Chapter Twenty-Five Madison
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Madison
I’m sitting in a coffee shop, drumming my nails on the table. I haven’t blinked in five minutes. I’m afraid if I do I’ll miss Zora’s arrival and be caught off guard. I need all of my guard intact when meeting my hero.
Josie told me roughly fifteen times not to stress today, but what does she know?! She knows Zora the mom, not Chef Brookes. I don’t even know what I’m hoping to gain from this. Maybe I’m afraid to hope for too much. But I think I’ll know it when I feel it.
I hold my breath as the door opens, sunlight beaming in and splitting my hungover headache wide open again—and a white lady steps in, toddler in tow. Not Zora.
I glance at the clock on my phone, thinking it must be past our meeting time and she’s standing me up. But no. It’s been two minutes since I last checked. For once, I’m just super early. How do people do this? It’s excruciating.
Normally, I’d still be on my way—hopping down the sidewalk, shoving on a shoe, holding a tube of lipstick between my teeth.
I’d do my hair on the train while scarfing down a granola bar.
And that’s how I know I’ve changed, at least a little.
This matters to me. So even though I only got a few rocky hours of sleep on a roof last night and woke up to a bird landing on my feet, I still got my ass up, showered, dressed, and grabbed a breakfast sandwich with James before catching the train to the Lower East Side.
And now I’m sitting here like an overeager toddler, bouncing my leg and rehearsing my opening line again and again: Chef Brookes, hi!
I’m Madison Walker. It’s such an honor to meet you, and I’m so grateful for this time you’re taking to talk with me.
It’s honest. Professional. The opposite of messy.
I glance down at my phone, check my emails just in case she canceled—and that’s when a voice says my name.
When I look up, my eyes lock on the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Zora Brookes.
Shit. She caught me off guard.
“Hi! Zora—” I stand, fumbling with the chair behind me. “I mean . . . Chef Brookes!”
Zora is tall and lean, her frame graceful but strong with powerful shoulders and a striking bone structure that makes it hard to look away.
I see Josie in her amber eyes, but her features are unique—her nose is different, her complexion deeper, her presence quieter but somehow more commanding.
Her hair, like Josie’s, is a crown of curls.
Zora’s coils are even tighter, styled into a shoulder-length Afro with a blue silk scarf tied neatly as a headband.
Chunky gold earrings catch the light as she moves.
She wears billowy black palazzo pants, a black tube top, and an open, flowing cream linen button-down.
Standing in front of her, I’m completely intimidated. In awe.
Instead of preying on my timidity like so many professional chefs have, Zora glows with a smile and tugs me in for a hug. “Madison! It’s so good to meet you.”
Her hug is brief but effective—a squeeze that wrings out any lingering awkwardness.
“Did you already get something to drink?” she asks as she releases me.
“I did, yes.”
“Great! I’ll just be a minute.” She orders at the counter. It’s clear the baristas know her—they laugh about something—and in no time, Zora is back at the table.
She sets down her iced latte with a huge, settling sigh. “There. I’ve been running all morning. It’s good to sit down.”
“Oh. I’m sorry if I disturbed your day!”
“Not at all. But I appreciate you meeting me here. I spent the morning at a farmers market buying some incredible produce and needed to drop it off at the restaurant before I came this way. It’s right across the street.”
That explains how the staff here seems to know her. But what strikes me is how they not only know her but like her. Chef Davis had a reputation that followed him everywhere. Most chefs do, actually.
“So,” she says, laying her forearms on the table. “How long are you in New York?”
“I got in yesterday and leave tonight.”
“Wow. Quick trip! What brought you in?”
I make an awkward face, and Zora seems to read my answer from it.
“No,” she breathes. “This meeting?”
I nod. “I hoped to play it cooler than that, but yes. I flew in to meet you. I’ve been following your career for a long time, and you’ve inspired me more than I can tell you.”
“Oh my God, you are so kind. Thank you.”
We talk for a little while longer about my friendship with Josie and my time in school—and I think she’s loosening me up.
“Did you intern at any restaurants?” she asks, sipping from her straw.
“I did. Uh, at Chambre Blanche.”
Her face falls. She sets her coffee down. “With Chef Davis?” She says his name like it tastes bad. “He is the most insufferable, pompous ass I’ve ever met. That must have been hell.”
A weight lifts off my chest. All this time I’ve worried I made up his personality in my head, or that I blew it out of proportion. It’s affirming to hear her say it.
I clear my throat. “It was a horrible experience. It really . . .” I trail off. “Well, I’m still recovering.”
She reads between the lines. Her brows furrow as she studies my face. “I’m sorry. This industry . . . it’s not always kind. Especially not to women. Though few industries are.”
“Josie might’ve told you about the restaurant I’m helping start?”
“She did.” Zora smiles. “Sounds incredible. And it got me in my feelings a bit about my first restaurant. There was so much joy in it—but also a lot of fear and inadequacy. You’re miles ahead of where I was, having your culinary degree and having done an internship.”
“I don’t feel miles ahead. I’m scared to death I’m going to run it into the ground because there’s no way I’ll be able to command a kitchen like Chef Davis did.”
She scoffs. “Chef Davis runs his kitchen like a coward. Only insecure, small-minded people belittle others to gain power.” She leans forward.
“Listen, Madison. I’m tough on my kitchen crew, and I expect a lot from them—but never at the cost of their dignity.
I want people to give me their best work because they respect me, not because they’re scared of me.
And you have the unique opportunity to begin your reputation as an executive chef the same way if you want. ”
I expected Zora to highlight her successes during this coffee, but instead she spends most of it laughing with me about her most embarrassing moments.
Like the time she forgot to pay the electricity bill during her first month in her New York restaurant and the lights cut off halfway through dinner service.
There was no salvaging it. Everyone had to leave, and Zora absorbed the cost of their meals.
She and Josie lived off Top Ramen, PBJs, and the restaurant’s leftovers the rest of that month.
I am a sponge, soaking up every story, feeling fuller and fuller by the minute.
As our time winds down, Zora gives me her personal number and tells me to call anytime. I almost cry. Actually—fine—I do cry a little. But Zora doesn’t make fun of me or call me weak. She squeezes my hand and tells me she’s been in my shoes. She understands.
“Okay, any last burning questions before we leave?” she asks. None of my original timidity remains, but my awe of her has doubled.
“Actually, yeah.” I look into her confident eyes. “Does the feeling of inadequacy ever go away?”
She smiles. “No. At least not for me.” Her gaze drifts, searching for the right words.
“I think some people reach that point, but only if they’re content to stop growing in their craft.
I’ve always been the type to want more. To change.
To experience new things.” Her eyes sparkle as they meet mine.
“I get the impression you’re the same way.
So no, the feeling doesn’t fully go away.
But,” she says with emphasis, “it gets easier to manage. It becomes a friend that pushes you to be better, not a chain around your ankle.”
I’m buzzing as we leave the coffee shop and step onto the sidewalk.
We hug again and then, almost as an afterthought, Zora asks, “Do you want to come see the kitchen?”
The knot in my chest that had loosened tightens again. The last thing I want is to taint this incredible day with a panic attack.
“I would, but I’ve got to get back to meet my . . . friend,” I say, though the word doesn’t settle quite right. After this trip, James feels like so much more. But will that last when we go back home?
And that desire Zora mentioned—to change and experience new things—I’ve always seen it as a flaw. But she framed it as something beautiful. Maybe it’s not something I need to chisel out of myself.
For now, Rome is where I want to be. It makes me happy. It’s where I’m the most driven. But will I always feel that way? I don’t know. And I want a partner who won’t be afraid to take risks with me—to explore, shift, grow.
Could that be James?
Before our flight, I needed to take care of one more thing.
“You sure?” James asks from beside me as I drop to my knees on the grass.
“I’m ready.” I lift the lid of Sammy’s enclosure and gently scoop him into my hand.
Tears collect in my eyes as I hold my little tortoise friend to my face.
“Hey, pal. Thanks for everything. Honestly, I think I needed you more than you needed me. But you’re healed now, and it’s time to let you go live your life. ”
I place him in the grass near the lake in Central Park and stand. James wraps his arm around my shoulders and holds me for a minute as a tear slides down my cheek. Sammy doesn’t move quick—he’s a tortoise, after all—and James seems content to stand here and let me soak in this moment.
But then, as Sammy starts to move, James steps forward, bends, and scoops the reptile up again. I watch as he places him back inside the enclosure.
“James, what are you doing?”
He gives me an apologetic look. “I didn’t want to ruin the moment and what it symbolizes, so I thought we could go through with the ceremony here. But we need to let him go back in Rome like you originally planned.”
“Why?”
“I did research yesterday about releasing wildlife into Central Park—specifically tortoises—and the odds are not in this little guy’s favor. He’ll most definitely get trampled again.”
In this moment, watching James’s gigantic hands carefully handle my little reptile, preparing to take him back home so we can release him somewhere safe . . . is when I realize, I think I’m falling in love with James Huxley.