Chapter IX
IX
James
I set an alarm for noon, wake up, and immediately send Lucy a congratulatory text.
Then I spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning my section of the apartment.
I’m making her a celebratory dinner, and I’ve spent an insane amount of money on ingredients and too many hours on prep.
This is her first time coming over to my apartment and my first time cooking for her. I want to get this right.
The place I’m staying is a cramped three-bedroom apartment in Harlem, and I share custody of the bathroom and kitchen with a dude from Russia who doesn’t speak a word of English and a French couple, Chloe and Alba, who are here for four weeks producing a one-woman show about a mermaid with a fear of water.
I haven’t seen it yet, but I’m dying to. It sounds terrible.
Most of my stuff is sitting in storage pods in Philly, waiting to be shipped home to Oregon at the end of July—and I know Lucy knows that, but somehow, I still feel anxious about making a good impression.
I wish I had the set of vintage whiskey snifters I found at a garage sale or the potholders my grandma quilted for me when I started to get into cooking.
Anything that shows her a little more of me.
But I don’t have those things, so I scrub the countertops, try not to think about the probably terrible notes I gave her last night, and put a solid extra hour of care into my menu: heirloom tomato salad with goat cheese, pork chops with a cherry pan sauce, and fresh-corn polenta.
When I open the door for Lucy, she has both arms up in the air and a bottle of prosecco in one hand, and she’s glowing. “I fucking did it!” Her black linen dress rides high on her thighs.
“You fucking did it!” I hold out my arms, and she throws herself into them with no hesitation. When we let go, I’m surprised to see her wipe away a tear. “What is it?” I ask.
She’s still beaming as she shakes her head. “Sorry.” She laughs, seeming a little embarrassed. “It just occurred to me how proud my mom would be right now.”
I grin and take the bottle of prosecco from her. “She would be. And I am. And you should be. So let’s fucking toast.”
I lead her into the cramped kitchen, where the air is heavy with butter and farmers-market produce.
Lucy practically swoons as she walks in behind me.
There isn’t really a good place for her to sit while I finish cooking, so I pick her up and plop her on the counter next to the salad.
She laughs and steals a tomato. “You know how to treat a girl right.”
“I do what I can with what I’ve got. Drink?”
She nods, and I pop open the prosecco and pour it into tumblers—the best I can do.
Lucy excitedly tells me about the relief and joy of getting her grant proposal in.
She thanks me about eight times for my notes, which makes my ears go red.
I still don’t believe her that I actually helped, but I’ll take it.
It really does feel like a weight is off her shoulders tonight.
When she laughs, she throws her head back.
She wiggles her dangling feet as she watches me work.
She leans in conspiratorially like we’re sharing a secret.
It reminds me of the night we met. I feel like I’m getting a peek at the Lucy behind the wall once again.
It’s early, but I already want this night to go on forever.
But as I pull my pans off the stove, my phone buzzes. I check and see a new message from a bank. It’s clear from the first words that it’s bad news.
Lucy hops off the counter and puts a hand on my arm, immediately registering my disappointment. “What is it?” She sounds so worried it forces a smile onto my face, an attempt to reassure her.
“Sorry,” I stammer. “It’s nothing. We don’t have to—”
“What is it?” She’s adamant, seeing right through me.
“Just an email from a bank,” I relent. “Another loan rejection.”
“Another?”
I let out a sigh, failing to minimize the dejection in my voice. “This is the third in four days. No one likes that my grandma’s house is my only real asset. I’ve got one more application out, but it’s not looking good.”
Lucy’s expression is a mixture of sympathy and, perhaps, minor frustration. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I give her a knowing look, and her eyes drop to my chest. “Oh. Right.”
I turn to my pork chops, carefully lifting them onto a platter.
They look perfectly seared, and I want that to be enough.
But I can’t shake this disappointment. Should I tell her that five other banks told me I didn’t even qualify to apply?
That I’ve been looking for line cook positions in Oregon as a backup?
That the market is so tight I might have to get some random day job to keep myself afloat?
That my dream may have to wait for who knows how many years?
Would she really want to hear any of it?
The night feels suddenly spoiled, and I don’t know how to fix it. We’re commemorating a step toward her future, which we both know I won’t be part of.
“Tell me about your grandma’s house.”
I turn to face Lucy, genuinely surprised. I raise an eyebrow, but she responds with a warm, tender smile, awaiting my answer.
I run a hand through my hair. It’s such an innocent question, but for some reason it feels like she’s just asked me to get naked.
“Uhh . . .” I stumble and then feel the corner of my mouth curl up.
“It’s beautiful. Cedar shingles, right around the corner from the boardwalk.
It’s not huge, but it’s got three bedrooms and a little balcony upstairs, and there’s a big covered porch out front. ”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Will you show me?”
Lucy
We sit at the table eating the insanely delicious food James has prepared. It’s one of the best meals of my life, and I make an embarrassing number of involuntary sounds. “If you’re trying to turn me on . . .” James teases.
I grin through a full mouth. “You’re sure you don’t have a Michelin star? How do we sign you up for that?” James lays a gentle hand over my whole face to shut me up, and it makes me laugh.
Between bites, he searches his phone for old pictures of his grandma’s house.
The Zillow listing is useless—just an exterior shot from probably twenty years ago.
But as he sifts through family photos, he picks out the ones that best show off the built-in bookcases and oversize fireplace in the front room, the sunny kitchen with a formal dining room attached.
He shows me a shot taken from the upstairs balcony of the sprawling ocean view—complete with a weathered lighthouse—and a few pictures of the downtown less than a block away.
In these same family photos, it’s hard not to notice adorable little-boy James giving shy smiles to the camera, that same perfect freckle under his eye.
When I zoom in on his grade-school face, present-day James reclaims the phone, trying to direct my attention back to the house, but I grab it back and zoom in on sweet shots of him playing cards with his grandma, getting a piggyback ride from his father, being read to by his mom.
Savoring the food he’s made while looking through these pictures makes them even more visceral, like I can smell and hear what it must have been like. Like I can picture this meal on his grandmother’s table. “It’s all so idyllic,” I tell him, not meaning for my voice to come out as hazy as it does.
James nods, but hesitates before he responds. “It’s weird—and kind of embarrassing—to now own this house and suddenly know how much it’s worth. It’s always been important to me, but that never translated into a monetary value in my mind, you know?”
“That makes sense.” I look down at my plate. “But that monetary value isn’t enough to borrow against?”
James shakes his head with a sad smile. “Not for an unproven cook with no other real savings.” His eyes drop to a picture of his grandma sitting on the porch, working on the Sunday crossword and laughing at someone out of frame.
“I could sell it . . .” He’s smiling, but his eyes are somber as he meets my gaze. “I can’t sell it.”
I nod, wondering what it’s like to be so connected to a place.
I’ve never had that. I can’t decide if it would be magical or suffocating.
The idea of feeling pulled anywhere in particular strikes me as almost frightening.
Home was always wherever my mom and I were.
Now, it’s wherever I am. But it’s not the same.
If anything, I find myself more compelled to regularly change up my scenery, my environment, my living space now that she’s gone.
Every new place to lay my head feels incomplete without her, so I keep searching for the next place that might feel better.
A vision of visiting James at his family home in Newport fills my mind. I wonder what it would be like to have his arms wrapped around me on that second-story balcony, looking out at a blue-gray sea that matches his eyes.
Then I remember something.
“Did you see that New York Times piece a while back about restaurants without traditional kitchens?” I ask.
James furrows his brow and shakes his head.
I feel my pulse quicken as I lean toward him.
“It was about these great restaurants crammed into odd spaces around the city that only use hot plates and tabletop fryers and stuff. The big idea was taking an unconventional space and finding ways to make it work as a restaurant.” James is still staring at me, not quite sure where I’m going.
“What if you turned the house into your restaurant?”
I watch as James’s gaze unfocuses and he leans back in his chair.
I can’t tell yet if he actually likes the idea, or if it’s even feasible, but I’m already sold on it.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m standing up and pacing in front of the table, rattling off the possibilities.
“You could live on the second floor, keep that as your home. Then the downstairs and the porch become the restaurant. You don’t even need hot plates! You already have a kitchen.”
“A tiny kitchen.”
“Sure, but you could start with that, couldn’t you? And then maybe the dining room is storage or something?”
“Or a prep area,” James almost whispers, his voice far off. I can see the wheels in his head turning, and it makes me even more excited.
“Sure! That!”
But then James’s demeanor turns stony. His eyes fall to the table. I’m at a complete loss as to what just happened. “Are—are you OK?” I stammer.
James forces a tight smile, and he seems almost embarrassed. “I’d have to rip out walls. Maybe turn the yard into a parking lot . . .” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
Right. This isn’t just a house. It’s his grandmother’s house. His home.
My instinct is to go all-in. He’d have to change some things, but isn’t it worth it? For me, it would be. But James and I are so different.
My shoulders sink. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about that.”
“No, don’t be sorry.” His features soften and he rubs the back of his neck. “It’s a good idea. It’s just . . . a lot.”
I sit back down and resist the urge to say anything. I don’t want to push him.
After a moment, I see the wheels in his head start to turn again.
“I’d still need a big loan,” he says, more to himself than me.
“And zoning could be a huge issue.” His eyes shift from side to side, as if he’s walking through the house in his mind.
“Maybe I could keep the structure mostly intact. Start small. A tasting menu and craft cocktails . . .” He tilts his head to the side.
“Some updated fixtures wouldn’t be the worst thing. ”
After a long, thoughtful moment, he asks quietly, “You really think I could pull it off?”
He sounds so uncertain. I pick up my fork and spend a good fifteen seconds cutting and assembling the perfect bite. Then I hold it up for James. He cocks an eyebrow at me but accepts it. I lean in close as he chews. “The man who made that . . . he can pull it off.”
James swallows with a tight-lipped grin. “Your confidence in me is terrifying.” Slowly, his shoulders soften, and I can tell the idea is still rolling around in his head. “It could work,” he says.
I hold back a grin, still wary of pushing too hard. “I mean, if you could have the house and your restaurant all in one . . . that could be pretty great. Right?”
He shifts forward and takes one of my hands in his. A corner of his mouth goes up, drawing my eye to his perfect freckle. “My grandma was very practical. She’d probably cuss me out if I didn’t try this.”
I lean over and kiss him a little more forcefully than I mean to.
Before I realize what’s happening, he scoops me into his arms, his hands encircling my thighs.
My legs wrap around his waist as he carries me through the apartment to his bedroom.
“What about the leftovers?” I whine, only half joking.
“We’ll be quick,” he deadpans, and I laugh.