Chapter Five Madison #2
“So what are the featured menu items going to be?” asks Emily with an overeager look in her eye. My chest tightens. This is not a topic I’m ready to discuss.
But the last thing I want to do is trigger Emily’s radar either. . . .
“Um, I was thinking of keeping it simple and tossing in some real crowd-pleasers: Kraft mac and cheese and dino nuggets,” I say easily to cover the wild beat of my heart.
Because the truth is, I’ve been in a creative freeze and haven’t been able to come up with a single dish that has felt right. And it’s killing me.
The kitchen used to be my refuge, the one place where everything quieted down and I felt most like myself.
Cooking was my escape, my therapy, my joy.
It was something that was wholly mine. But lately?
It’s felt hollow. Like stepping into a room I used to love, only to find it’s cold, the lights are off, and there’s plastic over the furniture.
I want that warmth back.
Emily laughs, but I can tell the type A planner in her is not appeased. “And is there going to be a new menu each week, or will it stay the same through the season?”
I clutch Emily’s arm. “Wait, the menu has to change at some point?”
Her smile flattens. “I’m being serious, Maddie.
It seems like you have a lot of unanswered questions still and the opening is in what?
Like three months?” I can see bullet-pointed task lists unfurling behind her green eyes.
“What about logistical stuff like bookkeeping? Who’s going to be in charge of all that? Or hiring the staff? Will you—”
“Emily.” I shoot up from the couch when my heart drives too painfully against my ribs. “I’ve got it all under control, okay?” But I don’t. I really don’t. And I hate that she knows me well enough to see that I don’t.
I should have had all these questions figured out by now, but I’m someone who tends to wait until the last minute in life.
I operate out of chaos piles and at least fifty open tabs on my laptop.
I’ve even been known to write a new recipe idea on the back of a grocery receipt because I know that if I wait to go find paper I’ll get distracted along the way and forget the idea completely.
So why did I think it would be a good idea to become the executive chef of James’s restaurant?
And is everyone watching from the sidelines, waiting for the moment I fail?
I walk into the kitchen and set my empty wineglass in the sink, turning when I hear footsteps behind me. Emily gives a wobbly smile and nose scrunch. “I’m sorry.” She closes the space between us and hugs me tight. “I didn’t mean to turn into the efficiency robot . . . I just--”
“Know me? And are you worried I can’t do this?”
She pulls back, gripping my shoulders and catching my gaze.
“No! Not at all. I know you can do this—I also know that the creative side of your brain likes to take up all the space sometimes and doesn’t leave much for the administrative side.
But you’re a culinary school graduate! I shouldn’t have assumed you don’t already know how to do all of this.
Clearly you do. I’m sorry, and I won’t butt in anymore. ”
Clearly I don’t.
I am terrified I’m going to fail—making it the worst failure of my life, because it won’t just affect me, I’ll bring James down with me.
And equally terrifying: What if I never get my refuge back?
“Hey,” says Amelia in a whisper, popping into the room. She glances over her shoulder. “We only have a second while she’s in the bathroom. But . . . have y’all noticed anything about Annie?”
“That she’s only pretending to drink her wine?” says Emily, casually leaning back against the counter. “Yeah, she’s been doing that for weeks.”
“You saw that tonight too?” I ask.
Emily looks offended. “Of course I did. She never winces anymore.”
I point at Emily. “Yes! I knew it!”
“And she took her beer with her into the kitchen about fifteen times during the last family dinner.”
“That’s because she was pouring it out. James saw her!” I say, excited to have inside information. “So she’s pregnant, right?”
Emily nods. “Definitely.”
“But she’s not telling us?” Amelia is heartbroken at this prospect. “What are we going to do about it?”
“Nothing.” Emily looks like the leader of a crime organization. Deceptively calm.
“By nothing, you mean somehow capture a sample of her urine so we can test it ourselves, right?” I glance between them. “Because I can do it. Don’t ask me how—just know it can be done.”
“No. We’re not going to do a single thing. We’re going to respect Annie’s privacy and wait until she feels comfortable to tell us herself.”
I grimace. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
“It’s the new me. Respectful. Understanding of privacy. Patient . . .” While she’s listing off her virtues, I’m rolling my eyes and making a yapping gesture with my hand. She finally notices and smacks it down. “Stop that!”
“Those are noble attributes, but so so boring. I miss slightly toxic Emily. Jack took her away from me.” I go shake Emily’s shoulders. “Give her back!”
“Give who back?” asks Annie from the doorway to the kitchen, glass in her hand—empty.
I pivot, slinging my arm around Emily’s hip. “My old Celine Dion greatest hits CD. She’s held it captive for too many years.”
“I don’t have it,” Emily replies.
“Oh yeah? So if I go out to your truck right now, I won’t find it in your CD sleeve?”
“Nope.” But her eyes betray her as they dart quickly to Amelia.
I turn slowly on her and she cracks like an egg. “Fine, yes, I borrowed it! But it’s so good. You can have it back next time I see you.”
We all move back into the living room and pile onto the couch for the next hour so we can look at photos on Amelia’s phone from her latest tour.
I still regularly forget that she is a famous pop star, until these moments when I see pictures of her onstage surrounded by a sold-out stadium.
Pictures of her backstage hugging mega artists who have shaped the music industry.
But it’s easy to forget all of that with her because to us she’s Amelia .
. . the Audrey Hepburn–obsessed woman who stole our brother’s heart with her truly awful pancakes and has loved us like real sisters from day one.
After looking through photos, we all steal clothes from Emily to sleep in.
Literally clothes, like T-shirts and leggings, because the woman doesn’t own pajamas.
Or she does, but her take on pj’s is just silk lingerie pieces trimmed in lace.
Around one A.M., we all four pile into Emily and Jack’s king-sized bed like we’re the family in Willy Wonka and my sisters pass out almost immediately.
I’m seconds away from sleep when Emily inches closer and whispers to me, “I’m impressed by how quickly you came up with that Celine Dion lie.”
“Yeah,” I say, staring up at the dark ceiling, wishing more than anything that I had been able to see the stars tonight. “I’m too good at lying.”
And that’s the most truthful thing I’ve said to anyone in a long time.
It takes me a while to fall asleep, and when I finally do I slip into a strange dream where James and I are back at Hank’s with our knees interlaced again, but this time James smiles before tipping forward and kissing me.