31
Braise: Cooking method that first sears the food at a high temp, then finishes in a covered pot at a low temp while sitting in some form of liquid.
2016
Regina hadn’t dressed up for the occasion.
Better to be who she’d been since vanishing than risk showing up as Queenie B now.
Not yet, at any rate.
It was coming. Probably soon. She hoped soon. Because the buildup inside her wavered less toward scared and more toward enthusiastic this last week of waiting for the call. For this lunch. For this. Besides, it was only Marco’s.
Marco approached her table, brow furrowed and eyes on his cell phone.
“She’s running a little late.
You want a soda or something?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Traffic? Maybe.
More than likely, she was a very busy woman taking time out of her day to speak with an old friend of her ex-boss, who happened to be Queenie B.
Only the fact that Marco’s former relationship to Queenie and her local-access television show from eons ago was easily verifiable made him worth Saskia’s effort.
This, alone, gave Regina confidence in her plan. If talking to an ancient acquaintance of Queenie B’s could get the executive editor and founder of A Chef’s Life magazine—cautiously well-regarded in the industry, as she’d discovered—out to New Haven, Connecticut, from her offices in Manhattan, Regina was more than certain she’d be interested in an exclusive.
Close to certain.
Marginally.
If the bridge leading to Saskia Specter was only singed, rather than incinerated.
“Hello?”
There she was.
Standing at the hostess stand, taking off her coat.
Queenie had loved her more than most, even when Saskia left her.
Maybe because she’d had the courage to leave her when staying might have been heartbreaking but better for her career.
I’m sorry.
Saskia, I’m so, so sorry.
Words, as a young woman, Saskia had heard too often through those insane years.
Used and abused years.
Queenie had lied to and sometimes fooled her.
Like everyone else in her life. Regina forgot most of them. They hadn’t mattered, then or now, truth be told. But how did one truly apologize when the apology was too long in the offering? When words were insufficient?
You offered the chance of a lifetime, for the second time, and hoped.
Regina rose to her feet.
“Over here.”
Marco came out of the bar area that same moment, backed quietly away.
Saskia stood frozen at the hostess stand, face betraying nothing.
And then her lip trembled.
“Queenie?”
“I go by Regina these days.”
Saskia crossed the dining room in a rush, as if she would take Regina in her arms and pull her in tight.
Had she always been so tall? Regina didn’t remember that, but she supposed, even as a younger woman, Saskia had been able to look Osvaldo in the eye.
Saskia stopped just short of the anticipated—Dreaded? Wished for?—hug.
“I can’t believe it’s you.”
“It’s me. Sit.”
Saskia sat.
More like her legs gave way and a chair happened to be there.
Regina sat in the chair adjacent.
Silence fell. Saskia couldn’t seem to stop staring.
And then there was Marco, setting a glass of soda in front of Regina, a white wine for Saskia.
“You ladies ready for food?”
Saskia blinked, and she smiled even if it was a little stiff.
“You must be Marco.”
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”
“Has she been here in New Haven with you? All this time?”
“We’re not there yet,”
Regina cut in.
“Marco, food.”
“Sure thing.”
Saskia sipped her wine.
“I don’t usually drink during the day,”
she said.
“But I think the occasion warrants it.”
She looked pointedly at the glass of soda on the table.
Regina chose to ignore it.
The topic would come up again—her sobriety, her vanishing act, her rise from the ashes of the life she’d destroyed—just not now.
“I’m assuming this isn’t a social call.”
Saskia set her wineglass down.
“So I’ll dispense with the niceties for the moment.
Why did you have Marco arrange this?”
Right to the point.
She’d always liked that about Saskia.
“It’s time I come out of hiding,”
Regina said, “and I’m offering you the exclusive.
Where I’ve been, what I’ve been doing, where I’m going.
That kind of thing.”
To her credit, Saskia took it in stride, wiping the lipstick from the rim of her glass with a slightly shaking thumb her only reaction.
“That’s fluff,”
she said.
“And unbefitting the occasion.
That’s not what you want.”
Regina sat up straighter.
“No.
It’s not.”
“What do you want, Queenie? Really?”
She’d never dared to think this would be easy; neither had she considered just how hard it would be to say the words she practiced—
My story isn’t over.
I want a happier ending.
Marco’s idea of a quotable response to the inevitable question.
The chance to make things right.
Hers.
She’d done her penance, atoned as she could.
But it wasn’t the truth, and it wouldn’t come out of her mouth.
“I fucked up everything,”
she blurted, “but I worked damn hard for what I had.
I miss it.
All of it.
I didn’t, but now I do. Most of it, anyway.”
“Fame? Fortune?”
“I still have both.”
Regina almost reached across the table to grab her hand.
“It doesn’t matter what I did or how long I’ve been gone.
I miss the life, Saskia.
I miss the people, the culture, even some of the chaos. But what I miss the most is the food. The joy of discovery and creation. Haute cuisine or low country, it’s everything.”
“And I’m your path of least resistance.
My magazine.”
“Exactly.”
Regina smiled, let Queenie shine.
Saskia rewarded her with laughter.
“You haven’t changed.”
“I’ll be honest, I’m scared shitless.
I’m fully aware of what a mess I was, that there are some bridges I can never mend.
Barely a day goes by that I don’t crave the oblivion I used to live in, especially since making this decision.
But I haven’t felt this . . . this . . .”
Happy? Alive? Hopeful? “.
.
.
focused in a long time. My best shot is a sort of soft open, letting some of the dust settle before I have to be in the spotlight again. You get the story of your career; I get to come back on my terms. Win, win.”
Saskia squinted one eye.
“I’d say, ‘Aren’t you full of yourself?’ but we both know you are.”
And half a smile.
“With reason.
So let me ask you something.”
“All right.”
“I’ve seen you with my own eyes.
I know where you are, where you’ve been, who you’ve been with.”
She gestured to the door Marco most assuredly hid behind.
“What if I say no?”
“You won’t.”
Her nose wrinkled.
“Indulge me.”
Marco backed out of the kitchen bearing a platter and a breadbasket, a culinary hero on his improvised white horse.
“Here we go, ladies.”
Though he met only Regina’s eyes.
“House-roasted red peppers, fontina and provolone, house-prepared tapenade, sun-dried tomatoes and”—he set the breadbasket beside the antipasto—“fresh bread.
Not house-made. Rocco’s.”
“It looks lovely,”
Saskia said.
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, thanks,”
Regina echoed, then, “Now beat it.”
But she smiled and Marco backed his way to the kitchen with a wink.
“He thinks he needs to save me from the tough questions.”
“You’ve never needed saving.”
“There’s a whole lot of people who’d disagree with that.”
“I’ll spare you the whole ‘you only needed to save yourself’ speech, because obviously, you did, and it’s all pretty trite at this point anyway. So?”
Regina placed a variety of victuals on a plate, handed it to Saskia before filling one for herself.
Stalling.
Trying to find the right words, settled for, “If you say no, then report to the world I’m staging a comeback, I’d handle it.
Maybe not well, but I’m not the Queenie B I used to be. I’m the Regina I was when it all began. Better. Wiser. A hell of a lot fatter. I’ve made up my mind, Sas. You know better than most there’s little anyone can do to change it. With you or without you, this is happening.”
“And you knew before you had Marco call I wouldn’t refuse.”
Saskia held her gaze, unblinking.
Half smiling.
Love and memory.
Skepticism. Hope.
Regina grinned.
“Of course I did.”
“Why now?”
Gale, of course.
On many levels.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“All right, then.”
Saskia’s gaze held a moment more before falling to the food on her plate.
“Shall we? This tapenade looks especially delicious.”
“That’s because I made it.”
Regina grinned.
“Marco did the rest.”
“Then you’re still cooking?”
“In a matter of speaking, but let’s not get ahead of things.”
Regina popped a slice of fontina in her mouth.
“I have a .
.
. let’s say a request.”
“That’s actually a demand.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
“Go for it.”
“I stay vanished until the day the interview drops.
My life is about to get blitzed, and there are things I need to make happen before the circus begins.”
“That goes without saying.
If I could put you in a closet until the interview drops, I’d be even happier.
Anyone involved with production will be required to sign an NDA.
I’m assuming you’re sober.”
She gestured to the glass of soda.
“As a nun on Sunday.
Almost since Rome.”
“That’s a long time.”
Saskia nodded, sipping her wine.
“Like I said, this isn’t going to be a fluff piece, Regina.
I’m going to hit you hard.
Will you be able to handle that?”
“I expected nothing less.”
It wasn’t an answer, but Regina feared tempting the fates with some optimistic declaration she’d not had to put to the test in a long, long time.
“That brings up another demand.”
“No mincing words, huh? Okay.
Let’s hear it.”
“I won’t talk about Julian.
Osvaldo, okay, but nothing about my son.”
“I can live with that.
But I have one condition.”
Regina quirked an eyebrow.
“A Chef’s Life gets a three-month exclusive.
You give no other interviews.”
“I’m coming out of hiding, not diving back into that pandemonium.”
Regina heaved a huge, silent sigh.
“There won’t be any other articles or interviews.
Not that I’ll take part in.”
“There’s going to be backlash.
You’re going to need an advocate big enough to counter it.”
Regina grinned.
“Angling for a follow-up?”
So did Saskia.
“Naturally.”
Of course, Saskia was right.
The backlash would be swift and brutal.
Journalists would come crawling out of the woodwork, finding stories wherever they could.
Breaking off a hunk of bread, Regina waved it like a maestra’s baton. “I’ll give you a six-month exclusive. That includes two follow-ups in A Chef’s Life during that time. Good?”
“Way more than I could have hoped for.”
Way more than Regina had planned to offer, but this worked out well for both of them.
“Then we have a deal.”
Saskia took her offered hand.
“We have a deal.
I’ll get my department started on a contract.
If all goes well, we can begin the interview process in the next couple of weeks.”
“ASAP,”
Regina told her.
“I want this done last week.”
“Just like old times.”
Saskia’s voice broke.
Pressing her napkin to trembling lips, she kept it there until she regained her composure.
“Sorry, it’s just .
. . dammit, Queenie. It’s so good to see you.”
Regina still had Saskia’s hand in hers, no longer a deal being made.
A truce or a lifeline.
A promise of a different kind.
Hers or Saskia’s or Queenie B’s. Gently squeezing her former-assistant/future-editor’s hand, Regina swallowed down the emotional, the trite, the pat—It’s good to see you too—nevertheless sincere response. Instead, she said, “Let’s hope you still feel that way in six months,”
and let go of Saskia’s hand.
“I hope you’re still hungry.
I’m pretty sure Marco made Bolognese.
I’ll deny it if you say it, but it’s better than mine.”
Marco indeed brought out plates of rigatoni Bolognese.
Heavy, for lunch, but Regina appreciated the private sentiment.
Her hero, indeed.
She and Saskia ate. They chatted, mostly about Saskia and her magazine, her husband and children. Nothing about Regina or Queenie. Not yet. Only Gale and the importance of timing the release of the article to come after the Cut! competition. Saskia agreed to release it after the Grand Redemption Championship filmed, should Gale make it through the first round. Tight, but Saskia promised to bump articles and lash her entire staff if need be. She was editor in chief; if she said it would be done, it would be.
“I’ll get that contract to you by the weekend.”
Saskia slipped into her coat at the hostess stand, wrapped her scarf around her neck.
“Early next week at the latest.
Should I send it to your lawyers? Do you have an agent?”
Deep, deep breath.
“I’ll text you the info.”
“Perfect.
Okay, then.
I guess I’ll speak with you next week.”
Hesitating, Saskia bravely threw her arms around Regina, hugged her until Regina hugged her back.
“This is the start of something great.
You know that, right?”
“Something, anyway.”
Jostling her back and forth, Saskia kissed both her cheeks before hurrying out of Marco’s and into the cold New Haven winter.
Regina stood in the vestibule until she couldn’t see her anymore.
The afternoon had passed quickly and gone better than she could have asked.
Saskia Specter was older, wiser, more poised and wicked smart, but she was also kind and compassionate.
Still—not to be smug, but hey, Regina was who she was—she knew that even after all these years, Saskia was more than a little captivated by the queen. By memories of the past or hope for their coming future, it didn’t matter. It felt good, and Regina chose to bask in it.
Marco’s arm slipped around her shoulders.
“Everything you hoped for?”
“Don’t pretend you weren’t listening to every word.”
She elbowed him, sort of gently.
“Thanks for closing down service.”
He kissed her temple.
“Queenie B still moves and shakes the world, huh?”
After all this time.
After all she’d done.
“Yeah.”
There was no way she was coming out of this unscathed; dropping out of the culinary scene at the height of her infamy, if not of her glory, had only forestalled the inevitable.
The culinary world would react, some kindly, some curiously, some vindictively; at least Regina had chosen how it would begin.
It was, indeed, something.
“Don’t forget me when you’re famous this time.”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
It was everything.