Chapter Six #2
“I’ve seen you step up to the plate and run dinner effortlessly when a chief has been down,” Finn said, his eyes still on his dish.
“And we both know you could have run that last boat we were on ten times better than Salina. You’ve been ready for this for years.
Don’t sell yourself short. Go out there and do what you do best.”
“And what’s that?”
“Dazzle them.”
His eyes found mine at that, looking more blue than green at the moment. I swallowed under the intensity of that gaze, under the weight of those words.
He believed in me.
Even still.
“Alright,” he said after a moment, stepping back and wiping his hands on the towel draped over his shoulder. “These are ready to go.”
I took a slow breath, smoothing my hands down my uniform as I closed my eyes for just one moment. Finn was right. I could do this.
“Bernard, Bernard, Ember,” I called into my radio. “We’re ready for service.”
“Copy, on my way,” Bernard’s voice crackled back.
Leah and I started grabbing plates, Bernard hustling down to join us before we were all carrying the first course out to the guests.
I sighed when a cool breeze hit me once the sliding glass door opened and I stepped onto the sundeck.
The guests all lit up at the sight of the plates in our hands, and I hit them with my biggest smile.
Showtime.
Everything went to shit.
It was like having a rug pulled out from under my feet, how quickly service had turned upside down. One moment, Alistair and his group were happy, the service smooth, the first course delivered on time and devoured by our hungry, drunken guests.
And then — somewhere between the entrée and the amuse-bouche — everything had fallen apart.
Finn had been slow plating, figuring his way around a new galley and realizing, often too late, that he was plating Theodora’s dish with something she refused to eat. The time between courses started to drag.
Then, Finn had the audacity to yell at me and Bernard for not clearing fast enough. When he finally had dishes ready, they sat, losing heat, while Bernard and I scrambled to reset the table after an order was barked out from Finn over the radio.
After that, it was our fault for clearing too fast, the guests painfully aware of the stretched time between the main course and the palate cleanser with clean flatware waiting in front of them and not an ounce of food in sight.
It was a domino effect of dysfunction — guests waiting too long, plates going out lukewarm, wine pairings mistimed because the courses weren’t moving fast enough.
Now, we were three-and-a-half hours into a meal that should have been wrapped up in just under two, and the guests were over it.
Alistair didn’t hold his tongue over the last two courses we’d presented.
He made it very clear that he was unhappy with the timing and the temperature of the food.
Benedict had stopped drinking — stopped drinking — which was as clear a sign as any that things had gone off the rails.
Even Brielle, who had been prim and proper all night, now sat slouched in her chair, swirling what was left of her wine as if debating whether it was worth staying awake for dessert.
Theodora still took a dozen photos of every dish, bless her.
The most difficult one and yet she seemed the easiest to please tonight.
Max had already left, giving up on us after the roasted golden beet tartare with macadamia cream and citrus dressing.
It didn’t matter that every course was beautiful, delicious, and made with every single one of Theodora’s restrictions in mind.
The guests were tired.
I was frustrated.
And Finn? Finn was pissed.
All niceties between us disappeared after the third course, both of us taking to snipping at one another or not talking at all. It was almost impossible for me to recall his little speech of encouragement before dinner started now, and if anything, it felt patronizing.
“You’ve got to talk to me, Ember,” Finn said as he smeared a perfect swoop of sauce onto the dessert plates, jaw tight. Only the stainless-steel island separated us, me on one side and him on the other. “You didn’t even give me a heads up that you’d cleared after the main.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I snapped back, tension coiled in every muscle from my shoulders to my toes. “Was I supposed to let the guests sit there staring at dirty porcelain just so you could leisurely finish plating coconut-kefir sorbet?”
Finn’s hand stilled mid-reach for a garnish, his eyes snapping to mine. “Leisurely?”
“Painstakingly slow? Torturously delayed? Or maybe you were planting, watering, growing and harvesting those edible flowers that were so important?”
He snarled, and the sound did more to my nether regions than I would ever admit to anyone — most of all the peanut gallery standing around us enjoying the show.
“Did you want the food to actually look like something? Or should I have just slapped it on the plate and called it rustic?”
“I wanted it to be on the table before they started drafting their wills, Finn.”
Behind me, I heard Eli let out the quietest oof. No one else spoke. No one moved. I’d sent Leah to bed after the second course, Gisella stepping in to help when needed, and she stood next to Eli now as he pretended to be focused on doing dishes and she waited for my cue.
Finn exhaled sharply through his nose. “Maybe if you’d been communicating—”
“I was too busy making sure the guests didn’t start gnawing on the table linens while you were in here playing Picasso with the reductions to communicate.
” I folded my arms over my chest, leaning into his space.
It was only an inch, but I swore that inch ignited the air between us like a match to a gas leak.
“And besides, you were the one who yelled at us for not clearing fast enough. So which is it, Finn? Too fast or not fast enough?”
Finn wiped his hands on his towel, nose flaring. “You have no clue what goes into plating at this level.”
“And you have no clue what goes into serving at this level.”
The tension in the galley was thick, charged, and the rest of the crew was watching it like a live-action soap opera.
Bernard had given up trying to look busy or checking on the guests — who had told him three times now that no one wanted anything else to drink.
He was looking at his nails, biting back a smile and glancing over at Gisella with a this is juicy expression in his eyes when he thought I wasn’t looking.
And the cameras rolled on, catching every single second.
Finn clenched his jaw, grabbing the last of the garnishes and throwing them onto the plates with a little more flourish than necessary. “They’re ready,” he bit out.
“Great.”
“Great.”
Bernard and Gisella grabbed plates with me without needing to be told, both of them wide-eyed.
I thought I saw Gisella give Finn a sympathetic tilt of her lips, but I stormed out of the galley before I could be sure.
With a shake of my shoulders, I allowed myself one frustrated breath low in my throat before I plastered on that service smile.
And then I finished my job, somehow managing to save the night by regaling the guests with a story from the Bahamas while our chef threw his temper tantrum in the galley.