Chapter 8
CLEMENTINE
It was the first day of the tour, and I found myself standing in the kitchen of a small Italian restaurant called La Tavola.
Pretty clever. It translated to The Table in Italian.
The place was nowhere near on par with Dad’s restaurant in terms of prestige or polish, but it possessed a charm that Salt & Mercy, for all its elegance, couldn’t quite capture.
It was family orientated. Comfy. Cozy. Welcoming.
The floor was a gorgeous mosaic of broken tiles in every color imaginable.
The deep blues and rich golds blended with the forest greens and sunset oranges.
It was like a beautiful accident. The walls were painted in warm terracotta that reminded me of Tuscan sunsets, and oil paintings of the Italian coast hung everywhere.
Twinkling fairy lights were woven through ivy covering the entire ceiling.
If there was a heaven, I was pretty sure this would be what it would smell like.
Garlic and basil perfumed the air. Fresh bread and tomato sauce.
It was the kind of restaurant that made you want to linger over wine and conversation.
I imagined it was the kind of place where families gathered for Sunday dinners and first dates turned into love stories.
It was the first day of the tour. Outside the restaurant, ticket holders were already forming a line that stretched around the corner.
Families with children bundled in coats, elderly couples holding hands and young people who probably couldn’t afford a traditional holiday meal were all waiting to be invited in and seated at tables that would welcome them without judgment or expectation.
I had been looking forward to getting to work with Rhett in the kitchen. Even working with him as a line cook would have been a huge opportunity. I planned on watching and learning from the man in black.
That had been the plan, anyway. But they were short two people out front setting up tables and arranging place settings, so I jumped in to help without being asked.
“You are an angel,” Gineva said.
The restaurant’s owner was a petite, lovely Italian woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair pulled back in an elegant chignon.
There was something very motherly about her, a warmth that made me understand why her restaurant had become a neighborhood institution.
She was the kind of woman you would feel comfortable telling all of your troubles to.
I imagined her with a big family. And she would be the matriarch that remembered every birthday and made sure everyone had a birthday card.
“My pleasure,” I replied. “This place is beautiful. How long have you owned it?”
“Thirty-two years,” she said, her accent adding music to the words. “Home away from home for so many people.”
I could see why Rhett had chosen La Tavola for the tour’s opening event. It embodied everything the Thanksgiving For All concept represented. I could feel the community element radiating from every corner.
Right before the doors were scheduled to open, I headed back to the kitchen to put on my apron over my bright pink dress.
I’d chosen the color deliberately this morning, wanting something cheerful and festive for such an important day.
The kitchen was buzzing with pre-service energy, servers weaving between prep stations while line cooks arranged their ingredients.
And then I saw him.
My stomach did a slow roll at the sight of him. Damn, he was so gorgeous.
He was wearing a black chef’s coat, black slacks, and black shoes. I could see the black T-shirt under the chef’s coat. I would be willing to bet his underwear was black as well. The monochromatic look made him appear imposing than when he had worn a suit.
He looked up when he saw me approaching, his dark eyes taking in my appearance from head to toe. His expression shifted from professional focus to something that looked distinctly like disapproval. Like he smelled something bad. Good god, did I stink?
“Did you read the code of conduct for these events?” he asked without preamble.
I blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt question. “I’m sorry?”
“The dress code,” he said, nodding toward my pink dress. “Everyone is supposed to be in black. Professional, uniform appearance. It’s all clearly outlined in the documentation Simone sent you.”
Heat crept up my neck as I realized my mistake. In my excitement about the tour launch, I had focused on the operational details and somehow missed the wardrobe requirements. “I didn’t realize—”
“This is a professional operation, not a garden party,” he continued. “We’re representing multiple organizations today. Image matters.”
I felt my own irritation rising to match his. “It’s a kitchen,” I said, tying my apron strings with jerky movements. “And a joyful event. Why spoil it by making everyone look like they’re catering a funeral?”
His jaw tightened. “Because this isn’t about individual expression. It’s about presenting a cohesive, professional image that donors and media can take seriously.”
“Right,” I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “God forbid anyone think we’re actually enjoying ourselves while we feed hungry people. The funeral vibe is much cooler.”
Before he could respond to that, his attention was pulled away by a server asking about wine pairings. I could feel the tension radiating from him. I had a feeling his irritation had little to do with what I was wearing. It seemed more likely he was pissed about something else.
Or stressed out.
Was he worried about the dinner? I should probably tell him that when you gave out free food, the people tended to be a lot less picky. They were going to appreciate the food. Period.
It became apparent what was really bothering him about ten minutes later when Simone came into the kitchen. She had a pinched expression as well. And I knew she didn’t care about what I was wearing.
“Any word from Conroy?” Rhett asked without looking up from the risotto he was stirring.
“I’ve called him a dozen times,” she replied. “He’s not picking up.”
Rhett’s stirring motion faltered for just a moment before resuming with renewed vigor. “Call him again.”
“Rhett, I’ve literally—”
“Call him again,” he snapped.
Several line cooks glanced over nervously before quickly returning their attention to their prep work. Simone’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she stepped away to make another futile attempt at reaching the missing member of their team.
I was beginning to understand why Rhett seemed ready to bite someone’s head off.
Conroy was supposed to be running the hot appetizer station.
It was a crucial position. Without him, the entire kitchen flow would be thrown off, timing would suffer, and the quality that Rhett demanded would be nearly impossible to maintain.
He wouldn’t care if the food was free. His personal standards were very high.
“Should I hold off opening the doors?” I asked.
The look he gave me could have melted me on the spot. “Open the doors. We’ll figure it out.”
The moment we opened the doors, the energy shifted.
The line of people waiting outside moved forward.
These weren’t the usual restaurant patrons I was accustomed to serving at Salt & Mercy.
These were families with children who kept asking if they were really allowed to sit down and eat.
Elderly couples who seemed amazed that someone wanted to feed them without asking for anything in return.
I threw myself into seating people. A mother with three young kids caught my attention. She was trying to corral a toddler while balancing a baby on her hip.
“Right this way,” I said, leading them to a table near the window where the kids could watch people walk by. “The children’s portions are just as generous as the adult ones, so don’t worry about anyone leaving hungry.”
The relief that washed over her face was worth every second of Rhett’s earlier disapproval about my dress. This was why we were here.
I went into the kitchen to get some crackers for a toddler to keep him entertained, and I regretted it.
The kitchen was chaos.
Rhett was everywhere at once, expediting dishes, adjusting seasonings, barking out corrections and encouragement in equal measure. I could see the strain on his face.
Twenty minutes into service, it was clear they were drowning. Tickets were backing up at the pass. Every time I went into the kitchen, things got worse. Wait times stretched longer than anyone had anticipated.
“I don’t know,” Simone said before Rhett could ask the question.
That was when the back door was flung open.
Conroy stumbled in, clutching his right arm against his chest. His chef’s coat was torn and stained with something dark that made my stomach lurch when I realized it was blood. His face was pale beneath his usual tan. He was breathing hard like he’d been running.
The entire kitchen froze.
“Holy shit, Conroy,” Simone breathed as she rushed toward him. “What happened?”
“I got hit,” he groaned, swaying slightly on his feet. “I’m okay, just banged up, but I think my arm might be—”
Rhett said nothing. He just stared at the poor man like he couldn’t believe his friend had been run over.
“Get him out of the kitchen and to a hospital,” I said, stepping up. “Right now. He needs medical attention. Tell them to call the police and report this.”
“But the service—” Conroy started to protest.
“Will continue without you,” I interrupted, already reaching for a clean apron. “Simone take him.”
I could feel every eye in the kitchen watching me. No one was moving or talking, which was exactly what we didn’t need.
I turned to find Rhett staring at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Surprise, maybe. Or irritation.
“Just tell me what to do,” I said, meeting his gaze directly. “I’m a fast learner.”
For a moment, the entire kitchen held its breath. Rhett could either trust me to help save the service or watch his carefully planned event collapse under the weight of circumstances beyond anyone’s control.
His dark eyes searched my face.
“Simone, take him,” he said. He looked at me and then pointed to the app station.
“I need bruschetta. Three varieties. Classic tomato basil, ricotta and honey, prosciutto and fig. Plating specs are on the card above your station. Keep up with my pace and call out when you’re running low on components. ”
“I’m sorry,” Conroy said.
Rhett turned back around. “Get him out of here and you better describe your attackers to the police.”
Conroy nodded, looking just a little ashamed. “Fine. Sorry.”
Rhett was already back to work.
I surveyed the ingredients laid out before me. This was it. Sink or swim. I was about to find out if all those years of watching Dad work, all those hours in various restaurant kitchens, had actually taught me anything useful.
“First order up,” Rhett called out, sliding a ticket across the pass. “Two classic, one ricotta honey, one prosciutto fig. Let’s see what you’ve got, Clem.”
It was both my dream and my nightmare. I had done this before. Well, not really, but in my dreams. Some people dreamed about showing up naked to school or to give a speech. Mine was about getting thrown into a kitchen and not knowing how to hold a knife.
I took a deep breath, picked up my knife, and got to work.