually are as a cook. More fool me," I said, trying to control the shake in my voice.

He blinked. "You hate the food."

"No, I don't hate it. See?" I took a bite of the so-called breakfast textures. Sweet and sour and fatty flavors shot across my palate. It was really good, but it coated my tongue and throat with richness without offering any comfort.

"Everything is technically perfect," I said once I swallowed. "But it's shallow. Superficial. It doesn't tell me anything about you ."

He flushed. "You're calling me shallow? So you know so much about this, huh? Which restaurants have you worked in?" He held his hands out. "Where are your scars?"

I stiffened. I shouldn't have to pour out any of my pain for him to take me seriously. "I don't have to have worked in a restaurant to know what makes cooking really good," I snapped.

He folded his arms like a sulky fourteen-year-old. "Then educate me."

That clearly wasn't an invitation, but screw it. I stood up and planted my hands on the table. " Caring . I don't mean for the details. I mean caring for the person who's going to eat it. Giving them a little piece of what you love the most." I jabbed my finger at my plate. "All of these dishes, they're just about showing off."

He rubbed his forearm hard, his face stony. "But I won Fire on High . I'm kind of a big deal, in case you didn't know. I think it's OK for me to show off."

I held up a finger. "You won one competition," I said slowly, contempt sneaking into my voice. "This year. Can you name the person who won two years ago? Three? Unless you take this seriously, your book will gather dust in a remainder pile somewhere, a historical record of a leprechaun in a stupid bandanna who was famous for a hot second."

The stone in his expression crumbled away. Bright green eyes flashed, hands clenched. His mouth opened and closed, and finally he hissed, "Who the fuck are you to tell me that? You're nobody. You can't even get your own name on a book. Who gives a shit what you think?"

My voice shot high with anger. "I'm the woman who has to clean up your mess, you entitled, arrogant brat ."

It was quiet. Not the silence of people eating delicious food. It was post-atomic-bomb-explosion quiet.

"Holy hell," Nicole whispered.

There were people holding up phones. Lots of phones. Shit, how long had they been filming?

A petite Asian woman in an impeccable Chanel suit and pearls materialized at Kieran's side. Nicole kicked my calf and mouthed, Anh Hutton ! Double shit.

"Who's this, Kieran?" she asked.

My face hurt from the force of my blush. "I'm Ellie Wasserman, Mrs. Hutton. It's lovely to meet you."

"Mmm," she nonanswered. "I wish we could have met under less noisy circumstances. Since you're not enjoying yourself, perhaps you and Ms. Salazar would like to leave?"

"That's probably wise." Kieran was glaring at me, and I said to Nicole, "In-N-Out sound good to you? I'm starving."

Bull's-eye. Kieran opened his mouth, but Mrs. Hutton clamped her hand onto his forearm.

Nicole grabbed her camera and shoved my purse at me. "A Double-Double Animal Style sounds awesome. I'll get a Lyft."

I kept my head high as we walked out, the adrenaline of my anger making me move fast. I felt weightless from saying exactly what I felt the moment I felt it. Like I could take flight, coast through the air burdened by nothing. But for all the exhilaration, I knew this moment would be fleeting—it always was for me.

Who knew if I'd still have a job when I hit the ground?

Kieran

Somehow, I survived the rest of the service, smiled and accepted everyone's congratulations, when all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball.

But now all the plates were washed, all the stained tablecloths gone to the special laundry, my uniform put away, and I was out back, letting the cold from the concrete steps seep through my jeans. My arms were wrapped around my knees, my head resting on top. I wanted to make myself as small as I felt.

I knew the hurt I was feeling was mostly my ADHD talking. My brain made embarrassment and shame feel a million times bigger, but knowing that didn't make it burn any less.

The outside door opened and closed. "Hey," Jay said softly.

I jammed my hands into my armpits. "Hey."

She nudged my knee with her foot, and I shuffled over so she could ease down next to me.

I leaned into her and she wrapped her arm around my shoulders.

"You did good," she said.

I scoffed. "No, I didn't."

"A lot of people loved it," she said encouragingly. "Talked about how whimsical it was. You're going to get some great blog write-ups."

I shook my head, tasting orange-pith bitterness. "Whimsical? That's a cute way to say I didn't know what the fuck I was doing."

She squeezed me. "Is this the thing that happens sometimes, where I talk, but you're so upset you can't hear the good parts?"

"Pretty much." I sighed, exhausted.

We sat together, quiet, Jay's warmth making me feel a little bit less shitty.

"This is about her. Ellie," she finally said.

"She hated it."

"That's not true."

I tugged on a loose thread inside my sleeve. "Well, she definitely hates me now."

Silence. Jay messed with one of her braids, and I let her think.

"Maybe you shouldn't do this book," she said. "You're making yourself miserable, and making other people miserable, too."

I shook my head hard. "No, I need to. I'm not a teenage dropout anymore. I'm a grown-up and I need to see a project through from start to finish."

"You don't have to prove to anyone you're an adult. You can just, you know, be one."

Which I was, most of the time. But writing this book would be like throwing off the last boulder that had been weighing me down.

"OK," Jay said slowly in response to my silence. "Maybe you could tell Ellie how worried you are and she can help you?"

"She wouldn't get it. She has an answer for everything."

She snorted. "That can't be true. Everyone has their soft spot. Also, she's just trying to do her job, bud."

"Well, I guess her job is making me feel like an idiot."

She shook her head as she stood up. "You know what? You made this big dinner that a lot of people liked, and I got a really hot woman's number, so we're going to El Molino and getting burritos to celebrate."

I looked up. "What hot woman's number?"

She grinned. "I won't tell you unless you blow your pity party."

"Fine, you win." I knew carnitas, guacamole, and a massive cup of melon agua fresca wouldn't solve my problem, but at least it would push it away for a little while. The same way I could push away how Ellie's eyes flashed as bright as gas flames when she was angry.