Twenty-Two
TWENTY-TWO
Mia
OF COURSE, THIS ended up being a day when I had to conduct a couple of hiring interviews at the restaurant—black eye, pancake stage makeup, and all. In addition to my sous-chef leaving, we were also down a waiter after Chloe transferred to a college in Ohio to finish up her pre-vet degree.
The applicant for the waitstaff job had been a beta kid named Joe. He seemed like a pleasant enough guy, and he had a bit more than six months’ experience as a server at a national sit-down chain restaurant. Not exactly fine dining, but it meant he knew how to handle himself in a fast-paced environment, as the corporate types liked to call it.
I’d hired him, and when he’d stuck his arm out to shake hands, I’d noticed the bottom half of a forearm tattoo poking out from beneath his jacket sleeve. I couldn’t make out the details—it looked like the letters “I.O.S.” in some kind of a fancy gothic font.
The fact that he might not be as clean-cut as he’d appeared didn’t bother me. These days, I was spending a fair amount of time around tattoos, it seemed. An unwanted image of Byron’s vibrant jungle flowers twining down his scarred torso intruded on my thoughts, and I firmly set it aside.
Unsurprisingly, I felt like complete crap today—between the physical aches, too little sleep, and my lingering crying headache, it was honestly a miracle that I was functioning well enough to get through a shift.
I would be singlehandedly keeping makeup companies in business for the next few days, and I’d come to work armed with a backup tube of concealer in case the heat of the kitchen started to melt off my flesh-colored armor before the day ended.
Zalen’s package of frozen corn had probably been the reason I was able to pull off the ruse that everything was okay. I looked a bit puffy, but more in a ‘hey, are your allergies bothering you’ way than a ‘hey, did someone punch you in the face’ way. At least, no one had commented on it so far. I was taking that as a win.
My three o’clock interview showed up at ten minutes till—a middle aged omega woman with skin a couple of shades darker than Zalen’s. Merry brown eyes shone out of a broad, pleasant face.
“Ms. Jones,” I greeted, standing to meet her as Trinn showed her to the table in the corner where I’d been waiting for her. “Thank you for coming. Please have a seat.”
According to her application, Shaniqua Jones had just graduated from culinary school. It was a good one—Escoffier, in Boulder—but she would have been at least twenty years older than most of her classmates from the look of things.
“I’m excited to be here,” she said with a warm smile that crinkled the well-worn laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. “It’s not every day an opportunity like this one comes up—especially right in my hometown. I imagine you’ve got people knocking down the door to get the job, so I’ll try not to take up more than my fair share of time.”
I found myself smiling, despite the terrible day I was having. It was something about her aura, I thought. Shaniqua Jones radiated a kind of calm easiness. I had a feeling that very little ruffled this woman.
“Let’s get started, then,” I told her. “Tell me a little about yourself. What inspired you to go into the food service industry?”
Her resumé hadn’t sugar-coated anything. Before culinary school, her career was listed as ‘homemaker.’
Ms. Jones leaned forward with quiet enthusiasm, resting her forearms on the table and lacing her fingers together.
“What inspired me?” She gave a pleasant little laugh. “Oh, dear. This is a bit embarrassing to tell a Michelin-star chef, but I fell in love with cooking for pack get-togethers. I have a fairly large family—six co-mates, twelve pups, and now two grand-pups. They’re a social bunch, to put it mildly.”
“Good grief,” I said, unable to help myself. “I’m amazed you found time for any kind of cooking that didn’t involve plastic trays and a microwave.”
She snorted. “One of the benefits of a large pack is that you can usually shuffle the pups onto someone else when you need to work. Or, in my case, to cook. Anyway, with the last of the youngsters out of the house and off to college, I decided to pursue a culinary career professionally. Now, I just need to find someone willing to take on a forty-four-year-old graduate, fresh out of school and with no fine dining experience.”
It wasn’t an idle concern. Ageism was a real thing, and this industry was worse about it than many.
“Do you have a favorite style of cuisine?” I asked.
Her face lit up. “I’m a nose-to-tail kind of girl, as it happens. That, and local farm-to-table produce. The pack used to buy beef by the side from a woman down in Cedar Hill. She was producing grass-fed cattle with an intensive grazing program. Regenerative agriculture. It’s fascinating stuff. Anyway, a lot of her customers didn’t want the organ meat from their purchases... or the tripe... or the bones. I always paid to have her throw in some of the extras she had leftover.”
I sat back, letting her wax lyrical about osso buco and kidney pie... soaking in the uncomplicated passion of someone who hadn’t been ground down into cynicism by years in the industry. I was daydreaming about possible menu additions involving beef heart when she seemed to catch herself.
“Ah, I’m rambling on—sorry about that,” she said with a smile. “Long story short, I’m probably the least qualified candidate for this job that you’ll be interviewing. But I couldn’t let the opportunity slide by without throwing my hat into the ring, because what you’re doing here is amazing. I’d love to be a part of it.”
From there, I steered the interview through the requisite cliché territory. What do you think is your greatest strength? What about your greatest weakness? But through it all, I found myself riding the high of someone else’s enthusiasm for food and cooking.
At the end, I thanked her again and shook hands, letting her soothing omega scent of cherries and warm, baking bread surround me.
After she left, Nat approached the table. He looked as brittle as I felt, but he only asked, “What do you think? We’ll need to make a decision on this hire within the next few days.”
I nodded. “On paper, some of the others are a better fit. She’s had a non-traditional approach to the industry, and zero work experience.”
Nat raised an eyebrow. “But?”
He knew me too well, and the reminder of that fact ached on this day, of all days.
“But... I’ve got a feeling about her,” I said.
“Then hire her,” Nat told me. “Sometimes the right person isn’t the obvious person.”
“Yeah,” I said softly, picturing what the addition of that kind of combined enthusiasm and calm serenity could do for my kitchen. “Actually, I think I will.”
The rest of the shift felt brutal, even though it was another surprisingly light evening. I knew I needed to start worrying more about the amount of business the Bella Vita seemed to be taking away from us—but tonight, the lack of a dinner rush was a blessing.
My day still wasn’t over, though. There was one more thing I needed to do.
I got in my car, pulled out my phone, and texted Luca.
Hi. Nat and I are separating. Is there a time we can get together and talk?
The idea of asking Luca what I was about to ask him made my guts squirm, and I wasn’t sure why. But I was visiting my parents in a couple of days, and I needed an answer from him before then.
Right on cue, three dots marched across the screen.
How are you doing? Do you want to come over now? I’ve got ice cream.
I couldn’t help the wet laugh that escaped me. A part of me cringed at being so needy. I’d spent most of last night at Luca’s place, curled up with him in his nest. Now I was going to show up on his doorstep again, so I could cry on his shoulder about my shitty marriage?
But the larger part of me succumbed to a wave of longing at the idea of returning to that big house in Ladue. I’d never claimed not to be weak.
You had me at ice cream , I texted. Be there in thirty .
The twisting road lined with spectacular houses was becoming more familiar, even at night. I barely needed to rely on my phone’s directions. Soon enough, I was pulling into the long driveway and parking in the circle drive. The coach lights flanking the front door threw off a welcoming glow.
“Hi,” Luca greeted, opening the door for me. “So, you finally did it, huh? I’m glad.”
My teariness from earlier had disappeared at some point, replaced with numbness. “Yeah. It seemed like the right time.”
I followed Luca to the elegant kitchen, presumably in pursuit of the promised ice cream.
“Did he make a fuss about leaving the house?” Luca asked, rummaging for spoons.
I chewed on my lower lip.
“I didn’t ask him to leave,” I said. “I told him I’d go instead.”
Luca went still.
“I can stay with my parents,” I hurried on. “I’m having dinner with them on Monday... it’s my day off because the restaurant is closed. Not that I’m looking forward to having this conversation with them...”
I was babbling. I snapped my mouth shut, trying not to cringe at the sudden silence.
Luca looked conflicted for long moments. Then, his expression smoothed.
“Well... I’d have to talk to Zalen and the others, but you could maybe—”
He cut himself off abruptly, his eyes snapping to something over my right shoulder. I turned and followed his gaze to find Emiel standing arrested in the kitchen doorway—staring at us both with the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut.